by Jack Ludlow
‘It can.’
‘Not without reducing the locals to starvation.’
‘Let them starve; what we have to do matters more than a few famished Italian peasants.’
And they wonder why, William thought, they are not loved, these Lombards. The other thought was the need to give Arduin a pressing reason to fall in with the suggestion he had just made: he would not be coerced into doing the right thing.
‘The country around here is not suitable for training large bodies. Besides, more and more recruits are coming in from the land to the east. It would be best, and might increase the numbers, if we were to go towards them rather than have them come all the way to us. Let us gather in one place, Normans and Lombards.’
‘You want to stop your brothers?’
There was calculation in that too: the de Hautevilles were sending back to Melfi the contents of the coffers from the towns they were taking, and part of that was going to the man in command – Arduin’s little strongbox was filling up as much as was that of the Normans, a reminder that he was not only in this campaign for a dream.
‘I want to go to where they are operating and destroying crops and livestock. If we are going to feed our host let’s do it with produce from the fields of the Catapanate, not those we possess. Let us make our base at Canosa, not here.’
‘We do not have possession of Canosa.’
‘Faced with our entire force under its walls and no sign of help, I suspect it will capitulate.’
‘And if he attacks us there?’
‘Let him break his strength on its fortifications, let him lose men, then let him have the place.’
‘Surrender?’
‘Draw him on Arduin. If we fully exploit Canosa we will leave him nothing in the way of supplies, and nothing in the way of men either. He will then pursue us to a place of our choosing.’
‘I have been mulling over some other plans.’
‘And so you should,’ William replied, sounding emollient, even if he was unsure he was hearing the truth. ‘All I ask is you think on it.’
Pride meant Arduin would not move immediately; indeed he did not do so until the proposed leader of the Lombard revolt, Count Atenulf, arrived. The brother of Landulf, the Prince of Benevento, he was a rather dense young man of no discernible personality and he was certainly no military leader: asked for an opinion on tactics all he produced was a vacuous look and no suggestions. Arduin showed no disappointment, for he was perfect: properly patrician but utterly stupid and malleable.
‘I have decided that we must move closer to our enemies, and let them know that we intend to do battle with them. I hope you agree, Count Atenulf?’ The pause was long, the eyes opaque, if not actually confused, and it was a while before the youngster nodded. ‘Good. We will move two days from now down the Ofanto towards Barletta. We will also examine the possibility of investing Canosa.’
William got no mention for having suggested this course of action, not that he cared. The vanity of other men when it came to making the right decisions was something with which he could easily live.
The wards that William had taken on looked very different from the day he had brought them to the castle, and in the case of the boy the change was more than just the fact that he was clean and had been properly fed for enough time to put flesh on his ribs. When his sister was not looking he had even smiled at their saviour, unlike her: she had a face like a mastiff sucking a wasp and no words of William’s interpreter, however soft and kindly they sounded before translation, seemed to dent that. Even if she showed signs of some physical charm, albeit as yet undeveloped, her steady, unremitting and hate-filled glare took away any hint of good looks.
They had names too: she was called Tirena and he answered to Listo, and William was sure they understood more of what he was saying now than they had previously, for instruction in Latin had been part of that which had been provided. Instead of being angered by her intransigence, he admired her spirit, and wondered if it was a common trait in these mountainous regions of Italy, hoping that such a thing might be the case.
The reason was straightforward enough: if his longterm aim was to acquire land and possessions here, he would need to understand the nature of the people. That they, both in the mountains and on the plains, hated Lombards, he knew – every Italian native did – just as he knew why. Wherever they had exercised power, they had done so to serve themselves. But they detested Byzantium too: it was distant and cared only for what it could extract in terms of taxes paid in produce and livestock, this gathered by rapacious collectors who bought the right of assessment, then lined their pockets with excessive demands. His brothers, in their forays, had captured and strung up to the nearest tree a couple of these tax farmers, to the delight of the locals who had witnessed their death throes.
Perhaps the people of Apulia would submit to better rule, laws properly applied and the payment of revenues that did not drive them to starvation, and especially a lordship personal and closely present. The other thing William knew was that, to sustain himself and his house, a reliance on Norman lances, on a steady stream of men coming south, was an unsound policy. Just as now, in league with the Lombards, an army needed foot soldiers. They had to be raised here and perhaps, in time, they could be mounted and taught the same kind of discipline that made the Normans so formidable.
As well as the interpreter, the woman who had been given charge of the pair was present too, a homely creature as broad as she was high, with a face and arms to match, the former red and full, as befitted one who worked in the castle kitchens, the latter more akin to a horseman’s thigh than a female jambe. That she had stopped the girl spitting at him was to be lauded, that they were clean too, but her abilities were limited to such cares, while William was wondering how far he could take this.
‘You will need to be lettered and numerate,’ he said, quietly pleased that the confusion those two unknown words caused, when translated, at least removed the glare for a second. ‘I will employ a monk for the purpose.’
That made the girl Tirena spit again: even folk of shepherd stock knew monks, and knew that too often they were ignorant layabouts who used their supposed piety to leech off those who toiled for sustenance.
‘You are nothing but a burden now. I would want you of some use.’ He looked at the boy. ‘And you will work with my soldiers, Listo, learning to clean and maintain harness and weapons. Perhaps, if the reports of your progress are good, you will be taught to ride.’
The look of delight those words produced lasted only as long as it took the boy’s sister to snap at him. Turning to her, William thought it might be better to teach Tirena to be a fighter, given she had all the attributes of an Amazon.
‘You, girl, only the good Lord knows what I will do with you. I would give you needles with which you could learn to sew, but I suspect they would end up in human flesh, and mine own if I gave you a chance.’
The departure from Melfi was attended by great ceremony, something of which William heartily approved, being good for morale, even if the man to whom the levies aimed their cheers as they passed left something to be desired. Even sat on his horse behind Atenulf, at the base of the causeway that led to the castle, he was unimpressed: these levies raising their pikes, swords and axes needed to be inspired; the limp hand Atenulf waved in response made William wonder if he had any red blood in his veins to go with the blue.
Once the last foot soldiers had passed, Count Atenulf set off, in the company of Arduin and William, to make their way to the front of the league-long column, to get out of the cloud of dust these levies kicked up. As he kicked his mount into motion, William took a last look at the ramparts of Melfi, and he was sure, before the head disappeared, that he had caught sight of Tirena peering over and that pleased him.
The sickness came upon William within two days, a sort of lassitude allied to vomiting, which laid him low and confined him to a cot when camped and a litter when they moved. Thankfully Drogo had rejoined, followed
by the other de Hautevilles, and they could ensure that the right ideas were being promoted. Training was being undertaken on the move, in the morning before the sun became too hot; the men rested till it cooled in the afternoon, when they would move a couple of leagues to a new campsite, slow progress to their eventual goal, but necessary.
‘They’re an argumentative lot, these Lombards,’ said Drogo, talking while a woman, one of the numerous camp followers, spoon-fed his brother with a potage, the patient reluctant to take more than a couple of mouthfuls. ‘No wonder they never win. Anyone gives an order and it’s the cause of an immediate quarrel.’
‘Will they be ready if we meet the catapan?’
‘They will not be a useless mob, but ready is another thing.’
‘We’ve got to keep them away from the Varangians.’
‘You can keep me away from them too,’ Drogo replied, standing to leave, and pinching the woman’s ample arse as he did so. ‘I have nightmares about those axes.’
It took over ten days to get within striking distance of Canosa – the host had hogged the Ofanto, living off its supply of water and the fertility of the fields that bordered it – with William still too weak to partake of any duties, and it was with some misgiving he learnt that Arduin had decided to bypass the town and move on towards Barletta: a place, one of the important great ports, the catapan would have to defend.
Much as he disputed the notion he made no attempt to interfere, and it was not from his own ill health: there was no point in having a general then not following his lead, and the whole notion of coming from Melfi was to find the Byzantine army and defeat it for a second time. For that the plains around Barletta were as good a place as any.
* * *
‘That, William,’ said Arduin, sweeping an all-encompassing arm over the plain spread below, ‘is the field of Cannae.’
Weak as he was, William rose from his litter to gaze over one of the most famous battle sites in history, the field where the Carthagian general, Hannibal, annihilated two Roman legions.
‘God willing, this is where I want to do battle with them, the place stained with my father’s own blood.’
Helped by Mauger, William, worried that Arduin was allowing sentiment to interfere with sound judgement, moved to look around and he could see, from the commanding mound on which they stood, why the field had been fought over more than once. The hill overlooked an extensive flat plain running all the way to the coast, perfect for an army to deploy and also a place giving a good view of the landscape for leagues around. No enemy could approach by stealth, or organise an attack without all their dispositions being obvious. Below, and to the north and west, ran the River Ofanto, providing ample water for an encamped army – vital, since it was now high summer – as well as a supply route for food and fodder.
‘I have made sure the catapan knows this is where we are camped and of my intention to advance on Barletta if left to do so.’
‘The Normans were chased from the field too, Arduin,’ said William, his voice rasping and weak. ‘Rainulf’s brother Gilbert died here along with a third of the lances he led. It is the only time we have ever been bested in Italy.’
‘Then it is a ghost you too have to lay, William.’
They knew Michael Doukeianos was coming as soon as he broke camp. Resting still, though feeling somewhat stronger, William lay in his raised litter at the front of the tent set up to accommodate him. He could watch the battle unfold in the company of those men, some Normans included, who had been left to guard the baggage train, free of mail, warmed by the sun and calling for refreshment while he did so. Truly this was a better way to soldier than to always be at the forefront of the fight.
The Norman-Lombard forces were in place on the gentle lower slopes; it was the catapan who must march to this place and deploy to meet them, which was carried out in what looked like better order than he had managed at Masseria, with the Varangians, very obvious even at a distance, in his centre, the less well-trained levies on each side. Arduin had split and placed the Norman cavalry on the flanks, both to protect the foot soldiers from envelopment and to be there to exploit any weaknesses, and, William suspected, to see first if his Lombards could win without their aid. The crossbowmen stood to the rear, ready to be used wherever they were needed.
These dispositions were not something of which he disapproved; despite Arduin’s hopes this would no more be the last battle than Masseria. Byzantium still held the great port cities and most of Apulia and they still commanded the loyalty, albeit by force, of the majority of the Italian and Greek population. If the Lombards could win this fight without Norman help it would raise their spirits; what they could not do, in his estimation, however high their morale might be, was chase their enemies out of Italy.
The surprise, when Arduin ordered the advance, had him standing upright, because that was precisely the wrong thing to do. What the Lombard-Norman host needed was a defensive battle. They held the higher ground, so they should force the Byzantines to attack them, harder uphill than on the flat. The only way to even partially unsettle those Varangians was to force them into the attack, hoping that movement would disorder their ranks: to assault them was to play to their strengths. They would face any attacking force, on foot or mounted, and cut them to pieces with those great axes.
The feeling of hopelessness was allied to William’s feelings of physical weakness, and that was compounded by the sight of the front line of the attack growing ragged almost before it had covered a third of the intervening ground. Meanwhile his brothers, Drogo and Geoffrey on the right, and Humphrey and Mauger on the left, had begun to move their lances forward as flank protection, and at the same pace as the marching men, a total negation of their innate abilities. Nothing happened quickly: it was like watching a waking dream unfold, or, if anticipation was added, a potential nightmare.
‘Fetch my mail,’ he shouted, ‘and saddle my horse.’
There was a moment when that order so astounded those who heard it, no one moved, but the subsequent roar from William had people running to obey. Moving with difficulty, he got closer to the small party of Normans guarding the baggage and the temporary paddocks where the mules, donkeys and spare Norman mounts were corralled.
‘You, go to Drogo and tell him, whatever his orders are, to attack the Byzantine milities.’ Turning to another he sent him with the same instruction to Humphrey. ‘And tell them to stay away from the Varangians.’
He had to be helped into his mail, all the time watching the Lombards close in on the catapan’s centre, thinking that Michael Doukeianos must be relishing what was to come – a half-trained army taking on the very best fighters he had – and he would be right to be so. It would be an assault that, if it was to continue, would have to be over the dead bodies of the very front line. They would then be taken in flank by their opposite numbers.
His horse was beside him, stamping and restless, having a nose for impending battle, perhaps, or just unsettled by the way it had been so hastily prepared, and it was evidence of his continued weakness that helping hands were needed to get him mounted. Spurring hard, he rode forward to where the crossbowmen stood waiting, shouting an order for them to follow him at a run, and as he did that he heard the horns of his own men, and much higher still than the host he saw Drogo lead his lances into a trot.
‘That, Catapan, will make you think!’
Which he did: the front line of his levies knelt down and pushed lower their pikes, creating a frieze of points no cavalry could ride into without becoming impaled, the same happening on the left as Humphrey and Mauger advanced. Arduin, moving forward behind his advancing lines, had turned to see William riding down upon him, what could be seen of his face under his helmet suffused with rage. Iron Arm ignored him, his voice like a blasting trumpet as he yelled for the rear ranks to open and let him through. There was no time for a conference, no time to tell Arduin of his error: the Lombards had sacrificed the high ground and they must be halted.
&nbs
p; Men fell before his horse as he forced his way into the mass of bodies, using the flat of his sword blade to create a path through which the crossbowmen could follow him, until finally he was at the fore, no more than lance-throwing distance from the blond giants who faced him, the sun flashing on newly polished helmets, their raised axe heads, and the gleaming bosses at the centre of their round bucklers.
‘Crossbows, in a line. Aim for their lower legs. When they drop their shields, aim for the eyes. When they lift them to protect their heads, aim for their thighs.’
Once the first bolts were released, and had struck exposed shins, William turned and ordered the front Lombard rank to kneel, another behind them to lace their pikes through that first line, another to stand and present their pikes over their compatriots’ heads. There were men carrying spears, and once that solid line was formed they could aim those over the heads of their front with impunity.
That which he had ordered the crossbowmen to do was being executed, which was an appropriate word, as bolts thudded into any part the Varangians exposed. William knew they would not stand and suffer, just as he knew that he and those crossbowmen were between those soon-to-be advancing axes and an impenetrable mass of pikes. But he also guessed that a horn would order the advance, and as soon as that sounded he bellowed for those bowmen to run, hauling round his mount and heading for Drogo’s now engaged lances.
The catapan had only seen the Norman tactics at Masseria: here he was faced with a completely different set of problems, as the riders stood off from the pikes and shield wall, and the lances were used at full extent to jab at the men holding them, while swords were employed to cut off the deadly points, thus reducing their deterrent effect. Goaded, they sought to retaliate, opening gaps between shields into which those same lances were cast with deadly effect, that followed by a double horn blast, which had the men who had loosed them ride away from danger in a disciplined group, to be immediately replaced by a fresh line of Norman horsemen, who employed similar tactics.