Now the stress was reversed: those fleeing first were not doing so quickly enough for men who had seen too much death. It was fatal to delay, to even think of slowing the pace of flight, for to do so was to be trampled to death by the more desperate, to slip in the water of the river was to drown, for the crush did not permit a chance to get back to your feet, and to compound that came Serlo’s riders, pushing a wedge into the mass, cutting right and left, hacking off limbs and heads, slicing into bodies with no one man seeming to have a peck of the courage needed to stand and fight them.
Roger and his men could not pursue: they were on their knees with exhaustion, every one saying a hissed prayer to his god for their deliverance, looking before them at a wall of bleeding cadavers, and when they raised their eyes, at a field carpeted with bodies, beyond that a mass of their enemies struggling to get across the river and away into the hills where they thought they might find sanctuary. Well ahead of them rode their leaders, galloping to safety on those mounts on which they had so proudly displayed themselves earlier that day.
Serlo and his men were in pursuit, but there were simply too many fleeing Saracens in the way to make that a reality, and besides, their horses were destriers, not of the long-galloping breed. But they did, once over the brow of the opposite mound, come upon a tented camp of such magnificence it brought them to a halt. Stood in a clear piece of ground — those they had passed on their swifter mounts, which were still running, gave them a wide berth — they looked around them.
‘Jordan,’ Serlo shouted, ‘your father will be weary, but tell him to come and cast his eye over this. I swear the sight will banish his fatigue!’
‘Who can put a value on this?’ Roger said, as he looked over the booty the camp of the emirs contained, the accrued wealth of several hundred years of Saracen rule in Sicily, no doubt gathered to match the magnificence of that which the sultan’s sons had brought from Africa.
There were chests of gold coins, finely decorated dress armour, magnificent saddles and harness, valuable plates off which these rich Saracens ate, and ornate weapons, knives and swords in jewel-encrusted sheaths, with handles of gold and silver, studded with gems, never designed to cause harm. There were fine-bred horses that had failed to break their tethers, others that had, needing to be rounded up and fetched back, as well as dozens of camels.
The stores of the army they captured too — flocks of sheep, great tents full of grain, enough fodder to keep the Norman horses for a month — and that took no account of what Roger’s milities, who had taken practically no part in the battle, were now stripping from the bodies that littered the field. Any not yet dead had their throats cut immediately.
‘Tomorrow,’ Roger said, ‘when we are rested, we go into the hills into which the Saracens have fled. Every one you find is to be killed. I do not want to have to face them again.’
‘There will be more, Roger,’ Ralph de Boeuf sighed.
‘I know, but they will not be the same fellows if we do what we must. Now, call forward the priests, we must say a Mass to thank God for so blessing our arms this day.’
Their prayers were loud this time, words of gratitude that swelled up to the heavens for this victory. All knew they had won a great fight; Roger, Serlo and Ralph de Boeuf had the wit to see they had achieved much more. In amongst their prayers of thanks were other thoughts — that now the Saracens were no longer on the offensive: they had been too soundly thrashed. Troina was safe, Messina was doubly so. What they had now taken to the east of Cerami they most definitely held.
The people of Rome stared in wonder at the quartet of beautifully decorated camels as they were led through the streets towards the Lateran Palace. They had seen camels before, but not of such groomed quality, and many an eye was looking hard at their accoutrements, trying to value the gold and silver of the harness and saddlery as well as what their huge gilded pannier might contain. Forewarned, the new pope, Alexander, flanked by his closest advisor, Archdeacon Hildebrand, was ready to receive this gift, though mystified as to from where it came.
The well-dressed and handsome youth who spoke for its delivery introduced himself as Jordan de Hauteville and let it be known that these magnificent animals and what they carried were a gift from his father, the Count of Sicily, to the Holy Church, for he knew, without doubt, such a victory as Cerami could not have been possible without divine assistance. The men he had brought with him unloaded and carried into a private chamber the two heavy panniers which, when opened, revealed a fortune in gifts that had even a pontiff, accustomed to magnificence, gasp with pleasure.
‘And for this, your father asks for what?’ said Hildebrand, his gargoyle face full of suspicion. In his experience such gifts did not come without a price attached.
‘Nothing,’ Jordan said, ‘but the further blessing of the Church on his enterprise against the infidel.’
‘How did you come by this, my son?’ asked Alexander, in a softer tone.
The story took time, so much that the Pope and his archdeacon required chairs to ease their legs, for Jordan, proud of his family, was not content to relate merely the bare facts. He made it a saga, embellishing every act by Count Roger and his Uncle Serlo, though careful when he came to his own actions to sound modest. Before the battle a comely youth had been seen on a white horse, bearing a fluttering banner of a red cross on a white background. He had ridden the field of battle, then seemed to ascend to heaven, so they knew it to be the presence of Saint George himself, come to bless the arms, and each man was inspired. At the conclusion of his tale, Alexander looked at Hildebrand, whose eyes were alight.
‘He does God’s work, Your Holiness,’ Hildebrand barked. ‘Too long has Islam lorded over lands once Christian.’
‘You have spoken of it often,’ Alexander replied, with an expression and a tone that implied Hildebrand might have laboured the point too heavily. ‘And you know I share your hope to see such possessions once more under the jurisdiction of my Church.’
‘Then let Sicily be the place first brought back to the one true faith. Let us bless Count Roger and charge him with the task of clearing Islam out of that accursed island. Let him be a soldier for Christ, and those he leads likewise.’
Alexander nodded but did not speak, yet when Jordan left Rome, he did so with a papal banner, which henceforth he was told should lead Count Roger’s men into battle, only one of two in existence, the other leading the Christian knights fighting the Moors in Iberia. He also left with a papal bull granting indulgence to all those who fell in battle against the infidel — so to die was now to gain immediate entry into heaven.
‘Let the infidel see,’ Alexander said to Jordan as the clergy assembled to send Jordan on his way, ‘that Christ comes upon them in vengeance; let them see that salvation lies in repenting their foul creed.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘One more campaign, Robert, to take Palermo, with everything we can both muster, and Sicily will be ours.’
‘Do not put too much faith in Alexander’s banner, brother,’ Robert replied.
That was not a statement to respond to: when it came to religious piety both brothers played fast and loose with devotion — God was praised when victory blessed their arms or needs, as in the recent news of the death of Argyrus, but not when predicaments arose.
‘Sicily? Do I have your support?’
‘Let me think on it.’
Roger smiled: that was as good as a yes.
Ever the restless warrior, they were mounted and on their way within the week, taking every lance Robert could muster, picking up foot soldiers on the way, crossing to Messina, then riding on to the west to join Serlo, stopping only at Troina so that they could spend time with Judith.