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The sickness came upon William within two days, a sort of lassitude allied to vomiting, which laid him low and confined him to a cot when camped and a litter when they moved. Thankfully Drogo had rejoined, followed by the other de Hautevilles, and they could ensure that the right ideas were being promoted. Training was being undertaken on the move, in the morning before the sun became too hot; the men rested till it cooled in the afternoon, when they would move a couple of leagues to a new campsite, slow progress to their eventual goal, but necessary.

‘They’re an argumentative lot, these Lombards,’ said Drogo, talking while a woman, one of the numerous camp followers, spoon-fed his brother with a potage, the patient reluctant to take more than a couple of mouthfuls. ‘No wonder they never win. Anyone gives an order and it’s the cause of an immediate quarrel.’

‘Will they be ready if we meet the catapan?’

‘They will not be a useless mob, but ready is another thing.’

‘We’ve got to keep them away from the Varangians.’

‘You can keep me away from them too,’ Drogo replied, standing to leave, and pinching the woman’s ample arse as he did so. ‘I have nightmares about those axes.’

It took over ten days to get within striking distance of Canosa — the host had hogged the Ofanto, living off its supply of water and the fertility of the fields that bordered it — with William still too weak to partake of any duties, and it was with some misgiving he learnt that Arduin had decided to bypass the town and move on towards Barletta: a place, one of the important great ports, the catapan would have to defend.

Much as he disputed the notion he made no attempt to interfere, and it was not from his own ill health: there was no point in having a general then not following his lead, and the whole notion of coming from Melfi was to find the Byzantine army and defeat it for a second time. For that the plains around Barletta were as good a place as any.

‘That, William,’ said Arduin, sweeping an all-encompassing arm over the plain spread below, ‘is the field of Cannae.’

Weak as he was, William rose from his litter to gaze over one of the most famous battle sites in history, the field where the Carthagian general, Hannibal, annihilated two Roman legions.

‘God willing, this is where I want to do battle with them, the place stained with my father’s own blood.’

Helped by Mauger, William, worried that Arduin was allowing sentiment to interfere with sound judgement, moved to look around and he could see, from the commanding mound on which they stood, why the field had been fought over more than once. The hill overlooked an extensive flat plain running all the way to the coast, perfect for an army to deploy and also a place giving a good view of the landscape for leagues around. No enemy could approach by stealth, or organise an attack without all their dispositions being obvious. Below, and to the north and west, ran the River Ofanto, providing ample water for an encamped army — vital, since it was now high summer — as well as a supply route for food and fodder.

‘I have made sure the catapan knows this is where we are camped and of my intention to advance on Barletta if left to do so.’

‘The Normans were chased from the field too, Arduin,’ said William, his voice rasping and weak. ‘Rainulf’s brother Gilbert died here along with a third of the lances he led. It is the only time we have ever been bested in Italy.’

‘Then it is a ghost you too have to lay, William.’

They knew Michael Doukeianos was coming as soon as he broke camp. Resting still, though feeling somewhat stronger, William lay in his raised litter at the front of the tent set up to accommodate him. He could watch the battle unfold in the company of those men, some Normans included, who had been left to guard the baggage train, free of mail, warmed by the sun and calling for refreshment while he did so. Truly this was a better way to soldier than to always be at the forefront of the fight.

The Norman-Lombard forces were in place on the gentle lower slopes; it was the catapan who must march to this place and deploy to meet them, which was carried out in what looked like better order than he had managed at Masseria, with the Varangians, very obvious even at a distance, in his centre, the less well-trained levies on each side. Arduin had split and placed the Norman cavalry on the flanks, both to protect the foot soldiers from envelopment and to be there to exploit any weaknesses, and, William suspected, to see first if his Lombards could win without their aid. The crossbowmen stood to the rear, ready to be used wherever they were needed.

These dispositions were not something of which he disapproved; despite Arduin’s hopes this would no more be the last battle than Masseria. Byzantium still held the great port cities and most of Apulia and they still commanded the loyalty, albeit by force, of the majority of the Italian and Greek population. If the Lombards could win this fight without Norman help it would raise their spirits; what they could not do, in his estimation, however high their morale might be, was chase their enemies out of Italy.

The surprise, when Arduin ordered the advance, had him standing upright, because that was precisely the wrong thing to do. What the Lombard-Norman host needed was a defensive battle. They held the higher ground, so they should force the Byzantines to attack them, harder uphill than on the flat. The only way to even partially unsettle those Varangians was to force them into the attack, hoping that movement would disorder their ranks: to assault them was to play to their strengths. They would face any attacking force, on foot or mounted, and cut them to pieces with those great axes.

The feeling of hopelessness was allied to William’s feelings of physical weakness, and that was compounded by the sight of the front line of the attack growing ragged almost before it had covered a third of the intervening ground. Meanwhile his brothers, Drogo and Geoffrey on the right, and Humphrey and Mauger on the left, had begun to move their lances forward as flank protection, and at the same pace as the marching men, a total negation of their innate abilities. Nothing happened quickly: it was like watching a waking dream unfold, or, if anticipation was added, a potential nightmare.

‘Fetch my mail,’ he shouted, ‘and saddle my horse.’

There was a moment when that order so astounded those who heard it, no one moved, but the subsequent roar from William had people running to obey. Moving with difficulty, he got closer to the small party of Normans guarding the baggage and the temporary paddocks where the mules, donkeys and spare Norman mounts were corralled.

‘You, go to Drogo and tell him, whatever his orders are, to attack the Byzantine milities.’ Turning to another he sent him with the same instruction to Humphrey. ‘And tell them to stay away from the Varangians.’

He had to be helped into his mail, all the time watching the Lombards close in on the catapan’s centre, thinking that Michael Doukeianos must be relishing what was to come — a half-trained army taking on the very best fighters he had — and he would be right to be so. It would be an assault that, if it was to continue, would have to be over the dead bodies of the very front line. They would then be taken in flank by their opposite numbers.

His horse was beside him, stamping and restless, having a nose for impending battle, perhaps, or just unsettled by the way it had been so hastily prepared, and it was evidence of his continued weakness that helping hands were needed to get him mounted. Spurring hard, he rode forward to where the crossbowmen stood waiting, shouting an order for them to follow him at a run, and as he did that he heard the horns of his own men, and much higher still than the host he saw Drogo lead his lances into a trot.