spread out from the citadel, he was not challenged as he would have been on a normal day: a man of his appearance always was.
Once through those he entered narrow streets thronged with people, all in the kind of mood prevalent in the more robust religious festivals, with drinking and dancing, some even running to costumes of the kind worn by fools, and he had to push his way through the crush, curious as to what the fuss was about; to him the term ‘catapan’ was, if not unknown, then certainly not a familiar title.
In quizzing the locals — not without difficulty, their Latin was strangely accented to his ears — he heard of the great victory achieved by the brother of their prince, a mighty warrior who had, they stated proudly, almost single-handed, humbled Byzantium. Having been kept outside the walls for a week, the prisoner was to be brought into the city, hauled through the old Roman triumphal arch, much carved with symbols of ancient military victories, then led through the streets to his ultimate humiliation in the amphitheatre.
With his height, Robert had no difficulty in finding himself a point from which to observe, nor in seeing the captive, a distressed-looking fellow in a wheeled cage, of swarthy complexion and lank black hair, wearing a white smock. It did not stay that for long: as soon as he emerged from the city side of the arch the pelting began, all the filth of the streets and more beside hurled with screaming abuse at a victim who took it with commendable stoicism, looking straight ahead and not reacting unless hit by an object large enough to make him jerk.
Behind the cage, in plumed helmet and glistening armour of a kind worn by the ancients, rode his captor, Count Atenulf, who had won, according to his brother’s subjects, not one battle against the mighty Eastern Empire, but three. Robert’s enquiries, to find out if any Normans had been involved, were greeted with scathing dismissal: Beneventian generals needed no help from northern barbarians. Those who said such things, once they raised their eyes and realised they were talking to one of the breed, and an angry one at that, soon took to grovelling, but all that led to was an admission of ignorance.
Moving with the crowd was a jostling experience but at least he had the power to ensure he had the space to stay upright. So great was the crush in the confined streets that people were falling and being trampled on, and more than once Robert reached down to heave some unfortunate to their feet, lest energetic stamping turned into bloody mutilation. The outer walls of the amphitheatre, when he finally reached them, reminded him of the Coliseum he had seen in Rome, a once mighty edifice suffering for its years and looted by local builders for its stones, so looking like a ruin.
Inside it was different: a theatre for drama not games, with the rows of stone seats already nearly full. In the middle of the performing area stood a magnificently clad reception party waiting for the mighty Count Atenulf, and further enquires established that the main figure was the Prince Landulf himself, while it was made plain to this boorish, nosy visitor that the fellow in the mitre and robes was an archbishop. This was said with pride, Benevento having the blessing of the Pope, their ultimate overlord, to keep it safe. The rest of the people present, male and female, were members of the prince’s court.
Entrance delayed until the amphitheatre was full to bursting, while soldiers with flat-held pikes joined them on the rim to keep the crowd in check, and with people now hanging off the outer walls, the cage was finally dragged in. The occupant was now covered from head to foot in ordure, his hair soaked and hanging down where it had been covered in piss and spittle, standing in a pile of rotting vegetation trapped by the bars. Yet still he stared proudly ahead, and Robert could not help but admire him.
Atenulf dismounted, took off his plumed helmet, and knelt before the prince, to be then raised by his brother and embraced. The high cleric got a kiss on his episcopal ring and bestowed a blessing on the bowed head, before showing some Christian charity: he made the sign of the cross at the caged catapan. Taking a crown of laurel leaves from an attendant, the Prince of Benevento crowned his brother as the Caesars had once crowned their triumphant generals, then Atenulf spun round to face the people, and to accept the roaring accolades of those assembled.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The recipient of those laurel leaves would have been less pleased, or in his case utterly confused, had he been further south at a meeting convened by Guaimar at the near-ruined castle of Montecchio, just inside his own territories. Nor was the Prince of Salerno entirely happy. He had to listen to the envoys from the great port cities treat him as if he was of no account, not that they favoured anyone above him. They repudiated the leadership of a fool like Atenulf and they were not prepared to take orders from an upstart like Arduin of Fassano. As for the Normans, they were nothing but brigands.
Arduin, in the face of such contempt, was furious, while Rainulf Drengot looked as though he had been slapped, which given his past exploits, was absurd. A party of Normans from the fortress of Troia, as massive and as hard to capture as Melfi, had finally come south too, and they had reacted noisily to accusations of brigandage. They had also made it plain they had no interest in furthering the ambitions of anyone but themselves. Long in the service of Byzantium, if that power was removed, they cared only about who would take up the burden of paying them; William de Hauteville did not allow himself any expression at all.
‘If you put aside cohesion,’ Guaimar insisted, still trying to work through his proxies, ‘you will find yourself back under the thumb of Constantinople.’
‘We have walls to resist Byzantium,’ the envoy from Brindisi insisted. In the case of his own city he was right, and his next words underlined the disparity of interest amongst these mainly Lombard envoys. ‘Let Arduin and his Normans control the countryside. As long as they hold that, no siege of our port can succeed.’
That set up a clamour, as each representative bellowed about the needs of his own community, proving that the one thing that did not exist was unity of purpose.
‘What do you think, Gill?’ said Drogo, using, as he habitually did, the French diminutive of William’s name. The de Hauteville brothers were standing far enough away to talk quietly, observing proceedings. ‘Guaimar looks as though he has bitten one of those lemon fruits we found so abundant in Sicily.’
‘They are greedy, Drogo. They want to run their own affairs and pay taxes to no master, with us, or the Lombards led by Arduin, fighting a Byzantium army in the open to keep them free to trade.’
‘Surely they would pay for that service.’
‘They might,’ cut in Humphrey, his brow as usual looking furrowed, ‘but it would be a fee collected after service not before, I’ll wager.’
‘You mean they would not pay for our lances?’ asked Mauger.
William replied, ‘They would only pay if they felt secure. They would feel secure only if Byzantium was booted out of Apulia for good. Who then would they have to fear?’
‘Me!’ young Mauger replied, vehemently.
Humphrey had a laugh that always sounded derisory, never humorous, and that came out now, his upper teeth jabbing into the skin below his mouth. ‘That is a thought which will scare them rigid.’
William called upon both brothers to hush: that exchange had been too loud and earned a sideways glance from Guaimar, now speaking again.
‘You are glad to be free of Constantinople, are you not?’
The envoys exchanged glances, none of them friendly to him or to each other. They had come from Brindisi, Monopoli, Giovinazzo and Barletta, and while most were Lombards, there were Greeks and Italians too, while back in the cities from which they came were more of all three races to whom they were answerable. It was telling that no representative had come from Trani, a majority Greek port still loyal to Constantinople. The entire party who had travelled all the way from Taranto was actually Greek, but they shared with the others a desire to cast off the same oppressive yoke and the impositions that went with it.
The looks nailed another one of those problems for that tiresome Lombard dream: not one of these mixed- race city states really looked with favour on the idea of a South Italian kingdom, and that applied to the many Lombard citizens, even run by one of their own kind. To such worthies, all wealthy traders in their bailiwicks, that was only replacing one tax-raising power with another.
It was a Lombard from Bari who answered. ‘That we are, and to a man we share the dream of the late Melus and we look with favour on his son Argyrus.’
‘Liar,’ hissed Geoffrey de Hauteville, which got him a nudge from William.
