Added to this was the news from Apulia, sent by Sichelgaita, of the Byzantines he had chased into Bari preparing to sally forth and set his home province alight once more, that accompanied by an urgent request that he return. Stubborn, unwilling to admit to the truth, increasingly short with a brother who hinted it was long past time to go, even the great Guiscard had to admit a check to his ambitions. The leaves had begun to fall, winter was the coming season and if he had been ill-equipped to campaign up till now, here, in high country, his lack of resources would be compounded by increasingly inclement weather.
‘We leave in darkness,’ he told his grim-faced captains, his eyes fixed on Roger for any sign of a gloat, he too wise to show any such emotion. ‘I do not want to hear in my ears the cheers from the walls of men we have beaten in battle.’
Doubly galling was the very simple truth: he could not hold on to what he had taken either in lands or strongholds. This was, Roger’s contingent apart, an army he had brought from Apulia. Too many of his lances, with wives, children and landholdings to consider, hankered for a return. Even if they retired in good order and their enemies were too wary to trouble them, the Normans had to bypass and abandon places they had fought hard to subdue. Close to Enna, the locals were jubilant to see the Normans depart, not so once they left the high inland plateau and entered territory mainly Christian and Greek.
Sure that Ibn-al-Hawas would take advantage of the retreat they were strong in their persuasion, offering land and comforts in exchange for protection to the more itinerant knights, those with nothing in either Calabria or Apulia, a chance to settle and prosper. Robert was not about to abandon Rometta, which protected Messina from the south-west, but he was persuaded the northern coastal route was vulnerable. Thus he gave permission for fifty knights to stay and make their home in a town with a broken-down citadel, standing atop a mound from which they could see well to the west and which gave them sight of the northern shoreline, naming it San Marco in honour of his god. When he and the remainder of his army moved on, it was to the sound of hammers on rock, as those he left behind began to construct a proper Norman castle.
‘We have learnt much, Robert.’
That got Roger a basilisk stare as his brother took a harder grip of the ratted rope he was holding, part of the rigging of the ship taking them back to Reggio. Over the stern they watched Messina diminish, becoming an indistinct line of white buildings on a long green shore. That, at least, was safe, with a strong garrison commanded by Serlo de Hauteville, made up of men who knew that whatever they had in Apulia could not be matched by what they could gain in Sicily. There would be ships plying in the other direction soon, bringing over their families.
‘We have learnt that the Saracens do not know how to fight Normans,’ Robert replied.
‘They may not repeat the mistakes of Enna.’
Nor, Roger was thinking, would his brother repeat the error of trying to subdue an island like Sicily in one campaign.
‘They will, brother, never fear. No one learns lessons after one defeat. Even the Byzantines have still not learnt.’
‘A little time out of the saddle will be welcome.’
Robert responded with a humourless laugh. ‘I will exchange a wearied arse for a troubled brain.’
That acknowledged what he was returning to, not just domestic harmony in his wife and child but the needs of his title: fractious barons, endless jealousy-inspired claims for preferment, the doing down of a neighbour or rival and the problem, yet unsolved, of Bari and the machinations of Argyrus. What he was not about to mention was how to deal with Roger himself, and it showed in Robert’s ire when Roger brought the subject to the fore.
‘You have Calabria,’ Robert growled.
‘I have oversight of your holdings in Calabria, brother. Outside of Mileto and a couple of other fiefs I have nothing, not even a title.’
‘Such a thing is naught but adornment.’
‘Which is why you are so proud to be addressed as a duke.’
‘Have I not earned it?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘You will get your rewards, Roger, never fear.’
‘When?’
That sharp demand got a typical response, barked as Robert moved away from an interrogation he found uncomfortable. ‘When I am good and ready.’
The parting was amiable enough; it could hardly be otherwise with Judith present. Robert admired her as a true Norman wife and a beauty with it, uncomplaining to see her man away at war, a creator of domestic bliss when he returned, as ready to breed as the most fecund mare — there was a new male child called Geoffrey.
The Guiscard would never admit that Judith stirred memories of his own childhood. The first child of Tancred’s second wife, he had been raised with more love than Fressenda mere allotted to those of his half-brothers she had inherited from the deceased Muriella. Also, at Mileto, there were none of those troubles of which he had been so aware aboard ship, that is, if you excluded how to deal with a brother who was every bit as good a soldier and administrator as he, a man who might need to be curbed lest ambition sour his soul.
‘We have yet to discuss a new campaign in Sicily, Robert.’
‘As I have yet to decide what to do. I cannot move lest Apulia is at peace.’
‘Will it ever be that?’
‘If you have a plan that will give me Bari then tell me, brother, for outside a ten-year siege I have none.’
Robert was still smarting from what he saw as a rebuff, a hard thing to take for a warrior accustomed to, when it came to major combats, unbridled success in the field. Roger was aware that what advice he had proffered — not a great deal, but mostly to say they could not take Enna — being proved right in the end, was not a thing of fond memory.
‘Perhaps when I come to Melfi we can talk of it then?’
‘In the spring,’ Robert barked, as he swung his leg over his mount. With a nod he was gone, his familia knights following in his wake, the banner of his dukedom flying stiff in the wind.
‘He is a fine child, Judith,’ Roger said, taking her hand and looking into the crib containing his newly born son. His other hand was in that crib, a finger strongly gripped by the gurgling infant.
‘He is your heir.’
That obliged him to look at Judith, on his face a wry smile. ‘I must speak with Jordan.’
‘He requires that you do.’
‘He has spoken with you?’
‘He has been sullen with me, which is not in his nature.’
‘It may be in his age, Judith. Manhood is not far off, as you can see in the eruptions on his face.’
‘Given the way he lusts after the serving wenches he might make you a grandfather before they disappear.’
‘I never thought to come to this, to be like my own father, dispensing advice.’
‘With Jordan you need to show love.’
‘Surely he knows how much of that I have for him.’
‘No, Roger, he does not.’
Being awkward with a growing son is a rite of passage for all fathers, and it is only when facing it themselves they realise the misery through which they put their own sires. Showing affection to a girl child was easy, only made awkward by signs of womanhood. With a son it was not possible to easily be tactile. To treat Jordan like a man would sound false, to act as if he were still a child would cause anger. Roger took refuge in that parental standby, an enquiry about progress in something the boy cared about.
‘Let me show you,’ Jordan said, ‘for to boast of prowess is immodest.’
That was a pleasing response, from a spot-covered youth, gangly in his frame now, but ready to fill out and become a man of the formidable proportions that were part of his bloodline. They made their way to the paddocks to fetch out his horses, then to the manege where he could demonstrate his prowess with both mounts and weapons. Roger had been proud of many things in his life, sometimes he had checked in himself the sin of excess, but watching his bastard boy perform those manoeuvres he knew so well, and seeing the accomplishment with which he carried them out, his heart swelled.