de Hauteville began to die, and in doing so created a fissure in the whole defending line, and that, just like the wall itself had done so recently, began to crumble.
Roger and his knights had possession of their section of the wall and ladders were being fetched up to provide a means to get the lightly armed milities down to the narrow roadway that ran to the rear of the walls, this while the crossbowmen sought to suppress the fire of enemy bolts from the windows of the high buildings that lay close to the parapet. The task of the knights was to push back the defenders beyond the stairways by which they had come up to man the defence, so they, too, could pour down and begin to fight their way into the city.
The point at which those seeking to beat off an assault realise they are losing is not something an attacker can easily calculate: an easing of effort, the look in an opponent’s eye that says he is not secure to either side and indicates he wants to disengage. Roger de Hauteville was sure it was something you could smell, a definite odour of spreading fear and he was sniffing that now, unaware that his brother had led his men through the breech in the walls and was now fighting his way down the narrow street that led to the gates, while behind him the thousands of men he led were pouring through and spreading out in all directions.
Robert knew the defenders were mixed: certainly there were proper soldiers, the men of the Byzantine garrison, but in the main they would be citizens drummed into service, many with a passion to defend their homes, others more fearful of losing their lives. The time of decision would come when those whose profession was arms, and especially the man who commanded them, knew the battle was lost, that his enemies were as likely to be behind as in front of him, at which point the commander would call upon his men to fall back and seek out a place they could defend.
The collapse was sudden, as the conscripted citizens found they no longer had amongst them the men of the garrison: they ran for their homes, casting aside their weapons to leave a line of Norman knights, led by both Robert and Roger, chests heaving, surcoats and swords stained with blood and caked in dust, too weary to cheer and far too worn out to pursue; that was left to the levies the Guiscard had raised in both Apulia and Calabria, many of whom had not even had to fight.
Yet there were enough Normans with breath left to do what Robert required: to find the leading citizens and get them to surrender the city before the whole place was set alight and his army became so uncontrollable that they would begin the kind of blind, drunken massacre that would leave few of the people of Reggio alive.
Clean and splendidly mounted, just ahead of Roger and the rest of his captains, Robert de Hauteville rode down the magnificent avenue lined with colonnaded villas that had stood since Roman times, interspersed with one-time pagan temples now dedicated as places of Christian worship. With them came the Latin priests from the north, to take over those churches and dedicate them to the Roman rite, displacing the Greeks who had held them for centuries; from this day, Calabria would be a part of the Church of Rome.
The Byzantine garrison, those professionals who had survived the battle for Reggio, had retreated to the fortress of Scilla on a high and rocky headland. They did not stay there long, they took ship and sailed away, no doubt heading east to tell the emperor that he had lost the last portion of what had been a province of Byzantium since the time of Justinian.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To always play second string would occasion frustration in the most benevolent breast and it was a feeling to which Roger de Hauteville was not immune. The Guiscard having returned to Apulia, once more leaving Roger in Calabria, did nothing to assuage the desire to achieve something on his own. The province was not at peace: there were sporadic outbreaks of violence which had to be contained, but they were things that could be safely left to the individual captains manning the castles so recently taken from Byzantium; in short, there was nothing by which Roger could distinguish himself, as he had in the famine.
Residing at Mileto, enjoying the company of his wife and two recently born daughters, he was at the same time taking a hand in the education of Jordan, now old enough to ride a pony. That he existed at all, Judith accepted with equanimity and treated him in every way as if he were her own. The boy, every inch a de Hauteville, with his red-gold hair, blue eyes and unusual size, was taught in the same manner as his grandsire had educated his father, to both ride and care for his mount, and he did so alongside the warriors his father led. Thus, daily, he was surrounded by their example as they practised endlessly for war.
Jordan was an engaging child, loved by Judith for his cheerful nature, tender with his two infant siblings, yet also enough of a scamp to be something of a mascot to his father’s lances, not a group of men renowned for tenderness. Many had sons of their own, born to their concubines, for few underwent any kind of ceremony, so Jordan had children of his own age and race to play at the games that such boys do: mock imitation of the battles in which their sires had fought, activities he was often dragged away from to partake of the one thing he did not enjoy, the need to learn to read, write and reckon figures from monks appointed by his stepmother.
Roger insisted upon this, as had Tancred with his own sons, he being aware of the shortcomings a lack of lettering brought to the most puissant warrior, given he was one of the ignorant. Jordan heard from his father the same words Roger recalled being drummed into him: that he would be at the mercy of lesser beings if he depended on them to read and write his letters as well as calculate the value of his holdings and monies owed, the latter being that which had exercised Tancred most.
‘How many times,’ he would growl, ‘have I been cheated out of my due by some snivelling, tonsured clerk?’
The old warrior saw monks and priests as shirkers who worked little and ate well, slippery men unsafe to leave unattended in the company of women. The exception had been his nephew, Geoffrey of Montbray.
‘One day you may meet my cousin, who is an important bishop now, but he began as no more than the family priest. He was a proper Norman, mind, not like these timid Italian priests, just as capable with the sword as the epistle. It was he who taught your oldest uncles, William and Drogo, and I doubt they would have enjoyed as much success as they did if they had not had those skills. Even Robert, troublesome as he was, owes much of the success to those teachings.’
‘He did not teach you?’
‘He was too elevated by the time I was born, but your grandfather always engaged a priest for his church who undertook the task, so when you pull that face, on being told to attend to your lessons, be aware it is one I know well, it being one I used to employ myself. It never managed to release me from the obligation to learn and it will not do so for you!’
Roger valued highly the time he spent alone with Jordan, teaching him to ride and fight with a lightweight wooden sword, to strike a hanging target as he rode past at a fast canter with his tiny lance, but it was not always mounted education or mock combat with a parent who occasionally allowed himself to be bested: the stable and paddock were just as important and Jordan had drummed into him the many other things he needed to know.
‘The time may come when, like me, affairs take you away from dealing with your own animals, but until then this pony and the horses that will surely follow are yours to see to. Feed them, groom them, care for them when they are ill, for you cannot get to a field of battle without them, nor can you fight without a destrier to carry you to your enemies and stay steady in the face of the noise of fighting men and the clash of weapons.’
It was drummed into Jordan that a horse could not ride all day: to do so would render it useless. Equines needed a lot of water but they must not be allowed to drink before fast work, likewise they should be kept from munching pasture, which they would do naturally wherever they found any. They required oats and hay, were fond of root vegetables, but these should be used as rewards. Their bedding had to be changed daily if they were in stalls, the paddocks to be regularly cleaned of dung if they were out in the fields, though the peasants seeking fertiliser usually saw to that.
In hot weather and on campaign their coats needed to be kept short to reduce sweating, and once stopped for the night hooves had to picked and oiled, nostrils and anus cleaned as well, ears checked, the coat brushed till it gleamed, with a careful eye kept out for any sores, abrasions or skin parasites — things which must be treated quickly. If they showed signs of wishing to fight they must be allowed to do so, for horses had their own hierarchy. Training for war must be continuous, a constant search for equine perfection, work which extended to the harness and brasses of the reins and bridle, to saddlecloths and saddles which would crack if not attended to.
