Jack Ludlow: Warriors

‘The Varangians would stand,’ called Arduin.

That reference to the axemen of Kiev Rus brought to Rainulf’s face a deep frown. He had fought them in the Lombard revolt led by Melus, and he had lost his elder brother in the final battle. A force of Norse lineage provided to Constantinople by the Prince of Kiev, the Varangians were indeed formidable and their chosen weapon, axes swung and thrown, were deadly against both horse and rider.

‘I saw them in Sicily, Count Rainulf, and I came to admire them greatly.’

Rainulf just jerked his head to look to the front; he did not want to talk of Varangians or of campaigns led by William de Hauteville. His eyes were now on the two lines of Normans who had taken station facing each other, and at a command they closed, first seeking to unhorse the men they fought, then, once the lance had been used or abandoned, fighting each other on horseback with hardwood swords. No mercy was shown to anyone who left an opening: several jabbing and slashing men were dismounted to fall at the feet of, and scrabble away from, the heaving mass of hooves, more dangerous by far than that which they had faced in the saddle.

At the sound of the horn they disengaged and were replaced by the other two centuries, the whole confrontation repeated with the same level of effort. To the rear, men could be seen limping away both from the previous battle and this, while the odd mercenary lay comatose where they had fallen, as their confreres tried to continue to jab, slash and parry without simultaneously trampling them.

‘Look,’ cried Berengara, as the two lines disengaged and withdrew.

She was pointing to a line of marching Normans, making their way through the clouds of dust left by their previous mounted engagement. Only on foot could you truly appreciate that these warriors were likely to tower over any enemy they faced. Every one was well above whatever height could be named as average, and in the middle of the line it was impossible to miss William de Hauteville, taller still, with his brother, Mauger, a hand smaller, at his side.

He led his men to the shield wall where they began hacking away, reducing what was left of the wood of the defence to shards, which set young Gisulf to crying, a sound which had no effect on the swordsmen but one which had his mother take him away from the noise. Destruction complete, the Normans retired, exchanging their weapons for wooden replacements, as two centuries faced each other in foot combat, coming together with a series of loud cracks and screaming imprecations as they fought each other in mock battle.

William had by this time remounted, and it came to the point which interested him greatly. There was a tactic he knew his men could use mounted — the false retreat. Could they do it on foot? He had deliberately left till last a fight between men who had served him in Sicily, under Drogo’s direct command, and those of Turmod’s troop, who had stayed behind in Aversa to protect both Rainulf and Prince Guaimar, knowing there was a deep degree of rivalry between them.

Only Drogo knew he was going to give the horn signal for a false retreat; would his men realise that it applied to them unmounted? Drogo was key, as was any commander in a conflict, but in this the Normans had their other great asset: close battlefield control. They knew the commands just as they knew they must be obeyed; it was not their job to think but to obey. The horn blew its triple notes and William saw his brother’s sword in the air, waving as he fell back, pleased to see that his shouts and gestures were bearing fruit — his men had disengaged.

Turmod’s men should have known better: they were Normans too, but they could not resist moving forward to pursue, a fatal tactic, because they did not all do so at the same pace, creating dog-leg gaps. William signalled for the horn to blow again, and watched with pride as Drogo turned his men round in a tight line and rushed them forward, completely overwhelming their opponents and driving them back, inflicting more bruises on that century than had been suffered by any other in the day.

If he had been looking at the pavilion, he would have seen an irate Rainulf ranting about the deviousness of his senior captain, for he was soldier enough to know it had been he who had initiated the manoeuvre. William would not have cared: as a leader he had just added another string to his tactical ability; everyone in Rainulf’s band had seen it, now all four hundred lances would know what to do in the future.

The sun was sinking, the light going, the wounded were being helped away, and in the gathering gloom the fires of those roasting oxen glowed, while torches by the hundred were being lit around twin rows of great tables. It was time to eat and drink.

‘I can give you another captain, just as skilful and as brave as William de Hauteville,’ insisted Rainulf.

‘You forget,’ Arduin responded, clearly unconvinced, ‘that I have seen the Iron Arm fight, and I have seen him lead men — your men.’

‘Iron Arm!’ spat Rainulf, his high-coloured face picking up the light from the numerous torches. ‘Such posturing means nothing, it is but a name. Old as I am I would not fear to take up arms against him.’

Prince Guaimar and Arduin nodded insincerely in response to the glare with which he fixed them, taking the statement for what it was, an idle boast from a man who could not admit to being the ageing fellow he saw in his piece of polished silver each morning. Berengara, who should not have been part of the discussion at all, was not one to let such an opportunity pass.

‘I think you should challenge him, Rainulf, and I will persuade my brother to provide a healthy purse for the victor.’

The look that got her was one full of detestation, an emotion she returned in good measure. If she hated Normans, then Berengara hated Rainulf Drengot most of all! The day she and her brother had been dragged out of the Castello de Arechi in Salerno was seared in her mind. Rainulf had been there, sneering at his one-time father-in-law for his protestations of betrayal. The events of the day had broken him: the old duke had retired to a monastery, and with his heart and hopes destroyed, it had soon brought about his demise.

‘The loser,’ she added maliciously, ‘should have nought but a pauper’s grave, a place for dogs to piss and defecate.’

‘I am curious, Rainulf,’ said Guaimar, heading off his angry response, ‘why not William?’

If it was possible for a man with so purple a countenance to flush, Rainulf did so then, aware, as he was, that the prince was pricking him just like his sister; not in the same outright manner, but discomfiting nonetheless. Guaimar knew very well Rainulf’s objections were brought about by fear of a man who might have too much support amongst the men he led, a man too powerful to openly challenge. Yet he had his justification well prepared.

‘He has had opportunity already, in Sicily. It is time to give such a gift to another.’

‘No!’ snapped Arduin.

‘Turmod has been in my service longer than any of the de Hautevilles, and that is another factor. If William goes he will take his brothers.’

‘I would expect nothing else,’ Guaimar replied.

Arduin spoke again, his look deadly serious. ‘This is not skirmishing in Campania, which is all this Turmod of yours has ever done. We are talking about fighting the might of the Eastern Empire-’

Rainulf’s interruption was bellicose. ‘I know that!’

‘Just as you know from fighting them yourself they are difficult to overcome.’

The pair glared at each other. The subject raised was the defeat at Cannae, the very same field upon which Hannibal had massacred the Romans in 216BC. The Lombards and Normans, led by Melus, had not suffered so final a fate in the rout, but the battle had been bloody, the mercenary cavalry left with barely enough horses to flee the field, leaving behind the Apulian milities as they did so to die under a Byzantine sword or a Varangian axe. After every battle lost, there were recriminations: the Normans maintained it was the Lombards who had broken; they, the too confident Normans who had failed.