address.
‘You speak Greek?’
The voice from under the metal helmet was brusque, with Roger straining to see if he could recognise the speaker, perhaps one of those courtiers who had attended on Gisulf, but all he had to go on was the unfriendly eyes.
‘I speak better Latin,’ Mauger replied.
‘Then in Latin I demand you surrender yourself.’
‘You come to confer with only one message?’
‘I do not come to confer. I require you to dismount, move away from your horses and put your weapons in a heap where they are plain to see. Then you will be bound in chains and taken by us to Salerno.’
‘On foot?’ asked Roger.
‘Yes, Roger de Hauteville.’
‘You know me?’
‘Enough to name you, as I also know that I am addressing the usurper of Scalea.’
‘Usurper!’ Mauger thundered.
His brother knew what that meant: he had taken Scalea from a Lombard, a one-time inferior lord to Gisulf, so if he capitulated on this field he would be surrendering the fief as well. Yet Mauger did not respond: wondering what his brother was waiting for, Roger spoke, almost out of a sense of impatience.
‘High words for someone who has yet to see us as his to command,’ Roger said. ‘Remember we are Normans.’
‘You are thieving scum who will make redress to my master when your brother of Apulia pays to get you out of a dungeon.’
‘And the men we lead?’
‘We have oars in galleys and chains to bind them, or perhaps we will sell them to the Saracens to dig salt.’
Roger laughed: he did not feel like it, in fact he was deeply concerned, but it would never do to show this Lombard the truth. ‘Go back to your men and be prepared to see their blood stain the ground over which you have ridden.’
‘The blood will be yours.’
‘Tell them,’ Roger said, carrying on as if the Lombard had not spoken, ‘that if they do not stand aside every one of them will die, there will be no quarter. Then see if they still want to fight us.’
The Lombard looked at Mauger. ‘Is that your answer?’
The pause was too long: he should have responded immediately, for not to do so was to yield ascendancy. Roger wanted to shout but he dare not.
‘It is,’ Mauger said eventually.
‘So be it.’
The Lombard spun his horse and, with his escort, rode back to join his men. Looking at his back, Roger thought him a fool: you do not threaten warriors with a life as a galley slave if you want them to put up their weapons. Most men would rather face death than that.
‘What do you think, Roger, fight or run?’
‘Fight, brother, there is no choice. We either do so now or when we are weaker. Will you permit me to speak to our men?’
‘Of course.’
Not a thing I would grant to another, Roger thought, as he spun his mount and rode to where the men sat. As a raiding party they were on their ordinary riding horses; the destriers, which they would have liked for such a confrontation, were happily at pasture outside Scalea. But these horses were well trained, every Norman mount was. They might not be as stalwart in battle as the sturdy battle-chargers but they would perform well with what he had in mind. It was with some disquiet that he realised he was thinking as the man in command, even more disturbing was that Mauger had already gifted him that role.
He had an idea, based on the certain knowledge that the men they faced did not have the discipline of those he was about to address; it was a risk, but then so was all war. Standing in his stirrups he told them clearly what he wanted, based on the very obvious fact that they would have to initiate any action. The plan accepted that for their enemy, standing on the defensive, given they were between the Normans and home, was the right thing to do. They had to be tempted out of their certainties.
Everything unnecessary had to be abandoned before they could proceed: it was not just cattle and laden donkeys; each knight had saddlebags containing that which had been stolen and was portable. Roger had them empty those onto the ground, reluctantly at first, until he told them they would end up in the salt mines of Sicily if they did not. Never afraid to raid an Orthodox church, one of which existed in every settlement, the discarded items included plate, chalices and, to the shame of the despoiler, an odd crucifix. The whole, along with donkeys tethered and hobbled, was left in a high heap where his enemies, once the Normans were no longer blocking the sight, could see it.
The force he split into two unequal parts, the first and largest to attack as an unbroken line to mask the smaller body behind, which he hoped his opponent would see as a reserve waiting to exploit any success. Mauger led the initial attack, Roger with the lesser group, a tight knot of lances and, in the main, his own men, bringing up the rear. That the Salernian line would hold he took as an absolute: the man in command must have enough confidence in those he led to so deploy them: if he did not he was a fool, and Roger had no intention of treating him as such.
Cantering forward, Mauger met a wall of lances as he and his warriors engaged, which led to much fruitless jabbing on both sides, with the occasional thrown lance causing a man to fall. Had Roger been leading the defending force he would have been well pleased: the men of Scalea appeared to be blunting themselves on his line, but he hoped the fellow would not observe that the reserve force had moved to the right, to the point at which the defenders’ line met the riverbank.
A horn blew and the most telling aspects of Norman ability, their close battlefield control, showed itself. The whole of Mauger’s attacking force ceased combat and moved speedily to their left, exposing the riverbank before engaging again. Roger’s lances, with hooves in the very water’s edge, hit the gap they created at some speed, not charging, but at a fast and controlled canter, taking by surprise men who had raised their own weapons only to find they suddenly had enemies right in amongst them.
As soon as they showed a sign of weakening, not breaking but yielding ground, the horn blew a different set of notes, and Mauger’s force disengaged for a second time and fell back slightly, preparatory to a move to their right. Roger, now in the thick of battle, his lance already deeply embedded in an opponent, was slashing with his sword at any neck that presented itself, part of a tight wedge of men forcing their way through the enemy crust, with the tumbling river on one side sending up a ferocious spray.
Relieved of pressure on the main front, the enemy right did what came naturally: they moved forward to keep contact with the retreating Normans, when what their commander required them to do was to reinforce his now struggling left. His horns were blowing but to no effect, or to be more truthful he was watching his left begin to fall back while his right wing was moving forward, creating what Roger had sought to achieve, a swinging door, his sole aim to create a large enough avenue through which they could get on the safer side of their enemies: if he was going to run, and they would have to, it was best to have a clear route to home and safety.
Even then it was risky: if the Salernians kept their discipline and contact, the Normans would end up fighting, outnumbered, with a river at their back, never a happy prospect. But that heap of booty, the clutch of heavily laden donkeys and the pile of treasure was now visible and tempting. Once a few had detached themselves to get hold of the plunder, the rest were damned if they were going to lose out on the spoils. Still fighting, praying his ploy was working, Roger knew only that he had the first sight of clear ground to his front: his conroys had broken through. Behind him the whole Norman contingent was now at his back, while the cohesion of their enemy was falling apart as greed took over from obligation.
Once he had space to manoeuvre, Roger attacked the now exposed enemy flank, fighting to keep them on the defensive, the men coming through to his rear not running, but in a display of discipline and comradely cohesion, extending the assaults across the floor of the battle area. The blown signal to disengage was given by Mauger, in a
