Conquest

CHAPTER NINE

The approach to Scalea was along a rocky shore, leading to a fertile plain hemmed in by hills and mountains, the most striking feature a rock escarpment on which stood the walled town, topped by the outlines of a castle, that replacing an old Byzantine watchtower on a volcanic plug right on the shoreline. With a mind naturally military, Roger could not help but see the strengths of the location, which were many, and its weaknesses, which were few, yet it could be taken: had not Mauger done just that to the previous incumbent, a Lombard vassal of Gisulf?

Stopped by sentinels in the approaches, a messenger had gone ahead to alert the garrison and, of course, the suzerain and soon Roger saw a lance bearing a pennant of the same blue and white chequer that adorned his own. A space apart, both brothers dismounted to approach each other; Roger was welcome anyway, but when his elder brother found out he had fallen out with Robert, he was hugged by a beaming sibling unsurprised by what had brought him to this place.

‘The weasel dunned you,’ Mauger hooted. ‘That does not surprise me.’

The soubriquet Guiscard might mean cunning to those who esteemed Robert, to those who hated him, and there were many, the secondary meaning, weasel, was the more accurate. Mauger was still smarting from the way Robert had taken over from Humphrey. He saw himself as the equal of any of his brothers, and having been longer in Italy he felt the title of Count of Apulia should have devolved to him

‘Geoffrey insists he is generous by nature, that the way he has treated me is an aberration, and so does every other Norman to whom I talk, though he did wonder that Robert might be made cautious by my successes.’

They were in Mauger’s apartments now, in the newly completed main tower, hung with tapestries and the heads of wild beasts, the furnishings well made, the carpets Eastern in their design and the wine, as well as the food, local and excellent. The horses of Roger and his lances had been put out to good pasture, while the riders were being well looked after, no doubt swapping tales of home with their Norman confreres.

‘He is a thief, Roger,’ his brother maintained, ‘and as for Geoffrey, all he ever does is kiss Robert’s arse so he can hang on to his titles. If our father had not made us vow never to raise a weapon against each other I would have been sorely tempted to dispose of that swine.’

The ability to keep a straight face in receipt of hyperbole was a gift Roger needed now. Mauger was a big man but he had none of the sheer physicality of Robert, the breadth of shoulder and the leonine head. Robert also had a presence, which, much as he was angry with him, bespoke of a great leader. Mauger would certainly be able to command men, but did such ability extend to the leadership of complex armies on difficult campaigns?

Observing one brother and recalling the other, he knew precisely why Humphrey had named as his successor the brother he actively distrusted — not that he was prone, it seemed, to gift much in the way of affection to any of his siblings. Roger remembered Humphrey as beetle-browed, sour, humourless, cruel to men and animals and the one, as a child, he tended to avoid. Added to that, Tancred had little time for him.

‘That is a vow I never took,’ Roger finally replied.

That brought forth a keen look, as if Mauger were thinking that Roger could do that which he had forsworn, but the fact he had not knelt before Tancred to swear to that oath counted for nothing. Roger would never raise arms against any of his brothers, never seek to draw their blood: it had been his father’s wish and for him that was a command.

‘Well, you are here now so we must find you something to do, but before that you must tell me what you learnt in Salerno.’ Mauger grinned like a mischievous child. ‘Did that popinjay Gisulf curse me?’

‘I have to tell you, Mauger, that he did not even mention you.’ It was the wrong thing to say, a dent to his pride, immediately obvious as the smile disappeared to be replaced by a childlike scowl. Realising he had made a gaffe, Roger said quickly, ‘He is too taken with the inroads of Richard of Capua to worry about any of our family.’

‘Is he, by damn? Then I shall have to show him that he has more to care about than that impostor.’

That required equal prudence when it came to a reaction: Mauger was lord of a small fief, even if it was a valuable one, and perhaps a hundred knights. Richard was a master of great estates and counted his lances in the thousand. Even on such short acquaintance he was beginning to discern that it was not just physicality that had denied Mauger Apulia: such pronouncements indicated a want of common sense and an inability to accept his own limitations.

‘We shall raid together, Roger,’ Mauger said, leaning forward, ‘and show Gisulf what we are made of. You will also be pleased to know that from my fief we can steal as much from Robert as we can from Salerno. In truth, that gives me greater pleasure.’

‘I doubt we can steal as much as he owes me.’

‘We can try, brother,’ Mauger boomed.

That they did, riding out on raid after raid, side by side with half their available lances, never too far or too long away to be in danger of reprisals by any force large enough to stop them, secure in the knowledge that the men left behind would keep safe that already held. Certainly they met resistance, but in the lands of Gisulf of Salerno it was by small bands of Lombard warriors who, if they fought at all, left their bones on the field of conflict.

With Normans it was more a case of a parley, a realisation by those they encountered, individual conroys owing allegiance to the Guiscard, that a spillage of blood for what could not be prevented was unwise. Harsh words would be spoken, threats of retaliation would be issued, some of the plunder would be given up, but each side would withdraw without a fight: the unwritten rule applied — Normans did not, if it could be avoided, kill Normans.

Usually they would return to Scalea with their plunder intact: lowing cattle, bleating sheep, donkeys and packhorses loaded with wine, grain and olive oil, some of which would be passed on locally to traders, or if Mauger was feeling generous, as gifts to his subjects. The rest was traded with the other ports and cities that lined the coast, even, an irony, with Salerno itself.

That summer and autumn were good and profitable, though raiding had to be put in abeyance during the winter, resumed as soon as the buds began to open, with Mauger now raiding deeper and deeper into the territories of his neighbours — expeditions that lasted a month, spreading fear and mayhem to Gisulf and Robert’s subjects seemingly unchecked. The day they found themselves, eighty lances, facing a Salernian force ten times their number, came as a shock, that being close to everything the Prince of Salerno could muster.

‘Now Gisulf knows I am here and a threat,’ Mauger cried, waving his sword.

These words were, Roger surmised, meant for his ears, Mauger seeking to make the best of what had to be seen as a tactical error. He was in command, he had brought them to this place on a raid that had over-extended the time away from safety, without taking the precautions necessary to ensure that any force sent to interdict them could not get between them and their base, this despite gentle reminders from his younger brother that to come such a distance, without leaving small parties behind to warn of a threat to their rear, was unwise.

‘I think we are going to have to fight them,’ Roger said.

‘Of course we must fight them,’ his brother replied, while he searched the surrounding landscape for a way to avoid that very thing.

Whoever had chosen the spot had done well. Between them and the sea, distant and hidden by high hills, lay a river in full spate, too ferocious to cross, even on horseback. Inland was thick forest running up steep hills leaving only two options, to move forward and fight or seek to retire and find a way round. That would require them to first of all abandon that which they had pillaged. Even accepting that as a necessity, and it would be hard, the most pressing problem was the condition of their horses.

They had been active for forty days, rarely with enough rest to keep them at peak. A horse ridden continuously, sometimes pushed harder than was wise, soon lost fitness. They were far from being blown, but in an attempted flight they would have to push them to the limit with no certainty that they could avoid battle. If they could not, they would be forced to fight at an even greater disadvantage than that they faced now. Despite such concerns it was clear Mauger preferred that course.

‘They lack the will, these Lombards, for the kind of pursuit we will force upon them. They will tire before we will.’

‘They had the will, brother, to seek us out and get behind us and we have no idea if this is all that we face. There could be more to our rear.’

‘Gisulf could never raise more than this?’

‘That would depend,’ Roger replied grimly, remembering the words spoken in Gisulf’s council chamber, ‘on how much he is prepared to spend.’

A small group detached themselves from their enemies and rode forward, clearly intent on talking, leaving Mauger to ruminate on what Roger had implied: soldiers could be bought and the notion just voiced affected his brother, who had not yet considered a possibility that should have come to him at once. The last thing that would serve the men he led was indecision, and right now Roger realised, which was worrying, that Mauger was unclear as to what to do. He was good company, generous with the proceeds of that which they had jointly plundered. Roger’s men were as content as he with the state of their purse and, as part of the garrison of the castle, they had also enjoyed the privileges that gave them in the town, not least with the women they had taken as concubines.

Roger had also fallen into a kind of happy stupor: he was well fed, had a local girl of tender years to keep warm his bed, who had just produced for him a lusty son called Jordan, as well as a group of uncomplaining personal followers and a decent amount of gold in a locked coffer. But it was not what he had come to Italy for, to be no more than a brigand: his ambition was to emulate the best of his siblings.

Odd that he should be suddenly back in that arbour with Judith of Evreux, thinking of the words he had left unsaid, of his desire to make so much of himself that no man, or no duke, could deny him her hand in marriage. What would she think to see him now? These thoughts ran through his mind in the time it took the party to get close enough to speak, and he pulled his mount back a few paces to let them know he was not the man to address.

‘You speak Greek?’

The voice from under the metal helmet was brusque, with Roger straining to see if he could recognise the speaker, perhaps one of those courtiers who had attended on Gisulf, but all he had to go on was the unfriendly eyes.

‘I speak better Latin,’ Mauger replied.

‘Then in Latin I demand you surrender yourself.’

‘You come to confer with only one message?’

‘I do not come to confer. I require you to dismount, move away from your horses and put your weapons in a heap where they are plain to see. Then you will be bound in chains and taken by us to Salerno.’

‘On foot?’ asked Roger.

‘Yes, Roger de Hauteville.’

‘You know me?’

‘Enough to name you, as I also know that I am addressing the usurper of Scalea.’

‘Usurper!’ Mauger thundered.

His brother knew what that meant: he had taken Scalea from a Lombard, a one-time inferior lord to Gisulf, so if he capitulated on this field he would be surrendering the fief as well. Yet Mauger did not respond: wondering what his brother was waiting for, Roger spoke, almost out of a sense of impatience.

‘High words for someone who has yet to see us as his to command,’ Roger said. ‘Remember we are Normans.’

‘You are thieving scum who will make redress to my master when your brother of Apulia pays to get you out of a dungeon.’

‘And the men we lead?’

‘We have oars in galleys and chains to bind them, or perhaps we will sell them to the Saracens to dig salt.’

Roger laughed: he did not feel like it, in fact he was deeply concerned, but it would never do to show this Lombard the truth. ‘Go back to your men and be prepared to see their blood stain the ground over which you have ridden.’

‘The blood will be yours.’

‘Tell them,’ Roger said, carrying on as if the Lombard had not spoken, ‘that if they do not stand aside every one of them will die, there will be no quarter. Then see if they still want to fight us.’

The Lombard looked at Mauger. ‘Is that your answer?’

The pause was too long: he should have responded immediately, for not to do so was to yield ascendancy. Roger wanted to shout but he dare not.

‘It is,’ Mauger said eventually.

‘So be it.’

The Lombard spun his horse and, with his escort, rode back to join his men. Looking at his back, Roger thought him a fool: you do not threaten warriors with a life as a galley slave if you want them to put up their weapons. Most men would rather face death than that.

‘What do you think, Roger, fight or run?’

‘Fight, brother, there is no choice. We either do so now or when we are weaker. Will you permit me to speak to our men?’

‘Of course.’

Not a thing I would grant to another, Roger thought, as he spun his mount and rode to where the men sat. As a raiding party they were on their ordinary riding horses; the destriers, which they would have liked for such a confrontation, were happily at pasture outside Scalea. But these horses were well trained, every Norman mount was. They might not be as stalwart in battle as the sturdy battle-chargers but they would perform well with what he had in mind. It was with some disquiet that he realised he was thinking as the man in command, even more disturbing was that Mauger had already gifted him that role.

He had an idea, based on the certain knowledge that the men they faced did not have the discipline of those he was about to address; it was a risk, but then so was all war. Standing in his stirrups he told them clearly what he wanted, based on the very obvious fact that they would have to initiate any action. The plan accepted that for their enemy, standing on the defensive, given they were between the Normans and home, was the right thing to do. They had to be tempted out of their certainties.

Everything unnecessary had to be abandoned before they could proceed: it was not just cattle and laden donkeys; each knight had saddlebags containing that which had been stolen and was portable. Roger had them empty those onto the ground, reluctantly at first, until he told them they would end up in the salt mines of Sicily if they did not. Never afraid to raid an Orthodox church, one of which existed in every settlement, the discarded items included plate, chalices and, to the shame of the despoiler, an odd crucifix. The whole, along with donkeys tethered and hobbled, was left in a high heap where his enemies, once the Normans were no longer blocking the sight, could see it.

The force he split into two unequal parts, the first and largest to attack as an unbroken line to mask the smaller body behind, which he hoped his opponent would see as a reserve waiting to exploit any success. Mauger led the initial attack, Roger with the lesser group, a tight knot of lances and, in the main, his own men, bringing up the rear. That the Salernian line would hold he took as an absolute: the man in command must have enough confidence in those he led to so deploy them: if he did not he was a fool, and Roger had no intention of treating him as such.

Cantering forward, Mauger met a wall of lances as he and his warriors engaged, which led to much fruitless jabbing on both sides, with the occasional thrown lance causing a man to fall. Had Roger been leading the defending force he would have been well pleased: the men of Scalea appeared to be blunting themselves on his line, but he hoped the fellow would not observe that the reserve force had moved to the right, to the point at which the defenders’ line met the riverbank.

A horn blew and the most telling aspects of Norman ability, their close battlefield control, showed itself. The whole of Mauger’s attacking force ceased combat and moved speedily to their left, exposing the riverbank before engaging again. Roger’s lances, with hooves in the very water’s edge, hit the gap they created at some speed, not charging, but at a fast and controlled canter, taking by surprise men who had raised their own weapons only to find they suddenly had enemies right in amongst them.

As soon as they showed a sign of weakening, not breaking but yielding ground, the horn blew a different set of notes, and Mauger’s force disengaged for a second time and fell back slightly, preparatory to a move to their right. Roger, now in the thick of battle, his lance already deeply embedded in an opponent, was slashing with his sword at any neck that presented itself, part of a tight wedge of men forcing their way through the enemy crust, with the tumbling river on one side sending up a ferocious spray.

Relieved of pressure on the main front, the enemy right did what came naturally: they moved forward to keep contact with the retreating Normans, when what their commander required them to do was to reinforce his now struggling left. His horns were blowing but to no effect, or to be more truthful he was watching his left begin to fall back while his right wing was moving forward, creating what Roger had sought to achieve, a swinging door, his sole aim to create a large enough avenue through which they could get on the safer side of their enemies: if he was going to run, and they would have to, it was best to have a clear route to home and safety.

Even then it was risky: if the Salernians kept their discipline and contact, the Normans would end up fighting, outnumbered, with a river at their back, never a happy prospect. But that heap of booty, the clutch of heavily laden donkeys and the pile of treasure was now visible and tempting. Once a few had detached themselves to get hold of the plunder, the rest were damned if they were going to lose out on the spoils. Still fighting, praying his ploy was working, Roger knew only that he had the first sight of clear ground to his front: his conroys had broken through. Behind him the whole Norman contingent was now at his back, while the cohesion of their enemy was falling apart as greed took over from obligation.

Once he had space to manoeuvre, Roger attacked the now exposed enemy flank, fighting to keep them on the defensive, the men coming through to his rear not running, but in a display of discipline and comradely cohesion, extending the assaults across the floor of the battle area. The blown signal to disengage was given by Mauger, in a better position than his brother to see it was time to depart, not that it was clean. They had to fight as well as retire, that made possible by the diminishing number of their enemies who were intent on killing instead of acquiring booty.

The next five days were hellish: the enemy commander got his men back into formation to pursue, which led to a succession of rearguard foot-bound fights, stalemates necessary to get both men and mounts some respite, furious and bloody engagements in which Mauger and Roger lost as many men as they had on the field of proper battle. Finally they reached the defendable defiles that led to Scalea and, seeing what his losses would be if he dared continue, their opponent, whose troops and horses had also suffered much, called off the pursuit and retired.