Warriors

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

William de Hauteville had been right to consider Argyrus, on first acquaintance, to be somewhat callow, if far from stupid. What he had failed to discern in the young man was an ability to learn and to do so quickly. In deserting the Lombard cause his sole prompt had been the certain conviction that their whole stated dream was based on either hypocrisy or personal ambition of such a high order, from the likes of Guaimar of Salerno, as to render that dream unattainable. He was also aware that for all the mouthed platitudes about his father Melus, he, as his son, was a tool to be used, not a person to be elevated.

To get himself appointed by Constantinople as catapan was remarkable: no Lombard had ever held such an office, yet he had managed to convince the Emperor Constantine that only one of his race stood any chance of regaining for Byzantium control of its South Italian provinces. It was not only in Apulia they had lost ground: Normans had moved into Calabria as well over the previous decade, building castles like the great edifice of Squillace, which was as potent a defensive bastion as Melfi.

What he could not persuade them to do was to provide him with the kind of force denied to his predecessors, so on arrival in Bari, Argyrus knew he was in for a long campaign in which his best weapon would be guile, not strength. Handsome, personable and not by nature cruel, he had won over much of the population of Bari and he had intimidated the rest. So he had, with the port city’s formidable defences, a place of refuge. The burning question was how to expand out from that in the face of the military superiority of the Normans. Lombards worried him less, they could be bought or overawed, but as long as the likes of William de Hauteville had ambitions in Apulia he would never gain victory.

The near assassination of William had not brought with it the hoped-for break-up of cohesion. A new strategy was required and his original attempt to construct an alliance which would overcome the Normans fell at the first hurdle: he sought to engage Prince Pandulf of Capua in a joint conspiracy against them, and the early results were promising from a man who lived for intrigue. But Pandulf let him down, as he had done most people in his life, though Argyrus found it difficult to curse him for the mere fact of dying.

It was odd, following on from that disappointment, that in re-examining his options a clearer strategy emerged, one which seemed to have with it a greater chance of success. First, he must use what weapons he had, but his greatest asset in forming a body of opposition large enough to triumph was being brought about by the very people he wished to remove. The Normans were their own worst enemies, creating adversaries amongst the very people they needed to win over.

‘How can I prosecute a war, when I cannot even be sure that the men I command to assemble will come?’

If it was worded differently, it was in essence a complaint that Drogo de Hauteville had been making for two years now. The men his brother had led might have acclaimed him, but he lacked the authority which William had exercised with such ease, given the composition of the men he led had changed and he lacked, due to the cunning of Argyrus, an enemy in the field to fight and defeat. Staying close to Bari, Argyrus was like an itch Drogo could not scratch, but he had made life more difficult merely by being, then doubled that by inactivity.

Certainly the number of lances Drogo commanded had increased substantially from the day when he and William had first arrived in Melfi, but so had the problem of keeping them content: they had come for land and plunder and Apulia was not a place where ground was freely available to give away. Drogo could not just dispossess the local Italians and Lombards to facilitate the elevation of his confreres without creating an uprising. But lacking that and the plunder that came from successful war, they were inclined to outright banditry, giving that precedence over service to him as their titular leader, and ignoring any strictures he tried to impose.

‘Salerno,’ said Humphrey, as they crested a rise to see the whole bay and city laid out before them. ‘You can smell the wealth from here.’

‘And I can smell trouble,’ Drogo replied.

‘This Pope Leo has been a soldier, Drogo. He will know that fighting men are hard to control.’

‘Our own are worse.’

‘You would be the same if you had no other choice.’

‘Are you going to argue with me again?’

The mutual glares which followed that snapped response underlined that these two brothers had never been bosom companions, indeed Drogo often found the company of the one he liked most, Mauger, just as hard to take, given all of them were inclined to dispute any decision he made. Now, instead of being together continuously, as they had under William, they saw each other rarely, tending to remain in their own fiefs when not called upon to combine for some military venture.

That applied especially to brother number four, Robert, who Drogo had come to actively loathe, but he had got rid of him by some distance, having sent him to a particularly unrewarding part of Calabria, where, when he was not fighting malaria, he did battle with the intransigent locals.

Spurring his horse, still scowling, Drogo led his men down into the natural amphitheatre that was Salerno.

The summons from Pope Leo was one he could have ignored: this was not a man he feared outside his ability to deny him the sacrament by excommunication, but it was politic to obey. Guaimar would be present too and, like Drogo, would mouth platitudes to the Pope about future behaviour, because with Pandulf gone to meet Satan — Heaven for such a man was out of the question regardless of how many indulgences he had bought — the Prince of Salerno, now related to Drogo by marriage, was once more eyeing the vacant fief of Capua.

Meeting Berengara again was as unpleasant as it had always been: having a half-Norman daughter had done nothing for her hatred of the race, but Guaimar was fulsome in his greetings, eager to engage Drogo in schemes of infiltration and conquest of Byzantine territory, but he made no mention to Drogo of Capua: for that he would rely on the man who now styled himself Richard of Aversa.

‘And how is Rainulf’s boy, Hermann?’ Drogo enquired, when that name cropped up.

Guaimar knew he was being mischievous, but he could not let that show. ‘I have no idea. He is, I suppose, as well as can be expected.’

Drogo doubted Richard would actually kill the boy, but he was sure that he had been put aside. Guaimar knew that for certain: as he had suspected, Richard had come to be at ease with his command. The prospect of relinquishing it had no doubt preyed on him before he had been officially appointed as guardian, and that would not have eased with power. There was some admiration for the way Richard had gone about things: he had quietly removed the child from view while he was too young to do anything about it, an act which would have become increasingly difficult as the boy grew to manhood.

‘All I know is that Richard has proved to be a most loyal vassal.’

‘And we both know how difficult it is to be that,’ Drogo growled.

‘Time to meet our spiritual overlord,’ Guaimar said, as he led the way into the chamber where Pope Leo awaited them.

‘This letter is from one of your fellow Normans, Count Drogo,’ said Leo, waving a piece of heavy parchment. ‘No less a person than the Abbot of Fecamp.’

‘I fought alongside a bishop of that diocese once. He was a doughty warrior, as, I am told, Your Holiness, are you.’

Leo knew when he was being flattered, and his freckle-covered face showed it, not that he much liked it. ‘Let me read to you what he says.’

‘If you wish, I can read it myself.’ That surprised the Pope: few men of Drogo’s stamp were lettered. ‘I was taught by the priest of our family church, my cousin, who has recently been appointed, as you will know, to the See of Coutances.’

‘Geoffrey of Montbray is your cousin?’

‘He is, and no doubt the Duke of Normandy had some say in his elevation, since he looks to him often for counsel.’

‘The Duke did request he be given Coutances, it is true, and I was happy to oblige him. But this is wandering away from that which we are here to discuss, which is the sheer outlaw nature of the behaviour of the men you are supposed to lead. Listen!’

Leo started to read, looking at Drogo as each point was made. The abbot had been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and like many travellers to the Holy Land he had taken in many a shrine en route. One such was the cave of St Michael on Monte Gargano, which was in the province of Benevento. The land around the shrine was overrun with Normans, and though they had respected the abbot as coming from their homeland, what had happened to him and what he had been told by the local Italian and Lombard population had made him seethe with anger and disgust.

‘“No Norman traveller is safe in that part of Italy, so much did the locals hate them, and passing through was no protection from reprisals. He had been threatened personally, had nearly lost his possessions, only saved by his clerical office, but had since met many who had indeed been robbed even of the clothes in which they stood, this after their horses had been stolen. Some had even been whipped by angry locals as retribution for the losses they had suffered in destroyed crops and torn-out vines…”

‘Need I go on, Count Drogo?’ There was not much to do but answer with a shake of the head. ‘But I shall, and I will enumerate the complaints I have had from Benevento, which might I remind you is my own fief. Homes and fields of corn burnt to a cinder, women raped and tiny children hoisted on the points of Norman lances…’

‘Your Holiness, you know that people exaggerate.’

‘Exaggerate!’ Leo shouted, in a voice more suitable to a soldier than a cleric. ‘I have seen these things for myself. It must cease and I will hold you, and you alone, responsible for seeing that it does.’

Drogo, who had been submissive, felt his gorge rise. Who did this ginger-haired sod think he was? He might be Pope but he was talking to a de Hauteville, one who was not, and never had allowed himself to be, browbeaten by anyone, especially in the company of not only Guaimar but also the whole papal entourage. He was about to shout back, he even had a notion of clouting the Pope round the ear, when a vision of his elder brother swam before him. William would have known how to deal with this, would have had the words to turn away the papal wrath while giving nothing in return. The Pope was asking for the impossible: the men he was talking about were warriors. What did he want them to do, take up the plough?

It took great effort to control his voice, but he did manage it. ‘I will do as you ask, Your Holiness.’

‘You swear on the Blood of Christ?’

‘I do,’ Drogo replied, crossing himself, as much from fear as from piety: that was not an oath to be taken lightly.

‘So be it, Count Drogo, but be assured I will hold you to that. Now, Prince Guaimar…’

Drogo listened and determined to learn. Guaimar deflected every complaint directed at him with consummate ease and silken replies, showing such ability that Drogo was jealous, something he related to Kasa Ephraim when he called upon him later that day.

‘Our prince has now had much practice at dissimulation, Count Drogo.’

‘I think he might have learnt from you.’

The Jew smiled, and even if he had aged, it was a pleasing thing. ‘You flatter me, Count Drogo, but you have come here to transact business, I think.’

It was Drogo’s turn to smile. ‘I think your ventures are safer than my coffers.’

Ephraim now transacted commercial undertakings for the de Hautevilles, trading in commodities on their behalf and increasing a wealth that was fed by land income and the tribute from the Lombard and Italian nobles of Apulia who looked to Melfi for protection: odd that some of that security had to be provided against men to whom he was titular overlord.

‘All business has its risks, Count Drogo.’

Thinking of his soul, Drogo replied, ‘None, my Jewish friend, compared to the risks of being in my position.’

Argyrus had worked hard to ensure that, when he struck, it had the desired effect. Money was his weapon, the means to pay for betrayal, but that was not the only tool in his armoury. Unaware that the newly elected Pope had left Rome for Campania, he had sent an embassy to the Holy City, to the Duke of Spoleto, whose lands lay to the north of Benevento, as well as selected people in that province, his aim to build a coalition against their common enemy. But first he had to decapitate the monster.

Drogo, not long returned from Salerno, was to be taken when he was at his most vulnerable, on a Sunday when he attended church on a saint’s feast day, the means of his assassination a disgruntled monk, found by Argyrus’s agents, who knew how to handle a sword. He assured those who recruited him that not only could he get close to Drogo de Hauteville, there were many men locally who would aid him, but the spider at the centre of the web made an impatient man wait until all else was in place.

Having served with the Norman-Lombard army outside the walls of Trani he knew the names of the most important leaders, not just the de Hautevilles. Humphrey, Geoffrey and Mauger had their own castles ands fiefs, and attended their own churches to hear Mass, but there were others capable of taking over from them, so men had to be put in place, reliable men who were not only willing to strike but able to recruit fellow assassins, for Argyrus was insistent that no one killer, acting alone, would succeed: look what had happened with William.

‘The one called Robert I know least well.’

‘He is stuck in deepest Calabria, my Lord, and though he is hated we have not yet managed to get anyone to accept the task of killing him.’

‘Yet all the others are ready?’

‘They are. They await only a day on which to strike.’

Argyrus had before him a list of Roman saints’ days and he calculated how long it would take to send messages to those recruited and awaiting the sign to act. He could not risk a lost opportunity: conspiracies were fragile things, and they became even more so the longer they went without execution. Looking a month in advance he put a finger on the Feast Day of St Laurence and deciding said, firmly, ‘That is the day I have chosen. See to it.’

Drogo, accompanied by his wife and a newly born son, saw Listo, dressed in his black Benedictine habit, and scowled, as it was not a sight that pleased him. In truth he felt slightly guilty at having sent him and his sister away, given it was not an action of which William would have approved, but then his elder brother had been a bit soft in that way. Drogo would not harm a peasant for no reason, but he had no love for the breed, seeing them as impenetrable and stupid in the main, and when occasion demanded that they suffer he had never been one to hold back. Their crops and vines he would destroy and the Good Lord help any of them who tried to resist.

To him St Laurence was a martyr especially to be venerated, not least because his saint’s day was always the occasion of a great banquet, and Drogo loved feasting and drinking, which always led to carousing. Also, since the same saint was the patron of prostitutes, there was no disgrace in having a few along to entertain him and his companions afterward, once he had sent his wife off to her nursing and her bed.

Gaitelgrima had gone ahead into the church, and he was waiting until all his companions were present, some ten in number, those Normans he counted as close friends, slightly put out that two of his brothers, Geoffrey and Mauger, whom he had summoned, had yet to arrive. Humphrey had got the backwash of the papal strictures on the way back from Salerno; the other two were going to get a lecture too, and be told to keep their men in check. When he had dealt with them he intended to call in all the Norman captains for the same purpose.

Unbeknown to Drogo, at that very moment seven of the captains he was going to berate were dead, all of them caught overnight, in their beds, by assassins, all Lombards or Italians who had infiltrated their castles and donjons in the disguise of servants. Where there were women or wives present they died too, and any children young enough to be slumbering in close proximity to parents. Those given the task of killing Geoffrey and Mauger failed — they had been unable to penetrate their too well-established households — and had decided to follow them as they set off in the predawn to attend upon the summons from Drogo.

The Norman captains who died, including Hugo de Boeuf, were unarmed, or their weapons were too far away from them to be of any use. The de Hauteville brothers had theirs and were mounted, so when a dozen assailants tried to ambush them on the road they found out to their cost just how much these sons of Tancred had learnt from their warrior father. Not one of the assassins survived as the two brothers swung their swords and manoeuvred their mounts, the horses taking most of the knife wounds, necessary to fix the men wielding them so they could be cleaved in half by a single mighty blow.

Drogo was unarmed and no one saw Listo draw a weapon from under his habit, the sign for the men he had recruited to aid him, all dressed as Benedictines, to do likewise. Ready to enter the church, Drogo and his companions had laid aside their swords, and crowded into the narrow church doorway they had little room for movement as the two dozen men struck with knives, clubs and swords from both within and without the building. Drogo was a hard man to kill: even with several wounds he fought on with fist and boot trying to break through to where his weapon lay.

It was Listo who struck the fatal blow, taking a sword and slicing through Drogo’s shoulder, covered with a blue and white surcoat but with no protective mail, the blow cutting down and smashing bone as well. Drogo fell to his knees but yet struggled to arise again as several men dressed as monks went for him with knives, stabbing him repeatedly, shredding his now blood-covered garment; the last sight he had as he spun from them was of his companions lying dead in a heap, crowded in the doorway of the church.

Listo’s mission was to kill the boy-child as well, and his mother, if she resisted, but the pile of bodies, some still twitching, blocked the entrance and he knew that if he stayed too long retribution would be swift. As soon as he had struck the first blow women had screamed and men had rushed for help, and this in a place full of warriors who would tear him limb from limb for what he had done.

‘The horses,’ he shouted, throwing off his habit, no more a monk now but instead, as he saw it, a soldier in the service of the enemies of the Normans. The mounts belonged to the men the party of assassins had killed, not enough, for they were too numerous. But they were not hulking Normans, they were, even doubled up, a load the animals could bear and they rode out and south, heading for distant Bari and safety.

Geoffrey and Mauger, bearing wounds of their own, and with only one horse between them, arrived to find Drogo laid out on a slab of church marble, the wounds on his body now dark gashes edged with black congealing blood, with his young wife kneeling by, keening in sorrow while a nurse sought to calm her baby.

‘Take them home,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and call upon the monks to come and prepare the body.’

‘My Lord,’ said one fellow, ‘it was monks who did this.’

‘No,’ Mauger replied, ‘no man of God committed an act like this.’

Over the next days they found the extent of this plot, as news came in of deaths all over the lands the Normans held. Humphrey had survived by a stroke of luck, having decided to spend a night away from his own castle, but when he heard of what had happened he dismissed every servant he had, not knowing which ones might be traitors. His next act was to call to Melfi all those who had acclaimed Drogo and he successfully called upon them to elevate him: he had no trouble at all in seeing the need for the succession to the title to devolve upon a grown man.