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Under a Byzantine Banner: Into Asia Minor, 1038–77

Of all the empires of the European Middle Ages, Byzantium was without a doubt the grandest. The direct descendant of the Roman Empire, it could claim an antiquity unequalled by its rivals. Here was a truly eternal empire, or so its inhabitants liked to think. The rulers called themselves ‘emperor of the Romans’ and their domains were known as ‘Romania’, the land of the Romans. (Not to be confused with the modern eastern European state – though this, too, is named after ancient Rome.) Most importantly, the eastern emperors continued to inhabit Constantinople (modern Istanbul), the greatest of the late Roman cities, founded by Constantine the Great in the early fourth century. Ideological and material claims to antiquity thus met in the lived environment of Byzantium.1

The pomp of the Byzantine court was the stuff of legend. This was a place of elaborate etiquette and conspicuous consumption. Above all, it was the tremendous wealth of the Byzantine rulers which impressed their neighbours. Here was a state still running on the Roman model, capable of generating large tax revenues and redistributing these to faithful servants and allies. Given this, Byzantium was a much-coveted prize. Constantinople itself survived successive sieges by the Sassinid Persians (626), Umayyad caliphs (654, 674–8, 717–18), Slavic Bulgars (813) and the Kievan Rus’ (860, 907, 941) – sometimes by the skin of its teeth.

The century before Guiscard’s arrival in southern Italy had been one of the most successful in Byzantine history. The empire expanded on all fronts, securing Asia Minor and moving deep into the Middle East.2 It was this optimism which inspired the empire’s attempt to retake Sicily in 1038, in which Ironarm and his brothers, fighting as mercenaries for the Byzantine general George Maniakes, first won acclaim. Yet as we move into the middle years of the century, cracks in the imperial regime begin to show. Some of these were the result of structural tensions within the Byzantine polity, which was characterised by intense internal competition for power and influence. The biggest problems, however, lay beyond the frontier. The arrival of the Seljuk Turks had destabilised the Middle East, starting in the late 1030s. By the 1060s, Turkic groups were raiding deep into Anatolia. And in 1071, Emperor Romanos IV Diogenes himself was defeated and captured at Manzikert.3 The empire now entered a period of sharp decline; the only question was whether this would prove terminal.

It was in this context that the Normans came close to toppling Byzantium. Although they’d first come to southern Italy as enemies of the Byzantines, almost from the start the Normans found themselves fighting both for and against them. Impressed with what they’d seen of the newcomers, local Byzantine generals recruited Normans into their ranks. The first recorded instance of this is in the attempt to reconquer Sicily in 1038. This came at a time when the Kalbid amirate had begun to splinter. George Maniakes was an experienced general with considerable resources, not least a large cohort of mercenaries. These comprised between 300 and 500 Normans, under the oversight of the Lombard general Arduin; Varangians (Viking mercenaries), under the leadership of the fearsome Harald Hardrada; and further Lombard forces from the north.

Among the Normans were William Ironarm and Drogo (and perhaps also Humphrey) – ambitious young men with bright futures before them. Their exploits are doubtless exaggerated by Amatus of Montecassino and Geoffrey of Malaterra, who are keen to see signs of later greatness here. But the invasion certainly went well, as we know from Byzantine sources; and we can be confident that the Normans pulled their weight.4 Maniakes won decisive victories at Rometta (1038) and Troina (1040). His army succeeded in capturing the strategic city of Syracuse and looked set to take the rest of the island. However, Maniakes’ campaign is a lesson in the dangers of depending on mercenaries. For after the second of these battles, the Normans were unhappy with their share of the spoils. And when Arduin raised the matter with Maniakes, the general had him beaten around the camp, humiliating him for all to see (not Maniakes’ only reported act of vengeful sadism). The Normans now took umbrage, upping sticks for the mainland, where they started to foment revolt with Arduin.

That this was the beginning of the end for Byzantine Italy could scarcely have been foreseen. Maniakes’ Norman mercenaries num-bered no more than 500, and there are reasons to suspect that not all of these defected. For though John Skylitzes, our main Byzantine source for the expedition, has the entire group leave, he later speaks of the continuing service of at least one of the Norman leaders, Hervé. Moreover, a Norman mercenary unit known as the Maniakatoi – named after Maniakes – is attested in imperial service well into the 1070s.5 This strongly suggests that some (perhaps most) of the Normans remained loyal. And for his part, Maniakes was not overly troubled by the defection. Indeed, it was not this which brought his campaign to a halt, but rather intrigue at the imperial capital. Rumours that Maniakes was disloyal had started to circulate here. And soon enough, orders came that he was to be brought back in chains to Constantinople. In Maniakes’ absence, the imperial advance faltered.

If the Sicilian expedition had not been a complete success, the Normans had proven their worth. The Maniakatoi were apparently redeployed to Constantinople, perhaps in connection with the appointment of Argyros, a Lombard general, to senior office in 1046. Certainly Norman mercenaries were involved in putting down the revolt of Leo Tornikios (a Byzantine general) there the following year.6 Thereafter, they are a regular presence among Byzantine armies.

The Normans – invariably called Franks in Byzantine sources – quickly gained a reputation for fearlessness and ferocity. The court historian Michael Psellos reports that they were impetuous and overwhelming in their onslaught, sentiments echoed by Anna Komnena, the Byzantine princess whose history of her father’s life and times furnishes our most detailed (if tendentious) narrative of the later eleventh century.7 As these reports suggest, the Normans were prized as heavy cavalry, and it was the force of their charge that most impressed observers. Anna notes, with grudging admiration, that they were undefeatable in the charge, though easier prey on foot. Psellos similarly observes that while their charge was unique in its ferocity, if this could be weathered, their stamina soon gave way. Evidently by the later years of the eleventh century, the Normans were enough of a fixture in Byzantine armies for them to have earned such stereotypes.

These anecdotes help explain the stationing of the Norman forces. Most of these were based in central and eastern Anatolia, regions under growing pressure from the Turks. The latter also fought on horseback, albeit as part of lighter and nimbler forces; the Normans offered a natural foil here. The clearest sign of growing Norman repute comes from Byzantine efforts to recruit more of them. William of Apulia reports that in 1051 Argyros, the Lombard general recorded leading Norman troops in Constantinople four years earlier, was sent on a recruiting drive to Italy. Here he offered great riches in exchange for service ‘against the Persians’ (i.e. the Turks). William sees the trip as a ploy to sap Norman forces in Apulia. But given the growing military plight in Anatolia (and the Pecheneg threat in the north), the Byzantine need was genuine. Indeed, William of Poitiers claims that the Byzantines even tried to secure support from the Conqueror in these years.8

Despite their popularity, Norman recruits proved no more reliable in Asia Minor than they had in Sicily. A mercenary’s first loyalty is to his paymaster. And though the Normans were a useful counterweight to regular imperial forces, they added a degree of additional instability to the mix. We can see this in the career of Hervé, one of the first Norman leaders. Hervé had been part of the original force recruited in 1038 for the attack on Sicily. However, he hadn’t followed the Hautevilles into rebellion in the 1040s and, thereafter, secured a position of trust within the imperial regime, serving successive rulers. In 1049/50, he commanded the left flank of the ‘Roman phalanx’ (apparently comprised of Norman cavalry) in a battle against the Pechenegs, a steppe people resident along the northern and western shores of the Black Sea. The battle ended disastrously for the Byzantines, and Skylitzes – our main source for Hervé’s career – accuses Hervé of having instigated the flight, an accusation probably informed by knowledge of Hervé’s later infidelity. Certainly, for the time being, Hervé remained in imperial employ, his career apparently unaffected by the loss.9

In 1057, however, Hervé was one of a number of men snubbed at the emperor’s Eastertide rewards ceremony. He’d requested promotion to the status of magistros, an elevated (but largely honorary) title. When rebuffed, Hervé took up arms against the Byzantine emperor. This rebellion came at the same time as that of two other Byzantine generals, Isaac Komnenos and Katakalon Kekaumenos (who had similar grievances). But Hervé doesn’t seem to have considered cooperation, choosing instead to make a common cause with the Turkish leader Samouch. The plan was to lead raids on imperial territory from eastern Anatolia. But disagreements soon emerged between Hervé and Samouch; and despite defeating Samouch in battle, Hervé found himself imprisoned by the Turkish amir of Chliat (modern Ahlat).

Though Skylitzes leaves matters here, this was not the end of the line for the Norman mercenary. We possess two seals in Hervé’s name, which throw further light on his later career. The better known of these gives Hervé’s name in its Greek form, as Erbebios Frangopoulos (‘Hervé son of a Frank’); it also accords him the honorifics magistros, vestēs and stratēlatēs (the last two being honorary titles akin to magistros). Since Hervé is called magistros here, the seal can scarcely pre-date 1057, when he was denied promotion to this office. It would seem to follow that Hervé had returned to Byzantine service at some later point, earning those honours he’d previously been denied. Confirmation of this comes from the other seal in Hervé’s name. This accords him the even more exalted title proedros; it also states that he was charged (in all likelihood temporarily) with oversight of all Byzantine forces in the East. This would have been an astronomic rise indeed, and a plausible context is offered by the disastrous battle of Manzikert in 1071. In the aftermath of this, Emperor Romanos IV was imprisoned and the eastern army left in disarray; Hervé would have been well-placed to step in.10

Two other Norman leaders figure prominently in Byzantine pol-itics of the 1060s and 1070s: Robert Crispin and another mercenary Roussel de Bailleul. Unlike Hervé, both of these men are mentioned by Amatus, who includes them in an aside on Norman activities in the East.11 Michael Attaleiates, writing in the late 1070s, reports that ‘a certain Latin man from Italy’ called Crispin had entered imperial employ shortly before Romanos’ eastern expedition of 1069. Like most Norman recruits, Robert was sent to the eastern front, where the threat from the Turks was greatest. But scarcely had he arrived than he started causing problems. Believing that he’d been insufficiently rewarded by the emperor, he began to harass local tax collectors. When Romanos got wind of this, he ordered an attack on the upstart mercenary. An initial strike by local forces was defeated, so Romanos sent five western tagmata (the tagma being the kind of professional unit which formed the core of the imperial army) to deal with Robert. They attempted a surprise attack on a Sunday, knowing that the God-fearing Robert and his men would be at rest then. But they bungled the ruse – tripping over the Norman tents, according to Attaleiates – and soon found themselves driven back. Once the Normans were able to mount their horses and regroup, the imperial tagmata were routed. This was no longer a local tax revolt – it was a direct threat to imperial authority. In response, Romanos marched to Dorylaion (Şarhöyük), where the main Byzantine army was starting to assemble. Sensing the danger, Robert decided to submit in exchange for amnesty. Soon after doing so, however, he was arraigned on further charges of conspiracy. Hearing of this, the bulk of Robert’s troops, who’d stayed behind during the affair, went on the rampage.12

Robert’s revolt bears many similarities to Hervé’s. The core issues were again honour and remuneration. And Robert’s hope was clearly to make terms with the emperor, much as Hervé had done. Indeed, while conciliation proved impossible under Romanos, Robert was soon restored. In 1071, he returned from exile to join another rebellion led by Byzantine generals, thereafter earning a place of honour in the regime of the usurper Michael VII Doukas.13 Still Robert’s initial rebellion against Romanos represents a significant escalation of Norman troublemaking. Hervé’s forces only numbered a few hundred and his revolt petered out without direct imperial intervention. Robert’s, by contrast, removed significant territory from Romanos’ control, subverting imperial taxes. It also defeated a retaliatory expedition, probably numbering thousands of men.14 In the end, it had taken the emperor’s own involvement to bring him to heel.

If Crispin’s revolt had revealed the prospects awaiting a sufficiently brazen Norman commander, these were fully realised by Roussel de Bailleul a few years later. Amatus mentions Roussel in the same breath as Robert, and it’s clear that contemporaries saw him as Crispin’s successor. Evidently Norman involvement in Asia Minor was now beginning to attract comment back in Italy. If Amatus is to be trusted, Roussel had first served the emperor in ‘Slavonia’. This probably means that he was involved in putting down the Bulgar revolt of 1071; he may also have been charged with guarding the region against the Pechenegs.15 Following Robert’s death (c.1073), Roussel seems to have inherited command of his men (doubtless reinforced by Roussel’s own) in north-eastern Asia Minor.

This was an extremely difficult time for the empire. Defeat at Manzikert had not only opened the way for the Turks to make inroads into Anatolia; it also represented a massive ideological blow. For almost a century, the empire had been on the front foot, securing and expanding its frontiers in the Balkans and Middle East. This latest defeat now created a crisis of confidence, and when Romanos was captured by the Turkish leader Alp Arslan, a de facto vacancy emerged on the imperial throne. It was problems such as these which were to prove most intractable, and the following years saw successive waves of internal revolt and rebellion. The first (and most successful) of these brought Michael VII Doukas to the throne (with Crispin’s assistance). But Michael VII was immediately faced by further disruption in the Balkans, where efforts were being made to resurrect the old Bulgar state.

Only in 1073 was Michael in a position to attend to his eastern frontiers. The aim now was to claw back recent losses. In this connection, Isaac Komnenos was placed in charge of a large expeditionary force alongside his younger brother Alexios. Among this was the Norman detachment now headed by Roussel, which reportedly numbered some 400 heavily armoured knights.16 Much like four years earlier, tensions soon emerged between the mercenaries and the main imperial force. In this case, the cause was the treatment of one of Roussel’s men, who’d been charged by Isaac of mistreating a local. According to Nikephoros Bryennios – our main source, who probably draws on a lost historical account about (or by) Michael VII’s brother17 – Roussel had been looking to rebel for some time, so this may have been no more than a pretext. In any case, the Normans now struck out on their own, defeating a small Turkish force at Melitene (Malatya) or perhaps Sebasteia (Sivas). Isaac and the depleted main army, meanwhile, were defeated by the Turks at Kaisareia (Kayseri) in the central Anatolian plateau.

Isaac’s defeat presented Roussel with a golden opportunity. With the empire in disarray, central Asia Minor was ripe for the picking. And like the Hauteville brothers before him, Roussel was swift to seize the chance. He immediately began setting himself up as an alternative to imperial rule, offering the long-suffering people of Anatolia protection in exchange for payment. This may have been little better than a racket, but it was not so different from imperial rule; all it involved was redirecting taxation from Constantinople to Roussel. From a local perspective, this arrangement had the singular advantage that Roussel was on hand and ready; he may also have demanded less tax. Certainly the offer found many takers, and a Norman state began to emerge in the eastern reaches of the empire.

We know little about the nature of Roussel’s polity, but the threat was taken seriously in Constantinople. Early in 1074, the last remaining imperial forces in Asia Minor were assembled to stamp out the revolt. These were joined by Varangian and ‘Frankish’ (i.e. Norman) mercenaries and placed under the overall command of John Doukas, the emperor’s brother (Bryennios’ source). The entire army probably numbered only a few thousand – a sign of the straits in which the empire now found itself. This marched through Dorylaion, south east of Constantinople, to the bridge at Zombou. This was a strategic crossing point over the Sangarios (Sakarya), the river which divides north-western Anatolia from the rest of the peninsula. Alerted to John’s advance, Roussel and his men rapidly secured the opposite bank, seeking to prevent further progress into their newly annexed territories. The sides now began to draw up lines for battle. At this point, John’s Normans, who comprised the left flank of the army, decided that their interests would be better served by joining their fellow countrymen. And as was so often the case, one act of subordination led to another. Nikephoros Botaneiates, the commander of John’s rear guard, also decided to withdraw as soon as the battle began to go against the imperial forces. The result was a comprehensive and humiliating defeat. John and his son, Andronikos, were captured, the latter badly wounded.

John’s defeat marked the effective end of Byzantine authority east of the Sangarios. The loss of Asia Minor, begun at Manzikert three years earlier, was all but complete. Roussel, by contrast, was at the height of his powers. With no active army between himself and the capital, he marched on Constantinople. He encamped at Chrysopolis (Üsküdar), on the Anatolian side of the Bosporus, directly opposite the metropolis. Here Roussel demonstratively razed the town in full sight of the city walls. Roussel had now won almost all the Norman mercenaries to his cause – a total force numbering perhaps between 2,000 and 3,000 heavily armed men. This was enough to make a splash, and was far larger than the imperial armies available. But it was not nearly strong enough to take the capital by storm. Roussel knew this, and seems to have hoped that internal divisions would bring Michael VII down. He’d miscalculated, however.

Unable to take the city, Roussel was forced to improvise. He now proclaimed his captive John Doukas emperor, seeking to create a puppet imperial government. That Roussel was set on replacing Michael is revealed by his curt response to the emperor’s offer of generous gifts and the title of kouropalates (literally, ‘in charge of the palace’), should Roussel and his men submit. Yet Roussel had overplayed his hand. A Norman-led regime in the heart of Asia Minor may have been a viable prospect. But by setting himself squarely against the Byzantine state, Roussel made it impossible to find any middle ground. Sensing that the Normans were now the greatest threat to the empire, Michael reached out to his erstwhile opponents, the Turks. He hired a prominent Turkish general, who was able to make swift work of the Norman force. The Turks captured both Roussel and John, but were happy to ransom the former back to his wife and men. Chastened, and certainly diminished, Roussel remained a potent force.

Michael now sought out support from his brother-in-law, George II of Georgia. George placed 6,000 men at the service of Nikephoros Palaiologos, the emperor’s chosen general. And with these, Nikephoros marched west (from Georgia) to Pontos, on the northern Turkish coast. Yet soon Nikephoros ran out of funds and his troops began deserting. Roussel was then able to dispatch the remnants. Desperate and depleted of men, the emperor finally entrusted the task of bringing Roussel down to the up-and-coming young Alexios Komnenos, who’d led the expeditionary force of 1073 alongside his brother Isaac. Given his future career – Alexios would be Michael’s successor but one – it’s hardly surprising that later writers glamourise Alexios’ capture of Roussel. They present him waging a valiant guerrilla war against the odds with a skeleton force.

The reality was more prosaic. Alexios let gold do the work of steel, putting out a bounty on Roussel’s head among the Turks of Asia Minor. Soon enough Tutak, who’d been an ally of the fledgling Norman state to date, turned traitor, arresting Roussel at a feast. He then turned Roussel over to Alexios at Amaseia (Amasya) in northern Anatolia. Interestingly, Bryennios records that the local population was so upset by the prospect of a return to Byzantine rule that Alexios had to pretend to blind Roussel – rendering him unfit for rule – in order to leave with his skin. The tale has a legendary air to it – and Bryennios was married to Alexios’ daughter, Anna Komnena – but it preserves a kernel of truth. Roussel had proven a reliable protector and many were unhappy about the prospect of returning to rule from Constantinople.

While Norman state-building proved abortive in Anatolia, its legacy was considerable. The loss of the region had been on the cards since Manzikert, but it was sealed at Zombou Bridge. For two years thereafter, large parts of Asia Minor had been under Norman sway. And while future generations of Norman mercenaries were to prove more pliable – more Hervé than Roussel in disposition – such westerners continued to be a disruptive element within the imperial forces. Indeed, the same Alexios who earned acclaim for bringing Roussel to heel, would later seek to harness the power of the western ‘Franks’ for his own purposes.

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