November 812
The Emperor’s army moved south toward the Brenner Pass in the Alps, but the King of Italy was mobilising further south. King Loup was the actual obstacle to the Pope’s ambitions for this stage of the conflict, for it was he and his soldiers who imposed control over Northern Italy, intimidating Bishops, posting proclamations and calling upon citizens of the Empire to stand behind their Emperor and denounce the false Pope who occupied Rome in defiance of God and imperial law, and to support Nicolaus II as the true Vicar of Christ.
The Emperor and his son’s armies crossed the Alpine passes in late 812, and then remained in the Po Valley for the rest of the winter. Pepin and Renaud toured the countryside, with King Loup and his retinue in tow, to take the political measure of the country. Everywhere the mood was pensive, tense, wary. While none were prepared to openly dissent against the Emperor, especially with his army in the midst, the implications of toppling a Roman Pope were significant enough for many Italian locals to be nervous. Even though the Emperor’s might far exceeded his, Italians had to live with the Pope. What happened when the Emperor’s armies turned north and went back across the Alps to Francia? Would the local King, who so far had shown no great amount of ability in his own right, be a strong enough figure to protect them from retaliation?
But such doubts did not stop the Emperor or his forces from marching south when the snows cleared. Rumours that Callistus had mustered an army of his own, bolstered by eastern mercenaries and Sicilian crossbows, did not sway the Emperor from marching south upon Rome…
Roma, 813.
The Pope had determined that, regardless of the outcome of this conflict, no harm should come to the Holy City itself.
“The only choice is to meet the Emperor in the field before he reaches Roma herself. Only then will a decisive action be fought, and this destructive conflict brought to an end,” the Pope announced to the College of Cardinals.
And for everyone who is displeased to hear of the risk to my safety, there is another in this College who will gladly circle me like a vulture before a feast, ready to fall over himself before the Frankish Emperor to assert his own position if he emerges victorious.
But the fears and worries of some were genuine. Political games were one thing, but the presence of a Frankish army on Italian soil and marching directly towards Rome, with hostile intent, had swayed many clerics in the city to stand with Callistus’s cause, at least publicly. Those who would normally be carping and criticising were prepared to stand aside and be useful, for a change, regardless of how little love they bore him.
Fear motivates men as well as Christian love, if not better. Callistus now realised. He had never truly believed it until that day he announced his forces would meet Pepin in the field of battle, but he came to believe it then.
Unfortunately for him, both the late Emperor Karloman and his son knew that lesson all too well, and were prepared to provide a salutary demonstration…
February, 813, Town of Orvieto.
The town was looted and thoroughly burned by the imperial forces, it’s treasures ransacked, even the most holy of relics secured within the church. The priest they butchered, and spread upon his altar for the congregation to find, and then they stripped the church bare of it’s gold and it’s silvers. To make an example of Orvieto, a town which held fast to it’s allegiance to Rome in defiance of the Emperor, Pepin had been prepared to show levels of cruelty ordinarily unknown to his nature, so steadfast was his will to bring the Papacy to heel.
But it was news of this massacre that prompted the Roman army to emerge from the eternal city and sally forth toward Pepin’s forces, camped next to the town they had ransacked and burned out. The Papal army arrived on February 25th, and the two sides spent the next two days manuovering and carefully jockeying for position.
On the 27th, the battle was joined…
27TH February, 813CE. The Battle of Orvieto.
Maurice sat calmly beneath the tree as he wiped down the blade of his sword, blood sipping red into the folds of his rag as he did. Sweat poured from his brow, and he did his best to remain oblivious to the sounds of death and the smell of blood around him.
The battle had been swift, try though they might, the Papal armies could not resist his father’s forces. A straight-up slugging match in the centre of the line had ensured, none of the fancy tactics Maurice knew his father to be capable of had ensued. There had been no need for them. His father had demanded no mercy and no prisoners, so in those terrible hours after the fight, the men of the Frankish forces had gone from spot to spot, killing any groaning, wounded man still alive. Those who fled were not chased down, for the Emperor knew they would carry the word of his victory far across Italy, wherever they might scatter to.
Maurice had no disagreement with his father’s methods. He understood well why it was necessary. But even he could not bear to look for himself at the sights around them. So he shut his ears and held his tongue, cleaning instead the blood that caked his blade.
“Brother!” a cry came up and Maurice looked up.
He saw Renaud headed towards him, face grim and set.
“I was looking everywhere for you.” His elder brother told him, out of breath from having run all this way, “Father requests our presence tonight, there’ll be a feast to celebrate the victory, and after that, we march for Rome.”
“I am pleased,” said Maurice, with a small grin, “Death is such thirsty work.”
“That it is,” Renaud smiled, and offered his hand to lift his brother up to his feet. His face then changed into a concerned expression, “Do you think father is… alright? I mean, I know he was angry at Callistus for his defiance but this…” he could not bring himself to say the word, merely gestured around at the sights on the battlefield, “This isn’t like him. He’s not a butcher.”
“Not ordinarily,” Maurice agreed quietly, as he began to walk with his brother towards the command tent, “But you know the stories they used to tell about old Grandfather Karloman. He had the steel in him to do things like this. Any surprise some of the father’s steel rubs off on the son?”
Renaud shuddered. “None of it did on me,” he said miserably.
A flash of annoyance and Maurice seized his brother’s arm. “Do not say such things!” he hissed at him, “You are the future Emperor, and must be strong. You may indeed need the internal resources to do such things yourself in future. Such is the price of power, as father used to tell us, you remember?”
Renaud nodded glumly, and sighed, a habit he had picked up quite unconsciously, that had become rather irritating to those around him. “Yes I remember brother,” he sighed again and Maurice bit his tongue. “Though I wish I could believe it so.”
Why, thought Maurice,
did all the reserves of internal fortitude in our family go to me? You are the eldest son brother, and the throne passes to you upon father’s end. Can you summon no steel within yourself? Have you not the stomach for such things? If I can see why this matters, why can’t you?
“Well let’s not quarrel about it,” he slapped Renaud on the back lightly and smiled at his troublesome and meek elder brother. “Come, father awaits.”
