Robert Lyndon: Imperial Fire

Alexius leaned further. ‘Explain the reason for your timidity.’ He wafted his baton to still the angry jostle around Vallon. ‘No, please. I would like to hear the Frank’s answer.’

‘It’s not cowardice that compels me to speak,’ Vallon said. He could see a scribe recording his words. He dragged in breath. ‘Winter approaches. In a month the Normans won’t be able to advance even if they capture the city. Nor can they retire to Italy. They’ve already suffered serious setbacks — the destruction of their fleet, the ravages of plague. Most of their army are unwilling conscripts. Leave them to wither on the vine.’

Palaeologus was nodding and Alexius glanced round to intercept the meaningful glances of other commanders before turning back to Vallon. He gave every impression of a man open to argument. ‘Some of my generals share your opinion.’ His expression hardened, his voice rose and his blue gaze seared the audience. ‘I’ll tell you — all of you — what I told them.’ He allowed a strained hush to settle before breaking it. ‘It’s true that the Normans have suffered reverses. If we withdraw, it’s quite possible that they’ll try to return to Italy for the winter. But next spring they’ll be back, with a larger navy and army and the whole campaigning season in which to make gains. As for us, we’ve already withdrawn the armies from our remaining holdings in Anatolia, leaving them exposed to attack by the Seljuks. No, now is when we’re at our strongest. Now is the time to attack.’

Hundreds of fists punched the air around Vallon. The roar of salutations to the emperor spread until the Normans four miles away could have had no doubt that the order to battle had been given.

Beorn dragged Vallon away, sweeping aside an officer who clawed at the Frank and spat in his face. When Beorn was clear of the crush, he swung Vallon round. ‘What the devil possessed you to fly in the face of the emperor? You just ended your career and ruined my chances of promotion to commander of the Varangians.’

‘I spoke the truth as I saw it. As Palaeologus knows it from months of experience.’

Beorn’s jaw jutted. His breath came in gusts. ‘Fool. The truth is whatever the emperor wants it to be.’

Still panting in disbelief, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Vallon isolated. A Byzantine officer barged into him and others leaned in with muttered remarks about his craven character. Face set, hand on sword, he set out to rejoin his squadron, unaware that fate had settled its indifferent glance on Beorn and that he would not speak to him again.

No moon on the eve of battle. Nothing visible except the hazy glow of Norman campfires burning around the city. Only the chink of metal and creak of horse harness told Vallon that his squadron were drawn up around him. Hooves pummelled the ground ahead and then stopped. He heard an exchange of passwords and after a little while Conrad arrived at his side.

‘You were right, Count. The Normans have left the city and advanced onto the plain.’

‘Send word back to the Grand Domestic.’

Mist lay thick along the coast and daylight was slow to break through, tantalising shapes swimming out of the murk and then retreating until at last the sun rose above the hills behind and the vapours lifted, revealing the Norman army arrayed in formations spanning a mile of plain, drawn up in perfect stillness, their banners limp and their mail armour leaden in the dim light. Behind them Vallon could see the fleet of blockading Venetian and Byzantine ships anchored outside the bay south of Dyrrachium.

The spine-tingling tramp of thousands of feet and hooves announced the approach of the Byzantine army. In battle-proven tradition it was drawn up in three main formations, with the emperor in the centre and a regiment led by his brother-in-law to his right. On the left, nearest to Vallon, was the tagma commanded by the Grand Domestic, his troops clad in glittering iron cuirasses and greaves and helmets with mail aventails protecting their necks, their horses skirted with oxhide scale armour and helmed with iron masks, so that men and beasts looked more like machines than flesh and blood. Vallon’s own men wore plain mail or leather armour rusted and stained by long exposure to the elements.

The imperial army halted in line with Vallon’s position, less than a mile from the Norman front. The Grand Domestic had posted Vallon’s squadron out on the left flank, close to the coast. Vallon’s intervention the night before had marked him out as too unreliable to occupy a more central position. He wasn’t concerned. His men were coursers and skirmishers. Whether the battle went well or badly, he might not see any action today. As Beorn had said, the encounter would be decided by the heavy cavalry and infantry.

A stirring in the Byzantine rear heralded the Varangian Guard arriving on horseback, their two-handed axes winking in the sunlight. They dismounted and formed into a square a hundred yards in front of the emperor’s standard. Grooms led their mounts away and a squadron of light cavalry cantered into the gap between the Varangians and the imperial centre. They were Vardariots, elite horse archers recruited from Christianised Magyars in Macedonia.

Priests blessed the regiments, the incense from their censers drifting across the plain. Vallon’s squadron joined in the Trisagion, the Warriors’ hymn. ‘Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us’ — his Muslim and pagan troopers singing as fervently as their Christian comrades.

Now the low autumn sun flashed off the lines of Normans and illuminated the brilliant standards borne by the Byzantine units. Vallon glanced at his own banner, its five triangular pennants stirring in the morning breeze. A bugle note prickled his blood. Trumpets blared and drums pounded, the notes resonating in his chest. With a shout that raised the hairs on his neck, the Varangians began their advance. The Normans’ response drifted faint and eerie across the battlefield and above Vallon’s head a flock of swallows heading south hawked for insects.

The Varangians swung along in full stride, singing their battle anthem, huge axes slung across their left shoulders, the shields on their backs redundant. Vallon couldn’t suppress his admiration. Anxiety, too. How could infantry, however brave and skilled they might be, withstand a charge by mounted lancers? He pulled on his helmet, raised his hand and dropped it.

‘Advance.’

They rode at walking pace, keeping level with the Varangians. When the distance between the two armies had narrowed by half, a detachment of Norman cavalry peeled off from the centre and charged the Varangians head on. The Guard halted, closing ranks.

‘It’s a feint,’ said Vallon.

At a trumpet blast, the Varangian phalanx split in two, opening a corridor for the Vardariots. They galloped down it and when they reached the end they released their arrows at the cavalry before wheeling and riding back along the Varangians’ flanks.

The square closed up again and resumed its advance. The Norman cavalry circled and made another charge, the Varangians and Vardariots countering with the same move as before. The Normans made one more feint and this time the Vardariots rode around the Varangians, discharging their arrows into the cavalry from a range of no more than fifty yards. Vallon saw riders tumble and horses go down.

‘That stung them,’ said Conrad.

Directly opposite Vallon’s position, Guiscard’s right wing urged their horses forward, spurring the beasts into a trot, angling across the battlefield.

‘Now it comes,’ said Vallon. Tight of throat, he watched the formation charge at an extended canter and then a gallop aimed at the Varangians’ left flank. The horse archers’ arrows couldn’t stop them. Vallon winced as the mass of horses ploughed into the Varangian formation, clutched his head when he saw it buckle, leaned forward on his stirrups when he saw the cavalry slow and begin to mill. Across the dusty arena the tumult of war carried — the clash of iron, the meaty impact of heavy axes smashing into flesh and bone, blood-crazed yells, the shrieks of injured beasts and dying men.