Jack Ludlow: Soldier of Crusade

Enemies outside of Apulians he could easily conjure up: the Venetians or the Genoese with their great fleets, Saracens from North Africa or any of those in alliance with Bohemund. For the nephew of the Emperor, Durazzo was an even heavier burden, so an impatient John Comnenus was at the quayside when the fast-sailing sandalion, having unseated its mast and laid it along the thwarts, slid through under the water gate portcullis, the man in the prow shouting his message.

‘The demons have landed at Avona.’

‘Have landed?’

‘The whole Apulian host is ashore, My Lord, and the first companies are already marching inland.’

‘Headed to where?’

‘I did not hang around to find out — some of their galleys came to seek me out and I ran.’

Aware that all eyes were upon him Comnenus was quick to respond. ‘Then that we must find out first.’

Horses were quickly saddled and a party of lances gathered to escort the topoterites as he rode out to locate what might be an army more intent on conquest and one which would find scant force to contest its passage. On a coast dotted with smaller ports, deep bays and open beaches there were many places to land but Bohemund had chosen well, for too many of those led nowhere but into a barren hinterland of impassable mountains. Comnenus did not know the topography as well as many of those he led; he was soon made aware that Avona provided a route, albeit a hard one, through the high coastal hills to a point where the Apulians could join the road to Constantinople at a point well inland.

As he rode he was cursing himself, even if he lacked sufficient force, for not providing the numerous places with the kind of protection that would have at least alerted him prior to them getting ashore, a landing he could have then rendered more of a risk, while being acutely aware that such an opinion probably existed among his subordinates. Now he was working to catch up with events, not, as he wanted to be, in control of them.

Forced to push their horses beyond what was wise it was a weary and dusty party of riders that overlooked the newly set up encampment, a mass of smoking campfires, tents, horses and fighting men that filled the well-watered plain and soon made any attempt to count their numbers futile. John Comnenus felt less than stately as he made his way, with only two attendants, one an interpreter, through the Apulian lines to approach the great pavilion above which flew the banner of the Count of Taranto.

Blood-red, it was crossed with the blue and white chequer of his de Hauteville family and there was no doubt, even if he had never clapped eyes on the man, who was waiting at the entrance to greet him; he had not, since he arrived to command at Durazzo, been left short of descriptions but, even so, the dimensions of the man shocked him and Bohemund was not alone in that.

Not himself small, Comnenus was aware of being in the presence of not one giant but two, though there was a small margin of difference between Bohemund and the very much younger fellow at his side, he being the shorter by three finger widths. If they overawed in size while he was astride his weary horse, that was made more manifest when Comnenus dismounted to find he had to tilt his head well back to engage the eye of either. Both were bareheaded, the youthful fellow’s skin a deep bronze from exposure to the sun, his hair blond above a handsome face.

The to easy-to-recognise Bohemund was fair too, but with the reddened countenance of his northern race. They were a match in style and dress, both in chain mail hauberks, wearing over that the white surplice dominated by a single red cross that Pope Urban had designated as the device to be worn by the men he had called to Crusade, this to underline that they were Christian warriors who, if they came from different locations, were dedicated to the same holy cause.

‘Does the topoterites of Durazzo address the Count of Taranto?’ the interpreter asked, in the Frankish tongue.

Bohemund looked at the speaker before lazily letting his eyes turn back to Comnenus, it being an act designed to underline his authority as well as his indifference. ‘You may speak in Greek if you wish, I was born and grew up among those who used to be your subjects.’ He turned to introduce his younger associate as the eyes of the topoterites flicked in that direction. ‘As was my nephew, Tancred, Lord of Lecce and Monteroni.’

That caused the Greek leader’s eyes to linger on the younger fellow, for he had heard of Tancred, son of the late Marquis of Monteroni, known as ‘the Good’, a Lombard loyal to the Norman cause who had married Bohemund’s sister, Emma. The tale told of Tancred spoke of a similar fidelity to his uncle, as well as a fighting ability and sharp mind that underlined his maternal bloodline.

‘Then you will know that when you land unannounced on the shores of Romania that I see it as a hostile act.’

Bohemund let a smile play about his lips. ‘Hostile or unfriendly?’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘There is, topoterites, for if I were hostile you would be still inside yours walls of Durazzo and I would be encamped without them.’

‘To no purpose but death and starvation.’

It was Tancred who replied, his tone a lot less civil. ‘My uncle has been inside those walls before, topoterites, and has slept many nights in the chamber you now occupy. Do not doubt he has the means to do so again.’

Comnenus looked around him at the men gathered to listen to what should be a private exchange, foot soldiers, not lances, and by their colouring Lombards, all of whom would speak Greek. ‘Am I to conduct a negotiation in public?’

‘What negotiation?’ Bohemund enquired.

‘Regarding the conventions you must obey if you are to cross Western Romania to meet up with your confreres in the capital.’

‘I have an army and a route, why do I need conventions?’

‘The Emperor commands it, just as he commands that you take an oath of allegiance to him before you can march.’

Bohemund made great play of looking around, and his men close by, knowing he was preparing a jest, began to chuckle. ‘I see no emperor, so where have you hidden him?’

‘You cannot expect such an eminent person to come to you.’

‘No, topoterites, I cannot and neither can he ask of me that I swear to anything when he is not present.’

‘Then I must forbid your passage.’

‘With what?’ Tancred snapped.

Comnenus felt safe enough to reply with open disdain. ‘I hold the key to the supplies you need to progress and they will not be released to you if I do not permit it to be so. It is a long way to Constantinople and you might find all that awaits you in the mountains is hunger.’

‘Supplies?’ Bohemund said, his hand going to the point of his chin. ‘I will tell you this, we come on the call of Pope Urban to aid your Emperor to push back the Turks, a request he sent to the synod held last year at Piacenca.’

‘The cross you wear on your breast speaks of another purpose.’

Bohemund responded with a distinct growl and short points accompanied by a fist slapping into a huge hand. ‘The infidels stand between us and Palestine. The Pope has tasked us to aid the empire on the way to Jerusalem. If we respond to that it is only justice that in such an act Alexius Comnenus, your uncle, I know, should feed us. The supplies are there, so we will take what we need and I promise you we will take no more.’

‘And if I contest that?’

‘Then prepare to spill blood.’

There was silence then, for there was an unspoken truth known to all: Comnenus did not have the power to impede this Apulian host and Bohemund was as aware of the fact as he. Even to try to sting them he would have to denude Durazzo of any protection, which, given it must remain defended, would be a deep dereliction of his duty to his uncle. He had the option of making the progress of Bohemund and his host a difficult one, or as easy as such an inherently fraught enterprise could be.