Jack Ludlow: Conquest

If Bisanzio knew there were those inclined to surrender, so did the Duke of Apulia and he was a man who knew how to bribe. The first voices raised in Bari were of fear — this was something unknown to them — the next, talk of reassurance as the fighting men reminded them how stout were the walls. But the whispering had started in some quarters that, when Robert de Hauteville offered terms, they would be best accepted if they did not all want to die.

And then he was at the land gate, his herald calling for them to be opened. Bisanzio declined the offer to surrender. The siege of Bari was on.

Roger de Hauteville had one guiding principle: never to fight on a field he had not chosen — preferably one in a mountainous landscape where he could narrow the field of battle to suit his numbers, nullifying the advantage his enemies enjoyed in that area. For a long time Ayub had played cat and mouse, seeming to seek the Normans out, then, if he thought the circumstances unfavourable, withdrawing out of harm’s way. So it came as a surprise, while Roger was manoeuvring on the far side of the mountain range protecting Palermo, to find the Saracen army coming forward to meet him. He knew what had tempted the emir to act: he had split his forces to range and raid over a wider area, one part under Serlo, another given to Jordan with Ralph de Boeuf alongside to ensure he was not too rash. Ayub thought he had caught him with only his own contingent of lances, a third of his strength. What the emir could not grasp — he thought as a commander of a foot-bound army — was how quickly the Normans could concentrate.

His stated aim was to destroy the Roman Christians: not to kick them out of Sicily but to annihilate them on the field of battle. Given he had spent so much time without fulfilling that boast his authority was being weakened while his army was becoming disgruntled — and that made him impulsive. So much time and endless marching had been devoted to seeking advantage that a battle he wished to fight on his terms became one he had to fight to keep his authority. Getting to grips with the Count of Sicily moved from being an aspiration to a necessity.

He chose to make good his boast near a small town called Misilmeri, unaware that the system Roger had set up to keep communications with his son and nephew meant he could gather together his entire force in the space of one day, something he had not bargained for. Ayub never grasped that the Norman raiding horses were not the destriers with which they engaged in battle, so they could still be fresh. Also, Roger was leading men who had become battle-hardened by years of warfare and had beaten the Saracens so many times they held them in contempt. That had nothing to do with individual bravery — they had met and slaughtered many heroic men; it was in the mass they were poor, lacking in both training and leadership.

The latter was paramount: no Saracen general stood in battle with his men: always they sought to direct matters from a position of personal safety and they relied on numbers, not skill. No Norman leader who behaved in that way would have lasted a day. He trained with his men, rode with them, ate the same food and suffered the same privations. When they fought, the man who led exercised close control and if the fight was to be lost the choice was his whether to stand and die rather than flee.

When contact was made, what Ayub saw was that which he expected: a hundred lances in what seemed an exposed position and no foot soldiers on a wide, open field of his choosing, with no river or broken ground on the flanks, so for once he had a chance to overlap their line, sure in the knowledge that Norman strength lay in close-order fighting. Behind them the ground fell away sharply; drive them back a short distance and they would be trying to hold on a downward slope. Emir Ayub was also sure they could not be reinforced: he had scouts out on swift horses who, if they sighted the other sections of Roger’s force, would ride back to warn him so he would be given the choice of accepting battle or breaking off the engagement.

Ayub failed to consider his enemies would anticipate such a move or that they would ensure whatever tactics they would ultimately employ would be kept hidden from him. To track cavalry you must work at their pace and, if you cannot keep them in view, it was essential to follow the dust they created and evidence on the ground of their passing: hoof prints and dung piles. The former becomes a problem in rocky terrain — a scout becomes less sure of numbers, doubly so if those being observed are aware of being under scrutiny. When you do not want to be seen, the first act to create obscurity is to ambush and kill those spying on your movements.

So, when Emir Ayub, second son of the Zirid sultan and a proud prince, drew up his forces for the battle he had waited so long to bring on, he was unaware that the bones of his fast-riding scouts were being picked over by vultures, unaware that on the reverse slopes of his chosen battlefield, behind Roger de Hauteville, sat another two hundred lances he was sure were elsewhere. He expected the Normans to stay on the defensive and arranged his troops to meet that contingency; this time his numbers, with room to deploy, would encircle and crush these heathens.

His first shock, when he set his army in motion, was to find them immediately attacked by a line of Norman lances under the banner of the Count of Sicily, the real blow the point at which he realised that to either side of that line of lances came two more batailles of a similar size. If he had possessed any ability, he would have known that security lay in allowing the two elements to meet, then, in as orderly a way as possible, by sacrificing his leading elements, to disengage the remainder and seek to retire in good order, which he had time to organise. The very worst thing to do was to seek to break off the battle immediately.

In the confusion of horns blowing, conflicting, shouted orders, some men moving forward while others sought to retire, Ayub created maximum confusion. Messengers rode forward to deliver his commands, but he lacked the soldiers who would comprehend and, if they did do so, swiftly obey. Roger led his men into a milling mass of confusion, visiting upon the Saracen levies a slaughter greater than any so far committed. It was almost as if, with no one to tell them what to do, they decided to welcome death. As was customary, when it came to flight, their leaders were in the vanguard. It took half a day to complete the killing.

‘It seems not to matter what they give up to us,’ Serlo said, surveying yet another set of Saracen tents crammed with booty. ‘They always have more.’

While his confreres were ogling the valuables, Jordan was eyeing cages full of pigeons, several dozen in number. Reaching in, he gently lifted out a bird, handling it as he would a very young falcon; they were clearly tame. He then joined Roger at the mouth of the tent where he was discussing with Ralph de Boeuf what this victory would mean for the future.

‘We could test our hawks with these, Father.’

With that Jordan let the bird go and it rose into the sky, circled once or twice, then headed quite deliberately north-west at speed, which had Roger watching it intently until it disappeared.

‘Fetch out another.’

Jordan did so and let it go, only to observe a repeat of the actions of that first pigeon: a couple of circles followed by the choice of a deliberate course on the same path of flight. Roger came to look at the birdcages, then he examined an open chest beside them, one that had been ignored given it held nothing valuable, taking from it small capsules made of parchment, each with delicate ties.

‘Another bird, Jordan, and hold it this time.’ With gentle hands another pigeon was presented and this time Roger laced the small parchment tube to its leg. ‘Now let it go.’