Jack Ludlow: Conquest

Lances and pikes were raised as high as the voices, but Robert knew he had to bring them back to earth, though it took an age to get them to listen.

‘You Lombards and Italians of mine, these are the people who have sat on your necks for centuries, bled you dry and kept you from enjoying the fruits of this fertile land.’

‘Careful, brother,’ hissed Geoffrey, ‘for we are not much better.’

That such a remark was true did not make it palatable; if there was one person who could get carried away by the flaming oratory of Robert de Hauteville it was the Guiscard himself. His face was alight until Geoffrey said that, but it changed to fury, quickly replaced with concern.

‘It won’t be easy, brothers, and it will be a long march. You do not have to look far from this place to find those who would stab us in our back ribs, and they must be put in place before we can set foot in Romania.’

‘Your fellow Grenel is coming,’ Geoffrey said.

Robert looked at him as he approached, the question in his eyes, the answer just a nod that had him addressing his army again. ‘Brindisi will surrender to you, and I think so will those poor buggers who came out to fight.’ More cheering greeted that. ‘I will now go into the city to accept the capitulation. You will make ready to follow me. Brothers, we have a victory.’

‘Mostly over simple minds,’ Geoffrey remarked, his quiet tone drowned out by loud cheers.

‘If there were no simple minds, brother,’ Robert growled, ‘there would be no cities to conquer. Everyone would stay at home and mind their hearth. Now, do you wish to join me?’

Robert, accompanied by Grenel, his brother and his personal knights, approached the soldiers still locked out of Brindisi by their fellow citizens, walking straight in amongst them in a show of what many people would have called foolhardy behaviour, given they were still fully armed. Yet such was his commanding presence that they fell away from him, as if to remain too close was a foolishly dangerous thing to do. He did not shout, he only spoke so those close by could hear.

‘You are going to live, not die, as you have spent the last hours contemplating. But now, I am your lord and master, not Byzantium. It would be fitting if you were to show it.’

There was one, a huge fellow near as tall as Robert, perhaps a fool, perhaps a patriot, who rushed forward seeking to smite with his sword. The Guiscard seemed to move with slow grace as he stepped inside the arc of the man’s swing to halt his arm. The mighty punch to his upper chest, even if it was padded, was enough to stop him dead, indeed his face and bulging eyes looked as though the blow had blocked his heart. Then Robert de Hauteville was underneath the arm and behind his assailant, the powerful arms encircling the neck. That he broke with seeming ease and a loud crack, the body of the man, now dead, dropping at his feet.

The escort he had brought, Geoffrey included, were standing, swords out, waiting for instruction to begin a massacre, which given they were massively outnumbered was madness. Yet it was a testament to the hold these Normans had on their enemies that no other tried to attack. Glaring at those around him Robert barked, ‘I am waiting!’

The first row began to kneel, and like the ripple that spreads out from a pebble thrown into a lake, it extended, until the whole of the enemy army was kneeling.

‘Grenel, get those gates open.’

No command was necessary: the huge gates swung apart as he approached and the Guiscard entered, to walk in deep shadow between twin lines of cowed citizens, to the old Roman square in which stood the one-time temple, now converted to a church. Before him and the oration platform stood a party of elders with the ceremonial great key of the city on a cushion, held up to him as he came close. Nodding, Robert took it and handed it to his brother, speaking loudly.

‘Brindisi needs a great captain to hold it safe for my title. I hereby appoint my brother, Geoffrey, Count of Loritello, captain of the city, port and fortress.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Take my advice, brother, use this Grenel fellow, who seems honest, but a few chopped-off heads will do more to cement your place than the kind of soft words you normally employ.’

Then he mounted the oration platform and addressed the crowd. Someone must have primed them, for en masse they sank to their knees, which made Robert smile again.

The route to Rome was busy with pilgrims and high clerics, the latter not of the type to suffer discomfort in the hospices and the fabulously wealthy great abbeys. Where previous de Hautevilles were obliged to take accommodation in crowded dormitories, Roger was given an apartment of his own and treated as a valued guest. It was not forgotten that his family had humbled Pope Leo after the Battle of Civitate, nor that they had held him prisoner until they had bled him of favours, but his hosts were men who took a long view: Leo was gone now, Pope Victor was in place and life must continue.

Endowments were sought, which amused Roger given he was a near-penniless knight, but he was treated as a young fellow who might have wealth of his own one day. God’s work did not come free, nor could a place in heaven be assured, however well a man thought he had lived. No mere mortal was prepared for the examination of his deeds in a world where death stalked silently and suddenly. Masses must be said for the deceased in case they lingered in Purgatory, unable to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Thus, a wise man made bequests for the sake of his eternal soul.

Nothing demonstrated Roger’s unearned stature, upon his arrival in Rome, more than his invitation to meet the reigning pope. Guards manned the bridge leading to the gates of the Castel St Angelo, for no pontiff was truly safe in the riotous city of Rome. Whoever held the office presided over a fount of wealth and patronage that made it one sought after by a mass of competing interests. Money flowed in to Rome from all over the Christian world and where there were bulging coffers there were those who would do anything to gain control of the keys, so Victor’s election had been attended by the usual upheavals.

Invited to sit, Roger did so, seeking to size up his host, reputed to be pious by the standard of the office. ‘Your cousin, the Bishop of Coutances, writes to me of events in Normandy and here you are, yet another brother.’ The eyes met, with both Pope and visitor maintaining bland expressions as their thoughts ranged over the recent past: there was no love lost between the papacy and the Normans. ‘And the Lady Fressenda is married to Richard of Aversa. I take it you will be calling on your sister?’

Roger nodded. ‘If there is a message you wish me to take I will happily deliver it.’

‘Did you know that Richard has taken upon himself the title of Prince of Capua?’

‘No.’

‘Deposed the legitimate heir with no reference to Rome, the Western Emperor, or, from what I can gather, the people of the city.’

Robert was a problem to this pope, but Richard of Aversa was a close and permanent nightmare, forever pushing up against the lands that marked the border between the Papal States and Campania.

‘Your brother has done nothing to help me curb Richard’s excesses. I think Leo, having conferred legitimate nobility on your family, felt he was owed at least that obligation. Who better to contain a Norman than one of his own kind?’

Norman fight Norman? How that would suit you. ‘I will happily deliver any written messages you care to write, Your Holiness.’

‘And perhaps some verbal warnings, gently couched, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ Roger lied, sure he would do no such thing. ‘I am your servant.’