‘They are a damnable lot, these Calabrians.’
Roger mouthed this while eyeing yet another clutch of dwellings that seemed to merge with the low cloud cover that made humid and uncomfortable the air around him, tumbledown houses surrounding a church and a high-walled manor house, all set next to an ancient near-ruined acropolis, situated at the top of a high hill. It was superfluous to say that to attack it was to risk much.
‘I thought the local peasants told you this fellow was Greek?’ replied Ralph de Boeuf.
‘He is, and so are those who will defend the place, but being Greek makes no difference, they are all forged in the same way. If they did not hate each other so much I think we would be chased out of these mountains in a month.’
‘Then thank God they do. They have to be damned to even live in such a place. My legs ache just from looking at it. Imagine living up there with nothing but silkworms for company.’
The one-time Castellan, who had first greeted Roger outside his brother’s castle, looked around him at the high wooded hills to both north and south, as well as the rock-filled watercourse that tumbled down the steep ravine at the very base of this latest objective.
‘You wish you had stayed in Melfi?’ Roger asked.
‘I had hoped for plunder and I never ever thought that easy, but this?’
‘This is more work than we both imagined. My brother made it sound easy. I should have known.’
‘He likes to tell tall tales.’
Roger smiled. ‘Do not think such a habit has come with his title. He was like that as a youth — something he got from our father — though I think old Tancred was less given to outright embroidery.’
‘Is that another word for lies?’
‘It could be.’
‘This one might agree to terms.’
‘Then this one will be singular, for few have.’
The route through the mountains had been a succession of such obstacles and only a handful had allowed themselves to be persuaded what was proposed made sense. There was really only one other carrot Roger could dangle outside security — to accept his brother as suzerain was to be on the side of right and might — not something extended to those who had to be overcome by force. Their land, if they resisted till the bitter end and drew too much Norman blood, became forfeit, available to be parcelled out as a fief by one of the Count of Apulia’s captains.
The only saving grace was the end was not in doubt: there was no chance of a Byzantine force coming to the rescue, unless they were prepared to mount the kind of expedition that left bare the more valuable Eastern possessions where they faced the inroads of the warlike Turks. Previous incursions into Calabria, like that of Robert Guiscard years before, had been more in the nature of armed raids than invasions; this time he had arrived with a complete army and a set aim: total subjugation.
‘We have been at this longer than we hoped, Roger, and must soon think of quartering for the winter.’
Ralph de Boeuf was right: the task was incomplete but to seek to continue in this high country when autumn faded was not a good idea. There would be snow on the higher ground even this far south and, lower down, the kind of persistent rain that rotted harness, rusted weapons and ruined chain mail. His men were already, after a long spring and summer of fighting, showing signs of strain. The horses, too, were giving indications of decline; they needed to be rested and allowed to grow their coats to ward off the coming cold, not something that could be allowed if they needed to cover long distances and bear on their backs armed fighting men.
‘Time to climb up there and talk to this so-called Count of Montenero.’
‘That’s a grand title for the possession of such a pigsty.’
‘It may look better when the sun shines.’
There was a winding roadway up to the heights, more of a cart track and, judging by the many areas of repair, one subject to the elements, especially torrential rain and rock falls. His horse slithered often on the loose stones, head down and weary, entirely matching the mood of its rider, who had to force himself to look eager and martial, knowing he was in view of those to whom he must speak. The clatter of a thrown rock landing in front of him told Roger those behind the walls thought he and his dozen strong escort had come far enough, close enough to be heard if he raised his voice to an undignified shout.
The words had become too familiar, spoken in his far from perfect Greek, addressed to an unseen listener, outlining the power of his brother, soon to be lord of all Calabria, a man who had beaten Byzantium to the east, where they had been strong and committed, and would do so here where they were weak and absent. The truth: that this small fief could not exist in safety alone, so they would be better to peacefully accept the new dispensation and volunteer tribute to the Guiscard’s tax collectors than face his wrath for their refusal. Then there would be the invitation to submit, followed by the dire nature of the consequences.
There were rules to this game: they could not throw a lance or fire an arrow to tell Roger they declined, but he was not surprised the reply came as a hail of stones, which made his mount skittish as they rattled all around, one or two ricocheting to strike its forelegs. He had to press hard with his knees and haul on the reins to keep it facing to the front and when he retired it was not far. He needed to dismount and, leaving his horse on a piece of flattish ground, he proceeded to walk the defences and seek out the weak spots at which he might make a breech.
‘Will they have enough water to withstand us?’
The question, addressed to one of his escort, was rhetorical and the fellow knew it, so did not reply. If they lacked wells at this height they would have cisterns dug into the rock that held the falling rain and snow melt, enough to last the summer, however hot. For food they would keep within the walls live animals to be slaughtered and, in cool cellars, sacks of grain and peas, so to starve them out was probably impossible, even if he thought the place worth the time it would take, which he did not. The best solution was to give whoever led the defence the chance to surrender with honour. It was not necessary to completely overcome them but to make it plain that the eventual outcome was not in doubt.
Yet up here he was aware the place had attractions not obvious from the base of the hill, having, as it did, a sight down several valleys in all directions. He also suspected on a clear day he would be able to see the coast and the Ionian Sea, though now, on a grey afternoon of hazy mist, the whole melded into one indistinct line. Sharp eyes from a tower at this elevation would be able to oversee much of the surrounding countryside, and with hill beacons it could act as the centre to provide security for a hundred square leagues.
Most of his life, old Tancred had dreamt of having his stone watchtower, a donjon atop the hill at Hauteville-le-Guichard from which to overlook his demesne, to replace what he did own and could afford to maintain for protection, the old structure of wood and mud. That he had achieved it was due to the wealth sent home by his successful sons; Roger, as a boy, had dreamt of owning a stone castle with four corner towers, a keep with a great hall, all surrounded by stout curtain walls.