Chapter 24: The Road of Ashes and Mud
The autumn rains turned the Frankish roads to rivers of mud, and Aldric’s mood matched the sky—grey, churning, and foul. They had ridden hard from the Alps, through the winding passes where the air thinned and the wind carried the first bite of snow, and now, as they descended into the Lombard plain, the world softened into a landscape of vineyards and olive groves that mocked him with their abundance.
Gerold rode beside him, his scarred face unreadable beneath his helm. The Saxon had grown accustomed to his master’s silences, but this one had stretched for three days, broken only by terse commands and the occasional curse at a loose horse-shoe.
“You will wear a groove in your skull, brooding like that,” Gerold said finally.
Aldric blinked, as if emerging from a trance. “I was calculating the cost of a coronation.”
“And what did the numbers tell you?”
“That I am a fool.” Aldric pulled his cloak tighter against the drizzle. “Hildegard’s arithmetic was sound, but she forgot to factor in the Emperor’s stubbornness. He will pay any price, as long as it is paid in someone else’s coin.”
They passed a column of ox-drawn carts, laden with grain and salted meat, heading north to feed the army Charlemagne had left to harry the Saxons. The sight of so much provision made Aldric’s stomach turn. Every loaf of bread, every barrel of wine, every length of rope was a thread binding the empire together—and he was being woven into its tapestry whether he liked it or not.
“The Emperor wants to be crowned by the Pope,” Aldric said, half to himself. “But the Pope wants something in return. Protection, perhaps. Or a guarantee that the Byzantine Empress will not press her claims to the West. And Charlemagne wants the crown without acknowledging that he needs anyone’s permission to wear it.”
Gerold grunted. “That sounds like a problem for priests.”
“It is a problem for me,” Aldric said. “Because I am the one who must make it look easy.”
They reached Pavia by dusk, the old Lombard capital now a Frankish stronghold. The city’s walls were thick and its streets narrow, but the palace that housed the imperial retinue was a study in controlled chaos. Messengers came and went, their horses caked in mud, carrying dispatches from the Rhine to the Tiber. Scribes huddled over wax tablets, recording grain levies and troop movements. And in the center of it all, seated on a folding chair that seemed too small for his frame, was Charlemagne.
The Emperor looked older than Aldric remembered. His beard was shot through with grey, and deep lines had carved themselves around his eyes. But the eyes themselves were as sharp as ever, and they fixed on Aldric the moment he entered the hall.
“You took your time,” Charlemagne said, without preamble.
“The Alps were in no hurry, Majesty.”
“The Alps are not my concern. Rome is.” The Emperor gestured to a map spread across a table, its parchment curling at the edges. “Pope Leo has written to me three times in the past month. He claims the Romans are plotting against him, that they mean to blind him and cut out his tongue.”
Aldric frowned. “Is that true?”
“It does not matter whether it is true. What matters is that Leo believes it, and if he is overthrown, the Church will look to Constantinople for leadership. I cannot allow that.” Charlemagne’s finger stabbed at the map, landing on Rome. “I will go there. I will restore order. And I will be crowned emperor of the Romans.”
The words hung in the air, heavy as a sword stroke. Aldric felt the familiar pull of the trap closing around him.
“Majesty,” he said carefully, “the Pope cannot crown you emperor. The Empress Irene sits on the throne of Constantinople. She will see it as an affront.”
“Irene is a woman,” Charlemagne said, with a dismissive wave. “And she has blinded her own son to seize power. The throne of Augustus is vacant. I will fill it.”
Aldric’s mind raced. This was worse than he had feared. Charlemagne was not merely seeking a title; he was seeking to overturn the entire order of Christendom. And he expected Aldric to make it palatable.
“If I may speak plainly, Majesty,” Aldric said, “you are asking me to arrange a coronation that will be seen as an act of war against the Byzantines, a sacrilege to the Greeks, and a provocation to every nobleman in your own realm who dreams of wearing a crown himself.”
Charlemagne’s eyes narrowed. “You think I do not know this?”
“I think you know it, and you do not care. But I do. I care because I will be the one blamed when it goes wrong.” Aldric took a breath. “Unless you give me something to work with. A writ of immunity, say. A promise that when this is done, I am free to return to my vineyards and never serve you again.”
The Emperor laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the stone walls. “You are still bargaining for your freedom? Even now?”
“It is the only thing I have ever wanted, Majesty.”
Charlemagne studied him for a long moment, and Aldric felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure. Then the Emperor nodded slowly.
“Very well. See me crowned in Rome, and I will give you your writ. You will be free to rot in your vineyard, drinking your wine and reading your books, for all the rest of your days.”
Aldric’s heart stuttered. It was the first time Charlemagne had ever agreed to his terms.
“But,” the Emperor continued, raising a finger, “you will do this without making me look like a fool. You will find a way to make the Pope’s crowning seem like the will of God, not the ambition of a Frankish warlord. And you will do it quickly, because we ride for Rome within the fortnight.”
Aldric bowed, hiding the turmoil in his face. “As you command, Majesty.”
As he left the hall, he nearly collided with Princess Rotrude, who had been standing in the shadows, listening.
“You look like a man who has just been handed a rope,” she said, a smile playing at her lips.
“It is a rope I may hang myself with,” Aldric replied. “But at least it is my rope.”
Rotrude fell into step beside him. “My father will not keep his word, you know. He has never let a useful man go free.”
“I know,” Aldric said. “But I am counting on it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You plan to fail?”
“I plan to make the coronation so costly—so riddled with complications—that your father will be forced to abandon it. And when he does, he will be so angry that he will banish me to the Vosges just to be rid of my face.”
Rotrude laughed, but there was something sharp in her eyes. “You underestimate him, Aldric. He has conquered kingdoms with less than you have planned.”
“Perhaps,” Aldric said. “But he has never faced an enemy who wanted to lose as badly as I do.”
He walked away, leaving Rotrude standing in the torchlight, her expression unreadable. Behind him, the Emperor’s laughter echoed once more, and Aldric felt the first cold whisper of doubt.
The road to Rome was paved with ashes, and he was walking it willingly.