nowhere, the endless destruction of his siege towers, the fractious nature of many of his captains, not least his own natural son, while to his rear Apulia was groaning under the cost of maintaining such a lengthy effort. Then there was what had happened to his boats.
‘You heard of Paternos and what he did?’ Roger nodded. ‘Well, my spies tell me that when it became known he sacrificed the grain convoy to get his troops into Bari there was much unrest.’
‘Your spies?’
‘I have quite a few. The one I rely on most is a fellow called Argirizzo.’
‘Greek?’
‘No,’ Robert scoffed, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s an Egyptian.’
Roger held up a hand to admit it was a foolish question.
‘Of course he’s Greek, and a devious bastard at that. God only knows what I will do with him if I succeed and he survives, because I could never trust him.’
Roger was about to respond by saying he did not trust anyone but he held his tongue.
‘I have been sending him funds to buy grain from those hoarding it and using that he spreads dissent, not hard with people being so hungry. It was he who stirred up the Bariots against the loss of that grain. Paternos is seen as a devil and one living well while others starve.’
‘Then why did they assassinate Bisanzio and not him?’
An unknown assailant had cut down the Catapan in the street: even Paternos was suspected, though Robert was a better candidate.
‘Bisanzio was easier to get to.’
‘Did you order that?’ Roger asked.
Seeing the look he was getting, Robert added querulously, ‘It is settlement for William and Drogo.’
‘Be careful they don’t do the same to you,’ Roger insisted. ‘If you instigate the murder of a leader, it will tempt someone to revenge.’
‘They never believed I would press the siege so long,’ Robert insisted, changing an uncomfortable subject and since it was approaching three years, that was an understatement. Robert’s brow clouded, making him look devilish. ‘But I am here till Bari falls, Roger. I will never give this up.’
‘It could be another year.’
‘Then let it be that,’ Robert growled, before he brightened a little. ‘But, you know God is on our side, brother. He will make something happen.’
And happen it did. Argirizzo had sent word that Paternos had gone himself to Constantinople to plead for support and news soon came back that he had been successful. An army was marching to Durazzo on the Dalmatian coast, a couple of days’ sailing from Bari. The prince of that Byzantine fief had given sanctuary to the traitorous Joscelin of Molfetta, who was also raising malcontents in Robert’s own domains, making it a genuine threat. Roger was sent to sea to keep watch, though he was soon back on shore.
‘You cannot just keep ships at sea, Robert. If you do, they will suffer such wear they will be useless when they are truly needed.’
‘Why do you never do what I command you to do?’ Robert yelled.
‘Let me take charge, Father,’ Bohemund demanded.
‘You?’ Roger scoffed. ‘You are barely breeched.’
‘I am as good a soldier as you.’
‘Which is damned useless when what is needed is a sailor.’ Turning back to Robert, Roger continued, ignoring the black looks he was getting from Bohemund. ‘And before you say it, neither am I. But Geoffrey Ridel is and I am taking his advice.’
‘There’s an army coming and I need to stop it before it tries to land.’
‘Then we must find a way to tell when.’
‘How?’
‘Try your spies.’
In the end, it was the people of Bari who gave the answer. The populace, even the most loyal, were getting desperate: everyone knew this was the last throw of the dice. If Paternos came back with an army, Bari would hold out, if not, it might not submit immediately but fall it would. The idea was that the fleet of ships would seek to make their landfall on a moonless cloudy night, so the Normans would be blind. That the relieving force would also be blind was to be solved by the Bariots lining their sea walls with torches.
The intention was that those torches would number just enough to do what was required, but the citizens, in their enthusiasm, crowded the ramparts in their hundreds, setting up a blaze of light and that alerted Roger. He manned his ships and went to single anchors, until he received a signal of his own from a piquet boat he had left out in deep water. The enemy had been sighted and he was at sea within half a glass of sand, sailing out at the head of thirty warrior-laden ships to where he suspected his enemy must be. Soon he saw what they had to have aloft to avoid colliding with each other, lanterns at their mastheads.
‘Light the ship,’ Roger ordered, ‘let them see what they face.’
Men ran to carry out that command, one that was repeated on every vessel Roger led, each turning from a ghostly shadow to a lit deck, which showed their strength.
‘Double lights on one mast,’ Ridel said, pointing ahead, ‘I’ll wager it’s the lead vessel and that will be carrying Paternos.’
‘Close with it,’ Roger shouted, before picking up a speaking trumpet and passing the same command over the water to the other captains. Capture the enemy command ship and the rest should succumb.
The tragedy that followed could not have been foreseen. It was brought on by an excess of zeal, though some felt, in retrospect, it was more to do with a lack of caution from warriors unaccustomed to fighting at sea. On one deck every man rushed to the side to catch a view of the vessel Roger had indicated. With horror he watched its own lights dip towards the water as the weight produced a list. Yet it did not stop and correct itself, it carried on until it hit the sea, lanterns fizzing out as the vessel capsized, throwing in excess of a hundred fighting men, all in heavy mail, into the water. Even if they could swim, and few would be able to, their mail must weigh them down; they would all drown.
Roger had to turn away and he also had to put out of his mind any thought of rescue, not that it would have been easy. There was a battle to fight and winning that was paramount, notwithstanding he had to shout to stop those on his own deck from rushing to view the loss and bringing about another disaster. Thankfully the gap was closing fast, so his men could see where their duty lay.
‘Grappling irons,’ he yelled, as their movement restored the trim of the ship.
He ran to the prow so that he could control the time of contact, using a set of hand signals he had worked out with Geoffrey Ridel that would bring his vessel alongside the enemy to best advantage. All along the bulwarks men were waiting for his signal to throw the triple-hooked grappling irons, and when he gave the command they snaked out to clatter aboard the opposite deck, to then be hauled hard so they would grip. Not all held, some were cut, but three dug into timber and were pulled taut.
Hauling hard, the Normans pulled themselves towards their enemies and they, seeking to defend their ship, erred in rushing to one side, causing it to list, not as badly as the vessel which had capsized but enough to ensure when the two vessels came together the Normans, standing on their bulwarks, had height on their opponents and were thus able to jump on top of them to engage, the weight of the fall the first thing to gain them an advantage and room to fight. The sound of crashing timber was soon replaced by that of clashing metal, as swords and axes were employed by both sides in a melee that compacted men into the constricted fighting space of the ship’s deck.
As ever, Norman skill told here: they knew to form a wall of shields without instructions, knew what steps to take to protect their neighbouring warrior to the left, knew to use their shields to block any blows from that quarter. With Roger in the centre they kept that line, inching forward against opponents giving ground, a strake at a time, small amounts but significant, for to be retreating was to be losing.
By the great tiller Roger could see a man he knew well, Joscelin of Molfetta, and the sight of that ingrate, who had been granted so much by his brother, urged on his arm and that alone added force to the battering the men defending the ship were receiving. The Normans were obliged to step over the bodies of the slain, careful to avoid slipping on their blood. A fellow Roger did not know, but one dressed in fine armour, stepped into the fray,
