by Jack Ludlow
‘Geoffrey swore an oath to Borsa, as did I, at Bari and Salerno.’ All that got was a shrug. ‘I have not come here to ask but to enquire, but I will say this: whatever it is you ask me to take back to Salerno, do not ask for the Duchy of Apulia, for you cannot have it.’
‘Who will stop me?’
‘If you leave me no choice, nephew, I will.’
Roger liked and admired Bohemund and he had cause to feel at that moment such sentiments were not misplaced. There was no expostulation, no attempt to bluff and call upon his uncle to tell him he thought he could achieve such a thing. Whereas Borsa would have blustered, Bohemund just held his gaze, his face showing no expression, an indication that he knew what had just been said was no idle boast. Whereas Borsa would struggle to raise lances against him, Roger would not; men would flock to him. Where Jordan of Capua might continue his tepid support, the advent of a host led by the Great Count would see all his lances withdrawn back to his own domains; he would not risk a battle with such an opponent.
‘I am trying to think, Uncle, what you will gain from that.’
‘Best you think, nephew, what I will lose for the want of it.’
‘Do you fear me?’
There was no threat in the enquiry and Roger did not take it as such, answering in an even tone. ‘I fear the turmoil you may bring, Bohemund, that I must confess.’
‘Turmoil that would impact on Sicily?’
Roger held up his hand, index finger and thumb near to touching. ‘I am that close to having the whole island under my control. I will have Syracuse next and then only the southern port of Agrigento and the central bastion of Enna are of importance and hold out against me.’
‘I have heard Enna is a harder nut to crack than Melfi.’
The response was a sardonic smile. ‘It is, and if you were not so determined here in Apulia I would be inviting you to join me in the siege.’
Bohemund did not smile; he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Grant me the title Borsa holds and I will come readily. To fight alongside you, Uncle, I would consider an honour.’
Roger did not laugh. ‘Sadly, Bohemund, it is not mine to give, only mine to withhold.’
‘When I asked if you feared me a moment ago, I did so because I suspect that being a vassal of my father troubled you.’
‘On more than one occasion.’
‘So it might not please you to have me if I were Lord of Calabria as well. I daresay you would not willingly admit me as your suzerain in place of Borsa, but if I held Calabria I would have you by the throat, for nothing could get you in Sicily that I did not sanction and you would, for the sake of survival, be forced to acknowledge me. That was a power my father held over you, even if he did not exercise it.’
‘How little you know my brother,’ Roger sighed. ‘He knew it to be so true it never had to be stated.’
‘Which is why you seek to rein me in.’
‘I admit that there is motive in what you say, but there is also one thing you are not considering, Bohemund, and it is something you should. I swore an oath to your father to look after his son and heir-’
‘But not to me!’
Roger held up a hand; the anger had justification. ‘I feel the same bond towards you, Bohemund, even if it was never asked of me.’
‘So you would not fight me to the death?’
‘I would grieve if you fell in battle and be mortified if that was in a fight against me. Rest assured, if it ever came to a contest, I would hope you would order that I be spared, for I would certainly issue such a command to those I led to show mercy to you.’
Bohemund nodded; it was nearly a bow, which led Roger to suspect it was time to say what had only been in the back of the younger man’s mind.
‘But you know as well as I do it will not come to a contest. The force I would lead against you is one you could not challenge. I would have all of Borsa’s vassals as part of my host, as well as what I could bring from Sicily, while I doubt even those Apulian lances you lead would stay true and the enterprise would have papal blessing.’
‘Popes die.’
‘True, but do not assume that anyone who is elected pontiff will happily lay hands on you and grant you a title. If it borders on flattery to say so, you are too dangerous.’
‘While you are not?’
Roger, leaning forward in his chair, replied with arms as wide as his smile. ‘Do you not know I am a good son of the Church? Is it not I who is busy making Sicily a part of Christendom and subject to the Roman rite?’
‘So even if the Pope did not bless Borsa in a campaign against me, he would bless you.’
‘I am seen as a crusader for the faith.’
‘That is not how I see you.’
‘And you would be right not to do so; but it is time to seek a solution, for I must tell you I have no desire to render you a pauper any more than I have a desire to see your half-brother puffed up with the kind of pride I fear he will succumb to once he feels secure.’
‘Much as I dislike him, I do know he will not fall in to the sin of pride.’
‘Aye, he is too saintly.’
‘But not too much so to be a duke?’
The talk that followed was long and occasionally heated, as maps were produced, even if they were unnecessary — both men knew the lands of which they spoke too well to need them, Roger seeking to curb Bohemund’s appetites, his nephew aiming to secure for himself a fief in which he could feel safe. Thus any hope of being given Bari was denied; he had to settle for his present fief of Taranto, with the addition of all the lands between there and Brindisi, which included Otranto, Gallipoli and Lecce, which left the final disputes that lay to the south of Conversano.
‘I will not let you take this castle and the county off your relatives and my own, Bohemund, and you cannot use the excuse of past betrayals to enforce it. This was home to my eldest brother and he was a gentle and good man.’
That made the younger man want to stick; the land around Conversano was extremely fertile and the revenues were substantial, but Roger would not budge and finally, after much discussion, a line was drawn south of one de Hauteville family fief to the border of another, added to another to the west, as well as a promise extracted to apply no pressure to his Conversano cousins to cede him any land, and certainly not an agreement that they should be his vassals. The final hurdle was an obvious one.
‘You must do duty to Borsa for that which you hold.’ Seeing Bohemund about to object, Roger, for almost the first time, was brusque. ‘If I find no difficulty in doing so, do not say to me you are too proud to act likewise.’
‘And what will be my title?’
The reply was given in an exasperated tone. ‘You are Lord of Taranto, is that not enough?’
Bohemund responded with a sly grin. ‘You are not content to be a mere count, you are the Great Count.’
‘So, tell me, nephew,’ Roger sighed, ‘how in the sight of God do you wish to be known?’
‘Prince of Taranto!’ Sichelgaita shouted. ‘Does the wretch have no shame?’
‘That is his final request,’ Roger replied.
He had been through hoops and spent a whole day arguing that they should accede to Bohemund’s demands, and had endured the unspoken accusation that he was acting for one nephew too much and for the true heir too little, suspecting it would have been thrown in his face if he was not so vital to their cause. It had been difficult too, having to make plain without it being stated that he was not going to support them without an agreement, and if they demurred then he would wash his hands of the whole business. That it was a bluff, only he knew, but the one thing he determined upon was that the matter should be settled so that, if one was not satisfied, neither side would want to contest it; he had his mind on Syracuse, Enna and Agrigento.
‘And you support him in this, Uncle?’ asked Borsa in a quieter voice, when all the arguments had been, several times, exhausted.
‘It matters not what title he has, all will know he is
your vassal.’
‘Count should suffice,’ opined Guy of Amalfi, who was, after all, a duke in his own right.
‘Is Jordan of Capua greater than the Duke of Apulia, Guy? It is more vital that the world knows who is suzerain and who is vassal than what they are termed.’
‘And for this he will swear fealty?’
Again it was Borsa asking and, just as many times before, he could not look his irate mother in the eye.
‘Do not grant this,’ she hissed.
‘For peace, Mother, it is a small thing.’
Roger had to bite his tongue then; whatever Bohemund swore, whatever he had said to him in Conversano, his uncle knew his nature would never allow him to cling to peace. Bohemund was a warrior and through his veins coursed the blood of two Norman parents, one of them the Guiscard. The Duke of Apulia would be troubled again by his half-brother and it might be that he would have to come to his aid and enforce reconciliation more than once. The thought did not trouble him greatly; he was, after all, a man well aware of the world in which he lived, one where the only hold a magnate had on his possessions was that which he could enforce. Nothing was granted to anyone to embrace as of right; it had to be won and maintained by the same method: the sword.
Attending the ceremony in which Bohemund did duty for his fiefs was to see open and raw hatred, mixed with enough insincere platitudes as to make a sane man vomit. Borsa might stand above his kneeling brother, but it had to be remarked that even then he barely outdid him in height. The Archbishop of Salerno was there to witness what was bound to be hypocrisy as Bohemund swore an oath that no one present had any faith he would keep, and if they wondered at his duplicity, well had they not all at one time made vows that had been subsequently broken? How that would be judged was not in their hands, but in those of God.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Roger de Hauteville was witness, over the following years, to the proof of his suppositions; if Bohemund’s uprisings were not endemic, they were frequent enough to give his half-brother sleepless nights. Any slight, however small, would do and any excuse: a demand for his revenues to be promptly paid, a desire that he submit an account of improvements to anything he possessed from castle to wheat field; Borsa had heard of William of England’s Domesday Book and wished to emulate it. Part of the reason for so much warfare on Bohemund’s part was to keep his knights employed — if they did not rebel with him, they would rise up against his title; that was the Norman way.
Slowly, inexorably, the Prince of Taranto expanded his possessions till he controlled all the land and sea ports from Melfi to the heel of Italy, Bari included. It would only have been remarkable if he had been singular, but he was not; there was hardly a vassal in the regions of Apulia and Calabria in the years following that swearing of fealty who did not at some time feel he had the right to question the rule of the Duke of Apulia. Count Roger had met and negotiated more than once with his nephews and more often than that he had come from Sicily, now wholly his, to put in place — often obliged to spill blood — some rebellious vassal of his brother’s heir when it was plain he could not do so himself.
Borsa was not alone. When Jordan of Capua died, the Lombards over whom he ruled, always smarting and ever capricious, overthrew his young son Richard and expelled him from his own domains, which had Bohemund eyeing that great fief as a tempting addition to his own, while his half-brother, who had accommodated young Richard, was in terror that he might try to take it over. Then Amalfi rose up; in the years since the death of Duke Sergius, the infant son whom his people were scared to elevate for fear of Gisulf of Salerno had grown to manhood. Taxed by the Normans, who were assiduous in collection, when he raised his standard, the citizens, thinking to ease their burdens, took his part.
In a patrimony beset by widespread rebellion, it was far from a shock that John of Amalfi should demand the return of what he saw as his rightful inheritance. Unable to enforce his own will and with a deposed brother even less able to do so, Borsa had sent a desperate plea to his uncle, fearing that with Amalfi so close to his capital — it was only five leagues distant — it posed a threat that had to be met. The surprise was that, when calling on all his vassals to come to aid, Bohemund too answered the call, bringing with him Tancred of Lecce, now in his twenty-first year and already a warrior with a formidable reputation.
There were few more strange sights than to see Bohemund and his half-brother together, the former full of natural, strutting confidence, towering as he ever did over all around him, while Borsa, ever beset by worry and his own inadequacy as a ruler, was made doubly nervous by such a commanding presence. The only person who could match him in that was his Uncle Roger who, despite his sixty-plus years was still handsome, still virile and a match for most of those with whom he still trained daily in the manege.
If the Duke of Apulia was the titular commander of the siege, it was in the tent of the Great Count that control was exercised — indeed, it had to be, for Borsa, now without the late Sichelgaita to stiffen his spine, spent much of his time in church praying for a victory rather than actively planning and fighting to gain one. Thus, once the rituals of greeting had been completed, and with a degree of suppressed contempt, the Prince of Taranto and the Lord of Lecce bent the knee to their suzerain, then went to Roger’s tent to discover where and how they could be of use.
The man they met was greater now than he had ever been hitherto: not only was he the complete master of Sicily, but he had sailed south as well and taken Malta from the Saracens. His daughter Constance had married Conrad, son of Henry IV, and, even if the two were now in conflict, it was very possible that one day a de Hauteville female would wear an imperial diadem. It was well known he was much cosseted by the reigning pope, Urban II, who, unable to enter Rome and be consecrated, had spent six years wandering South Italy, where he had come to realise that for all their varying titles, only one man stood head and shoulders above the Norman herd.
‘It has ever been my wish, Uncle, to fight alongside you,’ Bohemund said, after they had embraced.
‘A desire I share, Count Roger,’ Tancred added.
Returning to his seat and looking up at Bohemund, Roger adopted a sarcastic tone. ‘I had conflict in Sicily for both of you if you desired such a thing.’
‘You will forgive us for not rushing to aid you.’
‘We were not prepared to turn our back on Borsa.’
‘I cannot think what you had to fear, Tancred. Perhaps a priest’s missal thrown at your head?’
‘How does the siege progress?’
‘It will take time, Bohemund. The walls are sound, the defenders determined and this was not undertaken in haste. The citizens and the lord they want to take back spent much time in preparation.’
‘So they are well supplied?’
‘With everything,’ Roger replied, rising out of his chair. ‘Come, I will show you what we face.’
Set between two mountains and in a deep bay, with only one real land route in and out, Amalfi had ever been known as a hard objective to subdue and impossible if the besieger lacked a fleet. A lack of such a weapon plainly angered Roger as he outlined the difficulties, for, less intent on expansion than his father, Borsa had let the fighting ability of that atrophy, this while most of Roger’s own fleet had the never-ending task of keeping at bay Saracen incursions into Sicily, and was thus protecting that island.
He had managed a blockade, but the Amalfians, sea traders themselves for centuries, had set their own merchant ships across the bay to form an arc of defence and Roger lacked the kind of galleys and the men who manned them to break it. The land defence, a high curtain wall, lay between those two peaks, which formed a steep-sided coombe, while at the top of the two mountains, dotted with steep crags and near unclimbable, the Amalfians had built strong bastions hard to assault.
After a long walk they were shown a donkey track that ran along the coast from the west, but that had been sealed off by another wall, which was joined to the arc of
ships the Amalfians had set to protect the bay. In the water were sharp wooden spikes, which had been driven deep into the shallows to prevent the besiegers wading in to an attack, and if they gathered to seek to dislodge them, that brought to this part of the defence the archers of Amalfi to dissuade them.
The return up that narrow valley to Roger’s tent was to see how crowded it was with fighting men, and that extended well inland — a sea of tents, fires and fluttering standards, for all the vassals of the Borsa were here, and for the same reason. It had nothing to do with loyalty and much to do with gold: Amalfi was one of the richest ports on the Tyrrhenian Sea, its traders were masters of profit and it was very obvious that once taken, there would be abundant plunder with which to justify the time spent in breaking down the walls.
‘They will succumb, Bohemund, but I fear we will be here for an age.’
‘Perhaps we might see Borsa achieving glory at last.’
‘Sainthood is the more likely,’ Roger replied. ‘But enough of this gloom and the difficulties; let us all eat together and you can tell me what mischief you have been about since we last met.’
Bohemund laughed. ‘For mischief, Uncle, you must look to Tancred — he is the one wedded to it.’
Much had happened in the world in which they lived. Pope Victor had years before gone to meet his maker — no doubt Desiderius was happy with that, for he had never liked his office — while the man who replaced him, Urban II, had inherited just as much trouble with Rome and emperors, though he had suffered less from the Normans. They had aided his election and joined a coalition to fight the Emperor Henry, once more excommunicated, which had led him to a civil war with his heir.
Between Roger and Pope Urban there was apparent harmony, though they had disputes enough about ecclesiastical matters in Sicily, mostly about clerical appointments, but it had never extended into an open breach, both men being too well versed in diplomacy. Over food and wine, Roger related how Urban had tried to entice him into an attack on the North African coast to fight the Moors, a crusade which would aid the monarchs of Catholic Spain, an offer that had been declined.
