Warriors

by Jack Ludlow

  Guaimar was remembering how much he had once feared this man. But no more: he was sound in his inheritance now and he had command of Rainulf Drengot in his own domains, which gave him deep satisfaction. The Count of Aversa needed his prince as much as Guaimar needed him, perhaps more, given his continuing difficulties with Rome, a matter not helped by the continuing dispute about who, in fact, out of the competing contenders, was truly Pope.

  ‘I am obliged to ask after your family.’

  Not my woman, or my son by name; my family, thought Drengot. I’m damned if I will mention to you the woman who shares my bed.

  ‘The boy is hale, sire, and growing.’

  ‘And how do matters progress in your annulment?’

  If the courtiers attending in the chamber did not laugh outright, there was certainly more than a hint of suppressed mirth: Rainulf knew of the jokes that they told each other about him and the woman he wanted to marry, so much younger than he. Why could not that bitch of a wife of his expire? He was a man who had torched nunneries in his life and he longed to do that now, with one of the inmates still trapped inside. But it would not serve: he was no longer a mere knight with a lance, a sword and nothing in his purse – he was too elevated, too prominent a figure. Excommunication, which would surely follow, would not aid his cause.

  ‘I have asked Pope Benedict to tell me what would be needed to facilitate matters, but he seems very reluctant to name me a price.’

  ‘Benedict is having trouble holding on to his office, Rainulf. There are those in Rome who challenge his right to his title. Perhaps you should consult with them too.’

  Suddenly Drengot’s voice became weedy and pleading, he knew he was being guyed. ‘There can only be one true pontiff, surely, but is it not a shameful thing, sire, that such a man holding such a holy office seeks a bribe to do that which is right?’

  One of those attending, so ancient now he had earned the right to be seated, was the bent-backed Archbishop of Salerno, who frowned mightily to hear the Pontiff he and Salerno supported, the man who actually held both St Peter’s and the papal castle of St Angelo, so traduced. Taking advantage of his years and his mitre, he barked out a response.

  ‘The case must be examined, Count Rainulf. You say the marriage was not consummated and can thus be annulled, the woman you married denies it. Are you suggesting the Holy See pay to investigate the true facts?’

  ‘I say the Holy See should take the word of an imperial count before that of—’

  Guaimar interrupted sharply, it being a chance to beard his vassal on safe ground. ‘The sister of an imperial prince, for if Pandulf has been deposed, he once held that estate?’

  ‘Prince no longer, sire,’ Rainulf spat. ‘His fief is a Byzantine dungeon and he is lucky not to have had his eyes put out.’

  Said with such obvious bitterness, Guaimar was tempted to remind Rainulf Drengot of how he had once loyally served the man they called the Wolf of the Abruzzi. But it would not do, his responsibility to his rank and office demanded that he put such a notion aside, for that would be a jibe too far. Truly, being a prince took some of the joy out of life.

  ‘Come, Rainulf, and let us retire to my private chamber, to discuss matters in Apulia.’

  Unbeknown to Robert de Hauteville, his arrival in the hill city of Benevento coincided with the day Count Atenulf had set aside to show off his prisoner, a matter delayed and arranged so that the population could demonstrate their feelings for this hated Byzantine catapan. He had found a place to lay his head, and to stable his horses, in a religious house half a league away and, alerted to the proposed celebrations, he made for the walled city on foot. The gates were guarded, but such was the crowd coming in from the surrounding habitations that spread out from the citadel, he was not challenged as he would have been on a normal day: a man of his appearance always was.

  Once through those he entered narrow streets thronged with people, all in the kind of mood prevalent in the more robust religious festivals, with drinking and dancing, some even running to costumes of the kind worn by fools, and he had to push his way through the crush, curious as to what the fuss was about; to him the term ‘catapan’ was, if not unknown, then certainly not a familiar title.

  In quizzing the locals – not without difficulty, their Latin was strangely accented to his ears – he heard of the great victory achieved by the brother of their prince, a mighty warrior who had, they stated proudly, almost single-handed, humbled Byzantium. Having been kept outside the walls for a week, the prisoner was to be brought into the city, hauled through the old Roman triumphal arch, much carved with symbols of ancient military victories, then led through the streets to his ultimate humiliation in the amphitheatre.

  With his height, Robert had no difficulty in finding himself a point from which to observe, nor in seeing the captive, a distressed-looking fellow in a wheeled cage, of swarthy complexion and lank black hair, wearing a white smock. It did not stay that for long: as soon as he emerged from the city side of the arch the pelting began, all the filth of the streets and more beside hurled with screaming abuse at a victim who took it with commendable stoicism, looking straight ahead and not reacting unless hit by an object large enough to make him jerk.

  Behind the cage, in plumed helmet and glistening armour of a kind worn by the ancients, rode his captor, Count Atenulf, who had won, according to his brother’s subjects, not one battle against the mighty Eastern Empire, but three. Robert’s enquiries, to find out if any Normans had been involved, were greeted with scathing dismissal: Beneventian generals needed no help from northern barbarians. Those who said such things, once they raised their eyes and realised they were talking to one of the breed, and an angry one at that, soon took to grovelling, but all that led to was an admission of ignorance.

  Moving with the crowd was a jostling experience but at least he had the power to ensure he had the space to stay upright. So great was the crush in the confined streets that people were falling and being trampled on, and more than once Robert reached down to heave some unfortunate to their feet, lest energetic stamping turned into bloody mutilation. The outer walls of the amphitheatre, when he finally reached them, reminded him of the Coliseum he had seen in Rome, a once mighty edifice suffering for its years and looted by local builders for its stones, so looking like a ruin.

  Inside it was different: a theatre for drama not games, with the rows of stone seats already nearly full. In the middle of the performing area stood a magnificently clad reception party waiting for the mighty Count Atenulf, and further enquires established that the main figure was the Prince Landulf himself, while it was made plain to this boorish, nosy visitor that the fellow in the mitre and robes was an archbishop. This was said with pride, Benevento having the blessing of the Pope, their ultimate overlord, to keep it safe. The rest of the people present, male and female, were members of the prince’s court.

  Entrance delayed until the amphitheatre was full to bursting, while soldiers with flat-held pikes joined them on the rim to keep the crowd in check, and with people now hanging off the outer walls, the cage was finally dragged in. The occupant was now covered from head to foot in ordure, his hair soaked and hanging down where it had been covered in piss and spittle, standing in a pile of rotting vegetation trapped by the bars. Yet still he stared proudly ahead, and Robert could not help but admire him.

  Atenulf dismounted, took off his plumed helmet, and knelt before the prince, to be then raised by his brother and embraced. The high cleric got a kiss on his episcopal ring and bestowed a blessing on the bowed head, before showing some Christian charity: he made the sign of the cross at the caged catapan. Taking a crown of laurel leaves from an attendant, the Prince of Benevento crowned his brother as the Caesars had once crowned their triumphant generals, then Atenulf spun round to face the people, and to accept the roaring accolades of those assembled.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The recipient of those laurel leaves would have been less pleased, or in his case utterly co
nfused, had he been further south at a meeting convened by Guaimar at the near-ruined castle of Montecchio, just inside his own territories. Nor was the Prince of Salerno entirely happy. He had to listen to the envoys from the great port cities treat him as if he was of no account, not that they favoured anyone above him. They repudiated the leadership of a fool like Atenulf and they were not prepared to take orders from an upstart like Arduin of Fassano. As for the Normans, they were nothing but brigands.

  Arduin, in the face of such contempt, was furious, while Rainulf Drengot looked as though he had been slapped, which given his past exploits, was absurd. A party of Normans from the fortress of Troia, as massive and as hard to capture as Melfi, had finally come south too, and they had reacted noisily to accusations of brigandage. They had also made it plain they had no interest in furthering the ambitions of anyone but themselves. Long in the service of Byzantium, if that power was removed, they cared only about who would take up the burden of paying them; William de Hauteville did not allow himself any expression at all.

  ‘If you put aside cohesion,’ Guaimar insisted, still trying to work through his proxies, ‘you will find yourself back under the thumb of Constantinople.’

  ‘We have walls to resist Byzantium,’ the envoy from Brindisi insisted. In the case of his own city he was right, and his next words underlined the disparity of interest amongst these mainly Lombard envoys. ‘Let Arduin and his Normans control the countryside. As long as they hold that, no siege of our port can succeed.’

  That set up a clamour, as each representative bellowed about the needs of his own community, proving that the one thing that did not exist was unity of purpose.

  ‘What do you think, Gill?’ said Drogo, using, as he habitually did, the French diminutive of William’s name. The de Hauteville brothers were standing far enough away to talk quietly, observing proceedings. ‘Guaimar looks as though he has bitten one of those lemon fruits we found so abundant in Sicily.’

  ‘They are greedy, Drogo. They want to run their own affairs and pay taxes to no master, with us, or the Lombards led by Arduin, fighting a Byzantium army in the open to keep them free to trade.’

  ‘Surely they would pay for that service.’

  ‘They might,’ cut in Humphrey, his brow as usual looking furrowed, ‘but it would be a fee collected after service not before, I’ll wager.’

  ‘You mean they would not pay for our lances?’ asked Mauger.

  William replied, ‘They would only pay if they felt secure. They would feel secure only if Byzantium was booted out of Apulia for good. Who then would they have to fear?’

  ‘Me!’ young Mauger replied, vehemently.

  Humphrey had a laugh that always sounded derisory, never humorous, and that came out now, his upper teeth jabbing into the skin below his mouth. ‘That is a thought which will scare them rigid.’

  William called upon both brothers to hush: that exchange had been too loud and earned a sideways glance from Guaimar, now speaking again.

  ‘You are glad to be free of Constantinople, are you not?’

  The envoys exchanged glances, none of them friendly to him or to each other. They had come from Brindisi, Monopoli, Giovinazzo and Barletta, and while most were Lombards, there were Greeks and Italians too, while back in the cities from which they came were more of all three races to whom they were answerable. It was telling that no representative had come from Trani, a majority Greek port still loyal to Constantinople. The entire party who had travelled all the way from Taranto was actually Greek, but they shared with the others a desire to cast off the same oppressive yoke and the impositions that went with it.

  The looks nailed another one of those problems for that tiresome Lombard dream: not one of these mixed-race city states really looked with favour on the idea of a South Italian kingdom, and that applied to the many Lombard citizens, even run by one of their own kind. To such worthies, all wealthy traders in their bailiwicks, that was only replacing one tax-raising power with another.

  It was a Lombard from Bari who answered. ‘That we are, and to a man we share the dream of the late Melus and we look with favour on his son Argyrus.’

  ‘Liar,’ hissed Geoffrey de Hauteville, which got him a nudge from William.

  Not that his older brother disagreed: he had come to see the name of Melus as a talisman that could be trotted out without much attachment to sincerity, and the idea that the late leader’s son could oversee a revolt was just as disingenuous. Argyrus, as had already been proved, did not have the stature to compete with the likes of Guaimar or the Prince of Benevento, and if such powerful Lombards as they would not bow the knee to him, then these city states had a ready-made excuse to do likewise.

  William’s eye was drawn to Kasa Ephraim, who stood well back, taking no part in the discussions, but with a half smile on his face. He, too, understood perfectly the nuances of the negotiations and the fact they were going nowhere. He had not had a chance to speak with the Jew since he arrived, but he knew he would. Ephraim had not come with Guaimar, but separately, two days after the prince, and he had yet to sit down with the Normans, William included, and contract his business.

  But he was a wise old owl, a man who could see which way the wind would blow and plant his crops to avoid damage, to protect, in his case, his wealth. William was looking forward to talking with him, and seeking his views on what he was now witnessing, as the wrangling continued without any solution in sight.

  ‘I urge you to talk more amongst yourselves,’ Guaimar concluded, ‘and will gather again on the morrow.’

  As the port envoys filed out of the great hall, Guaimar signalled to Rainulf, Arduin and William to join him in an antechamber. He was already on his way to that smaller room, his face dark with anger, before the others moved.

  ‘They must be made to bend the knee,’ he spat, as the door was closed behind William.

  ‘To whom?’ William asked.

  Guaimar nearly spoke the truth and said ‘To me’, but he stopped himself, still wishing to uphold the fiction that he had no ambitions to be the man who ruled, falling back on the usual mantra. ‘To the revolt.’

  ‘Only force will persuade them,’ William said, then added, ‘the ability to breach their defences, and those, with stout walls in good repair, we lack.’

  Being true did not make it palatable: the ports were rich enough to keep their defences in proper repair. It would require a fleet to block the harbour, need siege engines or trained men to sap under the walls and undermine them, as well as enough force to take advantage of any breach created by their efforts. Guaimar’s sour reaction gave Rainulf Drengot a chance to favour William with a look that implied he was fearful, which got the older man that de Hauteville smile which so infuriated those on the receiving end.

  ‘Arduin,’ Guaimar demanded, as though he would have the answer.

  He had one, but it was not to the taste of the Prince of Salerno. ‘If you were to take the field, sire, and—’

  ‘What would Landulf of Benevento have to say to that?’ Guaimar interrupted.

  He really meant Byzantium, who still had troops in Sicily, only a few days sailing from Salerno, and a massive fleet, should it be sent from Constantinople, to transport them to the bay on which his city stood. Benevento was, in terms of places to plunder on the coast, safe: the wealth of the principality was all in the interior. It was still too soon to openly declare himself.

  ‘Besides,’ Guaimar added, ‘I have still not fully subdued Amalfi.’

  That was received with polite disbelief, but if others were troubled, William was quietly content. Dissension amongst the Lombards suited him and when the meeting broke up he emerged in good humour. Days went by in fruitless discussion, time in which William and his brothers could leave them to their quarrels and escort Kasa Ephraim the short distance to Melfi, there to discuss both how to send funds back to Hauteville-la-Guichard and secure a safe place for that which they intended to keep.

  ‘You do not trust the fortress
of Melfi?’ Ephraim asked, amused, looking around the formidable walls.

  ‘We don’t trust the people we share it with,’ spluttered Humphrey, braying with laughter.

  ‘These two tried to kill me,’ William said, quite taken by the reddening of Listo’s cheeks, the reminder embarrassing him. Both now spoke good Latin: the boy’s sister Tirena understood as well, but was, as usual, less contrite, though she no longer looked at William with studied loathing.

  ‘And you spared them?’ asked Ephraim.

  ‘We had only just taken over the castle and the locals were fearful. It seemed a good way to show we were not here to plunder them.’

  The Jew nodded. ‘You show more wisdom, William, than some of your fellows, who only know how to burn and lay waste. What do you have in mind for them?’

  ‘Listo here wants to be a soldier.’ That had the boy stretching, and though still small he had put on quite a few inches. ‘For Tirena, perhaps she will become wife to one of my lances.’

  William hid a smile to see that look return. He had caught her more than once watching him from some place she thought hidden, that first day from atop the ramparts. She had also taken to carefully dressing her hair and seeking out fetching clothes, which given she too had grown and filled out, had revealed a comeliness that had not been apparent under her previous filth and demeanour. Drogo had to be warned off with the threat of a lance up his arse if he laid a hand on her.

  ‘It is interesting, my friend, is it not, that when the people of Melfi look to the castle, they see one of their number not only fed but cosseted?’

  ‘These two are hill people, goatherds, but you are right. It makes for a peaceful life.’