Mercenaries (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was only a patrol, twenty lances taken out by William and Drogo to alleviate their boredom, and because they had seen nothing to trouble them they followed the narrowing river that fed their siege lines and rode deeper into the hills than at any time previously. Many leagues from Syracuse, the country was high peaks, rolling mountains and deep valleys, so like very much of this island, but there was nothing to aim for. The nearest emirate of any size had declared itself neutral in the fight between what was essentially Abdullah-al-Zirid and George Maniakes.

The crossbow bolt missed Drogo’s thigh by a whisker and embedded itself in the flesh of his horse. Surprised, he was still able to shout a warning to the rest and spin round the animal, even if it was screaming in pain, then kick it so he could close with
his brother. William had not seen the bolt but he could hear Drogo yelling and that spelt only danger. In less time than it takes for ten grains of sand to pass through a glass the whole party was riding flat out to get to safety and they did not stop till they were sure that had been achieved.

‘One man?’ asked Drogo, as he sought to bind the wound to his horse. He had already been required to remove the crossbow bolt and that, because it was jagged, had torn a great deal of flesh and brought forth much blood.

‘No one came after us,’ William replied, looking back up the valley from which they had made such a hurried exit, one that narrowed to a pass between two high peaks. ‘The crossbow worries me. It’s a weapon for a trained man.’

‘Maybe someone trained one of the peasants round here.’

‘A single Sicilian peasant attacks twenty mounted lances?’ William shook his head. ‘Might as well tie a rope round his neck.’

‘I think you’ve forgotten, brother, that we fled.’

William grinned. ‘You did, we just followed you.’

Drogo patted his wounded horse, an animal whose head was very low. ‘I can’t ride this poor fellow. I’ll have to go back to Syracuse on a packhorse.’

William, still examining the valley, was sure he saw something flash, a piece of metal which had
caught sunlight. He nearly asked Drogo if he had seen it, but his brother was too taken with his mount. Looking round he saw the others were too busy with their own concerns to have noticed, and then, of course, doubt set in. The firing of one arrow did not make sense unless, William suddenly thought, it had been a mistake, an overzealous archer letting fly when he should not have done so. Were there more crossbowmen up ahead?

‘It’ll be dark in an hour, brother,’ Drogo said, ‘best be on our way.’

William turned and looked down the slope they were on, over the barren screed strewn with loose rocks and as far as to the point where the river bent to follow its course into an adjacent valley, obvious by the thick line of deep-green trees that edged it.

‘Let’s get to the other side of the river and stop there.’

‘Why?’ Drogo demanded, following his brother’s gaze, ‘we can do much better than that before dark.’

‘I have a feeling we are being watched,’ William said quietly. Drogo was too sensible to react; all he did was stiffen as he mentioned the head of the valley without ever looking up it. ‘I saw something catch the sun.’

‘There should be nothing out here.’

‘That’s right, Drogo, especially not crossbowmen.’

They set up camp on the far side of the river, at the very edge of the trees, and William set guards while Drogo arranged twine and twigs to give early warning of an approach on what might, given the cloud-filled sky, be a dark night; the horses would remain saddled and no one was to sleep. Then the brothers ate and drank before shedding their mail.

‘We should not both go,’ William insisted. ‘Who will lead the men if we don’t return?’

‘They’ll elect someone just as they elected us,’ Drogo growled. ‘Now let’s get going.’

There was no arguing with his brother in that kind of mood, so as darkness fell they made their way along the riverbed to emerge from a line of bushes and stunted old trees that would get them to the bottom of that screed-covered slope without being observed. From then on it was boulder to boulder, always trying to keep out of sight of the point where the peaks narrowed to form a pass.

It took hours, moving slowly, testing each step to ensure they did not set off an avalanche of loose stones, and the point at which they first heard a voice had them sit still for an age until, speaking again, they could get some fix on its location. That meant a long route round a hillside in darkness, looking for foot- and handholds, solid rock or the odd piece of scrub. Close to the pass itself, they saw it was guarded, obviously by a strong, armed picket and moving even slower the brothers got
themselves up above their camp so they could count their number. Fifty strong, they had small fires lit, ones that would not be seen from the riverbed and men were huddled around them cooking, eating and talking.

‘Look at the clouds,’ William whispered, touching his brother’s arm.

It was faint, and again it would not have been seen from anywhere but at this elevation: the cloud base in the distance was tinged with the very faintest colour of orange.

‘Fires,’ Drogo responded.

‘A lot of fires.’

‘An army?’

‘Has to be. Who else would be out here? It’s a wilderness.’

‘Abdullah?’

There was no need to answer that; the emir had got away from Rometta and there was no doubt he was determined. Here, behind this mountain barrier, was a perfect place to assemble his forces out of sight and since the Normans had really ceased to harry the littoral between here and the coast – for the very good reason there was nothing left to destroy – perhaps he could get his forces close enough to Syracuse to surprise George Maniakes. With his men engaged in a siege, he would be at a severe disadvantage, especially if the garrison of the city emerged to fight at the same time as Abdullah attacked.

‘Do we need to see more?’

‘No, Drogo, we need to warn the general.’

‘You did not actually see this army, did you, all you saw was the reflection of the fires on the clouds?’

‘No,’ William replied, ‘but why stand guard on the pass if there is nothing to hide behind it?’

George Maniakes moved forward to tower over William, then took one ear in his hand. ‘If you are wrong about this, Iron Arm, I will have both of these.’ William was terribly tempted to grab his balls and reply in kind; he disliked being threatened by anyone. ‘You have seen the terrain, tell me how we can use it.’

What followed was a lesson in generalship: for all Maniakes’s boasting he was good at commanding an army, his dispositions being made almost as William and Drogo spoke.

‘We cannot fight Abdullah and besiege Syracuse, and we must fight any enemy we have in the field.’ His finger traced the outline of the River Ánapo as it wended its way across the plain, his finger resting where it opened out and slowed in a flat patch of country. ‘You say this is wooded all along its banks.’

‘Yes,’ William replied, ‘deeply wooded.’

‘Then that is where I want you and your cavalry. I will pull the army out of its siege works and take up a position here, but I will not let Abdullah see my full strength. If he comes, he must feel he can attack. We
cannot leave the siege for too long or Syracuse will be as well supplied as ever it was. The Varangians I will hide behind my Italian and Bulgar levies. Once he does attack, you and your men will debouch from the tree cover and ride across his rear. Once you are formed up you are to bear down on his rear.’

‘He will turn to face us with everything.’

‘No, William, he will not. He will try to break through to Syracuse, try to beat his way past men he thinks poor fighters, but when he does so they will open their ranks and he will find himself attacking the Varangians. Your task will be to drive the Saracens onto their axes.’

‘When do we move?’

‘Not till the whole of his army is through that pass.’

Hidden by the trees, William stood relaxed, stroking his mount. He was too long in the fighting tooth now to be in the same nervous condition he had been at Bessancourt, and he knew that lined up alongside and behind him, the men he led were also experienced. To the west they could see the great cloud of dust sent up by the approaching host of Abdullah-al-Zirid who, it was hoped, had no idea of their presence, nor of that of George Maniakes.

The Byzantine giant had pulled his entire force out of the lines at Syracuse in a brilliant piece of
organisation and had them in place without his enemy having the faintest idea of what he was about to face, and had done so at such speed that the Syracusans were left confused. Abdullah expected to surprise the Byzantine Army; instead it would be he that would get the shock.

He smiled as his brother approached, wondering what Drogo had in hands hidden behind his back, though there was a long wooden shaft extending above his head. ‘I brought you a present.’

‘What?’

Drogo produced his surprise like a conjuror, and as he unfurled it, William was stunned.

‘A proper banner, brother, not a pennant, this time.’ Large and rectangular, and made of silk, William fingered the blue and white banner, edged with the de Hauteville chequer, as Drogo added, ‘For the glory of our family, Gill.’

William stepped forward and embraced him. On another occasion the men who observed this might have cheered; not now, they were too clever to let Abdullah know they were close. The time had come for prayer, and with no priests of the Latin rite with a Byzantine army, William led the devotions, kneeling under Drogo’s banner, his heart swelling to think what his father would say to see this.

‘God bless our arms and those of the men alongside whom we fight. Let the power of your Church smite
that of Islam, and take into your merciful bosom any man who falls in your cause this day.’

With that he kissed his sword, then stood and, taking the edge of Drogo’s banner, kissed that too.

The battle happened exactly as George Maniakes had predicted. Abdullah marched on, oblivious not only to the Norman presence, but equally to the fact that behind some low hills ahead of him the entire Byzantine force was drawn up to engage. As his leading files crested the rise and saw their enemy they halted in confusion, which was compounded when William Iron Arm led his Norman cavalry out to block the rear on perfect terrain for what they were the best at.

Abdullah was no fool: he stood his ground for some time and organised his forces to press home an attack towards Syracuse, ignoring the now stationary Normans lined up across the plain. Finally trumpets blew and Abdullah and his men charged off their hill towards the line of foot soldiers, this at the same time as William dipped his banner and began to move forward his convoys, lances half lowered.

They could not see, because of the hill before them, the way George Maniakes merely moved his unreliable levies right and left to form two horns of a trap, then brought forward the Varangians to fill the centre. They were in place by the time William crested the rise, but not yet engaged. That was when the Normans
spurred their mounts into that deadly canter, driving before them the Saracen soldiers on to swinging axes that took off limbs and heads, and soaked the ground before the Varangian line in a deep pool of blood too great for the ground to absorb.

Those at the rear expired from Norman lances as well as swords and soon, as the horns closed in from left and right, it was an army utterly destroyed, a stunning and complete victory. There was no time to celebrate. Once the dead had been stripped and the baggage train plundered Maniakes was off at the head of his troops, to get them back to besieging Syracuse, the swiftest of them, the Normans, right on his heels.

Syracuse surrendered because the spirit of the Saracens was broken, not because of battle or starvation. The Sicilian inhabitants went wild when the gates were opened, as though they had not fought alongside their lords and masters, treating George Maniakes as a liberator rather than a conqueror, and from that stemmed all the trouble that followed, for he accepted the accolade of the mob as his due. The locals were less impressed when he immediately stripped out the religious relics they had kept hidden for decades, the bones of saints, and sent them off to Constantinople.

The general took over the palace of the emir, shipped all the remaining Saracens off to slavery, and then engaged in a raft of ceremonies which rededicated the
churches of Syracuse back from being mosques to the Christian faith. The other thing he did was to bar from entry, into the city, his Norman and Varangian troops, yet he could not keep their leaders, who stood before him now in angry conclave.

‘Recompense?’

‘We have been denied our right to plunder,’ said William.

The giant stood up and glared at him. ‘You would treat Syracuse as a city like any other?’

‘I would, and you should treat Syracuse as we treated Messina and Rometta.’

‘They are not the same, you know that! This was once our capital, the churches our churches, this palace the home of the Sicilian Catapan.’