Pepin, leading a military campaign, has me expecting RNG to deliver a crushing blow. How old are the boys? What is the empire's succession plan? Thank you for the update.
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Oh boy, another campaign in Hispania, let's hope OTL's Roncesvalles doesn't occur here even when the Saxon threat is already gone. And good lord, 15 thousand troops? It's a good thing the Empire has a presence in the Peninsula or else Asturias stands no chance of beating back this growing power, and judging by that truce with the Byzantines, seems they have just taken the Balearic islands as well, there goes the last of Justinian's conquests undone and the last remaining foothold the Romans will ever have that's close to Hispania, that said, those islands would make for a good springboard for future invasions on Umayyad holdings in Iberia no? Just some food for thought 
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Yeah, they seized the Balearic isles while Eirene was busy fighting the Bulgars. Can't really blame her for focusing on threats closer to home (and she won that war btw), but it's certainly left the west more threatened.Oh boy, another campaign in Hispania, let's hope OTL's Roncesvalles doesn't occur here even when the Saxon threat is already gone. And good lord, 15 thousand troops? It's a good thing the Empire has a presence in the Peninsula or else Asturias stands no chance of beating back this growing power, and judging by that truce with the Byzantines, seems they have just taken the Balearic islands as well, there goes the last of Justinian's conquests undone and the last remaining foothold the Romans will ever have that's close to Hispania, that said, those islands would make for a good springboard for future invasions on Umayyad holdings in Iberia no? Just some food for thought
And yeah, Asturias shrinking was the main reason I wanted another campaign down there, since they're down to basically one county... If all else fails, the Empire gets lands there and stops the whole peninsula being Umayyad dominated.
Oh, and I mentioned the conquest of Tangiers, being ruled by the Qutid Dynasty? Keep those guys in mind. They'll be important later
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Iberia is in a mighty precarious state at the moment, I imagine that Asturias will be left as a mere spectator in their own region.
Also, on a meta level, will the reconquista trigger if Asturias disappears? I'm not sure about the conditions; I made a French reconquista mod a while ago but the information has abandoned me
Also, on a meta level, will the reconquista trigger if Asturias disappears? I'm not sure about the conditions; I made a French reconquista mod a while ago but the information has abandoned me
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February 801. Barcelona, Umayyad Sultanate.
The news came from Rome just as Pepin was ready to embark on the campaign…
Pope Honorius II was dead, the architect of Karloman’s coronation as Imperator Romanorum passed from the world peacefully in his sleep, without stirring once. That his death had been incoming was not a shock to Pepin, whom had heard his father relay Honorius’s own words to him about his impending demise, but nevertheless many of the lords felt it prudent not to move ahead on their holy war until they had confirmation from the new Pope, whomever that may well have been.
The confirmation of Pope Nicolaus did much to reassure them. He had been a Frankish Cardinal, and a reliable backer of Emperor Karloman. Pepin felt confident enough that he would consent that he was able to persuade his fellows to begin the campaign immediately upon hearing of the new Pope’s ascension, so certain were they that he would consent to whatever campaign the Emperor wished to undertake.
So it was that the Crown Prince, in his capacity as Duke of Aragon, marched his forces south. Hugging the coastline as they departed from the Empire’s Spanish Marches, they made threatening moves toward the direction of Barcelona, the city founded by Hannibal Barca of ancient Carthage.
Strong high walls greeted them, and it quickly became apparent to the Prince that his siege engines would not be able to breach the walls at present. Rather then settle for a prolonged siege, he split his horsemen into three large, roving groups, and commanded them to ravage the countryside across the Emirate. It was his imperial father he would have to emulate here.
“Bring fire and sword to every farm and hamlet from here to Toledo that you find.” The Crown Prince ordered of his cavalry commanders. He stopped, swallowed, then steeled himself, “And kill every infidel you encounter. No quarter.”
The price of war was thus, he told himself in the moments of quiet doubt that haunted his efforts to sleep. They would be unlikely to take Barcelona with a prolonged siege so long as they remained behind their thick walls. But to draw out the defenders and face them on open ground, that was the key to victory…
North Africa, Umayyad Sultanate.
Sultan Zeyd beamed beneath his beard as he accepted the surrender of the King of Tangiers. Humbled in repeated battles by his army, the King had felt the need to accept Zeyd’s demand that he and his kingdom be subject to the laws of the Sultanate.
So it was with rage that he met the news of the Frankish incursion into Barcelona, and the call for help from the Emir. Bereft of either Christians or Franks to vent his rage on, the Sultan vented his fury on the hapless messenger who brought the news, having his hands chopped off and nailing them to wooden planks on the door to the villa he had sequestered in the final stage of the peace negotiations. The Sultan’s advisors and his two wives whom he had brought on campaign scattered and cowered before him, for Zeyd in a rage was not a figure anybody wished to make angry.
But his rage cooled when bereft of resistance, so he sat himself upon his throne, and brooded. Despite his tendencies to rage, the Sultan was not a foolish man. Energetic and able, he had turned around the decline of his kingdom and asserted himself against ambitious rivals and relatives whom had sought to rule, either through him or by stepping over his corpse.
He felt for sure he could handle the incursion of some Frankish princeling. So it was that he emerged that same night, giving orders for the troops, to immediately prepare to embark for the ships to sail back to Hispania, and for them to leave immediately as soon as the weather allowed.
Iberia, April 801
The raids of Pepin’s cavalry did not have quite the effect he was hoping for. The response from the Ummayad’s was to set their own horsemen out into the open, and engage in ambushes. Lacking local scouts, and their enemies familiarity with the terrain, Pepin’s horsemen were ambushed repeatedly as they attempted to carry out their orders.
“And the enemy still stubbornly remains behind the walls,” Pepin snarled as word of the most recent attack on one of his cavalry raiding parties arrived.
Some of the councillers present cast glances around the room. Were it Karloman in command, none of them would dare consider it, but with the strategy failing and with the Crown Prince becoming frustrated, perhaps they had a chance.
“Highness, perhaps there is a lesson in this? If we cannot invest properly in the siege of Barcelona, perhaps shift the ground to battle of our choosing? Withdraw back into Aragon. If the word is true that the Sultan’s army sails from North Africa, we would be wise to meet them on a battlefield more favourable to us. I have little doubt they will use the opportunity created by our apparent retreat to try and assault our territories in the Spanish Marches. Perhaps we withdraw to our own lands, dig in, and wait for the enemy to arrive? If the Sultan’s fleet has the winds on it’s side, he could be in Iberia before summer is out, and the decisive battle could be fought on a terrain we choose.”
It was Duke Theodoric of Toulouse whom had spoken. It was a testament to how well-accustomed the lords were too having little say in the functions of the campaign that nobody else dared do more than make a tiny nod in agreement with his thoughts.
What might have earned him a dirty glare from Karloman on a good day provoked nothing but a small, mirthless grin in Pepin. “I think you may be right Theodoric,” Pepin replied, “It’s safer ground if we withdraw to Aragon, and we know the country there in ways that we do not here. Forcing Zeyd’s army to confront us on ground of our choosing works to our advantage. We can always return to take Barcelona again once he’s defeated.”
A long breath was drawn out across the room, possibly of relief. The son was not the father. He was happy to take counsel, even on military matters, where his father had always taken care to make himself the unchallenged master in the Empire. It had perhaps taken them some time to adjust to the fact that, with Pepin the command tent, things might operate a little differently.
So the tactical withdrawal began, the Emperor pulling back his cavalry raiders to guard the flanks of the main column as it retreated, hoping to avoid any more sudden ambushes as the main army wound itself around like a snake across a trail to withdraw back towards the Duchy of Aragon…
Within weeks, The Sultan’s army would not be far behind…
OOC: Lot of work to do this week, but I wanted a long post up so people could have lots to read! Thanks for your patience.
The news came from Rome just as Pepin was ready to embark on the campaign…
Pope Honorius II was dead, the architect of Karloman’s coronation as Imperator Romanorum passed from the world peacefully in his sleep, without stirring once. That his death had been incoming was not a shock to Pepin, whom had heard his father relay Honorius’s own words to him about his impending demise, but nevertheless many of the lords felt it prudent not to move ahead on their holy war until they had confirmation from the new Pope, whomever that may well have been.
The confirmation of Pope Nicolaus did much to reassure them. He had been a Frankish Cardinal, and a reliable backer of Emperor Karloman. Pepin felt confident enough that he would consent that he was able to persuade his fellows to begin the campaign immediately upon hearing of the new Pope’s ascension, so certain were they that he would consent to whatever campaign the Emperor wished to undertake.
So it was that the Crown Prince, in his capacity as Duke of Aragon, marched his forces south. Hugging the coastline as they departed from the Empire’s Spanish Marches, they made threatening moves toward the direction of Barcelona, the city founded by Hannibal Barca of ancient Carthage.
Strong high walls greeted them, and it quickly became apparent to the Prince that his siege engines would not be able to breach the walls at present. Rather then settle for a prolonged siege, he split his horsemen into three large, roving groups, and commanded them to ravage the countryside across the Emirate. It was his imperial father he would have to emulate here.
“Bring fire and sword to every farm and hamlet from here to Toledo that you find.” The Crown Prince ordered of his cavalry commanders. He stopped, swallowed, then steeled himself, “And kill every infidel you encounter. No quarter.”
The price of war was thus, he told himself in the moments of quiet doubt that haunted his efforts to sleep. They would be unlikely to take Barcelona with a prolonged siege so long as they remained behind their thick walls. But to draw out the defenders and face them on open ground, that was the key to victory…
North Africa, Umayyad Sultanate.
Sultan Zeyd beamed beneath his beard as he accepted the surrender of the King of Tangiers. Humbled in repeated battles by his army, the King had felt the need to accept Zeyd’s demand that he and his kingdom be subject to the laws of the Sultanate.
So it was with rage that he met the news of the Frankish incursion into Barcelona, and the call for help from the Emir. Bereft of either Christians or Franks to vent his rage on, the Sultan vented his fury on the hapless messenger who brought the news, having his hands chopped off and nailing them to wooden planks on the door to the villa he had sequestered in the final stage of the peace negotiations. The Sultan’s advisors and his two wives whom he had brought on campaign scattered and cowered before him, for Zeyd in a rage was not a figure anybody wished to make angry.
But his rage cooled when bereft of resistance, so he sat himself upon his throne, and brooded. Despite his tendencies to rage, the Sultan was not a foolish man. Energetic and able, he had turned around the decline of his kingdom and asserted himself against ambitious rivals and relatives whom had sought to rule, either through him or by stepping over his corpse.
He felt for sure he could handle the incursion of some Frankish princeling. So it was that he emerged that same night, giving orders for the troops, to immediately prepare to embark for the ships to sail back to Hispania, and for them to leave immediately as soon as the weather allowed.
Iberia, April 801
The raids of Pepin’s cavalry did not have quite the effect he was hoping for. The response from the Ummayad’s was to set their own horsemen out into the open, and engage in ambushes. Lacking local scouts, and their enemies familiarity with the terrain, Pepin’s horsemen were ambushed repeatedly as they attempted to carry out their orders.
“And the enemy still stubbornly remains behind the walls,” Pepin snarled as word of the most recent attack on one of his cavalry raiding parties arrived.
Some of the councillers present cast glances around the room. Were it Karloman in command, none of them would dare consider it, but with the strategy failing and with the Crown Prince becoming frustrated, perhaps they had a chance.
“Highness, perhaps there is a lesson in this? If we cannot invest properly in the siege of Barcelona, perhaps shift the ground to battle of our choosing? Withdraw back into Aragon. If the word is true that the Sultan’s army sails from North Africa, we would be wise to meet them on a battlefield more favourable to us. I have little doubt they will use the opportunity created by our apparent retreat to try and assault our territories in the Spanish Marches. Perhaps we withdraw to our own lands, dig in, and wait for the enemy to arrive? If the Sultan’s fleet has the winds on it’s side, he could be in Iberia before summer is out, and the decisive battle could be fought on a terrain we choose.”
It was Duke Theodoric of Toulouse whom had spoken. It was a testament to how well-accustomed the lords were too having little say in the functions of the campaign that nobody else dared do more than make a tiny nod in agreement with his thoughts.
What might have earned him a dirty glare from Karloman on a good day provoked nothing but a small, mirthless grin in Pepin. “I think you may be right Theodoric,” Pepin replied, “It’s safer ground if we withdraw to Aragon, and we know the country there in ways that we do not here. Forcing Zeyd’s army to confront us on ground of our choosing works to our advantage. We can always return to take Barcelona again once he’s defeated.”
A long breath was drawn out across the room, possibly of relief. The son was not the father. He was happy to take counsel, even on military matters, where his father had always taken care to make himself the unchallenged master in the Empire. It had perhaps taken them some time to adjust to the fact that, with Pepin the command tent, things might operate a little differently.
So the tactical withdrawal began, the Emperor pulling back his cavalry raiders to guard the flanks of the main column as it retreated, hoping to avoid any more sudden ambushes as the main army wound itself around like a snake across a trail to withdraw back towards the Duchy of Aragon…
Within weeks, The Sultan’s army would not be far behind…
OOC: Lot of work to do this week, but I wanted a long post up so people could have lots to read! Thanks for your patience.
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Pepin is turning out to be wise and prudent as a ruler, a good successor for the brash and ambitious Karloman.
As for the Sultan, he seems like a dangerous character with the power to back it up. I agree that Pepin's best hope lies in defensive warfare
As for the Sultan, he seems like a dangerous character with the power to back it up. I agree that Pepin's best hope lies in defensive warfare
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Just letting everyone know the next update is coming, but it's a long one and my day job has been kicking me in the proverbials, so it's just been slow going. But don't panic! It's on it's way
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April 801.
The Sultan’s forces had returned, Barcelona’s imminent safety was secured, but the Sultan knew an enemy as fearsome as the Franks would not have retreated permanently. His own scouts had reported that the Franks had withdrawn across the border to their own conquered lands, and were encamped near Tarragona, apparently for re-supply.
With a second army being raised in Toledo, the Sultan determined he would march his own forces from the African campaign, tired, but battle-hardened, into the conflict with Barcelona, while the second force would be instructed to march north and begin pillaging the Frankish controlled borderlands near the Kingdom of Asturias, hoping to divide the Frank’s attention, and their forces.
By early May the Sultan was advancing over the borders, hugging the coastline to ensure his easy re-supply by sea.
Pepin, for his part was well-informed of the Sultan’s movements. Now on Frankish ground, and having access to critical local intelligence, he had his forces dug in near Tarragona. It was the natural defensive fort for the entire region, the nerve centre for Frankish political control across the southern part of the Spanish Marches.
But Zeyd did not march for Tarragona. Realising that the Frankish host was prepared for a defense of the fort, he instead took his army towards the town of Tortosa, burning and looting every piece of Frankish property he found along the way. He knew full well the area was under the direct rule of Prince Pepin, and that by assaulting and burning the property of his adversary, he hoped to prompt the Prince to come out into the open with his army to defend his farmlands and the land workers sworn to him.
Weeks of pressure on Pepin from his own tenants to defend his own lands followed, and the reluctant Prince led his force of around six thousand to defend his territories under attack by the Sultan.
The two forces met near Tortosa on June 10th, in the early morning…
The Battle of Tortosa, June 10th, 801
The Crown Prince realised the Sultan had placed him at a disadvantage as his troops aligned for battle in their formations. His enemy’s right flank was protected by a harsh, rocky outcrop that jutted out from the ground and made it difficult for any of the Frankish cavalry to manouver at speed to launch a cavalry charge there.
“We’ll have to fight defensively,” Pepin told his officers, and re-arranged his plans accordingly. He lengthened his lines and shortened the depths in order to strengthen his flanks, and placed his best and most experienced fighting units, including the Frankish heavy horse, on the wings.
Pepin placed himself at the centre of the line, aiming to stiffen the resolve of the weaker troops there. In doing so he was making a statement, that he trusted the men in the centre to hold firm no matter what the enemy threw their way, and was risking capture or death by the end of the day if they failed.
The significance of the gesture was not lost on them. He made no verbal reference to it, but everyone present clearly understood his meaning.
The battle started with skirmishing, though bold and vigorous, the Sultan knew his enemy was still formidable, and did not seek to blunder forward into any kind of trap his Frankish enemy might have set for him. Spears were thrown and enemies felled on both sides, but after half an hour, neither side achieved decisive breakthroughs and retreated.
Then the Sultan’s attack began, his light horsemen mounted the charge on the Frankish right, forcing the Franks to counter. A violent melee broke out on the right.
But it was the centre where the main battle would occur. The Umayyad forces advanced swiftly, striking directly at the heart of the outnumbered Frankish forces, but the Prince ordered his forces to hold the line, plunging into and then back out of battle himself as he did so.
The confusion of the melee on the right was so complete and had stirred up so much dust that neither main army could see which side was emerging triumphant from the confused, tangled mass of horses and men.
Pepin too, had flung himself into the fight, the roar in his ears incredible. The smell of blood and dirt was one that he rarely experienced so closely, and fighting on foot gave him less of a vantage point when he normally would’ve commanded a flank in his father’s army, and been ahead of a cavalry charge…
No, not this time. This time he fought for his life.
The enemy broke away, then re-engaged, clashed, and melted back again. By midday hundreds of corpses were strewn across the frontline, a twisted mess of terrible, tangled remains that looked unnatural in their stillness.
The dust rising off the cavalry melee made it impossible to see what was happening. So impossible that it wasn’t until the remnents of the Frankish cavalry came crashing back into their own lines… followed briskly by the victorious Moors, that Pepin realised the Frankish right was exposed and about to fall.
Shouting for his horse, the Prince mounted his animal and charged off to issue his instructions. Seeing the familiar figure of their general may have stiffened the wavering courage of those on the right… or perhaps the brazenness of his charge forced the Umayyad’s to reconsider… but when the Moslem cavalry slammed into a wall of steel and spears, Pepin was there to meet them.
He heard a roar in his ears, then a crashing sound as the world seemed to spin before his eyes.
Then a sharp pain in his side through his armor.
The roar slowed to a dull whine, and the open sky swam before his face, as he felt a pain in his ribs and chest.
He dimly realised he was no longer ahorse…
A few brief, worried-looking faces swam before his fading vision just before he slipped from the land of the conscious and into a fitful sleep…
OOC:
I will have another further post up sometime next week...
The Sultan’s forces had returned, Barcelona’s imminent safety was secured, but the Sultan knew an enemy as fearsome as the Franks would not have retreated permanently. His own scouts had reported that the Franks had withdrawn across the border to their own conquered lands, and were encamped near Tarragona, apparently for re-supply.
With a second army being raised in Toledo, the Sultan determined he would march his own forces from the African campaign, tired, but battle-hardened, into the conflict with Barcelona, while the second force would be instructed to march north and begin pillaging the Frankish controlled borderlands near the Kingdom of Asturias, hoping to divide the Frank’s attention, and their forces.
By early May the Sultan was advancing over the borders, hugging the coastline to ensure his easy re-supply by sea.
Pepin, for his part was well-informed of the Sultan’s movements. Now on Frankish ground, and having access to critical local intelligence, he had his forces dug in near Tarragona. It was the natural defensive fort for the entire region, the nerve centre for Frankish political control across the southern part of the Spanish Marches.
But Zeyd did not march for Tarragona. Realising that the Frankish host was prepared for a defense of the fort, he instead took his army towards the town of Tortosa, burning and looting every piece of Frankish property he found along the way. He knew full well the area was under the direct rule of Prince Pepin, and that by assaulting and burning the property of his adversary, he hoped to prompt the Prince to come out into the open with his army to defend his farmlands and the land workers sworn to him.
Weeks of pressure on Pepin from his own tenants to defend his own lands followed, and the reluctant Prince led his force of around six thousand to defend his territories under attack by the Sultan.
The two forces met near Tortosa on June 10th, in the early morning…
The Battle of Tortosa, June 10th, 801
The Crown Prince realised the Sultan had placed him at a disadvantage as his troops aligned for battle in their formations. His enemy’s right flank was protected by a harsh, rocky outcrop that jutted out from the ground and made it difficult for any of the Frankish cavalry to manouver at speed to launch a cavalry charge there.
“We’ll have to fight defensively,” Pepin told his officers, and re-arranged his plans accordingly. He lengthened his lines and shortened the depths in order to strengthen his flanks, and placed his best and most experienced fighting units, including the Frankish heavy horse, on the wings.
Pepin placed himself at the centre of the line, aiming to stiffen the resolve of the weaker troops there. In doing so he was making a statement, that he trusted the men in the centre to hold firm no matter what the enemy threw their way, and was risking capture or death by the end of the day if they failed.
The significance of the gesture was not lost on them. He made no verbal reference to it, but everyone present clearly understood his meaning.
The battle started with skirmishing, though bold and vigorous, the Sultan knew his enemy was still formidable, and did not seek to blunder forward into any kind of trap his Frankish enemy might have set for him. Spears were thrown and enemies felled on both sides, but after half an hour, neither side achieved decisive breakthroughs and retreated.
Then the Sultan’s attack began, his light horsemen mounted the charge on the Frankish right, forcing the Franks to counter. A violent melee broke out on the right.
But it was the centre where the main battle would occur. The Umayyad forces advanced swiftly, striking directly at the heart of the outnumbered Frankish forces, but the Prince ordered his forces to hold the line, plunging into and then back out of battle himself as he did so.
The confusion of the melee on the right was so complete and had stirred up so much dust that neither main army could see which side was emerging triumphant from the confused, tangled mass of horses and men.
Pepin too, had flung himself into the fight, the roar in his ears incredible. The smell of blood and dirt was one that he rarely experienced so closely, and fighting on foot gave him less of a vantage point when he normally would’ve commanded a flank in his father’s army, and been ahead of a cavalry charge…
No, not this time. This time he fought for his life.
The enemy broke away, then re-engaged, clashed, and melted back again. By midday hundreds of corpses were strewn across the frontline, a twisted mess of terrible, tangled remains that looked unnatural in their stillness.
The dust rising off the cavalry melee made it impossible to see what was happening. So impossible that it wasn’t until the remnents of the Frankish cavalry came crashing back into their own lines… followed briskly by the victorious Moors, that Pepin realised the Frankish right was exposed and about to fall.
Shouting for his horse, the Prince mounted his animal and charged off to issue his instructions. Seeing the familiar figure of their general may have stiffened the wavering courage of those on the right… or perhaps the brazenness of his charge forced the Umayyad’s to reconsider… but when the Moslem cavalry slammed into a wall of steel and spears, Pepin was there to meet them.
He heard a roar in his ears, then a crashing sound as the world seemed to spin before his eyes.
Then a sharp pain in his side through his armor.
The roar slowed to a dull whine, and the open sky swam before his face, as he felt a pain in his ribs and chest.
He dimly realised he was no longer ahorse…
A few brief, worried-looking faces swam before his fading vision just before he slipped from the land of the conscious and into a fitful sleep…
OOC:
I will have another further post up sometime next week...
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Pepin - severely wounded/captured/killed. Karloman may have to resort to Plan B. Update soon, please. Super cliffhangers are tough on the heart and I have always feared for Pepin.
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I know they're tough... that's why I did it
And yes, definitely will get into what happens to Pepin and the possible implications in the next post, don't worry. I won't drag out the suspense unreasonably
Thanks as always for your consistent support.
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August, 801CE, Paris.
The rider who hustled into the dank of the Emperor’s sparsely decorated reception chambers could hardly have conveyed the urgency of his news better. His riding boots were dusty, and his eyes were bloodshot and seemed to loom out of his sweat and mud-stained face like a pair of menacing orbs.
It did not take the Emperor long to realise the issue was of great import, so he was unusually silent when he took the news.
“Our forces successfully triumphed over the Umayads in Tortosa, sovereign, though we suffered heavy losses, and our scouts report a second force mobilising near the borders of Asturias, as though to threaten the survival of that Kingdom in the hopes of dividing our forces. But the pathway to Barcelona is open for now.”
Karloman nodded, but his face remained set and grim. No man rode so long and hard as this one obviously had through the night merely to convey good news…
“Your son was badly wounded, sovereign.” The messenger finally blurted out. Unsure if he was saying it in an appropriate manner, but lacking the court etiquette or social skills necessary to think of any other way to do so. “The Crown Prince rode to save the right flank from collapsing during the battle and was speared through the side and fell from his horse. He also was wounded in the leg from a bit of debris after his mount bolted when his saddle was hacked off. He lies semi-conscious in his tent when I left, though his heroism rallied our forces on the right of our army, and saved the battle for us from there.”
Karloman said nothing for what seemed the longest of time, but his knuckles grew imperceptibly whiter as he gripped the edge of his chair with a fierceness that would’ve choked it if it had air to breath.
“That will be all,” the Emperor replied, in a low, deceptively calm voice.
The messenger bowed, with evident relief, and hurried out of the room as though afraid the Emperor might change his mind to have him strung up at any moment.
But Karloman’s mind had already forgotten the snivelling fellow who brought the news of his son’s injuries. As he rose from his chair and staggered towards his own chambers like he’d been heavy on the drink, his mind reeled, only one word echoing through his head.
Pepin, Pepin, Pepin,
His son and heir wounded, possibly dead by now if truth be told… there could not have been worse news.
By morning the word was all over the palace, and by nightfall the following day the terrible rumors spread throughout the city, some claiming the Prince was already dead, and the succession in chaos.
The Emperor shut himself within his suite, saw no-one, spoke to no-one, did nothing to quell the swirl of rumors or murmurs of intriguing lords jostling for the succession that swept the palace. His mind turned only to his son,
Pepin, Pepin, my son and heir, the one good I did in this world. The only one I have who never failed me. More precious to me than my brother, mother, father and sister combined. More precious than my Empire? Yes, more than that. I would kill the Empire itself to save him, if it came to that. Kill my own life’s work, for what good is work of such a scale without a legacy to leave? Without my son, what was it all for?
The Emperor’s suite had a small shrine, for private prayer and contemplation where a priest often attended to during the day so that it might be ready for use if trouble disturbed the Emperor’s sleep. He hardly ever used it, not being of a naturally pious inclination and preferring action to contemplation. And confession he usually regarded as something reserved for lesser beings. Emperors could not help but sin, he told himself, for they had to do a lot of killing, and killing was a sin, so all the monks would say.
But tonight, he felt the need for it…
He did not know how many days passed then, or how many meals he missed, but the food the servants delivered were returned uneaten, he ignored the reports of further victories in Hispania and listened with total indifference to demands from Brother Anselm, his favoured and most trusted Chaplain, that he must eat and then address the rumors swirling around the court. It seemed as though the Emperor was dead to the world. He even went unshaved, a mark of the level of his distress, for the Emperor utterly abhorred facial hair, which he felt unhygienic and grotesque.
In truth, weeks passed, and while it eventually became clear the Prince was alive at last hearing, he was reportedly unconscious, flickering back and forth from the threshold of death. Even reports that the army in Hispania had captured Barcelona and that a new mercenary force in the south had put the second army threatening Asturias to flight did not stir the Emperor to reveal himself, nor calm the dark, pensive, anxious mood that shadowed the palace during those few weeks.
For Karloman, only his mind swirled when his body seemed to sink into an immovable mound.
Is this the price? He asked himself constantly in those long weeks that followed. Is this the price I pay Lord? For my triumphs, my glories? My conquests? All my sins and all those whose lives I took? Is this the price I pay, that you take my son from me? Answer me damn you!
But the Lord did not answer, if he even was capable of it. Nobody answered him, and on the rare occasions Karloman did sleep he found no peace, tormented by constantly swirling images of his father, his mother, his sister, his brother-in-law Ado, dead by a blade wielded at his command…
And Karl… at least it came to Karl… Always it came back to Karl.
My first crime, and my greatest one. My sin, my great fratricide. As Romulus killed Remus, so Karloman killed Karl. Is that why you did it Lord? Took my son to this pitiful place? To punish me for my sin? If one death is so bad, why would you prove it by threatening another? Is this what you would exact as your price for my sin? Karl’s death enabled all my glories and triumphs, so you would make them worthless by snatching my son to your gates?
The priests who found him the following morning where concerned to find the Emperor babbling about his long-dead brother and his son… talking as though God were present with him in the room, a trait Karloman had always previously ridiculed when he heard the occasional wild tales of others doing so, appearing for once quite demented.
“Bathe him and clean him up if you can,” Brother Anselm told them, knowing exactly the roots of Karloman’s distress. “Gently!” he emphasised.
The bath seemed to cool the Emperor’s fever, and though he remained silent and sullen, he seemed less insensible now. Anselm essentially swore the guards to secrecy over the state of Karloman’s health and ordered the suite doors be barred.
Then he entered to speak to Karloman.
“Sire,” he prodded Karloman, very gently. “More news from the south, your son still lives, though it’s not yet clear if he will recover. The army physicians are hopeful however.”
Karloman stared at him, a wild, untrammelled gaze in his pale eyes, like that of a wounded beast or boar. “Will you pray with me Brother Anselm?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “For once, will you?”
Anselm nodded, smiling his gentle grin. “Always sire. I am at your disposal and God’s.”
A bitter grin crossed Karloman’s face. “I don’t think he likes me much at the moment, truth be told.”
“You are God’s Emperor, sire,” Anselm insisted. “Anointed by the the Bishop of Rome himself, none more than you are favoured.”
“Pray with me then Brother,” the Emperor told him, “that his favour remains with my son.”
They did so then, but silently, and Karloman’s thoughts still swirled like a dark storm.
This then is your punishment Lord? Punish the death of my brother by the death of my son? Punish my sins by taking his life? That’s not right. Not right! It was my sin, the killing of Karl, it should be MY punishment, not his. Take my life if you must, not his. Spare him and claim mine, if a life you must have to pay for my sins. Did the Roman gods take Romulus’s children the way you seem to want to take mine? Or were they kinder, more forgiving? I know not.
That Karloman’s swirling thoughts barely made sense even to himself was something he was only dimly conscious of now. It was as though his mind and physical self were separate things now, and that his body performed the essentials of life by willing itself to do so of it’s own power, not because he wished it so…
For his part, Anselm was concerned about the Emperor’s request to pray with him. He never did it before, and it did not take a physician to realise the strain Karloman was under. He was even thinner and paler then usual, face taut and thin, gaunt almost like a skeleton, and his hair, so long a lustrous blonde, had gone grey and dull. He appeared to have aged years in weeks. Anselm knew the unusual request was important to the Emperor. He would not have made it otherwise, so he had accepted it without protest.
Spare my son Lord, Karloman was thinking now, over and over, Take whichever life you must in return. My own if it please you, or my whole Empire’s, but my son must live. My. Son. Must. Live.
It felt useless to make demands of a deity, but the Emperor did it anyway.
“Will you hear my confession, Brother Anselm?” Karloman blurted out, not quite believing the words he used even after he said them.
Anselm, for his part, recovered from the shock rather quickly, though it manifested on his face for a brief few moments. “Of course liege, I live to serve and to forgive. Confess what you will.”
Karloman did so. It poured out of him like water from an upturned cup. He spoke of it all, left nothing out, even the details of his most sordid sins. Even the oldest, the deepest. Even what happened to his brother, the darkest, deepest and oldest of all.
Anselm listened, face impassive. He listened for hours and hours, until Karloman simply ran out of things to say. “Your sins are grave sovereign, and God’s forgiveness is equally great,” he intoned. In spite of Karloman’s fears, he did not seem shocked or recoiled. In truth, Anselm had heard similar confessions and worse for years. Did Karloman think he was the only one to have slain a brother, or an enemy in anger, or dishonored a parent? He was not of course, so what might have surprised a man not in the priesthood would not have surprised Anselm, and did not.
“It is not my place to forgive, but God’s, but I have listened Lord, and I believe your repentance to be sincere. If God is willing, I believe he will spare your son. If he does pass from this life, it will not be on your account.”
The door burst open then.
“Sovereign! Sovereign!” the guards came running into the room.
“News from the south!” another cried, rushing in.
Karloman’s face went white, drained of almost all it’s blood. “Yes?” was all he asked, voice a strangled whisper.
“Your son sire!, Prince Pepin has awoken. Prince Pepin is alive sovereign! He is alive!”
Karloman’s reaction to this news was one that deeply shocked every man present for the rest of their lives. Not a one of them would ever forget it for every day that passed in the future of their own lives. It was imprinted on their memories forever the moment that Karloman, Emperor of the Franks and Romans fell to his knees seemed to sway back and forth for several long seconds… and unmanned himself, weeping uncontrollably. Guge, heaving, wracking great sobs that shuddered through his entire body…
He wept, and wept and wept and wept. It took a shocked Anselm almost a full ten minutes to recover him to a state of sensibility.
“My son,” Karloman whispered, his voice hoarse and his smile forced through dry, cracked lips. “My son lives…”
.
OOC:
I thought it best not to keep everyone waiting.
This last post was a more personalised, character narrative one than some of the others, and there'll be a few of those coming up, but don't worry, I'll be covering the rest of the Iberian conflict as well
The rider who hustled into the dank of the Emperor’s sparsely decorated reception chambers could hardly have conveyed the urgency of his news better. His riding boots were dusty, and his eyes were bloodshot and seemed to loom out of his sweat and mud-stained face like a pair of menacing orbs.
It did not take the Emperor long to realise the issue was of great import, so he was unusually silent when he took the news.
“Our forces successfully triumphed over the Umayads in Tortosa, sovereign, though we suffered heavy losses, and our scouts report a second force mobilising near the borders of Asturias, as though to threaten the survival of that Kingdom in the hopes of dividing our forces. But the pathway to Barcelona is open for now.”
Karloman nodded, but his face remained set and grim. No man rode so long and hard as this one obviously had through the night merely to convey good news…
“Your son was badly wounded, sovereign.” The messenger finally blurted out. Unsure if he was saying it in an appropriate manner, but lacking the court etiquette or social skills necessary to think of any other way to do so. “The Crown Prince rode to save the right flank from collapsing during the battle and was speared through the side and fell from his horse. He also was wounded in the leg from a bit of debris after his mount bolted when his saddle was hacked off. He lies semi-conscious in his tent when I left, though his heroism rallied our forces on the right of our army, and saved the battle for us from there.”
Karloman said nothing for what seemed the longest of time, but his knuckles grew imperceptibly whiter as he gripped the edge of his chair with a fierceness that would’ve choked it if it had air to breath.
“That will be all,” the Emperor replied, in a low, deceptively calm voice.
The messenger bowed, with evident relief, and hurried out of the room as though afraid the Emperor might change his mind to have him strung up at any moment.
But Karloman’s mind had already forgotten the snivelling fellow who brought the news of his son’s injuries. As he rose from his chair and staggered towards his own chambers like he’d been heavy on the drink, his mind reeled, only one word echoing through his head.
Pepin, Pepin, Pepin,
His son and heir wounded, possibly dead by now if truth be told… there could not have been worse news.
By morning the word was all over the palace, and by nightfall the following day the terrible rumors spread throughout the city, some claiming the Prince was already dead, and the succession in chaos.
The Emperor shut himself within his suite, saw no-one, spoke to no-one, did nothing to quell the swirl of rumors or murmurs of intriguing lords jostling for the succession that swept the palace. His mind turned only to his son,
Pepin, Pepin, my son and heir, the one good I did in this world. The only one I have who never failed me. More precious to me than my brother, mother, father and sister combined. More precious than my Empire? Yes, more than that. I would kill the Empire itself to save him, if it came to that. Kill my own life’s work, for what good is work of such a scale without a legacy to leave? Without my son, what was it all for?
The Emperor’s suite had a small shrine, for private prayer and contemplation where a priest often attended to during the day so that it might be ready for use if trouble disturbed the Emperor’s sleep. He hardly ever used it, not being of a naturally pious inclination and preferring action to contemplation. And confession he usually regarded as something reserved for lesser beings. Emperors could not help but sin, he told himself, for they had to do a lot of killing, and killing was a sin, so all the monks would say.
But tonight, he felt the need for it…
He did not know how many days passed then, or how many meals he missed, but the food the servants delivered were returned uneaten, he ignored the reports of further victories in Hispania and listened with total indifference to demands from Brother Anselm, his favoured and most trusted Chaplain, that he must eat and then address the rumors swirling around the court. It seemed as though the Emperor was dead to the world. He even went unshaved, a mark of the level of his distress, for the Emperor utterly abhorred facial hair, which he felt unhygienic and grotesque.
In truth, weeks passed, and while it eventually became clear the Prince was alive at last hearing, he was reportedly unconscious, flickering back and forth from the threshold of death. Even reports that the army in Hispania had captured Barcelona and that a new mercenary force in the south had put the second army threatening Asturias to flight did not stir the Emperor to reveal himself, nor calm the dark, pensive, anxious mood that shadowed the palace during those few weeks.
For Karloman, only his mind swirled when his body seemed to sink into an immovable mound.
Is this the price? He asked himself constantly in those long weeks that followed. Is this the price I pay Lord? For my triumphs, my glories? My conquests? All my sins and all those whose lives I took? Is this the price I pay, that you take my son from me? Answer me damn you!
But the Lord did not answer, if he even was capable of it. Nobody answered him, and on the rare occasions Karloman did sleep he found no peace, tormented by constantly swirling images of his father, his mother, his sister, his brother-in-law Ado, dead by a blade wielded at his command…
And Karl… at least it came to Karl… Always it came back to Karl.
My first crime, and my greatest one. My sin, my great fratricide. As Romulus killed Remus, so Karloman killed Karl. Is that why you did it Lord? Took my son to this pitiful place? To punish me for my sin? If one death is so bad, why would you prove it by threatening another? Is this what you would exact as your price for my sin? Karl’s death enabled all my glories and triumphs, so you would make them worthless by snatching my son to your gates?
The priests who found him the following morning where concerned to find the Emperor babbling about his long-dead brother and his son… talking as though God were present with him in the room, a trait Karloman had always previously ridiculed when he heard the occasional wild tales of others doing so, appearing for once quite demented.
“Bathe him and clean him up if you can,” Brother Anselm told them, knowing exactly the roots of Karloman’s distress. “Gently!” he emphasised.
The bath seemed to cool the Emperor’s fever, and though he remained silent and sullen, he seemed less insensible now. Anselm essentially swore the guards to secrecy over the state of Karloman’s health and ordered the suite doors be barred.
Then he entered to speak to Karloman.
“Sire,” he prodded Karloman, very gently. “More news from the south, your son still lives, though it’s not yet clear if he will recover. The army physicians are hopeful however.”
Karloman stared at him, a wild, untrammelled gaze in his pale eyes, like that of a wounded beast or boar. “Will you pray with me Brother Anselm?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “For once, will you?”
Anselm nodded, smiling his gentle grin. “Always sire. I am at your disposal and God’s.”
A bitter grin crossed Karloman’s face. “I don’t think he likes me much at the moment, truth be told.”
“You are God’s Emperor, sire,” Anselm insisted. “Anointed by the the Bishop of Rome himself, none more than you are favoured.”
“Pray with me then Brother,” the Emperor told him, “that his favour remains with my son.”
They did so then, but silently, and Karloman’s thoughts still swirled like a dark storm.
This then is your punishment Lord? Punish the death of my brother by the death of my son? Punish my sins by taking his life? That’s not right. Not right! It was my sin, the killing of Karl, it should be MY punishment, not his. Take my life if you must, not his. Spare him and claim mine, if a life you must have to pay for my sins. Did the Roman gods take Romulus’s children the way you seem to want to take mine? Or were they kinder, more forgiving? I know not.
That Karloman’s swirling thoughts barely made sense even to himself was something he was only dimly conscious of now. It was as though his mind and physical self were separate things now, and that his body performed the essentials of life by willing itself to do so of it’s own power, not because he wished it so…
For his part, Anselm was concerned about the Emperor’s request to pray with him. He never did it before, and it did not take a physician to realise the strain Karloman was under. He was even thinner and paler then usual, face taut and thin, gaunt almost like a skeleton, and his hair, so long a lustrous blonde, had gone grey and dull. He appeared to have aged years in weeks. Anselm knew the unusual request was important to the Emperor. He would not have made it otherwise, so he had accepted it without protest.
Spare my son Lord, Karloman was thinking now, over and over, Take whichever life you must in return. My own if it please you, or my whole Empire’s, but my son must live. My. Son. Must. Live.
It felt useless to make demands of a deity, but the Emperor did it anyway.
“Will you hear my confession, Brother Anselm?” Karloman blurted out, not quite believing the words he used even after he said them.
Anselm, for his part, recovered from the shock rather quickly, though it manifested on his face for a brief few moments. “Of course liege, I live to serve and to forgive. Confess what you will.”
Karloman did so. It poured out of him like water from an upturned cup. He spoke of it all, left nothing out, even the details of his most sordid sins. Even the oldest, the deepest. Even what happened to his brother, the darkest, deepest and oldest of all.
Anselm listened, face impassive. He listened for hours and hours, until Karloman simply ran out of things to say. “Your sins are grave sovereign, and God’s forgiveness is equally great,” he intoned. In spite of Karloman’s fears, he did not seem shocked or recoiled. In truth, Anselm had heard similar confessions and worse for years. Did Karloman think he was the only one to have slain a brother, or an enemy in anger, or dishonored a parent? He was not of course, so what might have surprised a man not in the priesthood would not have surprised Anselm, and did not.
“It is not my place to forgive, but God’s, but I have listened Lord, and I believe your repentance to be sincere. If God is willing, I believe he will spare your son. If he does pass from this life, it will not be on your account.”
The door burst open then.
“Sovereign! Sovereign!” the guards came running into the room.
“News from the south!” another cried, rushing in.
Karloman’s face went white, drained of almost all it’s blood. “Yes?” was all he asked, voice a strangled whisper.
“Your son sire!, Prince Pepin has awoken. Prince Pepin is alive sovereign! He is alive!”
Karloman’s reaction to this news was one that deeply shocked every man present for the rest of their lives. Not a one of them would ever forget it for every day that passed in the future of their own lives. It was imprinted on their memories forever the moment that Karloman, Emperor of the Franks and Romans fell to his knees seemed to sway back and forth for several long seconds… and unmanned himself, weeping uncontrollably. Guge, heaving, wracking great sobs that shuddered through his entire body…
He wept, and wept and wept and wept. It took a shocked Anselm almost a full ten minutes to recover him to a state of sensibility.
“My son,” Karloman whispered, his voice hoarse and his smile forced through dry, cracked lips. “My son lives…”
.
OOC:
I thought it best not to keep everyone waiting.
This last post was a more personalised, character narrative one than some of the others, and there'll be a few of those coming up, but don't worry, I'll be covering the rest of the Iberian conflict as well
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The Gate Keeper exacts a huge toll whenever a French heir crosses the Pyrenees in search of glory. May God's grace protect and heal Pepin. (What is the in-game assessment of Pepin's condition?) Thank you for the rapid news.
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Started out as 'Severely Injured' but healed later on. I'm not sure of the exact timescale but he remained that way for a couple of months with only a few scars to show for it afterwards, so it wasn't overly long.
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Wow that was a great chapter!!
Karloman has been through a lot in his life but this was a dark time, I wonder if he'll ever truly recover. But it's nice to see that Pepin still lives, we'll see what fate has in store for him
Karloman has been through a lot in his life but this was a dark time, I wonder if he'll ever truly recover. But it's nice to see that Pepin still lives, we'll see what fate has in store for him
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Took a break through this week but started writing up my next post yesterday, and aiming for a Sunday update! Stay tuned
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Pepin leading forces in Spain, invoked memories of jabberjock's great Plantagenet AAR where the crown prince is mangled and dies from his injuries while fighting in Spain. Moral, French heirs should not cross the Pyrenees.
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To be compared to that utterly enthralling AAR is about the highest praise I could receive!
And yes, definitely something that has a bit of risk attached. But neither Karloman nor Pepin are entirely averse to risk. So far it's served them well, but these things don't last forever.
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