Warriors (13 page)

The look of delight those words produced lasted only as long as it took the boy’s sister to snap at him. Turning to her, William thought it might be better to teach Tirena to be a fighter, given she had all the attributes of an Amazon.

‘You, girl, only the good Lord knows what I will do with you. I would give you needles with which you could learn to sew, but I suspect they would end up in human flesh, and mine own if I gave you a chance.’

The departure from Melfi was attended by great ceremony, something of which William heartily approved, being good for morale, even if the man to whom the levies aimed their cheers as they passed left something to be desired. Even sat on his horse behind
Atenulf, at the base of the causeway that led to the castle, he was unimpressed: these levies raising their pikes, swords and axes needed to be inspired; the limp hand Atenulf waved in response made William wonder if he had any red blood in his veins to go with the blue.

Once the last foot soldiers had passed, Count Atenulf set off, in the company of Arduin and William, to make their way to the front of the league-long column, to get out of the cloud of dust these levies kicked up. As he kicked his mount into motion, William took a last look at the ramparts of Melfi, and he was sure, before the head disappeared, that he had caught sight of Tirena peering over and that pleased him.

The sickness came upon William within two days, a sort of lassitude allied to vomiting, which laid him low and confined him to a cot when camped and a litter when they moved. Thankfully Drogo had rejoined, followed by the other de Hautevilles, and they could ensure that the right ideas were being promoted. Training was being undertaken on the move, in the morning before the sun became too hot; the men rested till it cooled in the afternoon, when they would move a couple of leagues to a new campsite, slow progress to their eventual goal, but necessary.

‘They’re an argumentative lot, these Lombards,’ said Drogo, talking while a woman, one of the numerous
camp followers, spoon-fed his brother with a potage, the patient reluctant to take more than a couple of mouthfuls. ‘No wonder they never win. Anyone gives an order and it’s the cause of an immediate quarrel.’

‘Will they be ready if we meet the catapan?’

‘They will not be a useless mob, but ready is another thing.’

‘We’ve got to keep them away from the Varangians.’

‘You can keep me away from them too,’ Drogo replied, standing to leave, and pinching the woman’s ample arse as he did so. ‘I have nightmares about those axes.’

It took over ten days to get within striking distance of Canosa – the host had hogged the Ofanto, living off its supply of water and the fertility of the fields that bordered it – with William still too weak to partake of any duties, and it was with some misgiving he learnt that Arduin had decided to bypass the town and move on towards Barletta: a place, one of the important great ports, the catapan would have to defend.

Much as he disputed the notion he made no attempt to interfere, and it was not from his own ill health: there was no point in having a general then not following his lead, and the whole notion of coming from Melfi was to find the Byzantine army and defeat it for a second time. For that the plains around Barletta were as good a place as any.

‘That, William,’ said Arduin, sweeping an all-encompassing arm over the plain spread below, ‘is the field of Cannae.’

Weak as he was, William rose from his litter to gaze over one of the most famous battle sites in history, the field where the Carthagian general, Hannibal, annihilated two Roman legions.

‘God willing, this is where I want to do battle with them, the place stained with my father’s own blood.’

Helped by Mauger, William, worried that Arduin was allowing sentiment to interfere with sound judgement, moved to look around and he could see, from the commanding mound on which they stood, why the field had been fought over more than once. The hill overlooked an extensive flat plain running all the way to the coast, perfect for an army to deploy and also a place giving a good view of the landscape for leagues around. No enemy could approach by stealth, or organise an attack without all their dispositions being obvious. Below, and to the north and west, ran the River Ofanto, providing ample water for an encamped army – vital, since it was now high summer – as well as a supply route for food and fodder.

‘I have made sure the catapan knows this is where we are camped and of my intention to advance on Barletta if left to do so.’

‘The Normans were chased from the field too, Arduin,’ said William, his voice rasping and weak.
‘Rainulf’s brother Gilbert died here along with a third of the lances he led. It is the only time we have ever been bested in Italy.’

‘Then it is a ghost you too have to lay, William.’

They knew Michael Doukeianos was coming as soon as he broke camp. Resting still, though feeling somewhat stronger, William lay in his raised litter at the front of the tent set up to accommodate him. He could watch the battle unfold in the company of those men, some Normans included, who had been left to guard the baggage train, free of mail, warmed by the sun and calling for refreshment while he did so. Truly this was a better way to soldier than to always be at the forefront of the fight.

The Norman-Lombard forces were in place on the gentle lower slopes; it was the catapan who must march to this place and deploy to meet them, which was carried out in what looked like better order than he had managed at Masseria, with the Varangians, very obvious even at a distance, in his centre, the less well-trained levies on each side. Arduin had split and placed the Norman cavalry on the flanks, both to protect the foot soldiers from envelopment and to be there to exploit any weaknesses, and, William suspected, to see first if his Lombards could win without their aid. The crossbowmen stood to the rear, ready to be used wherever they were needed.

These dispositions were not something of which he disapproved; despite Arduin’s hopes this would no more be the last battle than Masseria. Byzantium still held the great port cities and most of Apulia and they still commanded the loyalty, albeit by force, of the majority of the Italian and Greek population. If the Lombards could win this fight without Norman help it would raise their spirits; what they could not do, in his estimation, however high their morale might be, was chase their enemies out of Italy.

The surprise, when Arduin ordered the advance, had him standing upright, because that was precisely the wrong thing to do. What the Lombard-Norman host needed was a defensive battle. They held the higher ground, so they should force the Byzantines to attack them, harder uphill than on the flat. The only way to even partially unsettle those Varangians was to force them into the attack, hoping that movement would disorder their ranks: to assault them was to play to their strengths. They would face any attacking force, on foot or mounted, and cut them to pieces with those great axes.

The feeling of hopelessness was allied to William’s feelings of physical weakness, and that was compounded by the sight of the front line of the attack growing ragged almost before it had covered a third of the intervening ground. Meanwhile his brothers, Drogo and Geoffrey on the right, and Humphrey
and Mauger on the left, had begun to move their lances forward as flank protection, and at the same pace as the marching men, a total negation of their innate abilities. Nothing happened quickly: it was like watching a waking dream unfold, or, if anticipation was added, a potential nightmare.

‘Fetch my mail,’ he shouted, ‘and saddle my horse.’

There was a moment when that order so astounded those who heard it, no one moved, but the subsequent roar from William had people running to obey. Moving with difficulty, he got closer to the small party of Normans guarding the baggage and the temporary paddocks where the mules, donkeys and spare Norman mounts were corralled.

‘You, go to Drogo and tell him, whatever his orders are, to attack the Byzantine
milities
.’ Turning to another he sent him with the same instruction to Humphrey. ‘And tell them to stay away from the Varangians.’

He had to be helped into his mail, all the time watching the Lombards close in on the catapan’s centre, thinking that Michael Doukeianos must be relishing what was to come – a half-trained army taking on the very best fighters he had – and he would be right to be so. It would be an assault that, if it was to continue, would have to be over the dead bodies of the very front line. They would then be taken in flank by their opposite numbers.

His horse was beside him, stamping and restless, having a nose for impending battle, perhaps, or just unsettled by the way it had been so hastily prepared, and it was evidence of his continued weakness that helping hands were needed to get him mounted. Spurring hard, he rode forward to where the crossbowmen stood waiting, shouting an order for them to follow him at a run, and as he did that he heard the horns of his own men, and much higher still than the host he saw Drogo lead his lances into a trot.

‘That, Catapan, will make you think!’

Which he did: the front line of his levies knelt down and pushed lower their pikes, creating a frieze of points no cavalry could ride into without becoming impaled, the same happening on the left as Humphrey and Mauger advanced. Arduin, moving forward behind his advancing lines, had turned to see William riding down upon him, what could be seen of his face under his helmet suffused with rage. Iron Arm ignored him, his voice like a blasting trumpet as he yelled for the rear ranks to open and let him through. There was no time for a conference, no time to tell Arduin of his error: the Lombards had sacrificed the high ground and they must be halted.

Men fell before his horse as he forced his way into the mass of bodies, using the flat of his sword blade to create a path through which the crossbowmen could follow him, until finally he was at the fore, no more
than lance-throwing distance from the blond giants who faced him, the sun flashing on newly polished helmets, their raised axe heads, and the gleaming bosses at the centre of their round bucklers.

‘Crossbows, in a line. Aim for their lower legs. When they drop their shields, aim for the eyes. When they lift them to protect their heads, aim for their thighs.’

Once the first bolts were released, and had struck exposed shins, William turned and ordered the front Lombard rank to kneel, another behind them to lace their pikes through that first line, another to stand and present their pikes over their compatriots’ heads. There were men carrying spears, and once that solid line was formed they could aim those over the heads of their front with impunity.

That which he had ordered the crossbowmen to do was being executed, which was an appropriate word, as bolts thudded into any part the Varangians exposed. William knew they would not stand and suffer, just as he knew that he and those crossbowmen were between those soon-to-be advancing axes and an impenetrable mass of pikes. But he also guessed that a horn would order the advance, and as soon as that sounded he bellowed for those bowmen to run, hauling round his mount and heading for Drogo’s now engaged lances.

The catapan had only seen the Norman tactics at Masseria: here he was faced with a completely different set of problems, as the riders stood off from
the pikes and shield wall, and the lances were used at full extent to jab at the men holding them, while swords were employed to cut off the deadly points, thus reducing their deterrent effect. Goaded, they sought to retaliate, opening gaps between shields into which those same lances were cast with deadly effect, that followed by a double horn blast, which had the men who had loosed them ride away from danger in a disciplined group, to be immediately replaced by a fresh line of Norman horsemen, who employed similar tactics.

Cohesion in defence was paramount and the Byzantine levies could not maintain it. Once it failed they were doomed, and now they faced, in their disorder, a solid line of mounted warriors coming at them at a fast canter with lances ready to impale them. And if they did not know of William Iron Arm they saw him, a towering figure bawling instructions and slashing at heads with a huge sword.

When they broke, they did so completely. The same soon happened on the left flank, and that left those mighty and fearsome Varangians trying to attack a solid line of pikes. Even as they lopped the points off the defenders’ weapons, taking human heads next, they found Norman lances pressing in on both sides in a way, given they were committed to a frontal battle, that could only have one outcome. Brave as ever, they died where they stood, as those who had
come with them to ancient Cannae fled the field.

William was near to dropping off his horse when he approached the titular commander of this victorious host, a man bound to be unhappy, not about the outcome, but by the way it had come about. It did not help that the entire army was yelling
‘Bras de Fer!’
in praise of the man to whom they accounted their victory.

Iron Arm gave him an old Roman salute, arm across his chest, and managed to imbue the words he used with significance. ‘Arduin of Fassano, you have avenged the blood of your father. It is time to take Barletta.’

The long ride to the south was a solitary one for Robert de Hauteville, and he had learnt, as had his brothers before him, that those on the route to Italy recognised a Norman when they saw one, and given he was more blessed than most with the physical attributes of his race – the height, girth and that golden Viking hair – and his warrior accoutrements were highly visible, he found that his company was rarely sought, that being especially the case in any settlement which stood on a navigable river. These were populated by folk who chastised their children with threats of the evil Norsemen who had, albeit not in living memory, sailed up those same rivers in their longboats to pillage and burn.

Nor were matters always eased in the countryside:
a giant with lance and sword brought back too many memories to small communities, and in some cases very recent ones, of roving bands, armed and unemployed fighting men, whose only means of existence without war was to rob and defile the weak in any period of peace. To ride into many a hamlet was to find it deserted, the inhabitants taken to the nearest woods until he had passed.

When the occasion demanded he traded to eat, Robert would merely dismount and wait. Peasants and farmers, seeing he was alone, would come out eventually, tightly grouped for mutual protection and carrying various weapons, though they would keep their wives and daughters hidden, to cautiously approach this seeming Goliath. It was a testament to Robert's winning ways that, even bereft of a shared language, he could make friends and gain trust given time. Countless nights were spent round blazing fires in laughter and japes brought on by whatever spirit these yokels concocted to ease the drudge of their lives.

Whenever he could, he sought shelter in monasteries: they, lying as they did on pilgrim routes, had a Christian duty of hospice accommodation, and none would turn him away, but there was rarely joy in their charity. If there was a group of humans who hated and feared the race from which the Normans had sprung, it was the religious one, for their churches
and abbeys had always been the first places to be plundered, quite simply because they were the richest in treasure.

Truly pious monks, proper heirs to the monastic founders, were a rarity, and where they existed were much loved by the laity; most were far from devout, inclined to use promises of salvation as an excuse for rapacious exploitation. The hypocrisy of living a life of comfort and ease, of consuming good food and wine, interspersed with endless prayer, not to mention a degree of carnal predation, all provided on the back of serf labour, this while preaching the Saviour's message of poverty and humility, escaped them in the main.

The landscape changed, turning from green to brown, the smell changing from damp grass to burnt earth, the roofs from thatch to red tiles, the bastions and watchtowers from dank, rain-soaked grey to near white. In the high-perched castles, with stout walls, citadels that oversaw every route by which a great fief might be vulnerable to an invading army, he was welcomed by men of his own stamp: knights in service or the lords to whom they were attached, for there was a universal bond between warriors. Men who might themselves travel to fight or serve had an affinity with a lone confrère.

This was where Robert was most at ease, among men of his own stamp, who saw that the blade of his sword had been marked by others while his helmet
had dents, and were eager to hear tales of how these marks of conflict had been gained. If he was privileged to dine with the lords of these castles, they were eager to hear of the customs of other courts, and given he had conversed with both the Duke of Normandy and the King of the Franks, it was easy to impress these men, and their chatelaines, with tales of regal magnificence.

Temptation for a vigorous young man was ever present: most monasteries-cum-hospices had a nunnery, if not attached, then close by, places where few of the inmates were truly there as brides of Christ. Most women were in such places against their inclination and in many cases in spite of their expressed will, confined by relatives for perceived or real offences, but more often for mere disobedience: a refusal to marry a designated spouse, a defiance of parents, an unwed pregnancy, a wife put aside, or widowhood which might lead to temptation, that too many times attached to a threatened inheritance.

That chastity was not their paramount concern was hardly surprising; that a hearty young giant was often indulged not at all startling. The monks who saw these nunneries and the females they contained, some of tender years, as their personal preserve, took umbrage. Such a thing was to be expected; that they never challenged a man like Robert de Hauteville showed that if they lacked the tenets of their faith,
they were not in want of good sense, for he was not one who feared to box the ears of an ecclesiastic.

For a young man who had only very occasionally left the Contentin, travelling south was an education and Robert drank in everything he saw and heard. Monkish misconduct he had known about since he ceased to be an impressionable youth; peasant exploitation he had seen too often close to home, which contrasted with the care Tancred extended to his tenants and villeins, drumming into his boys that if they had arms, equipment and the right to bear them, it could only be sustained on the back of the willing labour of others.

Yet the depth of some of what he saw shocked him: great monastic and dynastic wealth surrounded by the near starvation of those who toiled to keep their masters in luxury; the barons of those great castles who, in their cups, would curse the dukes and kings they were obliged to serve, and this to a stranger's ears. Some of those chatelaines had made no secret that should this strapping young visitor go a'wandering by candlelight, their doors would not be barred.

By the time he reached the stink of Rome, which was as much created by corruption as human and animal effluent, Robert de Hauteville's education was complete: it only took a short stay in that den of papal iniquity, a city with three different popes, all of them equally corrupt, competing to control the Holy See, each supported by their own warring aristocratic
factions, to complete a view of the world in which he lived, one that was utterly jaundiced. It was there he also learnt of the Norman activity in Apulia – news of their victories had reached Rome – which altered his intended destination: no point in going to Aversa if none of his family were there.

‘Where are you headed, brother?' asked a sightless beggar at the Appian Gate, a fellow of much experience, who had either been tipped of the approach or knew the sound of a triple set of hooves. Robert's hounds growled at him until commanded to desist.

‘To Apulia, friend, to seek my fortune.'

‘Is there a fortune there, brother? I sense you are of a kind, one of many who have gone that way. Even if they had gained much, perhaps there is not enough to satisfy.'

The booming laugh that engendered was loud enough to echo off the old and broken walls of the Eternal City. ‘I am Robert de Hauteville, and if there is fortune to be had, then I shall have it.'

‘Then God bless you, brother, and if you come back this way, do not pass by without gifting me some of that prosperity.'

‘Who knows if I ever shall?'

Even sightless eyes can narrow, and the beggar's did so now. ‘Take the word of a man who can see with empty sockets, brother, a man who has senses more acute than those of priests. I know from your voice
and manner, and that which surrounds you, that you shall come back to Rome, and with more horses and a deeper purse than you possess now.'

‘What are you, fellow, a sorcerer?'

The laugh was a cackle. ‘No, brother, happen I am a seer.'

That jest got another booming Norman laugh, turning the heads of all around. Robert's purse was near to empty, but he liked the prophecy enough to pass over the smallest of his silver.

‘News has just arrived, William, that Prince Guaimar has accepted the surrender of Amalfi. He is busy taking bloody revenge for slights of long duration.'

William, standing by an embrasure, was watching the boy, Listo, practise with a wooden sword. One of the older mercenaries who had come with him from Aversa, a fellow who had been badly wounded at Cannae, had taken to the boy, teaching him not only how to use a toy sword and shield, but how to ride as well. Or perhaps, suspecting he might not see service again, he was looking for a role that would keep him in Melfi.

‘I have said before, Arduin, I have no interest in Amalfi.'

‘But I suspect you do in the other piece of news just arrived.' Arduin, when William turned, was grinning, in a way that did not please the Norman. He looked too much like a cat who had stolen the cream. ‘We have a
new catapan, no less than the son and namesake of that devil, Basil Boioannes. Michael Doukeianos has been sent to Sicily for his failures, where I suspect he will rot.'

‘Then we should be cautious of him, Arduin, lest he has the same ability as his papa.'

‘Who is Basil Boioannes?' asked Count Atenulf, with his usual vacant expression, he having come with Arduin.

It was a question that astounded William: for a Lombard not to know that name was ignorance indeed. It probably shocked Arduin even more: had not the man in question led the army that beat Melus of Bari and killed his father on the very field where they had just been victorious? But if he was surprised, Arduin gave no evidence of it, too accustomed, probably, to Atenulf's density to be stunned.

‘No doubt,' Arduin added, ‘they think to win a prize with the same blood and name.'

‘Has he come with any more men?' asked William, for that, to him, was of paramount concern.

‘He has apparently come with nothing but his father's reputation. But the recruiting parties are out again, and they will use the name to gather a host. Also he has the remains of the men who fled the field at Cannae.'

‘Then he had better be clever,' William insisted, ‘for they could not stand.'

It took several months to discover that the younger Boioannes was just that. Following on from Cannae, William had been cautious in the way he deferred to Arduin, who, though he had praised him for the victory he had achieved, and had taken without a blush the accolades which had come to him, was still rankled by the way he had been so ignominiously superseded at Cannae. Knowing that time favoured the Byzantines, as it always would, Arduin ordered the army out of Melfi and went in search of Boioannes, only to find him as elusive as a buzzing fly.

Every time they got close to him he manoeuvred quickly and efficiently to get clear, sometimes retiring to a fortress – especially when faced with just Norman cavalry – then slipping away from that if Arduin brought up enough men to institute a siege, always with a route open back to the great bastion of Bari. As a campaign it was wearing, especially for the foot soldiers, marching hither and thither with nothing to show for it at the end.

Given that lasted through winter and into the following spring, it became positively dispiriting and the numbers of recruits began to fall as those who had farms slipped away to sow crops while others who had left their trades saw more profit in pursuing them; with plunder they would have stayed, without it they saw only empty bellies, until Arduin was obliged to fall back on Melfi, which only increased
the feelings of gloom and the rate of desertion.

‘Better to let them go, William,' Arduin suggested. ‘If I do they will come back once their crop is in the soil. If I do not…'

That needed no finish: they might not return at all, a thought which made a general become dispirited even more downhearted. He thought a more inspiring leader could have kept them together; a more practical Norman mercenary knew differently: men served themselves, even if they mouthed causes. He also saw the need to ease the man's mind.

‘I would do likewise, Arduin, as long as we keep the crossbowmen. And I too will welcome an end to campaigning. I too need to look to my men and horses.'

It was more the latter than the former, but his lances, now numbering near six hundred, were weary too, in need of rest: being in a saddle was better than being on foot, yet it was still hard work. For the horses, the burden of constant campaigning was becoming evident in losses – not deaths but wear: mounts becoming lame, increasing sickness such as laminitis and colic, which rendered them useless. They needed time in pasture, and the stud he had set up would benefit from replenishment.

‘We agree, then. Disband the
milities
, leave your men to hold Melfi, and plan a new campaign following the spring planting.'

The next days were marked by streams of foot soldiers heading off to their farms, livings and families; not all, for some so relished the military life that they were loath to part from it, or perhaps home life was miserable. Arduin accompanied Atenulf to Benevento, there to partake of the prince's hospitality and think great thoughts about how he was going to beat Boioannes and then persuade the port cities to join in the revolt.