Warriors

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In a world where news travelled slowly, normally at the pace of a walking man or a sailing merchant vessel, the death of the Eastern Emperor, Michael IV, spread like wildfire, because it directly affected the life of everyone in half of Christendom, as well as having a bearing on relations with the rest. Given the unrest in Apulia, it acted to create as much confusion as it did to engender raised hopes. Michael IV had, from humble beginnings, proved to be a successful ruler, in that he had held together an empire many of his neighbours, all of them ravenous for a share of the spoils, saw as ripe to fall apart. He had also managed to survive in the cauldron of imperial politics to die a peaceful death.

Once a handsome courtier and junior officer, brother to a hugely powerful court official, Michael had become the lover of the fifty-year-old Empress Zoe, and had succeeded to the purple on the death of her first, ageing husband. That was an end replete with all the attendant accusations of assassination: first, it was rumoured, he had been left debilitated by frequent doses of a slow poison and, when that failed to send him to his grave, with a drowning in his bath.

Michael, it transpired, had not only kept Zoe content, but several other concubines as well, though increasingly epilepsy, the affliction from which he suffered, had seriously impeded his abilities as both a lover and an emperor. It was a measure of the authority of self-interested courtiers, not least a brother who acted as the power behind the throne, that a man so distressed by increasing illness could reign for so long.

The succession was always a fraught affair, so to those observing and calculating their own position, the tangled skein of Byzantine politics would now become even more unpredictable as those who hoped to inherit the power of the deceased fought for influence. The news that the heir to Imperial Purple was another Michael, related by marriage to the deceased emperor’s father, Stephen — a one-time ship’s caulker risen to the rank of admiral — arrived hard on the heels of the first, and a steady stream of rumour mixed with fact followed as the drama of imperial succession was played out.

Zoe must have approved of the new Michael, yet he demonstrated scant gratitude for her support. Once installed as emperor, she had been banished from the city to a nearby island in the Sea of Marmara, her head shaved and her wealth purloined, but being much loved by the citizens of Constantinople, as well as heir to the ruling Macedonian house, that had caused riots in the Byzantine capital.

Michael V, appearing for the games at the Hippodrome, had been pelted with stones and shot at with arrows by the mob, causing him to send hurriedly for Zoe to appease their wrath, but, even if he showed her to the crowd to prove she was free, he had acted too late. In yet another twist, Zoe’s hated sister, Theadora, who had been shut away years before, was dragged out and acclaimed as joint-empress. Michael, called the Caulker because of the profession of his father, who had taken refuge in a monastery, was hauled into a public square and had his eyes put out.

Zoe was left to co-rule with her sister, but that did not last: she would rather have shared power with a horse. Within months, and now in her sixties, Zoe had taken a third husband, while Theadora was sent back to the nunnery. The new emperor, to whom Zoe was happy to surrender her power as well as her charms, was a one-time courtier, now styled Constantine IX, leaving everyone who passed on the story of these events to wonder at how such an entity as the Eastern Roman Empire could last.

That last tranche of news, the name and identity of the new emperor, came to Apulia with a nasty sting in the tail, for Constantine, as was usual, had reversed many of the acts of his predecessors, which meant that the favourites of both Michaels had been sent to the dungeons, while many of those they had imprisoned were freed and reinstated to their previous rank. One such was the general called George Maniakes, and he was on his way to Apulia to restore the power of Byzantium. Having escorted Kasa Ephraim back to Montecchio, prior to his onward journey to Salerno, William and Drogo were once more face to face with Prince Guaimar.

‘Height,’ William replied, when asked to describe the man he had served under in Sicily, his palm going above his head by three hands. ‘Arduin will confirm that.’

‘Did he not nearly strangle the old emperor’s brother?’ asked Guaimar, as Arduin nodded.

‘It took three of us to stop him,’ said Drogo, ‘and even then I’m not sure we did by force.’

As an admiral, Stephen, the caulker, had been useless, only in place because of his connection to the ruling house, and George Maniakes had made no secret of the fact that he despised him. An arrogant man of incredible strength, as well as size, that strangulation had been a one-handed attempt at murder, which would have succeeded had he not been stopped; but to lay hands on a man with such powerful connections had not been wise and had led, once news got back to Constantinople, to his downfall. It was a fitting irony that this happened just after he had achieved his greatest campaign successes, the defeat of the main Saracen enemy followed by the capture of the most important city in Sicily, the great port of Syracuse.

Due to that same arrogance, as well as the increasing conceit which came with victory, he had fallen out with William, denying the Normans, as well as a body of Varangians led by Harald Hardrada, the right to plunder a city they had helped to capture, and one which had refused terms when besieged. All knew the laws of war and the citizens of Syracuse were no exception: a walled city offered terms of surrender, that then forced an army to invest and subdue it, forfeited the right to mercy.

Maniakes had claimed Syracuse, once the Byzantine capital of Sicily, as a recaptured city, not one taken from the Saracens, nor was he prepared to compensate Normans or Varangians from the Syracuse treasury for their loss — anathema to men who fought for both pay and the spoils of war. Furious, both William and Hardrada had withdrawn their men from the campaign and left the island, the Normans returning to Aversa, while Harald Hardrada travelled back to Norway, where his brother was king, his now leaderless troops returning to Constantinople.

‘His Achilles heel is that temper,’ added Arduin: he had also suffered from the egotism of Maniakes, treated like a servant rather than a captain, glad to see him replaced, only to find himself so underwhelmed by the capabilities of his useless replacement that he too had come home.

‘He thinks himself the greatest general since Alexander,’ added William.

‘Yet his reputation…?’ hinted Guaimar.

‘He is a good general,’ William replied, ‘and I don’t doubt he will be a formidable opponent.’

Guaimar glanced at Rainulf Drengot, as if looking for inspiration, but none came from that source, and it was obvious to those watching him closely, the two senior de Hautevilles and Arduin of Fassano, that the prince was on the horns of a dilemma. Here was the very situation that had made him originally cautious in his aid for the revolt. He had come to the very borders of his domains, to this ruined castle of Montecchio, in the belief that matters were proceeding to a point of settlement; but Byzantium was not prepared to give up on Apulia so easily.

‘What about the forces he has?’

It was Arduin who replied. ‘Maniakes will have no more men to choose from than either of those who preceded him, but he is a more ruthless recruiter and, I would suggest, he will use them more wisely.’

‘But will he prevail?’ Guaimar demanded, in a voice that showed the exasperation he felt at not being provided with concrete help to make a decision.

‘Nothing is certain in war, Prince Guaimar,’ said William, with a gravity he certainly did not feel. Indeed, without showing it he was amused by the way Guaimar was wriggling, like a worm on a fish hook.

‘I cannot see that we can now achieve anything here,’ Guaimar concluded.

Again he glanced at Rainulf, again in vain: the old Norman warrior was either not willing to help him with a way to extricate himself, or he did not see the problem. As soon as news of the Maniakes appointment had reached Montecchio, those representatives of the Adriatic ports had hurried back to their homes, knowing full well that they would be the primary targets of the new catapan the minute he landed. They had departed with nothing decided regarding the future.

‘I think it best that we return to Salerno.’

Those words finally stirred Rainulf Drengot from his torpor. ‘You mean run away!’

As a choice of words it was not only too obvious, too undiplomatic, it was very embarrassing, and even if he had become practised at dissimulation, Guaimar’s cheeks flushed and his response was brutal.

‘I do not mean run away,’ he barked. ‘But nothing can be done regarding the future until the threat of Maniakes has been dealt with, and since neither you or I are likely to engage him in combat we would best serve being out of the path of those who must.’

It was now Rainulf Drengot’s turn to flush, but his cheeks reddened with anger at being so publicly rebuked. ‘Then I ask to be allowed to fight.’

‘In what capacity, Count Rainulf, and who will look after matters in Aversa?’ The use of his title, something Guaimar rarely employed, was as shrewd as the mention of his fief, a sharp reminder of the Norman’s vassalage as well as his dependence on the prince for other matters. ‘This was a question I thought settled.’

‘You are, at present, in no danger,’ said William mischievously. ‘I doubt the new catapan knows of your presence on the border.’

The reply was given with all the creativity required of an imperial prince, and in a voice once more under control. Any irritation was in the eyes alone: Guaimar knew he was being bearded.

‘I do not fear danger, William, but I fear that matters might go to rack in Salerno if I am away too long, and that may be even more true of Amalfi.’

Unbeknown to both Guaimar and Rainulf, that was exactly what was happening in Campania, not in newly conquered Amalfi: a full-blown uprising of the peasantry in the lands around Montecassino — not on those worked by the monks, but those forcibly granted to Rainulf’s lances as demesnes. Uncontrolled by their nominal leader, the Normans had grown more and more greedy, not only bearing down on their own people, but increasingly raiding their neighbours, stealing harvested crops and the produce of the vineyards, creating a dangerous head of fury.

Worse, they were inclined to treat their womenfolk as chattels to be used as and when they wished, and that was doubly the case when they went pillaging. Even if he knew little of what went on around Montecassino, it was an attitude William had observed and disliked since his arrival in Aversa: the way his confreres treated the locals, as if they were raiding the land instead of living in it. His notion that they should remember how their forbears had settled Normandy, and how they had come to live in harmony with those over whom they exercised lordship, when mentioned to others, seemed to have no impact and had fallen on deaf ears.

To be seen as worse than the Lombards was stupid, but it was brought on by the mercenary status of the Normans. When gathered, and especially when in their cups with too much wine, they would wax nostalgic about the land they left and the one to which they were determined to return, which flew in the face of experience. Some did travel back to Normandy, but most left their bones in Italian graves, and had the prayers paid for by their compatriots said by priests or monks who knew nothing of their antecedents, but were well aware of the way they had lived their lives, one in which their redeemer had much to forgive.

Retribution came at the monastery itself, where a captain called Rodolf had stopped at the monastery church to pray, in the company of some fifteen of his men. No Italian, indeed few Lombards, would seek to challenge a Norman when he was wearing his weapons, but there was one occasion when even these warriors were obliged to divest themselves of their swords, for it was sacrilegious to take those into a church; bloodthirsty they might be, but they were also deeply pious, many never letting a day go by without Mass being said so they stood in good stead with God, and this day was no exception.

The monastery servants had seen those gathered weapons and seized them, ringing the church bell as well, a signal that the monastery was in danger, to summon all within earshot to its defence. When Rodolf sought to lead his men out, curious as to the cause of this commotion, he found the church doors barred, that was until the peasants who had come to the aid of their church entered, using those same swords left behind to slay men who, for all their prowess, only had their knives with which to defend themselves. By the time the monks arrived to seek to mediate, all the Normans had been slain.

From that, the revolt spread, so that no Norman, by the very nature of their existence, living in small isolated bands, was safe; nor, given the number of people committed to this revolt, was Rainulf Drengot when he rode out with a larger number of his men. A hurried plea came to Melfi for support, a request that some of his lances be returned to help him regain control; that was an appeal William was ready to turn down, and for two good reasons: Rainulf had brought this upon himself and, quite apart from that, he had, in George Maniakes, an enemy much closer, who to his way of thinking was a more potent threat, especially given the tactics he had chosen to employ.

With few experienced men to do his bidding — he had brought no more than five hundred soldiers with him — George Maniakes resorted to terror in order to make his enemies fearful. Wisely, he began his campaign well to the south, as far as possible from Melfi and an army that could beat him if engaged. Instead of landing at Trani, staunchly loyal to Byzantium and reasonably close to his enemies, he made his landfall in the far south, below Brindisi.

Raising what conscripts he could, he bypassed that great port city, it being too strong, and force-marched his men on to Ostuni. Normally this hill town, perched on a rocky outcrop half a league from the Adriatic, was a place no serious general would have troubled to capture, and it was one that had shown no stomach for either intrigue or revolt in previous decades. That, against the likes of George Maniakes, was not enough to save it.

Poorly defended, with no garrison, a broken-down watchtower and cathedral atop the mount on which it stood, and with walls much-pilfered for house building, fortifications that had not been maintained for decades, it had no chance of resistance and the citizenry knew it. Envoys bearing gifts of food and wine were sent out as soon as the Byzantine force was spotted moving up the coast accompanied by a small fleet of supply ships.

Pitching his tents in the narrow strip of land between the outcrop and the sea, George Maniakes received those envoys and took their gifts just before he personally, with a sword big enough to match his great stature, took their lives by lopping off their heads in a quartet of single blows. Then he sent his men into Ostuni with instructions to show no quarter, and for once, that was an order strictly applied. Every man found was killed, the women of all ages raped before joining them in death, so that the narrow steep-stepped streets of the town ran with great effusions of blood.

Those children who had not fallen to blows from swords, knives and clubs were brought out onto the plain, the older ones set to digging a pit deep enough to hold their bodies, one they were thrown into as soon as it was completed, joined by the younger children down to toddlers, the earth they had toiled to remove thrown over them to suffocate them while they still breathed, their tears and wailing wasted on the ears of the tyrannical general who had ordered this massacre.

Houses and the cathedral were torched after being despoiled, everything of value going to Maniakes’s men, for they were wise enough to torture the people who might have something to hide before despatching them to meet their Maker, and for those who resisted, the mutilation of one of their children or the brutal deflowering of a pubescent daughter was usually enough to loosen parental tongues. Livestock was driven out to be slaughtered on the beach, those not roasted and eaten were salted and barrelled to provide supplies.

As always — and it was a mystery to those who had pillaged Ostuni — there were some who survived their efforts at total eradication. Forced to flee the inferno of their burning dwellings, and with fires too good to waste, many were roasted alive over the flames so recently used to cook food. Maniakes ordered that half a dozen be spared, young men who could travel with speed. These he ordered out of his camp, with food and water, to travel in all directions and tell the surrounding towns and villages what they could expect.

It is probable such places thought it a warning not to resist. It was not that: for most it was a notification of the coming storm. Town after town, and every hamlet in between, saw the same treatment, and as George Maniakes marched up the coast, sending raiding parties inland where there was something to pillage, assaulting towns with his whole force if they warranted the effort, he turned the province into a desert in his wake.

The roads of Apulia were lined with rotting bodies swinging from the trees, with the cadavers of women and children putrefying by the roadside. The message was not for those little towns and rural settlements, it was for the port cities that had the ability to defend themselves: do so, and this is what you will face — utter and complete destruction and death.

It took time for the news to reach Melfi, and that came with the first of the port cities to submit. Monopoli, originally, in antiquity, a Greek settlement and still mainly that in sentiment and religion, was too close to the mayhem in its hinterland, too aware of the fate it faced, to hold out, lacking the military mind and judgement that would have advised it do so, for in truth, even if it was not large, it was rich enough to keep its walls in good repair and George Maniakes did not yet have the forces or equipment to take a place of that size.

But the terror, allied to the Greek inheritance that went back to pre-Roman times, worked its devilish magic, and the bloodthirsty catapan was shrewd enough to offer to spare them chaos, thus underlining his message to those further up the coast. Yet every able-bodied man of the right age in Monopoli now found himself a soldier in the service of Byzantium, and the treasury of the port was plundered as a means to pay them.

For Arduin, when he heard what was happening, the problem was acute: previously, marching his men to fight had involved no extended distances. To stop this new threat required him to take his volunteer milities far from their homes, families, and more importantly for the majority, their fields. Yet to do nothing was to watch Apulia burn and Maniakes get stronger, for it was obvious that each port up the coast would follow Monopoli and submit as soon as they saw the Byzantine host outside their walls. Something was needed to inspire them to resist, and also encourage his army to fight far from its home. In the new titular leader, Arduin thought he had the answer.

‘William, this is Argyrus, son of the great Melus. Landulf of Benevento has finally relented and sent us the leader we require.’

William nodded and looked the young man up and down, noting that he seemed, just by the look in his eye and the way he held himself, to be a better prospect than that idiot, Atenulf. About the same age as the newly arrived Robert, he was not martial in his bearing, being slim of build, but William had to remind himself that it was an error to judge Lombards, Greeks or Italians by the same yardstick he applied to Normans.

‘I bid you welcome, Argyrus. I hope you are aware that it was you we looked to before the Prince of Benevento sent us his brother.’

‘Arduin spoke with me then, and I will not hide from you that I was made angry by the prince’s decision. Not that I could make that too obvious: I was, after all, a guest in Benevento.’

A strong voice and not lacking in wisdom, thought William, certainly clever enough to keep his head on his shoulders: for guest, read near-captive.

‘With Argyrus as our leader, William,’ Arduin crowed, enthusiastically, ‘the men who have volunteered will march anywhere, to the ends of the Earth if need be.’

That piece of hyperbole was taken for what it was, a way to flatter this new talismanic arrival.

‘You have heard of the depredations of George Maniakes?’ Argyrus nodded. ‘Arduin and I have thought on how to counter him; I wonder if you have any notions of your own.’

Unlike Atenulf, who would have been floored if required to answer to his own name, the young man replied with speed and precision, yet so quickly that William guessed he must have been primed by Arduin regarding what to say. That mattered not, it was only important that he grasped the essentials and agreed with them.

‘Maniakes is marching up the coast, gathering strength with every place he subdues but does not destroy, yet we have to hope that Brindisi and Bari will hold out as they have done so often in the past. Not even George Maniakes is going to devastate the two greatest sources of revenue in Apulia, even if he had the force to breach their walls, which I doubt he could yet muster. Our aim is a revolt which will rid South Italy of Byzantium for ever, is it not?’

William nodded: he and Arduin had discussed this often, and though they had their differences, they agreed on that.

‘Maniakes, while he has burnt and despoiled everything around it, has spared Monopoli, therefore it is probable to assume he will do the same to Molfetta and Giovinazzo and, if he could come far enough without a battle, to Barletta.’

Given another nod, Argyrus continued confidently. ‘But before he can get to Barletta there is Trani, and it is my view that in order to show that we, the Lombard revolt, can not only win battles but take cities, I suggest we invest that port and do to those loyal to Byzantium what Maniakes has done to others.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Arduin, ‘do you not agree, William?’

Tempted to sarcasm, William expressed himself with more care. ‘A wise course of action, but it will not be easy. Trani has stout walls.’

Argyrus stretched a tad, to show fortitude. ‘Then we must build siege engines capable of breaching them.’

‘At some point we will have to meet and defeat Maniakes.’

‘Of course.’

‘And given his penchant for destruction, the further south that happens the better.’

‘If we take Trani, it will so lift the spirits of our troops, who will have gold in their purse and the blood of Greeks on their weapons, taking them further will be easy.’

Robert de Hauteville, complaining loudly to his bored brothers about the inactivity of the Normans, did not see William enter the chamber behind him. If he had not been so obsessed with his argument, that they should be out harrying this Maniakes instead of leaving him to do his worst, he might have noticed the looks on the faces of those he was addressing: not any warning, but more interest than they had shown hitherto. Not even the one closest to him, Mauger, was going to miss the upshot and fun to be had from this.

‘He can’t supply all his needs from the sea. He must forage, and when he does we should be there to kill his parties. And he sends detachments to attack the smaller towns, not his whole force, people we could easily beat.’

‘You are welcome, brother, to ride out of here with your weapons and do what you wish.’

Robert spun round, then back again to scowl at his now grinning brothers. ‘It may not sound like sense to you, William, but it does to me, and not to take on an enemy when the chance presents itself smacks of caution.’

‘I cannot help but think our father should have administered to you a few more smacks as you grew up. It might have beaten some sense into your head.’

‘He would have needed a club,’ wheezed Humphrey, quite taken with his own joke.

‘We have mobility while Maniakes has none,’ Robert protested.

‘Leave us,’ William insisted, waving a peremptory arm at the others, a gesture that was not well taken: William was normally more careful of their pride. But they complied, knowing it was Robert at fault, given, in the short time he had been present, he had shown an ability to rile William that was unusual.

‘Sit down,’ William commanded. Set to protest, just for the sake of it, Robert finally shrugged and complied. ‘You are new here, so I will forgive your ignorance.’

‘I-’

Robert got no further, and William shouted at him to be silent.

‘Do not question my tactics any more than you would question an order in a battle. I presume Father has taught you to do that! There are things here you do not understand, and if you wish to, silence and listening would be a better method than prattling to your brothers and trying to undermine me.’

‘I do not seek to undermine you.’

‘Then what have I just heard you do?’

‘I am suggesting a course of action, a more honourable one-’

William cut across Robert again. ‘One you suppose me too stupid to see?’

Robert, for once, replied in a somewhat chastened tone. ‘I am sure you have considered it.’

‘And discounted it, for which I think you will grant I must have a reason.’

Not accustomed to conceding much to anyone, it was a reluctant reply that emerged. ‘Perhaps.’

‘We are about to march out of here…’

‘To where?’

William shouted again. ‘To where I command our conroys should go. You are a lance amongst others and sharing blood with me grants you no rights above another. We are going to fight, and when I have seen what you can do, I will decide if you are an asset or a liability. If it is the second of those, you may as well load up your packhorse and go back to Normandy for I will have no use for you here. Until then, do as you are ordered.’

Robert was seething, but his voice was not raised as he answered, it was icy. ‘I will make you eat those words, man to man if need be.’

‘You are here to try to kill our enemies, not your relations.’

‘My brother and I wish to accompany you,’ said Tirena. ‘It is not nice to be here when everyone else is gone.’

‘To do what?’ asked William.

‘Listo will be your squire and look after your weapons and horses.’

‘And you?’

The eyes, which had been looking at him eagerly, dropped then. ‘There are things I can do.’

‘You are still a child, Tirena.’

That got him one of those glares he remembered so well. ‘I am not. Ask the other women and they will tell you.’

William was tempted to laugh, but he knew that would not be taken as he intended. This girl was too serious to see that it would be brought on as much by warmth as surprise at that which she was clearly suggesting. Slowly he nodded.

‘Very well, Tirena, but remember you must do as I command.’

Meant to deflect what she was obviously proposing, it had exactly the opposite effect, as she dashed forward and flung herself at him so furiously he had no choice but to catch her, and she showed remarkable tenacity in the way she hung onto his neck. Finally he got her free and gave her a look that matched any she had ever given him.

‘Behave, or stay in Melfi! Now, get your brother, and both of you see to my panniers.’