Perhaps that's out of the question right now until you have more lands and people to attempt such an enterprise... provided that the Franks doesn't move south...
-
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
I am not sure, but I have seen melting pots start in the ninth century.
iain_a_wilson: Glad you approve! Almost all of my AARs have had soundtracks and a few have had videos as well.
Kurt_Steiner: True. Although anything I do take back from the Andalusians won’t be able to attack me later...
Viden: Yikes. I’m not planning on going Spanish, French, Catalan, Occitan, Italian or anything but Gothic. I’ll have to stay vigilant.
Kurt_Steiner: True. Although anything I do take back from the Andalusians won’t be able to attack me later...
Viden: Yikes. I’m not planning on going Spanish, French, Catalan, Occitan, Italian or anything but Gothic. I’ll have to stay vigilant.
You are on a roll my friend. Loving it at the moment. Makes me really want to get back playing again.
SirDraco: Thanks for your support, my friend. It’s appreciated. I hope you’re able to play again soon!
Melting pot events are the worst, amirite? 
I remember it was a struggle when doing my Norwegian AAR.
I remember it was a struggle when doing my Norwegian AAR.
Nikolai: Were you trying to stay Norse? I’m halfway through the ninth century and have yet to have any problems. There’s no Spanish or Catalans as yet, but I’ve seen plenty of Occitans, French and Italians in other realms.
It's been a few years now, but IIRC I did, and I succeeded. Link to the story in my inkwell in my sig.
Nikolai: Well, that’s reassuring at least. I’ll have to check it out. Did you have to do anything in particular to maintain your culture?
Hmmm, well I never converted myself of course and only appointed Norse vassals IIRC. The last image on culture shows a lot of Norse culture in my realm, both in Scandinavia and in Britain. It's been a long time as I said, but it should be doable.
Nikolai: Well, if that's all it takes, I should be able to manage it as long as I'm careful.
Chapter Three: Betrayals
CHAPTER THREE: BETRAYALS
11 April 769
Sancto Martino, Asturia
The news spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom. King Aurelio had been poisoned.
People across Asturia held a torch-lit vigil through the night for the fallen king. Monks chanted a requiem mass; women tore their hair and wailed.
This was more than just the passing of a monarch; Aurelio’s accession had been a compromise. The only way to mollify all of the nobles with royal ambitions had been to elect a king who had never desired the throne. Without him, it seemed that the land would be torn apart in a succession war, which everyone knew would bring famine, disease and death in its wake.
The people’s fears are justified, thought Veremundo. With no clear heir, someone was bound to assert a claim to the throne, probably the very same people behind the poisoning. It was only a matter of time before the traitorous regicides made their move, and when they did, Veremundo would be watching. That was why he kept a vigil of his own from atop the guard tower, even while the common folk dispersed back to their homes with the rising sun.
He did not have to wait long.
A cloud of dust in the distance heralded the arrival of a column of horsemen. “Make way for the Comes of Asturica!” shouted the lead rider, as he passed through the city gates.
So, the Half-Moor is the first to arrive, thought Veremundo. Interesting.
Mauregato met him at the steps of the great hall. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said, “What a tragedy for the king to perish so early into his reign!”
“Indeed,” said Veremundo. He would be watching this one closely.
“With the kingdom in disarray, it will be important to keep the peace at all costs,” Mauregato continued, “I’ve brought a battalion of my best warriors to help maintain order.”
“Did you now?” said Veremundo, “That’s very generous of you, given the troop shortages you reported to my brother not two weeks ago.”
“Certain sacrifices must be made for the good of the kingdom,” said Mauregato.
Sacrifices like my brother’s life, you half-Moorish bastard? thought Veremundo. “In these trying times, we all do what we must,” he said instead.
“Indeed we must,” Mauregato said proudly, “And as the son of King Froila, I must lead by example.”
Veremundo forced a polite smile and beckoned Mauregato towards the great hall. They ascended the steps together, Mauregato taking the lead while a handful of his hearth-companions trailed behind them. The door wardens collected their weapons before permitting them to pass through the heavy oaken doors.
As soon as they were in the anteroom, Mauregato seized Veremundo by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall. “Look,” he said in a loud whisper, “Everybody knows you don’t fancy the throne. You’d much rather be drinking and wenching, I’m sure. But there are those of us who desire… who deserve the crown. I need you and your men to support my bid for the throne.”
Veremundo gently but firmly pushed Mauregato away from him. “My brother’s body is not even cold,” he said, “This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.”
“I really must insist,” said Mauregato. He moved to put his hand on Veremundo’s shoulder again, but a stern look from the other man warned him he had better not.
“Fine,” said Mauregato, “Be stubborn. But be warned: when the time comes, you will support me, or else you’ll live to regret it.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” said Veremundo, his face masked in a mirthless half-smile.
“See that you do,” hissed Mauregato.
The Half-Moor’s warriors pulled open the massive doors to the throne room and bowed to their lord as he entered. Veremundo grimaced once Mauregato’s back was turned. That man is a bastard in more than one sense of the word, he thought.
Mauregato and his men strode confidently into the throne room, Veremundo following behind. The room was lit by dozens of flickering candles from the previous night’s vigil. King Aurelio was seated upon his throne, unmoving, the Sword of Pelagio lying across his lap.
Mauregato approached warily. “That’s a touch morbid, don’t you think?” he said.
Then the king’s eyes popped open.
“If you came looking for my rotten corpse,” Aurelio growled, “You’ll find I haven’t quite finished with it yet.”
“What is this?” Mauregato gasped, his face turning pale, “You are supposed to be dead!”
“Really, Mauregato,” chided Aurelio, “Poison in the wine? Pathetic!”
“I--I,” stuttered Mauregato, “But--”
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice the difference, even though I drink the same exact thing every single night?” Aurelio continued, “And to think I once felt threatened by you, you contemptible little amateur!”
The great doors to the throne room slammed shut with a heavy thud, followed by the ominous clank of a crossbeam being placed to bar them… from the outside.
His mouth agape, Mauregato turned around, only to see Veremundo and a contingent of royal guards approaching with swords drawn. Veremundo shrugged, his hands in the air in a mocking gesture of condolence.
Mauregato’s shock gave way to adrenaline. His face flushed red.
“You think you’ve won today?” he spat, “You couldn’t be more wrong. You will be overthrown. We have thousands of supporters... you’ll have to fight half the kingdom!”
“So be it,” said Aurelio, clenching his jaw, “Your blood will paint the way to the future!”
At that, Mauregato lunged at the king with a strangled cry. His men followed suit, drawing their belt knives and rushing upon the royal guards.
Mauregato’s attack on the king turned out to be a feint. While his men occupied the guards, he dashed towards one of the few small windows in the hall’s thick stone walls. Without pausing to look towards the ground far below, he flung himself straight through the small opening.
As the last of Mauregato’s thugs fell before the long blades of the guardsmen, Veremundo rushed to the window, looking to see where the treasonous noble had fallen. “He’s limping,” he called back to his brother, “He must have caught his foot on the windowsill when he jumped. I think he’s broken his ankle.”
“He won’t get far like that,” said Aurelio, “After him! A golden mancus to the man who catches the traitor!”
“The rest of his men were waiting with horses,” Veremundo called from the window, “But our lads are giving chase. Aren’t you glad you took my advice and had the Gardingi ready and mounted?” The Gardingi were a Gothic king’s personal mounted retainers.
Aurelio nodded in approval. “Come, we have work to do.”
***
The Next Day
Sancto Martino, Asturia
“We will fall on them like a hard rain,” Aurelio was saying, "And then we'll wash these traitors from the face of the earth like a flood!”
Wulfila gave a knowing smile as he buckled on the king’s leather vambraces. The king’s confidence was reassuring, given that the kingdom was on the verge of civil war. As the captain of the royal guard, he appreciated anything that would raise morale. Bold words were exactly what the men needed to hear. “You are certain you wish to accompany the royal host, Your Grace?” he asked.
“I must,” said Aurelio, “It is for my crown that they fight, and I am not above defending my honor on the battlefield.” The king had to raise his voice to be heard above the din of whinnying horses and smiths’ hammers. “Besides,” he smiled, “A good many of my subjects still do not know whether their king is alive or dead. We shall leave them with no doubt in their minds!”
The courtyard of the royal villa overflowed with every kind of soldier the king could muster, from the Gadrauhts, heavy shield-bearing Gothic infantry, to the Genitours, light skirmishing cavalry who fought with javelins in the Moorish style. The Gardingi, heavy cavalry who served as royal companions and bodyguards, had already been assigned to patrol the neighboring countryside in search of rebels.
Wulfila nodded to himself. If the royal retinue proved insufficient, peasant levies were also being mustered throughout the kingdom’s more loyal provinces. Most would come armed with spear or bow, though the poorer sorts might only have slings or cudgels, or even crude farm tools.
“The men could not be more honored to serve you,” said Wulfila, “You are like Lazarus, raised from the dead. I’ve heard some say you truly did perish, but that the Lord revived you with a miracle.”
“And we mustn’t discourage them,” said the king, “Fanciful though their tales may be, if such fables ensure the people’s loyalty to me in these trying times, they will be worth every word.”
Shortly thereafter, a messenger on horseback galloped to a halt in front of the king and practically jumped out of the saddle. “My lord,” he said, “Suebians have crossed into Asturia from Gallaecia. It is an army of several thousand men!”
“Silo’s men?” said Aurelio, “Why, surely he barely received our call to arms! There’s no way he could have mustered his host that quickly. Unless…”
Wulfila caught the king’s meaning. “Unless they knew about the assassination attempt ahead of time and were already planning this--”
“Treachery!” Aurelio hissed. This was no mere assassination plot, this was a full-fledged conspiracy by the lords of the realm.
“We will see them off, my lord,” said Wulfila, although he felt himself doubting the truth of that more and more with each passing moment.
Unlike Mauregato, Silo of Gallaecia was intimidating. It was said that the only thing more discomfiting than seeing the tall Suebian frown was seeing him smile.
But why would Silo side with Mauregato? Wulfila wondered. The two were rival claimants for the throne. It would seem that the only person they hated more than each other was the throne’s current occupant, King Aurelio.
“We’ll need to call up the reserves,” the king said, “And bring up all the levies: every able-bodied man and boy capable of shouldering a spear. See that they’re properly equipped!”
“By your command,” said Wulfila, bowing and saluting with an arm to the chest.
This was a battle they could ill afford to lose. The kingdom itself depended on it.
***
19 April 769
Zubialdea, Viscaya
A hive of activity bustled within the town of Zubialdea’s wooden palisades, though perhaps not quite as frantic as at the royal villa.
Even as the Goths mourned their supposedly fallen king, there were those among the Basques who exulted at the demise (or near-demise, some had learned,) of their overlord. Chief among these was the grey-bearded Comes Obeko, who saw this as an opportunity to seize power and had issued a call to arms.
“Ready those javelins,” Obeko called to his scrambling horsemen, “Each man must carry no less than three!” Basque warriors scurried as he barked orders. “Hurry it up!” he shouted at no one in particular, “We march on Ovetum tomorrow, not next week! Get a move on!”
“My lord?” one of Obeko’s retainers nodded towards a large company of troops heading their way, Obeko’s daughter at their head.
“Ah, my dear Munia!” Obeko smiled, “Today is truly a glorious day. Tomorrow we march on Asturia, and soon after we shall restore you to your rightful place on the throne.”
“Is that truly your plan, Father?” Munia was not smiling.
Obeko furrowed his brow. “Is that not why you have brought forth your retainers today? To join our little expedition for glory?”
“Really, Father,” Munia said, “I am appalled that you would even think I would approve of this… treachery.” She virtually spat out the last word, as though she had just tasted something foul or bitter.
“Treachery?” Obeko was flabbergasted. “I am still loyal to your husband’s legacy, Munia! Everything I have done is for you!”
Munia’s eyes were as piercing as daggers. “Did you really think I wanted to seize the throne by usurpation and murder? It sets a terrible precedent, does it not? With Froila stabbed to death and now Aurelio poisoned, just what do you think would become of Queen Munia?”
“Are you second-guessing my decisions?” said Obeko, raising his voice, “Or questioning my authority?”
“Much more than that,” answered Munia, “I’m questioning your fitness to rule.”
“Why, you ungrateful little witch!” growled Obeko, clenching his fists, “After all I’ve done for you!”
Munia raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by her father’s display of temper. “Are you quite finished?”
“Not remotely!” Obeko threatened, “Oh, the thrashing I’m going to give you, you wily little vixen… Guards! Seize her!”
Nobody moved. The soldiers looked nervously at one another. Some anxiously shifted their weight between their feet. Others fingered the hilts of their weapons.
“You’ll find most of your men answer to me now,” Munia said calmly, “The smart ones, anyway. Guardsmen, take this traitor to the wagons we’ve prepared. You will be going to Ovetum today after all, and what’s more, you’ll be taking a little 'present' for the king with you. Don’t forget to bind the old man’s hands!”
“Don’t you dare!” Obeko screamed, clearly starting to panic, “I am the ruler here. Not her! Obey me, or I’ll have your heads!”
“When last I checked,” said Munia, “Queens outranked mere Comites in this kingdom.”
Obeko struggled as the guards roughly forced his hands behind his back and bound them with strong cords. “You won’t get away with this! I am Comes of this land! I am your father! You have no right to challenge me!”
“To whom will you appeal, Father?” Munia sniffed, “The king? You abrogated your right to rule the moment you rebelled against him. But I’m sure Aurelio would be quite willing to hear your pleas... right before he throws you in the dungeon. That is, assuming he doesn’t decide to just cut off your head!”
The soldiers gagged the erstwhile Comes so he couldn’t make any more idle threats.
“So, Father,” Munia said resolutely, “You may consider your lands and titles officially usurped. I am the Comitissa of the Basque people now.”
“All hail Queen Munia!” shouted the guards, as if on cue.
All Obeko could do was make muffled noises of displeasure. The guards shoved him in the back of a wagon and Munia smacked the draft horse hard on the bottom to start it moving.
Munia was thoroughly disappointed. Her father, the old schemer who had taught her everything she knew, had foolishly brought about his own downfall through an unsophisticated plot that had utterly lacked any particular nuance. She had expected better of him.
“I’m surrounded by fools,” she muttered under her breath, “But not for long.”
Last edited:
A fantastic couple of scenes. I was genuinely gutted when I thought Aurellio was dead. Yes, he's the main character but this IS CK after all...
It'll be interesting to see how the civil war plays out - is Aurellio the strongest lord in the land? How do the others match up against him?
It'll be interesting to see how the civil war plays out - is Aurellio the strongest lord in the land? How do the others match up against him?
Civil war for no other reason than powerlust when surrounded by hostiles? Feudal politics at their finest.
This Munia is a scheming....lady, certainly not "good". But she might win. A royal marriage perchance? I certainly hope the king can secure her support. She'd be a real asset. And she has large....tracts of land.
Hey AP, nice to see you back in action. I'd seen you were writing again a couple of days ago, but haven't had time yet to read up. Obviously, remembering your previous works, it has to be excellent. I'm certainly going to find some time to catch up!