‘First to serve as your squire and then to be in battle your equal.’
‘Then,’ Emma said, laughing, because as a mother it was allowed, ‘you had best get Bohemund down to the manege and be busy, for to match him, my son, you have many leagues to go.’
The boy was keen to learn, fighting with a skill beyond his years, which reminded his uncle of his own youthful precocity. They were not alone in the manege; it was full of youngsters honing their skills, for their seniors were off fighting with their duke, Ademar included. As an adult Bohemund would have stood out anyway, but given his height he was an object of massive attention, so he found himself continually surrounded either in instruction or in relating the tales of Norman and Viking exploits going back into the mists of time.
But there were practical lessons too: in swordcraft, the throwing of axes so that the spinning edge ended up embedded in timber, using the new tactic of the lance couched under one arm and how to change grip and throw it so that it found its target. There were ponies of every size needed on which to teach the skills required to manoeuvre a horse with only the knee and a single rein, as well as how to care for a horse without forming a sentimental attachment to any beast.
‘In the end,’ he explained to his wide-eyed and seated-on-the-ground audience, ‘your horses are no more than a means to get you into a fight and, if it goes badly, the instrument by which you can escape. Treat them well, but never let any animal command you, for they will if you are weak. And, if all else fails, what you are riding will feed you when there is no more meat to be had. Now, harness and saddle your mounts, and let us once more learn the calls of the horn.’
When Ademar returned to Lecce it was with a sorry tale: the Guiscard’s huge army had fought no great battle, even though the Emperor Henry, refused entry to the Leonine City, had come south with the intention of meeting the Duke of Apulia in combat; clearly he had no idea that he was outnumbered thirty to one. What saved him from annihilation were the people of Rome, who having denied him entry for months, suddenly decided to surrender to the imperial host, which sent it back north without ever making contact.
He did not stay long; when Henry found out the numbers he faced, a hurried departure became the only choice and he took his own pope with him. Foolishly, Rome, or rather a large proportion of its citizenry, whom Robert de Hauteville had come north to save, having so suddenly and stupidly plumped for the Emperor who had now deserted them, closed its gates against him. Three days went by, which tried the Duke’s patience until he could stand it no more. A night attack on the Flaminian Gate got his troops inside the city, and foolishly those same citizens who had voted to allow in the Emperor tried to contest with the Normans, only to pay a price that saw the streets running with blood. They could not resist and within the day Robert had rescued Gregory from the Castle St Angelo and had him carried in triumph back to the Lateran Palace.
As he had in Illyria, Robert had increased his numbers by the inclusion of Sicilian Saracens and the sight of them alone inflamed the populace, for these men were the stuff of nightmares; had they not sailed up the Tiber hundreds of years previously and pillaged the city? Were they not the legions of Antichrist? If that became a problem, worse was the plunder, for the soldiers of Apulia, of whatever race, had never seen such wealth as existed in the one-time city of the Caesars. While Pope Gregory and the Guiscard were saying Mass in the Church of the Lateran the looting started, and one group, having seen their confreres loaded with their booty, soon set off to match them and the pillage began to get out of hand. If the Saracens were the first to enter sanctified churches and steal the gold and silver ornaments, the Normans, Greeks and Apulian Lombards soon followed until the whole city — churches, palaces, private houses, as well as the centres of the rich guilds of merchants and artisans — was being sacked.
The city rose in fury and this time it was not just the adherents of the Emperor who came out to fight — it was the entire population of Rome, and such were their numbers, in many instances they overwhelmed Robert de Hauteville’s men, who retaliated by setting alight those places they had been so busy plundering. Worse, a mob surged around the Church of the Lateran screeching for the blood of the man who led them and a magnate who had chased two emperors now found himself trapped like a rat. It took Borsa at the head of a thousand lances to break through and rescue him.
‘But,’ Ademar said, concluding his tale, ‘the city was by then alight in so many places the fires were out of control.’
‘Could my father’s men not have put them out?’ Emma asked.
‘Wife,’ came the sad reply, ‘they were the ones who started them. We went north to save Rome and ended up near to destroying it.’
‘My father must regret it.’
‘If he does, it is not apparent; as far as he is concerned, the city got what it deserved.’
The Apulian army had left with Pope Gregory almost as part of their baggage, the destruction visited upon Rome becoming the event to mark the abiding memory of his pontificate. The same people who had hailed him and borne him aloft to the Church of Saint Peter Viniculus eleven years before were now howling for his blood and would have torn him apart had not the Normans, Saracens and Apulians still controlled the smoking ruin of his once magnificent city. As he departed, his rival, the antipope Clement, was making preparations to come into the Leonine City, there to be hailed by a deliriously happy mob.
‘Where is he now, the Pope?’
‘In Salerno with your father.’
‘Then that is where I must go.’
‘Why, brother?’
‘You know why, Emma. To my sire I must stay close, to him I must bring home that I, not Borsa or even amusing Guy, am the man to hold his possessions together when the fate that awaits us all comes to him. I need him to acknowledge me, which he will not do at a distance; and there is too another reason. Our father has an army, the biggest he has ever assembled, which he must employ if it is not to cause him trouble throughout his domains, and there is only one place that can be.’
‘Illyria,’ said Ademar; it was not a question.
‘He has already resolved to return.’ Ademar nodded emphatically. ‘I failed there and that is a stain I would remove.’
‘Take Tancred.’
Bohemund gave his sister a look full of doubt, one matched by the boy’s father. ‘He is too young.’
Bohemund’s reply had Ademar vigorously nodding again.
‘But he worships you, it will break his heart.’
‘Then tell him to work hard in the manege for the next two years, for when he is ten summers in age I will happily have him as my squire.’
Bohemund was right about Robert and his army: to leave so many knights with time to think, plot and revel was dangerous and he had no other enemy to fight than Byzantium. The Western Emperor had his title and had been chastened and scared off; Jordan of Capua, having now regretted bowing the knee to Henry, had, through the ever-diplomatic Abbot Desiderius, made overtures of peace. Though it was suspected that the Guiscard was tempted to wipe him from the face of the earth, the greater prize still had a firm hold on his imagination; his magnificent host, in any case, would be wasted on his Norman neighbour.
By the time Bohemund reached Salerno the orders had gone out; the Apulian army would return to Illyria and this time it would not just be Robert and Bohemund — if it was not something to cheer his illegitimate offspring, Sichelgaita had got her way. Going with them would be Borsa, his younger brother Guy, as well as their mother. Pope Gregory himself blessed the proposed invasion in the newly completed cathedral Robert had caused to be built on taking the city, and it was on the steps of that church Robert made a pronouncement to his firstborn son.