Iberia becomes more and more concerning. I expect that war will come either by Umayyad nobles overstepping or by Asturian nobles calling on the Franks for a reconquest. Either way, Hispania will soon become quite the mess.
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Hispania in game is a mess for a really long time. Like, much longer than the immediate period of this war, so yes, it'll always be something concerning that multiple generations of characters will have to deal with. It's not going to be resolved just in one war or two
Btw, I am close to being able to update the next post, but my Internet carked in the last day or two and only just got back up, so I've got a backlog to edit now before I can actually post it. Shouldn't be more than a day or two, but the good news is it let me get a post or two ahead of writing in terms of where I am in posting, which is a lead I didn't have since I started this AAR, so I might be able to push the next couple of posts out a bit sooner since I'm just editing rather than writing them from scratch as we speak.
Thanks for your kind compliments, your interest in this narrative AAR and as always, your patience
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Excerpt from Carloman and Eirene: Rulers of the Roman World and their letters from the Dark Ages
…What few surviving pieces of contemporary documentation exists of the correspondence between Karloman, as the new de facto Augustus of the West and Eirene as Empress of the east is revealing about the pair’s relationship during this time. There’s was not a great whirlwind romance, nor was it purely practicalities, devoid of any personal connection. There is some sober, guarded respect in those pages, coupled with a general sense of disliking frivolity and preferring discussion of practical matters over florid personal gossip. Carloman’s letters in particular are guarded, often giving out advice but revealing frustratingly little in the way of actual contemporary information. Since the two monarchs likely never met one another in person following Carloman’s capture of Constantinople in 783, there is a general sense that they do not know one another well, though Eirene is confident enough to share some details about her plans for campaigns in the east (these most likely are references to the Bulgar Wars waged by the Byzantines during her reign) and some references to her suppression of internal opposition during her early reign (the nature of which is not hard to guess, given Eirene’s rather ruthless persecution and suppression of the Iconoclasts, the ferocity of which over her reign effectively meant they ceased to be a political force in the Empire in future).
In any event, whatever the personal relationship between the two, their largely symbolic and political marriage helped to ensure the continuation of the fraying relations between the Eastern and Western branches of Chalcedonian Christianity at a time when the roots of the future schism were already being planted. Furthermore, the legitimacy of Carloman’s new Frankish Empire in the west was secured, though the decision by Eirene to make it so would have unforeseen repercussions for the Eastern Empire in future centuries…
Paris, court of Emperor Karloman, 785.
Pepin’s last few weeks had brought him into some contact with Elodie. Despite himself and his duties, Pepin increasingly found his mind wandering, wondering when he would see her again, talk to her, get to watch her smile.
The first time, he had been in the yard training, and she had seen him from afar, giving him a joyful wave, standing some metres away, clustered with a group of girls, whom he guessed were maidservants. She’d said something on seeing him smile in return and giggled to her friend.
Another time they’d passed in the hall. She’d smiled, said hello, and he’d felt himself curiously tongue-tied to respond. Worse still, she’d begun to enter his dreams. Subtlely, on the edge of his senses, just a flash of her, here and there, but definitely there.
The reminder that his own time to be married was fast-approaching did little to improve his mood when all he could think of was her. The reminder was made even more pertinent by one of those rare visits of his sister…
Since her marriage to Ado, now the Duke of Francoinia, Princess Gisela had bloomed, the slightly nervy, scared, pale blonde girl who had left had filled out. Her manners were gracious, poised and polished, and her husband seemed generous and devoted to her as she seemed to him. Her three children too, his cousins, were as fiery and brash as one would expect. The young Duke Ado had met with Karloman and Pepin, and his father seemed impressed with the young lad.
“No doubt a future credit to the Empire,” his father had remarked to Pepin’s grandmother afterwards, “I’ll take him with me to Hispania, see how he performs.”
Pepin knew he would be going to Hispania too, as would Elodie’s father, Berengar. If the man knew of the developing friendship between his daughter and the Prince, he said nothing of it when Pepin met him, nor did his own father reproach him for his associations.
But more discerning eyes had noticed…
Iberia, 785.
The capture of Emir Hakam dragged on for months, riders back and forth crossed borders and went between the two courts. An unrepentant Athanagildo fended off accusations of treachery from a furious Duke of Castille while the Queen Mother buried her head in the sand and tried not to take part. Athanagildo managed to bribe several servants to secure the King’s spoken consent to hold the Emir prisoner in a villa nearby to the castle, but the Duke had sworn he would pay. But he could only vent and fume impotently as Athanagildo took command of the negotiations with the Umayyads.
The raids had ceased, and Athanagildo sensed an opportunity to use the Emir’s capture to leverage an end to the raids across the border and an end to Moorish harassment. A new problem had emerged for him however. His letters to the Frankish court indicated that Emperor Karloman was eager for war.
No! Athanagildo sent back as a message. Delay until I can resolve things with the Umayyads. As useful as the threat of Frankish intervention was to get the Muslims to come to the negotiating table, he had no intention of actually seeing a Frankish army marching over the mountains to war with the Caliphate, with Asturias caught in between.
The Frankish messages were not obliging. Karloman would be bringing his armies over the mountains come the fall, arrangement with the Umayyads or no…
Thrown into a panic by this sudden lack of cooperation on the part of their Frankish allies, Athanagildo was forced to try and seek an agreement with the acting Regent of the Umayyad Sultan, an Emir Amin, a Christian Visigothic ruler in service to the Sultan. With bad grace, the Duke of Castille grudgingly agreed that this was necessary, and an arrangement was made for early March of 785. If they could not see to an agreement to prevent the outbreak of war, a Frankish army would be over the mountains by June…
Paris, 785.
“Stirrups you say?”
Karloman was intrigued, Marshal Balduin nodded emphatically.
“Aye sire. Best thing to do would be to equip them on all the horsemen instead of just the heavier ones. Make them standard-issue. Improves the stability of the rider’s seat in the saddle see? Makes the horseman much more effective as a weapon.”
“Well I won’t deny they are useful for me,” Karloman admitted, “If you think that innovation will work, you have my blessing Balduin, I trust your judgement. If you need resources to make it work, see the quartermaster, but I want all our horsemen riding with stirrups when we cross into Hispania.”
“Aye sire, It shall be done. God be with you.”
“God be with you,” Karloman replied, with a small bow and a smile. Balduin was as sincerely devout and pious a man as they came. Karloman liked that about him. Genuinely pious folk were easier to make loyal to you than those who had their own designs, and Balduin had all the old Blind Marshal’s skill with none of his treacherous inclinations. Balduin knew his place in Karloman’s court, and never stepped a toe outside of it.
A shame that could not be said for all his courtiers, his mood soured when he turned his thoughts to his mother, and her nagging insistence on having things her own way. Had she nagged Karl in this way before he’d died? If so, it was no wonder he had passed so early.
Karloman did not consider the other reasons for Karl’s early deaths. That old hurt, and his own complicity in it, he had long ago buried deep down. These days the only occasional reminder of it cropped up in his son, growing so tall these days. He would be nearly as tall as Karl, taller than Karloman himself for tall, and a similar face and look, though fortunately with his father’s hair. Karloman did not think he would’ve liked his son as well had the resemblance been closer to his late brother.
Now his son’s manhood was approaching. Thoughts of his impending marriage were beginning to dwell on Karloman too. Whom should he choose? Many lords were already eager to present their daughters at court, in the hopes of catching the young Prince’s eye. Ivrea, Auvergne, even Flanders and Saxony, all these Dukes had their own plans for future influence. But Karloman knew full well that to choose one was to make an enemy of many.
Pepin was his eldest son, his legitimate heir, his youngest, Eirene’s son, was being raised in the East, one who would, if the politics of Romanian went the way they usually did, probably end up succeeding his mother in Constantinople. Karloman had put that boy out of his mind in any succession plan. There was never any question of any heir but Pepin. Even the birth of his most recent child, a daughter Mafalda, whom Eirene had told him about in a letter months after he arrived home, had failed to move the needle with him. Pepin was fundamentally the key to the Empire’s continuation, and the perpetuation of Karloman’s own legacy.
The stakes then, were higher than ever. No second son to wed as a consolation prize for any lord whose family missed out. Even the imperial daughters, of whom Karloman thankfully had more, were not going to be as prized as Pepin was. But whom then to choose, and how to deal with the resentment that would flare among those not chosen?
He also hoped, though he wouldn’t admit it, that the boy would like his future bride. The unbearably unhappy endings of his own first two marriages, and the more or less complete absence of his third one weighed heavily on him. Karloman was not a man naturally aroused to strong sexual passions, nor did he particularly care for a feminised domestic life, but his son might well do better to have a more stable married life than his own. Certainly it would do no good to risk the imperial succession on a bride who was stupid, or likely to stray in marriage.
That then made the choice even harder. So many things to balance. Karloman had been putting off the decision, and would continue to do so, but the time in which he would have to choose was fast approaching.
For now though, he cast the issue of his son’s wedding from his mind and turned to matters that were both more comfortable and familiar to the way his mind worked. His plans for the upcoming Iberian campaign. The Asturians dispute with the Umayyad’s had turned nasty and, with their leave or without it, Karloman intended to use the situation as an excuse to push his own borders onto the Peninsula. To not do so, he argued, was to risk the chance that another Moorish invasion might threaten Carolingian lands, just as it had done so during the reign of his own legendary grandfather Karl Martel.
June 785.
As the call for the general muster went out across the Empire, for lords and their retinues to march to the south and gather near Tolouse, Karloman received yet another missive concerning an issue much closer to home…
“Your cousin Grifo has written,” his mother informed him as he barged into the room after having been roused from sleep by her messenger.
“And what does he want?”
“Your permission to seize the throne of Bavaria.” She replied simply, “He’s almost as lacking in subtlety as you,” she slyly continued.
Karloman ignored that pointed dig, and grabbed the letter from her hand, briefly scanning its contents. His cousin had gathered an army of sellswords and supporters, intending to seize the throne from King Tassilo III “And he wants money? Troops?”
“Both, if you can spare them.”
“Coin I can, troops I cannot,” Karloman replied. “We need them for the Iberian campaign. If Cousin Grifo wants Bavaria, let him prove he has the strength to take it. After all, both he and Tassilo are cousins of mine.”
“Grifo has your dynasty though, and King Tassilo does not.” Bertrada pointed out, “Better that he rule than the alternative in this instance.”
“We shall see, we both know that family ties don’t always guarantee loyalty.”
Now THAT was a slap across the face, he thought joyfully, but his mother didn’t even flinch at it.
“Perhaps, but a friendly King in Bavaria…”
“Yes guarantees the eastern flank against Pannonian attack, I’m well aware.”
“Indeed, leave them for the east to deal with,” his mother finished. “Speaking of the east, how goes Eirene?”
“Fine last I heard in her letter,” Karloman replied. “She’s continuing to suppress the Iconoclasts of course. A necessity for keeping the unity of the Church intact. And she plans some campaigns against the Bulgars. If I were her, I’d be planning a natural frontier on the Danube, so she should aim to re-take everything south of that.”
“You think she will?”
“If she’s thought about the military side of things as hard as I have, she will try.”
“And Pepin? Have you thought about…”
“I will make my decision when I am good and ready,” The Emperor snapped, “Do not press my patience on this subject more than you already have.”
She nodded, “As you wish, I shall draw up the orders you have given concerning Bavaria.”
Karloman was already out the door and heading back to bed.
785, Kingdom of Asturias, Summit of Emir Amin and Marshal Athanagildo.
Neither of the boy Kings in Iberia were present for the meeting that would decide the way their realms would go, peace or war. None could mistake the fact that this was a meeting of the regents, not the monarchs.
The men who held sway over the fate of the Iberian Peninsula gathered to hammer out an agreement to prevent the outbreak of open warfare. Both Amin and Athanagildo now firmly desired peace, and neither sought open warfare, one because he knew the Franks would march over the Pyrenees to impose themselves on Iberia, and the other because he was not confident the Moorish armies could stand against the Franks if they came.
That Karloman’s interest in the situation with Asturias was solely as a pretext to bring his armies over the mountains Athanagildo had no doubt now. His smugness at his own cleverness in securing the betrothal of the King to Karloman’s daughter had vanished entirely when the Emperor’s letters had suddenly turned terse and authoritative, seeming to treat the Asturians as a mere client state rather than an independent realm. Rapidly, he had realised the political calculus needed to be adjusted. A big public meeting, a peace agreement between the warring parties, with the news publicised far and wide, might end up convincing Karloman to back off. If he attacked in spite of a known treaty, he was made to look like an aggressor in the eyes of the Christian world he claimed to defend.
Emir Amin sat atop his magnificent bay horse, tanned-brown face visible beneath his turban. He worse the Islamic fashion when conducting the business of state and Sultan out of respect to his fellows, despite being a Christian himself. Athanagildo had never met the man, but was surprised to discover that he was tall, well-built and rode in his saddle with ease.
Amin for his part, was impressed by Athanagildo, a shorter, sturdier built man, but any commoner who could hold his own on a regency council and in a court surrounded by envious high nobility was not a man to be taken lightly.
“Emir, May God be with you.”
“God’s grace be with you,” Amin replied, with a gracious smile, revealing a small row of pointed teeth, “I do hope we can use this meeting as an opportunity to avoid bloodshed.”
“As do I,” Athanagildo agreed, glancing at the Duke of Castille. The Duke harrumphed discourteously, but did not speak. They had agreed he was there mostly to avoid a perceived insult to the Umayyad’s, as a negotiation conducted solely by a common-born soldier would likely be.
“Very well then, let us set out the likely terms.”
They haggled for a while, the sticking points being the obvious. Asturias needed a stop to be put to the raiders, The Umayyad’s wanted Emir Hakam and his family released unharmed, though with or without a ransom was a sticky question. As was the issue of the Franks.
“My kingdom does not want the Franks to march over the Pyrenees”, Athanagildo insisted, “We desire only a guarantee of our security and a firm defence against aggression.”
“And yet in doing so, you have likely sealed both our fates anyway, The Frankish ‘Emperor’ is not one to do as he is asked. Karloman will take what he wills, regardless of your objections or mine. He will treat Asturias as much as an appendage of his own Empire as we are ever likely to.” Amin’s face darkened, “And there are many in the Sultan’s court who would relish a chance to cross blades with this Frankish Emperor, regardless of my own thoughts on the matter.”
“We can prevent Frankish intervention,” Athanagildo insisted, “We draw up a peace here, I ensure that Karloman has no cause to march over the Pyrenees.”
“From what I hear, he already has begun his muster,” Emir Amin replied, “How then, do you propose to stop him when he has already begun?”
“If we here come to an agreement to avoid a war, I believe the Pontiff in Rome will withdraw his backing for Karloman’s actions,” Athanagildo explained. “If we fail, his Holiness will surely support what he sees as a holy war against infidels, but if he knows there is a chance for peace…” he trailed off, letting Amin connect the dots.
“His Holiness publicly orders the Emperor to back off, making Karloman hesitate,” Amin finished, “Clever,” he admitted, grinning, “But will the Frankish dog slip the Pontiff’s leash if it suits him? I fear he may.”
“He may,” Athanagildo admitted, “We have no way to be sure, but between your Emirs and our lords, war will come to our realms if we do not act to prevent it, and the Frankish spectre hangs over us both equally.”
Athanagildo knew he was taking a risk with these words. His overtures to Karloman in private had been naught but friendly, and indeed, he had hoped the threat of Frankish intervention would be enough to dissuade the Umayyads from invasion. But knowing what he did about Karloman, he found it highly unlikely that if he brought his army over the mountains, he would do so as anything but the master of all he surveyed. He was not one to operate as an equal to others. If the Duke of Castille reported his words to the Franks…
Athanagildo trusted the Duke was foolish enough not to think of it.
But there was a potential solution. With the Pontiff, the man who crowned him as Roman Emperor, the source of Karloman’s imperial power on their side, hailing the peace they had made? Karloman would be persuaded to at least think twice about invading with no cause for war. Even his lords might desert him then, if the Pontiff withheld backing for a holy war…
Yes, it was their best hope. It would keep the Umayyads out, and force the Franks to remain on the other end of the mountains, leaving Asturias the servant to none.
The arguments continued, they broke for the day, and then returned to do it again the next day. Eventually, a compromise was hammered out. The release of the Emir, in exchange for a ransom, though not a large one. An end to the Umayyad raids on Asturias, with the Emir’s family continuing as hostages for another year to ensure compliance before being released home. Asturias would be at peace with the Sultanate for another ten year period, the Asturians would ask the Franks not to intervene, and both parties would send a message to the Pontiff in Rome, voicing their new treaty and asking the Pontiff to prevent Karloman from escalating into a holy war in defiance of the wishes of the local Christians.
The wine flowed, and the messengers scattered to the winds, heading for Rome and home to their own courts. Amin, for his part, was less confident in the arrangement. He had to placate the Emirs and lords in his own court who lusted for war first, before he could worry about managing the peace, and this agreement would not win him any love from them…
Paris, Holy Roman Empire.
“Pepin, may I see you for a moment?”
Pepin stopped, turned, surprised to see his grandmother’s face peering out of her study. He was slightly shocked. His grandmother rarely ventured from there except in council meetings, and even then, she rarely spoke to Pepin, always to his father, with whom her business usually was.
“Of course grandmother,” he smiled, and followed her into her study room. It was a dank, slightly musky place, and he was surprised by how small it was. Pepin didn’t know exactly what his grandmother did for his father, but he knew her role at court was important, and that his father and his grandfather before him had relied heavily upon her. She held great sway, her opinion carried great weight, and many people at court tiptoed around her with an equal amount of reverence and fear. She was not a person to be refused, even for the most simplest of requests.
“I have something I must speak to you about.”
His mind raced with possibilities, but he kept his face calm, remembering old Father Gelduin’s tutoring on the social graces. “What about, grandmother?”
“Word has reached my ears of some of your recent… activities, and I must inquire about them. Have you been seeing Elodie de Valois? Berenger’s girl?”
The boy’s face twitched slightly, and Bertrada felt a flicker of dread. Yes, he knew her name, they had indeed been seen together. “Depends on what you mean grandmother,” he replied evenly. “I have seen her around the castle, yes,”
Infernal, smart-mouthed child, she thought, He’s shaping up to be as difficult as his father if he doesn’t watch out.
“Let me come to the point bluntly, have you deflowered her.”
“What? No!” Pepin sounded horrified. “What do you mean?”
“You have not lain with her?” she pressed, urgently.
“No!” The boy exclaimed, shook his head, eyes wide with fear. “Truly grandmother, nothing like that! We’ve seen each other around and I… I think she likes me a little, but it’s been nothing more than that! All perfectly innocent I swear by God!”
She peered at his face closely in the semi-darkness, his eyes were wide with panic, but free of guile. His conviction rang true. The prince did not lie. He had seen the girl, but in no way that was untoward, though that wouldn’t stop the rumours. If she knew of them, soon others would as well.
“I believe you,” she finally said, and Pepin exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, “But be careful Prince,” she continued, laying slight emphasis on his title, “Your position is a powerful one, but also precarious. People watch what you do, who you see, even when you don’t know it. Any social call you make will be taken note of and someone, somewhere, will try to use it to their advantage.”
“Did someone tell you we had been engaged in illicit rendezvous?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied, “but the rumours gotten around that you’ve seen her in secret,” he opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off, “true or not, it’s a rumour that people will believe if it suits them, and the girl is widely regarded as far below your class.”
“Her father is noble,” Pepin muttered, red-faced, not sure why he felt compelled to defend Elodie’s breeding in front of his grandmother,
“But not a high one, and the high always look down upon the low, hold them in contempt,” his mother replied, “It is the way of the world child,” she continued, not unkindly “this… relationship, whatever it may be to you or her, is not suitable for a marriage, and it’s that relationship that your father and the whole Empire increasingly turns their thoughts to. Do what you will with your own social engagements, but I warn you, do not allow this girl to complicate things for your future. The stakes are much higher than yourself and your own happiness. Your father’s reign, his Empire, everything he has built, all hinges on how you conduct yourself, both now and in the future. You cannot fail him in this.”
His head rose slightly, was his grandmother trying to tell him to stop seeing Elodie around the castle, stop speaking to her, looking for her in a crowd? Perhaps, but she hadn’t said so. Was it a test? Some trick worked out between her and his father to see his reaction? Not for the first time, Pepin wished his father were more communicative, and his grandmother less secretive and cryptic.
“I will be cautious grandmother,” was all he said.
A smile flickered across her wrinkled face. “There’s a good lad,” she patted his arm, “now off you go, I shan’t keep you any longer.”
Pepin wondered about the point of that conversation for another day, but he could not wonder much longer, for the first elements of his father’s vassals had begun to arrive in the capital, with their levies for the war.
The march to Hispania had begun.
OOC: Thanks for your patience. My internet is still unreliable right now but I managed to get this up to post it. So Karloman's basically doing things his way or the highway but the pro-peace factions in both courts have a plan to outmanuovere both him and their own factions that are pushing for war in Hispania. But will their plans work out? We'll see.
The fictional history being quoted at the beginning is partly to give a summary of what's happening over in Byzantium during Eirene's rule over there, as those events will be out-of-focus and naturally detached from the main narrative for most of this, but I'm sure people want to know how those events play out, so I'll find ways to make mention of them
…What few surviving pieces of contemporary documentation exists of the correspondence between Karloman, as the new de facto Augustus of the West and Eirene as Empress of the east is revealing about the pair’s relationship during this time. There’s was not a great whirlwind romance, nor was it purely practicalities, devoid of any personal connection. There is some sober, guarded respect in those pages, coupled with a general sense of disliking frivolity and preferring discussion of practical matters over florid personal gossip. Carloman’s letters in particular are guarded, often giving out advice but revealing frustratingly little in the way of actual contemporary information. Since the two monarchs likely never met one another in person following Carloman’s capture of Constantinople in 783, there is a general sense that they do not know one another well, though Eirene is confident enough to share some details about her plans for campaigns in the east (these most likely are references to the Bulgar Wars waged by the Byzantines during her reign) and some references to her suppression of internal opposition during her early reign (the nature of which is not hard to guess, given Eirene’s rather ruthless persecution and suppression of the Iconoclasts, the ferocity of which over her reign effectively meant they ceased to be a political force in the Empire in future).
In any event, whatever the personal relationship between the two, their largely symbolic and political marriage helped to ensure the continuation of the fraying relations between the Eastern and Western branches of Chalcedonian Christianity at a time when the roots of the future schism were already being planted. Furthermore, the legitimacy of Carloman’s new Frankish Empire in the west was secured, though the decision by Eirene to make it so would have unforeseen repercussions for the Eastern Empire in future centuries…
Paris, court of Emperor Karloman, 785.
Pepin’s last few weeks had brought him into some contact with Elodie. Despite himself and his duties, Pepin increasingly found his mind wandering, wondering when he would see her again, talk to her, get to watch her smile.
The first time, he had been in the yard training, and she had seen him from afar, giving him a joyful wave, standing some metres away, clustered with a group of girls, whom he guessed were maidservants. She’d said something on seeing him smile in return and giggled to her friend.
Another time they’d passed in the hall. She’d smiled, said hello, and he’d felt himself curiously tongue-tied to respond. Worse still, she’d begun to enter his dreams. Subtlely, on the edge of his senses, just a flash of her, here and there, but definitely there.
The reminder that his own time to be married was fast-approaching did little to improve his mood when all he could think of was her. The reminder was made even more pertinent by one of those rare visits of his sister…
Since her marriage to Ado, now the Duke of Francoinia, Princess Gisela had bloomed, the slightly nervy, scared, pale blonde girl who had left had filled out. Her manners were gracious, poised and polished, and her husband seemed generous and devoted to her as she seemed to him. Her three children too, his cousins, were as fiery and brash as one would expect. The young Duke Ado had met with Karloman and Pepin, and his father seemed impressed with the young lad.
“No doubt a future credit to the Empire,” his father had remarked to Pepin’s grandmother afterwards, “I’ll take him with me to Hispania, see how he performs.”
Pepin knew he would be going to Hispania too, as would Elodie’s father, Berengar. If the man knew of the developing friendship between his daughter and the Prince, he said nothing of it when Pepin met him, nor did his own father reproach him for his associations.
But more discerning eyes had noticed…
Iberia, 785.
The capture of Emir Hakam dragged on for months, riders back and forth crossed borders and went between the two courts. An unrepentant Athanagildo fended off accusations of treachery from a furious Duke of Castille while the Queen Mother buried her head in the sand and tried not to take part. Athanagildo managed to bribe several servants to secure the King’s spoken consent to hold the Emir prisoner in a villa nearby to the castle, but the Duke had sworn he would pay. But he could only vent and fume impotently as Athanagildo took command of the negotiations with the Umayyads.
The raids had ceased, and Athanagildo sensed an opportunity to use the Emir’s capture to leverage an end to the raids across the border and an end to Moorish harassment. A new problem had emerged for him however. His letters to the Frankish court indicated that Emperor Karloman was eager for war.
No! Athanagildo sent back as a message. Delay until I can resolve things with the Umayyads. As useful as the threat of Frankish intervention was to get the Muslims to come to the negotiating table, he had no intention of actually seeing a Frankish army marching over the mountains to war with the Caliphate, with Asturias caught in between.
The Frankish messages were not obliging. Karloman would be bringing his armies over the mountains come the fall, arrangement with the Umayyads or no…
Thrown into a panic by this sudden lack of cooperation on the part of their Frankish allies, Athanagildo was forced to try and seek an agreement with the acting Regent of the Umayyad Sultan, an Emir Amin, a Christian Visigothic ruler in service to the Sultan. With bad grace, the Duke of Castille grudgingly agreed that this was necessary, and an arrangement was made for early March of 785. If they could not see to an agreement to prevent the outbreak of war, a Frankish army would be over the mountains by June…
Paris, 785.
“Stirrups you say?”
Karloman was intrigued, Marshal Balduin nodded emphatically.
“Aye sire. Best thing to do would be to equip them on all the horsemen instead of just the heavier ones. Make them standard-issue. Improves the stability of the rider’s seat in the saddle see? Makes the horseman much more effective as a weapon.”
“Well I won’t deny they are useful for me,” Karloman admitted, “If you think that innovation will work, you have my blessing Balduin, I trust your judgement. If you need resources to make it work, see the quartermaster, but I want all our horsemen riding with stirrups when we cross into Hispania.”
“Aye sire, It shall be done. God be with you.”
“God be with you,” Karloman replied, with a small bow and a smile. Balduin was as sincerely devout and pious a man as they came. Karloman liked that about him. Genuinely pious folk were easier to make loyal to you than those who had their own designs, and Balduin had all the old Blind Marshal’s skill with none of his treacherous inclinations. Balduin knew his place in Karloman’s court, and never stepped a toe outside of it.
A shame that could not be said for all his courtiers, his mood soured when he turned his thoughts to his mother, and her nagging insistence on having things her own way. Had she nagged Karl in this way before he’d died? If so, it was no wonder he had passed so early.
Karloman did not consider the other reasons for Karl’s early deaths. That old hurt, and his own complicity in it, he had long ago buried deep down. These days the only occasional reminder of it cropped up in his son, growing so tall these days. He would be nearly as tall as Karl, taller than Karloman himself for tall, and a similar face and look, though fortunately with his father’s hair. Karloman did not think he would’ve liked his son as well had the resemblance been closer to his late brother.
Now his son’s manhood was approaching. Thoughts of his impending marriage were beginning to dwell on Karloman too. Whom should he choose? Many lords were already eager to present their daughters at court, in the hopes of catching the young Prince’s eye. Ivrea, Auvergne, even Flanders and Saxony, all these Dukes had their own plans for future influence. But Karloman knew full well that to choose one was to make an enemy of many.
Pepin was his eldest son, his legitimate heir, his youngest, Eirene’s son, was being raised in the East, one who would, if the politics of Romanian went the way they usually did, probably end up succeeding his mother in Constantinople. Karloman had put that boy out of his mind in any succession plan. There was never any question of any heir but Pepin. Even the birth of his most recent child, a daughter Mafalda, whom Eirene had told him about in a letter months after he arrived home, had failed to move the needle with him. Pepin was fundamentally the key to the Empire’s continuation, and the perpetuation of Karloman’s own legacy.
The stakes then, were higher than ever. No second son to wed as a consolation prize for any lord whose family missed out. Even the imperial daughters, of whom Karloman thankfully had more, were not going to be as prized as Pepin was. But whom then to choose, and how to deal with the resentment that would flare among those not chosen?
He also hoped, though he wouldn’t admit it, that the boy would like his future bride. The unbearably unhappy endings of his own first two marriages, and the more or less complete absence of his third one weighed heavily on him. Karloman was not a man naturally aroused to strong sexual passions, nor did he particularly care for a feminised domestic life, but his son might well do better to have a more stable married life than his own. Certainly it would do no good to risk the imperial succession on a bride who was stupid, or likely to stray in marriage.
That then made the choice even harder. So many things to balance. Karloman had been putting off the decision, and would continue to do so, but the time in which he would have to choose was fast approaching.
For now though, he cast the issue of his son’s wedding from his mind and turned to matters that were both more comfortable and familiar to the way his mind worked. His plans for the upcoming Iberian campaign. The Asturians dispute with the Umayyad’s had turned nasty and, with their leave or without it, Karloman intended to use the situation as an excuse to push his own borders onto the Peninsula. To not do so, he argued, was to risk the chance that another Moorish invasion might threaten Carolingian lands, just as it had done so during the reign of his own legendary grandfather Karl Martel.
June 785.
As the call for the general muster went out across the Empire, for lords and their retinues to march to the south and gather near Tolouse, Karloman received yet another missive concerning an issue much closer to home…
“Your cousin Grifo has written,” his mother informed him as he barged into the room after having been roused from sleep by her messenger.
“And what does he want?”
“Your permission to seize the throne of Bavaria.” She replied simply, “He’s almost as lacking in subtlety as you,” she slyly continued.
Karloman ignored that pointed dig, and grabbed the letter from her hand, briefly scanning its contents. His cousin had gathered an army of sellswords and supporters, intending to seize the throne from King Tassilo III “And he wants money? Troops?”
“Both, if you can spare them.”
“Coin I can, troops I cannot,” Karloman replied. “We need them for the Iberian campaign. If Cousin Grifo wants Bavaria, let him prove he has the strength to take it. After all, both he and Tassilo are cousins of mine.”
“Grifo has your dynasty though, and King Tassilo does not.” Bertrada pointed out, “Better that he rule than the alternative in this instance.”
“We shall see, we both know that family ties don’t always guarantee loyalty.”
Now THAT was a slap across the face, he thought joyfully, but his mother didn’t even flinch at it.
“Perhaps, but a friendly King in Bavaria…”
“Yes guarantees the eastern flank against Pannonian attack, I’m well aware.”
“Indeed, leave them for the east to deal with,” his mother finished. “Speaking of the east, how goes Eirene?”
“Fine last I heard in her letter,” Karloman replied. “She’s continuing to suppress the Iconoclasts of course. A necessity for keeping the unity of the Church intact. And she plans some campaigns against the Bulgars. If I were her, I’d be planning a natural frontier on the Danube, so she should aim to re-take everything south of that.”
“You think she will?”
“If she’s thought about the military side of things as hard as I have, she will try.”
“And Pepin? Have you thought about…”
“I will make my decision when I am good and ready,” The Emperor snapped, “Do not press my patience on this subject more than you already have.”
She nodded, “As you wish, I shall draw up the orders you have given concerning Bavaria.”
Karloman was already out the door and heading back to bed.
785, Kingdom of Asturias, Summit of Emir Amin and Marshal Athanagildo.
Neither of the boy Kings in Iberia were present for the meeting that would decide the way their realms would go, peace or war. None could mistake the fact that this was a meeting of the regents, not the monarchs.
The men who held sway over the fate of the Iberian Peninsula gathered to hammer out an agreement to prevent the outbreak of open warfare. Both Amin and Athanagildo now firmly desired peace, and neither sought open warfare, one because he knew the Franks would march over the Pyrenees to impose themselves on Iberia, and the other because he was not confident the Moorish armies could stand against the Franks if they came.
That Karloman’s interest in the situation with Asturias was solely as a pretext to bring his armies over the mountains Athanagildo had no doubt now. His smugness at his own cleverness in securing the betrothal of the King to Karloman’s daughter had vanished entirely when the Emperor’s letters had suddenly turned terse and authoritative, seeming to treat the Asturians as a mere client state rather than an independent realm. Rapidly, he had realised the political calculus needed to be adjusted. A big public meeting, a peace agreement between the warring parties, with the news publicised far and wide, might end up convincing Karloman to back off. If he attacked in spite of a known treaty, he was made to look like an aggressor in the eyes of the Christian world he claimed to defend.
Emir Amin sat atop his magnificent bay horse, tanned-brown face visible beneath his turban. He worse the Islamic fashion when conducting the business of state and Sultan out of respect to his fellows, despite being a Christian himself. Athanagildo had never met the man, but was surprised to discover that he was tall, well-built and rode in his saddle with ease.
Amin for his part, was impressed by Athanagildo, a shorter, sturdier built man, but any commoner who could hold his own on a regency council and in a court surrounded by envious high nobility was not a man to be taken lightly.
“Emir, May God be with you.”
“God’s grace be with you,” Amin replied, with a gracious smile, revealing a small row of pointed teeth, “I do hope we can use this meeting as an opportunity to avoid bloodshed.”
“As do I,” Athanagildo agreed, glancing at the Duke of Castille. The Duke harrumphed discourteously, but did not speak. They had agreed he was there mostly to avoid a perceived insult to the Umayyad’s, as a negotiation conducted solely by a common-born soldier would likely be.
“Very well then, let us set out the likely terms.”
They haggled for a while, the sticking points being the obvious. Asturias needed a stop to be put to the raiders, The Umayyad’s wanted Emir Hakam and his family released unharmed, though with or without a ransom was a sticky question. As was the issue of the Franks.
“My kingdom does not want the Franks to march over the Pyrenees”, Athanagildo insisted, “We desire only a guarantee of our security and a firm defence against aggression.”
“And yet in doing so, you have likely sealed both our fates anyway, The Frankish ‘Emperor’ is not one to do as he is asked. Karloman will take what he wills, regardless of your objections or mine. He will treat Asturias as much as an appendage of his own Empire as we are ever likely to.” Amin’s face darkened, “And there are many in the Sultan’s court who would relish a chance to cross blades with this Frankish Emperor, regardless of my own thoughts on the matter.”
“We can prevent Frankish intervention,” Athanagildo insisted, “We draw up a peace here, I ensure that Karloman has no cause to march over the Pyrenees.”
“From what I hear, he already has begun his muster,” Emir Amin replied, “How then, do you propose to stop him when he has already begun?”
“If we here come to an agreement to avoid a war, I believe the Pontiff in Rome will withdraw his backing for Karloman’s actions,” Athanagildo explained. “If we fail, his Holiness will surely support what he sees as a holy war against infidels, but if he knows there is a chance for peace…” he trailed off, letting Amin connect the dots.
“His Holiness publicly orders the Emperor to back off, making Karloman hesitate,” Amin finished, “Clever,” he admitted, grinning, “But will the Frankish dog slip the Pontiff’s leash if it suits him? I fear he may.”
“He may,” Athanagildo admitted, “We have no way to be sure, but between your Emirs and our lords, war will come to our realms if we do not act to prevent it, and the Frankish spectre hangs over us both equally.”
Athanagildo knew he was taking a risk with these words. His overtures to Karloman in private had been naught but friendly, and indeed, he had hoped the threat of Frankish intervention would be enough to dissuade the Umayyads from invasion. But knowing what he did about Karloman, he found it highly unlikely that if he brought his army over the mountains, he would do so as anything but the master of all he surveyed. He was not one to operate as an equal to others. If the Duke of Castille reported his words to the Franks…
Athanagildo trusted the Duke was foolish enough not to think of it.
But there was a potential solution. With the Pontiff, the man who crowned him as Roman Emperor, the source of Karloman’s imperial power on their side, hailing the peace they had made? Karloman would be persuaded to at least think twice about invading with no cause for war. Even his lords might desert him then, if the Pontiff withheld backing for a holy war…
Yes, it was their best hope. It would keep the Umayyads out, and force the Franks to remain on the other end of the mountains, leaving Asturias the servant to none.
The arguments continued, they broke for the day, and then returned to do it again the next day. Eventually, a compromise was hammered out. The release of the Emir, in exchange for a ransom, though not a large one. An end to the Umayyad raids on Asturias, with the Emir’s family continuing as hostages for another year to ensure compliance before being released home. Asturias would be at peace with the Sultanate for another ten year period, the Asturians would ask the Franks not to intervene, and both parties would send a message to the Pontiff in Rome, voicing their new treaty and asking the Pontiff to prevent Karloman from escalating into a holy war in defiance of the wishes of the local Christians.
The wine flowed, and the messengers scattered to the winds, heading for Rome and home to their own courts. Amin, for his part, was less confident in the arrangement. He had to placate the Emirs and lords in his own court who lusted for war first, before he could worry about managing the peace, and this agreement would not win him any love from them…
Paris, Holy Roman Empire.
“Pepin, may I see you for a moment?”
Pepin stopped, turned, surprised to see his grandmother’s face peering out of her study. He was slightly shocked. His grandmother rarely ventured from there except in council meetings, and even then, she rarely spoke to Pepin, always to his father, with whom her business usually was.
“Of course grandmother,” he smiled, and followed her into her study room. It was a dank, slightly musky place, and he was surprised by how small it was. Pepin didn’t know exactly what his grandmother did for his father, but he knew her role at court was important, and that his father and his grandfather before him had relied heavily upon her. She held great sway, her opinion carried great weight, and many people at court tiptoed around her with an equal amount of reverence and fear. She was not a person to be refused, even for the most simplest of requests.
“I have something I must speak to you about.”
His mind raced with possibilities, but he kept his face calm, remembering old Father Gelduin’s tutoring on the social graces. “What about, grandmother?”
“Word has reached my ears of some of your recent… activities, and I must inquire about them. Have you been seeing Elodie de Valois? Berenger’s girl?”
The boy’s face twitched slightly, and Bertrada felt a flicker of dread. Yes, he knew her name, they had indeed been seen together. “Depends on what you mean grandmother,” he replied evenly. “I have seen her around the castle, yes,”
Infernal, smart-mouthed child, she thought, He’s shaping up to be as difficult as his father if he doesn’t watch out.
“Let me come to the point bluntly, have you deflowered her.”
“What? No!” Pepin sounded horrified. “What do you mean?”
“You have not lain with her?” she pressed, urgently.
“No!” The boy exclaimed, shook his head, eyes wide with fear. “Truly grandmother, nothing like that! We’ve seen each other around and I… I think she likes me a little, but it’s been nothing more than that! All perfectly innocent I swear by God!”
She peered at his face closely in the semi-darkness, his eyes were wide with panic, but free of guile. His conviction rang true. The prince did not lie. He had seen the girl, but in no way that was untoward, though that wouldn’t stop the rumours. If she knew of them, soon others would as well.
“I believe you,” she finally said, and Pepin exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, “But be careful Prince,” she continued, laying slight emphasis on his title, “Your position is a powerful one, but also precarious. People watch what you do, who you see, even when you don’t know it. Any social call you make will be taken note of and someone, somewhere, will try to use it to their advantage.”
“Did someone tell you we had been engaged in illicit rendezvous?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied, “but the rumours gotten around that you’ve seen her in secret,” he opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off, “true or not, it’s a rumour that people will believe if it suits them, and the girl is widely regarded as far below your class.”
“Her father is noble,” Pepin muttered, red-faced, not sure why he felt compelled to defend Elodie’s breeding in front of his grandmother,
“But not a high one, and the high always look down upon the low, hold them in contempt,” his mother replied, “It is the way of the world child,” she continued, not unkindly “this… relationship, whatever it may be to you or her, is not suitable for a marriage, and it’s that relationship that your father and the whole Empire increasingly turns their thoughts to. Do what you will with your own social engagements, but I warn you, do not allow this girl to complicate things for your future. The stakes are much higher than yourself and your own happiness. Your father’s reign, his Empire, everything he has built, all hinges on how you conduct yourself, both now and in the future. You cannot fail him in this.”
His head rose slightly, was his grandmother trying to tell him to stop seeing Elodie around the castle, stop speaking to her, looking for her in a crowd? Perhaps, but she hadn’t said so. Was it a test? Some trick worked out between her and his father to see his reaction? Not for the first time, Pepin wished his father were more communicative, and his grandmother less secretive and cryptic.
“I will be cautious grandmother,” was all he said.
A smile flickered across her wrinkled face. “There’s a good lad,” she patted his arm, “now off you go, I shan’t keep you any longer.”
Pepin wondered about the point of that conversation for another day, but he could not wonder much longer, for the first elements of his father’s vassals had begun to arrive in the capital, with their levies for the war.
The march to Hispania had begun.
OOC: Thanks for your patience. My internet is still unreliable right now but I managed to get this up to post it. So Karloman's basically doing things his way or the highway but the pro-peace factions in both courts have a plan to outmanuovere both him and their own factions that are pushing for war in Hispania. But will their plans work out? We'll see.
The fictional history being quoted at the beginning is partly to give a summary of what's happening over in Byzantium during Eirene's rule over there, as those events will be out-of-focus and naturally detached from the main narrative for most of this, but I'm sure people want to know how those events play out, so I'll find ways to make mention of them
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It takes many to make a peace, but one to start a war. Thank you for the update.
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Oh dear, Spain is being so reasonable now that something has to go wrong. I expect that Karloman will have his war no matter how hard Athanagildo and Amin try to stop it. And, if it does come, who will be able to stand in the way of a Frankish empire of that size?
I enjoyed the chat between Pepin and Bertrada very much; I had a very clear picture of Sian Phillips in that scene. Hopefully for the boy, this is all just a passing fancy and he will learn to love a highborn bride but sweethearts have a habit of sticking around...
I enjoyed the chat between Pepin and Bertrada very much; I had a very clear picture of Sian Phillips in that scene. Hopefully for the boy, this is all just a passing fancy and he will learn to love a highborn bride but sweethearts have a habit of sticking around...
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785
The news of the Frankish Army’s impending march had already made it’s way to the Umayyad’s Sultan’s palace when Amin returned from the talks.
“The Franks march for war, I say we give them one!”
Low murmurings of assent from the gathered notables, and a few grumbles of discontent. Amin was not completely alone is opposing war.
“It seems unquestionable now that the Frankish Emperor intends to cross the mountains and bring war upon our lands,” another Emir replied. “We cannot hold to delusions of peace when a Christian army marches on our doorstep.”
This reference to a “Christian army” was accompanied by a sidelong glance at Amin, the significance of it clear. His enemies in court intended to use his religion to bring him down in the estimation of the court and the boy Sultan. If war with the Franks broke out and his plan failed, there would be little to stop them.
“Please my lords, Peace,” Amin raised one regal hand to calm the room, “We are aware of these latest moves by the Frankish Emperor, but rest assured, my negotiations have borne fruit.”
“We don’t agree, we demand the Sultan make a judgement.”
More murmurs of assent at that, though the room was so packed with lords that Amin had not seen who had spoken.
“The Sultan has delegated me to speak in his stead,” Amin lied smoothly, “and in any event, is unwell, he cannot be troubled to make a judgement on this, with the many cares that weigh on his mind.”
Shooting a look aside to one of his men, he gave a near imperceptible nod. The man responded with a silent glare but moved.
A few figures began moving through the crowd, his men following his instructions. He had anticipated this might happen. He was ready if it did.
“So you say,” Emir Ulhmann replied, a well-known critic of Amin’s influence at court. “But I say those of us who haven’t heard it from his lips might well want to speak to the Sultan.”
“Agreed,”
“Agreed,”
There were six in total, who agreed, it seemed. More than few enough to handle.
“You mistake me, my lords,” Amin’s voice was no longer conciliatory in it’s tone. “I was not offering you the opportunity to speak to the Sultan, I was explaining to you his commands, as his lawful regent. Return to your lands, and await further information, if the Franks should come, you’ll all need to prepare yourselves.”
“And whose to say the Sultan himself will agree? I say we should go speak to him right now!”
A small number of them began to move towards the back of the hall, where they knew the door to the Sultan’s chambers was.
Amin gave a nod, and a flash of steel and iron sprang forth, the noise of blades being drawn and weapons raised.
“I will repeat my commands once, and once only my lords,” Amin continued, “Return to your lands. Tend to your people. Our business here is concluded. To proceed further is to disobey the lawful commands of the Sultan’s regent, to commit treason.”
That the penalty for treason was death he left unsaid, but he caught himself holding his breath. This was a desperate ploy, and they would not take kindly to being threatened. If his plan for peace failed, and the Franks did come, he would be discredited, and he’d have few supporters left to protect him… But only by rolling the dice would one know where it landed.
A few men’s hands twitched over their sabres, one reached for a dagger, but thought better of it when he saw the burly man now guarding the Sultan’s door aiming an axe directly at his face. He would be dead before he drew it, Amin’s men had the route blocked. Fighting their way through to the Sultan might work… but then?
“Fine,” Amin let go of the breath he was holding, “But do not think we will forget or overlook this, Lord Amin,” Ulhmann continued, “All actions have consequences. Pray you remember that.”
“I pray we all remember that, Lord Ulhmann” Amin replied, with a meaningful glare.
The situation resolved, the crowd began to disperse, many grumbling unhappily, but still falling into line… for now.
Amin could feel the yawning chasm beneath his feet growing wider every day. Threatening to swallow him and all he had worked for whole.
Southern Francia, late 785.
That the rule of an Emperor who was both involved and competent in his governance had come to Francia was beginning to become apparent in towns where the Emperor’s retinue and levy forces stopped along the way. Pepin had begun to see changes, more goods lining the market stalls in the streets, more caravans along the roads, and a slight changing in the mood. As they went, his father held court wherever they happened to find themselves, ruling on legal matters, settling disputes, dealing with taxes, tithes and tariffs and all the regular day-to-day business. Pepin accompanied him, often contributing a little to the judgements, but generally watching and learning. His father generally had the patience necessary to sit for long hours to undertake these sorts of judgements, but he noticed he would grow restless after the end of a long session over consecutive days.
“It may be boring at times, but this is the essential work of ruling,” Karloman told him, “Your people depend on you for sound judgements, and you rely on that bond to ensure that when times of strife, war or famine come to plague you, that they will do their duty and not abandon you. The Merovingians were known as the “do-nothing Kings” before your grandfather took the throne. It is not good to be a do-nothing Pepin, for if a King won’t look after his people, why then, should they bother to look after him? The Merovingians are gone now for a reason. It’s fallen on us not to follow them into the mists of history.”
That his father was nicknamed “The Cruel” in some circles did not usually bother Pepin. The man he knew was not cruel. Hard often yes, and sometimes cold as a fish washed ashore upon a frozen river, but not cruel. His deeds had been cruel, some of them, but he knew his father well enough to know he got no enjoyment from cruelty. The Blood Court, the massacre of the Saxon prisoners, had been a practical measure, bloodshed to prevent further bloodshed. And when the last of the Saxon rebellions had been crushed, the region had been at peace since then, so thoroughly broken had been the will and resistance of it’s people.
Pepin wondered if this campaign would be at all similar. In his war in the east, his father had been careful to prevent unnecessary pillaging, fearing that overt barbarism would discredit Eirene’s cause and plunge the Eastern Empire into further chaos. But here, the enemies were not Christians, but infidels, heathens, ruling a foreign land. Many of his father’s lords expressed openly their greed for plunder and the carving of new lands from conquered estates. Would his father oblige them? Pepin knew that was the way war often worked, but he’d been too young to witness his father’s harsher military tactics in earlier years. He did wonder if those who would be looted or had their homes defiled might agree with his lecture on just rule.
But it was not wise to ask such questions, for his father had little time again these days, devoting himself to organising and planning his campaign. Pepin had little head for terrain, but he was good with numbers, so he had been deputed to the quartermasters in the planning stage to help organise food stocks and fodder reserves for the animals. It never ceased to amaze him how much horses could eat…
By September, the army had arrived in full size, around twelve thousand men. It would, if the Emperor’s plan held firm, be merely a short march through one of the Pyrenee passes into Iberia, which would take them directly into the lands of the Umayyad’s, Through this, Karloman hoped it would force the Moors to redirect their attention away from the Kingdom of Asturias.
But a curious event on the night of September 25th would have great implications for the coming events…
Camp of Emperor Karloman Karling, September 25th 785.
“Get up Prince, your father wants to see you,”
Pepin groaned, blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It took him a moment to adjust to the darkness, and he realised dawn had not yet arrived.
“What happened, has something?”
“Your father wants to see you,” the guard repeated, and then left the tent without elaboration.
Sighing theatrically, the Prince wondered idly where his servant had gone, but managed to dress himself semi-respectably, and clap a sword onto his hip in case. Around him, the camp at large still slept and as he stepped outside, a slow shiver spread over him as the cold bit into his flesh.
It was going to be cold for days no doubt.
He slowly trudged towards the central pavilion where he knew his father’s tent was set up. His eyes had begun to adjust now, and the light still burned from his father’s pavilion in a way it did not through the rest of the camp. Clearly they were not under attack, but his father was awake and alert about something.
What had happened? Curious, he pushed his way into the pavilion, the guard who had woken him roughly from sleep coming back into view ahead of him.
He nodded as way past the pavilion’s other guards as they stepped aside to admit him. His father’s tent, bright yellow was just ahead and he stepped through the flap to enter the conversation already raging within.
“We’ll have to make him scream a little, he’s not going to say anything just because we asked!” The Duke of Burgundy had slammed his fist on the table while his father glanced at him with a bored expression on his face.
“If he truly is carrying letters to the Pontiff, we cannot detain him from his business, it would not be right,” Karloman’s brother-in-law, Duke Ado, had responded here.
“Get your head out from your horse’s arse Ado,” Duke Burgundy snarled, “the rider is up to something. He tried to sneak past the camp without our scouts seeing him.”
“Pepin, do come in,” his father’s voice broke in quietly, and he beckoned him into the room. Wordlessly, he sidled in alongside Berenger de Valois, who came him an encouraging smile and nod.
“Pepin, to bring you up to speed, our scouts have caught a courier sneaking around the outreaches of the camp. He claims to be delivering legitimate messages to the Pontiff in Rome, but we suspect his purpose is more sinister. He has come from Moorish territory, and when we searched him, we found no papers and documents that could confirm either his identity or his story.”
His father’s summary was crisp, brisk and business-like. If he were worse for wear for being suddenly woken with this news in the pre-dawn hour, he gave no sign of it.
“Have we questioned him about this message.”
“Aye, he claims it is a spoken message only, to be delivered only to Pope Honorius in Rome.”
“Hmm,” The Prince digested that information for a moment.
“I say we break the message out of him,” Duke Burgundy broke in again. A few hours broken on a rack will squeeze the truth from any man.”
“The truth, or whatever lies he wishes to spill to make the truth stop,” Karloman replied forcefully, “How then am I too tell which is which, if you reduce him to pained babbling? No, I need certainty.”
“Better ways to be certain do not exist.”
“There is one better way,” Pepin broke in, before he could stop himself.
His father turned in askance. “What?”
Pepin swallowed, remembering where he was. “I-I- don’t wish to presume to speak over these lords.”
“Have you suddenly lost your tongue boy? An idea came to you, let’s hear it.” His father demanded.
Pepin swallowed again, “We cannot be certain what this message is, but if we agree it’s purpose is likely not to our advantage, then we don’t need to know what it is, only to ensure that no others hear of it…”
“And?” Karloman prompted.
“A bolt in the heart is the most foolproof way of ensuring a man’s silence.”
Shocked looks greeted that suggestion, “Kill this man?” Duke Ado protested, “for the crime of delivering a message to a known friend of the Empire? This is mad, the boy has lost his wits Emperor.”
“Hold your tongue Ado, before it falls out,” Karloman cut in, “The boy’s point does have some merit, if we wish to stop the message reaching it’s destination, this is the surest way to do it.”
“And wrong,” the Duke insisted stubbornly. “He may have perfectly innocent purposes.”
“He may,” Pepin admitted with a shrug, “But why then hide himself around our camp? Why then refuse to produce his message, or to tell us what it is? It’s obvious he has some purpose he is concealing, which can only logically mean he does not want us to know of it, because we would detain him to prevent him from carrying it out.”
“We cannot know for sure,” Duke Ado insisted,
“Darn right we can’t, I knew this smelled no good the moment it happened,” The Duke of Burgundy crowed. “I agree with the boy, have him killed, or at least cut out his tongue. He can’t speak his message without it.”
Pepin was a little perturbed that the Duke, whom he disliked, was the first to speak for the plan, but others were nodding slowly, seeing from his argument the initial sense of it. Am I really suggesting this? Can I really order a man killed like this?
“You have some spine to go with your wits son,” Karloman replied, “I see it to the good that you use both, when it suits you.” He nodded approvingly, “That idea seems the most sensible to me, unless Duke Ado can offer anything more sensible than whining about what is right to do to one’s enemies.”
“We do not know he is an enemy lord,” Duke Ado replied, trying desperately to keep his temper. Karloman was smiling on the plan, and his only chance now to prevent it, he knew, was to stay focused and logically poke holes in it. The Emperor disliked brazen displays of emotion when he had committed to a course, only hard logic would make him back down or change course, “Nor do we know if he has friends, or if the Pontiff expects him. If his purposes is benign, and it is discovered we have killed him…”
“Nobody need know,” the Duke of Burgundy cut in, “No body, no proof of death, for all anyone knows he’s waylaid by passing brigands.”
“A murder is a crime for a cutthroat my liege,” Ado continued, ignoring the Duke, “Death in battle is one thing, but this, to kill a man by stabbing him in the dark and dumping his corpse like a common thug, it is cheap. It will stain the name and legacy of anyone who does it, not least of all the man who orders it. We do not yet know this man’s purpose, I say we require closer examination to find it. It will take longer, but we owe it to ourselves, and to anyone who might be a connection to this courier, to ensure we do the work.”
A few on the council agreed with that plea, and even Pepin found himself half-hoping it would convince his father. He gazed at Karloman’s face, smooth and impassive, like cold marble chiselled into the earth. What he thought, he gave no hint of. A few tense seconds passed, and Karloman ground his jaw thoughtfully.
“You have all given me your counsel, and I appreciate it. You are dismissed. I shall come to a decision in the morning.”
Those who had been expecting a firm judgement were disappointed, and Pepin knew he too was being dismissed. Clearly his father hadn’t dismissed Ado’s argument out of hand, that would not be politic, he was bound to the imperial family by marriage, and Pepin did admit that while killing him might be the safest thing, it could backfire.
He turned back to see his father bent over his planning table, already ruminating, perhaps on the morn’s events, and perhaps over his coming campaign, mind already far away, over the mountains in Hispania…
Umayyad Sultanate,
Emir Amin knew full well that, while his plan was still for peace, the best method of securing it might yet be to arm for war. On that front he had not been ignorant, using the Sultan’s seal and sending out instructions in his name that the vassals arm themselves for war and participate in a general muster.
Once mobilised, the Umayyads in Spain would have approximately fifteen thousand troops at their disposal, but few were veterans of more than a couple of localised campaigns. Africa, were the Sultan’s most recent conquests had been made, was where the veteran troops largely were, and thus Spain’s defenders, while numerous, did not posses the kind of direct battlefield experience that the more frequently warring Frankish troops likely had, and Amin had little doubt that Karloman was a harsh drillmaster, who didn’t let either his trainers or his soldiers fall into idleness or inactivity.
He could only hope his courier reached Rome and the Pontiff before any of it became necessary…
OOC: A shorter one this week, but it's vital to set things up. I promise we'll get to the exciting stuff of what happens to the captured messenger and the beginning of the new shape of Hispania in the next post
The news of the Frankish Army’s impending march had already made it’s way to the Umayyad’s Sultan’s palace when Amin returned from the talks.
“The Franks march for war, I say we give them one!”
Low murmurings of assent from the gathered notables, and a few grumbles of discontent. Amin was not completely alone is opposing war.
“It seems unquestionable now that the Frankish Emperor intends to cross the mountains and bring war upon our lands,” another Emir replied. “We cannot hold to delusions of peace when a Christian army marches on our doorstep.”
This reference to a “Christian army” was accompanied by a sidelong glance at Amin, the significance of it clear. His enemies in court intended to use his religion to bring him down in the estimation of the court and the boy Sultan. If war with the Franks broke out and his plan failed, there would be little to stop them.
“Please my lords, Peace,” Amin raised one regal hand to calm the room, “We are aware of these latest moves by the Frankish Emperor, but rest assured, my negotiations have borne fruit.”
“We don’t agree, we demand the Sultan make a judgement.”
More murmurs of assent at that, though the room was so packed with lords that Amin had not seen who had spoken.
“The Sultan has delegated me to speak in his stead,” Amin lied smoothly, “and in any event, is unwell, he cannot be troubled to make a judgement on this, with the many cares that weigh on his mind.”
Shooting a look aside to one of his men, he gave a near imperceptible nod. The man responded with a silent glare but moved.
A few figures began moving through the crowd, his men following his instructions. He had anticipated this might happen. He was ready if it did.
“So you say,” Emir Ulhmann replied, a well-known critic of Amin’s influence at court. “But I say those of us who haven’t heard it from his lips might well want to speak to the Sultan.”
“Agreed,”
“Agreed,”
There were six in total, who agreed, it seemed. More than few enough to handle.
“You mistake me, my lords,” Amin’s voice was no longer conciliatory in it’s tone. “I was not offering you the opportunity to speak to the Sultan, I was explaining to you his commands, as his lawful regent. Return to your lands, and await further information, if the Franks should come, you’ll all need to prepare yourselves.”
“And whose to say the Sultan himself will agree? I say we should go speak to him right now!”
A small number of them began to move towards the back of the hall, where they knew the door to the Sultan’s chambers was.
Amin gave a nod, and a flash of steel and iron sprang forth, the noise of blades being drawn and weapons raised.
“I will repeat my commands once, and once only my lords,” Amin continued, “Return to your lands. Tend to your people. Our business here is concluded. To proceed further is to disobey the lawful commands of the Sultan’s regent, to commit treason.”
That the penalty for treason was death he left unsaid, but he caught himself holding his breath. This was a desperate ploy, and they would not take kindly to being threatened. If his plan for peace failed, and the Franks did come, he would be discredited, and he’d have few supporters left to protect him… But only by rolling the dice would one know where it landed.
A few men’s hands twitched over their sabres, one reached for a dagger, but thought better of it when he saw the burly man now guarding the Sultan’s door aiming an axe directly at his face. He would be dead before he drew it, Amin’s men had the route blocked. Fighting their way through to the Sultan might work… but then?
“Fine,” Amin let go of the breath he was holding, “But do not think we will forget or overlook this, Lord Amin,” Ulhmann continued, “All actions have consequences. Pray you remember that.”
“I pray we all remember that, Lord Ulhmann” Amin replied, with a meaningful glare.
The situation resolved, the crowd began to disperse, many grumbling unhappily, but still falling into line… for now.
Amin could feel the yawning chasm beneath his feet growing wider every day. Threatening to swallow him and all he had worked for whole.
Southern Francia, late 785.
That the rule of an Emperor who was both involved and competent in his governance had come to Francia was beginning to become apparent in towns where the Emperor’s retinue and levy forces stopped along the way. Pepin had begun to see changes, more goods lining the market stalls in the streets, more caravans along the roads, and a slight changing in the mood. As they went, his father held court wherever they happened to find themselves, ruling on legal matters, settling disputes, dealing with taxes, tithes and tariffs and all the regular day-to-day business. Pepin accompanied him, often contributing a little to the judgements, but generally watching and learning. His father generally had the patience necessary to sit for long hours to undertake these sorts of judgements, but he noticed he would grow restless after the end of a long session over consecutive days.
“It may be boring at times, but this is the essential work of ruling,” Karloman told him, “Your people depend on you for sound judgements, and you rely on that bond to ensure that when times of strife, war or famine come to plague you, that they will do their duty and not abandon you. The Merovingians were known as the “do-nothing Kings” before your grandfather took the throne. It is not good to be a do-nothing Pepin, for if a King won’t look after his people, why then, should they bother to look after him? The Merovingians are gone now for a reason. It’s fallen on us not to follow them into the mists of history.”
That his father was nicknamed “The Cruel” in some circles did not usually bother Pepin. The man he knew was not cruel. Hard often yes, and sometimes cold as a fish washed ashore upon a frozen river, but not cruel. His deeds had been cruel, some of them, but he knew his father well enough to know he got no enjoyment from cruelty. The Blood Court, the massacre of the Saxon prisoners, had been a practical measure, bloodshed to prevent further bloodshed. And when the last of the Saxon rebellions had been crushed, the region had been at peace since then, so thoroughly broken had been the will and resistance of it’s people.
Pepin wondered if this campaign would be at all similar. In his war in the east, his father had been careful to prevent unnecessary pillaging, fearing that overt barbarism would discredit Eirene’s cause and plunge the Eastern Empire into further chaos. But here, the enemies were not Christians, but infidels, heathens, ruling a foreign land. Many of his father’s lords expressed openly their greed for plunder and the carving of new lands from conquered estates. Would his father oblige them? Pepin knew that was the way war often worked, but he’d been too young to witness his father’s harsher military tactics in earlier years. He did wonder if those who would be looted or had their homes defiled might agree with his lecture on just rule.
But it was not wise to ask such questions, for his father had little time again these days, devoting himself to organising and planning his campaign. Pepin had little head for terrain, but he was good with numbers, so he had been deputed to the quartermasters in the planning stage to help organise food stocks and fodder reserves for the animals. It never ceased to amaze him how much horses could eat…
By September, the army had arrived in full size, around twelve thousand men. It would, if the Emperor’s plan held firm, be merely a short march through one of the Pyrenee passes into Iberia, which would take them directly into the lands of the Umayyad’s, Through this, Karloman hoped it would force the Moors to redirect their attention away from the Kingdom of Asturias.
But a curious event on the night of September 25th would have great implications for the coming events…
Camp of Emperor Karloman Karling, September 25th 785.
“Get up Prince, your father wants to see you,”
Pepin groaned, blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It took him a moment to adjust to the darkness, and he realised dawn had not yet arrived.
“What happened, has something?”
“Your father wants to see you,” the guard repeated, and then left the tent without elaboration.
Sighing theatrically, the Prince wondered idly where his servant had gone, but managed to dress himself semi-respectably, and clap a sword onto his hip in case. Around him, the camp at large still slept and as he stepped outside, a slow shiver spread over him as the cold bit into his flesh.
It was going to be cold for days no doubt.
He slowly trudged towards the central pavilion where he knew his father’s tent was set up. His eyes had begun to adjust now, and the light still burned from his father’s pavilion in a way it did not through the rest of the camp. Clearly they were not under attack, but his father was awake and alert about something.
What had happened? Curious, he pushed his way into the pavilion, the guard who had woken him roughly from sleep coming back into view ahead of him.
He nodded as way past the pavilion’s other guards as they stepped aside to admit him. His father’s tent, bright yellow was just ahead and he stepped through the flap to enter the conversation already raging within.
“We’ll have to make him scream a little, he’s not going to say anything just because we asked!” The Duke of Burgundy had slammed his fist on the table while his father glanced at him with a bored expression on his face.
“If he truly is carrying letters to the Pontiff, we cannot detain him from his business, it would not be right,” Karloman’s brother-in-law, Duke Ado, had responded here.
“Get your head out from your horse’s arse Ado,” Duke Burgundy snarled, “the rider is up to something. He tried to sneak past the camp without our scouts seeing him.”
“Pepin, do come in,” his father’s voice broke in quietly, and he beckoned him into the room. Wordlessly, he sidled in alongside Berenger de Valois, who came him an encouraging smile and nod.
“Pepin, to bring you up to speed, our scouts have caught a courier sneaking around the outreaches of the camp. He claims to be delivering legitimate messages to the Pontiff in Rome, but we suspect his purpose is more sinister. He has come from Moorish territory, and when we searched him, we found no papers and documents that could confirm either his identity or his story.”
His father’s summary was crisp, brisk and business-like. If he were worse for wear for being suddenly woken with this news in the pre-dawn hour, he gave no sign of it.
“Have we questioned him about this message.”
“Aye, he claims it is a spoken message only, to be delivered only to Pope Honorius in Rome.”
“Hmm,” The Prince digested that information for a moment.
“I say we break the message out of him,” Duke Burgundy broke in again. A few hours broken on a rack will squeeze the truth from any man.”
“The truth, or whatever lies he wishes to spill to make the truth stop,” Karloman replied forcefully, “How then am I too tell which is which, if you reduce him to pained babbling? No, I need certainty.”
“Better ways to be certain do not exist.”
“There is one better way,” Pepin broke in, before he could stop himself.
His father turned in askance. “What?”
Pepin swallowed, remembering where he was. “I-I- don’t wish to presume to speak over these lords.”
“Have you suddenly lost your tongue boy? An idea came to you, let’s hear it.” His father demanded.
Pepin swallowed again, “We cannot be certain what this message is, but if we agree it’s purpose is likely not to our advantage, then we don’t need to know what it is, only to ensure that no others hear of it…”
“And?” Karloman prompted.
“A bolt in the heart is the most foolproof way of ensuring a man’s silence.”
Shocked looks greeted that suggestion, “Kill this man?” Duke Ado protested, “for the crime of delivering a message to a known friend of the Empire? This is mad, the boy has lost his wits Emperor.”
“Hold your tongue Ado, before it falls out,” Karloman cut in, “The boy’s point does have some merit, if we wish to stop the message reaching it’s destination, this is the surest way to do it.”
“And wrong,” the Duke insisted stubbornly. “He may have perfectly innocent purposes.”
“He may,” Pepin admitted with a shrug, “But why then hide himself around our camp? Why then refuse to produce his message, or to tell us what it is? It’s obvious he has some purpose he is concealing, which can only logically mean he does not want us to know of it, because we would detain him to prevent him from carrying it out.”
“We cannot know for sure,” Duke Ado insisted,
“Darn right we can’t, I knew this smelled no good the moment it happened,” The Duke of Burgundy crowed. “I agree with the boy, have him killed, or at least cut out his tongue. He can’t speak his message without it.”
Pepin was a little perturbed that the Duke, whom he disliked, was the first to speak for the plan, but others were nodding slowly, seeing from his argument the initial sense of it. Am I really suggesting this? Can I really order a man killed like this?
“You have some spine to go with your wits son,” Karloman replied, “I see it to the good that you use both, when it suits you.” He nodded approvingly, “That idea seems the most sensible to me, unless Duke Ado can offer anything more sensible than whining about what is right to do to one’s enemies.”
“We do not know he is an enemy lord,” Duke Ado replied, trying desperately to keep his temper. Karloman was smiling on the plan, and his only chance now to prevent it, he knew, was to stay focused and logically poke holes in it. The Emperor disliked brazen displays of emotion when he had committed to a course, only hard logic would make him back down or change course, “Nor do we know if he has friends, or if the Pontiff expects him. If his purposes is benign, and it is discovered we have killed him…”
“Nobody need know,” the Duke of Burgundy cut in, “No body, no proof of death, for all anyone knows he’s waylaid by passing brigands.”
“A murder is a crime for a cutthroat my liege,” Ado continued, ignoring the Duke, “Death in battle is one thing, but this, to kill a man by stabbing him in the dark and dumping his corpse like a common thug, it is cheap. It will stain the name and legacy of anyone who does it, not least of all the man who orders it. We do not yet know this man’s purpose, I say we require closer examination to find it. It will take longer, but we owe it to ourselves, and to anyone who might be a connection to this courier, to ensure we do the work.”
A few on the council agreed with that plea, and even Pepin found himself half-hoping it would convince his father. He gazed at Karloman’s face, smooth and impassive, like cold marble chiselled into the earth. What he thought, he gave no hint of. A few tense seconds passed, and Karloman ground his jaw thoughtfully.
“You have all given me your counsel, and I appreciate it. You are dismissed. I shall come to a decision in the morning.”
Those who had been expecting a firm judgement were disappointed, and Pepin knew he too was being dismissed. Clearly his father hadn’t dismissed Ado’s argument out of hand, that would not be politic, he was bound to the imperial family by marriage, and Pepin did admit that while killing him might be the safest thing, it could backfire.
He turned back to see his father bent over his planning table, already ruminating, perhaps on the morn’s events, and perhaps over his coming campaign, mind already far away, over the mountains in Hispania…
Umayyad Sultanate,
Emir Amin knew full well that, while his plan was still for peace, the best method of securing it might yet be to arm for war. On that front he had not been ignorant, using the Sultan’s seal and sending out instructions in his name that the vassals arm themselves for war and participate in a general muster.
Once mobilised, the Umayyads in Spain would have approximately fifteen thousand troops at their disposal, but few were veterans of more than a couple of localised campaigns. Africa, were the Sultan’s most recent conquests had been made, was where the veteran troops largely were, and thus Spain’s defenders, while numerous, did not posses the kind of direct battlefield experience that the more frequently warring Frankish troops likely had, and Amin had little doubt that Karloman was a harsh drillmaster, who didn’t let either his trainers or his soldiers fall into idleness or inactivity.
He could only hope his courier reached Rome and the Pontiff before any of it became necessary…
OOC: A shorter one this week, but it's vital to set things up. I promise we'll get to the exciting stuff of what happens to the captured messenger and the beginning of the new shape of Hispania in the next post
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For want of a nail, the show was lost . . . Nice CliffHanger! Thank you for the update
I like how this story feels aestheticly correct in a sense that it feels middle age, a feeling that i rarely feel in most stories (but pretty common here for those with narrative aar) so i really appreciate and enjoy the story that you written thank you.
Ps: although Karloman and it's empire seems to be somewhat ahead of it's time with his view on torture being one of the example. But then again i suspect Karloman would prefer to transfer his empire to the likes that can compete the Roman rather than becoming in real life medieval nobility patchwork.
Ps: although Karloman and it's empire seems to be somewhat ahead of it's time with his view on torture being one of the example. But then again i suspect Karloman would prefer to transfer his empire to the likes that can compete the Roman rather than becoming in real life medieval nobility patchwork.
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Yep...
And Karloman has no objection to torture morally. He just doesn't want a pack of lies spilled at him. Besides, as Pepin points out, dead men tell no tales anyway, and it's obvious the bloke's up to no good for the Franks anyway, so why waste the time?
He'd be quite fine with torture in other contexts if he saw a possibility for it to be useful. Apologies if that didn't come across very well
That said yes, Karloman's objective is to be a kind of Christianised Roman Empire, imitating a kind of Dark Ages Pax Romana, as opposed to the traditional Frankish practice of splitting the inheritance (he knows from his own experience how badly that tends to go), though it helps that he doesn't really have any competing heirs other than his son with Eirene, who is over in the East and not politically relevant at the moment. He want's a lasting Empire built by his dynasty, not a patchwork of squabbling feudal states.
We'll see if his successors share the same view on that question
I'll say no more on it for nowThanks so much for the compliments and for taking the time to read it
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Poor Amin is on thin ice. If the Franks do attack, he should be ready to seek sanctuary outside al-Andalus because a dagger in the dark is sure to come for him.
In the meantime, Pepin has begun to be accustomed to harsh choices. The job of emperor job is a bloody one, it's hard to keep one's hands clean.
In the meantime, Pepin has begun to be accustomed to harsh choices. The job of emperor job is a bloody one, it's hard to keep one's hands clean.
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Pyrenees, October 785
It hadn’t taken long for Karloman to adjudge the fate of this captured messenger. It was necessary to ensure no unforeseen hiccups might impede the progress of this campaign.
The messenger had died a quick death, a blade across the throat in the dead of night, a gag in his mouth to silence the scream. Duke Ado had protested the move loudly once it was done, but a bored Karloman had sent him back to march with his own soldiers, weary of his bellyaching protests.
“You fool,” the Duke’s second told him as he marched at the vanguard of his own column,
“Excuse me?” Duke Ado asked,
“You should’ve known Karloman better than that,” his trusted retainer told him, “Your brother-by-law welcomes opinion when he asks for it, but tell him he’s wrong when his mind is made up, and you do nothing but earn his enmity, it was a foolish thing to say to him.”
“Then he should count himself lucky he has someone who will say such foolish things,” Ado declared stubbornly and dug his heels into his horse to spur it along.
His second shook his head, clearly the Emperor wasn’t the only one who didn’t like to be told what he didn’t want to hear.
Karloman, in any event, was back in his element, leading his army south from Narbonne over the Pyrenees, to war. The winter weather had not yet set in, partly explaining his urgency to be over the easternmost pass of the Pyrenees before bad weather, snow or potential mudslides trapped them or impeded their progress. Technically the army with which the Emperor had set out was slightly under-strength, only around twelve thousand, but several thousand more still to muster would gather in Narbonne, ready to march over later, but Karloman had preferred swift speed to longer waiting.
For Pepin, it was a chance to see his father truly shine. He missed no detail of land or road, he spoke at length about the importance of employing people who kept good maps and making sure they understood the condition of the roads, better that you should know whether you could march your army down it. He watched Pepin train with weapons too, praising him only sparsely, but from his lack of criticism it was clear he was pleased with him.
But it was what Karloman said in early October, as the army began to emerge over the mountains into Hispania that surprised Pepin.
“Scouts report a large Umayyad force nearby, they’ve been gathering for weeks.”
“Waiting for us?” Pepin asked, surprised that the enemy had mustered so soon.
“I’d say so,” Karloman replied. “They’re clearly confident on their chances. And why wouldn’t they be? We’re the invader here, they know the ground, the conditions, we are new. They have every reason for confidence. They’ll want to bring us to battle early, show they can defeat us.”
“And what will we do?” Pepin asked, curiously.
A broad grin stretched across his father’s thin pale lips. “We’ll give them what they want, even if not in the way they expect. If we start making moves to besiege one of the local towns, it’ll force them to shift off their present ground to engage us. I’ll pick the terrain, and then the army can do the rest.” He looked at Pepin, “It’ll be good for you to command as well.”
“Command? Me?” Pepin was surprised, moved to speak, but his father cut him off.
“Yes, command a flank at least. You will be Emperor one day, and Emperor’s should know how to lead, even if they don’t end up having to fight as often as I have had to.” He smiled at his son, “It’ll do you good, and based on how well you did in Constantinople I doubt you’ll have any serious problems. You’ll have Berenger and Duke Ado with you as well, so I’ll make sure you’re not on your own. But the final decisions will be your responsibility.”
Pepin nodded, realising his father had made up his mind.
“I understand Father. I won’t fail you.”
“Good lad,” Karloman nodded, “Now let’s consult our scouts and see if we can find a good spot for our battle.”
Northeastern Spain, Umayyad Sultanate, Camp of the Umayyad army.
The news that Karloman’s army had marched over the mountains so quickly was followed swiftly on its heels by the news that he was besieging the fortress of Empuries, the logical holding spot for any army that sought to cross the Pyrenees and establish a permanent foothold on the Peninsula.
“If we march to intercept him now, we can probably assail him before his men manage to properly take the fortress,”
The two Emirs who were deputed to command the army, Emir Bonhedan and Emir Muhammed, were both soldierly in their quality, diligent, dependable, brave, exceptional soldiers. Neither liked the politicking of the Sultan’s court, and both esteemed valour and victory in battle. But where Bonhedan was bold and vigorous, Muhammed was cool and patient. Bonhedan liked a frontline fight, Muhammed thought that the only good kind of fight was one where your enemy died and not you.
Yet despite their differences, the two were friends, and few in the Sultan’s court had any greater confidence in anybody else who might command the Sultan’s armies. Least of all Emir Amin, who knew himself well enough to know such a task was beyond him, hence his deputising two far more capable figures.
“But waiting allows us to gather more forces here and march at full strength,” Muhammed pointed out in response to Bonhedan’s remark, his dark close-cropped hair and dark eyes furrowing together in thought as he considered the news.
“This Frankish King is bold,” Bonhedan said approvingly. “I would not have marched into the Peninsula with fewer than twenty thousand, were I him,”
“Unless he has more men on the way, which seems likely, given the speed he travelled to arrive here,” Muhammed pointed out, which Bonhedan conceded to with a nod and a smile.
“It seems likely he intends to tempt us to commit to relieving the fortress and engage him in pitched battle,” Muhammed continued, “the question is, do we take up the opportunity, or is it better to pick the ground ourselves?”
And that, as it turned out, was the sticking point between them. Bonhedan was convinced that an enemy army on Umayyad soil was intolerable. An affront to honour. Had to be battled and dislodged as a matter of honour and pride. Muhammed was prepared to propose an alternative. Let the enemy take his prize, shadow him, harass his forces, cut him off from forage and supplies and force him into the interior, where the natural defences of the peninsula worked in favour of those who knew it best. It was not a bad plan he argued. Many an invader had come unstuck in the harsh and rugged terrain of the Peninsula. Why should this new Frankish force be any different?
“The damage it could inflict on our people and our Sultanate before retreating could be massive” Bonhedan pointed out, “Better that we confront them now, before our people suffer.”
Muhammed sighed. Bonhedan’s heart was in the right place, his motives pure. But clean motives didn’t win wars.
“A quicker war can mean a losing one,” Muhammed pointed out. “We have the advantage of numbers, but the Franks had speed on their side. An army that can march that quickly is not to be taken lightly, Better then, to draw them onto ground where we are more familiar with the terrain.
On and on the argument went, round and round. Normally one man would concede gracefully to the other’s viewpoint, they would share a small drink in defiance of what was strictly religious custom, and then go off and work together brilliantly. But not this time. Halfway through yet another dinner argument, Bonhedan realised the reason for the length of their argument.
We are afraid, he thought, though neither will admit it. This new Frankish Emperor is not like the others. He’s a grandson of Charles Martel. He shed the blood of thousands of Saxons in Germania, he dared march on the East to challenge the power of Constantinople and the Eastern Empire, and conquered the city, a feat not even we successfully accomplished. And now Karloman fields an army against us, and neither of us wants to be the one who comes up with a losing strategy.
But he didn’t voice this thought, so on and on the argument went, over days more and more soldiers trickled in from the muster. They outnumbered the forces besieging Empuries, and should by rights have moved to confront it already, but still they did not.
So long they halted, that word came in early October that the fortress had fallen to the Frankish forces.
“Already?” A shocked Bonhedan asked, face turning almost pale at the news. “So fast?”
“We were betrayed from within,” the bedraggled messenger replied, sweat streaking down his features and soaking his dust and blood soaked clothing. He had not stopped to rest or change on the frantic ride south. “Karloman’s heralds sent written messages to the castle that any guard who opened the gates and surrendered the garrison over to them would not be harmed, and would be rewarded.”
“And they let news of that get out?” Muhammed was aghast. “Why did the garrison commander not suppress that?”
“He did m’lord.” The Messenger replied, gesturing helplessly. “There were more than a few executions of men who gossiped about it… but word gets around in a small fort.”
“So they just… handed it over? For gold?”
“A few of the men had families m’lord. They were terrified, thought they were all their families would be killed if the Franks sacked the fortress, so a few of them used their opportunity on the night shift to open the gates and let the Franks in. They kept their promise too. The men who surrendered were spared, but they were the only ones not killed or taken prisoner.”
“How did you escape?” Bonhedan asked.
“I-I didn’t m’lord.” The messenger admitted, shamefaced. “The Franks said they needed to release a prisoner to carry a message south to you. They chose me for the task.”
“And what was the message?” Muhammed asked warily.
“Surrender, or the fate of Empuries will be the fate of all the Sultanate.” The messenger recited.
“What does he mean, “the fate of Empuries?” Bonhedan asked quizzically, his tone angered.
“I-I don’t know m’lord. When I left, nothing much had changed except Frankish banners hung from the walls.”
“Alright, alright,” Bonhedan raised a hand, calming the messenger. The man was exhausted, blood-stained and probably hungry. It was unfair to take his anger out upon him. “You’ve done well. Head back to the officer’s mess for some food and get the quartermaster to assign you a bed. You’ve earned it.”
The messenger clicked his heels in response, turned away and made for his well-earned meal. Bonhedan watched him go, then turned to stare silently at Muhammed for a moment.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking of what the “fate of Empuries” was supposed to mean,” Bonhedan replied. “What did he do to the place?”
Empuries, Umayyad Sultanate.
The fall of the fortress had been swift once the offer had been made, as Karloman knew it would. Doubt, division and mistrust had eaten the ground beneath the fortress, as threats of treachery and would-be treachery had turned the garrison into a clustered mess of fear, paranoia and murder. In such an environment, the yielding of the fortress was only a matter of time.
Those who had sold out the garrison were permitted to freely depart, with honour, and with any family members they had. No punishment was exacted upon them.
For those who had resisted though, their fates were different. Karloman intended to set a clear example from the outset the price of defiance. First, those who had commanded the garrison were executed, heads bristled atop spears outside the Frankish camp along its southern fringe as Karloman exacted his punishment. Then the others who were captured alive were given another task, assisted by Frankish soldiers, they tore down the walls of the fortress, brick by brick, over a period of days, the fortress that guarded the pass into Hispania, keeping the Sultanate safe from the Christian armies was brought down.
Karloman had a point to these actions. His scouts were quite aware of the gathering Umayyad force nearby, and his actions were intended to provoke a response from that army, thinking that a full-scale pitched battle would be the most likely method of securing Frankish victory.
He grew increasingly frustrated as reports came in that the army had not moved his way, though the reports continued to show new forces trickling in over days and weeks.
“Ye God, they are slugs! Will they ever fight?” a frustrated Karloman exclaimed to Pepin as they heard another scout’s report of another fruitless day of trying to provoke a Moorish response.
“We’re nearly at the end of what we can do here to provoke them I think Father,” Pepin replied, “It’s time we start moving further into the country.”
“You have a suggestion?” Karloman asked curious. He had grown better at expecting his son to have useful contributions to make to his strategy. This pleased Pepin, who found he rather enjoyed matching wits with his father’s formidable military mind.
“Aye, we send out small groups of light horse, raiding and ravaging the countryside. Harass and loot where possible. Maybe burn a few villages or farms as they go. Hit them fast and hard, and force them to detach their own units to chase us. Meanwhile, you lead the main army west, threatening the Moorish army’s current position. If we can force a battle, they’ll have to fight without drawing us too deep into the country, and if they don’t want to fight, they’ll have to retreat, effectively ceding the north to us without a fight.”
“Sound”, Karloman nodded approvingly, “So long as our light horse raiders don’t go too far west too soon.”
“I’ll lead one of them father,” Pepin volunteered,
“Good lad, I’ll arrange the other sorties and divide the horsemen up into three groups,” he gave Pepin a serious look. “Don’t lose them, as we’ll need our cavalry advantage for the battle.”
“Shan’t disappoint you father,” Pepin replied, with a smile, realising he was finally being given an independent command…
As it turned out, Karloman needn’t have worried. The raids had the desired effect, for days, his three columns of roving horsemen left a burning trail of fire, destruction and misery in their wake, living off the land and destroying whatever they could not forage or steal. Facing complaints from the local lords about the lack of action against the Franks, and increasingly irate responses from the Sultan’s court, Muhammed and Bonhedan were jolted into action. On hearing word that Karloman had pulled up stakes and marched his army westwards, they moved to intercept him.
The two armies met near Pugicerde on October 15th 785. Karloman arrived first, but it was the Umayyad’s who claimed the better position while Karloman dug his forces into some secure defensive lines. Because both arrived in the afternoon, only indecisive skirmishing occurred before both sides pulled back to set up encampments for the night, with Karloman sending his remaining light horse to probe enemy preparations for weaknesses and gaps.
Pepin returned that night with his squad of light horse, sweat soaked into his riding clothes and wiping his brow as he strode into the mess where his father was dining with some of the other lords.
“All ready father?” he asked, a grin on his face, knowing the plan had worked.
“Once I’ve got your assurance that you’ll command the right wing tomorrow.” Karloman replied, not even rising from his seat.
“Me?” Pepin’s grin faded, and the confident young man who had strode in again seemed an uncertain teenager. “I’ve not commanded a whole wing before father,”
“No,” Karloman replied, speaking through the food he was chewing. “But you’ve now had an independent command, so let’s see how well you do with another one. I’ll go through the battle plan with you and you’ll see what you’re supposed to do. I’ll assign Duke Ado and Marshal Balduin to you as well, so you’ll have their expertise assisting you on that flank.”
Ado looked up sharply at that, but he did not argue. He’d been on the outs with Karloman since their fight over the captured courier, and he knew that performing well tomorrow might be a way to earn his way back into the Emperor’s good graces. If he had to serve under the Prince to do it, well, the price one paid…
Later, in the relative quiet of Karloman’s tent, he made clear his expectations.
“While you command the right, I’ll be holding the left,” Karloman told Pepin, finding it disconcerting that his son was now almost at eye level to him. “And with you there’ll be the lion share of the heavy horse, and a larger force of the archers and pikemen. Use the pikes to the front to screen your horsemen, and use the archers to support the defence of those in the centre.”
“Who’ll be commanding the centre?” Pepin asked.
“Leon de Luxemburg”, Karloman replied, Pepin nodded. He’d been promised titles and a new set of lands if he distinguished himself in this campaign. “Your archers will support and anchor the centre in place. My forces on the left will be more free-moving, and Leon will have a fourth line in reserve, but you needn’t worry about that. All you need is to keep an eye on Leon’s reserve and when it moves up to engage in the front rank, that’s when you order your horsemen forward, directly into the enemy right.”
“We take them at the bottom of the ridge…” Pepin realised, the scope of the plan dawning on him.
“And then once the enemy’s right is put to flight, that leaves us the stronger position to sweep the rest of the army from the field,” Karloman replied, with a wide sweeping motion of his arm and a grin. “Yes, that’s the goal.”
“They may not march to us in the morning.”
“If I’ve judged them right, they will. We’ve forced them to a battle,” Karloman grimaced, “In the morn they’ll abandon their defensive posture and move down to strike at us.”
The following morn would prove his words true or false…
View attachment 761605
Battle of Pugicerda, October 16th 785. Karloman's forces meet the Umayyad's in northern Spain.
Almost immediately, the battle did not go as planned.
Far from abandoning their defensive positions upon the ridge, the Andalusian Moslems dug in, forcing Karloman to mount a series of attacks with his archers and skirmishers to attempt to punch holes in enemy lines. These early morning assaults attracted little response, and the Umayyad commanders managed to restrain their forces from marching out of position.
It wasn’t until midday that the Franks caught their break, and it was on the left, not the right of the Frankish line that the first attack came. Beleving they had superiority of cavalry, the Moorish commander massed his horsemen together and rode down from their defensive line, hoping to smash directly through Frankish lines.
Karloman, in command of the left, managed to hold the Frankish line in place as he detached two reserve groups to protect the left wing and ensure the enemy horse fully committed to their assault. By rights, the Umayyad centre should have advanced to cover them, but Muhammed, cautious as ever, was slow to react and waited too long.
Within minutes, the Frankish centre was ordered forward up the hill, pelting the Umayyad line with skirmishers, rocks and arrowfire. The hard pressed Frankish left found themselves relieved, as Umayyad forces withdrew back to atop the ridge in order to ensure they were not surrounded completely. Seeing this, Karloman ordered his own centre back.
But some men were too slow to withdraw… and ended up caught between the retreating Moors on the left and the main line ahead of them. Around four hundred Frankish soldiers fell on the field in the confusion, and Karloman himself left the left flank in command of a subordinate and rode to rally the centre.
THEN the Umayyad’s made their move, pushing down from atop the ridge to launch a sustained assault on the Frankish left and centre. Pushing and shoving, those on the right could see their weapons rising and falling, as the Umayyad horse on the left directly smashed into the Frankish flank, and the screams of both horse and men rang out across the battlefield.
Realising the initial plan would now no longer be required, Pepin mounted himself atop his horse and gestured Duke Ado and Balduin to join with him. He split the right into three commands, Balduin with the infantry, Ado for the cavalry, and Pepin himself took command of the horse. The infantry he ordered to march to reinforce the Frankish centre and plump out losses in the reserve line. To Duke Ado he whispered some rather frantic instructions and the Duke galloped off, leading the archers away to the east.
Pepin himself rode to the front of the horsemen, assuring himself that they could see and hear him.
“Are we ready?” he asked the captain,
A silent nod was the response. This was not the response they had planned for, but the battle plan had gone awry and they needed to act now.
“Then we charge,” the Emperor’s heir replied firmly. There was no hint of fear in his young face, though Pepin could feel the pulse of adrenaline and a frission of fright running through his body, obscured beneath his armour.
“Go, Go, with me now!” he cried, and the cry went up, and the blast of one loud note. The signal for the charge.
Pepin felt it. The thundering of the hooves beneath him, the freezing wind cutting and biting into him as he rode. The shouts and yells of men behind, in front of and beside him. Before he even consciously knew it, his sword was out and his mount sprang forward. Smashing directly into the left of the Moorish line…
The panic caused by the sudden charge spread as the horsemen ran down the infantry. The Moors had pushed their lighter infantry to the left as the assault on the centre became more heavy, hoping to break through with their more well-armoured units. Thus the chaos and panic spread as more were trampled and cut down. Pepin swung his blade, felt the bite of it connecting, withdrew it again, and saw the red blood glistening upon the blade as he rode on ahead. Someone tried to grab his leg and wrench him down from the saddle, but before he knew it, they no longer had an arm with which to grab him.
He turned away, onto his next target, then his next, then he wheeled to the left to his neck. They had emerged now, the vanguard of the horse, directly behind the Moorish centre.
An answering roar from the Franks, as they themselves began to rally. “Forward now! Forward now!” the cry went up and the Moors now found themselves on the defensive instead, dismayed as they realised the turn the battle had taken within minutes.
The Frankish left had rallied too now, their own horsemen engaged in a vicious melee with the Moorish cavalry. Karloman would be in their somewhere, but Pepin could not see him, submerged somewhere in the mess of men and blood and mounts. He could only hope he emerged triumphant.
The Moorish attempt to retreat back to the ridge ran them straight into Pepin’s cavalry. There were far too many of them falling back for his own squad to slaughter all of them, but Frankish skirmishers and archers did their part as well, picking off the fleeing men at their leisure.
Several thousand Moorish men made it back to the ridge, and many rallied to the raised standard of the Sultan, jeering the Franks and cheering the survival of their comrades who made it back. Pepin, emerging from the blood-haze of battle, had the presence of mind to signal his horsemen not to pursue up the ridge, for the enemy still held the better position there, and it would not be wise to spoil the day’s victory with any more Frankish blood. Dazed, and feeling exhausted now the adrenaline of battle left him, he gazed at the bloodied lines of the Frankish men, and the dead who lay before them, Frank and Moor alike. Perhaps some hundreds, if not thousands, had fallen in this day.
A roar went up from the lines. “Pepin!” “Pepin!” “Pepin!” his own soldiers were hailing him now, and one of his men moved to raise the unit’s standard triumphantly above his head. The crown prince of the Empire stood dazed and amazed, as the men of the Empire cheered his name and hailed him a hero.
A commotion on the left of the line, and another cry when up. The stocky, short figure of Emperor Karloman emerged, blonde hair now browned from the dirt and the muck, face streaked with blood and sweat pouring from his face. The Emperor was on foot, having obviously lost his mount in the battle, and he no longer wore his helmet but one of his bodyguards rose up to provide him a fresh horse which he mounted for all the world to see.
A second cry went up, this one cheering the Emperor. They had won! They had won the day!
Silently, from atop the mound and watching the jubilant Franks below, Emir Muhammed seethed, but saw the wisdom of not pressing the Franks further today. His army had largely rallied, what remained of it that was not dead on the field, and it’s morale was too low to force another engagement. Time for a new plan…
OOC: So I've written a bit ahead now, in terms of what I've posted vs what I've actually written, but this post is one I'm happy with so I thought I'd post it now! Pepin get's a bit of glory, Karloman wins the battle and the peace plan falls through, but the war is not over yet...
How will things go for Emir? Will he realise his courier fails? And will Pepin's new prominence change things? Let's see...
It hadn’t taken long for Karloman to adjudge the fate of this captured messenger. It was necessary to ensure no unforeseen hiccups might impede the progress of this campaign.
The messenger had died a quick death, a blade across the throat in the dead of night, a gag in his mouth to silence the scream. Duke Ado had protested the move loudly once it was done, but a bored Karloman had sent him back to march with his own soldiers, weary of his bellyaching protests.
“You fool,” the Duke’s second told him as he marched at the vanguard of his own column,
“Excuse me?” Duke Ado asked,
“You should’ve known Karloman better than that,” his trusted retainer told him, “Your brother-by-law welcomes opinion when he asks for it, but tell him he’s wrong when his mind is made up, and you do nothing but earn his enmity, it was a foolish thing to say to him.”
“Then he should count himself lucky he has someone who will say such foolish things,” Ado declared stubbornly and dug his heels into his horse to spur it along.
His second shook his head, clearly the Emperor wasn’t the only one who didn’t like to be told what he didn’t want to hear.
Karloman, in any event, was back in his element, leading his army south from Narbonne over the Pyrenees, to war. The winter weather had not yet set in, partly explaining his urgency to be over the easternmost pass of the Pyrenees before bad weather, snow or potential mudslides trapped them or impeded their progress. Technically the army with which the Emperor had set out was slightly under-strength, only around twelve thousand, but several thousand more still to muster would gather in Narbonne, ready to march over later, but Karloman had preferred swift speed to longer waiting.
For Pepin, it was a chance to see his father truly shine. He missed no detail of land or road, he spoke at length about the importance of employing people who kept good maps and making sure they understood the condition of the roads, better that you should know whether you could march your army down it. He watched Pepin train with weapons too, praising him only sparsely, but from his lack of criticism it was clear he was pleased with him.
But it was what Karloman said in early October, as the army began to emerge over the mountains into Hispania that surprised Pepin.
“Scouts report a large Umayyad force nearby, they’ve been gathering for weeks.”
“Waiting for us?” Pepin asked, surprised that the enemy had mustered so soon.
“I’d say so,” Karloman replied. “They’re clearly confident on their chances. And why wouldn’t they be? We’re the invader here, they know the ground, the conditions, we are new. They have every reason for confidence. They’ll want to bring us to battle early, show they can defeat us.”
“And what will we do?” Pepin asked, curiously.
A broad grin stretched across his father’s thin pale lips. “We’ll give them what they want, even if not in the way they expect. If we start making moves to besiege one of the local towns, it’ll force them to shift off their present ground to engage us. I’ll pick the terrain, and then the army can do the rest.” He looked at Pepin, “It’ll be good for you to command as well.”
“Command? Me?” Pepin was surprised, moved to speak, but his father cut him off.
“Yes, command a flank at least. You will be Emperor one day, and Emperor’s should know how to lead, even if they don’t end up having to fight as often as I have had to.” He smiled at his son, “It’ll do you good, and based on how well you did in Constantinople I doubt you’ll have any serious problems. You’ll have Berenger and Duke Ado with you as well, so I’ll make sure you’re not on your own. But the final decisions will be your responsibility.”
Pepin nodded, realising his father had made up his mind.
“I understand Father. I won’t fail you.”
“Good lad,” Karloman nodded, “Now let’s consult our scouts and see if we can find a good spot for our battle.”
Northeastern Spain, Umayyad Sultanate, Camp of the Umayyad army.
The news that Karloman’s army had marched over the mountains so quickly was followed swiftly on its heels by the news that he was besieging the fortress of Empuries, the logical holding spot for any army that sought to cross the Pyrenees and establish a permanent foothold on the Peninsula.
“If we march to intercept him now, we can probably assail him before his men manage to properly take the fortress,”
The two Emirs who were deputed to command the army, Emir Bonhedan and Emir Muhammed, were both soldierly in their quality, diligent, dependable, brave, exceptional soldiers. Neither liked the politicking of the Sultan’s court, and both esteemed valour and victory in battle. But where Bonhedan was bold and vigorous, Muhammed was cool and patient. Bonhedan liked a frontline fight, Muhammed thought that the only good kind of fight was one where your enemy died and not you.
Yet despite their differences, the two were friends, and few in the Sultan’s court had any greater confidence in anybody else who might command the Sultan’s armies. Least of all Emir Amin, who knew himself well enough to know such a task was beyond him, hence his deputising two far more capable figures.
“But waiting allows us to gather more forces here and march at full strength,” Muhammed pointed out in response to Bonhedan’s remark, his dark close-cropped hair and dark eyes furrowing together in thought as he considered the news.
“This Frankish King is bold,” Bonhedan said approvingly. “I would not have marched into the Peninsula with fewer than twenty thousand, were I him,”
“Unless he has more men on the way, which seems likely, given the speed he travelled to arrive here,” Muhammed pointed out, which Bonhedan conceded to with a nod and a smile.
“It seems likely he intends to tempt us to commit to relieving the fortress and engage him in pitched battle,” Muhammed continued, “the question is, do we take up the opportunity, or is it better to pick the ground ourselves?”
And that, as it turned out, was the sticking point between them. Bonhedan was convinced that an enemy army on Umayyad soil was intolerable. An affront to honour. Had to be battled and dislodged as a matter of honour and pride. Muhammed was prepared to propose an alternative. Let the enemy take his prize, shadow him, harass his forces, cut him off from forage and supplies and force him into the interior, where the natural defences of the peninsula worked in favour of those who knew it best. It was not a bad plan he argued. Many an invader had come unstuck in the harsh and rugged terrain of the Peninsula. Why should this new Frankish force be any different?
“The damage it could inflict on our people and our Sultanate before retreating could be massive” Bonhedan pointed out, “Better that we confront them now, before our people suffer.”
Muhammed sighed. Bonhedan’s heart was in the right place, his motives pure. But clean motives didn’t win wars.
“A quicker war can mean a losing one,” Muhammed pointed out. “We have the advantage of numbers, but the Franks had speed on their side. An army that can march that quickly is not to be taken lightly, Better then, to draw them onto ground where we are more familiar with the terrain.
On and on the argument went, round and round. Normally one man would concede gracefully to the other’s viewpoint, they would share a small drink in defiance of what was strictly religious custom, and then go off and work together brilliantly. But not this time. Halfway through yet another dinner argument, Bonhedan realised the reason for the length of their argument.
We are afraid, he thought, though neither will admit it. This new Frankish Emperor is not like the others. He’s a grandson of Charles Martel. He shed the blood of thousands of Saxons in Germania, he dared march on the East to challenge the power of Constantinople and the Eastern Empire, and conquered the city, a feat not even we successfully accomplished. And now Karloman fields an army against us, and neither of us wants to be the one who comes up with a losing strategy.
But he didn’t voice this thought, so on and on the argument went, over days more and more soldiers trickled in from the muster. They outnumbered the forces besieging Empuries, and should by rights have moved to confront it already, but still they did not.
So long they halted, that word came in early October that the fortress had fallen to the Frankish forces.
“Already?” A shocked Bonhedan asked, face turning almost pale at the news. “So fast?”
“We were betrayed from within,” the bedraggled messenger replied, sweat streaking down his features and soaking his dust and blood soaked clothing. He had not stopped to rest or change on the frantic ride south. “Karloman’s heralds sent written messages to the castle that any guard who opened the gates and surrendered the garrison over to them would not be harmed, and would be rewarded.”
“And they let news of that get out?” Muhammed was aghast. “Why did the garrison commander not suppress that?”
“He did m’lord.” The Messenger replied, gesturing helplessly. “There were more than a few executions of men who gossiped about it… but word gets around in a small fort.”
“So they just… handed it over? For gold?”
“A few of the men had families m’lord. They were terrified, thought they were all their families would be killed if the Franks sacked the fortress, so a few of them used their opportunity on the night shift to open the gates and let the Franks in. They kept their promise too. The men who surrendered were spared, but they were the only ones not killed or taken prisoner.”
“How did you escape?” Bonhedan asked.
“I-I didn’t m’lord.” The messenger admitted, shamefaced. “The Franks said they needed to release a prisoner to carry a message south to you. They chose me for the task.”
“And what was the message?” Muhammed asked warily.
“Surrender, or the fate of Empuries will be the fate of all the Sultanate.” The messenger recited.
“What does he mean, “the fate of Empuries?” Bonhedan asked quizzically, his tone angered.
“I-I don’t know m’lord. When I left, nothing much had changed except Frankish banners hung from the walls.”
“Alright, alright,” Bonhedan raised a hand, calming the messenger. The man was exhausted, blood-stained and probably hungry. It was unfair to take his anger out upon him. “You’ve done well. Head back to the officer’s mess for some food and get the quartermaster to assign you a bed. You’ve earned it.”
The messenger clicked his heels in response, turned away and made for his well-earned meal. Bonhedan watched him go, then turned to stare silently at Muhammed for a moment.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking of what the “fate of Empuries” was supposed to mean,” Bonhedan replied. “What did he do to the place?”
Empuries, Umayyad Sultanate.
The fall of the fortress had been swift once the offer had been made, as Karloman knew it would. Doubt, division and mistrust had eaten the ground beneath the fortress, as threats of treachery and would-be treachery had turned the garrison into a clustered mess of fear, paranoia and murder. In such an environment, the yielding of the fortress was only a matter of time.
Those who had sold out the garrison were permitted to freely depart, with honour, and with any family members they had. No punishment was exacted upon them.
For those who had resisted though, their fates were different. Karloman intended to set a clear example from the outset the price of defiance. First, those who had commanded the garrison were executed, heads bristled atop spears outside the Frankish camp along its southern fringe as Karloman exacted his punishment. Then the others who were captured alive were given another task, assisted by Frankish soldiers, they tore down the walls of the fortress, brick by brick, over a period of days, the fortress that guarded the pass into Hispania, keeping the Sultanate safe from the Christian armies was brought down.
Karloman had a point to these actions. His scouts were quite aware of the gathering Umayyad force nearby, and his actions were intended to provoke a response from that army, thinking that a full-scale pitched battle would be the most likely method of securing Frankish victory.
He grew increasingly frustrated as reports came in that the army had not moved his way, though the reports continued to show new forces trickling in over days and weeks.
“Ye God, they are slugs! Will they ever fight?” a frustrated Karloman exclaimed to Pepin as they heard another scout’s report of another fruitless day of trying to provoke a Moorish response.
“We’re nearly at the end of what we can do here to provoke them I think Father,” Pepin replied, “It’s time we start moving further into the country.”
“You have a suggestion?” Karloman asked curious. He had grown better at expecting his son to have useful contributions to make to his strategy. This pleased Pepin, who found he rather enjoyed matching wits with his father’s formidable military mind.
“Aye, we send out small groups of light horse, raiding and ravaging the countryside. Harass and loot where possible. Maybe burn a few villages or farms as they go. Hit them fast and hard, and force them to detach their own units to chase us. Meanwhile, you lead the main army west, threatening the Moorish army’s current position. If we can force a battle, they’ll have to fight without drawing us too deep into the country, and if they don’t want to fight, they’ll have to retreat, effectively ceding the north to us without a fight.”
“Sound”, Karloman nodded approvingly, “So long as our light horse raiders don’t go too far west too soon.”
“I’ll lead one of them father,” Pepin volunteered,
“Good lad, I’ll arrange the other sorties and divide the horsemen up into three groups,” he gave Pepin a serious look. “Don’t lose them, as we’ll need our cavalry advantage for the battle.”
“Shan’t disappoint you father,” Pepin replied, with a smile, realising he was finally being given an independent command…
As it turned out, Karloman needn’t have worried. The raids had the desired effect, for days, his three columns of roving horsemen left a burning trail of fire, destruction and misery in their wake, living off the land and destroying whatever they could not forage or steal. Facing complaints from the local lords about the lack of action against the Franks, and increasingly irate responses from the Sultan’s court, Muhammed and Bonhedan were jolted into action. On hearing word that Karloman had pulled up stakes and marched his army westwards, they moved to intercept him.
The two armies met near Pugicerde on October 15th 785. Karloman arrived first, but it was the Umayyad’s who claimed the better position while Karloman dug his forces into some secure defensive lines. Because both arrived in the afternoon, only indecisive skirmishing occurred before both sides pulled back to set up encampments for the night, with Karloman sending his remaining light horse to probe enemy preparations for weaknesses and gaps.
Pepin returned that night with his squad of light horse, sweat soaked into his riding clothes and wiping his brow as he strode into the mess where his father was dining with some of the other lords.
“All ready father?” he asked, a grin on his face, knowing the plan had worked.
“Once I’ve got your assurance that you’ll command the right wing tomorrow.” Karloman replied, not even rising from his seat.
“Me?” Pepin’s grin faded, and the confident young man who had strode in again seemed an uncertain teenager. “I’ve not commanded a whole wing before father,”
“No,” Karloman replied, speaking through the food he was chewing. “But you’ve now had an independent command, so let’s see how well you do with another one. I’ll go through the battle plan with you and you’ll see what you’re supposed to do. I’ll assign Duke Ado and Marshal Balduin to you as well, so you’ll have their expertise assisting you on that flank.”
Ado looked up sharply at that, but he did not argue. He’d been on the outs with Karloman since their fight over the captured courier, and he knew that performing well tomorrow might be a way to earn his way back into the Emperor’s good graces. If he had to serve under the Prince to do it, well, the price one paid…
Later, in the relative quiet of Karloman’s tent, he made clear his expectations.
“While you command the right, I’ll be holding the left,” Karloman told Pepin, finding it disconcerting that his son was now almost at eye level to him. “And with you there’ll be the lion share of the heavy horse, and a larger force of the archers and pikemen. Use the pikes to the front to screen your horsemen, and use the archers to support the defence of those in the centre.”
“Who’ll be commanding the centre?” Pepin asked.
“Leon de Luxemburg”, Karloman replied, Pepin nodded. He’d been promised titles and a new set of lands if he distinguished himself in this campaign. “Your archers will support and anchor the centre in place. My forces on the left will be more free-moving, and Leon will have a fourth line in reserve, but you needn’t worry about that. All you need is to keep an eye on Leon’s reserve and when it moves up to engage in the front rank, that’s when you order your horsemen forward, directly into the enemy right.”
“We take them at the bottom of the ridge…” Pepin realised, the scope of the plan dawning on him.
“And then once the enemy’s right is put to flight, that leaves us the stronger position to sweep the rest of the army from the field,” Karloman replied, with a wide sweeping motion of his arm and a grin. “Yes, that’s the goal.”
“They may not march to us in the morning.”
“If I’ve judged them right, they will. We’ve forced them to a battle,” Karloman grimaced, “In the morn they’ll abandon their defensive posture and move down to strike at us.”
The following morn would prove his words true or false…
Battle of Pugicerda, October 16th 785. Karloman's forces meet the Umayyad's in northern Spain.
Almost immediately, the battle did not go as planned.
Far from abandoning their defensive positions upon the ridge, the Andalusian Moslems dug in, forcing Karloman to mount a series of attacks with his archers and skirmishers to attempt to punch holes in enemy lines. These early morning assaults attracted little response, and the Umayyad commanders managed to restrain their forces from marching out of position.
It wasn’t until midday that the Franks caught their break, and it was on the left, not the right of the Frankish line that the first attack came. Beleving they had superiority of cavalry, the Moorish commander massed his horsemen together and rode down from their defensive line, hoping to smash directly through Frankish lines.
Karloman, in command of the left, managed to hold the Frankish line in place as he detached two reserve groups to protect the left wing and ensure the enemy horse fully committed to their assault. By rights, the Umayyad centre should have advanced to cover them, but Muhammed, cautious as ever, was slow to react and waited too long.
Within minutes, the Frankish centre was ordered forward up the hill, pelting the Umayyad line with skirmishers, rocks and arrowfire. The hard pressed Frankish left found themselves relieved, as Umayyad forces withdrew back to atop the ridge in order to ensure they were not surrounded completely. Seeing this, Karloman ordered his own centre back.
But some men were too slow to withdraw… and ended up caught between the retreating Moors on the left and the main line ahead of them. Around four hundred Frankish soldiers fell on the field in the confusion, and Karloman himself left the left flank in command of a subordinate and rode to rally the centre.
THEN the Umayyad’s made their move, pushing down from atop the ridge to launch a sustained assault on the Frankish left and centre. Pushing and shoving, those on the right could see their weapons rising and falling, as the Umayyad horse on the left directly smashed into the Frankish flank, and the screams of both horse and men rang out across the battlefield.
Realising the initial plan would now no longer be required, Pepin mounted himself atop his horse and gestured Duke Ado and Balduin to join with him. He split the right into three commands, Balduin with the infantry, Ado for the cavalry, and Pepin himself took command of the horse. The infantry he ordered to march to reinforce the Frankish centre and plump out losses in the reserve line. To Duke Ado he whispered some rather frantic instructions and the Duke galloped off, leading the archers away to the east.
Pepin himself rode to the front of the horsemen, assuring himself that they could see and hear him.
“Are we ready?” he asked the captain,
A silent nod was the response. This was not the response they had planned for, but the battle plan had gone awry and they needed to act now.
“Then we charge,” the Emperor’s heir replied firmly. There was no hint of fear in his young face, though Pepin could feel the pulse of adrenaline and a frission of fright running through his body, obscured beneath his armour.
“Go, Go, with me now!” he cried, and the cry went up, and the blast of one loud note. The signal for the charge.
Pepin felt it. The thundering of the hooves beneath him, the freezing wind cutting and biting into him as he rode. The shouts and yells of men behind, in front of and beside him. Before he even consciously knew it, his sword was out and his mount sprang forward. Smashing directly into the left of the Moorish line…
The panic caused by the sudden charge spread as the horsemen ran down the infantry. The Moors had pushed their lighter infantry to the left as the assault on the centre became more heavy, hoping to break through with their more well-armoured units. Thus the chaos and panic spread as more were trampled and cut down. Pepin swung his blade, felt the bite of it connecting, withdrew it again, and saw the red blood glistening upon the blade as he rode on ahead. Someone tried to grab his leg and wrench him down from the saddle, but before he knew it, they no longer had an arm with which to grab him.
He turned away, onto his next target, then his next, then he wheeled to the left to his neck. They had emerged now, the vanguard of the horse, directly behind the Moorish centre.
An answering roar from the Franks, as they themselves began to rally. “Forward now! Forward now!” the cry went up and the Moors now found themselves on the defensive instead, dismayed as they realised the turn the battle had taken within minutes.
The Frankish left had rallied too now, their own horsemen engaged in a vicious melee with the Moorish cavalry. Karloman would be in their somewhere, but Pepin could not see him, submerged somewhere in the mess of men and blood and mounts. He could only hope he emerged triumphant.
The Moorish attempt to retreat back to the ridge ran them straight into Pepin’s cavalry. There were far too many of them falling back for his own squad to slaughter all of them, but Frankish skirmishers and archers did their part as well, picking off the fleeing men at their leisure.
Several thousand Moorish men made it back to the ridge, and many rallied to the raised standard of the Sultan, jeering the Franks and cheering the survival of their comrades who made it back. Pepin, emerging from the blood-haze of battle, had the presence of mind to signal his horsemen not to pursue up the ridge, for the enemy still held the better position there, and it would not be wise to spoil the day’s victory with any more Frankish blood. Dazed, and feeling exhausted now the adrenaline of battle left him, he gazed at the bloodied lines of the Frankish men, and the dead who lay before them, Frank and Moor alike. Perhaps some hundreds, if not thousands, had fallen in this day.
A roar went up from the lines. “Pepin!” “Pepin!” “Pepin!” his own soldiers were hailing him now, and one of his men moved to raise the unit’s standard triumphantly above his head. The crown prince of the Empire stood dazed and amazed, as the men of the Empire cheered his name and hailed him a hero.
A commotion on the left of the line, and another cry when up. The stocky, short figure of Emperor Karloman emerged, blonde hair now browned from the dirt and the muck, face streaked with blood and sweat pouring from his face. The Emperor was on foot, having obviously lost his mount in the battle, and he no longer wore his helmet but one of his bodyguards rose up to provide him a fresh horse which he mounted for all the world to see.
A second cry went up, this one cheering the Emperor. They had won! They had won the day!
Silently, from atop the mound and watching the jubilant Franks below, Emir Muhammed seethed, but saw the wisdom of not pressing the Franks further today. His army had largely rallied, what remained of it that was not dead on the field, and it’s morale was too low to force another engagement. Time for a new plan…
OOC: So I've written a bit ahead now, in terms of what I've posted vs what I've actually written, but this post is one I'm happy with so I thought I'd post it now! Pepin get's a bit of glory, Karloman wins the battle and the peace plan falls through, but the war is not over yet...
How will things go for Emir? Will he realise his courier fails? And will Pepin's new prominence change things? Let's see...
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I keep expecting a disaster to befall Pepin. He seems a little cruel and jaded for one so young. Thank you for the update, my Emperor
Raiding is always a good way to force a battle.
I was expecting that battle to be defeat though judging from the mood of story and frankish force attack mountain defense ummayad so color me suprised.
I was expecting that battle to be defeat though judging from the mood of story and frankish force attack mountain defense ummayad so color me suprised.
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It was a close run thing in actual gameplay! But the Franks did pull through eventually
He's a man now in-game. And men can't remain boys forever, especially in his world. We'll see how he handles the transition.
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Yeah I was worried for Pepin there too, good to see nothing disastrous happened, alas, it would seem this is not a decisive battle, gonna be a long campaign ahead no doubt.
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Different generations tend to meet different challenges. Karloman's problems might not be Pepin's...
I'll have another post up tomorrow by the way
Thanks again to everyone who reads and comments for their encouragement and support.- 1
Lovely to read this while I have some much needed coffee at work. Keep up the good work!
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Court of the Sultan, Al-Andalus
News of the defeat was carried back to the capital within days, though horrible rumours had already reached them ahead of time of the army’s defeat.
“Emir Muhammed managed to salvage what was left of the force, some six thousand strong, but nearly half the army lies dead upon the field.” Emir Amin reported, face glum and grim. Even those who despised him had come at his command for this meeting, aware that the news was likely bad, and wanting to know exactly what had to be done next to protect the Sultanate.
“And the Franks lost how many?”
“A thousand or so, maybe slightly less,” Amin replied, “the rout for our forces was brief, but they inflicted terrible losses in that time. At this moment it is unclear why the Franks have not pressed on from Pugicerde, but it is likely they have already begun launching assaults on nearby settlements, and began to seize lands and estates.
Grumblings at that news. But even those who despised Amin were not ready to openly blame him… yet. With a Frankish army now on their lands, and their own army having been defeated and severely depleted, any change in control at this present moment would doom the Sultanate.
“Emir Muhammed has taken sole control of the command, as Commander Bonhedan was slain upon the field as he led an assault on the Frankish left,” Amin continued. “The Emir has decreed he will change tactics in light of this defeat, and withdraw towards the west, to more directly threaten the lands of the Kingdom of Asturias. Karloman might be inclined to keep away if he knows we stand between him and his Christian allies on the Peninsula.
And provide enough time for my couriers to reach the Pontiff in Rome. If they do.
Amin now felt the political ground beneath him shift. Those who knew of his plan for peace would now be less inclined to give it the time it needed to succeed, and those who did not would believe he had already failed to make assurances. Time then perhaps, to ensure that the blame for this debacle would not be laid at his own feet…
Northern Spain, 785 October.
The Frankish forces remained at Pugicerde for several days, though the remaining Moorish forces decamped the day after the battle, marching west. Karloman sent out scouts ahead to harass and pursue them as they withdrew, though carefully instructing his riders not to be overconfident. They had won, but the Umayyads had retreated in relatively good order and they retained a capable, if diminished, force.
“They’ve more discipline than the Saxons, I’ll give them that,” Karloman mentioned to Pepin. “The early hours of the battle were nearly our undoing. Had you not shown initiative, the line might have buckled in the centre.”
“I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do,” Pepin admitted, “But I felt things were sufficiently off-track that I had to make the charge then.”
“And in doing so you learned a valuable lesson,” Karloman replied, giving one of his rare smiles. “Plans rarely go as you expect, and initiative and boldness both serve you well when they don’t. You will make a fine Emperor if you heed that lesson as well as you did at Pugicerde.”
Pepin had noticed a change in the camp since the battle. Men who previous showed him respect now looked at him with admiration. Soldiers who had shown him the deference appropriate to his rank now invited him to sit beside them at their fires and toast the victory he had won them, or approached him with questions and advice. His military reputation among the camp had grown, and some had gone so far as to say that he had been the true architect of their victory, not the Emperor.
Pepin had mentioned this to Karloman, who dismissed it with a bored wave of his hand.
“Let men think what they will so long as it is to your advantage,” he said, as he shaded his pale eyes from the sunlight with his gauntlet, gazing towards the horizon as his mind plotted the best path for the army to march ahead. “It does no harm for them to know that you have a record of military success. Indeed, those men who say such things can be useful to you, although” he added darkly, “be sure to mark down the men who say such things as flatterers, for you can’t trust that they won’t abandon you by saying the opposite when things go wrong.”
“When?” Pepin prompted, “not if?”
“Some things always go wrong.” Karloman emphasised, “You saw that at the battle. My plan was a good one, arguably the best one that could be made, yet things still went wrong. It’s no reflection on me, or you, to admit that things rarely go the way you plan. But if people think your actions secured the victory, and you gain a reputation for that, then it is all to the good.”
“It is not true though,” Pepin muttered red-face. “I played a small part.”
“A necessary part,” his father emphasised strongly, “And even then, when you are Emperor, you must concern yourself much more with what appears true than what is actually true. After all,” he added, with a ghost of a grimace appearing, “not everyone can know the truth…”
Not everyone can know the truth. Karloman reflected later that night as he tossed and turned and failed to sleep. What truths did men really know? His son was intelligent and perceptive. Capable even, yet he did not ever call his father upon his own faults, treated him always with decorum, even deference.
Did he know about his own sins? Hear the rumours of them? He must have. The death of Karl had been whispered about for years, and his son was not fool enough to not hear such whispers, though he may be politic enough to ignore them. But could the son forget what the father could not?
He was not sure why his thoughts had turned to his brother on this campaign. His face, so like Pepin’s in a way, so vibrant and strong and tall. He remembered their duel, and the terrible scar inflicted when his blade had made it’s mark. Would he have succeeded their father, had that fight gone a different road? Had that hunting arrow not found its mark? Would he have marched the Franks into Iberia, crushed the Saxons? Conquered the east and been crowned Emperor of the Romans.
Perhaps because his son, already looking to be taller and more muscled than himself, looked so much like Karl, except the hair, which was his own, was the reason for him dwelling on his brother.
Would Karl have done as I did. Or was mother wrong about him, and in fact only I, and not he, could’ve led the Franks to glory?
Regardless, it did not matter, Karl was dead and gone, only God knew what he thought now, if he did at all. So Karloman wrenched his brother’s face from his mind and bent it instead to the task of completing his campaign in Al-Andalus.
The weeks that followed featured a series of skirmishes and brief sieges, as Frankish forces occupied much of the northeast of the Umayyad Sultanate. Karloman sacked three separate villages between October and December, and while the Umayyad army had moved west, they had made no move to threaten the Kingdom of Asturias directly. Karloman, content to ensure the enemy stayed far away from his own forces, set about reducing the towns and fortresses of the region to ensure Frankish control of the area.
Court of the Sultan.
Emir Hakam, now released from his prison cell wanted his vengeance…
It was Emir Amin who had left him for dead, who had tried to sabotage his attempts to have his wives and children released. And when he had been captured, he had bargained himself and his family with the Asturians for peace, Peace! He had cravenly grovelled before the feet of the Christians and squandered the advantage, and his vaunted “peace” had left a Frankish army upon their borders.
Those who had supported him had met secretly for weeks, and when word of the Frankish victory at Pugicerde had come through, they had sensed now was the moment to strike.
The Regent would fall… and a new Regent would rise to direct the Sultanate on the proper course, until the boy Sultan came of age… assuming he ever did. The world was not kind to boy kings in times of war after all…
It was in the early hours on a wintry D ecember morn that the Emir and his allies marched their forces into the capital, the garrison swiftly rose up and joined them. Those who might have defended Emir Amin were silenced out of either terror or lack of interest in defending a failing Regent.
The bloodless coup was over within hours
The bloodless coup was done within an hour, the city was theirs without a fight.
But there was no sign of Amin…
Port of Corduba, Al-Andalus, Spain 785.
It was with no displeasure that the Regent of the Umayyad Sultanate (though not for much longer, if his enemies had their way), departed for his new assignment. A new revolt had broken out in the Sultan’s African territories, and he had been deputised to put them down, effectively taking himself out of the political game in the capital.
By now Amin knew his plan for peace had failed. His Holiness had either not received his entreaties or had ignored them, and the Frankish army was on the ascendency. His enemies would want his head for this, and no doubt would jostle among themselves to take his place as Regent.
Well… he was quite happy to let them have the regency, but he liked his head where it was, thank you very much.
He breathed a quick prayer of relief as he managed to board his ship without incident. Clearly, either the capital hadn’t changed hands yet, or they hadn’t yet mustered the strength to search for him.
He would depart for his African assignment, effectively a voluntary exile. His rivals would tear each other to pieces to get the Regency, and the Franks would tear apart whomever triumphed. They wanted his post and his power, let them have it, and when his enemies made a mess of it, the Sultan and his remaining allies in the capital would be able to pressure for his recall.
It was, Amin reflected, the great fortune of being blessed with stupid enemies. They would ruin themselves, if one only let them…
The ship pulled away from it’s berth, with none in the capital or the port city any the wiser as to the machinations that had been pulled. The former Regent was safe for another day…
January, 786, Northern Al-Andalus, Spain.
Within weeks of his victory at Pugicerde, Karloman’s forces were besieging Zaragosa. The first actions taken after the battle had been to return to the chevauchee tactics taken towards the Sultan’s Muslim subjects. In these lands, the majority of the population remained Christian, and Karloman took great pains to instruct his men that, to those folk, they came as liberators, not conquerors. But the infidels who were in the region had no such protection, and thus were looted at will.
The remaining Andalusian army continued to launch raids and occasional skirmishes on the Franks, but had refused to commit to yet another open battle, instead wisely trying to protect the property of the Sultan’s subjects in order to counter the raids. Thus when Karloman had marched west, they too had gone west, but remained south of the Frankish position.
Zaragosa’s defenses were not mild, but for an army that had braved the Theodosian Walls, the prospect of a siege was not daunting. Karloman had ordered special strips of leather hides pushed over the Frankish siege engines to protect them from enemy efforts to set them alight. Within days, the Frankish men had filled in the ditch outside the walls and were preparing their sappers to undermine the wall.
“Pepin, I need you to report the sappers activities when they’re ready to breach” Karloman ordered, his tone as brisk and crisp as it always became when issuing commands in the field, “Duke Ado, you’ll be in the lead in the first sortie, Berengar, you’ll lead the second,” down the line he went, doling out the Emperor’s orders.
Those present were always impressed by this side of Karloman. Normally a solemn, graven figure, the Emperor became much more brisk and authoritative when in the field. He was in his element here, and it showed. Pepin even noted that his father seemed to eat and sleep better in the field than he did in his capital.
Thus it was that the undermining of the walls had begun within the day, and ended within the week. Once the outer wall crumbled, the surrender was only a formality.
Once the fortress yielded, it gave some surprising bequests, most notably a group of very relieved prisoners whom had been languishing within the dungeons, grateful to Karloman for their release.
One of these, a young man with sandy-brown hair and a furrowed brow, had stepped forward, clearly the unofficial but respected leader of those who had been imprisoned.
“We are indebted to you, Emperor Karloman of the Franks and Romans.” The man spoke Frankish well, without the faintest tinge of an accent, “for even the holiest men of God are not immune from the caprices of the Sultan’s men. The perils of living beneath the rule of the infidel.”
“I am relieved to have been of assistance,” the Emperor replied from his chair, tone cool and courteous, “and you are you, that the infidel took such exception to you so?”
“I am Father Ademar, servant of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, god praise him,”
“God praise him” all present murmured, even Karloman.
“You are welcome here Father,” the Emperor responded, “As are your… congregation, it is a true honour to be given the holy work of liberating Christians from the rule of the infidel.”
“Those of us who had preached of your coming are pleased at your advent,” Ademar replied, “We have long awaited the day these lands would be back under the realm of the Christian lords.”
Even Karloman eventually grew tired of mouthing pious courtesies typical of the more zealous men of god, so he eventually sent the good priest off to his own camp for some food and rest, with as much polite forbearance as he could muster. Pepin had to hide his grin as his father’s impatience became more visible. Priests had never been Karloman’s favourite people.
But though Karloman had taken Zaragosa, events in the Umayyad capital were soon to alter the tides of this war…
News of the defeat was carried back to the capital within days, though horrible rumours had already reached them ahead of time of the army’s defeat.
“Emir Muhammed managed to salvage what was left of the force, some six thousand strong, but nearly half the army lies dead upon the field.” Emir Amin reported, face glum and grim. Even those who despised him had come at his command for this meeting, aware that the news was likely bad, and wanting to know exactly what had to be done next to protect the Sultanate.
“And the Franks lost how many?”
“A thousand or so, maybe slightly less,” Amin replied, “the rout for our forces was brief, but they inflicted terrible losses in that time. At this moment it is unclear why the Franks have not pressed on from Pugicerde, but it is likely they have already begun launching assaults on nearby settlements, and began to seize lands and estates.
Grumblings at that news. But even those who despised Amin were not ready to openly blame him… yet. With a Frankish army now on their lands, and their own army having been defeated and severely depleted, any change in control at this present moment would doom the Sultanate.
“Emir Muhammed has taken sole control of the command, as Commander Bonhedan was slain upon the field as he led an assault on the Frankish left,” Amin continued. “The Emir has decreed he will change tactics in light of this defeat, and withdraw towards the west, to more directly threaten the lands of the Kingdom of Asturias. Karloman might be inclined to keep away if he knows we stand between him and his Christian allies on the Peninsula.
And provide enough time for my couriers to reach the Pontiff in Rome. If they do.
Amin now felt the political ground beneath him shift. Those who knew of his plan for peace would now be less inclined to give it the time it needed to succeed, and those who did not would believe he had already failed to make assurances. Time then perhaps, to ensure that the blame for this debacle would not be laid at his own feet…
Northern Spain, 785 October.
The Frankish forces remained at Pugicerde for several days, though the remaining Moorish forces decamped the day after the battle, marching west. Karloman sent out scouts ahead to harass and pursue them as they withdrew, though carefully instructing his riders not to be overconfident. They had won, but the Umayyads had retreated in relatively good order and they retained a capable, if diminished, force.
“They’ve more discipline than the Saxons, I’ll give them that,” Karloman mentioned to Pepin. “The early hours of the battle were nearly our undoing. Had you not shown initiative, the line might have buckled in the centre.”
“I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do,” Pepin admitted, “But I felt things were sufficiently off-track that I had to make the charge then.”
“And in doing so you learned a valuable lesson,” Karloman replied, giving one of his rare smiles. “Plans rarely go as you expect, and initiative and boldness both serve you well when they don’t. You will make a fine Emperor if you heed that lesson as well as you did at Pugicerde.”
Pepin had noticed a change in the camp since the battle. Men who previous showed him respect now looked at him with admiration. Soldiers who had shown him the deference appropriate to his rank now invited him to sit beside them at their fires and toast the victory he had won them, or approached him with questions and advice. His military reputation among the camp had grown, and some had gone so far as to say that he had been the true architect of their victory, not the Emperor.
Pepin had mentioned this to Karloman, who dismissed it with a bored wave of his hand.
“Let men think what they will so long as it is to your advantage,” he said, as he shaded his pale eyes from the sunlight with his gauntlet, gazing towards the horizon as his mind plotted the best path for the army to march ahead. “It does no harm for them to know that you have a record of military success. Indeed, those men who say such things can be useful to you, although” he added darkly, “be sure to mark down the men who say such things as flatterers, for you can’t trust that they won’t abandon you by saying the opposite when things go wrong.”
“When?” Pepin prompted, “not if?”
“Some things always go wrong.” Karloman emphasised, “You saw that at the battle. My plan was a good one, arguably the best one that could be made, yet things still went wrong. It’s no reflection on me, or you, to admit that things rarely go the way you plan. But if people think your actions secured the victory, and you gain a reputation for that, then it is all to the good.”
“It is not true though,” Pepin muttered red-face. “I played a small part.”
“A necessary part,” his father emphasised strongly, “And even then, when you are Emperor, you must concern yourself much more with what appears true than what is actually true. After all,” he added, with a ghost of a grimace appearing, “not everyone can know the truth…”
Not everyone can know the truth. Karloman reflected later that night as he tossed and turned and failed to sleep. What truths did men really know? His son was intelligent and perceptive. Capable even, yet he did not ever call his father upon his own faults, treated him always with decorum, even deference.
Did he know about his own sins? Hear the rumours of them? He must have. The death of Karl had been whispered about for years, and his son was not fool enough to not hear such whispers, though he may be politic enough to ignore them. But could the son forget what the father could not?
He was not sure why his thoughts had turned to his brother on this campaign. His face, so like Pepin’s in a way, so vibrant and strong and tall. He remembered their duel, and the terrible scar inflicted when his blade had made it’s mark. Would he have succeeded their father, had that fight gone a different road? Had that hunting arrow not found its mark? Would he have marched the Franks into Iberia, crushed the Saxons? Conquered the east and been crowned Emperor of the Romans.
Perhaps because his son, already looking to be taller and more muscled than himself, looked so much like Karl, except the hair, which was his own, was the reason for him dwelling on his brother.
Would Karl have done as I did. Or was mother wrong about him, and in fact only I, and not he, could’ve led the Franks to glory?
Regardless, it did not matter, Karl was dead and gone, only God knew what he thought now, if he did at all. So Karloman wrenched his brother’s face from his mind and bent it instead to the task of completing his campaign in Al-Andalus.
The weeks that followed featured a series of skirmishes and brief sieges, as Frankish forces occupied much of the northeast of the Umayyad Sultanate. Karloman sacked three separate villages between October and December, and while the Umayyad army had moved west, they had made no move to threaten the Kingdom of Asturias directly. Karloman, content to ensure the enemy stayed far away from his own forces, set about reducing the towns and fortresses of the region to ensure Frankish control of the area.
Court of the Sultan.
Emir Hakam, now released from his prison cell wanted his vengeance…
It was Emir Amin who had left him for dead, who had tried to sabotage his attempts to have his wives and children released. And when he had been captured, he had bargained himself and his family with the Asturians for peace, Peace! He had cravenly grovelled before the feet of the Christians and squandered the advantage, and his vaunted “peace” had left a Frankish army upon their borders.
Those who had supported him had met secretly for weeks, and when word of the Frankish victory at Pugicerde had come through, they had sensed now was the moment to strike.
The Regent would fall… and a new Regent would rise to direct the Sultanate on the proper course, until the boy Sultan came of age… assuming he ever did. The world was not kind to boy kings in times of war after all…
It was in the early hours on a wintry D ecember morn that the Emir and his allies marched their forces into the capital, the garrison swiftly rose up and joined them. Those who might have defended Emir Amin were silenced out of either terror or lack of interest in defending a failing Regent.
The bloodless coup was over within hours
The bloodless coup was done within an hour, the city was theirs without a fight.
But there was no sign of Amin…
Port of Corduba, Al-Andalus, Spain 785.
It was with no displeasure that the Regent of the Umayyad Sultanate (though not for much longer, if his enemies had their way), departed for his new assignment. A new revolt had broken out in the Sultan’s African territories, and he had been deputised to put them down, effectively taking himself out of the political game in the capital.
By now Amin knew his plan for peace had failed. His Holiness had either not received his entreaties or had ignored them, and the Frankish army was on the ascendency. His enemies would want his head for this, and no doubt would jostle among themselves to take his place as Regent.
Well… he was quite happy to let them have the regency, but he liked his head where it was, thank you very much.
He breathed a quick prayer of relief as he managed to board his ship without incident. Clearly, either the capital hadn’t changed hands yet, or they hadn’t yet mustered the strength to search for him.
He would depart for his African assignment, effectively a voluntary exile. His rivals would tear each other to pieces to get the Regency, and the Franks would tear apart whomever triumphed. They wanted his post and his power, let them have it, and when his enemies made a mess of it, the Sultan and his remaining allies in the capital would be able to pressure for his recall.
It was, Amin reflected, the great fortune of being blessed with stupid enemies. They would ruin themselves, if one only let them…
The ship pulled away from it’s berth, with none in the capital or the port city any the wiser as to the machinations that had been pulled. The former Regent was safe for another day…
January, 786, Northern Al-Andalus, Spain.
Within weeks of his victory at Pugicerde, Karloman’s forces were besieging Zaragosa. The first actions taken after the battle had been to return to the chevauchee tactics taken towards the Sultan’s Muslim subjects. In these lands, the majority of the population remained Christian, and Karloman took great pains to instruct his men that, to those folk, they came as liberators, not conquerors. But the infidels who were in the region had no such protection, and thus were looted at will.
The remaining Andalusian army continued to launch raids and occasional skirmishes on the Franks, but had refused to commit to yet another open battle, instead wisely trying to protect the property of the Sultan’s subjects in order to counter the raids. Thus when Karloman had marched west, they too had gone west, but remained south of the Frankish position.
Zaragosa’s defenses were not mild, but for an army that had braved the Theodosian Walls, the prospect of a siege was not daunting. Karloman had ordered special strips of leather hides pushed over the Frankish siege engines to protect them from enemy efforts to set them alight. Within days, the Frankish men had filled in the ditch outside the walls and were preparing their sappers to undermine the wall.
“Pepin, I need you to report the sappers activities when they’re ready to breach” Karloman ordered, his tone as brisk and crisp as it always became when issuing commands in the field, “Duke Ado, you’ll be in the lead in the first sortie, Berengar, you’ll lead the second,” down the line he went, doling out the Emperor’s orders.
Those present were always impressed by this side of Karloman. Normally a solemn, graven figure, the Emperor became much more brisk and authoritative when in the field. He was in his element here, and it showed. Pepin even noted that his father seemed to eat and sleep better in the field than he did in his capital.
Thus it was that the undermining of the walls had begun within the day, and ended within the week. Once the outer wall crumbled, the surrender was only a formality.
Once the fortress yielded, it gave some surprising bequests, most notably a group of very relieved prisoners whom had been languishing within the dungeons, grateful to Karloman for their release.
One of these, a young man with sandy-brown hair and a furrowed brow, had stepped forward, clearly the unofficial but respected leader of those who had been imprisoned.
“We are indebted to you, Emperor Karloman of the Franks and Romans.” The man spoke Frankish well, without the faintest tinge of an accent, “for even the holiest men of God are not immune from the caprices of the Sultan’s men. The perils of living beneath the rule of the infidel.”
“I am relieved to have been of assistance,” the Emperor replied from his chair, tone cool and courteous, “and you are you, that the infidel took such exception to you so?”
“I am Father Ademar, servant of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, god praise him,”
“God praise him” all present murmured, even Karloman.
“You are welcome here Father,” the Emperor responded, “As are your… congregation, it is a true honour to be given the holy work of liberating Christians from the rule of the infidel.”
“Those of us who had preached of your coming are pleased at your advent,” Ademar replied, “We have long awaited the day these lands would be back under the realm of the Christian lords.”
Even Karloman eventually grew tired of mouthing pious courtesies typical of the more zealous men of god, so he eventually sent the good priest off to his own camp for some food and rest, with as much polite forbearance as he could muster. Pepin had to hide his grin as his father’s impatience became more visible. Priests had never been Karloman’s favourite people.
But though Karloman had taken Zaragosa, events in the Umayyad capital were soon to alter the tides of this war…
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