Jack Ludlow: Conquest

Knowing what was coming did not mean Roger could not respond. ‘Yes.’

‘If I call upon you to come to my aid at Bari I expect you to do so, whatever is happening in Sicily.’

‘I will come, brother, but if your need is so great, I would expect you to call on Mauger first.’

‘I’ll be damned if I will.’

‘Think of our Tancred’s wagging finger, Robert. How is it you can forgive your nephews yet leave your own brother out in the cold?’

‘He would not come.’

‘He will if you ask him.’

‘He will if I promise him reward.’

‘Then do so, and rest assured, if he is there, I will come when called and for nothing but the glory of seeing you ride through Bari, the same way you rode through Reggio.’

Back on Sicilian soil, Roger knew his Saracen enemy was growing stronger as he imposed his island-wide authority, yet as he imparted to anyone who would listen, they had nothing to fear from an enemy they had beaten more than once.

‘What does it matter if they have a change of leader? They are not warriors as we are warriors. This Emir Ayub, is he a better leader now than he was at Cerami? Let them gather, and when they do we shall march to meet them.’

But Ayub was cautious: he marched forward and withdrew, trying to lure a too-clever enemy into a trap, while Roger was patient. The time would come and he had what he needed: when he did commit to battle it would be on a ground of his choosing.

Robert was outside Bari, examining walls he had looked at a hundred times, his mind going back to endless sieges, from Trani under William Iron Arm — so many he was not sure he could name them all. Some he had taken by storm, others by starvation, a few by guile and he knew the latter would be needed here. Bohemund was eager to hear the tale of every one, but it was when relating his ploy at Brindisi that Robert had the first inkling of an idea.

Those watching from the walls, content to stay within when the Guiscard was close by, saw him pull on his reins, turn his mount, and, banner flowing on the sea breeze and his knights around him, ride away. The Greeks could pride themselves that once more they had seen off the Norman barbarian. They were safe with their stout walls facing the land and the sea at their back.

‘Bohemund, we are going to become sailors.’

It was a command that surprised everyone and did not go down well with many: his lances were not happy on water, but Robert was adamant that, if Bari depended on the sea for its security, then Normans must match them in that to breech its defences. Objections that fighting at sea was a skill long in the learning fell on deaf ears: Robert would have none of it.

‘You fight on land, you fight on a deck, where is the difference? Does a cast lance not kill over water, does a sweeping blade not cut flesh for the salt?’ He had been brought up within easy reach of the shores of the Contentin, had learnt to fish and swim in waters that froze to the marrow. ‘Damn me, what I would not give for a Normandy oyster now.’

This was said so often Guiscard’s men began to yawn; if they disliked the sea, they hated his enthusiasm and his japes even more. It was as if the years had fallen away, as if he was once again that jest-playing buffoon who had so annoyed William and Drogo. He played pranks that had his men ending up in the water where, if they floundered, they were encouraged to learn to swim. Did he ever stop laughing in these months of preparation? No one who recalled the time thought so: the only peace they had was when he was absent on other errands related to his plan.

All were speculating on what that plan could be, but if the jolly Robert had resurfaced, the secretive one remained: he would tell no one, not even Bohemund whom he loved more than his younger son, disappointingly weedy by nature, given the size of both his parents. Not even Sichelgaita was made privy to his thinking. No one must get an inkling of what he was about, lest the defenders of Bari find out.

The time came to march and Robert looked over the thousands he had gathered outside Melfi. This was Apulia united, the army that would finally kick Byzantium out of Italy. They marched south to Venosa, to the new-built church of Santissima Trinita were lay the remains of his family. There was a sarcophagus now, a walled tomb with painted angels and trumpets to welcome the de Hautevilles to heaven, backed by the blue and white chequer of his house. There he knelt and said prayers to his god and his deceased brothers, asking for intercession from both for what he was about to do.

They knew he was coming: Bisanzio had men working on the defences even if they were, to most minds, impossible to breach. He knew the cunning of the man he faced, was conscious he was weaker than hitherto and that there were people in Bari, even Greeks, who saw the endless conflict as a curse; men whose fortunes had diminished as the Norman advance had cut them off from the interior trade which had once made them rich. They could betray the cause of their own people: gold always appealed to some souls more than race or fealty.

The Bariots had seen the Normans outside their walls many times but never in such numbers, a cause of enough anxiety to have Masses said in every church, so the priests of the Orthodox faith could remind them it was not just stones and hearth they were defending but the way they practised their faith. Let the Normans in and they would bring Rome with them: celibate priests cut off from those to whom they administered, unleavened bread in Communion, a Holy Ghost who ranked equal with God the Father and God the Son.

As another boost to morale, Bisanzio ordered all the treasures of the city be taken onto the ramparts, where the citizens let the sunlight flash and reflect on the gold and silver plate, on religious objects of priceless value. They even dropped gold solidi and invited the toiling Normans to come and get them. This was aimed at Robert, of course, and he emerged from his tent to watch this spectacle designed to mock his pretensions. An accomplished master of the jest himself, a man rarely lost for words, he was not that now. Soon he was within calling distance.

‘Citizens of Bari,’ he shouted, ‘I thank you for taking good care of my possessions. I bid you guard them carefully.’

Now it was Normans, Lombards and Italians, who were laughing; the treasures disappeared, but it was not long before a jeering crowd was back on the walls, bolstered by their faith, exchanging insults with those in earshot. The sight of a fleet of ships, dozens, then a hundred plus, first confused, then it made the Bariots laugh. They were the seafarers, and the promontory on which their city stood would always find access to the Adriatic: history told them it was too long a shoreline to be blockaded — it never had been in millennia and besides, the Normans were not sailors. Was Bisanzio the only one to worry, the only one to recall the mind with which he was in competition?

The first ship was anchored to the northern shore, to a strong jetty — one of two that had made the besieged curious when they observed them being built — the next right alongside it, then another and another. They watched as planks were laid from vessel to vessel, watched as the floating pontoon stretched out to sea then curved round to the south, each with a bridge of planking from one to the next. Still ships came to drop anchor, each one taking station in a line that began to come back to land, until the very last one tied up to the south shore and the second jetty.

Robert Guiscard demonstrated to the defenders what he had planned and in doing so also showed his own army, all those warriors who had been wondering what he was up to. With Bohemund at his side, to loud cheers from his whole army, he walked from ship to ship, never failing, when he could, to look at the walls before him, right round the city, to tell them inside that, for the first time in history, Bari was wholly besieged. There would be no supplies coming in to keep them from starvation, no reinforcements from the east to sustain their resolve.