The stars shone in boundless silence, and the night stretched deep and dark.
On the evening of December 22nd, 1095, howling winds ravaged all across southern Italy.
They swept over hills and broke the trees.
But when they reached Messina in Sicily, they were helpless before the stout stone fortress atop a low hill.
Constructed entirely of granite, the keep stood two stories tall. A heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands sealed off the entrance. Narrow slits—barely fit to be called windows—were shuttered with wooden planks. Such a fortress, so tightly secured, would not fall to mere winter winds.
Inside the great hall of the castle, firewood blazed under the hearth spit, throwing shadows that flickered against the walls.
Yet the people casting those shadows stood silent and unmoving, like statues of stone.
All eyes were fixed on the old man seated at the head of the hall.
His long white hair was tied back, his weathered skin a ruddy bronze, sagging around the eyes.
Perhaps the hall was too warm, for he wore only a round-necked tunic—far too thin to conceal his immense frame. Thick joints and powerful muscles bulged beneath his arms, and ropey veins snaked along his forearms. The skin on his body, normally hidden from the sun, was pale as polar ice—a legacy of pure ancestral blood.
His hands were pressed together, fingers resting on his knees, forehead bowed as if in prayer.
But his eyes were shut, and his eyeballs shifted rapidly beneath the lids—
He was asleep.
---
A bead of sweat rolled down his brow, clinging to his lashes.
He felt it—deep, bone-deep fatigue.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. The droplet flew off his lash.
The setting sun to the west blazed into his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
He turned around—before him stood his battle-worn comrades.
They were exhausted, wounded, soaked in blood. Their armor was torn, dented, shattered.
He did a rough count. Many familiar faces were missing from the 130 knights and 300 foot soldiers he'd brought with him.
But those who remained—every one of them had the same unwavering look in their eyes.
They were waiting.
Waiting for his order.
Even if it meant riding into hell, they would follow without hesitation.
He turned back. The battlefield before him was littered with corpses—his brothers among them, but many more were enemies.
Fresh blood streamed from the fallen, trickling down the mountain path, pooling among shattered stones like a slow-moving stream.
The stones weren't really black.
They were red—dried blood, caked in layers.
This was the fourth day.
Three days of probing skirmishes, and a full day of assaults like crashing waves.
How many times had the enemy attacked now?
He shook his head, pushing away the fog in his mind.
He knew the end was near.
Though they had repelled every enemy charge thus far,
The final moment had come.
His hoarse voice roared out:
"Mount up!"
The soldiers brought over the horses—fresh and energetic, having fought on foot for four days straight.
He swung into the saddle, stroked his steed's neck like caressing a lover.
The spirited warhorse slowly calmed under his touch.
He didn't need rage.
What he needed—was discipline.
Iron discipline.
He turned back.
The knights were already mounted, lances upright like a forest.
Even the foot soldiers who could ride had climbed onto nags and formed ranks behind.
This time—there would be no reserves.
"Advance!"
Their horses stepped over bodies, crossed rivers of blood, and wound their way along the cliffside trail.
The blinding sunset flared again in his eyes—and with it, a vast black cloud on the horizon.
The black cloud churned and writhed.
Backlit by the sun, he couldn't see clearly—but he already knew.
He'd known on the very first day.
It was them—thirty-five thousand infidels, drawn up in full force before him.
And now, he had no choice left.
"Faster!"
His warhorse surged forward. Wind howled past his ears.
The knights came up beside him, knee to knee, their lances aligned like a wall.
Their hooves pounded in rhythm, then unified, then merged—into the sound of a war hammer, pounding again and again on the war drum of the world.
The mountains trembled beneath its beat.
The black cloud seethed more violently now, as if demons were ready to leap forth.
But he no longer cared.
His heart was calm, utterly calm.
Only one thought remained—
Rip it all apart.
Tear it to shreds.
Shatter everything before me.
He roared: "CHARGE!"
The horses broke into full gallop.
Lances leveled.
Everyone screamed together: "In the name of God!"
---
"Hallelujah!"
"God bless!"
"Long live the Count!"
The old man's eyes flew open.
No infidels.
No battlefield.
Just the familiar great hall.
The cheers rang out around him.
He blinked, regaining focus.
Then, humbly, he crossed himself in repentance—for falling asleep in the middle of a prayer.
A maid stepped forward, cradling a blood-slick newborn in her arms.
"My lord, Lady Adelaide has given birth to a son. Please, grant him a name."
The old man's joy burst forth like a geyser.
"Ah! Praise be to God!"
He took the infant in one broad hand, lifting him high.
"Roger. We shall call him Roger."
"Waaah!"
The little bundle wailed as if gravely insulted.
"Long live Roger!"
"Glory to Hauteville!"
Cheers erupted from all sides, louder with each cry.
The old man bellowed above them all:
"I grant him my name—Roger Hauteville!"
---
Author's Note:
Though some sources claim Roger II was born in Mileto, this work adopts the account of his birth in Messina.
Historical Reference: Battle of Cerami
Roger I commanded approximately 700 troops, including 136 Norman knights.
His opponent, Ibn al-Hawas, led a force of 50,000 men—over 70 times the Normans' number.
After a prolonged and bloody battle, records say 35,000 Muslim soldiers were slain, and Ibn al-Hawas retreated with the survivors.
This victory marked a turning point for the Normans, paving the way for the conquest of Sicily's remaining territories, including Palermo.