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At last, the two empires will be joined in harmony. But will Christophorus make a return or will he fade into obscurity?
I have a feeling that Irene will run out of mercy quite soon if Constantinople returns to its schemes.
I have a feeling that Irene will run out of mercy quite soon if Constantinople returns to its schemes.
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There'll be more scenes with Christophorus, but whether he's out of the game or not is something I'll be mum on...
The Byzantines will be the Byzantines, regardless of whether Eirene or someone else rules though
Also, apologies for how long that last post took to write and produce. Now I'm over the hurdle of the siege writing I think I'll be quicker with the next few updates to come
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You have a way of writing your antagonists that is tragic and compelling.
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It was weeks of searching fruitlessly for the deposed Emperor that was reported to the increasingly impatient Karloman in the middle of June as Eirene began to solidify her control over her Empire. Karloman and Eirene both had their forces out searching for any trace of the deposed Christophorus, but he had seemingly vanished in a puff of smoke.
Eirene’s mounting frustration was eased somewhat when strategos Heraklios formally swore his support for her throne, having successfully concluded his war against the Epirote Greeks, bringing them back into the imperial fold.
As for Karloman, he was made happier in the middle of June by a message from one of his couriers, though when Eirene pressed him on the details he merely smiled enigmatically. His mood darkened again toward the end of the month when word came from the west.
“It’s about time for me to return home,” He told his wife.
“Trouble closer to home?” the shrewd Empress asked,
He nodded,
“The Umayyad’s are acting up, beginning to make inroads into the Kingdom of Asturias. We’re bound to defend them, and with me in the east, they believe us too distracted to respond to their provocations.” His face darkened, “We’ll show them that Francia has only grown stronger since my grandfather drove them back at Tours.”
“I have little doubt you will,” Eirene smiled.
“That said, I’d rather not leave until you were certain your throne was secure.”
“Aside from not being able to find Christophorus, all’s well on that front,” Eirene replied. The demes are supportive, the army is tired after repeated political upheaval and Constantinople is just glad for the food now filling it’s granaries.” She grinned again, this time a harsher, more defiant grin, “Starvation and the threat of it certainly helps compel loyalty. If people know they will go hungry without you, they will move the heavens to ensure they support you.”
Karloman couldn’t help a slight shiver on hearing the tone at which she said this. Some days it was easy to forget this was the woman who had eviscerated her first husband and tied his entrails on spikes down the road to the palace.
“Well, I’ve seen little that’s given me cause to regret that I will be ruling in the West, not the East,” Karloman replied, “You wanted this city so badly my lady, so far as I’m concerned, you are welcome to it.”
“Will you write when you return?”
“Of course, and I will write again if I need any help from you. Don’t forget our arrangements, while we rule separate domains, we are bound together like links in a chain. Any threat to one of us effects the other.”
“And I’ll certainly be keeping you involved in my campaigns against the Bulgars,” Eirene replied, “All the lands south of the Danube will be ours again.”
“A worthy goal,” Karloman inclined his head, “Though I’d worry about your religious enemies closer to home first.”
A nasty smile spread over the face of the Empress of the East.
“I won’t be worrying about them for much longer…”
So it was that Karloman, Pepin and the last remaining Frankish forces in the city prepared to leave. Atop the high point of the Imperial residence, the rotting head of the former strategos Thrakesios stared blankly over the square, a reminder, as if anyone in the wounded city needed one, of the consequences of denying Eirene’s rule.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable leaving the city in her care Father?” Pepin asked, “It seems… wrong.”
But Karloman had simply shrugged. “The Romanion have always conducted their politics to the death, Eirene is no different. The people of this city should be thankful that the Venetians went home when I paid them, instead of running rampant through the city. If they ever sacked the place, it wouldn’t recover for centuries.”
That last morning before they were due to leave, gold changed hands and secret instructions were whispered into eager ears. Blades and cudgels appeared in the hands of hired thugs, doors were broken in darkened streets. Homes looted and a few burned down, and those inhabitants within slaughtered.
The city awoke that morning to find over two dozen of it’s most prominent Iconoclast inhabitants, senators, magistrates, the occasional demes leader and priest all brutally murdered, their property being confiscated by state officials. Empress Eirene was clearly determined to remove all resistance to her reign within the city. But in the pallid haze that hung over that frightened capital, it was whispered that it was the Franks who had organised it, the Empress’s brutal barbarian of a husband who had pushed her into it. Had he not been the one who sacked the city? Why would he not be the one who persuaded the Empress to launch a bloody purge of her remaining rivals?
If Karloman was perturbed by these rumours, he gave no sign of it as he and Pepin left the city on horseback, riding through the Golden Gate of the Theodosian Walls, in much more peaceful circumstances then they had come.
For days Pepin rode beside his father, too nervous to ask his father about the truth of the rumours he’d heard. Had he unleashed a bloody purge in the midnight? A warning to Eirene’s enemies? A show of strength to keep the East in line? But his Father had not volunteered any information. He in fact seemed to give no consideration to it at all.
“I do hope Eirene’s purge doesn’t cause problems for her,” he ventured, carefully to his father one night in Illyria.
“It won’t when they blame it all on me, the Western barbarian who butchered the Empress’s enemies.” Karloman replied grimly,
“And did you?”
Karloman turned to stare at him. “What do you think? Did I slaughter Eirene’s enemies?”
Sensing this was a test, Pepin thought for a moment… “No.”
“Why no?”
“I don’t believe you have anything to gain from eliminating her enemies… You aren’t going to be ruling Constantinople, what does it matter to you?”
“Why were there people who thought I did it then?”
Pepin thought some more. Makes sense? No, that doesn’t work… But if she…
“You and Eirene planned it together,” Pepin realised at last, “She needed to eliminate her enemies, but not be blamed for it, so she made sure it was done while we were still in the city. Then, her agents and defenders could blame you for influencing her, and when she can govern without her enemies inhibiting her every move, she will prove more benevolent to them, seem their saviour.”
“Well done,” Karloman grinned, “That’s right.”
“And what about your marriage Father? Do you intend to take another wife?”
“And why would I do that?”
“Eirene cannot stay in the West when she must rule in the East,” Pepin pointed out, “And you cannot live as a bachelor would.”
Karloman shrugged, “At this point, I feel I can do whatever I please in that regard. Considering how my last two marriages ended when the women DID live with me, perhaps it’s for the best I have a wife I never have to see,” he snorted sardonically, “And if she takes other lovers in the interim, well, what does it matter? I have my heir already.”
Pepin felt an embarrassed flush creep into his face, as always happened when his father issued one of those rare praises. “I will not let you down father,”
Paris, 783, The Return of Emperor Karloman
It was a quiet court that greeted the Emperor’s return to Frankia, simple and unornamented. Karloman had given orders for no overt celebrations, no parades, intending to return straight to business that had been neglected while he had been present in the east with his armies. It was only after several days of being back that his mother Bertrada persuaded him, with great difficulty, to host a formal banquet to honour those who had served with distinction in the campaign in the east and dole out rewards. She succeeded after prevailing on him for more than two days, and Karloman resignedly agreed in the tone of one who wants to silence their nagging mother rather than one who actually feels as though he was doing something he must.
But the banquet did give Karloman an opportunity to show his appreciation for those whom had served him well in the east, the doling out of lands or titles or other gifts being the most prominent expression of this. Like all Christian monarchs, Karloman made liberal use of his patronage to secure loyalty, and luckily for those who served him well, he was not known as a miser in this regard.
For Berenger de Valois, this was a chance to bask in the Emperor’s affirmation, and thus he attended the feast willingly, excited to reap the rewards of whatever boons the Emperor chose to grant him for his part in the victory at Phillipi and the fall of Constantinople. He beamed with pride as the Emperor rewarded him with a plot of decent land near Toulouse, smiled broadly when Karloman offered to take his son as a page in his own service, and accepted the congratulations of his peers as he basked in the accolades of victory.
“Where is Elodie?” he asked his wife halfway through the feast, suddenly realising his daughter had seemingly vanished from the hall, “Do find her please?”
His wife signalled for a servant’s aid, and Berenger turned to converse with Duke Thomas, sitting nearby…
Pepin ran down the corridor, insisting on negotiating the splayed bodies of out-cold drunks who had sank into their stupor on account of the night’s celebrations. He had raced out to feed scraps to the kennels, as the hounds always ate well on feast nights when the waste of food ran high. If Pepin had his way, it wouldn’t happen, but he abhorred waste of that kind, while his father didn’t seem to concern himself with it.
“Men will be men Pepin, and they are given to overindulgence when permitted to do so only rarely.” He had told him when he had complained about it.
He rounded the corner, and felt a sudden sharp smack as he fell backwards, dazed.
Startled brown eyes, soft and kind, were staring down at him beneath bushy black curls. “Oh, sorry!”
A soft, lovely voice. Lilting and kind.
“I didn’t mean to bump into you,” she said, “may I help you up?” she held out a hand
Her manners were lovely, gracious, Pepin, still slightly stunned, took her small hand and lifted himself back onto his feet.
“Sorry again, I’m Elodie,” she spoke, and Pepin found himself strangely tongue-tied, a flush creeping to his cheeks.
“I’m pp-Pepin,” he stammered out, managing to find some words at last.
“You’re the Crown Prince?” she asked, arching her eyebrows in a curiously arresting way, her face taking a stricken look, “Oh my! I’m sorry for running into you!”
“S’fine” Pepin mumbled, finding his usual words deserting him.
Elodie opened her mouth to speak once more, but a call from the end of the corridor interrupted her.
“Sorry, I have to go back to the feast. I hope you aren’t injured!” she called back to him as she began to skip down the hall towards the feast.
Pepin’s gaze trailed after her happy withdrawal, feeling a little bit worse now that she’d actually left.
By the time he returned to the hall himself, he had become possessed of an overriding desire to find out more about her. As his eyes scanned the banquet hall, he completely missed many of his father’s efforts to draw him into the conversation.
“Pepin? Pepin!” his father’s sharp voice brought him back to reality, “Have your wits deserted you tonight boy? Tell the Duke of Ivrea about your venture into Galata!”
Pepin told the story, but his mind was far away. Not in the Galatan tunnel, not on the burning sea of the Golden Horn, nor upon the blood-stained dirt of Phillipi, it was back in that corridor with his mind reeling and heart-racing from a chance bump into a girl with the soft brown eyes and the wonderful smile…
The following weeks passed in a blur for Pepin that he could later barely recall. His father wrote to Eirene, discovering that she was again pregnant with a second child from their marriage, conceived before he had left Constantinople.
“Will you travel east to see her?” Pepin had asked.
“No,” Karloman answered. As far as he was concerned, his business with Eirene was largely concluded. She had her throne, and he had the legitimacy of the marriage and the recognition from the East. They both had what they desired.
Karloman instead used the next few weeks to push further progress on some of his reformations to the judicial system, as well as pay down some of the loans he had taken for his previous campaigns. In his absence from the empire, the reforms had stalled so Pepin saw little of his father while he dealt with ensuring that his new institutions that would help bind the new Empire together were created and properly formed so as to create greater efficiency. He noted that in this effort most lords were strongly sympathetic to his father. From the initial unease, Karloman had won the support of many of his peers, his military successes no doubt playing a key role. Frankish kings who were defeated in war seldom had long or successful reigns.
All this was fine with Pepin, who found his mind constantly turning back to Elodie. He finally mustered the courage to find out more about her. What family was she from? Were they of a class like his own?
“Her?” one of his father’s guards whom he was friendly with was surprised when the Prince asked after her. “She’s Berenger de Valois’s girl. A nice young lass I’ve heard.”
“Berenger!” Pepin was shocked. Berenger had not mentioned having a daughter during their time together in the east. Certainly not one of his own age. “She’s his child?”
“I believe so, if she’s the one you mean,” the guard shrugged. “Why?”
“No… reason.” The boy trailed off, his heart sinking. Berenger’s family was noble, but only barely. The De Valois were so far below the proper rank for a Carolingian Prince it would barely be proper for them to be in polite company outside feasts or banquets.
His heart was fully sunk. Not only would they not likely be together, they likely wouldn’t even see each other again. What cause would they have to mix outside the occasional feast? Berenger stood high in Karloman’s estimation, but only for his merits, not his birth, which ranked fairly lowly.
The boy moped around in a mild depression for some days, not even talking much to his sisters, all of whom tried to interest him in their games. His tutor noticed with concern that he seemed distracted, and once or twice he even caught his grandmother looking at him with concern.
Said grandmother’s growing concern was brought up to Karloman in council briefly, but the busy Emperor brushed aside the question, confident his self-reliant son was fine.
So few could be mustered to bring Pepin out of his funk, while his father began to turn his attention beyond his borders once more, towards Iberia.
OOC:
So interesting developments! Our protagonists are home from the war in the east. Pepin has a new squeeze, but she's out of his league... or is she? What will Bertrada and Karloman think if they discover it? And what's going on with the Umayyads in Spain?
These post was a long one, and a little gruelling to push through for me, but it started picking up towards the end, I feel I'm getting back into the swing of the writing of it, so hopefully these updates should be more regularised. Thanks for reading
Eirene’s mounting frustration was eased somewhat when strategos Heraklios formally swore his support for her throne, having successfully concluded his war against the Epirote Greeks, bringing them back into the imperial fold.
As for Karloman, he was made happier in the middle of June by a message from one of his couriers, though when Eirene pressed him on the details he merely smiled enigmatically. His mood darkened again toward the end of the month when word came from the west.
“It’s about time for me to return home,” He told his wife.
“Trouble closer to home?” the shrewd Empress asked,
He nodded,
“The Umayyad’s are acting up, beginning to make inroads into the Kingdom of Asturias. We’re bound to defend them, and with me in the east, they believe us too distracted to respond to their provocations.” His face darkened, “We’ll show them that Francia has only grown stronger since my grandfather drove them back at Tours.”
“I have little doubt you will,” Eirene smiled.
“That said, I’d rather not leave until you were certain your throne was secure.”
“Aside from not being able to find Christophorus, all’s well on that front,” Eirene replied. The demes are supportive, the army is tired after repeated political upheaval and Constantinople is just glad for the food now filling it’s granaries.” She grinned again, this time a harsher, more defiant grin, “Starvation and the threat of it certainly helps compel loyalty. If people know they will go hungry without you, they will move the heavens to ensure they support you.”
Karloman couldn’t help a slight shiver on hearing the tone at which she said this. Some days it was easy to forget this was the woman who had eviscerated her first husband and tied his entrails on spikes down the road to the palace.
“Well, I’ve seen little that’s given me cause to regret that I will be ruling in the West, not the East,” Karloman replied, “You wanted this city so badly my lady, so far as I’m concerned, you are welcome to it.”
“Will you write when you return?”
“Of course, and I will write again if I need any help from you. Don’t forget our arrangements, while we rule separate domains, we are bound together like links in a chain. Any threat to one of us effects the other.”
“And I’ll certainly be keeping you involved in my campaigns against the Bulgars,” Eirene replied, “All the lands south of the Danube will be ours again.”
“A worthy goal,” Karloman inclined his head, “Though I’d worry about your religious enemies closer to home first.”
A nasty smile spread over the face of the Empress of the East.
“I won’t be worrying about them for much longer…”
So it was that Karloman, Pepin and the last remaining Frankish forces in the city prepared to leave. Atop the high point of the Imperial residence, the rotting head of the former strategos Thrakesios stared blankly over the square, a reminder, as if anyone in the wounded city needed one, of the consequences of denying Eirene’s rule.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable leaving the city in her care Father?” Pepin asked, “It seems… wrong.”
But Karloman had simply shrugged. “The Romanion have always conducted their politics to the death, Eirene is no different. The people of this city should be thankful that the Venetians went home when I paid them, instead of running rampant through the city. If they ever sacked the place, it wouldn’t recover for centuries.”
That last morning before they were due to leave, gold changed hands and secret instructions were whispered into eager ears. Blades and cudgels appeared in the hands of hired thugs, doors were broken in darkened streets. Homes looted and a few burned down, and those inhabitants within slaughtered.
The city awoke that morning to find over two dozen of it’s most prominent Iconoclast inhabitants, senators, magistrates, the occasional demes leader and priest all brutally murdered, their property being confiscated by state officials. Empress Eirene was clearly determined to remove all resistance to her reign within the city. But in the pallid haze that hung over that frightened capital, it was whispered that it was the Franks who had organised it, the Empress’s brutal barbarian of a husband who had pushed her into it. Had he not been the one who sacked the city? Why would he not be the one who persuaded the Empress to launch a bloody purge of her remaining rivals?
If Karloman was perturbed by these rumours, he gave no sign of it as he and Pepin left the city on horseback, riding through the Golden Gate of the Theodosian Walls, in much more peaceful circumstances then they had come.
For days Pepin rode beside his father, too nervous to ask his father about the truth of the rumours he’d heard. Had he unleashed a bloody purge in the midnight? A warning to Eirene’s enemies? A show of strength to keep the East in line? But his Father had not volunteered any information. He in fact seemed to give no consideration to it at all.
“I do hope Eirene’s purge doesn’t cause problems for her,” he ventured, carefully to his father one night in Illyria.
“It won’t when they blame it all on me, the Western barbarian who butchered the Empress’s enemies.” Karloman replied grimly,
“And did you?”
Karloman turned to stare at him. “What do you think? Did I slaughter Eirene’s enemies?”
Sensing this was a test, Pepin thought for a moment… “No.”
“Why no?”
“I don’t believe you have anything to gain from eliminating her enemies… You aren’t going to be ruling Constantinople, what does it matter to you?”
“Why were there people who thought I did it then?”
Pepin thought some more. Makes sense? No, that doesn’t work… But if she…
“You and Eirene planned it together,” Pepin realised at last, “She needed to eliminate her enemies, but not be blamed for it, so she made sure it was done while we were still in the city. Then, her agents and defenders could blame you for influencing her, and when she can govern without her enemies inhibiting her every move, she will prove more benevolent to them, seem their saviour.”
“Well done,” Karloman grinned, “That’s right.”
“And what about your marriage Father? Do you intend to take another wife?”
“And why would I do that?”
“Eirene cannot stay in the West when she must rule in the East,” Pepin pointed out, “And you cannot live as a bachelor would.”
Karloman shrugged, “At this point, I feel I can do whatever I please in that regard. Considering how my last two marriages ended when the women DID live with me, perhaps it’s for the best I have a wife I never have to see,” he snorted sardonically, “And if she takes other lovers in the interim, well, what does it matter? I have my heir already.”
Pepin felt an embarrassed flush creep into his face, as always happened when his father issued one of those rare praises. “I will not let you down father,”
Paris, 783, The Return of Emperor Karloman
It was a quiet court that greeted the Emperor’s return to Frankia, simple and unornamented. Karloman had given orders for no overt celebrations, no parades, intending to return straight to business that had been neglected while he had been present in the east with his armies. It was only after several days of being back that his mother Bertrada persuaded him, with great difficulty, to host a formal banquet to honour those who had served with distinction in the campaign in the east and dole out rewards. She succeeded after prevailing on him for more than two days, and Karloman resignedly agreed in the tone of one who wants to silence their nagging mother rather than one who actually feels as though he was doing something he must.
But the banquet did give Karloman an opportunity to show his appreciation for those whom had served him well in the east, the doling out of lands or titles or other gifts being the most prominent expression of this. Like all Christian monarchs, Karloman made liberal use of his patronage to secure loyalty, and luckily for those who served him well, he was not known as a miser in this regard.
For Berenger de Valois, this was a chance to bask in the Emperor’s affirmation, and thus he attended the feast willingly, excited to reap the rewards of whatever boons the Emperor chose to grant him for his part in the victory at Phillipi and the fall of Constantinople. He beamed with pride as the Emperor rewarded him with a plot of decent land near Toulouse, smiled broadly when Karloman offered to take his son as a page in his own service, and accepted the congratulations of his peers as he basked in the accolades of victory.
“Where is Elodie?” he asked his wife halfway through the feast, suddenly realising his daughter had seemingly vanished from the hall, “Do find her please?”
His wife signalled for a servant’s aid, and Berenger turned to converse with Duke Thomas, sitting nearby…
Pepin ran down the corridor, insisting on negotiating the splayed bodies of out-cold drunks who had sank into their stupor on account of the night’s celebrations. He had raced out to feed scraps to the kennels, as the hounds always ate well on feast nights when the waste of food ran high. If Pepin had his way, it wouldn’t happen, but he abhorred waste of that kind, while his father didn’t seem to concern himself with it.
“Men will be men Pepin, and they are given to overindulgence when permitted to do so only rarely.” He had told him when he had complained about it.
He rounded the corner, and felt a sudden sharp smack as he fell backwards, dazed.
Startled brown eyes, soft and kind, were staring down at him beneath bushy black curls. “Oh, sorry!”
A soft, lovely voice. Lilting and kind.
“I didn’t mean to bump into you,” she said, “may I help you up?” she held out a hand
Her manners were lovely, gracious, Pepin, still slightly stunned, took her small hand and lifted himself back onto his feet.
“Sorry again, I’m Elodie,” she spoke, and Pepin found himself strangely tongue-tied, a flush creeping to his cheeks.
“I’m pp-Pepin,” he stammered out, managing to find some words at last.
“You’re the Crown Prince?” she asked, arching her eyebrows in a curiously arresting way, her face taking a stricken look, “Oh my! I’m sorry for running into you!”
“S’fine” Pepin mumbled, finding his usual words deserting him.
Elodie opened her mouth to speak once more, but a call from the end of the corridor interrupted her.
“Sorry, I have to go back to the feast. I hope you aren’t injured!” she called back to him as she began to skip down the hall towards the feast.
Pepin’s gaze trailed after her happy withdrawal, feeling a little bit worse now that she’d actually left.
By the time he returned to the hall himself, he had become possessed of an overriding desire to find out more about her. As his eyes scanned the banquet hall, he completely missed many of his father’s efforts to draw him into the conversation.
“Pepin? Pepin!” his father’s sharp voice brought him back to reality, “Have your wits deserted you tonight boy? Tell the Duke of Ivrea about your venture into Galata!”
Pepin told the story, but his mind was far away. Not in the Galatan tunnel, not on the burning sea of the Golden Horn, nor upon the blood-stained dirt of Phillipi, it was back in that corridor with his mind reeling and heart-racing from a chance bump into a girl with the soft brown eyes and the wonderful smile…
The following weeks passed in a blur for Pepin that he could later barely recall. His father wrote to Eirene, discovering that she was again pregnant with a second child from their marriage, conceived before he had left Constantinople.
“Will you travel east to see her?” Pepin had asked.
“No,” Karloman answered. As far as he was concerned, his business with Eirene was largely concluded. She had her throne, and he had the legitimacy of the marriage and the recognition from the East. They both had what they desired.
Karloman instead used the next few weeks to push further progress on some of his reformations to the judicial system, as well as pay down some of the loans he had taken for his previous campaigns. In his absence from the empire, the reforms had stalled so Pepin saw little of his father while he dealt with ensuring that his new institutions that would help bind the new Empire together were created and properly formed so as to create greater efficiency. He noted that in this effort most lords were strongly sympathetic to his father. From the initial unease, Karloman had won the support of many of his peers, his military successes no doubt playing a key role. Frankish kings who were defeated in war seldom had long or successful reigns.
All this was fine with Pepin, who found his mind constantly turning back to Elodie. He finally mustered the courage to find out more about her. What family was she from? Were they of a class like his own?
“Her?” one of his father’s guards whom he was friendly with was surprised when the Prince asked after her. “She’s Berenger de Valois’s girl. A nice young lass I’ve heard.”
“Berenger!” Pepin was shocked. Berenger had not mentioned having a daughter during their time together in the east. Certainly not one of his own age. “She’s his child?”
“I believe so, if she’s the one you mean,” the guard shrugged. “Why?”
“No… reason.” The boy trailed off, his heart sinking. Berenger’s family was noble, but only barely. The De Valois were so far below the proper rank for a Carolingian Prince it would barely be proper for them to be in polite company outside feasts or banquets.
His heart was fully sunk. Not only would they not likely be together, they likely wouldn’t even see each other again. What cause would they have to mix outside the occasional feast? Berenger stood high in Karloman’s estimation, but only for his merits, not his birth, which ranked fairly lowly.
The boy moped around in a mild depression for some days, not even talking much to his sisters, all of whom tried to interest him in their games. His tutor noticed with concern that he seemed distracted, and once or twice he even caught his grandmother looking at him with concern.
Said grandmother’s growing concern was brought up to Karloman in council briefly, but the busy Emperor brushed aside the question, confident his self-reliant son was fine.
So few could be mustered to bring Pepin out of his funk, while his father began to turn his attention beyond his borders once more, towards Iberia.
OOC:
So interesting developments! Our protagonists are home from the war in the east. Pepin has a new squeeze, but she's out of his league... or is she? What will Bertrada and Karloman think if they discover it? And what's going on with the Umayyads in Spain?
These post was a long one, and a little gruelling to push through for me, but it started picking up towards the end, I feel I'm getting back into the swing of the writing of it, so hopefully these updates should be more regularised. Thanks for reading
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Pepin needs to talk to Bertrada. She will get him what he needs and deserves.
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Pepin is a sweet boy, I worry about what will happen when the time comes for him to rule.
I feel that both Bertrada and Karloman would suggest that Pepin keep Elodie as a mistress but I doubt that would make him happy.
All in all an excellent chapter, as always. I'm looking forward to Karloman's Hispanian campaign. I was also surprised to remember that Karlomann is in his thirties at this point while I was thinking him a few decades older at least.
I feel that both Bertrada and Karloman would suggest that Pepin keep Elodie as a mistress but I doubt that would make him happy.
All in all an excellent chapter, as always. I'm looking forward to Karloman's Hispanian campaign. I was also surprised to remember that Karlomann is in his thirties at this point while I was thinking him a few decades older at least.
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@slothinator
Thirties with a mental age of sixty-two I think! Considering the amount of crap he's marched through in his personal and familial life thus far I'm not surprised he comes off that way!
Definitely Bertrada will have some solution worked up to resolve the Elodie problem when she learns of it. She's not one to let problems fester, and it's not like she doesn't know full well how picking bad marriages tends to cause problems down the line (see, Gerberga and Sigalis).
Should have a new post up tommorow, introducing some new characters as well as the prelude to yet another conflict. Things on the Frankish homefront are fairly quiet, since winning wars tends to make lords a bit happier, but the foreign side of things is about to get less comfortable.
Thirties with a mental age of sixty-two I think! Considering the amount of crap he's marched through in his personal and familial life thus far I'm not surprised he comes off that way!
Definitely Bertrada will have some solution worked up to resolve the Elodie problem when she learns of it. She's not one to let problems fester, and it's not like she doesn't know full well how picking bad marriages tends to cause problems down the line (see, Gerberga and Sigalis).
Should have a new post up tommorow, introducing some new characters as well as the prelude to yet another conflict. Things on the Frankish homefront are fairly quiet, since winning wars tends to make lords a bit happier, but the foreign side of things is about to get less comfortable.
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Finally got caught up with this AAR and my what a blast has it been so far! So many similarities between what happened in OTL yet oh so many changes too, most especially that marriage with Eirene of Athens! Looking forward to seeing how the Hispanian campaign goes and hoping Karloman succeeds where his brother failed in OTL in bringing the Moors to heel. Curiously though, has any of the special courtiers from the Charlie dlc appeared yet? It's quite a bummer to not see Roland or Ogier serving Karloman. Then again maybe they're just for if Karl succeeded in becoming the sole ruler I suppose.
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@TWR97 Thanks so much for your kind compliments! So pleased you're enjoying this, and plenty more to come! Yes, I think playing around with "similar but different" events relevant to the OTL is some of the most interesting bits of alternative history, so I'm glad you like it.
I'm not actually sure if the special courtiers thing is relevant to anyone but Karl becoming HRE ruler, though I don't actually know for sure. Regardless, even if those characters don't show up, there's plenty of other interesting ones to come!
Speaking of which....
784, Kingdom of Asturias, Iberia.
Word came first from outriders, word of slaughtered livestock and burned hamlets, of village folk strung up on wooden fences as a warning for others. Riders from the Umayyads they said, Moslem raiders from over the border.
Word reached the court of the boy king Froilo II of Asturias, and a sealed letter delivered to one of his regents, the Lord Marshal Athanagildo.
A lowborn Marshal, Lord Athanagildo had risen to his high position in the Iberian Christian court by virtue of his military skill.
The report alarmed Athanagildo, one of the key architects of the alliance with the new Frankish Emperor to the north. If the Umayyad’s had begun probing the borders, the inherent weakness of the kingdom’s current position might tempt them into a full assault before too long. Though the King of the Umayyads too was in his minority, he had at his court a formidable coterie of aggressive and militarily capable advisors, and his lands almost completely surrounded those of the Kingdom of Asturias, an isolated oasis for Christendom in a sea of Moslem rule in Iberia.
The King’s mother and her new husband, the Duke of Castille, might fool themselves that the throne of Asturias was safe, but Athanagildo knew better. No stranger to war, and twice as clever besides, the Lord Marshal knew better than anyone how formidable the Caliphate’s armies could be, though they were but mere remnants of the Empire that had come before, prior to the rise of the Abassids, that new Empire in the east that now menaced the Romanoi. Yet it’s economic power in Iberia was near-equivalent, if not greater than that of the Carolingian Franks, and its armies were not to be underestimated.
“If you’re right…”
“I am right,” Athanagildo insisted, “The Moors feel we are a plum, ripe to be picked from a tree before it falls.”
“So what, should we mobilise for conflict? With what army could we defeat the Caliph’s forces?”
The Duke of Castille, as usual, was inclined to miss the point, Not for the first time, Athanagildo wished the old King was still alive, he would’ve grasped the point of his plans for a Frankish alliance.
“This is why we need the Franks,” he explained, patiently, keeping his rising temper in check. “We form an alliance with them, they stand obligated as our protector against the Moorish forces, and the Umayyad’s think twice before they strike…”
“And when we make ourselves dependant on the Franks for protection, what stops them vassalizing us as surely as any Moorish ruler?”
“I…”
“This is what you always do Athanagildo,” the Duke explained, smugly. “Rushing to conclusions, racing from one hare-brained scheme to another. But you’d have us be Frankish slaves instead of Moorish ones.”
“If we don’t hold back the tide rising all around us, the Franks will be the least of our worries.” Athanagildo stubbornly insisted.
“I see no evidence of a concerted plan for a major war,” the Duke replied. “All we have are a few raids over the border, which so far the Umayyad’s deny responsibility for.”
“They’re lying,” Athanagildo insisted.
“Perhaps, but you have no evidence of that…”
“Then let me go and find some.”
The Duke stopped, gazed at him with some confusion. “Are you saying…”
“Yes, send me to the border, I’ll take a few dozen men and ride to the border villages and see what information I can turn up.” He stopped, eyed the Duke warily, “But if I’m right, I want permission to send riders to the court of the Frankish Emperor, requesting help.”
“God be damned Athanagildo, you don’t even know anything yet!” The Duke cursed and Athanagildo crossed himself piously, “Go then! Go test your pet theory and leave those of us who are actually interested in being regent for our King to do the real work you leave behind! And when you’re done, we are going to talk about your new Frankish alliance that you made.”
“I had the Queen’s permission to arrange her son’s betrothal.” Athanagildo pointed out mildly,
“But not mine,” The Duke replied, “If you’d done it after I arrived, I never would’ve consented to the match with some Frankish bitch.”
Which I why I did it before the Queen re-married. Her, I can talk sense to, whereas you, my lord, are too thick in the skull for anything resembling sense to penetrate.
But Athanagildo, wisely, kept that thought to himself.
“We’ll see,” he replied, “I’ll leave for my investigation in the morning.”
But he actually would leave that very night, taking a dozen of his most loyal men with him. In the fraught atmosphere of the Regency Council, it was wise to keep one’s potential rivals guessing…
Paris, Court of Karloman Karling, 784.
Karloman was prompt in his response to hearing the news from the southwest. Athanagildo, regent of the King of Asturias (or one of them anyway) had sent word that Umayyad raiders had begun to probe the borders of his realm. He sent out missives ordering the beginning of a general muster.
For Karloman, whom had formed the alliance with the Asturians by means of the betrothal of his daughter Beretrude to the young King, this news was a welcome relief. Lords and men alike often grew idle and wayward in their loyalties in times of peace, and the prospect of war against a foreign, and heathen, enemy would do well to quell mutterings of daily discontents that inevitably emerged from day-to-day management of Empire. Karloman’s open embrace for Italian lords who had sworn fealty to him without complaint after the Lombard war had attracted criticism from those in his own camp who had favoured a harsher approach… preferably one that would have enabled them to acquire further lands and title in Italy at the expense of the Italians. A good foreign war would distract them, prevent the malcontent’s mutterings from spiralling into open rebellion.
Indeed, it was a point of pride for Karloman that as yet no such uprising among his own lords had ever openly taken place. His mother’s spy network continued to prove it’s value in this regard.
She still annoyed him on occasion though, particularly in her badgering about the tying up of loose ends in the east.
“So Eirene has still found no trace of Christophorus?”
“None.” He confirmed, keeping his face level.
“Then he will remain a threat.” Bertrada declared, glaring at him, “you should not have left the east without ensuring his capture. Your arrangements with Eirene will never be secure so long as she faces such opposition.”
“How do you know she won’t be secure? Christophorus was a madman, few would want him back, whatever their feelings on Eirene.”
“Her purge of the Iconoclasts means they would welcome any who sought to spill her from her throne, and some men of ambition benefit as much from a weak throne as a strong one.” She pressed him.
Karloman sighed, he had hoped he wouldn’t have had to let his mother in on the secret… but if it stopped her badgering him.
“Rest assured I am confident Christophorus is no threat to my designs, or Eirene’s throne.”
“How are you confident?” she asked, surprised.
He gave a small, slight grin. She disliked that grin.
“How are you confident?” she repeated, growing suspicious.
“Not here mother,” Karloman replied, “Come along with me tonight, and I’ll show you the cause of my confidence.”
And so it was that Bertrada de Laon found herself being led down some of the narrowest streets of that rapidly-growing city, path lit only by naked torchlight and the only sound being the soft squelching of boots on the wet, mud-stained ground as she followed her son into one of the villas on the Seine.
“I thought it was to ensure that events in the East continued to transpire as I desired,” Karloman explained as he began ushering his guards forward to open the locks on the door. “Thus it was best not to alert Eirene to what my men found in the days following the siege.”
“What do you mean?” Bertrada asked,
Karloman didn’t reply, instead jerked his head toward the interior of the villa as the door swung open. In they went, Bertrada feeling steadily more suspicious as they climbed. Her son had clearly gone to great lengths to conceal this from her, and from his new wife in the east. What was he up to?
A dim light ahead, and another door unlocked by the guards, in Karloman went, beckoning his mother to follow as he descended down the stairs.
Behind a set of iron bars, she saw the filthy, wide-eyed prisoners, eyes straining as the sudden light entered the dank cellar where he had been placed. He was shackled and gagged, with his face showing the signs of several beatings.
“I confess my men were not as gentle as I would’ve preferred,” Karloman began, almost conversationally, “But we needed to ensure he was unrecognisable on the route home in case of ambush or rescue attempt.”
Bertrada stared at the prisoner, horror dawning along with sudden comprehension.
“Do you mean to say this is…”
“Aye mother, this is Christophorus, former Emperor of the East.”
Kingdom of Asturias, 784.
“You sent a request for aid to Karloman of the Franks without my consent?” the Duke of Castille’s tone was querulous, angered.
Athanagildo looked unrepentant. “I did, and I would again. My expedition to the border confirmed what I already suspected, the Umayyad’s are gathering, in force, and have begun to probe our defences. Defences which are not strong enough to resist them if they invade in force.”
“And you did not see fit to consult myself or other members of the Regency Council?”
“Given your reactions to the news, that was probably a wise move.” Athanagildo replied, still smugly unrepentant. “You would have denied me permission, which would’ve forced me to do it in secret anyway, behind your back.”
The Duke of Castille took a step towards him, a sneer etched on his features, “You overreach yourself Athanagildo. Command the King’s favour for now though you might, do not forget that you are on the council only at his pleasure. You can fall as easily as you rise.”
“The King is five years old,” Athanagildo replied, unmoved, “He would as like fail to swat a fly, let alone remove me…” he paused, grinning, “Unless certain of his courtiers should pour poisoned goblets into his ears, I doubt his Majesty will raise any objections to my presence… or the plans I made with the Franks.”
“Careful,” the Duke continued sneering, “The brightest flames burn out faster.”
“And dull ones are lucky to burn at all.” He turned his back on the Duke and left the room to make his preparations.
Quartubah, Capital of the Umayyad Empire.
“More news?”
“Yes,” the messenger responded. “Emir Hakam refuses your request. He reiterates he will cease his border raids only when the Christian boy King returns his wives to him, and pays the indemnities demanded as payment for her unjust imprisonment.”
“His wives are captives of war” Emir Amin sighed, “If Hakam wants them back, he’s quite welcome to pay the ransom demanded.”
“The Emir insists that the ransom demand is an insult, as is you sending his notice to cease his aggression. He further insists…” the messenger trailed off, clearly afraid of repeating Hakim’s following words in Amin’s presence.
“Go on,” Amin replied, “I shan’t take out the old man’s bad temper on you.”
The messenger paled, “I, I shan’t repeat it my Emir, suffice to say that he accused you of treachery and corrupting the young Sultan and… and other things.”
“Something about how Christians should not be in service to the court of the Sultan?” Emir raised an eyebrow, the messenger’s increasingly pale complexion confirming his suspicion. “Hakim forgets himself, for not all who serve the Sultan serve Allah… Just as not all who claim to serve Allah in fact know how to do his work…”
“No matter, thank you for the message.” Amin finished, “I shall carry your compliments to the Sultan.”
And there it was, the root of the problem, Amin thought, frustrated. A Christian lord served as the Regent of the boy Sultan, and those who felt themselves warriors of the Muslim God could not stand to abide his orders on the Sultan’s behalf. For all that, Amin sympathised with Hakam’s purpose. The old man was bitter and his mind was failing yes, but his dear wives were a captive of the Asturians and held in a dungeon. If his own dear wife were a captive in a foreign dungeon, he might do the same.
But the raids on the border were only serving to inflame tensions, and his spies at the Asturian court reported they were attempting to forge new alliances over the Pyrenees. That would draw the Franks into the region… and Amin knew his history well enough to know that the Frankish armies were formidable when put into the field against Moorish invaders. The current Emperor’s grandfather had seen to that, and Amin doubted that this new, expansionist Frankish realm’s ambitions had been dulled by it’s military successes. They were walking a rope above a roiling sea, and even if Hakam and others refused to see, the waves would drown them if they struggled too much against the current.
The raids had to be halted… Whatever the cost. A war would be catastrophic if the Franks got involved, and the new Frankish King had shown himself well-inclined to meddle beyond his borders if it suited him. None of the Christian lords would resist a chance to push back on Umayyad borders in Iberia, nor would the Pontiff in Rome, indebted now to the Franks for keeping him free from the shackles of both the Lombards and the Eastern Patriarch. A united front against the boy Sultan across the entire Christian world. Mobilising warriors for a holy cause, and removing the Umayyad’s from Iberia.
A nightmare, a disaster. One that had to be avoided.
It fell to this Christian Emir to save the Sultan’s realm from his own righteous followers…
He set to work.
Sultan Sa’daddin was 12-13 years old when the Umayyad border issues began flaring up.
Emir Amin, a Christian lord in a Muslim realm, served as the Sultan’s regent. Two boy kings and their councils struggle for control in Iberia, with the Frankish giant across the mountains.
Emir Hakam’s border raids into Asturias were triggered by the captivity of his wives in Asturian dungeons. His hatred for the Christian enemy, and his pretext for the raids, began to spark the conflict into a wider crisis.
OOC: Lots of new characters this post! Hope I didn't introduce them too quickly for it all to breath. But things are quite interesting. Raids from Hakam causing trouble for the Asturians, the Sultan's regent is a Christian Berber while the Asturian King's is a lowborn Marshal.
Regarding the regency thing, the game obviously doesn't have mechanics for simulating a whole regency council in the way that often historically was the case, but it makes little sense that one lowborn Marshal would've been sole regent for a boy king when said King's mother is married to the Duke of Castille and one of the most powerful lords in the Kingdom. I wanted Athanagildo as a character still, not least because he has the 'Genius' trait, but it would be too unbelievable to have him be sole regent given the classism of the time. So I took liberties in that regard.
Amin's position is somewhat different, since the Moorish rulers of Spain and Portugal of the time were often relatively religiously tolerant and multicultural for the time, if not always consistently, so I made a different choice in that respect. I hope that explains the decisions I made to portray those relationships and power arrangements in the ways I did.
Also tied up (hehe) Christophorus's end. He's a prisoner in Karloman's realm, but why did he not tell Eirene or Bertrada? Will he deign to explain himself? We'll see
I'm not actually sure if the special courtiers thing is relevant to anyone but Karl becoming HRE ruler, though I don't actually know for sure. Regardless, even if those characters don't show up, there's plenty of other interesting ones to come!
Speaking of which....
784, Kingdom of Asturias, Iberia.
Word came first from outriders, word of slaughtered livestock and burned hamlets, of village folk strung up on wooden fences as a warning for others. Riders from the Umayyads they said, Moslem raiders from over the border.
Word reached the court of the boy king Froilo II of Asturias, and a sealed letter delivered to one of his regents, the Lord Marshal Athanagildo.
A lowborn Marshal, Lord Athanagildo had risen to his high position in the Iberian Christian court by virtue of his military skill.
The report alarmed Athanagildo, one of the key architects of the alliance with the new Frankish Emperor to the north. If the Umayyad’s had begun probing the borders, the inherent weakness of the kingdom’s current position might tempt them into a full assault before too long. Though the King of the Umayyads too was in his minority, he had at his court a formidable coterie of aggressive and militarily capable advisors, and his lands almost completely surrounded those of the Kingdom of Asturias, an isolated oasis for Christendom in a sea of Moslem rule in Iberia.
The King’s mother and her new husband, the Duke of Castille, might fool themselves that the throne of Asturias was safe, but Athanagildo knew better. No stranger to war, and twice as clever besides, the Lord Marshal knew better than anyone how formidable the Caliphate’s armies could be, though they were but mere remnants of the Empire that had come before, prior to the rise of the Abassids, that new Empire in the east that now menaced the Romanoi. Yet it’s economic power in Iberia was near-equivalent, if not greater than that of the Carolingian Franks, and its armies were not to be underestimated.
“If you’re right…”
“I am right,” Athanagildo insisted, “The Moors feel we are a plum, ripe to be picked from a tree before it falls.”
“So what, should we mobilise for conflict? With what army could we defeat the Caliph’s forces?”
The Duke of Castille, as usual, was inclined to miss the point, Not for the first time, Athanagildo wished the old King was still alive, he would’ve grasped the point of his plans for a Frankish alliance.
“This is why we need the Franks,” he explained, patiently, keeping his rising temper in check. “We form an alliance with them, they stand obligated as our protector against the Moorish forces, and the Umayyad’s think twice before they strike…”
“And when we make ourselves dependant on the Franks for protection, what stops them vassalizing us as surely as any Moorish ruler?”
“I…”
“This is what you always do Athanagildo,” the Duke explained, smugly. “Rushing to conclusions, racing from one hare-brained scheme to another. But you’d have us be Frankish slaves instead of Moorish ones.”
“If we don’t hold back the tide rising all around us, the Franks will be the least of our worries.” Athanagildo stubbornly insisted.
“I see no evidence of a concerted plan for a major war,” the Duke replied. “All we have are a few raids over the border, which so far the Umayyad’s deny responsibility for.”
“They’re lying,” Athanagildo insisted.
“Perhaps, but you have no evidence of that…”
“Then let me go and find some.”
The Duke stopped, gazed at him with some confusion. “Are you saying…”
“Yes, send me to the border, I’ll take a few dozen men and ride to the border villages and see what information I can turn up.” He stopped, eyed the Duke warily, “But if I’m right, I want permission to send riders to the court of the Frankish Emperor, requesting help.”
“God be damned Athanagildo, you don’t even know anything yet!” The Duke cursed and Athanagildo crossed himself piously, “Go then! Go test your pet theory and leave those of us who are actually interested in being regent for our King to do the real work you leave behind! And when you’re done, we are going to talk about your new Frankish alliance that you made.”
“I had the Queen’s permission to arrange her son’s betrothal.” Athanagildo pointed out mildly,
“But not mine,” The Duke replied, “If you’d done it after I arrived, I never would’ve consented to the match with some Frankish bitch.”
Which I why I did it before the Queen re-married. Her, I can talk sense to, whereas you, my lord, are too thick in the skull for anything resembling sense to penetrate.
But Athanagildo, wisely, kept that thought to himself.
“We’ll see,” he replied, “I’ll leave for my investigation in the morning.”
But he actually would leave that very night, taking a dozen of his most loyal men with him. In the fraught atmosphere of the Regency Council, it was wise to keep one’s potential rivals guessing…
Paris, Court of Karloman Karling, 784.
Karloman was prompt in his response to hearing the news from the southwest. Athanagildo, regent of the King of Asturias (or one of them anyway) had sent word that Umayyad raiders had begun to probe the borders of his realm. He sent out missives ordering the beginning of a general muster.
For Karloman, whom had formed the alliance with the Asturians by means of the betrothal of his daughter Beretrude to the young King, this news was a welcome relief. Lords and men alike often grew idle and wayward in their loyalties in times of peace, and the prospect of war against a foreign, and heathen, enemy would do well to quell mutterings of daily discontents that inevitably emerged from day-to-day management of Empire. Karloman’s open embrace for Italian lords who had sworn fealty to him without complaint after the Lombard war had attracted criticism from those in his own camp who had favoured a harsher approach… preferably one that would have enabled them to acquire further lands and title in Italy at the expense of the Italians. A good foreign war would distract them, prevent the malcontent’s mutterings from spiralling into open rebellion.
Indeed, it was a point of pride for Karloman that as yet no such uprising among his own lords had ever openly taken place. His mother’s spy network continued to prove it’s value in this regard.
She still annoyed him on occasion though, particularly in her badgering about the tying up of loose ends in the east.
“So Eirene has still found no trace of Christophorus?”
“None.” He confirmed, keeping his face level.
“Then he will remain a threat.” Bertrada declared, glaring at him, “you should not have left the east without ensuring his capture. Your arrangements with Eirene will never be secure so long as she faces such opposition.”
“How do you know she won’t be secure? Christophorus was a madman, few would want him back, whatever their feelings on Eirene.”
“Her purge of the Iconoclasts means they would welcome any who sought to spill her from her throne, and some men of ambition benefit as much from a weak throne as a strong one.” She pressed him.
Karloman sighed, he had hoped he wouldn’t have had to let his mother in on the secret… but if it stopped her badgering him.
“Rest assured I am confident Christophorus is no threat to my designs, or Eirene’s throne.”
“How are you confident?” she asked, surprised.
He gave a small, slight grin. She disliked that grin.
“How are you confident?” she repeated, growing suspicious.
“Not here mother,” Karloman replied, “Come along with me tonight, and I’ll show you the cause of my confidence.”
And so it was that Bertrada de Laon found herself being led down some of the narrowest streets of that rapidly-growing city, path lit only by naked torchlight and the only sound being the soft squelching of boots on the wet, mud-stained ground as she followed her son into one of the villas on the Seine.
“I thought it was to ensure that events in the East continued to transpire as I desired,” Karloman explained as he began ushering his guards forward to open the locks on the door. “Thus it was best not to alert Eirene to what my men found in the days following the siege.”
“What do you mean?” Bertrada asked,
Karloman didn’t reply, instead jerked his head toward the interior of the villa as the door swung open. In they went, Bertrada feeling steadily more suspicious as they climbed. Her son had clearly gone to great lengths to conceal this from her, and from his new wife in the east. What was he up to?
A dim light ahead, and another door unlocked by the guards, in Karloman went, beckoning his mother to follow as he descended down the stairs.
Behind a set of iron bars, she saw the filthy, wide-eyed prisoners, eyes straining as the sudden light entered the dank cellar where he had been placed. He was shackled and gagged, with his face showing the signs of several beatings.
“I confess my men were not as gentle as I would’ve preferred,” Karloman began, almost conversationally, “But we needed to ensure he was unrecognisable on the route home in case of ambush or rescue attempt.”
Bertrada stared at the prisoner, horror dawning along with sudden comprehension.
“Do you mean to say this is…”
“Aye mother, this is Christophorus, former Emperor of the East.”
Kingdom of Asturias, 784.
“You sent a request for aid to Karloman of the Franks without my consent?” the Duke of Castille’s tone was querulous, angered.
Athanagildo looked unrepentant. “I did, and I would again. My expedition to the border confirmed what I already suspected, the Umayyad’s are gathering, in force, and have begun to probe our defences. Defences which are not strong enough to resist them if they invade in force.”
“And you did not see fit to consult myself or other members of the Regency Council?”
“Given your reactions to the news, that was probably a wise move.” Athanagildo replied, still smugly unrepentant. “You would have denied me permission, which would’ve forced me to do it in secret anyway, behind your back.”
The Duke of Castille took a step towards him, a sneer etched on his features, “You overreach yourself Athanagildo. Command the King’s favour for now though you might, do not forget that you are on the council only at his pleasure. You can fall as easily as you rise.”
“The King is five years old,” Athanagildo replied, unmoved, “He would as like fail to swat a fly, let alone remove me…” he paused, grinning, “Unless certain of his courtiers should pour poisoned goblets into his ears, I doubt his Majesty will raise any objections to my presence… or the plans I made with the Franks.”
“Careful,” the Duke continued sneering, “The brightest flames burn out faster.”
“And dull ones are lucky to burn at all.” He turned his back on the Duke and left the room to make his preparations.
Quartubah, Capital of the Umayyad Empire.
“More news?”
“Yes,” the messenger responded. “Emir Hakam refuses your request. He reiterates he will cease his border raids only when the Christian boy King returns his wives to him, and pays the indemnities demanded as payment for her unjust imprisonment.”
“His wives are captives of war” Emir Amin sighed, “If Hakam wants them back, he’s quite welcome to pay the ransom demanded.”
“The Emir insists that the ransom demand is an insult, as is you sending his notice to cease his aggression. He further insists…” the messenger trailed off, clearly afraid of repeating Hakim’s following words in Amin’s presence.
“Go on,” Amin replied, “I shan’t take out the old man’s bad temper on you.”
The messenger paled, “I, I shan’t repeat it my Emir, suffice to say that he accused you of treachery and corrupting the young Sultan and… and other things.”
“Something about how Christians should not be in service to the court of the Sultan?” Emir raised an eyebrow, the messenger’s increasingly pale complexion confirming his suspicion. “Hakim forgets himself, for not all who serve the Sultan serve Allah… Just as not all who claim to serve Allah in fact know how to do his work…”
“No matter, thank you for the message.” Amin finished, “I shall carry your compliments to the Sultan.”
And there it was, the root of the problem, Amin thought, frustrated. A Christian lord served as the Regent of the boy Sultan, and those who felt themselves warriors of the Muslim God could not stand to abide his orders on the Sultan’s behalf. For all that, Amin sympathised with Hakam’s purpose. The old man was bitter and his mind was failing yes, but his dear wives were a captive of the Asturians and held in a dungeon. If his own dear wife were a captive in a foreign dungeon, he might do the same.
But the raids on the border were only serving to inflame tensions, and his spies at the Asturian court reported they were attempting to forge new alliances over the Pyrenees. That would draw the Franks into the region… and Amin knew his history well enough to know that the Frankish armies were formidable when put into the field against Moorish invaders. The current Emperor’s grandfather had seen to that, and Amin doubted that this new, expansionist Frankish realm’s ambitions had been dulled by it’s military successes. They were walking a rope above a roiling sea, and even if Hakam and others refused to see, the waves would drown them if they struggled too much against the current.
The raids had to be halted… Whatever the cost. A war would be catastrophic if the Franks got involved, and the new Frankish King had shown himself well-inclined to meddle beyond his borders if it suited him. None of the Christian lords would resist a chance to push back on Umayyad borders in Iberia, nor would the Pontiff in Rome, indebted now to the Franks for keeping him free from the shackles of both the Lombards and the Eastern Patriarch. A united front against the boy Sultan across the entire Christian world. Mobilising warriors for a holy cause, and removing the Umayyad’s from Iberia.
A nightmare, a disaster. One that had to be avoided.
It fell to this Christian Emir to save the Sultan’s realm from his own righteous followers…
He set to work.
Sultan Sa’daddin was 12-13 years old when the Umayyad border issues began flaring up.
Emir Amin, a Christian lord in a Muslim realm, served as the Sultan’s regent. Two boy kings and their councils struggle for control in Iberia, with the Frankish giant across the mountains.
Emir Hakam’s border raids into Asturias were triggered by the captivity of his wives in Asturian dungeons. His hatred for the Christian enemy, and his pretext for the raids, began to spark the conflict into a wider crisis.
OOC: Lots of new characters this post! Hope I didn't introduce them too quickly for it all to breath. But things are quite interesting. Raids from Hakam causing trouble for the Asturians, the Sultan's regent is a Christian Berber while the Asturian King's is a lowborn Marshal.
Regarding the regency thing, the game obviously doesn't have mechanics for simulating a whole regency council in the way that often historically was the case, but it makes little sense that one lowborn Marshal would've been sole regent for a boy king when said King's mother is married to the Duke of Castille and one of the most powerful lords in the Kingdom. I wanted Athanagildo as a character still, not least because he has the 'Genius' trait, but it would be too unbelievable to have him be sole regent given the classism of the time. So I took liberties in that regard.
Amin's position is somewhat different, since the Moorish rulers of Spain and Portugal of the time were often relatively religiously tolerant and multicultural for the time, if not always consistently, so I made a different choice in that respect. I hope that explains the decisions I made to portray those relationships and power arrangements in the ways I did.
Also tied up (hehe) Christophorus's end. He's a prisoner in Karloman's realm, but why did he not tell Eirene or Bertrada? Will he deign to explain himself? We'll see
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This buildup for the inevitable rematch between the Moors and the Franks is certainly an interesting sight to see! Most especially the two regents serving in both the courts of two young rulers. One thing that always bothered me in-game was how Asturias always is close to being snuffed out in the 769 date especially if Karl dies before he can form the HRE, leaving Aquitaine under Islamic rule. Hell, Asturias managed to last that long cause of the terrain the kingdom was on, so having to see them reduced to a few counties here is just disheartening. Hopefully Karloman and his forces can rectify this.
I like that lowborn martial, what a tale that would have been to raise from a humble soldier to serving in the regency council, makes me love CK2's ability to churn out very interesting NPCS even more. So, Christophorus is in Karloman's dungeon eh? Eirine is not gonna be amused should she find out.
I like that lowborn martial, what a tale that would have been to raise from a humble soldier to serving in the regency council, makes me love CK2's ability to churn out very interesting NPCS even more. So, Christophorus is in Karloman's dungeon eh? Eirine is not gonna be amused should she find out.
- 1
Does the lowborn marshal have an intrigue education? The Christian Berber's descendants will make wonderful Papal Crusade beneficiaries. Can the Duke of Castille be sent on a diplomatic Moors and some raiders be hung with hopes that the Moors will hang the Duke?
Yeesh Asturias you are not doing so good.
I guess the mantle of reconquista have to be given to the Franks then.
I guess the mantle of reconquista have to be given to the Franks then.
- 1
- 1
Amin seems like a very interesting character, I wonder if he will manage to rein in the Umayyads or if he will be forced to deal with the fallout. It looks like the Iberians in charge don't want a war, although Karloman might choose to press the issue.
On the other hand, that's a pitifully small kingdom of Asturias, I doubt that a reconquista might happen without Frankish aid (although the French in Hispania is one of my greatest CK2 pet peeves).
As for Christophorus...is Karloman keeping him as leverage to hold back a potentially rebellious Eirene?
On the other hand, that's a pitifully small kingdom of Asturias, I doubt that a reconquista might happen without Frankish aid (although the French in Hispania is one of my greatest CK2 pet peeves).
As for Christophorus...is Karloman keeping him as leverage to hold back a potentially rebellious Eirene?
- 2
Yep! If Eirene goes back on their arrangements or does anything Karloman doesn't like... plonk! All of a sudden the deposed former Emperor will be back in public view again and there'll be a convenient figurehead for anybody who opposes Eirene to rally around.
Of course, Eirene doesn't know that Karloman has him yet, but Karloman captured him and chose not to tell her in case he needed that insurance. As to whether it actually happened in-game... we'll see.
But yeah, any conflicts in Hispania will have to be Umayyads vs Franks for the most part. Asturias rarely lasts long enough to matter in the 769 start date unless you artificially prop it up, which is basically what I'm doing here
And Karloman definitely wants to force the issue
A little border war against a bunch of heathens? Good to unite the realm behind you, quiet internal dissent and get a big chunk of cash out of it as well.I'm working on another post which shall be up very soon. Next day or two, it's just some of the internal politicking and machinations are complex and I want to do them justice.
Thanks again for everyone's wonderful comments
- 1
You could try making Asturias as your vassal and restore their kingdom and also make duchy of barcelona and aragon however after some time Karloman died (especially if franks got civil war) the holding in iberia got indepedence.But yeah, any conflicts in Hispania will have to be Umayyads vs Franks for the most part. Asturias rarely lasts long enough to matter in the 769 start date unless you artificially prop it up, which is basically what I'm doing here
- 2
784, Paris
Today the chief attraction in the city to any gawking onlookers was not the fresh new markets that had been put up around the growing city that had begun to serve as a near-de facto capital of the Frankish Empire. Nor was it the paved smooth roads that had begun to criss-cross the old mud tracks and dirt paths. Nor was it the new buildings, in which pupils who sought gainful employment in the King’s court or the courts of distant laws would be education in law, language, history, geography and philosophy. The Emperor had the benefit of an educated man, and enough wisdom to realise the benefits of such education worked best when the future men who would be responsible for governing the Empire had the wisdom and understanding required to continue on the work of their forebears. In this, he sought to transform his Empire from a largely personal creation to a more permanent fixture, embedded in the geography of Western Europe. An empire in secure defence of Christendom and supported by the Roman Pontiff, now increasingly secure in his independence from the Eastern Patriarch who was firmly under the thumb of the restored Empress in Constantinople.
But the chief attraction to those brave onlookers who ventured into the winter to gawk was the new, palatial army camp now situated upon the banks of the Seine. For it was there that the Emperor had situated the staging ground for his new army that he was gathering to respond to the request for assistance from across the mountains in Iberia. When in Rome the Emperor had briefly taken the time to tour the sites and had witnessed the site of the old Campus Martius, the training ground for the military drills of young Roman aristocrats of ages past and had been inspired by the idea to create a similar structure to provide a similar structured area for the sons of young nobility in his own empire, which would double as a permanent location for an army staging area for future campaigns.
And given that winter was in full swing, it would be some weeks before the rest of the Empire’s nobles had time to begin gathering their forces and marching off for war. The Emperor’s own personal force were the only ones gathered today, allowing onlookers to witness some of the drills these men performed as their training for the deadliest battles into which their Emperor might lead them.
But it was inside, not outside, that the true fate of the Empire was being decided…
“Majesty, we have not the fiscal resources to tolerate a war of this magnitude, without plunder, or another source of income…”
“There will be plunder aplenty, have no doubt about that,” Karloman replied, smiling at Count Roland’s concern. He did not fault his treasurer his scruples, it was the job of the man to worry about the Empire’s purse. But Karloman was of the school of thought that the best way to pay for expenditures at war was to win them so that your enemy had to pay them for you. This apparent lack of caution for fiscal concerns had set Roland’s teeth gnashing in council, especially since this new venture was so soon after the last, which had been of great expense and yielded little booty.
“It shall have booty and land both,” he re-affirmed, patting the stressed Steward on the arm. “Have no fear Roland, it is on the battlefield, not in the treasury, that our true strength will be tested.” The Count of Vendome looked re-assured, but not by much.
Karloman than turned to his Marshal. Balduin the Strong. “How goes the muster?”
“The strength of our arms is around two thousand here now lord,” Balduin responded. Roland glared at him, but Karloman gestured for him to continue. The informality of Balduin’s mood of address was offset by his military and tactical skill. Karloman’s reputation was always one that attracted some of the best warriors and commanders in Christendom, and he tended to favour and highly promote such men who provided loyal service. Balduin could expect at least a county, if not more, of land when his service to the Emperor was done. “Once the winter is done and the snows melt, our other vassals will begin to travel to the muster with their forces. My calculation is we shall have a force of around thirteen thousand, perhaps more, when the muster is complete.”
“We might have to consider the possibility of expenses for sellswords.” Roland ventured, but Karloman was already shaking his head.
“Only our own men for this venture, as much as possible.” Well aware of how much the sellswords had cost him last campaign, Karloman fully intended to recoup his expenses, and more, from victory over the Umayyad kingdom.
The Emperor then turned to his mother, “And what news from your friends?”
“Some missives circulating among the Italian lords, discussing the possibility of seeking independence from the Empire,” she replied. At Karloman’s look of concern, she waved it off. “They have nowhere near substantial support at present, and by far not enough troops between them to even contemplate a fight, but I will continue monitoring them for any signs of overt treason.”
“A little loose talk alone is nothing, but if actual revolt brews, I want you ready,” Karloman warned.
“I will be,” Bertrada replied.
“Hmm,” Karloman replied, mind already onto the next task he had to perform. “I think that will be all then council, you are dismissed for the day.”
Roland picked up his scrolls and rolled them up, Balduin’s heavy boots scuffed across the room as he thumped his way towards the door. Bertrada, remaining at her post, silently looked at her son, knowing full well he would understand she wanted to speak to him privately.
He waited for the others to file out of the room, until the two were alone. “Yes?” he prompted.
Bertrada sighed, a look of weariness crossing her face. Karloman, slightly alarmed, realised there were patches of grey in her hair now. Young and spry and useful though she seemed to be, his mother would not live forever. For all the disagreements and conflicts between them she had proven an excellent spymaster. She had kept to her promise to serve him loyally. Whether she had forgiven him for Karl’s death or not, or whether she had simply decided that, having now only one son left to her, it was for the best to ensure that son’s reign was as successful as possible.
“It’s Pepin,” she ventured finally, “The boy’s nearly of an age to marry.”
That took him by surprise. “Yes,” Karloman replied, head nodding, “I suppose it almost is time.”
“Have you any thoughts?”
“None at all.”
“I would’ve hoped you had considered it thoroughly,” Bertrada rebuked, “The wedding of your son and heir is a matter of grave concern to the entire realm, and many of your vassals, loyal or otherwise, await your decision with concern and interest.”
“I will make the choice when I am ready, not before.”
“Be that as it may,” she pressed, “if you don’t make it soon, they will begin to wonder… and want, for themselves. It would not be wise to leave it hanging too long.”
“Wouldn’t it?” Karloman replied, surprised. “Keeping some of them in suspense… or even in competition, I can see the advantages of that. None would contemplate any treason to the throne while there was a chance of attaching it to a daughter or a sister.”
“A game like that plays only for a short time, and the risks of something untoward happening would rise soon after.” Bertrada shook her head. “Are you willing to play that game with your life, your son’s life?”
“My own, perhaps, but his?” Karloman shook his head. “No I take your point. I’ll give it some thought soon. But the problem will be that whomever I choose, I will alienate the families of those whom I don’t.”
“Can’t be helped I’m afraid,” Bertrada replied. “I’ll start having a list of possibly suitable girls drawn up for you within a month.”
“Fine by me,” Karloman nodded, “And who knows? The boy’s been a little sullen lately, maybe he is at that age where marriage might work for him.”
Bertrada was already beginning to leave, but Karloman stopped her.
“Just… make sure you pick out well for him. Better than you and father did for me anyway.” He said quietly.
And if that wasn’t a criticism, Bertrada didn’t know what was.
Kingdom of Asturias, January 785.
Athanagildo’s horse was ready, and his garrison was awaiting him.
“If I ride east today, I can intercept the next Moorish raiding party within three days.”
“By which point they may well be gone,” The Duke of Castille had insisted, stubbornly refusing to allow him to go.
In the end, Athanagildo had not waited for permission. He had not even sought the formality of the King’s authorisation, trusting that the knowledge of many of the armed militia within the capital that it was he, not the Duke nor the Queen Mother, who really protected the Kingdom, meant that he would not be called to account by his rivals.
What good is a regent who won’t defend his King’s subjects? Had been the question he had asked of the Duke, to no sensible reply. It was too wet, the forces prepared were not sufficient, it would not be wise to provoke the Umayyads. Excuses! Useless, flimsy excuses. So long as it was only someone else’s life and property at risk, the feckless Duke would not be stirred from his feast table.
Athanagildo’s party numbered around four dozen men, men on fast horses who were skilled riders. The next time one of the Moorish raiding parties was reported crossing over the Kingdom’s borders, they would be ready for them, waiting to respond…
For Emir Hakam, the raid out of the Basque Mountains was to be a simple affair. Swoop down, invade nearly a half a dozen villages of flea-ridden swine-herders, stealing anything of meagre value, and kill everyone who resisted. Then burn the village to send a message to the rulers of Asturias, that his family was to be released. If anything among his men questioned the logic of trying to get his captive wives released through this method, none of them did so to his face, for the old Emir was a man of foul temperament.
So it was their first three days of the raids were a complete success, leaving two peasant villages scattered to the winds and their homes destroyed, their livestock slaughtered or strewn across the hills. The Emir happily drank with his men… and drank, and drank until he was in a stupor on the third night of the raid.
Sadly for him, it was that night they were set upon. Like a thunderclap, a band of nearly four dozen horsemen rode into their small, unprotected camp in the dead of night, setting tents ablaze and cutting down any of the Emir’s groggy men who resisted. Within minutes, a surprised, half-naked Emir Hakam was brought to Athanagildo, shivering in fright.
His surviving raiders scattered, the Emir’s remaining force was on the run, heading back to their own lands. Athanagildo had his valuable prisoner clapped in restraints and would have him dragged back to the capital, tying him to the saddle of a horse as they went.
“Give him a cell with his wives. He misses them,” were the orders he dolled out to the men as they began to filter back into the capital.
Emir Hakam’s raid had gone… poorly for the Moors. But Athanagildo knew full well the repercussions of this deed were far from over.
Quartubah, Capital of the Umayyad Empire.
Emir Amin got the news of Emir Hakam’s capture before word formally arrived in the Sultan’s court…
“Disastrous!” he had exclaimed to his wife Flamula. “He was captured leading a raid over the border. The Emirs will demand the head of the Asturian King for this!”
“Can’t it be said it was his own fault?” she asked, mildly.
“It would be true,” he admitted ruefully, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “but they’re not interested in truth. Many of the Sultan’s men have been looking for an excuse to renew the conquest of Asturias, and drive out the Christian Kingdoms entirely. They will seize upon any excuse to do so. That he was acting in defiance of the Sultan’s directives is not something they’re about to remember now, if it suits them to forget it, they will.”
“Perhaps they’re right?” Flamula suggested gently, “If the Astuarians are as weak as they seem, then perhaps it is best to remove them now?”
“And draw the Franks into a conflict on the Peninsula?” Amin was horrified, “There’s a reason the Frankish Emperor betrothed his daughter to the Asturian King! It was a warning shot, an indication that the Frankish interest in the region was not gone. If we strike the Asturians in force, the Franks will march their armies over the mountains and into Iberia. We can beat the Asturians with ease. The Franks are a wholly different beast.”
“Then we have to stop them demanding a war with the Asturians over this.”
“You state the obvious, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.” Amin replied. “But it won’t be, they’ll demand Asturian heads over this…”
“We demand Asturian heads for this affront!” shouted Sheikh Nuraddin, one of Emir Hakam’s closest allies in court when the assembled leaders had gathered at the court of the boy Sultan several days later.
Rumblings of assent from many of those present. The boy Sultan, wide-eyed, cast a wild glance toward Amin, who gave him a small, reassuring smile.
“Please everyone,” he held up a placating hand from his seat, slightly behind and to the left of the Sultan’s far grander throne, “Rest assured, the Sultan has heard your concerns, and his Excellency has determined that all reasonable measures will be taken to combat this affront.”
What constituted ‘reasonable measures’ might of course be a matter for some dispute, as Amin discovered some days later, when he sent a rider to the court of the Asturians with a politely-worded demand, and a pouch of gold, asking for the Emir’s release. Within days, a return message was sent back, arriving in his chambers late at night… with a posse of angry Umayyad lords in toe…
“You promised us reasonable measures would be taken!” Nuraddin screamed, “You swore this affront would be answered!”
“And it has been”, Amin answered calmly, keeping his frayed temper in check at this intrusion. Casting a glance towards the door, he noticed the messenger rider slinking out of the room into the night. Clearly he had not been as discreet as Amin had hoped as to the contents of the message. “I swore I would take reasonable measures my lords, not the measures you might have taken.”
“They have one of our Emirs captive! And his wives! And his children! And you would have us bow to them and lick their feets like dogs!” a murmur of agreement rumbled through the crowd, but Amin could not tell who in that densely-packed knot of men had spoken.
Fools, he thought, they would not be so eager if they had heard what my spies have heard. The Frankish Emperor itches for war, and will happily turn his eyes to Iberia with the slightest excuse.
“Do you know what they did to him? Tied him half-naked on the back of an ass, and paraded him through the streets! The humiliation!”
Wouldn’t have minded doing it myself, Amin thought, bemused. But he could not say it.
“I am aware of the anger,” he replied calmly, “And rest assured the Sultan does not intend to let this insult go unanswered, but” his voice turned dangerous, and a thin, feral smile parted his lips as he turned towards the boy Sultan, “The Sultan will ensure that matters are dealt with by him and his court directly, as befits a matter of this seriousness.” He turned that smile on the assembled lords, “Those who act in defiance of the Sultan’s directives in this matter should be warned.” They want me to take action? Then I shall, I’ll take away all their power to ruin my plans.
“Rest assured that the Sultan is committed to ensuring we are not shown such disrespect.” He turned to the boy Sultan, face normal once more, “Isn’t that correct, My Sultan?”
The boy nodded absent-mindedly, looking bored and sleepy. He rarely took part in such proceedings, and even more rarely had anything useful to say.
“But only the Sultan’s firm hand may bring this matter to a successful resolution,” Amin warned, “So do not be tempted to act in your own volition by lords, or I swear by Merciful Allah, it will be you who is driven half-naked through the streets tied to an ass.”
And if that threat didn’t make them fall in line, Amin was not confident anything would…
OOC: This post ended up being shorter than planned, because the post I had planned was even longer when I wrote it compared to what it was in my head, so I split it in half.
Should have another one up in the next few days Will focus more on Karloman, the Frankish war effort and also bring us back into focusing on Pepin and his troubles since he's been out of focus for a little bit
Today the chief attraction in the city to any gawking onlookers was not the fresh new markets that had been put up around the growing city that had begun to serve as a near-de facto capital of the Frankish Empire. Nor was it the paved smooth roads that had begun to criss-cross the old mud tracks and dirt paths. Nor was it the new buildings, in which pupils who sought gainful employment in the King’s court or the courts of distant laws would be education in law, language, history, geography and philosophy. The Emperor had the benefit of an educated man, and enough wisdom to realise the benefits of such education worked best when the future men who would be responsible for governing the Empire had the wisdom and understanding required to continue on the work of their forebears. In this, he sought to transform his Empire from a largely personal creation to a more permanent fixture, embedded in the geography of Western Europe. An empire in secure defence of Christendom and supported by the Roman Pontiff, now increasingly secure in his independence from the Eastern Patriarch who was firmly under the thumb of the restored Empress in Constantinople.
But the chief attraction to those brave onlookers who ventured into the winter to gawk was the new, palatial army camp now situated upon the banks of the Seine. For it was there that the Emperor had situated the staging ground for his new army that he was gathering to respond to the request for assistance from across the mountains in Iberia. When in Rome the Emperor had briefly taken the time to tour the sites and had witnessed the site of the old Campus Martius, the training ground for the military drills of young Roman aristocrats of ages past and had been inspired by the idea to create a similar structure to provide a similar structured area for the sons of young nobility in his own empire, which would double as a permanent location for an army staging area for future campaigns.
And given that winter was in full swing, it would be some weeks before the rest of the Empire’s nobles had time to begin gathering their forces and marching off for war. The Emperor’s own personal force were the only ones gathered today, allowing onlookers to witness some of the drills these men performed as their training for the deadliest battles into which their Emperor might lead them.
But it was inside, not outside, that the true fate of the Empire was being decided…
“Majesty, we have not the fiscal resources to tolerate a war of this magnitude, without plunder, or another source of income…”
“There will be plunder aplenty, have no doubt about that,” Karloman replied, smiling at Count Roland’s concern. He did not fault his treasurer his scruples, it was the job of the man to worry about the Empire’s purse. But Karloman was of the school of thought that the best way to pay for expenditures at war was to win them so that your enemy had to pay them for you. This apparent lack of caution for fiscal concerns had set Roland’s teeth gnashing in council, especially since this new venture was so soon after the last, which had been of great expense and yielded little booty.
“It shall have booty and land both,” he re-affirmed, patting the stressed Steward on the arm. “Have no fear Roland, it is on the battlefield, not in the treasury, that our true strength will be tested.” The Count of Vendome looked re-assured, but not by much.
Karloman than turned to his Marshal. Balduin the Strong. “How goes the muster?”
“The strength of our arms is around two thousand here now lord,” Balduin responded. Roland glared at him, but Karloman gestured for him to continue. The informality of Balduin’s mood of address was offset by his military and tactical skill. Karloman’s reputation was always one that attracted some of the best warriors and commanders in Christendom, and he tended to favour and highly promote such men who provided loyal service. Balduin could expect at least a county, if not more, of land when his service to the Emperor was done. “Once the winter is done and the snows melt, our other vassals will begin to travel to the muster with their forces. My calculation is we shall have a force of around thirteen thousand, perhaps more, when the muster is complete.”
“We might have to consider the possibility of expenses for sellswords.” Roland ventured, but Karloman was already shaking his head.
“Only our own men for this venture, as much as possible.” Well aware of how much the sellswords had cost him last campaign, Karloman fully intended to recoup his expenses, and more, from victory over the Umayyad kingdom.
The Emperor then turned to his mother, “And what news from your friends?”
“Some missives circulating among the Italian lords, discussing the possibility of seeking independence from the Empire,” she replied. At Karloman’s look of concern, she waved it off. “They have nowhere near substantial support at present, and by far not enough troops between them to even contemplate a fight, but I will continue monitoring them for any signs of overt treason.”
“A little loose talk alone is nothing, but if actual revolt brews, I want you ready,” Karloman warned.
“I will be,” Bertrada replied.
“Hmm,” Karloman replied, mind already onto the next task he had to perform. “I think that will be all then council, you are dismissed for the day.”
Roland picked up his scrolls and rolled them up, Balduin’s heavy boots scuffed across the room as he thumped his way towards the door. Bertrada, remaining at her post, silently looked at her son, knowing full well he would understand she wanted to speak to him privately.
He waited for the others to file out of the room, until the two were alone. “Yes?” he prompted.
Bertrada sighed, a look of weariness crossing her face. Karloman, slightly alarmed, realised there were patches of grey in her hair now. Young and spry and useful though she seemed to be, his mother would not live forever. For all the disagreements and conflicts between them she had proven an excellent spymaster. She had kept to her promise to serve him loyally. Whether she had forgiven him for Karl’s death or not, or whether she had simply decided that, having now only one son left to her, it was for the best to ensure that son’s reign was as successful as possible.
“It’s Pepin,” she ventured finally, “The boy’s nearly of an age to marry.”
That took him by surprise. “Yes,” Karloman replied, head nodding, “I suppose it almost is time.”
“Have you any thoughts?”
“None at all.”
“I would’ve hoped you had considered it thoroughly,” Bertrada rebuked, “The wedding of your son and heir is a matter of grave concern to the entire realm, and many of your vassals, loyal or otherwise, await your decision with concern and interest.”
“I will make the choice when I am ready, not before.”
“Be that as it may,” she pressed, “if you don’t make it soon, they will begin to wonder… and want, for themselves. It would not be wise to leave it hanging too long.”
“Wouldn’t it?” Karloman replied, surprised. “Keeping some of them in suspense… or even in competition, I can see the advantages of that. None would contemplate any treason to the throne while there was a chance of attaching it to a daughter or a sister.”
“A game like that plays only for a short time, and the risks of something untoward happening would rise soon after.” Bertrada shook her head. “Are you willing to play that game with your life, your son’s life?”
“My own, perhaps, but his?” Karloman shook his head. “No I take your point. I’ll give it some thought soon. But the problem will be that whomever I choose, I will alienate the families of those whom I don’t.”
“Can’t be helped I’m afraid,” Bertrada replied. “I’ll start having a list of possibly suitable girls drawn up for you within a month.”
“Fine by me,” Karloman nodded, “And who knows? The boy’s been a little sullen lately, maybe he is at that age where marriage might work for him.”
Bertrada was already beginning to leave, but Karloman stopped her.
“Just… make sure you pick out well for him. Better than you and father did for me anyway.” He said quietly.
And if that wasn’t a criticism, Bertrada didn’t know what was.
Kingdom of Asturias, January 785.
Athanagildo’s horse was ready, and his garrison was awaiting him.
“If I ride east today, I can intercept the next Moorish raiding party within three days.”
“By which point they may well be gone,” The Duke of Castille had insisted, stubbornly refusing to allow him to go.
In the end, Athanagildo had not waited for permission. He had not even sought the formality of the King’s authorisation, trusting that the knowledge of many of the armed militia within the capital that it was he, not the Duke nor the Queen Mother, who really protected the Kingdom, meant that he would not be called to account by his rivals.
What good is a regent who won’t defend his King’s subjects? Had been the question he had asked of the Duke, to no sensible reply. It was too wet, the forces prepared were not sufficient, it would not be wise to provoke the Umayyads. Excuses! Useless, flimsy excuses. So long as it was only someone else’s life and property at risk, the feckless Duke would not be stirred from his feast table.
Athanagildo’s party numbered around four dozen men, men on fast horses who were skilled riders. The next time one of the Moorish raiding parties was reported crossing over the Kingdom’s borders, they would be ready for them, waiting to respond…
For Emir Hakam, the raid out of the Basque Mountains was to be a simple affair. Swoop down, invade nearly a half a dozen villages of flea-ridden swine-herders, stealing anything of meagre value, and kill everyone who resisted. Then burn the village to send a message to the rulers of Asturias, that his family was to be released. If anything among his men questioned the logic of trying to get his captive wives released through this method, none of them did so to his face, for the old Emir was a man of foul temperament.
So it was their first three days of the raids were a complete success, leaving two peasant villages scattered to the winds and their homes destroyed, their livestock slaughtered or strewn across the hills. The Emir happily drank with his men… and drank, and drank until he was in a stupor on the third night of the raid.
Sadly for him, it was that night they were set upon. Like a thunderclap, a band of nearly four dozen horsemen rode into their small, unprotected camp in the dead of night, setting tents ablaze and cutting down any of the Emir’s groggy men who resisted. Within minutes, a surprised, half-naked Emir Hakam was brought to Athanagildo, shivering in fright.
His surviving raiders scattered, the Emir’s remaining force was on the run, heading back to their own lands. Athanagildo had his valuable prisoner clapped in restraints and would have him dragged back to the capital, tying him to the saddle of a horse as they went.
“Give him a cell with his wives. He misses them,” were the orders he dolled out to the men as they began to filter back into the capital.
Emir Hakam’s raid had gone… poorly for the Moors. But Athanagildo knew full well the repercussions of this deed were far from over.
Quartubah, Capital of the Umayyad Empire.
Emir Amin got the news of Emir Hakam’s capture before word formally arrived in the Sultan’s court…
“Disastrous!” he had exclaimed to his wife Flamula. “He was captured leading a raid over the border. The Emirs will demand the head of the Asturian King for this!”
“Can’t it be said it was his own fault?” she asked, mildly.
“It would be true,” he admitted ruefully, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “but they’re not interested in truth. Many of the Sultan’s men have been looking for an excuse to renew the conquest of Asturias, and drive out the Christian Kingdoms entirely. They will seize upon any excuse to do so. That he was acting in defiance of the Sultan’s directives is not something they’re about to remember now, if it suits them to forget it, they will.”
“Perhaps they’re right?” Flamula suggested gently, “If the Astuarians are as weak as they seem, then perhaps it is best to remove them now?”
“And draw the Franks into a conflict on the Peninsula?” Amin was horrified, “There’s a reason the Frankish Emperor betrothed his daughter to the Asturian King! It was a warning shot, an indication that the Frankish interest in the region was not gone. If we strike the Asturians in force, the Franks will march their armies over the mountains and into Iberia. We can beat the Asturians with ease. The Franks are a wholly different beast.”
“Then we have to stop them demanding a war with the Asturians over this.”
“You state the obvious, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.” Amin replied. “But it won’t be, they’ll demand Asturian heads over this…”
“We demand Asturian heads for this affront!” shouted Sheikh Nuraddin, one of Emir Hakam’s closest allies in court when the assembled leaders had gathered at the court of the boy Sultan several days later.
Rumblings of assent from many of those present. The boy Sultan, wide-eyed, cast a wild glance toward Amin, who gave him a small, reassuring smile.
“Please everyone,” he held up a placating hand from his seat, slightly behind and to the left of the Sultan’s far grander throne, “Rest assured, the Sultan has heard your concerns, and his Excellency has determined that all reasonable measures will be taken to combat this affront.”
What constituted ‘reasonable measures’ might of course be a matter for some dispute, as Amin discovered some days later, when he sent a rider to the court of the Asturians with a politely-worded demand, and a pouch of gold, asking for the Emir’s release. Within days, a return message was sent back, arriving in his chambers late at night… with a posse of angry Umayyad lords in toe…
“You promised us reasonable measures would be taken!” Nuraddin screamed, “You swore this affront would be answered!”
“And it has been”, Amin answered calmly, keeping his frayed temper in check at this intrusion. Casting a glance towards the door, he noticed the messenger rider slinking out of the room into the night. Clearly he had not been as discreet as Amin had hoped as to the contents of the message. “I swore I would take reasonable measures my lords, not the measures you might have taken.”
“They have one of our Emirs captive! And his wives! And his children! And you would have us bow to them and lick their feets like dogs!” a murmur of agreement rumbled through the crowd, but Amin could not tell who in that densely-packed knot of men had spoken.
Fools, he thought, they would not be so eager if they had heard what my spies have heard. The Frankish Emperor itches for war, and will happily turn his eyes to Iberia with the slightest excuse.
“Do you know what they did to him? Tied him half-naked on the back of an ass, and paraded him through the streets! The humiliation!”
Wouldn’t have minded doing it myself, Amin thought, bemused. But he could not say it.
“I am aware of the anger,” he replied calmly, “And rest assured the Sultan does not intend to let this insult go unanswered, but” his voice turned dangerous, and a thin, feral smile parted his lips as he turned towards the boy Sultan, “The Sultan will ensure that matters are dealt with by him and his court directly, as befits a matter of this seriousness.” He turned that smile on the assembled lords, “Those who act in defiance of the Sultan’s directives in this matter should be warned.” They want me to take action? Then I shall, I’ll take away all their power to ruin my plans.
“Rest assured that the Sultan is committed to ensuring we are not shown such disrespect.” He turned to the boy Sultan, face normal once more, “Isn’t that correct, My Sultan?”
The boy nodded absent-mindedly, looking bored and sleepy. He rarely took part in such proceedings, and even more rarely had anything useful to say.
“But only the Sultan’s firm hand may bring this matter to a successful resolution,” Amin warned, “So do not be tempted to act in your own volition by lords, or I swear by Merciful Allah, it will be you who is driven half-naked through the streets tied to an ass.”
And if that threat didn’t make them fall in line, Amin was not confident anything would…
OOC: This post ended up being shorter than planned, because the post I had planned was even longer when I wrote it compared to what it was in my head, so I split it in half.
Should have another one up in the next few days
Will focus more on Karloman, the Frankish war effort and also bring us back into focusing on Pepin and his troubles since he's been out of focus for a little bit- 1
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Thank you for updating. The Iberian boy rulers will be tested before they grow up.
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Intrigues, intrigues everywhere, war certainly is on the horizon, but the question is, who will be the one to make the first move?
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