Guaimar was remembering how much he had once feared this man. But no more: he was sound in his inheritance now and he had command of Rainulf Drengot in his own domains, which gave him deep satisfaction. The Count of Aversa needed his prince as much as Guaimar needed him, perhaps more, given his continuing difficulties with Rome, a matter not helped by the continuing dispute about who, in fact, out of the competing contenders, was truly Pope.
‘I am obliged to ask after your family.’
Not my woman, or my son by name; my family, thought Drengot. I’m damned if I will mention to you the woman who shares my bed.
‘The boy is hale, sire, and growing.’
‘And how do matters progress in your annulment?’
If the courtiers attending in the chamber did not laugh outright, there was certainly more than a hint of suppressed mirth: Rainulf knew of the jokes that they told each other about him and the woman he wanted to marry, so much younger than he. Why could not that bitch of a wife of his expire? He was a man who had torched nunneries in his life and he longed to do that now, with one of the inmates still trapped inside. But it would not serve: he was no longer a mere knight with a lance, a sword and nothing in his purse — he was too elevated, too prominent a figure. Excommunication, which would surely follow, would not aid his cause.
‘I have asked Pope Benedict to tell me what would be needed to facilitate matters, but he seems very reluctant to name me a price.’
‘Benedict is having trouble holding on to his office, Rainulf. There are those in Rome who challenge his right to his title. Perhaps you should consult with them too.’
Suddenly Drengot’s voice became weedy and pleading, he knew he was being guyed. ‘There can only be one true pontiff, surely, but is it not a shameful thing, sire, that such a man holding such a holy office seeks a bribe to do that which is right?’
One of those attending, so ancient now he had earned the right to be seated, was the bent-backed Archbishop of Salerno, who frowned mightily to hear the Pontiff he and Salerno supported, the man who actually held both St Peter’s and the papal castle of St Angelo, so traduced. Taking advantage of his years and his mitre, he barked out a response.
‘The case must be examined, Count Rainulf. You say the marriage was not consummated and can thus be annulled, the woman you married denies it. Are you suggesting the Holy See pay to investigate the true facts?’
‘I say the Holy See should take the word of an imperial count before that of-’
Guaimar interrupted sharply, it being a chance to beard his vassal on safe ground. ‘The sister of an imperial prince, for if Pandulf has been deposed, he once held that estate?’
‘Prince no longer, sire,’ Rainulf spat. ‘His fief is a Byzantine dungeon and he is lucky not to have had his eyes put out.’
Said with such obvious bitterness, Guaimar was tempted to remind Rainulf Drengot of how he had once loyally served the man they called the Wolf of the Abruzzi. But it would not do, his responsibility to his rank and office demanded that he put such a notion aside, for that would be a jibe too far. Truly, being a prince took some of the joy out of life.
‘Come, Rainulf, and let us retire to my private chamber, to discuss matters in Apulia.’
Unbeknown to Robert de Hauteville, his arrival in the hill city of Benevento coincided with the day Count Atenulf had set aside to show off his prisoner, a matter delayed and arranged so that the population could demonstrate their feelings for this hated Byzantine catapan. He had found a place to lay his head, and to stable his horses, in a religious house half a league away and, alerted to the proposed celebrations, he made for the walled city on foot. The gates were guarded, but such was the crowd coming in from the surrounding habitations that spread out from the citadel, he was not challenged as he would have been on a normal day: a man of his appearance always was.
Once through those he entered narrow streets thronged with people, all in the kind of mood prevalent in the more robust religious festivals, with drinking and dancing, some even running to costumes of the kind worn by fools, and he had to push his way through the crush, curious as to what the fuss was about; to him the term ‘catapan’ was, if not unknown, then certainly not a familiar title.
In quizzing the locals — not without difficulty, their Latin was strangely accented to his ears — he heard of the great victory achieved by the brother of their prince, a mighty warrior who had, they stated proudly, almost single-handed, humbled Byzantium. Having been kept outside the walls for a week, the prisoner was to be brought into the city, hauled through the old Roman triumphal arch, much carved with symbols of ancient military victories, then led through the streets to his ultimate humiliation in the amphitheatre.
With his height, Robert had no difficulty in finding himself a point from which to observe, nor in seeing the captive, a distressed-looking fellow in a wheeled cage, of swarthy complexion and lank black hair, wearing a white smock. It did not stay that for long: as soon as he emerged from the city side of the arch the pelting began, all the filth of the streets and more beside hurled with screaming abuse at a victim who took it with commendable stoicism, looking straight ahead and not reacting unless hit by an object large enough to make him jerk.
Behind the cage, in plumed helmet and glistening armour of a kind worn by the ancients, rode his captor, Count Atenulf, who had won, according to his brother’s subjects, not one battle against the mighty Eastern Empire, but three. Robert’s enquiries, to find out if any Normans had been involved, were greeted with scathing dismissaclass="underline" Beneventian generals needed no help from northern barbarians. Those who said such things, once they raised their eyes and realised they were talking to one of the breed, and an angry one at that, soon took to grovelling, but all that led to was an admission of ignorance.
Moving with the crowd was a jostling experience but at least he had the power to ensure he had the space to stay upright. So great was the crush in the confined streets that people were falling and being trampled on, and more than once Robert reached down to heave some unfortunate to their feet, lest energetic stamping turned into bloody mutilation. The outer walls of the amphitheatre, when he finally reached them, reminded him of the Coliseum he had seen in Rome, a once mighty edifice suffering for its years and looted by local builders for its stones, so looking like a ruin.
Inside it was different: a theatre for drama not games, with the rows of stone seats already nearly full. In the middle of the performing area stood a magnificently clad reception party waiting for the mighty Count Atenulf, and further enquires established that the main figure was the Prince Landulf himself, while it was made plain to this boorish, nosy visitor that the fellow in the mitre and robes was an archbishop. This was said with pride, Benevento having the blessing of the Pope, their ultimate overlord, to keep it safe. The rest of the people present, male and female, were members of the prince’s court.
Entrance delayed until the amphitheatre was full to bursting, while soldiers with flat-held pikes joined them on the rim to keep the crowd in check, and with people now hanging off the outer walls, the cage was finally dragged in. The occupant was now covered from head to foot in ordure, his hair soaked and hanging down where it had been covered in piss and spittle, standing in a pile of rotting vegetation trapped by the bars. Yet still he stared proudly ahead, and Robert could not help but admire him.
Atenulf dismounted, took off his plumed helmet, and knelt before the prince, to be then raised by his brother and embraced. The high cleric got a kiss on his episcopal ring and bestowed a blessing on the bowed head, before showing some Christian charity: he made the sign of the cross at the caged catapan. Taking a crown of laurel leaves from an attendant, the Prince of Benevento crowned his brother as the Caesars had once crowned their triumphant generals, then Atenulf spun round to face the people, and to accept the roaring accolades of those assembled.