could not capture those, he did not know that Arduin had sent most of the foot soldiers he had through two high passes on either side of the field of confrontation, to come down on the Byzantine rear.
William’s task was simple, and this once it was the Normans who aided the Lombards, not the other way round. They attacked Boioannes, but only to fix him in front, using the crossbowmen to inflict casualties, serious enough, but not sufficient to break the line, while the enemy crossbows were brought forward to counter them, thus removing them from where they would be needed. The Norman cavalry, in lines, under Drogo and Geoffrey, rode forward as far as that freshly dug ditch several times, cast lances, then retired to jeers from their enemies, with William’s eye firmly fixed on the piquet sitting atop Monte Siricolo.
The signal that Arduin was advancing came as a column of smoke, made black by throwing pitch on it, and William took command of his men, with his brothers alongside him. They were in one tight line now and they began to walk forward, as the first yells echoed off the hillsides, the shouts from the rear of the Byzantine host that there was an attack coming from that quarter.
If these Apulian levies that Boioannes led were not the same men who had been at Cannae and Masseria, they were well aware of the defeats that had occurred there. Added to that, it takes little to break the spirit of a force bent on defence when they discover that there is an enemy behind their lines, while before them, coming on like a tide of death, are the mailed knights of Normandy.
Arduin lacked force, but he had the option of retiring to the fortress of Melfi, because he had strength in abundance to brush aside anyone who tried to stop him. Thus his men had nothing to fear as they charged through the Byzantine baggage to attack confused troops who were not yet fully prepared for battle, and the cries they sent up, first of alarm and then of betrayal, totally destroyed the unity of the men facing the Normans. They were more concerned with what was happening behind them than in front and numbers began to move backwards in confused groups.
Where that happened the ditch no longer protected them; odd that those who stood their ground had a better chance of survival, because for once, the approaching horsemen were not intent on maintaining a solid line, they were intent on exploitation. Before the opening gaps the lances spurred their mounts. Where Boioannes’s men stood, the threat before them trended left or right to bypass them. It took no time at all for those stalwarts to realise that staying still would see them eventually surrounded and slaughtered, and just as the first lances struck home, practically the whole Byzantine line broke and fled, compacting back on a rear already in chaos, which had men spilling up the surrounding hills to seek safety.
Boioannes, with those men who attended him personally and nowhere to go, stood firm, prepared to sell their lives dearly, and it was an indication of how comprehensive the collapse of his army had been that they were so quickly surrounded. William halted his men and stood off till Arduin arrived and called upon his opposite number to surrender. There really was not much choice, except death, and the catapan called upon his companions to put up their weapons, then came forward holding out his sword.
To the disgust of William and his brothers, Arduin stepped aside and let that idiot Atenulf accept it in the name of the Lombard revolt.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Within a week the whole of Apulia learnt young Basil Boioannes was a prisoner and Byzantium had suffered total defeat, so that leading Lombard and Italian citizens of the great port cities, in conclave and with their Greek inhabitants overawed or frightened, decided that backing the revolt was a more promising policy than standing aside. Messages of support flooded into Melfi, but were seen for what they were: precautionary olive branches to the now dominant power in the land.
The news of what had happened at Monte Siricolo, and the consequences, also travelled like a brush fire to Campania, there to reach the ears of Prince Guaimar, now back in the Castello di Arechi, and he hastily sent for Rainulf Drengot. Was it time for the Count of Aversa to call upon those mercenaries of whom he was the titular leader, to assert his rights? If it was, his suzerain intended to accompany him. Was there about to be a division of the spoils? Not to be there might be foolish.
Guaimar’s regular meeting with Kasa Ephraim allowed him, before Drengot arrived, to test out how he should act towards William de Hauteville and an ambitious Arduin of Fassano; there would also be the puffed-up brother of his fellow ruler of Benevento to be taken into consideration. The Jew had been dealing with the Normans throughout their campaign using a travelling agent, but like everyone Ephraim employed, the fellow had an acute eye, so his master knew more of what was happening in and around Melfi than the ruler of Salerno.
‘I have to be open and say that the news, such a total overpowering of Byzantium, surprises me.’
Kasa Ephraim hid a smile as he watched Guaimar weigh in his hand the heavy leather purse he had just gifted him: there was a time he would have waited until his collector of the port had gone. The young man had become less discreet in his avarice, as well as more competent at calculation. Now he could handevaluate the contents and guess the amount of his secret revenues.
‘I thought it would take years, quite possibly a decade, and even then…’ Guaimar did not finish that sentence; it was not necessary. ‘So now we must, earlier than we suspected, see how this affects the Principality of Salerno.’
Watching him still, as he began to pace, the Jew could guess at some of what was on his mind: he would be concerned that his warning to Michael Doukeianos might be exposed by this sudden Byzantine reversal. Having arranged it, Ephraim was less so: it had been delivered with a discretion which was under his control, and by a ship’s captain who regularly bribed him to be allowed to smuggle, so he would say nothing. Any accusation from another source could be easily denied and put down to mischief-making by the Eastern Empire.
The other problem was more serious: having gifted oversight of the revolt to another, how could Guaimar, in light of the speed of this success, bolster his own claims to what might very soon be a nascent Lombard kingdom?
‘We are secure in the matter of sending word to Bari?’
‘You are very secure,’ Ephraim replied, with an emphasis on the first word that Guaimar did not miss.
‘I have let it be rumoured that Amalfi is responsible, by a claim to have been told to me by a fellow we racked, before putting him to burn at the stake.’
‘Then you have even less to fear, honourable one.’
‘The Prince of Benevento must be wondering what to do with Apulia.’
‘I would advise that it is not yet there for him to dispose of.’
‘Byzantium has been beaten.’
‘Defeated in battle, not yet beaten. They will not, I think, give up such a rich and fertile province without yet more effort. The revenues of the Adriatic ports alone are too substantial.’
‘You know this?’ Guaimar demanded. This Jew had sources of information which made his look pale; for Kasa Ephraim trade, risk and the contacts that went with it were personal. For the Prince of Salerno such activity, performed as it was by others, was merely political, which meant he relied, for information, on his courtiers. ‘I am, as you know, surrounded by people who do not always tell me the truth, they tell me what they think I want to hear.’
‘It is the fate of princes. Your council fear more for their place and their privileges. They also know rulers can be capricious.’
Guaimar smiled, which made human a face that had increasingly become solemn as he grew into his responsibilities. Few people spoke to him so directly as this Jew: only his sister, in truth.
‘You do not fear my caprice?’
‘I fear only my God.’
‘So, speaking the truth, advise me.’
‘Do not be hasty, honourable one.’
‘Are you saying I should not travel to Melfi?’
‘You have that right, but I think it too soon to make enemies. Better to make friends.’
‘Go on.’
‘Count Atenulf is a foil for his brother, is he not?’
