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
