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Song of the Karlings: Karloman's Legacy

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September 795,
Pavia, Lombardy

The peace of the night was shattered by a scream.



Armed men dragged several merchant families from their beds into the town square. As the sounds of the ruckus spread, curious or frightened onlookers descended from their homes and gathered torches to watch the spectacle in the square with a mixture of morbid curiosity and repulsed fear.



There were thirteen men and ten women in total, the children they had spared the fate of death, purely because no man among them could be found who wanted to kill the innocents. Even for the women, many of the executioners had needed several flagons worth of ale to see the deed done. Sentence was pronounced by a frightened looking man in the splendorous robes of a judge in a Lombard court… robes which had not been seen since the days of King Adelchis. Italian justices wore Francian clothes these days, as did all officials of state.



But sentence was pronounced and executed… quite literally, the merchants and their wives did not suffer long at least, but by the end of that dreadful occurrence, twenty-three unarmed Franks had been put to death by the bloodied axe of the headsmen.





With such inauspicious beginnings the signal for the revolt began, as the bells of the old capital rang and the courier galloped his horse out the gates and into the night to bring news of the massacre to the rebel lords…



And if some of those in that silent and watchful crowd wandered whether God might not look kindly on such bloodshed against fellow brothers in Christ, well, none dared voice the thought…



Italia, The Rebellion Begins, October 796,

The news carried and the Duke of Milano raised his levies for war. Within weeks, he had occupied Cremona, forcing the small Frankish garrison to lay down their arms. While he dispatched smaller groups of his forces to hold and fortify the Alpine crossings, the Duke Roamaldo and both of his men moved east to Mantova, and began to fortify the town from Frankish assault.



Further south, the Count of Firenze had begun raiding the borders of the Duchy of Benevento, and intercepting the Duke’s increasingly desperate couriers who were attempting to send word north towards Francia of the dangers to his land. The rebels soon had all of Northern Italia aflame in revolt, with only the parts of central Italia under Papal rule yet to declare for the enemies of the Emperor…



But a Frankish response could not be delayed forever, and word came within three weeks of the uprising that Crown Prince Pepin had mobilised the imperial reserves and begun moving south towards the Alps. Some of the rebel commanders in Roamaldo’s employ became nervous. They had led to believe the Franks would not act until Karloman returned from the east.



“The Prince’s boldness unsettles the men,” one of them told the Duke.



“Hang the men!” Roamaldo snarled, a flash of anger in his eyes, “Do they think we can take our kingdom back without spilling blood for it?” he answered his own question, as he was wont to do in a fury, “No!, we knew they’d respond, and so they have. Besides, we have time. The Franks won’t risk marching over the Alps until they’re at full force. Pepin’s move means they’ll come faster, but they’ll still have to wait for Karloman to arrive."



And from that position, the Duke would not budge, instead he ordered his men to step up the fortification in Mantova, digging large ditches around the town’s walls to prevent any effort at a siege by Frankish forces, throwing up earthworks to reinforce the walls, anything he could think to throw at the problem, he would, for the Duke had determined that Mantova was better defended and more easy to hold than his own beloved Milano, and far more tricky for the Franks to take, thus he had mustered the bulk of his forces there. A safeguard to buy time for the other rebel lords further south to complete their campaigns against the remaining loyalists. He would not make the error of trying to hold Milano, as he had in the last revolt.



And secretly, Roamaldo hoped he would be able to lure Karloman into striking the fortress directly. A pitched battle in which the Emperor would suffer a terrible defeat. For what better way to prove that he, Roamaldo, deserved to be King of all Italia once the war was won? In the absence of the crown, that ancient symbol of legitimacy that he had somehow not recovered, a victory in battle over the cruel Frankish oppressor was inarguably the next best thing…




OOC: Been very busy with work so haven't had the time to write as much as I would prefer! However, this (fairly short) update will hopefully whet your appetites enough for the big updates that are next up! We'll get into the Franks responses to the uprisings, Karloman and Pepin's initial moves, and the fate of the Crown of Lombardy in the next few updates (which will be bigger, I promise!)

As usual, thanks so much for reading and supporting and sticking with this AAR! I appreciate it more than I have the words to express.
 
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Roamaldo has a plan, but what happens when he finds that he is not a puppet master but a man about to deal with a Big Big Man who he has provoked. Thank you for the update and deal with work while we wait patiently.
 
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Looking forward to the uprising! If Pepin manages to take care of things before Karloman arrives, it will be a great way to secure the prince's authority on the field
 
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Ohhh a cliffhanger eh? Looking forward to see Karloman's reaction and inevitable counter-attack to put the rebel scum in their place, again.
 
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Southern Francia, 796,



Pepin Karling had found he had quite enjoyed the business of Empire...

Left behind from his father’s campaign, he found his own focus being shifted onto domestic matters. He had been forced to become embroiled in a nasty incident involving a flare-up of violence between the Duke of Toulouse and the Count of Marseilles, which had involved mutual livestock raids, and an alleged assassination attempt from the Count. Within weeks of his father leaving for his war, Pepin had them both before the court, summoned to answer the various allegations. A sheep-herder who gave evidence that some of the Count’s men had attempted to bribe him to smuggle poison to a servant who worked in the Duke’s chambers was enough to tip the balance against the Count, who was arrested and thrown into a dungeon, stripped of his power and authority. His title now passed to the crown, and a grateful Duke of Tolouse reaffirmed his loyalty, singing Pepin’s praises wherever he went.



The Prince also found time for his young and rather large family. Pepin found, to his surprise, that he enjoyed none of his father’s restlessness when not in the field on campaign. His blossoming children and relationship with his wife were stable and happy, and he found he enjoyed the comfort of home and the attention of his wife and his sons.



Thus it was with regret as well as alarm that he found himself compelled to muster his father’s reserve levies for war on news of a serious Italian revolt breaking out. The messages delivered to them had been sketchy on the details, but the initial reports suggested it was a rather serious uprising. Aware that his father was still weeks away, Pepin took it upon himself to say goodbye to his young family and march the reserve south himself, intended to link up with his father’s returning army somewhere in the south before they ventured into Italia together.



Receiving a message from Karloman, the two met in Geneve, north of one of the major passes down into Italia. The Emperor and his army arrived three days after the Prince had hoisted his own banner above the town and selected quarters for himself.



“I thought it best not to breach the Alps with our present strength,” he told Karloman. “The army we had in Francia was insufficient to confront the rebels before you arrived.” He explained apologetically.



The Emperor merely nodded. “You took the right course,” he told him, “Had you marched, I have little doubt the rebels would’ve confronted you with superior force, and the skill and organisation of your own forces is not sufficient to counter them alone, no matter your skill as a commander. Best that you waited.” He gave his son an awkward smile, “And it’s mostly my fault for leaving you with so small a force to begin with. Quiet breeds complacency, and I made a mistake in assuming that the fiasco of the Lombards last revolt made them disinclined to try another one, along with the mercy I showed those who laid down their arms.” A dark look crept over the Emperor’s face. “I shan’t make the same mistake twice. We shall root them out as a tree by it’s roots, and put them to the sword and the torch. If I have to burn the whole of Italia to cinders, I will pacify it.”



Pepin knew his father’s cold tone well enough to know he was not making an idle threat. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he replied, shivering involuntarily. He had not been present for the Blood Court of Saxony, but he had heard the stories. He knew full well the consequences his father could unleash when his temper was roused into that terrible, cold anger that burned when he was thwarted or slighted in a way that he felt particularly egregious. He had no wish to see it directed on anyone, even enemies.





Scouts reports slowly filtered in over the next two weeks, the Italian rebels were taking the opportunity to attempt to fortify the major mountain passes into Italy to block any Frankish counter-attack, and scattered reports of fighting on the peninsula had emerged between those resisting the Empire and those who had kept faith to their commitments.



“I’ll be ensuring we deliver a missive to His Holiness that he should excommunicate every man who raises arms against his rightful Emperor as soon as we arrive in Italia,” Karloman had informed his war council.



“I’m shocked he has not done so already.” Pepin rejoined, but the Emperor shook his head.



“Fear. And Honorius is wise to fear son, for if the rebels were to triumph, he would be surrounded by a reborn Kingdom of the Lombards, eager to revenge themselves of the territorial losses they suffered and to strip back his own holdings outside of Roma.” Karloman explained, “It makes sense for him to hedge his bets until he's certain we have an army in the field in Italia that can oppose them.”

“You think that’s his plan? You don’t think he might be strong-armed into supporting the rebels?”

“I know Honorius,” Karloman replied with a grim smile, “He’s aware of how much more power he can exercise through me than through the Italians. How many heathens have fallen beneath our blade? How many of their kingdoms have been added to Christendom by our reign? He knows full well which side defends and protects his powers and you can always count on a man to stand with the protection of his power son, it’s one constant of politics.”


“If you say so,” Pepin grinned in spite of himself. He didn’t have a hugely high opinion of Pontiff Honorius II, whom he thought a useless ditherer, but Karloman had always been careful to ensure his most controversial or religiously sensitive actions had Papal sanction before he undertook them. In return, the Pontiff’s position was secured by political support from Karloman and his Empire. It was a mutually beneficial partnership.



“Once we have an army in Italia, his decree shall be shouted from the walls of every fort and from the square of every village.” Karloman continued, “I mean to give every man on the peninsula pause before raising his sword against me.”


“Apparently they’ve taken to fortifying the mountain passes.” Pepin pointed out.



“Too slow and too late,” The Emperor replied, with a nasty grin. “We have the season on our side, many months till winter. The army will rest here for a day, then we march.”



So he did, and it was by mid-June that the army had begun to set off. Karloman had decided to forgo deception for speed and directness in his route.

“They’ll be expecting us to try and avoid their fortifications.” He explained to Pepin, “They’ll expect us to take the safer route, hug the coast around the mountains instead of through them. I can think of nothing better to unsettle our rebel friends than for the Emperor’s army to arrive in Italia in advance of expectations. So I suspect we ought to give Roamaldo a scare.”



If Karloman was at all concerned about how to breach the fortifications that scouts had claimed the rebels were throwing up on the Italian side of the Alps, he showed no signs of it as the army moved through the mountain passes. Fortunately it was summer and the weather was relatively fine, the biting cold of the winter freeze did not sap men’s strength or slay them in the night. The advance thus proceeded relatively swiftly.



By mid-July, the army of roughly 12’000 had emerged from the mountain passes into Italia for the first time. Guarding their main route was the fortress of Novara. The Italians had spent their weeks of waiting strengthening the fort’s walls with sandbags and ditches, hoping to deter the onrush of Frankish siege engines.



Karloman was undettered.



“Get siege towers, rams and ladders up, cut down every tree within two miles, and save the wood you do not use,” he told Pepin briskly. “You can oversee the siege engines construction, I’ll keep working on other ways to promote the fort’s fall.”


“Even with the siege engines up, we still don’t have a way to get past the ditch.” Pepin pointed out.


“You’ll see what I have in mind,” Karloman told his son briskly, “Just do your part.”


Realising he would gain no more information by pressing his father, Pepin obediently rushed off, finding himself enjoying the prospect of overseeing siege work once more. He had missed the rigours of campaign life as well, much as he adored his wife and his young sons.



As for Karloman, he seemed to pre-occupy himself with scribes and couriers, sending out a dozen messages over the next two days, with men riding in all directions.





Four days after Karloman had given the orders to besiege Novara, Pepin returned to find his father in session with his war council.



“Siege engines are ready as promised father, what news?”


Karloman looked up, smiling at his son’s entry and gesturing him to take his seat at his right hand. A place of prominence, signalling to all those present that Pepin enjoyed Karloman’s full confidence, not only as his heir presumptive, but in military matters as well.



“Developments abound my son, and many of them good,” Karloman began. “Shalom’s spies have spread word of our coming far and wide, and I have it on good authority Duke Roamaldo is nervous. He was not expecting us on this side of winter.” He glanced at Pepin, “You did a good thing raising the reserve levy and marching out to find me, passivity would’ve cost us valuable time.”


Pepin nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “You have taught me the value of boldness in many campaigns.”


“You learned well,” Karloman acknowledged, turning back to his councillors. “I’ve also dispatched word to his Holiness, expressing a view that those who have raised arms against the god-anointed Emperor of Rome ought be denied communion and excommunicated so long as they remain in arms against their rightful Emperor. No doubt he shall agree within the week. Furthermore, word has come from Montferrato and Torino that both towns are held primarily by sellswords, who might well be enjoined to switch sides with sufficient gold.”


“What of Milano?” the Duke of Tolouse asked.



“Duke Roamaldo’s stronghold remains firm, but the man himself has gone to ground in Mantova,” Karloman replied crisply. “A wise move, the latter is heavily fortified and easier to defend. But have no fear, for I mean to turn his fortress into a cage that traps him as surely as any dungeon.”


“It might take years to breach the walls,” the Duke of Tolouse shivered, “I have seen Mantova myself, it is no swift conquest.”


Karloman turned his cold pale eyes upon the Duke, and those who knew what that look meant felt a shiver up their spines. “If it takes years, then I have years,” Karloman replied, with a shrug, “The Duke will learn well that it is unwise to spit upon my mercy.”



A grim silence echoed across the room at that. They knew full well what Karloman’s mercies consisted of when someone defied him so blatantly.



“But that’s a matter for another time. I mean to save the Duke till last.” He continued. “For now, it’s Novara that concerns me. And there’s a reason I ordered every tree in two miles chopped down.”


The work had indeed been completed. What had once been thriving forest land around the region had been stripped bare like bushy beard shaved down to the finest grains of hair, only weeping stumps remained of the mighty wood that had reigned over this region around Novara now.



“Something has to fill up the ditch,” Pepin replied, realising where his father’s mind was heading.”

“Aye, and we needed our siege engines to do it first. I’ve also had some of our other men cutting strips of wood into makeshift bridges to solidify a path for our ladders and battering rams. I doubt most of the men inside that fort have the means to set them on fire, but I’ll make sure we have them covered with wet hides while on the approach to the fort. That’ll be enough to protect them. We can approach from multiple sides fortunately, and there’s enough room to deploy larger numbers from the north and west.”


“Got it all planned out then father hey?” Pepin grinned, “I knew I would miss this work.”


“Back into it now son,” Karloman grinned, realising, not for the first time, that he and his son got along best on campaigns like this. “Back into it now.”





As it turned out, the fall of Novara proceeded briskly from that point on. The following day’s assault did not go as planned, when Karloman’s initial plans were foiled by a sudden outbreak of searingly hot weather. Fearing that the archers upon the walls of the fort might find it easy to light fires to their siege engines, even with the protection they had devised, Karloman gave orders to wait for cooler times.



God smiled upon them just two days later, when a cooling of temperatures brought a resumption of the assault. Within fourty-eight hours, Novara’s walls were swarmed and the outnumbered and surrounded Italian garrison that remained yielded the fort to Karloman.





Further good news came from the south, Pope Honorius had decreed an excommunication upon the rebels who had raised arms against the Emperor, and decreed that no good Christian should supply neither aid nor comfort to those determined to resist Karloman’s justice.



Karloman was almost purring with satisfaction at this news, and wasted no time sending envoys to Montferrato and Torino, ordering the surrender of both places, offering to spare all those who had previously sided with the rebels if they returned to the fold.





But not all news was good, for a day later a rider from the north arrived bearing strange news. Strange news regarding a robbery at a certain secret place in Rheims…



“The Crown of Lombardy?” Pepin asked.



His father gazed back at him, mind clearly working on some other distant problem, only half-engaged in the bizarre news that had come from the north. “So it seems,” Karloman replied, “Though by whom and for what purpose it was taken I cannot fathom.”

“Obviously one should think the rebels have it,” Pepin replied, confused as to why his father might think otherwise.



“The logical suspects,” Karloman conceded with a placating gesture. “But why not come forward with it then? A symbol like that would unite the rebel lords beneath a single banner, convince them of the legitimacy of rebellion. If nothing else, it might counter the wavering resolve that some will feel as a result of excommunication. But nobody has stepped forward with the crown. None have claimed the kingship of old Lombardy? Why?”

“Someone else then,” Pepin ventured, “Or it hasn’t arrived yet?”


“Either one is possible.” Karloman replied, “In any case, it’s not worth worrying about for now. Not unless it shows up in the hands of one rebel lord or another. Perhaps some thief was hired to steal it and then decided he’d gain a better price by pawning it off to some travelling merchant? Who can say? I don’t intend to bother with it.”

“Do you mean to inform the lords of the robbery?” Pepin asked.



Karloman stared at him. “And reveal that the security of one of our vaults was breached? Give legitimacy to the claim of whichever Italian lord might step forward with the crown in future? Have you lost your wit son?” he shook his head. “I shall say nothing of it and nor shall you, if all else fails, and some rebels produces the Crown, we shall claim it a forgery, and accuse said lord of falseness and raising himself above his station. Those who side with us shall believe us, and those who dislike said lord will denounce him and name him a liar for no other reason than that it suits them.”

“Symbols have power father,”



Karloman waved his hand dismissively snorting.

“Only what we deign to give them, and I’ve met no symbol stronger than steel and fire. I mean to serve the rebels both.”





Two days later, another band of messengers arrived, but this time they came from Torino and Montferrato…



OOC: Next time, the rebels strike back:):)
 
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I have no doubt that there will be rebel victories, but in the end God and Emperor will prevail. Some families will lose their titles and their names will only exist in history's remembrances. But new families will sprout forward to replace the removed weeds and rule a new Italia. Thank you for the update
 
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A strong start to the campaign, and it's nice to see Pepin and Karloman working well together. I'm perplexed that the crown is still missing but I look forward to finding out where it went
 
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Huh an actual Italian rebellion. I lost track on how many years has passed but usually one failed rebellion are enough deter any more faction but apparently this was not enough for Lombards
 
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LPDK 356 said:
“The Duke will learn well that it is unwise to spit upon my mercy.”
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I am a complete sucker for badass one liners, and this, sir, is a superb example of one! Great writing!
 
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iain_a_wilson said:
I am a complete sucker for badass one liners, and this, sir, is a superb example of one! Great writing!
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Thanks very much!

Apologies for being slow, but I expect my next update shall be published in a day or two. Thanks for your patience and forebearance, and I hope everyone out there is staying safe in a dangerous and uncertain world:)
 
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Mantova, Italia.

Duke Roamaldo received the word of the surrender of Novara with grim fatality. He summoned his councillors and commanders to his side immediately.



“The first part of our plan has failed,” he explained through gritted teeth. “Karloman has moved more swiftly than anticipated and has broken onto the Peninsula proper, so we’ll have to adjust our strategy.”



He paused, took a gulp of water and then continued, “Bottling Karloman up west of Milano seems the best course, he is between us and the Po Valley and thus he will be able to re-supply his troops through either foraging or pillage without us being able to do much to prevent him, so it’s vital we keep him confined there. I shall ask my fellow lords further south to contribute some levies from their own holdings to shore up Milano’s defenses. In the meantime, I intend to entrust one of you with a purse of coin to hire Venetian sellswords from the Duke of Venice. He has had dealings with Karloman in the past, but he’s flexible enough to know it’s better to keep himself useful to all who need his services.”



The room was silent. That the Duke was having to change his plans so soon into the conflict was troubling. So far, the areas that remained loyal to the Emperor were showing little signs of buckling, and the Duke of Benevento had remained stubbornly impassive to Italian prodding and pillaging of his lands to convince him to join the rebellion. The plan had been to keep Karloman out of Italy long enough to make their position unassailable, and that had clearly failed.



And plenty of these men knew just how dangerous Karloman could be in the field with an army.



“What’s the best way to do that?” A grizzled cavalry commander, Beric, who had spoken, was an old friend of Duke Roamaldo’s, and already had a fairly good idea of what his master’s plan would be. Karloman’s forces would need to be prevented from marching too far east to lay siege of Milano, or to break into the rest of Italia further south.



“We’ll have to leave up the pressure on His Holiness I think,” Roamaldo replied, “Redirect our forces further north. His Holiness can always be… persuaded to review our excommunication and treat with the King of Italia after we have won our freedom.”

“Then we have to keep Karloman in the west,”



Duke Roamaldo grinned at Beric’s interjection.



“And that’s where your men will be useful, old friend…”





Montferrato, Italia.

Montferrato, and Torino alongside it, had yielded itself up to Karloman without further fight, the town’s authorities pledging their renewed loyalty to the Frankish cause and insisting they had been trick, threatened, misled, so terribly misled!.



Karloman imposed upon both towns an indemnity and ordered them to pay an increased rate of taxation over the next five years. He spared the senior officials of the town from execution, to their profuse gratitude, and encamped his troops outside the town itself rather than billeting them with the population inside that might strain their resources or food supplies.



His appearance in the region had caused a stir, and scouts reported that the rebels appeared to have shifted their plans in the wake of his army appearing on the south side of the Alps. The Duke of Benevento’s territory, which had previously been menaced and pillaged by rebel forces, now apparently was reporting large contingents of rebel soldiers moving north. Karloman’s own supporters over the Po river also reported troop contingents moving to reinforce Milano.



“We have them scared,” Karloman told Pepin in a tone of grim satisfaction. “They did not expect us so soon on this side of the Alps. Perhaps they’d hoped to have another winter.”


“Well then let’s make the most of it.”


“I agree,” Karloman replied, “It’ll be a straight march east to Milano from here. The Duke is not there, but his people and forces are. I plan to tear the city down stone by stone and give it over to plunder. Then I shall besiege Mantova, while crushing every other rebel army on the peninsula. Let the Duke sit and stew impotently in his fortress while his allies are crushed one by one. He thinks himself untouchable behind high walls, but I shall turn his castle into his cage.”


Once he had been assured of Torino and Montferrat’s contrition, Karloman moved his force out of their encampment and upended it, marching east along the main road to Milano, the centre of Duke Roamaldo’s power and the seat of his court. A swift siege to bring down the gates and take the centre of his power would see the destruction of the major rebellious city in the north, and break the will of the defenders to resist elsewhere…





…If only it would be that easy, Pepin thought gloomily to himself as he gritted his teeth and wiped the sweat from his eyes and the blood from his blade.

His eyes stang from the smoke that the raiders had sent billowing into the air with their brisk nighttime assault. Even with Karloman’s usual scrupulousness in pitching his army’s camp, the Italian cavalry had managed to ambush them in the dead of night, setting fire to a number of tents and supply stores.



And worse, they had gotten away.



He looked up and wiped the sweat and smoke from his eyes to see his father off in the distance through the haze of leftover smoke. He was barking orders to nearby infantrymen as they cleared away burnt rubble.

“You must be getting old father,” Pepin grinned as he approached.



Karloman whipped around to glare at him. He was NOT in the mood for levity.



“They’ll hit us again tomorrow night,” he told Pepin.



The Prince nodded, “Aye, they will, and they know the country better than we do.”


“And every day we delay, the rebels fortify themselves further,” Karloman replied through gritted teeth. “We’re at the end of a long supply line and I’ve no doubt they’ll harass any foraging party we send out.”



“Seems they’ve decided to target us, instead of wasting time on the Duke of Benevento.”


“Well they had to use their brains eventually,” Karloman grimaced as the infantryman he had been berating just a few moments earlier staggered away, a pile of burnt and scorched black wood laid out across his shoulder. “We’ll have to adapt ourselves.”


“We do the thing we did in Spain?” Pepin asked.



“We do the thing we did in Spain.” Karloman confirmed.





Pepin knew what he meant, fast-moving, hit-and-run cavalry squadrons roaming the countryside in small groups. But this time it wasn’t to harass the enemy, but to screen the flanks of the army and prevent the enemy harassing them.



“I’ll have them set up within the hour father. And I’ll command one myself.”

“Someone better,” Karloman glowered, “Or this war won’t go as well as I’d planned.”


November 796 Mantova.

Duke Roamaldo got word of Karloman’s moving east in early November, and sent word south to the Count of Firenze.



“Cut him off in the rear. Hassle his baggage trains and if you can, wait for an opportunity to re-take Novara from the garrison he left there. I guarantee if you do this, Karloman’s army shall be trapped upon the peninsula and he will run himself out of food over the winter months.”


It took several weeks to hear word that the Count of Firenze was indeed moving north, and as Karloman’s forces inched ever closer to Milano, Duke Roamaldo became frustrated that Beric’s reports indicated their harassing raids were less effective. Karloman had adapted by splitting his own cavalry into small light groups that screened the army, quick enough to intercept any Italian raiding force, and capable of pursuing them in turn if they fled. It was simply too dangerous, Beric said, to mount another night-time raid of the kind that had been so successful the first night they had done it.



“Well, it’s the Count’s turn to shine…” Roamaldo muttered. The risk was that he might do too well, give the man ideas above his station, enhance his prestige in the new Italia that would be born from their victory.



But he’d deal with that later, if it came to that.



OOC: War continues! Karloman gets a couple of towns surrendering and marches toward Milano but the Italians are repositioning and shifting their strategy so things are highly fluid. Next post will probably be up on the weekend.

Much obliged for your patience everyone:)
 
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No clear victor in this conflict thus far, but it seems the duke of Milan is too busy commanding everybody else to even do some of the heavy lifting himself. Glad to see Pepin and Karloman bonding in this campaign, even if it's pretty much the only way they can.
 
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I expected the revolt to crumple a lot sooner. It looks like the Italians have some wits to them. Though I expect Karloman will be able to succeed, I wonder if it will be worth the price
 
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slothinator said:
I expected the revolt to crumple a lot sooner. It looks like the Italians have some wits to them. Though I expect Karloman will be able to succeed, I wonder if it will be worth the price
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This rebellion is more serious than the other one for sure! And it will take him longer to crush it.

But if he wins, hell won't wait long for any rebel that survives his victory...
 
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Novara, 796

Count Eanred of Firenze had figured it was his moment to distinguish himself.



Karloman had left a small garrison behind to defend his captured prize.



It had not escaped his notice that Duke Roamaldo, who was not his overlord, had sent him naught but a curt message demanding, nay ordering him to lay siege to Novara.



As though they were his orders to give.



Eanred was no fool, the one who distinguished themselves best in this conflict would have the highest claim to be King of the new Italia. Let others squabble about dynasties and blood claims, he would prove himself worthy of the Italian throne on the field of battle. Taking Novara and cutting off Karloman’s line of retreat for the first step, but not the last.



Further south, he knew Duke Lambert of Modena had amassed his forces and was marshalling around the city. Karloman would be busy dealing with them for the time being.





And he knew exactly how he was going to retake Novara…



“Approach with the olive branch, reverse standard.”



“Ser?” His guard looked at him as though he had lost his mind.



“You heard me, do it.” Count Eanred repeated.



They did so, looking in askance at each other. The Olive Branch, the sigil of peace and diplomacy was run up to replace the standard of the Count of Firenze. But in it’s reverse position, it was a standard not of parley but surrender.



The gates rolled open, the commander of the garrison, bearing the standard of the Frankish Emperor, had rode out to meet them accompanied by a small retinue.



“Why have you come, rebel?” the man spoke in rough, broken Italian.



Eanred raised an eyebrow. He had not expected a Frankish commander to be fluent.



“We have come to surrender to the Emperor’s forces.” He announced loudly. “I have come to renounce my allegiance to the traitors and to re-affirm my loyalty to Emperor Karloman.”


The garrison commander had been quick to take the small group of rebels at their word. Had agreed to allow them into the fortress, arms, armour and honour intact, so long as they pledged before God their re-affirmed loyalty to the Emperor. All willingly did so, and were welcomed into the fortress at the invitation of the garrison commander who, buoyed by his success, ordered a feast be held in the hall to celebrate the return of even more Italians to the fold. Victory, he was sure, would soon be assured, especially when the newly-surrendered rebels told him that a nearby army had put down it’s weapons and refused to fight Karloman, allowing him free passage east towards Milan.



The wine flowed expansively that night, and the hosts got more and more drunk. The guests, surreptitiously, made sure they watered down their wine and frequently excused themselves to nature’s calling, only to toss large portions of their goblets over the walls. Dusk turned to night, and a still silence fell over the plain before the fortress.



If any attentive guards had remained, the small force of five hundred men who crept towards the walls in the dark would’ve been spotted, but the feast had been open to all and none wanted to be the one on duty while the rest partied.



Thus it was when the hosts began to fall asleep from over-indulgence on the wine that the signal was given, the rebels struck, cut the throat of the garrison commander and rapidly butchered any of his surprised compatriots who might have been tempted to resist. Then they marched outside the hallway, killed the few sleeping guards atop the walls and opened the gates to their fellows.



The massacre was swift and complete, and by dawn, Novara was theirs again. The rebels were triumphant, and Karloman’s main supply and reinforcement route was cut…



And if any worried that they would be held accountable for swearing false oaths before God, Count Eanred assured them that God recognised the good and evil in men’s souls, and that no deed done in the service of a free Italia could be looked at with anything but kindness by Him.



What God actually thought of this remained unanswered.



Near Milano, January 796.


Karloman’s forces arrived on the outskirts of the city with full awareness that their only supply route had now been blocked. A rider galloping into the camp in the middle of the night had spread the news far and wide before Karloman had even the slightest hope of hushing it up. Rather than gnash his teeth over the way in which word got out, the Emperor changed his tack. Instead he exhorted his men to march further, onto to Milano, for if their route of supply from over the Alps was cut off, only by pillaging Italia’s rich lands and plundering the cities of the rebels would they find food and succor. For the moment, it seemed to work, and they had marched behind their beloved Emperor with minimal fuss.



Pepin, not for the first time, marvelled at the loyalty his father’s soldiers showed him, but a gnawing doubt crept into the back of his mind as to whether they would stay so loyal if hunger really set in…



And Novara…It wasn’t like his father to make such a mistake as leaving his rear guarded by such an inept captain with so small a garrison. But he had done…



He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. Everybody made mistakes, and Karloman was no different.



Instead it was Pepin’s task to continue to push the deployment of the siege engines for the upcoming conflict over Milano. The attackers had brought their engines and their baggage train with the supplies they did possess, but the defenders had used the time well, dug into their fortifications and further emptied the ditch that cross the front of Milan’s walls to prevent any enemy emergence towards it.



“It’ll take too long to starve them out, and the walls are too well-fortified to storm them without significant losses we can’t afford.”

Karloman and Pepin sat atop their horses, surveying the formidable walls of the city from their vantage point a few miles away.



“What’s the plan then?” Pepin asked, knowing full well his father was already thinking of something.”

“Not yet,” Karloman replied raising a hand to forestall him, “It’s still coming together, but we need a plan that brings us victory with limited time, both for the morale boost and to plunder the city for supplies…”

His words trailed off and Pepin followed his father’s gaze towards the west gate of the city. A gate no less formidable than much of the wall that surrounded it, hard and thick wood inlaid with metal plates to strengthen it. The blacksmiths had been busy before the besiegers had arrived, and had done their work well.



“What? What are you thinking?” Pepin pressed him as a small mirthless grin broke out over his father’s face.



“Wait for a day with unseasonably hot weather.” Was all his father told him.







The very next day, more bad news came from the north, as Torino and Montferrat had switched sides… again.



Karloman did not seem ruffled. “They’ll keep.” He told the council of war that had assembled. “They’ll keep.”



And he ordered his siege engines into position to begin firing at the gates. Not rocks and boulders, but sticks and planks of wood. Many, many planks of wood…




OOC: Losses in the north as gains from prior victories are reversed, but Karloman seems unbothered as he besieges Milano and cooks up a new scheme. We'll have the results of the siege, and the gathering of the rebel armies to the north and south, in the next post:)
 
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