Chapter Twenty: In Which A Duke Learns The Ways Of Byzantium
„How large is their host? And who’s in command?”, Serlo’s question rang sharply in the hall of the fortified towerhouse.
“Your pardon, my Lord, but it is not known”, was the messenger’s stammered reply in mangled Norman French. By his looks, he must have been the bastard of some Christian and an Arab woman, judging from his two dozen years probably the result of the pillaging of some conquered Sicilian town. His dusky mongrel face was was tired and drawn like malnourished old dog’s from riding hard for many score leagues. “I was dispatched immediately, before anyone but the first outriders had penetrated Senoussi, but from their number alone, the enemy might easily number five thousand or more.”
“And they have the help of the nomads, it seems”, growled Count Charles of Djerba, Duke Serlo’s principal vassal and current host at the tiny coastal town of Djarjis. “I’m a monk if the resurgence of their raids and the slaying of Charles of Senoussi is a mere coincidence.”
Duke Serlo reflected for an instant. After his cousin’s coronation he had put down the insurrection in Cyrenaika and had then wintered at the old royal city of Tunis where he had stockpiled supplies and asembled the hosts from the western African counties. Almost four thousand of them he had had at the ready when the King had in early spring crossed over from Sicily with a similiar number. Less than seven thousand men seemed scant for attacking the Hammadids, but Serlo’s cousin had confidence in his own generalship and did believe in waging war economically. And then the Hammadids were of course much weakened from losing their wealthy and populous Tunisian core territories. In all likelihood, they would not be able to field much more than eight thousand men themselves – and Bohemond had no intention of facing them all at once anyhow. His plan was to strike into the territory of Qawurd Najjar, Sheik of Medjerda and Bejaija and one of King Hashmaddin’s most powerful vassals, and annihilate his army before having to meet the Hammadid main force.
While the King and his bastard son Silvester were leading the offensive into Hammadid lands, Serlo had been ordered to return east to his duchy to keep peace and order in his cousin’s back. Travelling along the coast, the Duke of Leptis Magna had learned of a certain restlessness among the bedouins beyond the southern border which was only now erupting into full-fledged raids all along the Libyan desert, striking into his own lands, those of Count Zarides to the west and those of late Count Charles to the east. His death by the hands of a band of desert nomads two months ago had been no more than the first act of a concerted attack upon Norman lands in Africa. And now this day’s news of a Fatimid army advancing through Senoussi upon Leptis Magna!
Serlo grunted in reply to Charles’ assessment: “Aye. The Fatimids have won the support of the bedouins, it seems. And they have stricken off the head of Senoussi, throwing the county into dissaray and exposing our eastern flank.”
“I wonder at the Fatimids’ audacity. They are allied to Hashmaddin, sure, but they have more than enough troubles on their hands with the defections of Medina and Jerusalem, one should think”, Charles said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Silently cursing his own blindness most bitterly, Serlo pressed his lips into a thin line: “We have all made the mistake of thinking that the Fatimids would be rational and reasonable. What we have overlooked is that they are ruled by a child, a boy who is now coming of an age old enough to bend the regency council to his royal will. This folly of picking yet another war can only be a child’s play. Anyhow, the attack is a disaster for us no matter wether reasonable or not.”
The Duke rose from his low-backed Arab chair, forcing his vassal to stand up as well. “Griping’s no use”, Serlo said with grim determination, “there’s not a moment to be lost. Call the war council immediately.”
When the marshalls Renaud of Djerba and Serlo’s own Henri d’Acerenza finally came hastening, the Duke had already had the map brought from his baggage and found time to study it. While the messenger was giving his report a second time and answering the marshalls’ questions to the best of his meager knowledge, Serlo sketched in his mind the first outlines of a plan. When the messenger had satidfied the lords’ curiosity to the best of his ability, Serlo seized the initiative: “I don’t need to tell you how grave these news are, milords. The Fatimid host outnumbers the fighting men of Leptis by maybe a dozen times. The forces from the western African counties are with the King, waging war upon the Hammadids, and the forces of the eastern provinces are busy keeping their own people in line. If I pull them out to aid us, the entire east will flare up in rebellion. Leptis Magna and Gabes are on their own.”
Sullen stares from grim faces met the Duke’s assessment. Serlo’s Marshall, the level-headed Henri, spoke up: “But surely the King will send aid?”
“Of course”, Serlo replied, “but for the time being we’re on our own. It’ll take time for the bad news to reach him, and I doubt he’s gonna march his own host to our aid. He’ll probably send to Sicily and Calabria, and it will be months until these troops are assembled and shipped to Africa. I don’t expect any help before the end of summer.”
“Then we have to delay them”, Charles of Djerba said, smashing his fist into his palm.
“My thoughts exactly”, Serlo said. “With the count murdered, Senoussi’s leaderless, and it will be months ere this Philippe will have arrived from Europe to assume the office. The lords of Senoussi will not be able to put up any kind of concerted resistance, and the Fatimids should be able to quickly penetrate Senoussi. We must see to it that they advance no further.”
Military operations in North Africa in the first half of 1100
Serlo’s finger stabbed down on the crude map, on the small coastal fortress town of Burayqah, or Biraga as the Normans used to call it: “We’ll assemble or forces here, at Biraga, where we can shield at least Leptis Magna from the enemy. And we’ll send word to Count Demetrios of Gabes that he is to bring up his own host to join us here. Senoussi’s as good as lost anyway and rebellions are the least of its concerns, so I’ll order its lords to pull out if they still can and to also assemble at Biraga.”
“They won’t like abandoning their holdings one bit”, said Henri d’Acerenza.
“That may well be, but we can’t reach Senoussi in time to make a stand there, and I won’t allow the Fatimids to defeat us peacemeal”, Serlo said. “All we can do is assemble a host so large they can at least not ignore it, bog them down, and hope that reinforcements arrive before we are overwhelmed.”
Charles’ Marshall Renaud looked at the map doubtfully. “Biraga is a stand very much forward”, he said. “Misurata might be a better choice. We’d expose much of Leptis Magna, ‘tis true, but we would have more time to prepare, and the enemy less to assault our positions before relief arrives. At Biraga, we’d face the Muhammadan much earlier, and it’s doubtful wether we could hold out long enough.”
“Yes”, Serlo said gravely. “I know.”
* * *
The last glow of the setting sun had already faded from the western sky when Serlo rode through the fortified gates of Biraga. He was stiff from a long day in the saddle, having ridden out with a sizeable force to see with his own two eyes the devastation the Fatimid troops were visiting upon Norman lands. It seemed the enemy didn’t wish to waste time with a possibly drawn-out siege, and so they tried to lure Serlo from his fortified position by razing villages, burning the crop, cutting down orchards and slaughtering the King’s subjects. The Muhammadan soldiers with whom the countryside was swarming had no compunction massacring their own people. War was business, Serlo knew, waged best with a cool head and an even colder heart, and that was no les than the enemy did. The Duke himself was therefore not infuriated with the lasting damage done to Norman lands and the suffering inflicting on Norman subjects, merely saddened and slightly upset. This was the face of war, and he had been familiar with its features for almost forty years.
A week ago, Serlo had received word of his royal cousin. He had to hold out, Bohemond had told him; help from Europe was forthcoming, but it would still be months before it would arrive. As if Serlo hadn’t known.
Well, at least the King’s campaign in the west was going well while the open country in the east had been virtually overrun by Fatimids. The sovereign had advanced into the mountainous interior province of Medjerda and lured the local Hammadid governor Sheik Qawurd into a battle that continued to add to Bohemond’s legend of invincibility in the field. Qawurd had fled to his holdings at Bejaija farther west to raise new troops, and Bohemond had moved upon the town of Tebessa. Sheik Qawurd had sent envoys to buy the Normans off with a kingly sum, but Bohemond had of course refused and taken the town. His intention was now to advance north, towards the coastal town of Bizerta, where King Hashmaddin was said to be assembling a host to aid his servant Qawurd.
Biraga was a very strongly fortified town, even though a small one, home to less than three thousand souls, but right now the narrow alleys through which Serlo was riding towards the castle were those of a ghost town. When the Duke and his host had arrived at Biraga, it had already been swelling with refugees fleeing from the approaching Fatimids, but Serlo had had them turned out, together with all the inhabitants of the town itself. It had been a harsh measure, but with a Muhammadan army advancing upon them Serlo hadn’t felt like taking the risk of a traitor in the town conspiring with his Fatimid brothers in faith.
Serlo would have loved nothing better than ridding himself of the dirt and grit clinging to his sweaty skin after a day spent in the arid countryside, but first he would hear the news of Count Demetrios’ approach. The Count of Djerba had used a small but fast courier galley to speed a messenger ahead of his host, and the man had arrived while Serlo had been out reconnoitering. The Duke strode into the hall of Biraga Castle where the envoy was awaiting his pleasure. It was a man of about Serlo’s own advanced years, and like many men in Count Demetrios’ service he was aGreek as belied bothhis features and the elaborate tunic after Byzantine he was wearing. Serlo thought that the man would have fitted many of the lavish Muhammadan residences well, but Biraga Castle was a place as stark and primitive as most Norman fortresses, and in the surroundings of the spartan hall it was mail-clad and dirty Serlo who looked utterly at home and the Greek like a man from another world.
The Duke had ridden all day and had little patience for his guest’s polite courtesy, cutting him of gruffly: “You’ll excuse me if I have no time for banter. What I want to know is when your master will arrive, and how many men he will bring.”
The Greek bowed slightly, the pleated folds of his voluminous robes rustling softly. “Count Demetrios bids you his warmest greetings, most noble Lord Duke, and assures you what support he can give”, he said with an obliging smile. “As an immediate relief in your plight he sends you supplies, a hold brimming with dates and grain and salted mutton, awaiting your command in the galley that brought me. My Lord Demetrios wishes to inform you that he is facing most dangerous nomad incursions into his lands, and unrest all over Gabes. He is most distressed that his own troops’ presence in Gabes is most essential to prevent the county from falling into Muhammadan hands. He feels it is his pressing duty to prevent Gabes from defecting to the enemy, which would split the African lands into two isolated halves, and that he is therefore unfortunately unable to spare the troops you request, as much as this might sadden him.”
Serlo’s features had set while listening to the Greek’s glib words and his brow furrowed. “I did
request nothing”, he said, “I
ordered by my authority as regent of Africa.”
Again, the Greek bowed and smiled, this time contritely: “Begging your indulgence, most noble Lord Duke, but it seems that unfortunately some legal doubt has arisen concerning your authority. You are invested as his Majesty the King’s regent, true, but surely this does only apply for as long as his Majesty is not bodily
in Africa, something he currently is, as you will surely have noticed. It would seem that under these circumstances your regency powers are temporarily void and suspended. This is most clearly validated by two different cases to be found in the Digests of Emperor Justinian, concerning the power of the praefectus praetorio Africae, an office which must without a doubt be correlated to your own. Count Demetrios is afraid that the legal ramfications…”
“You are dismissed”, Serlo’s icy words cut through the glibness of the messenger. After the man had left under a flurry of graceful bows, Serlo let himself drop into a chair and rested his head on a fist slipped from the mail mitten. The Duke of Leptis Magna wasn’t new to courtly machinations, but he had dealt almost exclusively with Normans and Franks, not with scheming Byzantines. Damn them! So instead of help, all that was forthcoming from Demetrios were lies and excuses, excuses and lies.
Serlo chuckled a bitter laugh, thinking of the words his cousin had spoken to him some years ago, after the fall of Tunis, when Serlo had come to plead with the King because of his involvement in Sancha’s conspiracy. ‘I’m lied to a hundred times each day, Serlo’, Bohemond had said. ‘Do you think I could have lasted without having learned long ago to read a man’s heart in his face? Yours is true, that much I know.’ Bohemond had not wished to hear any more of the affair, and it was all he had ever said about it. Serlo had often thought of his cousin’s words, but never before this day had they rung so true. I’m lied to a hundred times each day.
With a determined grunt, Serlo pushed himself from his seat to stand bolt upright. If Leptis Magna was to face the storm alone, then so be it.
* * *
“What’s your reckoning – how long until they assault?”, Hoel asked.
Serlo thoughtfully chewed the meat from the date before spitting its stone in an arc over the parapet and down to the alleys of Biraga below. It had been only this morning that the Fatimids had gained the town wall and he had ordered a retreat into the castle. “The enemy will have to allow his men some respite, time to celebrate, and to rest”, he said. “Should be two or three days before they attack. No more, though – those bastards are keen to finally get done with us.”
For half a month Serlo had sat tight in Biraga, gritting his teeth while the Fatimids ranged through the surrounding countryside, killing and looting and burning where they went. By day thick plumes of smoke could be seen rising beyond the horizon, and by night the heavens had been aglow with the fires of villages, orchards and water wheels, but in spite of the ravages being visited upon the land Serlo had refused the angry demands of many of his knights and stayed in the safety of Biraga. The enemy commander had finally realized that he could not bait the Normans to throw themselves at his vastly superior army and had led his forces to Biraga. The Fatimids had already lost much time, and so they didn’t bother with a long siege but threw their vast numbers against the walls, day after day and wave after wave. The seven hundred Norman defenders had been terribly outnumbered, by possibly as much as ten to one, but they had put the strong fortifications of Biraga to good use. Serlo had finally been forced to abandon the town and withdraw into the castle guarding the small harbour, but not before he had bled the Fatimids. Some two hundred Norman fighting men lay dead, but they had killed at least five times their own number.
Duke Serlo looking out from the parapet of Biraga Castle
“We won’t be able to hold them for longer than a week”, Hoel said matter-of-factly. “You know that.”
Serlo sucked at a bit of date stuck between his teeth and replied in even, almost unconcerned tones: “Aye. But the castle’s strong. I intend to hold it for the full week, and to take as many of those sons of bitches with us as we can. They can take Biraga, but they will bleed themselves dry in doing so. Biraga’s gonna be the end of their campaign.”
If they could hold the Fatimids for long enough and whittle their host sufficiently down, chances were they would have to withdraw. Ten days ago they had had word from the King. Eager to retain even his western lands, Sheik Qawurd had pleaded with Bohemond and offered to recognize the Norman possession of Medjerda, pay indemnities and deny King Hashmaddin the use of his troops if Bohemond would only assure him his possession of Bejaija. As Serlo’s cousin had never been interested at all in distant Bejaija, he had not hesitated to accept Qawurd’s offer. Chances were good for another victory over Hashmaddin, but much depended on how fast it could be achieved. If Bohemond could bring the war with the Hammadids to an early conclusion, he could bring his host east to deal with the Fatimids.
“And then it might just be possible that we bleed the infidels so much that they have to acknowledge the futility of bringing their campaign to a successful end and are forced to withdraw”, Serlo added almost as an afterthought.
Hoel snorted and shot his master a doubtful glance. How old and grey his squire had become, Serlo thought; they should both leave playing at war to younger lads. “Not bloody likely”, the half-Breton veteran said.
Serlo had to nod his assent: “If we had but twice our number I’d have those bastards bleed themselves dry against the walls. But as it is we’re five hundred against five thousand…”
Hoel remained silent for a long time, staring out sullenly over the town where an occasional Fatimid fighting man could be seen flitting through the twilight of a shadowy alleyway. Finally he said: “There’s of course also the harbour. The two ships could easily take all the knights and squires.”
“You’re not meaning this, are you?”
The shaggy grey giant shrugged: “Just thinkin’. Live to fight another day and all that. But I knew that you’d not listen to reason.”
Hoel grinned at his master and friend from underneath his drooping moustache and Serlo chuckled: “Right. If I’d been reasonable I’d stayed home in Normandy.”
The Duke turned around to overlook Biraga’s harbour. It was small and primitive, but it was protected by the castle and a wall seperating it from the rest of the town, and Serlo had not yet given it up. They had two small ships berthed there, after all, and it was their only means of staying in touch with the world outside the fortress. He did once more weigh his options. It would probably be for the best to burn the ships and abandon the harbour right away instead of wasting manpower protecting it.
“I’ll be damned!”, exclaimed Hoel. “Teats of the blessed virgin, look at that!”
Serlo looked hard in the direction indicated by Hoel’s pointing arm, squinting into the sun hanging already low above the western horizon. And then he saw it. Right underneath the sun’s searing ball, maybe a mile off shore, there was a number of sails, at least half a dozen. Relief? Could it be? There was no way the King could already have won his own war, and Serlo couldn’t see his cousin abandoning his campaign prematurely. And forces from Europe were not due for at least month. But if it wasn’t Normans it could only be Hammadids. Should Hashmaddin have followed predecessor’s strategy of attacking the enemy on his own ground to force him to abandon his offensive? Serlo’s thoughts were racing.
The sun set, the ships drew nearer, and in drawing nearer revealed themselves ever more to the hundreds of eager watchers at Biraga. It was no less than ten ships, a motley fleet of various types, and they were flying crosses and Norman colours. Many in Biraga were overcome with joy, but more prudent heads were still cautious and reserved – all too easily it might be Muhammadans trying to deceive the garrison.
They were not, as it turned out. It was a Norman fleet, commanded by the King’s bastard Silvester. The fleet brought supplies, but even more welcome were the nigh two thousand fighting men pouring from the ships. Serlo was soon to learn that raising these men had been young Silvester’s initiative and that they were largely volunteers from among the sizable Christian minority of Tunis and Kairwan.
“I had word sent round the towns that able-bodied men would not only get the opportunity to prevent renewed Muhammadan oppression”, Silvester grinned at Serlo, “but that they could also expect to be rewarded from the booty of the current campaign. One farmstead each, either to keep or to sell. They came in droves.”
“And the weapons?”, the Duke asked, watching hundreds and hundreds of decently equipped men file from the ships. “Where did you get those?”
Silvester smiled once more, strong teeth shining white in the dusky half-light: “King Hashmaddin was so obliging. I convinced the King to disallow looting of the enemy fallen. The King paid his men an indemnity from the war chest, and the arms of Hashmaddin’s troops went to equip my men. No sooner then everybody had his kit we borded the ships and hurried back east.”
“So there’s been another big battle?”
“Two days before we embarked. We met Hashmaddin near the town of Bizerta. I’ll tell you everything you want to know about it, my Lord Duke, but for now this: We came at Hashmaddin, our seven and a half thousand against the enemy’s five thousand, and we broke them completely. Almost a third of the heathen remained dead on the field, while we lost less than two hundred. The Hammadids scattered and fled, and the King has moved to besiege Bizerta. Might be he’s already taken the town.”
Looking at the droves of men marching past him, Serlo felt elated. The small castle would burst its seams with all these men, and they would have to be billetted in every corridor and even in the courtyard and on the roofs, but their presence meant deliverance for Biraga. With over two thousand men defending its walls, the scant five thousand Fatimids hadn’t the shadow of a chance to take the fortress. The Normans could now simply sit and wait for further reinforcemts to strengthen them to the point where they could overcome the enemy in battle and drive him from Christian lands.
.
