‘You know, Judith,’ Robert said, ‘you have never apologised to me for the words you lambasted me with at Mileto.’
She replied with slight smile. ‘I never thought to say sorry for speaking the truth, Robert. You are a rogue and you know it.’
‘God in heaven,’ he growled. ‘I’d rather face the Saracens than your tongue.’
‘And so you should: they you will beat.’
He laughed loud enough to fill the great hall. There was still something of the old Robert in that breast.
A night of conjugal bliss was all Roger was allowed. When battle beckoned, the Guiscard moved swiftly to meet it and, ignoring any obstacle on his flanks, he made straight for the Conca d’Oro, the range of hills that circled and overlooked Palermo, and therein lay his first problem. He could make no movement, attempt no manoeuvre, without being observed from the watchtowers on those heights, so that his numbers were known down to the last sutler long before he even set up camp.
That, by accident, led to a disaster: the Normans pitched their tents on a plateau infested with tarantulas and they soon emerged from their nests to sting every piece of flesh presented, producing a range of reactions which made the Normans sure they were suffering from a divine plague. Many found breathing difficult, others collapsed without knowing why they were so afflicted, others were spared, the very least effect a dose of severe, rank-smelling and continuous flatulence that made them fear the corruption of their gut. From being a force full of martial spirit, it had the effect of spreading a deepening gloom and a feeling this campaign was cursed.
Nothing that happened subsequently raised the mood: once Robert had fought his way through the mountains to the walls, Palermo was too formidable to capture with the forces he had. Not unlike Bari, they had to stand outside and watch ship after ship come and go without in any way being able to interfere: they could neither storm the city nor could they starve it out. To this dejected encampment came word of a request from Duke William of Normandy for lances to join him in invading England; with the prospect of booty elsewhere a trickle of lances began to leave and take the road home.
‘I hope the bastard drowns,’ was Robert’s view, but that changed nothing. After fruitless months with his army diminishing and those left behind dispirited, the Guiscard decided that being away from Apulia for so long was unwise, so he raised the siege and headed home. Roger returned to Troina and Judith.
That departure left Roger in a quandary: the recriminations from Cerami ensured his enemies remained divided but he could not muster force enough to press home the advantage. All he could do was raid, plunder and retire, for even the forces that could contest with him melted away as soon as he appeared, more interested in fighting their rival emirs or the North African princes. He moved his base closer to Palermo in the hope that opportunity would present itself; what he got for four whole campaigning seasons was deepening frustration and he could get no aid from his beleaguered brother.
If Roger had trouble, Robert had more. In his absence a revolt had been raised by three of his own nephews. Abelard, son of Humphrey, set aside from his father’s inheritance, might have just cause to rebel; the two brothers, Geoffrey and Robert, sons of his half-sister Beatrix, did so from frustration at being treated disdainfully by their uncle. The real progenitor was Joscelin, Lord of Molfetta, a knight whom the Guiscard had raised to prominence by his own hand. Fed with Byzantine gold, Joscelin had led the younger men astray and, given they were de Hautevilles, many had been attracted to their banner for the revolt to be easily contained; in truth, it was so serious the Duke of Apulia realised, as soon as he landed back in Calabria, he risked being overthrown.
His presence stiffened the resolve of the waverers and he had some success in checking his nephews, but once more Byzantium was ready to interfere, sending to Apulia a force of Varangians, a kind of imperial Praetorian Guard of Viking stock. They came out of Bari as the shock troops of the forces led by a new Catapan called Bisanzio, pushing Robert back — he was fighting on several fronts against his nephews — taking back Brindisi and Taranto, the situation so bad the Guiscard was close to swallowing his pride and calling on both Roger and his brother Mauger to come to his aid.
For all his successes with the fearsome axemen of Kiev Rus as his vanguard, Bisanzio could not gain a convincing victory any more than Robert de Hauteville, nor could Joscelin of Molfetta force a conclusion, so the campaign fell into stalemate, leaving those who had stayed to serve with Robert wondering if they would have been better off going home: the Bastard of Falaise had won a great battle on the south coast of England, had killed King Harold Godwinson and was now in London and claiming the crown.
But time had worked for the sons of Tancred before and it did so now: in a battle between the Saracens, a decision was finally achieved with the defeat and death of Ibn-al-Hawas by the Zirid forces of Prince Ayub. The sultan’s son then claimed overlordship of all Sicily, and with no one strong enough to contest him, he was acclaimed Emir of Agrigento, Enna and, most importantly, of Palermo: Sicily now had one ruler, Roger had a single enemy to fight and one who was eager to do battle with the Normans and kick them out for good.
In Apulia Robert benefited from a combination of factors: first the death of the Emperor Constantine Ducas left his widow Eudoxia in power, but the growing threat of the Seljuk Turks — pushing up the Tigris and Euphrates from Baghdad — meant the empire needed not only a man on the throne but a fighting soldier, one able to halt the inexorable Turkish advance which was beginning to threaten Constantinople itself. Eudoxia quickly wed a Cappadocian general called Romanus Diogenes and the new emperor’s priorities were firmly fixed on the east: Apulia could go hang; not only did he withdraw the Varangians, he stripped Bari of a goodly portion of its garrison.
Without support, Robert Guiscard’s enemies were subdued one by one. Joscelin fled to Durazzo, Abelard threw himself on his uncle’s mercy, while the youngest son of Beatrix was quick to follow. Brindisi and Taranto were abandoned by Byzantium; holding Bari was much more vital. The last to hold out, and he did so for months, was nephew Geoffrey, for he had a stout and difficult-to-take fortress. It required Robert to be cunning: he bribed one of Geoffrey’s captains with the promise of a fief of his own on condition he opened the gates of the castle. This he did and the place was taken: the revolt was crushed.
Free at last to leave Apulia, Robert rode to Mileto to meet with Roger, taking with him his natural son, Bohemund. It was amusing to watch Jordan and Bohemund eyeing each other — both well-built young men now and, with all the de Hauteville height and muscle, like two alley cats suspiciously strutting round each other. There was sadness, too, for it was clear Roger’s son Geoffrey was afflicted with leprosy. Prayers were the only hope of a cure and much gold had been expended for Masses to be said in the Calabrian monasteries, with pleas sent to Rome as well, for no child so diseased could hope to succeed to his father’s titles. And, naturally, they talked of their various difficulties, not least Robert’s in Apulia.
‘The reason your barons are always rising against you is a lack of real war. Bring them to Sicily and let them take out their dissatisfaction on the Saracens.’
Robert was not persuaded, he had his sights set on Bari, now with a much-reduced garrison, albeit he still lacked a plan to take the place, and as Roger pressed him he became more and more irascible. It seemed as if his temper matched the greying of his hair, with him becoming less malleable with age. That his own relatives should take up arms against him had been wounding, and if Roger could see they might have just cause for discontent, his brother could not. There was no point in asking him why he treated his own blood relatives with less generosity than he showed his other followers. At least he had been avuncular enough to spare their lives, merely stripping them of part of their fiefs.