by Jack Ludlow
Now the stress was reversed: those fleeing first were not doing so quickly enough for men who had seen too much death. It was fatal to delay, to even think of slowing the pace of flight, for to do so was to be trampled to death by the more desperate, to slip in the water of the river was to drown, for the crush did not permit a chance to get back to your feet, and to compound that came Serlo’s riders, pushing a wedge into the mass, cutting right and left, hacking off limbs and heads, slicing into bodies with no one man seeming to have a peck of the courage needed to stand and fight them.
Roger and his men could not pursue: they were on their knees with exhaustion, every one saying a hissed prayer to his god for their deliverance, looking before them at a wall of bleeding cadavers, and when they raised their eyes, at a field carpeted with bodies, beyond that a mass of their enemies struggling to get across the river and away into the hills where they thought they might find sanctuary. Well ahead of them rode their leaders, galloping to safety on those mounts on which they had so proudly displayed themselves earlier that day.
Serlo and his men were in pursuit, but there were simply too many fleeing Saracens in the way to make that a reality, and besides, their horses were destriers, not of the long-galloping breed. But they did, once over the brow of the opposite mound, come upon a tented camp of such magnificence it brought them to a halt. Stood in a clear piece of ground – those they had passed on their swifter mounts, which were still running, gave them a wide berth – they looked around them.
‘Jordan,’ Serlo shouted, ‘your father will be weary, but tell him to come and cast his eye over this. I swear the sight will banish his fatigue!’
‘Who can put a value on this?’ Roger said, as he looked over the booty the camp of the emirs contained, the accrued wealth of several hundred years of Saracen rule in Sicily, no doubt gathered to match the magnificence of that which the sultan’s sons had brought from Africa.
There were chests of gold coins, finely decorated dress armour, magnificent saddles and harness, valuable plates off which these rich Saracens ate, and ornate weapons, knives and swords in jewel-encrusted sheaths, with handles of gold and silver, studded with gems, never designed to cause harm. There were fine-bred horses that had failed to break their tethers, others that had, needing to be rounded up and fetched back, as well as dozens of camels.
The stores of the army they captured too – flocks of sheep, great tents full of grain, enough fodder to keep the Norman horses for a month – and that took no account of what Roger’s milities, who had taken practically no part in the battle, were now stripping from the bodies that littered the field. Any not yet dead had their throats cut immediately.
‘Tomorrow,’ Roger said, ‘when we are rested, we go into the hills into which the Saracens have fled. Every one you find is to be killed. I do not want to have to face them again.’
‘There will be more, Roger,’ Ralph de Boeuf sighed.
‘I know, but they will not be the same fellows if we do what we must. Now, call forward the priests, we must say a Mass to thank God for so blessing our arms this day.’
Their prayers were loud this time, words of gratitude that swelled up to the heavens for this victory. All knew they had won a great fight; Roger, Serlo and Ralph de Boeuf had the wit to see they had achieved much more. In amongst their prayers of thanks were other thoughts – that now the Saracens were no longer on the offensive: they had been too soundly thrashed. Troina was safe, Messina was doubly so. What they had now taken to the east of Cerami they most definitely held.
The people of Rome stared in wonder at the quartet of beautifully decorated camels as they were led through the streets towards the Lateran Palace. They had seen camels before, but not of such groomed quality, and many an eye was looking hard at their accoutrements, trying to value the gold and silver of the harness and saddlery as well as what their huge gilded pannier might contain. Forewarned, the new pope, Alexander, flanked by his closest advisor, Archdeacon Hildebrand, was ready to receive this gift, though mystified as to from where it came.
The well-dressed and handsome youth who spoke for its delivery introduced himself as Jordan de Hauteville and let it be known that these magnificent animals and what they carried were a gift from his father, the Count of Sicily, to the Holy Church, for he knew, without doubt, such a victory as Cerami could not have been possible without divine assistance. The men he had brought with him unloaded and carried into a private chamber the two heavy panniers which, when opened, revealed a fortune in gifts that had even a pontiff, accustomed to magnificence, gasp with pleasure.
‘And for this, your father asks for what?’ said Hildebrand, his gargoyle face full of suspicion. In his experience such gifts did not come without a price attached.
‘Nothing,’ Jordan said, ‘but the further blessing of the Church on his enterprise against the infidel.’
‘How did you come by this, my son?’ asked Alexander, in a softer tone.
The story took time, so much that the Pope and his archdeacon required chairs to ease their legs, for Jordan, proud of his family, was not content to relate merely the bare facts. He made it a saga, embellishing every act by Count Roger and his Uncle Serlo, though careful when he came to his own actions to sound modest. Before the battle a comely youth had been seen on a white horse, bearing a fluttering banner of a red cross on a white background. He had ridden the field of battle, then seemed to ascend to heaven, so they knew it to be the presence of Saint George himself, come to bless the arms, and each man was inspired. At the conclusion of his tale, Alexander looked at Hildebrand, whose eyes were alight.
‘He does God’s work, Your Holiness,’ Hildebrand barked. ‘Too long has Islam lorded over lands once Christian.’
‘You have spoken of it often,’ Alexander replied, with an expression and a tone that implied Hildebrand might have laboured the point too heavily. ‘And you know I share your hope to see such possessions once more under the jurisdiction of my Church.’
‘Then let Sicily be the place first brought back to the one true faith. Let us bless Count Roger and charge him with the task of clearing Islam out of that accursed island. Let him be a soldier for Christ, and those he leads likewise.’
Alexander nodded but did not speak, yet when Jordan left Rome, he did so with a papal banner, which henceforth he was told should lead Count Roger’s men into battle, only one of two in existence, the other leading the Christian knights fighting the Moors in Iberia. He also left with a papal bull granting indulgence to all those who fell in battle against the infidel – so to die was now to gain immediate entry into heaven.
‘Let the infidel see,’ Alexander said to Jordan as the clergy assembled to send Jordan on his way, ‘that Christ comes upon them in vengeance; let them see that salvation lies in repenting their foul creed.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘One more campaign, Robert, to take Palermo, with everything we can both muster, and Sicily will be ours.’
‘Do not put too much faith in Alexander’s banner, brother,’ Robert replied.
That was not a statement to respond to: when it came to religious piety both brothers played fast and loose with devotion – God was praised when victory blessed their arms or needs, as in the recent news of the death of Argyrus, but not when predicaments arose.
‘Sicily? Do I have your support?’
‘Let me think on it.’
Roger smiled: that was as good as a yes.
Ever the restless warrior, they were mounted and on their way within the week, taking every lance Robert could muster, picking up foot soldiers on the way, crossing to Messina, then riding on to the west to join Serlo, stopping only at Troina so that they could spend time with Judith.
‘You know, Judith,’ Robert said, ‘you have never apologised to me for the words you lambasted me with at Mileto.’
She replied with slight smile. ‘I never thought to say sorry for speaking the truth, Robert. You are a rogue and you know it.’
‘
God in heaven,’ he growled. ‘I’d rather face the Saracens than your tongue.’
‘And so you should: they you will beat.’
He laughed loud enough to fill the great hall. There was still something of the old Robert in that breast.
A night of conjugal bliss was all Roger was allowed. When battle beckoned, the Guiscard moved swiftly to meet it and, ignoring any obstacle on his flanks, he made straight for the Conca d’Oro, the range of hills that circled and overlooked Palermo, and therein lay his first problem. He could make no movement, attempt no manoeuvre, without being observed from the watchtowers on those heights, so that his numbers were known down to the last sutler long before he even set up camp.
That, by accident, led to a disaster: the Normans pitched their tents on a plateau infested with tarantulas and they soon emerged from their nests to sting every piece of flesh presented, producing a range of reactions which made the Normans sure they were suffering from a divine plague. Many found breathing difficult, others collapsed without knowing why they were so afflicted, others were spared, the very least effect a dose of severe, rank-smelling and continuous flatulence that made them fear the corruption of their gut. From being a force full of martial spirit, it had the effect of spreading a deepening gloom and a feeling this campaign was cursed.
Nothing that happened subsequently raised the mood: once Robert had fought his way through the mountains to the walls, Palermo was too formidable to capture with the forces he had. Not unlike Bari, they had to stand outside and watch ship after ship come and go without in any way being able to interfere: they could neither storm the city nor could they starve it out. To this dejected encampment came word of a request from Duke William of Normandy for lances to join him in invading England; with the prospect of booty elsewhere a trickle of lances began to leave and take the road home.
‘I hope the bastard drowns,’ was Robert’s view, but that changed nothing. After fruitless months with his army diminishing and those left behind dispirited, the Guiscard decided that being away from Apulia for so long was unwise, so he raised the siege and headed home. Roger returned to Troina and Judith.
That departure left Roger in a quandary: the recriminations from Cerami ensured his enemies remained divided but he could not muster force enough to press home the advantage. All he could do was raid, plunder and retire, for even the forces that could contest with him melted away as soon as he appeared, more interested in fighting their rival emirs or the North African princes. He moved his base closer to Palermo in the hope that opportunity would present itself; what he got for four whole campaigning seasons was deepening frustration and he could get no aid from his beleaguered brother.
If Roger had trouble, Robert had more. In his absence a revolt had been raised by three of his own nephews. Abelard, son of Humphrey, set aside from his father’s inheritance, might have just cause to rebel; the two brothers, Geoffrey and Robert, sons of his half-sister Beatrix, did so from frustration at being treated disdainfully by their uncle. The real progenitor was Joscelin, Lord of Molfetta, a knight whom the Guiscard had raised to prominence by his own hand. Fed with Byzantine gold, Joscelin had led the younger men astray and, given they were de Hautevilles, many had been attracted to their banner for the revolt to be easily contained; in truth, it was so serious the Duke of Apulia realised, as soon as he landed back in Calabria, he risked being overthrown.
His presence stiffened the resolve of the waverers and he had some success in checking his nephews, but once more Byzantium was ready to interfere, sending to Apulia a force of Varangians, a kind of imperial Praetorian Guard of Viking stock. They came out of Bari as the shock troops of the forces led by a new Catapan called Bisanzio, pushing Robert back – he was fighting on several fronts against his nephews – taking back Brindisi and Taranto, the situation so bad the Guiscard was close to swallowing his pride and calling on both Roger and his brother Mauger to come to his aid.
For all his successes with the fearsome axemen of Kiev Rus as his vanguard, Bisanzio could not gain a convincing victory any more than Robert de Hauteville, nor could Joscelin of Molfetta force a conclusion, so the campaign fell into stalemate, leaving those who had stayed to serve with Robert wondering if they would have been better off going home: the Bastard of Falaise had won a great battle on the south coast of England, had killed King Harold Godwinson and was now in London and claiming the crown.
But time had worked for the sons of Tancred before and it did so now: in a battle between the Saracens, a decision was finally achieved with the defeat and death of Ibn-al-Hawas by the Zirid forces of Prince Ayub. The sultan’s son then claimed overlordship of all Sicily, and with no one strong enough to contest him, he was acclaimed Emir of Agrigento, Enna and, most importantly, of Palermo: Sicily now had one ruler, Roger had a single enemy to fight and one who was eager to do battle with the Normans and kick them out for good.
In Apulia Robert benefited from a combination of factors: first the death of the Emperor Constantine Ducas left his widow Eudoxia in power, but the growing threat of the Seljuk Turks – pushing up the Tigris and Euphrates from Baghdad – meant the empire needed not only a man on the throne but a fighting soldier, one able to halt the inexorable Turkish advance which was beginning to threaten Constantinople itself. Eudoxia quickly wed a Cappadocian general called Romanus Diogenes and the new emperor’s priorities were firmly fixed on the east: Apulia could go hang; not only did he withdraw the Varangians, he stripped Bari of a goodly portion of its garrison.
Without support, Robert Guiscard’s enemies were subdued one by one. Joscelin fled to Durazzo, Abelard threw himself on his uncle’s mercy, while the youngest son of Beatrix was quick to follow. Brindisi and Taranto were abandoned by Byzantium; holding Bari was much more vital. The last to hold out, and he did so for months, was nephew Geoffrey, for he had a stout and difficult-to-take fortress. It required Robert to be cunning: he bribed one of Geoffrey’s captains with the promise of a fief of his own on condition he opened the gates of the castle. This he did and the place was taken: the revolt was crushed.
Free at last to leave Apulia, Robert rode to Mileto to meet with Roger, taking with him his natural son, Bohemund. It was amusing to watch Jordan and Bohemund eyeing each other – both well-built young men now and, with all the de Hauteville height and muscle, like two alley cats suspiciously strutting round each other. There was sadness, too, for it was clear Roger’s son Geoffrey was afflicted with leprosy. Prayers were the only hope of a cure and much gold had been expended for Masses to be said in the Calabrian monasteries, with pleas sent to Rome as well, for no child so diseased could hope to succeed to his father’s titles. And, naturally, they talked of their various difficulties, not least Robert’s in Apulia.
‘The reason your barons are always rising against you is a lack of real war. Bring them to Sicily and let them take out their dissatisfaction on the Saracens.’
Robert was not persuaded, he had his sights set on Bari, now with a much-reduced garrison, albeit he still lacked a plan to take the place, and as Roger pressed him he became more and more irascible. It seemed as if his temper matched the greying of his hair, with him becoming less malleable with age. That his own relatives should take up arms against him had been wounding, and if Roger could see they might have just cause for discontent, his brother could not. There was no point in asking him why he treated his own blood relatives with less generosity than he showed his other followers. At least he had been avuncular enough to spare their lives, merely stripping them of part of their fiefs.
‘I should have hung them from a tree, the ingrates,’ Robert growled.
‘And have father turn in his grave?’
‘Sometimes I think he is watching me, Roger, wagging that damned finger of his.’
‘Is that why you spared your nephews, Robert, because of our father?’
‘They are naught but foolish boys. It was Joscelin I really wanted, but that bastard was too much of a coward to face me.’
‘You would have hanged him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he was no fool to flee.’
‘He’s in Durazzo now, plotting something, I guarantee.’
‘Another Argyrus, perhaps?’
Robert nodded with some sadness: it was as if he missed the now departed Argyrus. ‘When one schemer dies another rises to take his place, but by damn I am glad he is not still in Bari.’
‘Can you take it?’
‘I have to try, Roger. Apulia is more united now than ever.’
Roger could not resist a jibe. ‘Like Calabria.’
‘Must you ever bring that up?’
‘Bari,’ Roger replied; there was no point in bearding his brother, reminding him that it was he who had pacified Calabria. Also it was less troublesome a province.
‘Byzantium is locked in battle with the Turks, the garrison of Bari reduced and I do not see it being reinforced. Romanus Diogenes does not have the soldiers to fight in the east and the west at the same time.’
‘Remember Byzantine gold, Robert. They have the means to buy more.’
‘Then they’d best spend it quick, for I will be outside their walls in a month.’
‘While I go back to Sicily.’
‘Roger,’ the Guiscard said, leaning forward. ‘I am still your liege lord, am I not?’
Knowing what was coming did not mean Roger could not respond. ‘Yes.’
‘If I call upon you to come to my aid at Bari I expect you to do so, whatever is happening in Sicily.’
‘I will come, brother, but if your need is so great, I would expect you to call on Mauger first.’
‘I’ll be damned if I will.’
‘Think of our Tancred’s wagging finger, Robert. How is it you can forgive your nephews yet leave your own brother out in the cold?’