Warriors

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Robert, still castle-building in Calabria, heard of what had happened at Salerno long after matters were resolved, and he heard of how the hand of Argyrus had been exposed. The catapan had indeed moved out from Bari as soon as the ship from Salerno brought news of Guaimar’s assassination, and it was suspected he had sent word to Pope Leo asking him to act as well, but as soon as he met Geoffrey he knew that, even if he could beat and pursue him, he could be putting his head into a Norman noose, so he withdrew.

Humphrey, having joined with Richard of Aversa, had descended on Salerno within four days, a speed which had thrown the Amalfians off balance, causing most of them to flee. The assassins thought they had time to consolidate their position in Salerno when they had none. They thought, also, they had time to overcome the garrison of their own home city, now besieged in their bastions in a port in full revolt; that too was in doubt.

The Normans had gathered on the way the news that Gisulf had been taken into the Castello di Arechi, now barred and held by the most stalwart Amalfians, though it was said he was still alive, so Guy of Sorrento was sent in to offer them terms. Spare Gisulf, free him, and they would live, kill him and they would die — as they must for foul murder — and as an added incentive Amalfi would be spared sack and utter ruin.

The offer was refused. If the Amalfians thought that in holding Gisulf they had an unbeatable hand, they again underestimated the Norman mind. Richard of Aversa descended on Amalfi like a whirlwind and relieved the garrisons. The men in the Castello di Arechi were brusquely informed their own families — wives and children — had been taken as hostages, which allowed Guy to negotiate for Gisulf’s release, and as soon as he was freed his uncle bent the knee and did homage to him as the new ruler of Salerno.

‘He should have taken the title himself,’ Humphrey complained, as he saw Guy kneeling. ‘Gisulf is but a boy, and not an impressive one at that.’

‘It was a selfless act,’ Mauger replied.

‘Stupid,’ his elder brother spat. ‘Salerno needs a strong hand, not that of a weakling.’

‘So what do we do?’

They were in front of the Castello di Arechi, still occupied by the Amalfians, with crowds of Salernians not far off, at least out of the range of a crossbow bolt, seemingly cheering their new prince but probably more relieved that they would be allowed to return to making money. Between the crowd and the Castello stood a line of mailed and armed Normans.

Humphrey, biting hard on his lower lip, finally said, ‘What can we do, but the same?’

He led Mauger forward and knelt before the young Gisulf, which was followed by the entire contingent of Normans. The youngster looked confused about how to respond, until his uncle told him to gently raise Humphrey up and thank him, which the boy did.

‘The assassins?’ he asked Guy.

‘Will come out now. I have told them they will be spared.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, we need peace and reconciliation more than we need more bloodshed.’

‘Then let us see them.’

Guy of Sorrento went to the gates of the Castello di Arechi and called for the men to come out, reiterating that they were safe. Slowly they complied, two dozen of them, blinking at the jeering which came from the citizens gathered at a distance.

‘Your weapons?’ Guy said.

Unsheathing their swords they threw them to the ground and moved forward to stand before Guy and the de Hautevilles, at which point Humphrey growled, ‘You spared them.’

‘I told you,’ Guy replied.

‘Mauger,’ Humphrey called, unsheathing his broadsword, his voice rising as he shouted. ‘We did not!’

Mauger had followed his brother; his sword was out and employed in moments, swinging left and right, smashing bone as well as slashing flesh, and the men who had killed Guaimar were cut to ribbons with a staggering degree of Norman ferocity.

Guy of Sorrento was shouting in protest, Gisulf was wailing in fright, until Humphrey stood before him, the decimated bodies at his back, a bloodstained figure towering over the boy.

‘Don’t weep, lad,’ he said. ‘My brother and I have just saved your life.’

The news of Guaimar’s murder was at first a cause for some rejoicing in Benevento, though Pope Leo felt the need to be muted in his gratitude that the greatest obstacle to the alliance he was creating was gone. Then came the Norman retribution, shocking both in the swift manner it was carried out and worrying to those who had joined the papal forces, not least in the way that Salerno and the Normans had combined. Men began to desert the papal cause, especially when news came from southern Apulia that Argyrus had been obliged to retire on Bari.

Pope Leo was not one to be idle: off he went once more to Germany, to try again to persuade Henry to help him. Not being entirely successful, he had trouble, in the imperial presence, in hiding his anger: there was, to his mind, a dereliction of duty in Henry not accepting that problems in Southern Italy demanded his full attention. However, thanks to a noble relative, he returned with something: a body of seven hundred Swabian infantry, soldiers every bit as professional as the Normans, though he was required to find from papal funds the money to pay and maintain them.

These would form the nucleus of his army, which was made up of levies from all over the north, and with that Swabian core, those who had seen prudence in returning to their homes began to flood back in until Leo had under his command a swelling and formidable force. Humphrey, realising this, sent an offer of parley. It was an indication of Leo’s growing strength and confidence that he dismissed it out of hand.

‘Rider coming,’ called the sentinel atop the first finished tower of Robert’s castle. ‘And he’s Norman.’

Robert, now using what had once been the fat abbot’s private chamber, heard the cry and put aside his quill, where he had been examining the income of his new estates which had come in from his edicts: payment from the use of the corn mill as well as the use of the large monastery ovens for baking; there were others for water and grazing rights, permission for two young lovers to set up house together and myriad other impositions by which a lord maintained himself and his knights.

There were outgoings as well, some in hard-won money, unlike most of his income, for Masses to be said, implements to be purchased from the coast so that those working the land could increase their yields, as well as the purchase of seed and better strains of livestock, but that had been offset by the abundant medicinal herbs which the monks had grown and never exploited: he had been able to trade them profitably. He would only prosper if those below him did so too: he might have argued with old Tancred endlessly, but he had learnt from him as well.

By the time he exited the chamber the rider, on foam-flecked mount and in the de Hauteville colours, was clattering into the courtyard that would, one day, be the keep of his castle, and the message he bore was a command from Humphrey to leave Calabria and come at once to join his brothers: the whole Norman presence, not only in Apulia, but in Italy, was in jeopardy.

‘He’s not talking sense,’ Robert insisted, having got the messenger into his quarters and put something to drink in his hand.

‘He is, Robert. The whole of Italy has combined to put an army in the field — Argyrus, Pope Leo, the Duke of Spoleto — and there are even contingents from the valley of the Po.’

‘With not a decent soldier amongst them.’

That’s when he was told about the Swabians.

Mounted and fully ready to travel, leading three horses, Robert leant down to give his parting instructions to Gartmod. Humphrey might have said every lance, but he was not going to completely abandon what he had so far built, on the very good grounds that he might never get it back again: he would leave here three conroys to make sure the monks did not seek to steal back their possessions.

‘I know I can trust you to treat the peasants well, Gartmod, but do not get too soft with the monks.’

‘I will not whip them.’

‘I never have either.’

‘You threatened to, Guiscard.’

‘And they believed me, which was all that was required. But keep safe what we have built until I can return and finish it.’

‘God speed, Robert,’ Gartmod said, slapping the flank of his mount, ‘and may God preserve you.’

‘He does not want to see me yet, my friend,’ Robert called, adding a booming laugh as he rode out of the gates with his men behind him. ‘He fears to lose possession of Heaven.’

‘Raising foot soldiers has been difficult,’ Mauger said. ‘The Italians and Lombards are backing the Pope, but we managed to get some Slavs from across the Adriatic.’

‘How many?’ asked Robert.

‘Four hundred.’

‘That should scare them,’ Robert replied with deep irony. ‘According to Humphrey, Pope Leo has over five thousand.’

‘If he combines with Argyrus…’

There was no need for Mauger to finish that: the two armies would crush them and it was the primary task of Humphrey, who as Count of Apulia was the leader, to ensure that could not happen. Right now, aided by Richard of Aversa and his lances, he was manoeuvring to drive Argyrus away from a junction with the papal force.

‘And Leo?’

‘Two to three days’ march, we think.’

‘It would be best to be sure, Mauger, we cannot afford to be wrong.’

Knowing he was older, Mauger was tempted to tell Robert not to teach his grandmother to suck eggs. But he also had to acknowledge that this younger brother of his had grown in stature: not in height, he had too much of that already, but there was a steadiness about him which he had lacked before going to Calabria.

From being bumptious, and while not losing his love of a good belly laugh, he had become more serious-minded, and Mauger had watched him as he intermingled his lances with those holding the fortress of Troia, so that they could operate efficiently as one, and he was forced to admit that when it came to commanding men this brother had the measure of him. Mauger was not feeble, but neither was he vain, and he told Humphrey when he rejoined that if he had any sense he would give Robert a serious role in the coming battle.

‘Over you?’

‘If need be. It is important we win, not who gets the glory.’

Geoffrey had been left with a force to mask Argyrus, to convince him he still faced a Norman army that he must take a detour to manoeuvre around.

‘Then you fight with me. We march tomorrow to block the road to Siponto, the route by which Leo can join with Argyrus.’

‘Do we have a plan, Humphrey?’

‘We do…to talk.’

The papal army was a slow-moving beast and Humphrey had all of his forces in place before them in two days. They were encamped before the town of Civitate, their backs to the River Fortore, in number certainly double the Normans, if not more. Some indication of the coalition Pope Leo had put together could be seen from the rank of their leading enemies: Rudolf, son of Landulf and the titular Prince of Benevento, the Duke of Gaeta and the Counts of Aquino and Teano, even the Archbishop and many of the citizens of Amalfi, together with men from Apulia, Molise, Campania, Abruzzo and Latium.

The brothers de Hauteville, with Richard Drengot in company, rode forward to parley, hoping to meet with Pope Leo, a man to whom they could appeal as good sons of the church. He was not foolish enough to put himself in a position of denying them succour and had stayed in the Episcopal Palace in Civitate, but it was noticeable, as they closed with their opposite numbers, the commanders of the papal forces, that Leo’s standard as pontiff, the vexillum sancti petri, was there with them. Such a meeting demanded courtesy: there was much hatred present, but it had to be hidden.

It soon became obvious that the men to whom they were talking, polite as they were, had no interest in anything other than battle or surrender; Humphrey tried, Richard of Aversa tried, and they both sought together a way out of the impasse, using ever more convoluted arguments which fell on stony ground. Finally Robert spoke up, suggesting that as the day was getting on they should both retire to consider matters, to perhaps continue on the morrow, a notion which annoyed his oldest brother, but one which he made plain made sense as soon as they parted company.

‘We can’t blather on, Robert, or we will have a Byzantine army at our back and this lot in front of us.’

‘I know that, Humphrey. Why do you think our enemies agreed to keep talking?’

‘So I fail to see the point…’

‘The point is, brother, we should attack them at dawn.’

‘Break the parley?’

‘Brother, we did not actually agree to talk on the morrow. Did you not hear me say, perhaps? They will be getting ready to talk, to delay again, we will be ready to fight.’

‘I have heard of your new name, Robert,’ said Richard Drengot.

‘What?’ Humphrey demanded.

‘In Calabria, it seems, they call him the Guiscard.’

‘They can call me any name they like,’ Robert insisted. ‘If we let our opponents set the terms of the battle they will do so to suit their purpose, which is to wait for Argyrus. If we want a chance to win we must suit ours.’

‘Is it honourable?’

‘Honour, Humphrey, goes to the victor.’

They were lined up and ready to do battle before the sun tipped the eastern sky, but their enemies were not in disorder: they, too, had disposed their forces for a fight. Humphrey had split his army into three divisions: he held the centre, before a small hill that part-masked the enemy centre, and left, which judging by their visible standards comprised of Italians, with the Swabians on the papal left. Richard of Aversa was on the Norman right, all cavalry, while Robert commanded the mixed horse and infantry on the left wing.

The formation the papal army had adopted, strung out in a thin line, was that required to attack, sensible given their numerical superiority. Robert had insisted the Norman host could not wait for such an eventuality — their power lay in assault — they must initiate the contest, and after much discussion, given that had been agreed, Richard of Aversa moved forward on the right to hit the Italian line.

It was true they had probably never faced Norman lances advancing on them steadily and in an unbroken line; it was also true that their military skills would not have been of the highest, but they should have held until at least the assault made contact. They did not: the Italian levies broke before the Norman horsemen could even cast a lance at their running backs, and with a great yell Richard ordered the pursuit, which took his men, slashing and killing as they went, all the way to the Fortore River, into which they drove what Italians remained to drown or swim.

Behind them, matters had developed against Humphrey, assaulted by the Swabians who had attacked him before his lances could get moving, and they were formidable enough to remind those who had fought Varangians of the quality of those Norsemen — they were big men, on foot, who would not fall back before repeated mounted assaults. They began to push Humphrey’s division back. With Richard of Aversa fully engaged, that threatened to turn the battle into a Norman defeat.

It was Robert who saved the day: ignoring what opposition remained before him he wheeled his division to the left and attacked the Swabian flank, driving it in. They did not break, but they were forced to retire, falling back in solid formation to the crown of the small hill at the middle of the battlefield. With the return of most of the men led by Richard of Aversa, and the fact that everyone else had fled, they were surrounded and doomed, but a call for them to surrender with mercy was thrown back in Humphrey’s face.

The Swabians died, as Normans and Varangians would have died, fighting to the very end; the men who slew them, on foot too, slipping and sliding on a grassy bank so soaked with blood it had turned to mud.

That section of Richard Drengot’s men who had forded the Fortore and rode into Civitate found Pope Leo in a state of shock. All around him were men fleeing past, including those who had led the papal army, heading out of the town to the west to get away from the Norman sword blades. Faced with a pope, and being Christian soldiers, the men who came upon him were in awe, the leader actually kneeling before Leo to give a kiss to his proffered pontifical ring.

‘I must ask you, Your Holiness, to accompany me back to the camp of Count Humphrey.’

‘No, my son. Tell your count I will remain here. Tell him I will not flee, for God has made a judgement this day, and as his Vicar on Earth, I must bear the consequences.’

‘I will leave men to guard you.’

‘Against whom?’ Leo said, angrily. ‘Even my bishops have fled.’

‘We have the Pope in our grasp,’ crowed Humphrey, having taken over the tent of the leaders of the now defunct papal army; he had also taken over the papal treasury. ‘How I long to laugh in his face, the red-haired Alsatian swine.’

‘It must be blasphemous to call a pope that,’ said

Mauger.

‘I will make him eat dirt, brother.’

‘You have not said anything, Robert,’ enquired Richard of Aversa. ‘I cannot believe you have no thoughts on this.’

‘None that anyone will listen to.’

‘What do you mean?’ Humphrey demanded.

Robert half threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘Take your revenge, Humphrey, and enjoy it.’

‘Why should I not?’

‘Because it will not serve, brother.’

‘Serve what?’

‘Our interests. If we humiliate the Pope, do you think the Emperor Henry will let that pass? No! He will not and we will find ourselves facing an even bigger and better army within a year.’

Richard Drengot spoke up again. ‘What would you do?’

‘I would go to the Pope in all humility,’ Robert replied, ‘and ask his forgiveness.’

‘What!’ Humphrey yelled.