Jack Ludlow - Conquest

The stores of the army they captured too — flocks of sheep, great tents full of grain, enough fodder to keep the Norman horses for a month — and that took no account of what Roger’s milities, who had taken practically no part in the battle, were now stripping from the bodies that littered the field. Any not yet dead had their throats cut immediately.

‘Tomorrow,’ Roger said, ‘when we are rested, we go into the hills into which the Saracens have fled. Every one you find is to be killed. I do not want to have to face them again.’

‘There will be more, Roger,’ Ralph de Boeuf sighed.

‘I know, but they will not be the same fellows if we do what we must. Now, call forward the priests, we must say a Mass to thank God for so blessing our arms this day.’

Their prayers were loud this time, words of gratitude that swelled up to the heavens for this victory. All knew they had won a great fight; Roger, Serlo and Ralph de Boeuf had the wit to see they had achieved much more. In amongst their prayers of thanks were other thoughts — that now the Saracens were no longer on the offensive: they had been too soundly thrashed. Troina was safe, Messina was doubly so. What they had now taken to the east of Cerami they most definitely held.

The people of Rome stared in wonder at the quartet of beautifully decorated camels as they were led through the streets towards the Lateran Palace. They had seen camels before, but not of such groomed quality, and many an eye was looking hard at their accoutrements, trying to value the gold and silver of the harness and saddlery as well as what their huge gilded pannier might contain. Forewarned, the new pope, Alexander, flanked by his closest advisor, Archdeacon Hildebrand, was ready to receive this gift, though mystified as to from where it came.

The well-dressed and handsome youth who spoke for its delivery introduced himself as Jordan de Hauteville and let it be known that these magnificent animals and what they carried were a gift from his father, the Count of Sicily, to the Holy Church, for he knew, without doubt, such a victory as Cerami could not have been possible without divine assistance. The men he had brought with him unloaded and carried into a private chamber the two heavy panniers which, when opened, revealed a fortune in gifts that had even a pontiff, accustomed to magnificence, gasp with pleasure.

‘And for this, your father asks for what?’ said Hildebrand, his gargoyle face full of suspicion. In his experience such gifts did not come without a price attached.

‘Nothing,’ Jordan said, ‘but the further blessing of the Church on his enterprise against the infidel.’

‘How did you come by this, my son?’ asked Alexander, in a softer tone.

The story took time, so much that the Pope and his archdeacon required chairs to ease their legs, for Jordan, proud of his family, was not content to relate merely the bare facts. He made it a saga, embellishing every act by Count Roger and his Uncle Serlo, though careful when he came to his own actions to sound modest. Before the battle a comely youth had been seen on a white horse, bearing a fluttering banner of a red cross on a white background. He had ridden the field of battle, then seemed to ascend to heaven, so they knew it to be the presence of Saint George himself, come to bless the arms, and each man was inspired. At the conclusion of his tale, Alexander looked at Hildebrand, whose eyes were alight.

‘He does God’s work, Your Holiness,’ Hildebrand barked. ‘Too long has Islam lorded over lands once Christian.’

‘You have spoken of it often,’ Alexander replied, with an expression and a tone that implied Hildebrand might have laboured the point too heavily. ‘And you know I share your hope to see such possessions once more under the jurisdiction of my Church.’

‘Then let Sicily be the place first brought back to the one true faith. Let us bless Count Roger and charge him with the task of clearing Islam out of that accursed island. Let him be a soldier for Christ, and those he leads likewise.’

Alexander nodded but did not speak, yet when Jordan left Rome, he did so with a papal banner, which henceforth he was told should lead Count Roger’s men into battle, only one of two in existence, the other leading the Christian knights fighting the Moors in Iberia. He also left with a papal bull granting indulgence to all those who fell in battle against the infidel — so to die was now to gain immediate entry into heaven.

‘Let the infidel see,’ Alexander said to Jordan as the clergy assembled to send Jordan on his way, ‘that Christ comes upon them in vengeance; let them see that salvation lies in repenting their foul creed.’

‘One more campaign, Robert, to take Palermo, with everything we can both muster, and Sicily will be ours.’

‘Do not put too much faith in Alexander’s banner, brother,’ Robert replied.

That was not a statement to respond to: when it came to religious piety both brothers played fast and loose with devotion — God was praised when victory blessed their arms or needs, as in the recent news of the death of Argyrus, but not when predicaments arose.

‘Sicily? Do I have your support?’

‘Let me think on it.’

Roger smiled: that was as good as a yes.

Ever the restless warrior, they were mounted and on their way within the week, taking every lance Robert could muster, picking up foot soldiers on the way, crossing to Messina, then riding on to the west to join Serlo, stopping only at Troina so that they could spend time with Judith.

‘You know, Judith,’ Robert said, ‘you have never apologised to me for the words you lambasted me with at Mileto.’

She replied with slight smile. ‘I never thought to say sorry for speaking the truth, Robert. You are a rogue and you know it.’

‘God in heaven,’ he growled. ‘I’d rather face the Saracens than your tongue.’

‘And so you should: they you will beat.’

He laughed loud enough to fill the great hall. There was still something of the old Robert in that breast.

A night of conjugal bliss was all Roger was allowed. When battle beckoned, the Guiscard moved swiftly to meet it and, ignoring any obstacle on his flanks, he made straight for the Conca d’Oro, the range of hills that circled and overlooked Palermo, and therein lay his first problem. He could make no movement, attempt no manoeuvre, without being observed from the watchtowers on those heights, so that his numbers were known down to the last sutler long before he even set up camp.

That, by accident, led to a disaster: the Normans pitched their tents on a plateau infested with tarantulas and they soon emerged from their nests to sting every piece of flesh presented, producing a range of reactions which made the Normans sure they were suffering from a divine plague. Many found breathing difficult, others collapsed without knowing why they were so afflicted, others were spared, the very least effect a dose of severe, rank-smelling and continuous flatulence that made them fear the corruption of their gut. From being a force full of martial spirit, it had the effect of spreading a deepening gloom and a feeling this campaign was cursed.

Nothing that happened subsequently raised the mood: once Robert had fought his way through the mountains to the walls, Palermo was too formidable to capture with the forces he had. Not unlike Bari, they had to stand outside and watch ship after ship come and go without in any way being able to interfere: they could neither storm the city nor could they starve it out. To this dejected encampment came word of a request from Duke William of Normandy for lances to join him in invading England; with the prospect of booty elsewhere a trickle of lances began to leave and take the road home.