Furor Normannicus

Chapter Twelve: In Which A Duke Is Afraid​

The lion was set aglow by the warm rays of the African sun. A golden lion on an azure field – the heraldic device Serlo had chosen for himself as Duke of Leptis Magna, or Labda, as the natives called it. The blue banner was made of silk, brought at an outrageous cost from some place beyond Egypt and stitched with gold thread which seemed to come alight under the touch of the rays slanting into the hall. In Normandy, this banner alone would have bought a complete manor. But Normandy was leagues and ages away. Another world. A world which Serlo couldn’t have dreamed as a boy. A world that was now his.

The Duke of Leptis Magna roused himself from his reverie. He had sent everybody away to be alone, and now the hall was silent and abandoned and echoed with his footsteps on the mosaic floor. Serlo traversed the hall and stepped over to the broad windows overlooking the courtyard. He sat down on the cushions placed on the window sill and glanced along the length of the hall. Was it really already thirty years that he left Normandy as a penniless adventurer? Time had passed so quickly. Especially the past year.

After he had been given the Dukedom of Leptis Magna, he had travelled from Messina immediately to Africa, without going back to Capua. His wife, his horses, his falcons, all that belonged to him had followed him into this new world. And as fascinatingly different Serlo had known Africa to be, he had found that governing a land of recently subjected Muhammadans was indeed a very new experience. The King had given much land to Norman lords, but also a decent amount to Arab ones, although no natives, but converted former Muhammadans from Sicily, well used to Norman rule for a score of years. The native population had been left powerless, and hateful of the foreign oppressors. Unrest and minor uprisings were ripe throughout Serlo’s new lands and had kept him busy in the year and a half he was now holding the Dukedom.

And the situation was even worse in the Norman lands beyond the Duchy, the lands held by Bohemond himself. The King had given Serlo, who was to be his deputy in these lands, extensive directives how the royal demesne was to be governed, and the stern treatment of the natives ordered by the King made these lands even more restless than Serlo’s own.


Yes, it had been a very busy time for Serlo de Hauteville. The Duke had travelled almost constantly, sometimes with his court, sometimes in haste with only a small retinue. Twice had the King visited Serlo in Africa, and twice had Serlo crossed over into Sicily to report to his cousin and get new directives. Only this very day had Serlo returned from Sicily – returned to this!

The faint agonized cry of a woman was carried on the gentle evening breeze, reaching the Duke’s ear in time with his thoughts straying back to his wife. He and Blanche hadn’t quite warmed to each other – she was no Helene, and they were seperated in age by almost thirty years. Serlo suspected strongly that she thought him an old man and resented having been married to him, and while she seemed to like the benefits of his station as Duke well enough, she hated this new world of theirs and was quite terrified by the infidels and their strange customs. Blanche was a very timid creature, and vapid, too, certainly no companion like Helene had been. Still, the Duchy needed an heir, and to this end Serlo had humped his young wife as often as possible, daily when she was with him. After a year of this, more duty than pleasure to any of them, Blanche had finally shown signs of being with child. But when Serlo had today returned to his residence in Tripoli, he had found its almost palatial echo interior echo with the painful and exhausted shrieks of Blanche. She was in labour, had been so since the last night. And it was two months early.

Serlo had already gone through it twice. There had been the early miscarriage of Helene, and then the birth of his tiny son who had died within a few short hours, died unchristened and still burdened with the sins of Adam and Eve, for which the priests said he was now burning in the pits of Hell, burning ceaselessly till Judgement Day. And it wouldn’t be too long until Purgatory for Serlo himself. He needed an heir, needed him desperately.

The sound of approaching heavy steps drew Serlo’s attention and he saw the hulking figure of Hoel had entered the hall and was now lumbering towards him, a jug and two earthenware cups tiny in his beefy hands. The half-Breton’s shock of red hair and his huge bushy moustache were shot liberally with grey, but he was still a formidable presence, although uncouth to the point of seeming barbaric in these refined surroundings, fitting them no better than a Byzantine courtier would fit a backwater manor in Normandy.

“Reckoned you could use one of those”, Hoel said to Serlo and poured a cup from the jug. Hoel did never address Serlo with any of his titles, but he did also not use his name, which would have been unbecoming for a man of his squire’s and personal retainer’s low station. Instead, there was a kind of unspoken agreement between the two close companions of many years to avoid the matter of titles and address entirely. They had lived through too much together and were too close to let these matters come between them.

Serlo accepted the cup Hoel had brought unbidden and and took a gulp of the ale. Like all things Mediterranean, the taste for wine had also never taken root with Hoel, who was true son of the north and preferred ale any day. Half Breton he may well be, Serlo thought, but he was most certainly full Viking.

Another shriek sounded in the distance. Hoel, who had sat down on the window sill opposite Serlo, cleared his throat and asked: “So, any news from Italy?”

“Much news, indeed”, Serlo replied. “But a month ago, old Abelard has died, and Arsenio is now the new Duke of Calabria.”


“And how’s he coming along?”, asked Hoel, who had never thought too well of somebody who had assumed Mediterranean customs as readily as Arsenio.

“Oh, it’s still too early to say, really. I guess he will be alright, though, nothing special, but allright. And he seems loyal enough.”

An awkward silence fell again after this short conversation, made more pointed by being punctuated by another shriek from the Duchess. Both men new well that Arsenio de Hauteville would be the man to inherit all of Serlo’s holdings and possessions should he die without a son. Hoel, who was no great talker, wrested finally an ‘And the war?’ from his lips.

“That’s now officially over. Queen Mathilda has consented to the King’s terms. I’ve heard it said that King Peter is giving her a hard time, and so she was probably glad to take the money and be done with it.”

Hoel acknowledged these news with a grunt and said: “And the campaign? Any notable deeds or encounters?”

There were actually plenty, and Serlo had at court heard of many of them, and so he regaled Hoel with a detailed account of the King’s newest campaign. Bohemond had had his Chancellor trump up a few hair-raising claims on the Italian German County of Siena, revolving somehow on the current Countess, Bianca da Morrone, being illegitimate and thus unable to lawfully hold this title. Boheomd had Count Renaud and Marshall Charles invade Siena and had followed himself with another host. Before Bohemond had arrived, Charles and Renaud had already defeated the Sienese forces and were laying siege to Siena.


But Mathilda of Canossa had declared war upon the Normans sent a host to aid her vassal Countess Bianca. Considering all the trouble the Queen was having, this host had been surprisngly big, even slightly larger than the combined Norman armies, as Bohemond had deemed a small force enoough for a surgical strike against Siena. Still, the King’s superior generalship had once again carried the day. Bohemond had furthermore distinguished himself by plunging into the thick of the fighting with an almost mad abandon.


“The court is still singing the praises of the King”, Serlo said. “They say that he charged where the Norman lines were already breaking, and that he singlehandedly held back the Germans and rallied his men to victory. From all I hear, it must have been one madcap charge, completely reckless.”

Another scream, louder, longer, and even more agonized than the previous ones, interrupted Serlo. Trying to push Blanche and questions of succession from his mind, the Duke continued: “Sometimes, I think that Bohemond is courting death, inviting it. Almost as if he was daring him to come and get him. You’ve seen him fight often enough – don’t you think there’s something slightly unhinged about his bravery?”

Hoel wiped the ale from his moustache, which hung into the cup with every sip, and said: “Never thought about it. Hmm. He sure is the most terrible fighting man I’ve ever seen. I don’t think anybody could take him on, not even old King Robert in his prime, bless his soul. And thinking of it, I believe I’ve never seen the King afraid. Or even hesitant”

“Yes, exactly. All men are afraid, no matter how many battles they’ve seen, but they overcome their fear and face the enemy. Who says he doesn't is a liar. But not Bohemond. He seems simply not to know fear, as if he was unable to feel it at all, in the way some men are unable to feel love. I noticed this first when I trained him as a boy, but then I dismissed it as the cockiness of youth, the big-mouthed ways of one who hasn’t yet tasted battle. But he has tasted many battles since, and still he has not changed.”

Hoel gave a pensive nod of his massive head, but if he wanted to reply something, it was cut short by yet another of the loud screams. Once again, an awkward silence followed this interruption. Indeed, Serlo mused, all men know fear, and the worst fear was that of things which one was powerless to influence. Holding out his cup to Hoel to have it refilled, he forced himself to continue: “Anyway, with the German relief army driven off, it was only a matter of weeks before Bianca da Morrone capitulated to the King. Bohemond sent to Mathilda, to make peace and have him recognized in his possession of Siena, but the Queen would at first have nothing of it. But then a rebellion against her rule broke out in the north of Italy, and Bohemond renewed his offer, now with some money thrown in, just enough to let Mathilda save face, and the Iron Maiden did finally accept. So the war is now officially over.”


After a moment Serlo added: “Oh yes, and one more thing. Renaud has distinguished himself once more in the campaign against Siena, and he’s back in the good graces of the King. The slight falling out at the diet is forgotten, and Bohemond has invited Renaud to celebrate Christmas with him – and to receive the County of Ancona and the Dukedom of the Marches.”


Hoel grunted in appreciation: “I’m glad for Count Renaud. He’s a good man. Somewhat too pious, though. But you mentioned the diet – what about the Queen?”

“I haven’t seen the Queen. She wasn’t at court, and she spends ever more time at her holdings at Agrigento, away from Bohemond. Their relations have decreased even more, as the war isn’t at all going well for her relatives in Spain. I’ve heard it said that in less than two years, the Emir of Sevilla has conquered all Catalonian counties. Queen Sancha’s brother Duke Pedro Ramon is reduced to Barcelona itself, it seems, and it’s questionable wether he will be able to hold it.”

“Why isn’t Castille coming to their aid? Never understood that.”

“Petty jealousy and rivalry”, Serlo replied. “It seems that Castille is at odds with Catalonia, and it won’t lift a finger to help its rival. The Jimenez think they are powerful enough to be able to repel any Muhammadan attack on their own, even without aid from Catalonia.”

Suddenly, Serlo noticed the silence, that had been no more screams for quite some time now. Anxious and nervous, he was unable to keep to his seat. He leapt up and took a few restless paces on the hall’s mosaic floor. The sun had set by now, and as Serlo had ordered everybody away, no servants had dared enter to light the lamps and candles, so the hall was like a dark cavern, echoing with the sound of its master’s footsteps. All this wealth, all this finery – to whom would it pass?

Still sitting on the window sill, a darker mass against the greyness beyond the window, Hoel asked in tones that could be considered subdued for his rough and booming voice: “If it’s a boy, how are you going to name it?”

Serlo wiped his brow with his fingers, surprised to find it cold with sweat. “Godfrey”, he said, “I’m going to name him Godfrey, after my friend Godfrey de Mortain. Do you remember him?”

“Aye. He was a fine youth, and it’s a good name.”

Godfrey de Mortain had been a childhood friend of Serlo, a younger son of a knight as poor as Serlo’s own father, and when Serlo had decided to travel to Italy to make his fortune with his uncle Robert Guiscard, Godfrey had come with him. Serlo’s aspirations had turned out well, Godfrey’s hadn’t. Already in their first year in Italy, Godfrey had unluckily been killed in a very minor skirmish, and Serlo had been there to see his friend succumb to his wounds. That day he had learned realized what the life of a fighting man was really like.

The sound of hasty footsteps approaching, a silhouette emerging from the darkness of the hall. Heart-stopping anxiety, then the relieving words: “My Lord Duke, you have a son.”



Edited to re-upload picture.

Once again, a heartfelt thank you to all who took the time to comment. Now for the individual replies:

Morsky: Hello and thank you for your praise! Always glad to have a new reader and commenter.

Enewald: Yes, Godfrey is quite a prodigy, isn’t he? A son to do Serlo proud.

And the “Iron Maiden” stuff is from one of the recent chapters, where I introduced this nickname for Mathilda of Canossa almost between the lines. I have derived it from Mathilda’s tenacity in pulling Germany back together combined with the game’s obsessive virginity of female rulers and the noted religiosity of the real Duchess Mathilda.

phargle: The info dumping is actually something of a challenge. I want to proceed at a reasonable pace (an average of one year per chapter) while still conveying what’s going on in the realm, hopefully without boring my readers to death or driving them away.

As for Serlo’s marriage – I guess that loveless marriages were the norm at these times, at any rate with the nobility. Still, it’s definitely harder for Blanche than for Serlo, who can easily find distractions and other outlets for his urges.

And Serlo is hoplelessly far back in the succession. As of late 1091, he’s number eight. Bohemond’s two sons Herman and Gausbert are first and second, followed by Roger Borsa, followed by Abelard’s son Arsenio, followed by Arsenio’s younger brother Henry, followed by Henry’s son, also named Henry, followed by Arsenio’s second brother Godfrey, followed finally by Serlo. And any future children of any of the above will also come before Serlo.

Fulcrumvale: Like you say, young Godfrey is indeed a really fine specimen. And as Serlo has neither many children nor a crowded court, the AI has no reason to kill Godfrey off. Hopefully.

Ok, before tomorrow’s new chapter some more feedback. But first, a word to all you drooling Serlo-fanboys out there (are you listening, phargle and General_BT? ):

Even with a change of ruling law, Serlo’s chances for kingship are slim. After all, he is 13 years older than Bohemond, being born in 1044 to Bohemond’s 1057. So quite a lot would have to happen for Serlo to succeed. But then there is a lot of Bohemond to be hit by swords or arrows. Or assassins' daggers...

It might be a solace to you that a quick run of the Dynastic Glory utility showed that, at least in the 1090s, Serlo is the third most glorious Hauteville ever, right behind Robert Guiscard and Bohemond, who comes in first. In a very real sense, he is the kingdom’s second man.

Morsky: Yes, Godfrey is very promising. Concerning Bohemond’s own, I have neither screens nor saves of them as children, but I can give you their stats at 16 years old, before the “child finishes education” event happens.

Crown Prince Herman has Martial 7, Diplomacy 9, Intrigue 4, Stewardship 9.
The King’s younger son Gausbert has Martial 9, Diplomacy 7, Intrigue 9, Stewardship 8.
The bastard son Silvester has Martial 11, Diplomacy 4, Intrigue 5, Stewardship 4.

Deamon: I have absolutely no idea how you could have missed ‘Furor Normannnicus’; how could you? No, honestly, I’m very glad that you like it and that I have you reading.

Interesting about the Godfrey-parallel from your own game. King of Jerusalem and a rebellious brother? Sounds good. Let’s see what fate has in store for our Godfrey.

Eams: You skimmed my writing??? I’m shocked! Well, at least you’ve seen the light now.

No, really, I’m very pleased that you like what I’ve written and hope that you will continue to enjoy your read. Quite a few chapters are tripe, really, but there are some I’m quite content with. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to comment.

Chapter Thirteen: In Which A Duke Attends A Hanging​

Serlo shook his head: “No, I’m sorry. I really appreciate your effort to entertain me, but there will be neither time for a hunt, nor for falconry. I will not intrude upon your hospitality for long. I’m on urgent business for the King.”

Count Charles of Reims squinted into the sun hanging in the sky behind his liege and said: “What a pity. I had hoped that you would stay for some time, my Lord.”

The Frankish baron and Duke Serlo were both sitting astride fine palfreys, riding towards the village of Zuwarah, residence of Count Charles. A sizeable cavalcade of riders followed them, mostly fighting men, but also a good number of scribes and clerks, many of them sitting side-saddle on the mules they preferred to the more spirited and more expensive horses. These men were the retinues of Serlo and Charles. As it was his duty, the Count of Djerba had ridden out in state to welcome his liege and escort the Duke to his small castle at Zuwarah.

Serlo had spent half the summer and the entire fall away from his own lands, at Gabes, safeguarding the western border of the Norman holdings in Africa against a possible Hammadid threat. Since the peace concluded almost eight years ago at Salerno, relations between the Normans and the Hammadids had relaxed ever more. King al-Nasir had defeated the second uprising of his brother, and this time he had not been as lenient as before.The would-be usurper Hammad had been put to death, and stability had returned once more to the Hammadid realm, which was furthermore strengthened by an alliance with the Fatimids. This pact between former rivals was a result of the Muhammadans of Africa closing ranks in face of the threatening Norman presence in their lands. With this pact and their country once again united, the Hammadids were next to unassailable and had resumed their position as one of the main Muhammadan powers, alongside the Fatimids themselves and the distant Seljuk Turks. But al-Nasir should have been even more ruthless in rooting out malcontents and also done away his brother’s sons, an oversight which had proven his undoing. Only this very spring, the eldest among those sons had risen against his uncle, not in a military uprising like his father’s, but in a palace coup, quick, efficient, and utterly lethal for al-Nasir. The heathen monarch had been killed, and his nephew Hashmaddin ibn Hammad had declared himself the new Hammadid King.

To his own surprise, Serlo had felt sorry at the passing of al-Nasir, who, although an infidel, had in some ways been a worthy king and the only opponent whom the Normans hadn’t been able to fully overcome. But there had been no time for such sentiments, the new King Hashmaddin was an unknown entity and not yet acknowledged throughout his realm. Serlo had spent half a year near the Norman-Hammadid border, guarding it against the possibilty of any rash Muhammadan action, and also assessing the chances for a new offensive against the Hammadids. But Hashmaddin was slowly gaining control the entire country, and the Fatimids had also failed to renounce their alliance, so the situation was basically unchanged. And as Hashmaddin had also made no hostile move against his Norman neighbours, Serlo had finally deemed it safe to abandon his close watch over the border. He hoped to be home at Tripoli after the turn of the year, to celebrate the feast of Epiphany with his little son.

“It can’t be done, Charles”, Serlo said. “You can feast me tonight, and I’m actually looking forward to it, but I shall have to be off tomorrow.”

“I gladly shall, my Lord.”


The Duke didn’t fail noticing the relief in Charles eyes. An extended stay by his liege and his retinue could easily plunge Charles into massive debt, as Djerba was a poor county. Its tiny harbours didn’t attract much commerce, fishing was mediocre, and the desert encroached far towards the sea, with farming limited to a narrow strip of passably fertile land along the coast. Even the very road on which they were travelling did not run through this strip, but along it, as the scarce two miles of arable land were too valuable to be wasted on roads. To the riders’ left there was cultivated land, groves of date palms and fig trees and fields of wheat and millet with their irrigation canals and water wheels, but to their right, there was a parched and dusty land of cracked earth, pebbles and jagged rocks, dotted with sparse patches of dry shrubbery and clumps of yellowish grass stretching to the level horizon. And somewhere beyond it, the land was said to turn to sand, and nothing but sand, and it was said that the very ground under a man’s feet did move there, and that the landscape could change overnight, and that the sand could rise up to smother anybody foulish enough to venture there. And beyond this, there was the land of fire, where the earth itself was ceaselessly burning in a raging inferno like Hell itself.

The voice of Count Charles penetrated into Serlo’s musings: “And have you heard the latest news from Iberia, my Lord? I mean, with the Hammadid border being even more backwater than Djerba.”

Serlo guided his roan palfrey who had strayed a bit back closer to Charles and said: “Last thing I heard was that Duke Pedro Ramon was being besieged in Barcelona.”

“No more”, Charles shook his head. “Barcelona fell some four months ago, ‘tis said, in August. I’ve heard nothing of the fate of the Duke, but Catalonia is no more. A new great infidel power has arisen, and this time in Europe itself, on the very doorstep of France.”


For some time, Charles, who was descended from one of the great families of France, vented his anger at the Frankish King’s inactivity at the fall of Catalonia, and also at the complacency of the other Christian powers of Iberia. The Count did usually display a high amount of tact, and so Serlo was surprised that his vassal came so close to the matter of the diet at Messina, a subject most nobles chose to avoid unless among close comrades, when it was an unfailing source of outrage. Charles was obviously really incensed and seemed to feel in a way responsible for the inaction of the Frankish nobility. It wasn’t long, though, until he realised into what direction he was inadvertently steering, and so he suddenly changed the subject: “But please tell me, if you may, what is the urgent business for the King you are on, my Lord?”

Serlo gave a sigh: “Repression – what else? It seems that there is unrest in the very east of our African lands, in Syrte. The rich natives are trying to usurp some of our noble privileges, and the King has aked me to attent to the matter before it can get out of hand. And with ‘attend to’, he does of course mean to mercilessly crack down on the malcontents.”


“Oh well, I think the King is right to be stern. I’ve seen it happen in the large cities of France, where the burgers are becoming ever more bold and insolent. Who knows, if this goes on, they might one day think themselves our equals.”

Serlo chuckled at this joke of his vassal: “Aye, I guess you’re right, we have to put those hucksters firmly back into their places before they get any ideas. But I guess also that you can tell that I wouldn’t travel in such haste if it was but for some petty discontent infidels. Of course not.”

Serlo leaned sideways from his saddle, bringing his head closer to Charles’ and saying in a sightly subdued voice: “I’m to prepare for war.”

“War?”, the Frankish knight pricked up his ears like a horse. “Do tell more, prithee.”

“The King would have seen to the preparations himself, but he was busy arranging the marriage of his eldest daughter to Prince Mladen of Serbia, and now it’s too late in the season. It would be madness to cross the sea in the middle of winter, so it has fallen to me to prepare everything. The King himself will come to Africa first thing in spring.”


The memory of the recent marriage of Princess Matilda de Hauteville wasn’t a pleasant one for the two barons. The husband was a fine and honourable choice, the young Prince of Serbia, and the match would finally give the Hautevilles the valuable connections across the Adriatic Sea for which already King Robert had striven in vain, but what Serlo and Charles took objection to was the hefty contributions they were required by law and custom to pay for the marriage of their liege’s eldest daughter. Serlo had the strong suspicion that this fortune would not so much become Matilda’s dower or pay for her marriage feast, but would rather finance his cousin’s newest conquests in Africa.


“With you travelling east I assue that Cyrenaika is once more the King’s target?”, Charles said, his remark more statement than question.

“Yes, of course. With the change of rulers in the Hammadid realm, the King had thought of attacking them, but they quickly stabilized again, so he cast his gaze elsewhere. And Cyrenaika is weak. You know how Emir Zeyd lost face with his flight at Burayqah, and he has never since been able to make good for this loss. His sheiks are rebellious and his realm divided, and the campaign should be won soon. As far as I know, the King’s intention is for a quick and sharp action to reduce Cyrenaika to little more than a minor buffer state between us and the powerful Fatimids.”

“And will we take part in the war?”, Charles asked with thinly veiled hope.

“I fear not”, Serlo said. “I am but to stockpile supplies and to assemble what little troops the King’s eastern African demesne yields, and the King himself will also bring a host from Sicily. Probably no more than five thousand altogether, but ample to deal with Zeyd. It falls to Leptis Magna to serve as a tactical reserve, in case the Fatimids involve themselves or Hashmaddin gets cocky while he thinks our backs are turned.”


Serlo had allowed himself a week with his family at Tripoli. He had been away for half a year, and had missed his son’s first birthday and his first halting steps. The Duke of Leptis Magna was fiercely proud of the tiny man, almost to the point of ridiculousness, as he was well aware himself. Still, he allowed himself this little indulgence. Here, finally, was the son he had waited for so long, and he was all he had hoped for.

A side-effect of little Godfrey was also that the marriage of Serlo had improved. Blanche seemed happier than ever, doting constantly upon her infant son and using all of her considerable energies on him. She hardly ever let any of the wet-nurses near Godfrey, and Serlo had already made a mental note that he would have to see to it that Blanche reined in her elaborations of care and affection as the boy became older, lest he turn into a spoiled weakling.

A rivulet of sweat was running down the Duke’s back. It was still early morning, but the August heat in North Africa was oppressive already at this time, especially as no breeze stirred the dust on the square. His presence at the public hanging was a mere formality, but it was better to show the infidels who their masters were, and so he had had the men-at-arms round up any native they could get hold of and drive them onto the main square of the town of Barqa to witness the death of the three score rascals. With the King away on his war against Zeyd, Serlo had been unwilling to sit by idly and had used the reinforcement left behind by Bohemond to conduct his own little campaign against the bandits plaguing Benghazi. The dozen of bands, well organized and numerous, had been a strange mixture of former soldiers, runaway serfs and adventurous tribesmen from the arid interior, and they had operated along the edge of the desert, emerging to strike and vanishing again like ghosts. Rooting them out had been tedious work, hot and thirsty and uncomfortable, but it had kept the fighting men in good shape and gave them experience in the mobile desert warfare, which had been a new to them. To the best knowledge of Serlo, the ample half hundred of men being hanged today were the last remaining marauders.


The hanging of so many was a drawn-out affair. The cross-beam between the two upright supporting posts didn’t fit more than three at once, and the jerking, twisting and kicking of the men as they were hoisted up took some time before they finally suffocated. A few of the sentenced had friends and relatives present who rushed to the hanged men and tugged desperately at their kicking legs to shorten their struggle, but the many former men-at-arms and bedouins had nobody to perform this service for them.

Annoyed by the slow proceedings, Serlo swatted another fly from his face with a flick of his gloves. At other official functions, he would wear them tucked neatly into the belt of his cotte, but the Muhammadans did not know the significance of this sign of judicial power anyway, and he had found the gloves to make a handy fly swatter. He would have much preferred sharing in the glory of his cousin’s smooth campaign.

The King was on his way back and would arrive at Barqa within the week. The war had turned out to be even easier as expected. Bohemond had come to Africa in March to assume command of the local forces, and when Marshall Charles had arrived with the troops from Sicily in April, the Normans had invaded the arid landlocked region of Senoussi. The King had decided not to attack Zeyd directly, but rather one of his vassals, so as to offer the Emir the choice to either involve himself in the hostilities or to sit idly by and watch while his followers’ lands were being seized an lose even his last shreds of prestige. With four thousand Norman fighting men advancing into Senoussi, Zeyd had chosen the former course of action and declared war upon the Normans.


But before Zeyd had been able to raise his army and involve himself, the King had met the tribal army of Sheik Abdul-Wahab of Senoussi in a desert battle and defeated it decisively. The Normans had suffered only token losses, but four out of five bedouin warriors had remained on the field. The Sheik had survived and fled the lost battle and offered to pay the Normans off with a small fortune, but Bohemond had of course refused and followed the retreating Abdul-Wahab into the deep desert, to the small fortified oasis town of Aujila, which he besieged. Here, another peace offer had reached the King, this time by Emir Zeyd himself. It seemed that the Emir had difficulties raising a sufficient host and had been getting second thoughts about his declaration of war. The King, who had had no intentions to cease hostilities so soon, had of course refused again.


By early June, the King had stormed Aujila after only three days of preparation and won control of Senoussi. He had then advanced upon another easy target, the coastal Sheikdom of Cyrenaika to the north. Sheik Ishaq of Cyrenaika had been one of the more rebellious followers of Emir Zeyd and had not long ago even risen up in arms against his lord. In this war, he had refused to support Zeyd or aid his southern neighbour Abdul-Wahab, for the very simple reason that his army had been completely annihilated in his failed rebellion against the Emir. Consequently, the defenseless Sheik Ishaq had tried to buy Bohemond off, again to no avail. Meeting no opposition whatsoever, the King had descended upon the prosperous coastal town of Derna and had stormed it after only a week of preparations.


By mid-July, the goal of the war had been reached and the King had offered Emir Zeyd, whose army was still nowhere near, a peaceful settlement. If Zeyd would formally acknowledge the Norman possession of all the lands he had lost to them, he would be spared further ravages of war and left to enjoy the insignificant remnants of his realm in peace. After some deliberation, Emir Zeyd had finally deemed it wiser to consent to these humiliating terms than to fight with with Bohemond.


And so the small had been over before the month of July was up. The goals, complete control of the larger region known as Cyrenaika and reduction of the Emirate of Cyrenaika, which now did not include any part of Cyrenaika proper, to a powerless buffer between the Normans and the Fatimids, had been achieved. The campaign had lasted no longer than four months with only a single engagemant fought and had cost little more Norman lifes than Serlo’s hanging today. With the new victory, the Normans did now control the North African coast for a stretch of thousand miles.


These were the thoughts that Serlo concerned himself with while trying to hide his boredom and annoyance at having to oversee the hangings of the bandits in the glare of the morning son. In a few days, his cousin would return to Barqa, once again the conquering hero. Bohemond had already sent word that he would not dally long but would soon return to Sicily, to see to his affairs in Europe. That meant a few days of preparation, than a few days of feasting, hunting, falconry and tales of the campaign, and then Serlo would be allowed to go home himself.



Hoel paced the chamber occupied by Serlo at the castle of Barqa. It was a tiny room, hardly befitting his master’s station, but with a king present, even a duke has to make way. Presently, after some days of revelry with plenty of good food of which Hoel had partaken most liberally, the King was leaving and Serlo was seeing him to his ship, but there was no reason to change rooms once more, as Serlo did not intend to stay at Barqa any longer. His own lands and his son called to him.

Hoel walked the two paces over to the narrow window slit and peered out at the King’s ship leaving the harbour. The squat craft was already a fair deal from the shore and making good way across the glittering expanse of water, to Sicily. Any moment now, Serlo would be back to his chamber. Hoel knew his master and friend long and well enough to realize that Serlo was certain to come to his chamber immediately to change from the courtly finery the King’s official presence required to less elaborate everyday wear. Usually, a body servant would be in attendance in the chamber to aid the Duke in changing, but Hoel had sent the boy away. He needed no witnesses for what had to be done.

The grizzled half-Breton veteran resumed his restless pacing of the chamber once again. Hoel had been in many tight situations and he had looked death in the eye more than once, but he would rather do it all over again than have to face the next hour. It was a ghastly duty, and none a rough-cut fighting man should be burdened with. But it was well known how close the Duke and his lifelong squire were, and so the messenger had approached Hoel, not daring to face Serlo himself.

Hoel turned to the sound of the door opening, feeling his guts tighten as he looked upon Serlo entering. There was surprise on the Duke’s lean face upon finding Hoel in his rooms, a surprise that quickly gave way to a furrowed brow and a look of alarm upon seeing the expression on his old companion's face. Was it so apparent that something was wrong?

“What is it, Hoel?”

His usually loud and hoarse voice tiny and scratchy, Hoel answered: “It is your son. He has caught a fever.”

The Duke’s mouth opening silently, eyes widening in mute terror. Hoel felt his throat tighten, unable to utter a word to answer the unspoken question. Clenching his eyes shut and squeezing his lips into a painfully thin line, all he managed were two grave nods.