The next night, hogging the coast in a small boat with half a dozen armed companions, Drogo included, William sailed north towards the ships blockading the mouth of the port, at home in such a vessel; he and his brothers had fished often off the Normandy shore and had once sailed to the Norman Islands to chastise the pirates who raided the Contentin coastline. In the Messina Straits the current was a problem, impeding his passage, but he could see the ships strung out in a line, beating to and fro to hold their station, his destination being the vessel on the outer rim of the great hook which formed the eastern shore of Sicily.
He needed, he knew, to be near that shore, for those Sicilian boatmen he had questioned had told him so, and he also knew that it was the vessel closest inshore, a Ragusan galley of shallow draught, which controlled the section just above the outer siege work built south of the city by George Maniakes. The moon shone on the water, illuminating several vessels, which appeared like black shadows, but William steered for the one showing a red lantern and, once within range, shouted the Greek words he had been told to use.
It was obvious that those aboard were waiting for an approach, they were too alert for a time of day when even sailors slept, and as he came close the reply, also in Greek, was half whispered to him. Even although his knowledge of the language was limited, it was quite simply a demand to be told what he was carrying.
‘Grain,’ he replied, unsheathing his sword.
That had his companions doing likewise. As they bumped alongside, beneath a row of shaded lanterns, hands reached out in the gloom to pull them in. William grasped one using the security that provided to leap for the low bulwark. He got one leg over immediately, to be greeted by a surprised cry, but that turned to something else when the light from a lantern now unshaded showed, not a Sicilian fisherman on the deck, but a mailed Norman knight wielding a sword.
That surprise lasted long enough to get his companions on to the deck, by which time William was shouting his head off and cutting a swathe with his blade that had the sailors diving for anywhere that offered protection. Behind him he heard the splash as some went overboard, either because of their own fear or because his men had tossed them, it made no odds; all he wanted was what he was shouting for, the man who commanded the vessel.
They found him in a tiny cabin under the low poop, cowering on the deck, shaking like a leaf, pleading useless innocence. Below decks were the chained men who rowed this galley, bonded slaves to this cringing parasite. The rest of the small crew, at least those who had not gone overboard, had run for the forepeak, and were now seeking to ward off the point of Drogo’s sword.
Daylight saw them ashore, the galley beached as near to the pavilion of George Maniakes as possible, William dragging the ship’s owner in chains behind him, the rest of his freemen crew shuffling along with Norman blades beating their buttocks.
‘We need to make an example of them,’ William said, after he had explained to the general what he had discovered. ‘I doubt this toad is the only one.’
He knew George Maniakes had a terrible temper; he also knew he was a man of uncommon strength, but he did not appreciate what happened, thinking it a waste of an opportunity to discourage other shipowners from allowing through smugglers. The general picked up the squirming owner in one hand, and literally squeezed the life out of him, blood eventually bursting from his tongue and his ears, and his eyes nearly popping from his head as he expired in agony.
The positive for William was he had proved his point. Not only had he destroyed a base for smuggling, he had fought and beaten the Saracens who rimmed the area and obviously constituted a threat. From now on the Normans would not be bogged down in the siege, they would be free to roam wherever William de Hauteville thought they could do the most damage to the enemy. It was a happy Drogo who led out the next hundred lances, the de Hauteville pennant now fluttering over his head.
It was hard to tell what impact the cutting of that lifeline had on the Messina garrison; their sudden offer to surrender surprised everyone, but they had probably pinned their hopes on Abdullah. The rumours of his gathering an army continued, but as yet no sign of it had come. George Maniakes took possession of the city, shipped off the fighting men to eastern slavery, then collected his army together to march on Rometta, the great fortress that controlled the road to the capital Palermo, a vital link if the whole island was to be subdued. Surprisingly, that too fell in only a month but not without heavy fighting that saw the Normans and the Varangians attacking a breach in the wall and only carrying the day by sheer tenacity.
Both William and Drogo had never fought so hard for so long, slipping on rubble and the blood from dead bodies, as well as the cadavers themselves. The Saracens fought like demons, selling their lives for every footstep, falling under axe and sword, only to be replaced by even more fanatical defenders who took their place and they had to be driven back into the city, then winkled out of alleys, buildings and even cellars.
Many of William’s men died in that breach, as did those of Hardrada; no one came away from the assault without a wound and it was galling to find out, once the city had been taken, that their main opponent, the North African Emir Abdullah al Zirid, had got away with a sizeable force and still represented a threat.
George Maniakes now had open the road to Palermo, but he was well aware of the history of Sicily: going back to Phoenician times it had always been the case that the key to the holding of the island was the great port and city of Syracuse, on the south-eastern side. It was a hard lesson learnt by Athens, Carthage, the Romans, the Vandals and the Saracens themselves: leave it in another’s hands and you were always at risk.
It also had a special significance for the Byzantines — when their greatest ever general, Belisarius, had evicted the Vandals from Sicily in 533 AD, Syracuse had been made their capital. It wounded them that the great cathedral they had built had been turned into a mosque; that inside the city there were hidden relics of saints and martyrs dear to Orthodox hearts. It was the general’s decision, and he made it: the army marched for Syracuse and besieged it, while the dull Stephen brought his ships from Messina to blockade the great bight of a bay.
Syracuse was, by its very nature, a tougher challenge than either Messina or Rometta. The land access was constricted, the main part of the city located on the island of Ortygia, that part of a peninsula but with a wide channel separating it from the mainland. The defenders held stout defences on the landward side of that but could, at any time, retire behind the water barrier. The walls of the old city had first been constructed in ancient times, then added to, and were formidable, surrounding the whole island and making any attack across water fraught with peril.
The approach from the sea was to a wide bay full of fighting ships which would emerge from the fortified harbour, and on the seaward side a long coastline on an unpredictable stretch of sea made close blockade awkward. History abounded with sieges that had lasted for years: it took the Romans three years and they only succeeded because of treachery. Syracuse, unless betrayed, or some stroke of luck intervened, could only be starved into submission.
George Maniakes was not a patient man, and a dozen attacks were launched, none of which even dented the defences. He tried attacking across the bay only to find the vessels he was employing destroyed by fire ships, watching as they were consumed and the men who had manned them either frying in the flames or drowning in the sea as they leapt overboard from fear of a more painful death. He tried to attack at night, only to find his foes waiting for him with boiling oil and flaming balls of tarred hay, and while all this was happening, his shock troops, the Varangian Guard, stood idle.
Over six months the Normans ranged far and wide in the interior, in companies of a hundred lances, all the way up to the mountains which cut Syracuse off from the interior hinterland, yet that too was frustrating. No army of relief appeared, in fact no enemy fighters showed at all; it was as if they had decided that the ancient capital of Sicily must fend for itself. Just as exasperating was the way the Saracens had stripped the countryside of anything valuable. There was no need for Normans to destroy olive groves and vineyards, fields of sugar beet and wheat. That had been done for them.
Returning from another fruitless sortie, William joined up with the company led by Drogo and together they rode into the siege lines, sharing their irritation. That their men were dissatisfied they knew: pay was a thing which became the norm and was not inspiring; booty of the kind they had acquired from Messina and Rometta was what elevated their spirits and there was none of that unless the city fell, and it was clear from far off that nothing much had changed since they last rode out.
Making their way to the general’s pavilion to report, they could hear the raised voices from a hundred paces, or rather one, that of George Maniakes. Added to that, many of the senior commanders, including Harald Hardrada, were gathered outside with glum looks on their faces, and the brothers soon learnt the reason. If Syracuse was to be starved into submission then it was paramount the naval blockade was rigorous; nothing should get through. Still under the dense Admiral Stephen, it had failed: a convoy of grain ships had broken through his line of galleys to bring in relief supplies. What they were hearing was the verbal drubbing Stephen was getting from George Maniakes.
He was the son of a whore, his wife no better, which, unsaid, meant that Emperor Michael was from the same grubby stable. His fitness to do anything other than shovel shit from a pit was questioned, and it was clear that half the looks of worry on the faces of those around William and Drogo were caused by the fact that their general was going too far. Stephen might be an idiot, but he was the emperor’s brother-in-law and in a hothouse court like Constantinople the words Maniakes was using, reported into those ears, would not be taken lightly.
‘He needs to be stopped,’ said William, ‘for his own good.’
‘Physically?’ Harald Hardrada, who had posed the question, grinned and looked at the two de Hauteville brothers; he was as big and as broad as they, and a doughty fighter, yet he knew that George Maniakes was bigger and stronger. ‘After you.’
‘I think,’ Drogo murmured, ‘it might take all three of us.’
That was when they heard the gasping sound. Maniakes was still shouting but his words had become near incomprehensible, and it took no great foresight to deduce that the general had laid hands on the admiral. In William’s mind was the way he had strangled that smuggling ship’s captain. If he did that to his admiral the consequences would be incalculable.
All three leaders rushed into the pavilion to find Stephen, off his feet, held in the great mitt of Maniakes, and he was clearly in distress, already fighting just to breathe. William jumped on the giant’s back, Drogo and Harald got hold of one upper arm each and struggled to get him to release his victim, all to no avail. It was only when William got his ear between his teeth and bit hard, threatening with his jerking head to tear it off, that Maniakes let go, and that was with a bellow.
It was William who was now in trouble, with Maniakes swinging his body to get at him, his only hope to stay glued to his back, while Harald and Drogo tried to subdue him from the front. Stephen had fled, screaming that he had been near to murdered. It was Drogo who solved the problem, because he burst out laughing. He was still trying to assist his brother, but the sight was too much for him, and soon Harald Hardrada was laughing too, which meant his efforts were rendered feeble.
‘Stop giggling you two and help me.’
That only made things worse for Drogo. He was laughing so much he had to let go of Maniakes, still bellowing like a blinded Cyclops, and Hardrada was soon reduced to the same. It was the sight of that, two fierce warriors in fits, which stopped the general trying to dislodge William. He was breathing heavily from his exertions, but soon he was laughing too, his body heaving. William slid off his back and made sure he was out of arm’s reach. All he could manage was a nervous smile because he could see the blood dripping from the general’s ear.
‘Here he comes again,’ said Drogo as a fanfare of trumpets blew, words addressed to his brother and the Varangian commander, Harald Hardrada.
The city gates opened in what had become a daily ritual. The Emir of Syracuse, Rashid al Farza, would ride out in all his finery to goad the attackers, calling out to them in Greek his challenge to George Maniakes to come and fight him. It was a telling challenge for he was not far off the same size and everybody in the camp knew he had a fearsome reputation as a fighter. It was said he had personally killed over a hundred men in single combat and, while all took that with a pinch of salt, there was no doubt he was a formidable opponent.
Maniakes declined to accept, not from fear, but because a victory over this Saracen would not bring about the surrender of his city, while a defeat might severely damage the prospects of that, which was the only thing that mattered: the Byzantine host was here to subdue Sicily; personal insults its general-in-command could live with.
‘He’s beginning to annoy me,’ William replied, shading his eyes from the low sun to take in the emir.
‘Perhaps,’ Hardrada suggested, ‘I should take out my axe and chop off his arrogant head.’
Back and forth Rashid rode on a beautiful horse, just as beautifully caparisoned in fine-coloured silk. He wore a plumed helm and an old Roman cuirass designed to demonstrate that his chest beneath was just as muscled, greaves with fine silver decoration and the lance he carried had a long fluttering pennant. From time to time he would jam that into the ground as a challenge then haul out a great sword and wave it about his head, straight bladed instead of arced like the normal Saracen weapon, with one serrated edge which would cut through mail with ease.
The words that floated towards the siege lines left no insult unspoken, and eventually the soldiers would be goaded into yelling insults back at him, which he seemed to enjoy mightily as proof he was succeeding. After half a glass of this farrago he turned his horse, and since he had taught it to prance, it danced its way back into the defences, its tail stiff and high as if to apply equal denigration.
Both the de Hauteville brothers were itching for activity: it had become plain that with nothing to raid and no one to fight there was little use in their sorties, and they had been stuck in camp since the incident in which they had subdued Maniakes. The general laughingly jested that William owed him an ear, and one day he was going to collect his due. William did not laugh; he had seen too often the way the man lost control.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Drogo the next morning, when he saw his elder brother mounted and mailed and bearing his lance and with it the de Hauteville blue and white pennant.
‘When our friend comes out, Drogo, I am going to shut him up.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘He has made me mad. Yesterday he insulted our mother and father.’
‘Yesterday he insulted everyone’s mother and father.’
William glowered at Drogo, blazing blue eyes at either side of his nose guard in a fair representation of fury. In truth it was sheer inactivity which had made him want to take on the challenge, plus the feeling that the emir’s behaviour was diminishing the spirits of those besieging Syracuse whilst bolstering those of his own side, and that was no aid to a speedy conclusion.
‘You think I can’t beat him.’
There was no chance of Drogo responding to that; his brother might have a more even temper than he, but you did not tell a Norman knight, even a blood relation, he was bound to lose in single combat unless you wanted to fight him yourself.
‘I think, in our family, that I am the one who will not stand an insult.’
‘You will just have to wait your turn.’
‘Does Maniakes know about this?’
William looked towards the general’s pavilion, to see the giant heading his way, trailed by Harald Hardrada. ‘He does now.’
Drogo looked in the same direction. ‘He might forbid it.’
‘He does not have the right,’ William replied as the usual morning fanfare blew out from the walls of Syracuse. ‘If I fall, you take over the command.’
‘God bless you, Gill.’
William nodded in response — only Drogo called him by the diminutive of his name in French — and then he spurred his horse. He was out in the open before Maniakes could stop him, and along the line the soldiers who manned the siege works rose to cheer, their yells of encouragement enough to drown out the emir’s trumpets. If his general had wanted to forbid this he could hardly do so now: his whole army was involved.
Slowly he trotted into the centre of what would now be an arena, then hauled round to ride parallel with the city walls, attracting the jeers of the defenders. He had turned back again by the time Rashid appeared, gorgeous as ever, but more impatient, his horse dancing early as its rider communicated his excitement. Slowly William rode towards him and the Saracen responded, until they were abreast of each other and, as was normal prior to any exchange, both men were making assessments of arms and equipment.
William had already seen the great sword Rashid carried, even if that was still sheathed, but it was clear his lance was longer by at least a hand, and that was telling. The emir would have seen, before getting close, that difference in lance length and was looking at the Norman almond-shaped shield, so very different from his own round buckler, big enough to give protection to more of this potential opponent’s body.
‘Who offers me combat?’ Rashid asked, looking down, his voice full of confidence.
‘William de Hauteville, of Normandy.’
‘I know of you, but I want George Maniakes.’
‘He stands behind me, and through me you will have to go to get to him.’
‘Very well,’ Rashid replied, before hauling his mount round in its own length and letting out a great shout to his supporters, his lance once more raised in the air. ‘Allah Akbar.’
Silently, William crossed himself as they responded with a great roar. It was a strange reaction from men, the majority of whom must be Sicilian and Christian, who surely could not love Saracen rule? Perhaps they loved their city too much to want to see it fall, perhaps they hated Byzantium even more. Rashid, who had ridden far enough, had brought his mount round again, which meant any such thoughts must be put aside. It was time to fight.
The mere nature of the emir’s horse told William he would come at the same kind of fast gallop as the fellow he had killed on that expedition from Messina, while his would, as it always did, barely get above a hard canter, so if Rashid’s slightly longer lance made contact it would be with greater force than his own. At all costs he must stay mounted: on foot in single combat against a horsed opponent he stood little chance. How to negate that advantage?
They were both moving now, the gap closing rapidly and, as always, the whole world narrowed to what lay at the end of his lance tip. William had to close his mind to the thundering approaching hooves of Rashid’s animal, the flutter of his lance pennant and the rippling coloured waves of the silks that clothed both horse and rider. It had to narrow down to the slightest of gaps between the man’s round shield and his lower body.
The trick Tancred had taught him when he was a mere fifteen-year-old boy was a hard one to pull off. It required a degree of physical strength which, if not pressed home properly, would work against him, because it required a fine balance between extension and power. Already both men were standing in the stirrups, and both had moved their shields to protect their trunk, for a lance point hitting either William’s chain mailed chest or that leather breastplate of Rashid’s would slice right through them.
They were only paces apart when William made his move, taking his couched lance and jabbing it forward so that it was extended, the shaft running under his outstretched arm, the only thing to hold it his clenched and mailed right hand. Rashid saw the move and tried to adjust his own weapon, which was an error, because in a fight you should never be caught in two minds. In acting his bulk worked against him; he might be near a giant but his movements were restricted by that very size. Had he stayed committed he would at least have got his lance point onto the centre of William’s shield. As it was, doing something unfamiliar it wavered and as he felt the tip of his opponent’s lance on his buckler he sought to shy away.
With full force William struck his buckler at the base, the force of his blow, a split second before he too was struck, bending back that shield just enough to get his lance point through, to strike Rashid at the place where his leather breastplate met his upper thigh. He was good, swift enough to jam his shield sideways so that the point failed to skewer him, as William intended, but ran along the outer side of his leg, hitting the high back of his saddle and shattering the shaft.
William took Rashid’s lance on a high point of his shield, but in seeking to change his action that had lost a lot of force, although it still took and smashed the top half and spun William round so that he was nearly unhorsed by being flung sideways on to his saddle. Only the sheer strength of thighs moulded since childhood to stay aboard kept him on his mount until the two were past each other, the Norman already reaching for his sword, hauling on his reins to bring round his destrier and take Rashid before he could respond. Vaguely, in his ears, he could hear cheering from both sides, though he thought he could sense it greater from the trenches rather than the walls.
Rashid was too wise to make a quick turn to meet him. William had drawn blood and that required a quick assessment to see how it would affect his ability to fight, so he rode on until he was out of immediate danger, well away from William de Hauteville. The point of his opponent’s lance was still embedded in his saddle, so he hauled it out and held it up to show the men on the walls of Syracuse, the implication being that it had missed him.
But he knew it had not, knew that he had torn mail and a long gash in his thigh which might hamper him if fighting on foot. There was no way to tell if that was the case until he needed to use the leg, so it was obvious to William that Rashid must at all costs avoid that kind of test. He now had his sword out, a blade already known to be of fearsome proportions, razor sharp on one side and serrated like a fine saw on the other.
William was approaching with no haste; if his man was bleeding let it flow and weaken him, and his sword was again a weapon shorter in length than Rashid’s. But it was easier to use, as long as it was not left exposed to a blow which, combined with the great bulk and strength of the emir and the weight of his weapon, could break it in two.
There was no cheering now, there was silence as both sets of supporters watched a fight about to come to the point of decision. They saw the way William de Hauteville manoeuvred his mount with just his thighs, wending it left and right as he approached the emir, seeking an avenue in which to attack. They saw Rashid spur his mount to close quickly, and soon the air was filled with the sound of metal on metal as the swords were used to swing, thrust and parry, that mixed with loud, dull thuds as contact was made with shields.
What they could not see was the blood running into the silk on Rashid’s horse, but both combatants knew it was there, the Saracen aware that the loss would weaken him, so he was trying to end this affair quickly, William de Hauteville knowing time was now on his side, that he must not seek a decision too hastily and expose himself to a blow that would equal the contest if not end it with his death.
‘William is trying to tire him,’ Drogo said.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Harald Hardrada.
Drogo indicated the line of Norman knights on either side, the men William led in to battle, every one of whom seemed to be with their leader in spirit, so intent was their concentration.
‘Ask any one of them and they will tell you. His sword work is defensive.’
‘He must win this,’ growled George Maniakes. ‘It will add months to their spirits if he does not.’
Out in the arena William was parrying more than attacking, but doing just enough of that to keep Rashid guessing, moving his mount forward and back in a display of stunning horsemanship. The emir was pressing hard, wielding his great sword with an astonishing amount of ease, a testimony to his might, and more than once William had felt his own sword arm give under a blow. He had hoped that being so unwieldy Rashid would gift him opportunities, but so far that was not the case, and for all he was bleeding the emir showed no diminution in strength.
William was tiring and perhaps if this went on long enough it would be he who would be rendered defenceless. In all the fights he had engaged in none had seemed to require so much effort and, wondering how long it had already gone on, and how much longer it might, he could feel in his upper sword arm the beginnings of strain.
The move he employed, outright assault, standing in his stirrups and leaning right forward, surprised Rashid just enough to get his sword out of position and him off balance in his seating. There was no time to attempt a kill — to do so would render William vulnerable — but he did get his sword point under the emir’s breastplate enough to push hard with both hands on his pommel, hoping for a result rather than expecting one.
It was that wounded thigh that did for Rashid: he could not hold his saddle and as pressure was applied to his stirrup foot it gave way and slipped free. His sword was in the air and as he tried to regain his balance he knew he was in maximum danger. Seeing William press forward again, sword angled across his body, ready to sweep at the point where his helmet met his neck, the emir did the only thing he could. He jabbed his other foot backwards, got it clear of the stirrup, and let himself slip on to the ground, his mount acting as a barrier to his opponent.
The emir tested his wounded leg, and it supported him, so Rashid used the flat of his sword blade to send his mount clear, and put a foot forward to swing at the forelegs of William’s horse to bring him, too, down on the ground. It was horsemanship which defeated the aim, as William swung his mount sideways and clear, his sword in the air. It did not stay there, it swept down on his stationary opponent and took the emir on the crown of his plumed helmet with such force that it went right thought the metal and sliced the head in two.
There was a moment when the body stood stock-still, sword embedded, but then the huge frame of Emir Rashid al Farza keeled over into the dust, with William de Hauteville, gasping for air, lying over the withers of his sweating horse.
As he rode back into the lines, those on the walls of Syracuse were silent. The Normans, led by Drogo, were yelling ‘Bras de Fer!’ And when that was translated for the Italians they too were happy to gild their champion with the title, Iron Arm.