Jack Ludlow: Warriors

‘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.’

‘They can call me any name they like,’ Robert insisted. ‘If we let our opponents set the terms of the battle they will do so to suit their purpose, which is to wait for Argyrus. If we want a chance to win we must suit ours.’

‘Is it honourable?’

‘Honour, Humphrey, goes to the victor.’

They were lined up and ready to do battle before the sun tipped the eastern sky, but their enemies were not in disorder: they, too, had disposed their forces for a fight. Humphrey had split his army into three divisions: he held the centre, before a small hill that part-masked the enemy centre, and left, which judging by their visible standards comprised of Italians, with the Swabians on the papal left. Richard of Aversa was on the Norman right, all cavalry, while Robert commanded the mixed horse and infantry on the left wing.

The formation the papal army had adopted, strung out in a thin line, was that required to attack, sensible given their numerical superiority. Robert had insisted the Norman host could not wait for such an eventuality — their power lay in assault — they must initiate the contest, and after much discussion, given that had been agreed, Richard of Aversa moved forward on the right to hit the Italian line.

It was true they had probably never faced Norman lances advancing on them steadily and in an unbroken line; it was also true that their military skills would not have been of the highest, but they should have held until at least the assault made contact. They did not: the Italian levies broke before the Norman horsemen could even cast a lance at their running backs, and with a great yell Richard ordered the pursuit, which took his men, slashing and killing as they went, all the way to the Fortore River, into which they drove what Italians remained to drown or swim.

Behind them, matters had developed against Humphrey, assaulted by the Swabians who had attacked him before his lances could get moving, and they were formidable enough to remind those who had fought Varangians of the quality of those Norsemen — they were big men, on foot, who would not fall back before repeated mounted assaults. They began to push Humphrey’s division back. With Richard of Aversa fully engaged, that threatened to turn the battle into a Norman defeat.

It was Robert who saved the day: ignoring what opposition remained before him he wheeled his division to the left and attacked the Swabian flank, driving it in. They did not break, but they were forced to retire, falling back in solid formation to the crown of the small hill at the middle of the battlefield. With the return of most of the men led by Richard of Aversa, and the fact that everyone else had fled, they were surrounded and doomed, but a call for them to surrender with mercy was thrown back in Humphrey’s face.

The Swabians died, as Normans and Varangians would have died, fighting to the very end; the men who slew them, on foot too, slipping and sliding on a grassy bank so soaked with blood it had turned to mud.

That section of Richard Drengot’s men who had forded the Fortore and rode into Civitate found Pope Leo in a state of shock. All around him were men fleeing past, including those who had led the papal army, heading out of the town to the west to get away from the Norman sword blades. Faced with a pope, and being Christian soldiers, the men who came upon him were in awe, the leader actually kneeling before Leo to give a kiss to his proffered pontifical ring.

‘I must ask you, Your Holiness, to accompany me back to the camp of Count Humphrey.’

‘No, my son. Tell your count I will remain here. Tell him I will not flee, for God has made a judgement this day, and as his Vicar on Earth, I must bear the consequences.’

‘I will leave men to guard you.’

‘Against whom?’ Leo said, angrily. ‘Even my bishops have fled.’

‘We have the Pope in our grasp,’ crowed Humphrey, having taken over the tent of the leaders of the now defunct papal army; he had also taken over the papal treasury. ‘How I long to laugh in his face, the red-haired Alsatian swine.’

‘It must be blasphemous to call a pope that,’ said

Mauger.

‘I will make him eat dirt, brother.’

‘You have not said anything, Robert,’ enquired Richard of Aversa. ‘I cannot believe you have no thoughts on this.’

‘None that anyone will listen to.’

‘What do you mean?’ Humphrey demanded.

Robert half threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘Take your revenge, Humphrey, and enjoy it.’

‘Why should I not?’

‘Because it will not serve, brother.’

‘Serve what?’

‘Our interests. If we humiliate the Pope, do you think the Emperor Henry will let that pass? No! He will not and we will find ourselves facing an even bigger and better army within a year.’

Richard Drengot spoke up again. ‘What would you do?’

‘I would go to the Pope in all humility,’ Robert replied, ‘and ask his forgiveness.’

‘What!’ Humphrey yelled.

It was in Humphrey’s nature to explode: he could not help himself, being a passionate man, but he was not stupid, and once Robert had explained his thinking he began to see the sense of the argument, as did the others, Geoffrey included, who had come to join them now that Argyrus was fleeing back to Bari.