‘Why not? They have good discipline and fine principles — ’
‘As does Count Roger.’ Adela did not offer praise too readily, especially of Normans. ‘That was one of the most audacious things I have ever witnessed. Hereward was right about him, he is remarkable. When he returns tomorrow, I want to meet him.’
‘So do I.’ Sweyn was also fulsome in his praise. ‘Any man who can do what Count Roger did here today is worthy of anyone’s respect. It’s a shame there aren’t more Normans like him.’
The debate lasted late into the night, but eventually those of the Emir’s retinue who wanted to submit to Count Roger and return to their homes in Calatafimi held sway.
Some of the younger knights refused to accept the decision, and Ibn Hamed gave them permission to leave to join their Muslim brothers in the hilltop fortress at Enna.
When Count Roger arrived, far earlier than expected, his demeanour was considerably less calm than it had been the previous day.
‘Ibn Hamed, Emir of Calatafimi, you and your people are welcome in this new Sicily, a land where all can live in peace and share in a new prosperity. When I return to Palermo, I will send masons, carpenters and blacksmiths to help you rebuild Calatafimi. But now you must forgive me, for I must make haste. I have just received news that a large Byzantine fleet is anchored off the coast at Mazara and that several themes have already disembarked.’
‘Go, Count Roger, you must organize your forces.’
Count Roger’s news was alarming, but it offered us an ideal opportunity to make a mark with the Norman lord of Sicily. I did not hesitate in seizing it.
‘My Lord, Emir, with your permission, we would like to join Count Roger in meeting the Byzantines.’
‘Of course. We will join him also. We have no love of Byzantines either, and if we are to accept the Count as our sovereign Lord here in Sicily then we must fight at his side.’
Count Roger was grateful for the support.
‘Thank you. When this is done, you will all be my guests in Palermo, where you can meet the other lords and emirs of my new Sicily. And now, my Lord Emir, I must hurry.’
As Roger rode off at a gallop, I turned to Ibn Hamed.
‘It will have cost Count Roger several hours to return here this morning. He could have sent one of his knights to get your answer, but he must have wanted to show you how sincere he is.’
‘I know, and I think we have made the right decision. I like the sound of this new Sicily. But we must hurry — Byzantine themes can be formidable, and the Count is going to need our help.’
The Emir gave instructions to his stewards to break camp, and for the community to return to Calatafimi to begin its new life. Within the hour, he was leading us down to the valley and the road to Mazara.
His men were a mixed bunch. The elite Faris were freemen and led small squadrons of Mamluks, who had begun life as slaves but had trained as professional soldiers. Most were Arabs, with their ancestral roots in Egypt, but there were also small numbers of Berbers, Kurds, Turks and Christian Armenians among their ranks.
The Turks and Kurds came from families with military traditions going back many generations, while the Armenians, highly adept cavalrymen, chose to live in a Muslim community because their belief that Christ had only divine form, not a parallel human form, made them heretics to both Roman and Orthodox Christians.
The Emir also had Nubian servants, both male and female — very tall, dark people from beyond the great southern desert — and a Bedouin personal bodyguard, a fierce-looking man who rarely spoke and whose people lived in the deserts of Arabia.
The four of us, English knights many miles from home and about to join forces with a Norman lord against a Byzantine army, added a little northern flavour to the Emir’s exotic blend of warriors. We numbered only a few more than fifty, but all were professional soldiers of the highest calibre — men who would be very welcome among the Count’s army.
And there was Adela, of course, now so easily included as one of the ‘men’. I watched her and Sweyn riding together, both bright-eyed and eager for the battle to come. There seemed to be no obvious way to resolve their respective dilemmas — patience seemed to be the only answer. Perhaps time and future circumstances would heal their wounds or offer a solution.
14. Battle of Mazara
By the time we reached the Bay of Mazara, Count Roger’s army had already launched its attack on the Byzantines. It was a chaotic scene. Although it was late September, it was still hot and dry and great clouds of dust billowed in the wake of horses, men and supply carts moving rapidly across the battlefield.
Not even the air out to sea was clear. The Byzantine triremes were belching volley after volley of burning cauldrons. Only later did I hear that it was called ‘Greek fire’ — a lethal weapon, the ingredients of which were a closely guarded secret, known only to the Emperor and his senior commanders.
Thick smoke made the whole sky above the ships as black as Hades. Where the cauldrons landed, infernos of flaming pitch raged. Men and horses were hurled into the air or knocked down like skittles, covered in burning pitch, destined to meet a grisly fate consumed by fire.
Ibn Hamed directed us to the centre of the action.
‘Quickly, more and more are coming ashore. There are Thracian and Macedonian themes and, over there, Greeks — this is the elite of the Byzantine army.’
We soon reached Count Roger at his command post on a promontory just back from the bay. He lost no time in delivering his battle strategy.
‘It is good to see you and your men. We have a few problems; if we let too many more get ashore, we’ll be overrun. My archers are trying to stop any more ships from coming in, and my cavalry are driving a wedge into their beachhead, but they must have five hundred men ashore already. I need you to support the cavalry, try to split their force in two, and then aim to cut off their retreat to the sea.’
We rode down into the fray and were soon in the midst of vicious hand-to-hand fighting. The sheer weight of numbers and the mass of bodies, both living and dead, made progress slow. I looked over to check on my comrades — all were flailing and hacking in a sea of carnage, benefitting from their hours of training. With her helmet down, Adela looked no different to anybody else and was holding her own. Edwin and Sweyn were close to her, each watching her flank, while Sweyn was easily distinguished by the speed of his blade and agility in the saddle.
Ibn Hamed called him over.
‘Look, to the left, the two ships making for shore — the Varangian Guard, the Emperor’s personal guard — there must be two hundred of them. Ride to the Count, tell him to direct his archers at them; they mustn’t be allowed to come ashore.’
With Adela and Edwin in his wake, Sweyn rode like the wind to deliver his message, while Ibn Hamed and I protected our position. I was shocked by what I saw as the ships carrying the Varangian Guard drew closer.
‘They look like Englishmen! They’re carrying shields and axes like housecarls!’
‘Many of them are. Norse, Danes, Balts, English; they are highly paid mercenaries, the best infantry you’ll ever see. The one at the prow of the first ship, giving orders in the scarlet cloak, that’s the Captain of the Guard, the finest soldier in your world and mine.’
He looked English too. I could see long blond hair trailing beneath his helmet, and the distinctive decorated circular shield of a housecarl. Then he fell backwards, struck by an arrow which pierced his hauberk at the top of his shoulder, and then by another which hit him in the chest.
‘That is a piece of very good fortune. The Captain of the Varangians leads the army unless the Emperor is present. We have just killed their general.’
Ibn Hamed was smiling broadly. Arrows were now falling on the Varangians like hailstones and the order was issued for sails to be unfurled and for the oarsmen to row the Byzantine ships away. As soon as the men on the beaches saw their fleet turn seawards, there was panic and a mass retreat towards the ships. Roger immediately ordered his own cavalry squadrons and all his reserves to attack.
The Norman destriers flowed into the bay like a tidal bore. It was a mass slaughter. The Byzantines had no defence and a stark choice: stand and fight in a hopeless final redoubt, or discard their weapons and armour and try
