‘Take and hold, take and hold,’ was the mantra oft repeated by Roger de Hauteville, yet it remained just that: words, not an achievement. He never had the numbers he needed to keep the ground on which he won contest after contest, endless skirmishes with bodies of Saracens of a varying size, but never an army – they seemed intent on avoiding battle. Two years had passed since his first incursion and still he could not claim to hold even the land between Troina and Messina. He raided out from the former taking much booty but also learning of developments, which boded ill for the future.
The death of Ibn-al-Tinnah had removed the major obstacle to Saracen cohesion and they now began to cooperate in order to fight him. While he had been besieged in Troina reinforcements even came in from North Africa, led by the two oldest sons of the reigning sultan, each with an army of several thousand men. Appeals to Robert for aid fell on deaf ears: he had his own problems in Apulia, more now with rebellious Norman barons and Greeks than Lombards. The only reinforcements Roger could muster were a few hundred Calabrians and a small body of crossbowmen.
Successes he had: he won every fight in which he became engaged. Troina’s storerooms were again full to bursting and in order to draw his enemies on he moved his base some three leagues further north-west to a small walled town called Cerami, standing on a river of the same name, it having several advantages over Troina. Surrounded by high hills, it gave him a good view of the valley approaches by which he thought his enemies would come and in this he was proved correct. The Saracen host were finally approaching to give him the battle he so wanted and he knew it long before they threatened his position. He also knew the size, which, given the ground they covered, was close to being incalculable. The Normans were accustomed to being outnumbered, but this seemed to be of a different order of magnitude: if the reports he had were true, he was facing, with an army of some six hundred, including milities, some fifteen thousand men!
Only a third of his force were lances, yet the thought of retreat never entered Roger’s head: whatever the odds he would fight them here, on ground he had chosen, with Cerami at his back and the river before him, sure that those who had done battle with the Normans before would have learnt nothing, while the men from North Africa, probably the bulk of his opponents, had never met warriors like those he led. Besides, numbers did not confer skill and in some cases they could be a liability. Notions had been voiced that he should retire to Troina and allow them to break themselves on its walls, but Roger had no desire to be besieged again. He did want to hold Cerami, so when news came that a large force had been detached to work round his flank and occupy the town he sent Serlo and Jordan to prevent it.
His nephew had been promising, now he was more than that and he was also Jordan’s hero. Like any de Hauteville, Serlo led from the front and fought with a panache that few could match, adding to that a clear tactical brain and the ability to hold in close control those he commanded, this proved in the confines of Cerami. Faced with several thousand Saracens and in command of only fifty knights, he drove them out street by street, then routed them in the open, before disengaging to rush back to aid his uncle. What he saw then, cresting the hills on the opposite bank of the narrow river was enough to daunt the most stalwart knight.
The whole landscape was covered in men, horses, donkeys and camels, the dust they were kicking up on their march like a sandstorm. Facing them, on an upslope across the river, stood Roger’s tiny host, his lances on foot, their horses well to the rear and his contingents of milities holding the flanks which, luckily, were protected by ground so broken as to be near impassable even to infantry. It looked to Serlo as if their confrères would be swept aside.
‘How many are there?’ Jordan gasped.
Serlo laughed, to spread relief. ‘Not enough, cousin, not enough.’
Instead of coming on, and a sign that for all their numbers they lacked confidence, the enemy army stopped and began to make camp, an action which took hours, so numerous were they. Jordan had been sent to ask his father what he wanted Serlo to do. The answer he brought back was stay where they stood and when dawn arrived to be mounted. Night fell over so many campfires that the clouds, orange in colour, gave off enough light to see a face clearly, sound travelling easily to carry the cries of the imams calling their faithful to prayer.
Roger had his men sleep and waited till grey dawn to call upon his priest to bless them. The sound of their murmured prayers did not match the calling of the imams, nor did they make any noise as, confessed, they took the host. In each mind, Roger’s included, there would be an image of a loving wife, or perhaps a concubine for whom they had regard, a mother, a child or maybe just the green fields and high hedgerows of Normandy. Few had any certainty that they would survive this day, but by the time the sun was on their backs, every man was sure he had God’s blessing and was ready, if he was required to, to meet his Maker with a sin-free soul.
Their enemies had likewise stirred with the sun, a bustling mass of bodies, the Sicilians clad in garments of all colours to denote their various emirs, the North Africans easy to detect, they being dressed in all-covering black. Roger was more interested in seeking out the princes who led them, Ali and Ayub, sons of the Zirid sultan who ruled the old Roman provinces on the southern Mediterranean shore. Like Ibn-al-Hawas they were identified by the imperious way they rode to and fro on their splendid mounts, along the front of their levies, who cheered them as they passed, and that cemented another thought: Robert had beaten Al-Hawas at Enna; the two sons of a sultan might have richer blood than those they led, but that did not make them good leaders in war.
They, peering back, would have seen what looked like a silver thread running across the landscape, a thin line of mailed knights, with their teardrop shields and polished conical helmets. Perhaps they would have laughed to see so feeble a presence, pointed to the rabble on either flank, before them rows of embedded pikes, there to impale any horseman foolish enough to charge their lines, backed by a few crossbowmen. Whatever, it would seem to them that to sweep aside a single ribbon of Normans would be simple; their pike-and bowmen could be slaughtered later. Trumpets blew, the cheering rose, and the leading elements of the Saracen army began to wade the river, forming into one massive, deep column, aimed straight at the blue and white shield of the Count of Sicily.
‘They don’t seem much interested in Serlo,’ Ralph de Boeuf said, long fully recovered.
There was no alarm in his voice: it was merely a statement of what he and Roger could see, the Saracens were detaching no men to protect their flank against Serlo and his mounted lances. Their tactic, if it could be graced with such a name, was to be an all-out frontal assault.
‘They aim to brush us aside,’ Roger replied.
Ralph actually laughed. ‘Can they not spot a wall when they see one?’
‘God be with you, Ralph,’ Roger said, at the point where he could see the determination in the eyes of the Saracen front rank.
‘He is with us all,’ Ralph replied, ‘but note it, the men who lead this host are not with them.’
‘They lead from the rear.’
‘A collection of farts, then?’ Ralph joked.
Roger still had the opportunity to stand before his lances and give a rousing speech, but this was not a time in which rhetoric would be appropriate. Every man he led knew that they had one simple task, to stand firm in their line or to die.
‘Shields and lances,’ he said, without much raising his voice.
That was answered down his line: seventy Normans strong on either side of their leader, like a ripple, as shields came up and lances were lowered to form a solid wall of steel, and each man checked his other weapons – axes and knives – were to hand.
Following on from a shout of ‘Allah Akbar’, the men before them rushed forward to do battle, their voices rising into a terrifying roar. A wise general puts his best fighting men in his front line and even the divided command of the Saracens had taken that elementary course, so the fiercest combat of the day was at the very outset of the battle. Roger’s line was hard pressed, swaying back and forth like rippling waters as they were pressed back in some sections.
Yet the line never fractured: if a man fell it contracted a fraction, and those under pressure knew they had to regain the few footsteps of ground surrendered to hold the cohesion of the whole, fighting with extra ferocity to do so. The leading elements of the Saracens had died on Norman lances and they were either now wrenched out of mailed hands by falling bodies or useless without their metal tips. The positions were thus reversed: it was now the Normans fighting off lance points with swords and axes, yet those seeking to kill them had great difficulty in controlling what they did, so great was the press behind them.
Roger had chosen his field of battle well; he knew the enemy he was going to face would vastly outnumber him, just as he suspected with such superiority they could not resist the temptation to attack – even if it was mooted in a divided command, the wise head who gainsaid such a course would risk ridicule. For all their numbers the Saracens could only deploy so many in the constricted killing zone he had imposed on them and he being on an upslope meant the elements to the rear had no idea what was going on in front of them, while those at the front arrived before him short on breath.
Buoyed up by the prospect of a kill and glory, they pressured the leading fighters onto the Norman line, denying them the ability to manoeuvre in their individual combats, for that was what it became: one Norman fighting at best two Saracens, never any more, levies doing battle with men who trained every day in individual combat. After the first rush those coming on had another obstacle, the bodies of those either already slain or writhing with wounds too serious to allow them to crawl away. They died, too, crushed as their fellows clambered over them to get at the defence, the new assailants slithering and slipping either on their uneven flesh or the huge quantities of blood that flowed into the muddy trampled ground.
Wisdom would have had the Saracens call off the attack and regroup; that was not present and the fools in command let their suffering cohorts continue to press. Now the quality of the men the Normans faced was falling as each successive wave suffered wounds and death, while having to clamber over an increasing wall of bodies just to get at their enemies. Roger could see, like every one of his confrères, the fear in the eyes of the men he was now fighting. What was driving them on now was not zeal but the weight of their fellows on their backs.
A man afraid to die in battle is at greater risk than one who fears it not, the pile of dead a rampart over which it was becoming harder and harder to climb. Roger ordered his men to undertake that, so from a position of height, once they had steadied their footholds, they could inflict terrible punishment on Saracens now cowering in fear from the sweeping blows, yet they could not escape their fate. They were not cheering now but wailing, some stupidly falling to their knees in the hope of being spared, losing their hands as well as the heads they put them to in supplication.
How they managed to keep fighting and killing would cause Roger’s men to wonder long after Cerami, but the answer was simple. First it was a discipline drummed into them from childhood, next the fear of letting down the men alongside, members of your own conroy, added to that arms that had a strength and endurance lacking in their opponents. Finally it was the certain knowledge that to relax in battle, even for a blink of an eye, was to risk immediate ruin not only for yourself, but also for the whole number of your confrères.
So they fought on with throats so dry that to swallow was painful, with eyes full of stinging sweat and faces covered with spouted blood and sliced gore, slithering on the ground that was now a morass from bright-red irrigation, wondering how, at every swing of the arm, the strength was still there to lift their weapons, yet it was.
The Saracens were now still, not advancing, debarred from falling back by those following on, crowded, unsighted and less enthusiastic. Now rippling along the lines were cries of betrayal, not bravery or paeans to the Prophet. That was the point at which Serlo attacked; he had been waiting, watching anxiously, fearful that his uncle’s line would fracture, intent on sacrificing his own lances to secure enough of a breathing space for them either to reform or retreat, lost in wonder at the way the line held. Jordan had been all for moving sooner: it was his father who stood to forfeit his life and the youngster had needed to be near-physically restrained.
Given his head now, Roger’s bastard son outdid his hero in the ardour of his attack. For once, Serlo sought not to hold a firm line, the accustomed Norman way. With the insight given to few who command men he knew that shock was the most important contribution he could deliver on a flank of confused Saracens, who still thought the men they were pushing forward were winning, not dying. Added to that, the enemy command had so filled the field with foot soldiers that what cavalry they had could not contest with him: they were blocked off.
On the hill opposite Roger de Hauteville, the trio who led the Saracens could see what was happening, could see their aim of brushing these pests aside had not only failed but was beginning to crumble, which presaged disaster. Later Roger heard reports of their disputes, two brothers accusing each other of stupidity, then both turning on Ibn-al-Hawas to charge him with leading them into a trap. Only one of them needed to show leadership, to force his way to the front to where their soldiers were being slaughtered and effect a retreat in which they could regroup: the battle was not lost – they still massively outnumbered the Normans.
Possible it might have been, but they disputed too long. The ripple of despair began to spread through the mass of the Saracen army, now not much more than a swirling, leaderless mob, for anyone of authority had died quickly. The terror of those still expiring on Norman swords swept back to the rear elements and they began to panic. Allah might promise them all sorts of pleasures in heaven, but life was suddenly sweeter; they began to fall back to the river, and as the pressure eased at the front they disengaged and began to run.
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.’