Warriors (26 page)

Guaimar was an accessible prince, a man who did not fear to walk with a minimal escort through the streets of his city, nor was he excessive in the way he lived his life: he would not have Normans guarding
the Castello di Arechi, a fact which went some way to mollify his sister, angry that he associated with them at all. Salerno was a teeming active port, a place hemmed in by hills but with a wide sweeping bay that left it open to cooling breezes, as well as the occasional hot African wind, and it was as wealthy now as it had ever been, with much building going on, some of it financed by its ruler.

Ships came in from all over the known world with silks, spices and valuable commodities, while from the Campanian hinterland the produce of the fertile province, capable of double harvests, flowed out: grain to feed the people of Rome, olive oil with which to cook and keep going the lights that allowed for life to continue when the sun set, fruit that grew in abundance in the orchards, and wood from the forested foothills of the mountains.

Every ship entering or leaving paid customs dues, these taken in by the collector of the port to add to the secret stipend he gave to his master from smuggling. Kasa Ephraim was a busy man, with much to concern him in the way of trade, for he had multifarious interests, and the need to push his way through crowded thoroughfares in the company of his coffer-bearing servants meant he had no eyes to spot anything unusual, not that the sight of half a dozen well-set young men in such a prosperous city was that.

If Argyrus had spies in Amalfi, he also had people who were his eyes and ears in Salerno and they told him, after months of observation, that the one time it would be certain that the Prince of Salerno would be in his Castello was the day the Jew delivered the port revenues. They had also found out from gossip in the wine shops that Guaimar was wont to meet his Jew in private after the transaction of official business, with no one else present.

The group that had trailed Kasa Ephraim was not alone: there were others in the city, all now armed and each one with a task to perform, some to take important buildings, others to take care of anyone who might raise resistance, but most important was the group who gathered outside the gates to the Castello di Arechi, becoming in time so much part of the landscape that if the guards at the entrance had noticed them at all, they did not stand out now.

There was no way of seeing through the stout stone walls, the time to act was a guess, based on the exit of some of Guaimar’s council, who would leave the Castello once the public business had been transacted. As soon as they were out of sight, the Amalfians struck. The guards – in truth, in such a peaceful city, long past being alert – were the first to be killed. While half the raiding party entered the Castello, others, the younger ones fleet of foot, were sent as messengers to tell the rest to act. Inside the building, for all that any
shouts echoed off the walls, the doors to each chamber were built of stout well-seasoned and heavily studded timber, and so muffled such cries.

Kasa Ephraim would have died had he not just left the prince, having said farewell to Guaimar just as his sister and niece came into his presence. As it was he found himself knocked to the ground as those intent on killing Guaimar, six in number, swept past him towards the unbarred door to the chamber he had just left. The Jew was not a fighting man, but he was a clever one. Seeing the flashing knives, already dripping with blood, it took no great imagination to understand what was happening, just as he knew that alone he could do nothing to prevent it.

The cries of alarm and one scream, he heard as he pulled himself upright and hurried for the exit. Behind him, unseen, those six assassins had stopped before the Prince of Salerno, who seeing their blades and being himself unarmed knew what he was about to face. He pushed his sister and her child behind him, and with a voice carrying as much command as he had ever been able to muster, demanded to know who came upon him in such a fashion.

‘Amalfi has come for you, Prince Guaimar, to seek redress for the blood of its people.’

‘Strike and your city will burn, I swear,’ Guaimar spat back. ‘Not a stone will remain standing, not a life will be spared.’

‘Then, Prince Guaimar,’ the leader replied with a grim smile, ‘we have nothing to lose.’

The assassins rushed towards him and hit out with their blades, surrounding the prince and stabbing with fury. The last words he said before he fell to the ground, with blood spurting from dozens of wounds and his garments already bright red, were ‘Spare my sister and her child.’

That was not to be: the task was to kill off the House of Salerno; Berengara and her daughter, widow and child of William de Hauteville, died within moments of Guaimar and from those same knives.

Kasa Ephraim knew the Castello well, having served both the prince and his father. He made his way to the family apartments, where he spoke, in a voice he could not believe was as even as it sounded, of the danger they faced. Like every castle of the age in which they lived it had a private as well as a public entrance, and not just for fear of murder: all princes liked to be able to come and go unseen. If the Jew did not know where it was he suspected it existed, and he told Guaimar’s wife and children, most particularly his fourteen-year-old son, Gisulf, to get out of the Castello at once.

‘Take nothing, for you have no time.’

‘The prince?’

Though he hoped he was wrong, the Jew guessed he was right. ‘Will be dead by now. Go.’

No one demurred when he followed; he, too, felt that only by leaving could he survive. In the harbour, one fast sailing ship was hoisting sail, not from panic or fear, but to carry the news of the death of Guaimar round the toe and boot of Italy to tell Argyrus of the success of his plan.

The news of the murders came to the Norman host, gathered between Melfi and Benevento, through Guaimar’s cousin, Guy, Duke of Sorrento, who had escaped the city and ridden hard to deliver it.

‘The road to Aversa was blocked and there were Amalfians at every post house to stop any messenger changing mounts.’

‘But not on the road to Melfi?’ demanded Humphrey, his beetle brow creased.

‘No.’

‘That does not make sense,’ said Mauger.

‘Perhaps it does,’ Humphrey replied, his suspicious nature working overtime, as were his prominent teeth, chewing his lower lip. ‘I smell another hand in this.’

‘Argyrus!’ growled Geoffrey.

There was a silent exchange of looks then: one thing did not need to be stated, given they all knew of Pope Leo’s scheming. With the Pontiff trying to contrive an alliance to defeat them, and an army gathering north of the city of Benevento, an important fief like Salerno, who had proved to be their only dependable
ally, could not be allowed to fall into the hands of someone who was an enemy. If Argyrus was involved that meant Byzantium, the worst possible opponent, given he might control the city and a hinterland that, in league with Rome, would see them surrounded.

‘William’s child was murdered as well?’ asked Mauger, sadly, more sentimental than his brothers. Guy of Sorrento nodded. ‘Then we have a blood reason to intervene.’

‘If we move on Salerno,’ Humphrey nodded, though he looked less grieving than Mauger, ‘he will move on our Apulian possessions while we are gone.’

‘The Pope?’

‘He is still assembling. Leo cannot threaten us yet.’

‘So we stay,’ Mauger asked, ‘or move south to block Argyrus?’

Since the loss of both William and Drogo, Humphrey had grown in both confidence and authority: he was very much in command now.

‘Leo is at present no threat. Geoffrey will lead half our forces to confront Argyrus. If we are wrong and he does not move from Bari then no harm will be done. If he does, and you cannot beat him, you can delay him Geoffrey, giving the rest of us a chance to rejoin.’

‘And Salerno?’ asked Duke Guy.

‘As long as we can block the catapan and Leo does not move, the men who killed Guaimar will see their own guts before they die.’

‘I thank you,’ he replied, relieved.

‘We will, however,’ Humphrey said, ‘need to be recompensed for our assistance. Guaimar was a wealthy man and Salerno is one of the richest ports in Italy.’

The bargaining that followed, for high sums of gold, might have embarrassed a man of tender feelings. Humphrey de Hauteville was not that man. 

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.’