Furor Normannicus

Sorry for the slight lull in activity here. I usually try to get in two chapters a week, but I am now also kept busy with Road to Jerusalem and lagging a bit here. But the next chapter is already in he making and should hopefully be up by tomorrow.

Anyhow, on to m replies to your kind comments, for which I do deeply thank you.

General_BT: Yeah, it was Bohemond’s best possible choice, with him obviously unwilling to acknowledge Silvester. And woe to Herman if he should really try waging war. Presently, he’s too cowed by his father, but this might of course change.

kadvael56: Gausbert has not shown any disloyalty in the past, and he does currently not have any reason to. But he should indeed tread carefully – there’s not only Silvester, but also a few more true-born sons of Bohemond. True, the eldest, Richard, is only just turning five, but Bohemond might well have a dozen more years in him…

phargle: Luckily for Herman, he does not seem to have powerful enemies. Neither Mauger of Benevento nor Roger Borsa of Campania have any reason to harm him, Renaud of the Marches is his father-in-law and thus grandfather to his heir Aubrey, Serlo will certainly not move against Herman, and Massimo of Calabria’s uncle and regent Henry is after the recent hostilities lying low, and Gaubert’s probably too apathic to bother with stomping his brother, even though he may now well be an enemy. If Herman desists from doing anything stupid, he might well enjoy his duchy for many decades to come.

I am very glad that you liked the passage about Hoel’s death. It is one of my pieces of writing I am really happy and content with. Even writing it, I felt touched by it myself, so thank you mentioning it.

coz1: Hoel did not play a big role, but he popped up here and then in the story, adding colour to Serlo. The half-Breton man-atarms has accompanied Serlo from their old home in Normandy, and been right there throughout Serlo’s many campaigns and his rise to power. With him, Serlo has lost his closest compatriot and a trusty friend – a device I did of course utilize on purpose, to begin winding down Serlo’s life. Which is not to say that I won’t miss Hoel as well.

And yes, Bohemond’s death would be a good time for Herman to make a play.

Arilou: It is indeed doubtful. Herman’s just too proud to stomach being robbed of the crown. But then he is also quite afraid of his father, and no warrior. When he plays his hand, it will most probably be by intrigue, something he fancies himself good at. He’s a “Naïve Puppetmaster”, after all.

Morsky: Hand me that champagne if you’re not going to drink it, will you?

So you’ve got what you’ve been rooting for. And yes, Yolanda’s really a lovely one, isn’t she? Now that she’s back to form, the body count is likely to mount once again. Not that she’s unable to kill while hurring to the privy, too.

demkratickid: Gausbert’s laziness is unfortunazte, but he is quite capable all around, especially militarily, so I think he was the best choice. Silvester might have been more interesting from a narrative viewpoint, kind of a worse Bohemond, but the engine has refused to give me any chance to acknowledge him.

Sematary: Gausbert is strong, true, strong enough to probably maintain the kingdom, but I have my doubts about expanding it. So much of a bother, you know?

newtype0083: Very true n all accounts, I’d say. Bohemond holds his kingdom’s reins with an iron fist, and his vassals are to divided to try to overthrow him by concerted action, which would be their only chance. And those who hate him fear him too much to step out of line, or else so dumb that they pose no threat.

And we’ll see about Gausbert. I have not yet played a single day of his rule, so I don’t know myself how he will fare.

Enewald: Frighteningly virile, in fact. All together, the old goat has fathered or still will father about a dozen children!

Jalex: Better for Gausbert and the realm, you mean. Well, Bohemond’s an autocrat, but a lot would have to happen for him to actually a true-born son of his. I can’t see him do much more than force any of those into a monastery.

Devin Perry: Sure. Gausbert’s decent, talented even, but he’s no Bohemond. And even for Bohemond, the rule wasn’t all smooth sailing, at least not with his brand of tyranny. I am also anxious to finally see how Gausbert will be doing.

For nigh on thirty years she had served him, served him dutifully and faithfully, served him with all the faculties at her command. She had abandoned her home and forgone seeing her sons grow into men, and she had earned the contempt and even hatred of her own people, all for the purpose of aiding them and protecting them from the depredations of the Christians.

She had wasted her life.

How on Earth had it only come to this? When young Bohemond had first come to Sicily, newly created a count by his late father King Robert, she had thought him just and open-minded, a sovereign prepared to treat his Muslim subjects no different than his Christian ones if only given a little guidance and a slight nudge in the right direction. How wrong she had been, how very wrong. It hadn’t been equal regard for all of his subjects, no, it had merely been an equal measure of total disregard for each and every one of his subjects, no matter what their creed. Zuhayra’s brothers in faith in had all the freedom they wanted to practice their religion – as long as none of them spoke up against Christendom, or Norman occupation, or the King. And this the imams wouldn’t do, couldn’t do. And so Muslims all over Africa were being killed in their hundreds and thousands and blessed mosques razed to the ground.

She hated the King, but not as much as she hated herself, to think that she had once even looked on him with affection. Bohemond was a scourge of her people, and he had made Zuhayra a scourge of her people as well – because she had allowed it, telling herself that without her the Muslims’ suffering would be even worse.

Zuhayra looked upon the three Christians sharing the sorry chamber of the castle of Lucera with her. They were gathered by the light of beeswax candles augmented by a few sooty tallow lamps, even though it was bright day – but the single narrow window slit in the grim stone wall was still shuttered tightly against the cold February breezes of the county of Foggia. Had the circumstances been any different, Zuhayra would be miserable at having to be so far north, and in winter of all times, but not this time, today she wasn't. It was her who had brought these men here, and her who was unleashing them upon their northern neighbours. Let the Christian dogs tear out each others’ throats as a change from preying on true believers.

Zuhayra knew that Bohemond was greedily eyeing Egypt and waiting for an opportunity to attack Mukhtar, the true Shiite Caliph of Islam. This must not happen. A diversion was needed, something to direct Norman attention elsewhere. Delving into documents from the earliest days of their rule in Italy, Zuhayra had been able to come up with some flimsy, trumped-up legal claims on the lordship over the north Italian commune of Modena and its lands, and just as expected, Bohemond had been all for pressing what she had presented as his ‘rights’ there.


And so the Chancellor’s machinations had brought them all to the castle of Lucera, to set in motion something that would hopefully devolve into a drawn-out war with Germany. Apart from Bohemond there was his Marshal Raoul de Macon and his bastard son Silvester, having travelled south from his home in Siena. It was these two men who the King wanted to lead the assault on Modena.

Zuhayra had finished explaining the legal foundation of the claim, but Count Silvester and Marshal Raoul had both been much more interested in what Bohemond had had to say once she had finished her piece, that he was intending to lay the campaign’s leadership in their hands. Silvester was smashing his ham of a fist down on the planks of the trestle table in excitement. The man was the spitting image of his father, only less tall, but even cruder and more brutish. “Very good, my lord King”, he bellowed. “Modena’s a rich prize, and Count Hugo no more than a lad. We will conquer him in no time.”


“Pressing your rights against Hugo von Babenberg will indeed be a matter of of only a couple of weeks, my lord King”, said Raoul. “But I am thinking of the larger picture. King Ciuccio will hardly tolerate an attack on a vassal of his.”

Zuhayra had already spoken of this to Bohemond, and the veil hid her smile as the King replied: “Ahead of your host I will send a messenger over the Alps, to Ciuccio. He will be told to stay out of this, and given the assurance that we will not advance any further, that it’s not so much an assault but merely a matter of retaking what’s mine by right. If he’s got half a brain, that should stay his hand. And if not, well, I’m not afraid of him.”

“Ciuccio’s hands are tied”, Silvester declared. “He’s still fighting his aunt’s war against King Peter, and half his nobles defy him more or less openly. He’s not even master of his own lands, how shall he threaten us?”


“I agree, I agree”, said Raoul. “But don’t let us forget that Count Hugo is highly connected. Two of his brothers are counts as well, holding lands close to the French border, I believe. And then there is their father – Leopold von Babenberg is Marshal of Germany. He won’t stand for Ciuccio sitting by idly while his son is attacked.”

“Two counts of the house of Babenberg”, Bohemond asked with a frown, turning to Zuhayra. “Is that so?”

Zuhayra did silently curse Raoul. For a marshal, the man was far too well informed of foreign affairs. “Yes and no, my lord King”, she replied. “King Ciuccio has very recently bestowed the county of Monferrato upon Berengar von Babenberg, but the supporters of King Peter do still contest it. Berengar is not yet in control of his lands, he is but a boy of sixteen years with little more than a claim and thus inconsequential for the matter at hand.”

“Even so”, Raoul said”, it goes to show that the von Babenbergs are held in high esteem by King Ciuccio and have a good deal of influence upon him.”

“The influential one is Marshal Leopold”, Zuhayra parried the Frank. “Wether he elevates another one of his sons into a position of power or not does not add anything to the picture. Yes, the von Babenbergs are influential with King Ciuccio, and yes, they will try to make him come to Hugo of Modena’s aid. They might well succeed, but there is a good chance that they might not, given all the trouble King Ciuccio’s has at his hands. And even if they do, it is still extremely doubtful that the German King can anytime soon free enough of his troops from his many other struggles to dispatch them across the Alps.”

“We do not fear Ciuccio”, barked Silvester. “What kind of king is that who isn’t even able to rule his own land? Ciuccio’s a weakling and a fool! Let him cross the Alps, I say –we are going to send him hurrying back with his tail between his legs!”


“We can defeat Ciuccio, no doubt”, Raoul admitted. “It might just be a more drawn-out affair than a minor foray into Modena, and we should be well aware of it.”

“I am aware of it”, Bohemond declared with finality, “but that will not keep me from having my rights. Modena is mine, and I intend to see it thus. And with the plan I have drawn up, Modena will have fallen long before any help can arrive.”


“And what is this plan, my lord King”, Silvester asked, the eagerness for battle written all over his uncouth features.

“You and Marshal Raoul will travel north in all speed, you to your own lands and Raoul to Urbino. You will there marshal your troops and lead them against Modena. Raoul, you will go north, descending the Apennine into Ravenna, and you will press on until you reach the Po river, which you will follow upstream, penetrating Modena from the east. Silvester, you will lead your troops north and west, by the way of Florence all through Tuscany, and you will climb the foothills of the Apennine above the town of Prato. You will then follow the valley of the Panaro to where it meets the Po, coming upon Modena from the south. The two of you will crush Hugo in a pincer movement.”

“Excellent”, laughed Silvester. “That German will never know what hit him.”

“Yes”, Raoul nodded his agreement as well, “that plan assures an easy victory. I am just not so sure about advancing through Tuscany. Ravenna is no problem, Count Malacresta will not dare oppose us, and he’s weak and excommunicated and friendless – sorry if I have to speak so frankly of your brother-in-law, Count Silvester.”

Silvester shrugged. “Think nothing of it. You speak truth.”

“Malacresta will cow behind the walls of Ravenna, and the Archbishop of Florence will also not oppose a Norman advance – but he’s a vassal of the Pope, and the Pope might well make trouble for you in the long run if you violate his territory, my lord King.”

“I have thought of it”, replied Bohemond, “but Clement will keep very silent if he knows what’s good for him. I am sitting astride Rome and I’ve got him by the throat. He knows that I will not hesitate to strangle him if he makes but one wrong move. No, I appreciate your concern, Raoul, but if there are no stronger arguments against my plan, we will go ahead with it.”

And Zuhayra watched with silent glee how Bohemond set out to antagonize the Pope and the German King.


Three months later, Zuhayra found herself in the realm’s farthest reaches, at Rocca Brisighella, a sorry little stone keep on the Apennines’ northern slopes, where Bohemond had taken up temporal residence to be close to the combat theatre of Modena. Both Raoul and Silvester had advanced according to the plan, and neither Ravenna nor Tuscany had dared oppose the Norman hosts traversing their countries. The two warlords had quickly reduced what scattered resistance their well-concerted pincer attack had been met with and had then moved on Modena, investing the town and besieging Count Hugo. Everything was unfolding in perfect accordance with Bohemond’s plan, but it was still to be revealed wether it was also going according to Zuhayra’s. Only today, King Ciuccio’s envoys had arrived, and Bohemond and his most important courtiers were drawn up in the keep’s cramped little hall to receive the men.

Three they were, knights all of them, two of them very young and angrily German-looking, their leader a man of middle age, an Italian from Brescia by the name of Guido. It was him who did the talking, in the language of the land.

“My lord King Ciuccio understands that you seem to believe to have a legal right to Modena”, Guido cut to the heart of the matter, “and he has referred your claims to his chancellor for close examination. The learned scholars in his employ have pondered your legal arguments, but they have come to the conclusion that they are weaker by far than my King’s own. His great-aunt, the late Queen Matilda, may her soul rest in peace, has inherited this lands from her father, Duke Bonifacio, to whom they had come by bequeathal of his father, Telaldo. It was Telaldo, lord of Brescia and descendant of the old house of the Lombard kings, who in anno domini 981 has by Emperor Otto II been elevated to the rank of Duke of Spoleto and been enfiefed with Ferrara and Modena. My King does thus possess Modena lawfully, passed down to him by a long line of direct ancestors, since times long before any Norman set foot in Italy.”

Guido’s delivery had been smooth and fluent, but during that last sentence of his, he had stumbled and faltered. Very softly, but still audible, a terrible, drawn out shriek of pain, full of anguished suffering, had wafted into the hall of Rocca Brisighella and had unbalanced Guido for a mere heartbeat. The Italian recovered his composure instantly and continued: “My lord King does therefore repudiate your claims on Modena. He is aware, though, that it was not avarice that has prompted you, lord King, to attack Modena, but an error – you believed yourself to be in the right. For that reason, he does not demand any indemnities for the damage your forces have already done to Modena, but merely…”

Another shriek of pain and anguish, this time loud enough to actually make Guido falter for a moment. With Bohemond on his wooden seat wearing an unreadable and maybe menacing smile, the Italian knight carried on: “…but merely that you do imediately raise your siege of Modena, withdraw back south of the Apennine and desist from claiming Modena as your own. Deny this reasonable and lawful request, and my lord King will have no choice but to descend upon you with all his might.”

Zuhayra’s heart made a tiny leap. Bohemond would never back down – King Ciuccio’s answer could only mean war with Germany. And indeed, after waiting for an instant if Guido had anything else to say, Bohemond replied: “All the arguments concerning the ownership of Modena have already been laid before my brother Ciuccio, and they do clearly point to the fact that it is mine, an heirloom from my mother’s house. The fact that it was given to Telaldo of Canossa by King Otto II is well known and meaningless, as this very deed was an unlawful one.”

Another shriek, slightly louder and thus audible almost clearly, penetrated the hall. Bohemond paused and inclined his head, as if to listen to the animal-like howl, the hint of a mirthless smile on his lips andhis eyes all the while fully upon Guido, who was beginning to look decidedly uneasy. When the terrible wail had subsided, Bohemond continued: “Tell my brother that he has brought ruin upon himself by is obstinate stance. He threatens me with war? Very well. It is I who shall come to him, and I shall carry war in my hand. He tells me that his forebears were given Modena and Ferrara and Spoleto lawfully? Very well. I shall make war upon him until he publicly swears holy oaths hat all his claims to these lands were lies from the beginning, malicious lies, and he proclaims that they are lawfully mine and always have been.”


Bohemond rose from his seat, towering in his full giant height. “Now go”, he commanded. “Go and tell my brother what you have seen and heard here, and how he has on this very day undone himself.”

As the German envoys bowed stiffled and left, Zuhayra did silently exult. War with Germany, of a grander scale than what she had hoped for.


The envoys of King Ciuccio had not yet quite left Rocca Brisighella when the screams had subsided. Queen Retha had come through her labours, and she had born Bohemond another son, who was going to be named Henry.


Bohemond had paid almost no attention to wife and son, he had plunged right into planning his war with Germany. Riders had been sped to assemble the armies of Foggia, which Bohemond intended to unite with those of Urbino and Siena and lead into Ferrara in person. During these busy days of preparations, word had arrived from the north, word that Modena had fallen and that Count Hugo, who had taken refuge in the town’s keep, had capitulated. In exchange for a safe conduct north of the Alps, the German had handed over his treasury and forsworn his titles to Modena.


Not very much later, little more than a month after the envoys had left Rocca Brisighella, Bohemond and his host had embarked north, to meet Raoul and Silvester at Modena and to press on into Ferrara. The entire court, and with it Queen Retha, the infant Henry, and of course Zuhayra, had been sent south, back to Lucera in the county of Foggia, from where Zuhayra was to conduct the business of the realm and keep in touch with her liege on campaign.

The news Zuhayra kept receiving from the north were not good – at least not for her. There were no German forces south of the Alps, and with King Ciuccio engaged in Germany proper would in all probability also not arrive before the next spring at the earliest. Bohemond met with virtually no resistance. Most of the Ferrarese knights and their retainers were north, in Germany, aiding their king against his many enemies, and the land was lying bare against the Norman assault. By August, all of Ferrara was firmly in Norman hands, and it was feeling Bohemond’s fury. Determined to teach Ciuccio a lesson, the King had unleashed his bastard upon the land, and Silvester had raped Ferrara thoroughly. Hundreds, maybe thousands, had been slain for sport, and many, many more mutilated, violated or orphaned. Ferrara was reaping what Zuhayra had sown, and she was glad of it.


When the Chancellor learned of all this, Bohemond was already on the march to Mantua, the one remaining county south of the Alps held by King Ciuccio in person; Mantua was as bare of troops as Ferrara had been, and it was to be next in sampling Bohemond’s wrath.

While he was marching to Mantua, a rider brought two more messages of the King to Lucera. One was addressed to Yolanda and of little consequence to Zuhayra – Bohemond had promised his twice widowed daughter’s hand to his marshal Raoul de Macon, and the wedding was to be conducted as soon as Raoul returned from the field. But it was the other message that almost stopped Zuhayra’s heart for joy. It was a mere note of the King. A papal envoy had sought Bohemond out soon after setting out from Ferrara, bringing the censure of Pope Clement and demanding an immediate cessation of hostilities. Bohemond had the men-at-arms drive the bishop from his camp.

Hello folks! Before I address your kind comments, for which I thank you heartily, I’d like to tell you a little historical tidbit – one that I’ve already told you, in fact. Modena and Ferrara and Spoleto did really come into the family of Matilda of Canossa in exactly the way I have described in the previous chapter, something I only learned while doing research for it. It is a coincidence that I had Bohemond in the game claim or usurp all three in at about the same time – but a very lucky one that fits very well into the story.

Anyway, enough prattle, on to the feedback!

Enewald: Yes, another marriage for Yolanda. And not her last one either, I can tell you that.

Sematary: Ah, Zuhayra. Good that you mentionher, that affords me the opportunity to talk a little bit about her.

I inroduced her as a point-of-view character at a junction of the story where the realm had become too big for Serlo, who had by then a county of his own to rule, to serve as narrator for all events. I needed somebody closer to the court. I thought of Yolanda, but then I decided that having readers peak into her head would be a decidedly unpleasant experence, so I settled on Zuhayra.

It was a mediocre decision. Female officers are an oddity of the game that make for some awkwardness in themselves, but when such an officer is married Muslim woman and mother of several kids leaving her husband and home to perform her duties, things become weird indeed. I’ve always had trouble coming up with an at least remotely believable motivation for her to serve Bohemond, and I think that I have succeeded here. She did initially place her hopes in him as a protector of all Muslims, especially Shiites, when she began to realize that these hopes were hollow she stuck with him because of her crush for him, and when his atrocities against Muslims became too gross she felt that she had to stay in office to prevent worse, and now, in what is probably the last phase of her character development, she fulfills her duties as she hopes to be able to use her office to harm Bohemond and the Normans.

The problem with Zuhayra is twofold. The first and simpler is that I myself never really “got” her in the way I “got” Serlo, and so she stayed wooden. The major one is probably that she simply isn’t a likeable character at all. She is callous towards fellow Muslims of the Sunnite creed and for some time blinded by her mushiness for Bohemond, and she has a tendency to use and abuse other people, like Yolanda’s first husband Demetrios, and she’s very heartless herself, more bigotted than devout.

I am afraid that she is a poorly portrayed treasonous character without any redeeming features. Maybe I do still find the approach to her, but I doubt it.

Devin Perry: Yes, Raoul already has one foot in the grave. I’ll sneek-preview you that he is going to die in an as yet novel way for a husband of Yolanda’s.

coz1: You seem to persistently want me to go into Iberia. Some obsession of yours, maybe? Anyhow, Bohemond’s not going to do that, his interests lie mainly in in the east, in Greece and in Egypt. But if Gausbert is really to succeed, things might change. Gausbert feels very strong ties to his mother's people (he is of Catalan culture, after all) and might feel called upon to liberate them.

But the peninsula is certainly something that interests Bohemond. Pisa’s currently very friendly with the Normans and ruled by Bohemond’s nephew Osmond, so he won’t touch it, but maybe the Pope has to be taught a lesson. He’s got himself five juicy provinces in central and northern Italy.

demokratickid: That new pope, Clement III, is indeed a tough bone. Like I have mentioned in the last history-book interlude, he is going to make quite a lot of trouble for Bohemond.

Morsky: Get out! Protestantism, pfh! If anything, Bohemond and his Normans are going to convert to Orthodoxy – once he is Emperor of Constantinople.

phargle: Yes, Zuhayra’s plan is off to a nice start. The trouble with it is just that the German king is very preoccupied with revolts north of the Alps and isn’t quite the threat to Bohemond she would wish him to be. Looking at his attributes one realizes that this Ciuccio’s a real nincompoop.

And Bohemond’s not so much cranky as becoming ever shorter of temper, I’d say; this is at least how I like to interpret him acquiring the Reckless trait. Where most people tend to become more mellow and patient as they amass years, Bohemond has decided that he’s had enough of opposition. He will not put up with any anymore – not that he has ever yielded to it in the first place. But as he becomes older, he also seems to become more viscious. If people oppose him, he hurts them – but not gentle, like he would have done twenty years ago, but bad. :wacko:

So let’s just hope he isn’t excommunicated, or if he is that Serlo doesn’t live to rise up against him.

General_BT: It’s a real shame that the game engine doesn’t allow you to force the pope at swordpoint to revoke an excommunication. Anyhow, I can already think of a way to weave just that into the story without deviating too far from actual gameplay.

kadvael56: With a King Ciuccio, they could not even win with an atomic bomb.

Snaking out from between the groves of date palms and the flowering fig and pomegranate trees dotting the well-irrigated field where wheat and millet were just losing the fresh green of the early African spring and beginning to take on that golden hue of harvest time, the dirt road made its way into the village. Among the poor hovels of sun-dried mudbrick were a few larger houses, initially whitewashed, but long since ochre from the the dust carried on the hot dry winds. The men and boys of the village had all turned out and were lining the road to either side, but their faces displayed no joy at watching the colourful cavalcade of several hundred riders file by. They had been turned out by their lord to watch the spectacle, but their dusky Berber faces were all set and sullen. Try as he might, the people of Africa had little love for Duke Serlo, but they did downright hate the King, and even though they were guarded about it, it was plain enough in their faces as Serlo and his cousin were riding by.

“Don’t give me that look, cousin – you’re not my teacher anymore, and I’m not a green boy”, Bohemond laughed, shifting his weight in the saddle. “I just had to attack Mu’izz, war with Ciuccio or not. The time was perfect, my every instinct told me so – Mu’izz would’ve never thought it posible that I’d attack him while I had another war going. But you and I, we both know King Hashmaddin well enough to realize he’s a craven. I just knew that he would be cowed.”

Serlo and the King were riding to Tripoli, Serlo’s favourite residence. The Duke had set out with a host of retainers to meet his cousin’s large party and to give him honourable escort. Riding side by side like they did, in the wan of the large cavalcade but slightly apart from their many companions, was a rare opportunity for the two cousins de Hauteville to speak in some privacy, and there was much Serlo desired to learn at first hand. Bohemond had started a war against the Germans, subdued first Modena and then Ferrara and Mantua with blinding speed, and he had terribly raped the latter two counties, first and foremost to do lasting damage to the revenue King Ciuccio could draw from these lands, but also to strike terror into his heart. With the year drawing to a close and the Alpine passes already blocked up with early snows, Bohemond had left his armies in northern Italy and travelled south, to Tunis, to see to his affairs in Africa. He had only been here for a week when he had decided that the time was right to start a second little war, this time with the Hammadids, almost as if to tide him over the winter.


“While I advanced into Annaba”, Bohemond continued his account of his expedition against the Hammadids, “I sent an envoy ahead, to Hashmaddin, warning him in no uncertain terms to stay out of it. And know what? He did, he really did! While I was making war on his very own appointed governor, he sat idly by and tried to look unconcerned. God, I wish I’d have had more time, I’d conquered that coward’s remaining lands then and there. But then it's mostly worthless mountains anyhow. There are richer prizes.”

Bohemond flicked away a fly having settled on his sweaty brow; February was just turning into March, but it was already hot in Africa. “But that Mu’izz guy was made of a sterner stuff than his cowardly master”, Bohemond continued. “A fierce devil he was, and proud. He had but twelve hundred men, but he still met my three thousand in open battle. He drew up on the high ground, with a gentle but broken slope impeding our cavalry charge protecting him. I’ll give you the full account later, but suffice to say that despite his position I crushed him. Not a third of his men got away alife, while I lost less than fifty. Mu’izz himself was among the dead, he had fought bravely to the end. Makes you almost feel sorry for him, he’d have deserved better than a master who’d let him fend all for himself.”


“With Mu’izz dead and his army either slain or routed, the war was all but over. I advanced on his town, Bouna, and the citizens sent me a delegation to negotiate terms of surrender. When I told them that they could either surrender without terms or find out what I’d do if I had to take their town by force, they did quickly forget their prattle about conditions and such.”

Bohemond hawked and spat into the dust of the road before finishing: “And that was it. No more than ten weeks after setting out from Tunis I was already back in that city. The entire expedition was more like a stroll around the bailey than a proper campaign. But then I had of course been quite sure that Hashmaddin would be too frightened to oppose me.”


A mental image came to Serlo unbidden, of young Bohemod, then a neglected and dishevelled but already huge boy roaming Robert Guiscard’s household, and how he had already then struck terror into the hearts of the stablehands and serving boys. “You’ve come a long way, my lord King”, he said, one side of his mouth twisted into a tiny lopsided smile.

The King shot Serlo a sharp glance, then his mouth split into a grin. “We both have, I reckon”, he said.

“But what about this business with the Pope? I hear he has called for the liberation of the Holy Land?”

“I don’t know much more about this either”, Bohemond replied. “Clement made his address only shortly before I left for Africa, and you know what scant news comes across the sea in winter. Seems he has admonished all good Christians to charge in and free Jerusalem from the clutches of the heathen. Good luck to him, and good riddance!”


“But are others rallying to the call?”

“It’s too early to tell, but I’ve heard of none. And I don’t think many will be as mad. They will all applaud Clement’s initiative, and do nothing. But the move will gain that wily bastard quite some prestige, I’m afraid. Leadership of Christendom and all that rubbish.”

Serlo replied with one his noncomittal grunts. He didn’t like it when his cousin talked with such disrespect of the Holy Father. But then Bohemond had never shown the least piety, and the Pope’s demands half a year previous must have prejudiced him against the Holy Church ever more firmly.

“Speaking of the Pope”, Serlo resumed the conversation, “what about the war with Germany? What are your plans here, my lord King?”

Bohemond hesitated for a heartbeat before replying. “Been a bit rash there”, he said through his teeth. “Lost my temper when that worm Ciuccio tried to gainsay my perfectly legal right to Modena. Well, can’t be helped now, I have to see it through.”

Bohemond swatted again at the fly that seemed to have a special taste for royal sweat. “I left Raoul and Silvester up north”, he said, “to guard my conquests and to be ready to intercept any German army that should pass over the Alps once the snow melts. Not much of a chance for that happening, though. When they learned that their King was now also at war with me, a good handful of Ciuccio’s vassals jumped at the opportunity to shirk their duties to their lord. Thuringia, for once, and also Bavaria. Not to forget Frisia and Lower Lorraine and Meissen and quite a few counties, too, who were all pissing on Ciuccio’s name even before that. As long as he has not brought them to heel, Ciuccio can’t think of venturing into Italy. With all the trouble he’s got at his hands, I thought he might be wiling to have me off his back, so I sent him an offer of peace. ‘twould have freed him to deal with his wayward vassals, if only he would have forgone his rights to Modena, Ferrara and Spoleto.”


“Damn fool refused me. What does he hope to gain, I ask you? Does he think he stands a chance against me? All his refusal does is cause trouble for me! Now I shall have to send an army north of the Alps, to lay waste to Ciuccio’s demesne until he agrees to my demands.”

Bohemond seemed more irritatd than genuinely angry. “Ciuccio’s delaying me for no reason. It’s not his sorry German lands I’m after, the price I want is here in Africa, right there”, he said, jabbing his right towards the eastern horizon ahead of the cavalcade. “Half the trade of the Mediterranean runs by Alexandria, and I want that wealth for us Normans. And I can’t wait forever – it’s not like we were young men anymore.”

“But you don’t have any immediate plans for an attack on Egypt”, Serlo asked. He was worried that his cousin might start a war with the Fatimids, once again on the ascendence under Caliph Mukhtar, while the one with Germany was still going on.

“No, no, don’t worry”, Bohemond answered, his irritation still palpable. “How could I, with the damned Pope breathing down my neck and my northern flank exposed?”

For a short while, the King fell silent, and he and Serlo rode side by side through the lush coastal farmland surrounding Tripoli. Then, all of a sudden, without as much as even turning his head, Bohemond Spoke again. “But I shall make them pay for opposing me”, he said. “I shall make them pay dearly.”


“I’ll visit you again soon”, Serlo promised as he pushed himself off the cold, hard stone floor. His right knee, where he had been hit by a Muhammadan sword at Capua, was giving him trouble lately. He had always felt that old wound, but only since a year or two it was becoming really painful, even when riding. It had taken the joy out of hunting for Serlo, and he didn’t take to the chase anymore, as much as he had formerly loved it. His last hunt had been over half a year ago, a lion hunt held in honour of Bohemond’s visit. Serlo had grit his teeth and participated like a good host had to, but it had been more of a chore than a delight. Bohemond, on the other hand, had been as tireless as twenty years ago. Serlo’s cousin was by now far from young himself, but he seemed to be impervious to time; he even looked ten years younger than he was.

Serlo strode over to the chapel’s door, a sun-bright rectangle set in the nave’s cool semi-darkness. In front of the door he turned to the altar, dropped again to one knee and made the sign of the cross. With a last gaze at Hoel’s grave slab in front of which he had been kneeling in silent prayer, he made to leave the small church. I should’ve had him buried in the palace chapel, he thought, and damned be custom and propriety and all. Hoel had been a far better man than many entitled to such honours – but he’d also been a low-born bastard of unsure parentage, and having him buried in one of Tripoli’s common churches had been the best even a duke had been able to achieve in face of the bishop’s resitance.

Most lay in less hallowed ground, Serlo consoled himself as he stepped out into the blinding glare of the square, past the man-at-arms standing guard at the door to keep his master’s privacy of prayer. There were two other mercenaries crouching down near the tethered horses, dicing in the square’s dust, and then there was Stephen of Sidr, engaged in mock combat with Serlo’s young son, Richard. It was mainly for his benefit that he took along the guards, even though his Marshal, faithful Henry d’Acerenza, was of course right about asking Serlo to cut on the frequency of his visits to Hoel. He was in the habit of coming three times a week at least, and his visits were becoming predictable for anybody who meant him harm.

Very soon, the five men and the boy were once again mounted and making their slow way through the winding streets of Tripoli. Two men in front and two men in the back, Serlo was riding alongside Richard on his piebald pony. He tried to take his sons on as many outings as possible – he didn’t want him to grow up only in the seclusion of castles and know nothing of the people he would one day rule.

“Stephen and I have been playing knight and heathen”, Richard declared. “He has defended himself well, but I have slain him. Four times.”

“What has that heathen done to you that you needed to slay him”, Serlo asked of his son.

“He was an enemy of Jesus”, the boy said. “Father Foulques says all enemies of Jesus need to be punished.”

Father Foulques, the confessor of Serlo’s wife, was a devout and learned man and one of Richard’s teachers, but the Duke didn’t like the ideas about the Muhammadans he seemed to be placing in his son’s head. The Normans were a minority in this land, after all, and they had to live with the infidels. “Muhammadans are not bad people”, Serlo said. “They are merely in error. They have been misled by a false prophet, and they will suffer for it dearly in the afterlife.”

“Father Foulques says they are enemies. He says that this Turkish king was a great enemy of Jesus, and that we should rejoice and give thanks that the Lord did smite him.”

“Don’t repeat such nonsense, do you hear”, Serlo said, more sharply than he had wanted. “King Malik Shah was an menace to all Christians and has done our brothers in faith in Asia great harm, but he was also a brave and honourable man, a great warrior, and a great ruler. One should not rejoice at the death of such a man.”

News of the death of the Seljuk’s King had come to Tripoli only yesterday. For twenty and five years Malik Shah had sat the throne in Baghdad, and he could have sat it for ten more, had his horse not stumbled during the hunt and thrown his rider in such an unfortunate way that his neck was broken. It was a sorry way for the greatest ruler under the sun to pass away, and it did not bode well for the Christendom. His son Börü, who followed him to the throne, was said to be a fanatically devout man. With the limitless power of the Seljuk realm at his command, this was a worrying development.


“Father Foulques says that Heaven rejoices at the death of the wicked”, Richard persisted stubbornly. “Is that not so? He says Heaven will also rejoice once the King dies.”

“Hush, boy, that’s stupid, treasonous talk. The King’s my lord, and will one day be your lord. Don’t shame me or yourself by talking treason. Right or wrong, you will stand by your sworn lord, do you hear, and when you judge him let it in be in private. Your thoughts and your conscience are your own, but your loyalty does belong to your lord, always, and without reservation. I’d rather see you dead and my house come to an end than have you break a holy oath of fealty.”

“Sorry, father”, Richard said in a small, miserable voice that made Serlo rue his outbreak. It wasn’t the boy he was angry with, he knew, it was himself, for that one time when he had faltered and come so very close to commit the ultimate treason. “All’s well”, he said, bending down from his palfrey to ruffle Richard’s hair. “Just remember your duty to your lord.”

“Yes, father”, Richard said, and then, after a short pause: “Even when the lord is a heretic and an assassin?”

Serlo sighed. “The King’s no heretic. Yes, I know, the Pope says so, but when you become older, you will realize that the Pope doesn’t always speak with the voice of the Lord. Sometimes, the Pope does say things which, well, aren’t exactly lies, but not completely true either. He does not do so out of malice, like a common liar, but because he thinks that some greater good will come of it. That’s why he is saying that the King is a heretic, because he thinks that good will come of it.”

The explanation sounded lame in Serlo’s ears, but he was hoping that it was good enough for a seven year old boy. The rift between Pope Clement and Bohemond had become ever deeper in the previous half year, and Bohemond had opened himself wide to the Pope’s attack. His complete disregard for the papal appeal to free the Holy Land would have been notig in itself – nobody had followed it. But there had been other occasions, like the alleged murder of Prince Alexios Attaleiates’ eight year old son and heir Manuel to elevate Bohemond’s son Richard to the succession of Dyrrachion. There was no proof as to Bohemond’s responsibility, the boy seemed to have died of a short but violent illness, but the many unfortunate deaths in the Attaleiates family seemed to very strongly suggest Bohemond, even more so when one considered the similar stroke of misfortune having befallen the Montefeltros of Ravenna. All across Italy and well beyond, priests were laying the blame for these deeds squarely at Bohemond’s door, and the nobles were eager to listen. There were few things that upset the aristocracy so much than foul play to eradicate one noble house in favour of another, and their opinion had turned very much against Bohemond.


And there was more still. Bohemond had indeed sent an army north, into Germany, with the order to lay waste to Ciuccio’s lands. Normally, not much of what went on on the far side of the Alps became known to Serlo, but the atrocities commited by Bohemond’s warlord Raoul de Macon in the county of Steiermark had shaken all of Europe and sent their shockwaves even into distant Africa.

And Pope Clement had capitalized on all of this. He had removed himself from Rome and thus the immediate grasp of Bohemond and from the relative safety of the church’s remote holdings at Pavia was branding Bohemond a murderer and tormentor of fellow Christians. It seemed clear enough that Clement tried to create an atmosphere in which Bohemond would be viewed as some kind of Antichrist and his eventual excommunication regarded as just and justified. Nothing else could be the Pope’s aim, save maybe having Bohemond bend his knee to him – not something that was likely to happen on this side of hell, Serlo knew.

Bohemond was fighting back with all his might. He was not striking at the Pope dirctly and with armed force, as this would only provide Clement with that last proof of godlessness he needed to excommunicate Bohemond, but much more subtly. Serlo had learned that all across Europe, Bohemond was lacing the pockets of bishops and abbots with gold, buying their support against the Pope. And while many bishops and abbots spoke up publicly against the heretic Norman King, others were speaking against their Pope, questioning the lawfulness of his election at Florence and the purity of his motives in attacking Bohemond. It was a war of opinion that was being waged between Clement and Bohemond, and it was for Bohemond no less expensive than an actual war waged with armies – and more dangerous, if anything.