Guaimar could feel his nails digging into his palms; how could this walking paradigm of treachery talk so when he had aided Byzantium in the crushing of the last Lombard revolt. That was what had cost him Capua and made him a prisoner in Germany!
‘We have not succeeded,’ Pandulf continued, ‘because we have not been united under the right leader.’
The boy could see where this was going and decided he had to cut off the flow of lies and self-justification to which he knew he was about to be exposed.
‘And you wish to unite us?’
Pandulf was clearly animated, as he rattled off an incoherent plan to bring together all the Lombard magnates of South Italy, into a great confederation; of course, under his banner. He would unite all the Normans as welclass="underline" he had the means to buy the service of every band in the region and that would deprive the enemy of their prowess. With a mighty host he would throw Constantinople out of the whole of their Italian fiefs.
‘And then, Guaimar, we can tell Conrad Augustus to go hang as well, to stay in Germany and out of our affairs. Finally, we will be free.’
‘Do you not owe Conrad a great deal? Did he not free you?’
That earned Guaimar a pout. ‘I, boy, owe nothing to anyone.’
Guaimar was no stranger to the notion of Lombard independence, of a great kingdom that would embrace the southern half of Italy; he had heard it from his father all his growing years. It was a dream constantly alluded to and never realised because unity amongst the various rulers was impossible. Even with his stiffening of the Normans he had engaged as mercenaries, Melus, the last leader to try had been badly defeated, as much by internal squabbling and treachery as the army sent by the Eastern Emperor. Even the Normans had been chastened by that lost battle.
‘And Guaimar,’ Pandulf continued, in a silky voice, ‘do not doubt there will be rewards for those who aid me, great rewards. Pandulf knows how to be a prince, and one day, we must hope, a king.’
Was it possible? Guaimar did not know, though on balance he saw it as doubtful. There was only one thing of which he was sure: he would not ever follow this man, who now held him with both hands on his shoulders, beaming into his face. Then one arm was thrown round his waist and he felt himself propelled forward.
‘Come, let us eat. Your sister and my wife will be waiting.’
The dinner had been a trial. Both youngsters were exhausted by the travel, and even more so by the endless stream of Pandulf’s grand designs, the flow of which was as ceaseless as the rich food and fine wines. Eventually even a man as insensitive as their host realised they were falling asleep at his board, and he called for candle bearers to light them to their chambers.
Guaimar, tired as he was, still felt it necessary to ensure his sister was safe and comfortable, and so went to her chamber. About to gently knock, he saw that the door was very slightly ajar, and he pushed with outstretched fingers, swinging it open silently. Berengara was standing with her back to the far wall, her hair loose and in a shift, her hands pressed against the stones and clearly, by her expression, deeply distressed. He knew it was Pandulf, with his back to him, even although he was partly disrobed. Seeing her saviour, his sister’s eye swung to meet his, and that forced Pandulf to turn round at speed.
His shirt was open, and so were his breeches; the man was obviously aroused, it was in his eyes as well, and it took him a moment to come out of that state and realise that whatever he had intended was not now possible. Caught in the act of seeking to deflower Berengara he yet had about him the wits, or was it the ready ability to tell a barefaced lie, which had served him so well.
‘I came to bid your sister a good night’s sleep before going to my wife.’
‘As did I,’ Guaimar snapped.
There was a moment when the youngster wondered what Pandulf would do. He had the power to call armed men to remove Guaimar, the power to do with Berengara this night as he pleased. The youngster never knew what it was that persuaded him to snatch up his jacket from the floor and leave. Was it that he needed the boy as an ally? Was it the proximity of his wife; she would be disturbed by any commotion? The one thing it would not be was remorse at having been discovered, of that he was sure.
‘Then that is a duty I leave to you,’ Pandulf said.
‘I would like that we return to Salerno tomorrow,’ Guaimar said as Pandulf came abreast of him. The Wolf paused for a moment, flashed that engaging smile as though nothing suspect was happening, and nodded.
As soon as he was gone he had Berengara weeping in his arms. Having got her into the large bed, settled her down and waited till she went to sleep, he spent an uncomfortable night lying across the now closed door.
Guaimar was once more in the company of the Archbishop of Salerno, this time in his episcopal palace, set in the hills above and away from the filth and stink of the city. From the balcony, across his manicured gardens, they could see the wide sweep of the Bay of Salerno shimmering in the summer heat, set off by the sparkling blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea. In the harbour lay the ships that brought so much wealth from the Levant to Italy; to the boy it was like looking at a constant stream of gold, the river of wealth that had, over five centuries of Lombard rule, raised his family to magnificence. He was not here for the view, but for enough of that commodity to make a journey, from one of the few sources of funds he could, with some safety, tap.
Not utterly disposed to refuse to part with money, this high cleric had to go through the ritual insistence on poverty, the diocese being much put upon by those seeking charity. ‘The church of Salerno is not wealthy, my son. Our new overlord has set a high tariff on our coffers.’
‘I doubt you gifted Pandulf all the plate my father gave you.’
There was hesitation before the truthful reply. ‘We preserved some, with difficulty.’
The archbishop, as he said those words, could not help but look like a thief and it was an unchristian thought in the boy to think him that. The man was bent in the back from age and some affliction of the bones, while his head was permanently tilted to one side, the whole subject to some slight palsy. That did not explain a certain shiftiness in his eyes, which with his broad nose, flabby cheeks and loose lips created an impression of a man naturally given to larceny.
‘It is the use of that which I seek from you.’
‘The gifts your father gave to us were made to Holy Church, my son. They are not my personal possessions of which to dispose.’
‘I must ask you, Your Eminence, how you think the church of Salerno will fare under the thumb of Prince Pandulf, especially if he discovers what you have withheld from him?’
That got Guaimar a sharp look; was this boy threatening to reveal what had been withheld? ‘I fear we will not prosper. He is rapacious, as you know, and we have our garrison of Normans in your old home to enforce that which he wishes. They too prey on the tithes we receive, money which should be transmitted to Rome.’
‘And how would that same church, as well as Rome, fare under my family restored?’
The head, already wobbly, shook with firm resolve. ‘A speculation, my son, for which I might pray, but I dare not hope.’
‘A speculation that might be worth investment.’ The old man did not reply. ‘There are powers greater than those of Pandulf.’
‘You refer to Bamberg and Constantinople?’ Guaimar nodded. ‘They are distant, my son.’
‘If they could be persuaded to take up our cause…’
The interjection was quite sharp. ‘Our cause, Guaimar? I cannot see the Emperor Michael or his wrinkled harlot, Zoe, taking up our cause.’
The nuances of that remark were profound: Michael was Byzantine Emperor by marriage, a young husband, risen from the position of secret lover to an empress in her sixth decade who had already exhausted one spouse. It was a liaison seen as typical of the corrupt court over which they held sway. Yet it was the other point that was significant to this cleric: Constantinople was the seat of the Orthodox Church.