better position than his brother to see it was time to depart, not that it was clean. They had to fight as well as retire, that made possible by the diminishing number of their enemies who were intent on killing instead of acquiring booty.
The next five days were hellish: the enemy commander got his men back into formation to pursue, which led to a succession of rearguard foot-bound fights, stalemates necessary to get both men and mounts some respite, furious and bloody engagements in which Mauger and Roger lost as many men as they had on the field of proper battle. Finally they reached the defendable defiles that led to Scalea and, seeing what his losses would be if he dared continue, their opponent, whose troops and horses had also suffered much, called off the pursuit and retired.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Gisulf must have had help from Robert. The prick of Salerno would never have dared move otherwise.’
Mauger had been making the same point for the whole of the summer, every time he had a bit too much to drink, so Roger’s response was a weary nod. They had not stopped raiding: Gisulf could not keep a force in the field, but it had been more constrained and a lot less profitable, indeed just enough to keep the men they led content. If Mauger was bitter he was not unhappy, but it was not enough for his younger brother: in truth Roger was bored as much as frustrated, something which he took out on his opponents when they trained in the sand-covered manege Mauger had set up for the purpose.
These were, if anything, the key to the Normans’ success, a notion imported from their homeland. For the mass of their opponents fighting was a case of being levied to do so, only their leaders trained with any application for war. Every Norman lance did so: if they were not engaged in battle they were practising their skills daily, either on foot, with mock wooden swords, or on horseback with padded sword and tipped lance, individually or in their conroy. This basic unit of ten would then train with their confreres in larger formations so that everyone responded to the same commands in the same way right up to and including a ducal host.
To watch them in those enclosures was to understand why other armies feared them, especially on horseback. Normans never indulged in a frenzied charge, instead, mounted on their short, heavily muscled destriers, they went into battle at a fast canter and in an unbroken line. Other cavalry could not be constrained — a horse will run flat out if given a chance, especially in the presence of others. The trick was not to get a horse to run but to teach it when to run, at what pace and to keep in line with its fellows; in this the Normans were exemplary. Single combat they also practised: their horse-borne advance was designed to break an enemy line so that their enemies could be cut down or forced to flee.
Mock battle was not pain free: when they fought each other there were bruises to tend and many a cut to be stitched. Men occasionally lost their lives, more from finding themselves under horse hooves than any action of their fellows, yet this was where Roger was getting out of hand. Certainly the most potent fighter, the tallest, broadest, strongest and most skilful, it would have behoved him to hold back; dissatisfaction with his present way of living honed his aggression.
When a message came from the Guiscard asking him to meet with him in Calabria, with a promise he would be repaid every gold solidus he was owed, he was more than ready to break the monotony, while those he trained with, the men who suffered from his anger — rarely his own lances — were happy at the prospect he might depart. It was Mauger who was most disgruntled.
‘He will cheat you again.’
‘He needs our aid, there is a rebellion in Calabria and he dare not turn his back on Apulia with Argyrus up to his tricks. Nor will he trust just anyone to take it back. Robert is strong for blood; he will not give command to any of his captains to do what must be done so he must call on his family. Come with me, make your peace and we can both prosper.’
‘Never.’
There was a temptation, then, to tell Mauger that which Roger knew and he would not accept. It was only the power of the Count of Apulia and Richard of Aversa that kept him safe: without those two magnates pressing on the lands of Gisulf, even a useless article like that prince could muster enough force to crush the Normans of Scalea. True, Robert might have granted Gisulf permission to curtail their activities, but would he have seen one of his family harmed? Roger doubted that: if he and Mauger had been taken the previous spring they would have been handed over to Robert and no doubt faced the humiliation of having to show gratitude.
‘I think Robert would gift you more than Scalea if you fight at his side, Mauger. There are a dozen Byzantine strongholds still in Calabria waiting to be conquered.’
That childlike scowl Roger had come to know so well reappeared. ‘So you are about to desert me?’
‘I am about to find out what it is one of my brothers has to say and first, before I listen to a word, he will have to pass over what he owes me. Then, I suspect he will have a proposal that involves Calabria. If he needs help I am prepared to give it, but the price for that aid will be a high one.’
‘I will never bend the knee to Robert and you know why. He stole my title.’
‘Then let him give you another, more worthy of your name.’
‘No!’
‘Can I go with your blessing, without bad feeling between us?’
‘I cannot stop you leaving, nor would I try, but when you depart you must do so for good.’
‘You would force me to choose?’
‘I must.’
There was pain in the farewells: Roger had his bastard Jordan on his saddle bow but the mother of the child had to be left behind, though with funds to buy both land and a dowry to attract a husband. Friendships had been formed that required to be broken but that was the way of the warrior, by their very nature tending to be rootless.
‘Still smarting is he?’ demanded Robert, in his customary booming voice. ‘He calls me a weasel when he should look to himself.’
In late summer, at Morano, high in the Calabrian mountains, it was cool. Down on the plains it was not: it was baking in a season known for heat at any time, but one that had seen no rain for months. The crops had withered in the drought, so, lacking food and encouraged by the Basilan monks and Greek priests who ran the local churches, who persuaded the peasants they were experiencing divine retribution for casting off their loyalty to Constantinople, the people had revolted.
In truth the peasants were being led by vassals who, seeing no income from their fiefs and being raided for what they did have by bands of men loyal to Byzantium, were disinclined to pay the dues owed to Robert Guiscard: it was those nobles who had egged on the priests to stir up the peasants, but the result was the same. The revenues of Calabria had dried up, as much as the irrigation ditches and the rivers that fed them, and that could not be allowed to continue.
‘I can give you as many lances as you need, Roger.’
‘And what else?’
The response was angry and loud. ‘I have already gifted you a dozen talents of gold, what more do you want?’
The anger was a stunt: Robert was well aware he would have to give more, but he wanted to drive a hard bargain and one that suited him, something he could not be allowed to do.
‘They were not a gift, they were my due and I am now waiting to see what you will offer for my lance and my sword to get you out of a sorry mess of your own creation.’
‘I have become divine and I control the burning sun,’ Robert scoffed. ‘Perhaps if I dance the rains will come.’
‘You have borne heavily on this province, Robert, too heavily perhaps. Now you need me to pacify it and I will only do that for a just reward.’
‘Make a demand, then.’
‘No! You have in your mind a price to pay, so offer it and stop wasting my time.’ Roger indicated the
