Imagine a world where the air hangs heavy with the scent of damp stone and flickering tallow candles, where the clash of iron and the murmur of Latin chants echo through vaulted halls. It’s the 8th century, a time when Europe is a patchwork of warring tribes, crumbling Roman ruins, and ambitious kings clawing for power. No smartphones, no nation-states—just raw ambition, blood oaths, and the unyielding grip of tradition. On October 9, 768, in the chill of an autumn dawn, two young men—brothers bound by blood and burdened by legacy—step into the spotlight of history. Their father lies cold in his grave, his empire split like a loaf of rye bread. One brother, tall and battle-hardened, eyes the horizon with the hunger of a wolf. The other, sharper and more shadowed, guards his slice with quiet ferocity. This is the day Charlemagne and Carloman I are crowned Kings of the Franks, a moment that doesn’t just mark a coronation but unleashes a torrent of conquest, betrayal, and rebirth that reshapes the continent.
This isn’t some dusty footnote in a textbook; it’s the spark that lights the Carolingian blaze, paving the way for the Holy Roman Empire, the Renaissance’s distant echoes, and even the very fabric of modern Europe. We’ll dive deep into the mud and majesty of that era—the political machinations, the battlefield brutalities, the whispered alliances in smoke-filled chambers—because history isn’t polite. It’s visceral, unpredictable, and packed with lessons sharper than a Frankish spear. And at the end, we’ll twist that ancient thread into something you can weave into your own life: a plan to turn division into dominance, opportunity into empire. Buckle up; this ride through 768 AD is longer than a Viking saga, funnier than a court jester’s jab, and more motivating than a midnight pep talk from a ghost king.
Let’s start at the roots, because no oak grows without gnarled soil. The Frankish kingdom in the mid-8th century is a beast of contradictions: vast, from the misty fjords of the North Sea to the sun-baked vineyards of Aquitaine, yet fractured like a dropped shield. The Merovingians, those long-haired kings of legend, had ruled for centuries, their power waning like a candle in the wind. By the 7th century, real control lay with the mayors of the palace—Austrasian nobles who pulled strings from behind the throne. Enter the Carolingians, a family forged in the fires of ambition. Pepin of Herstal, the iron-fisted mayor who crushed rivals at the Battle of Tertry in 687, set the stage. His son, Charles Martel—yes, the Hammer—repelled the Muslim invasion at Tours in 732, saving Christendom from the crescent moon’s shadow. Martel’s sons, Carloman and Pepin the Short, finished the job: in 751, with a nod from Pope Zachary, they tonsured the last Merovingian, Childeric III, and packed him off to a monastery. Pepin was anointed king in 754 by Pope Stephen II himself, in the snowy hills of Ponthion, sealing a pact that bound Franks to Rome like chainmail to steel.
Pepin the Short—nicknamed for his stature, not his vision—was no dwarf in deeds. Standing perhaps five-foot-seven in a world of shorter men, he was a whirlwind of reform and raid. He subdued Aquitaine’s rebellious dukes, who chafed under Frankish yoke, launching campaigns that bloodied the Garonne River. In Italy, he crossed the Alps twice at the pope’s plea, hammering the Lombards and gifting lands to St. Peter—territories that would haunt his son’s dreams. Domestically, Pepin was a builder: he minted the first silver denarius in centuries, standardized weights and measures, and showered monasteries with gold, fostering a mini-renaissance of scriptoria where monks copied Virgil beside the Vulgate. His court itinerated like a nomadic warband, from Aachen’s budding palace to Saint-Denis’s sacred bones, blending Germanic warlord vibes with Roman pomp. Married to Bertrada of Laon—a shrewd noblewoman known as “Broadfoot” for her, well, expansive gait—Pepin sired a brood: Charlemagne, Carloman, Rotrude, and more. But family was no idyll; half-brother Grifo plotted coups, only to be exiled to a Lombard leash.
By 768, Pepin’s health cracked under the strain. The Aquitaine war dragged on, a quagmire of guerrilla ambushes and scorched olive groves. Duke Waifer, that slippery serpent, held Bordeaux like a fortress, his alliances with Gascons and Basques a thorn in Frankish pride. Pepin, feverish and faltering, marched south one last time. On September 24, 768, at the age of 53, he breathed his last in the royal camp near Saint-Denis. The annals are stark: “King Pepin died of a dropsy,” likely edema from infection or overindulgence. His body, swathed in purple, was borne to the basilica he loved, where abbots chanted requiems over a tomb that still gleams today. Whispers swirled—poison? Divine judgment?—but the realm reeled toward succession.
Frankish law was mercilessly equitable: partible inheritance, where sons carved the pie equally, often leaving crumbs for civil war. Pepin, wise to the trap, had prepped his heirs. Charlemagne, born April 2, 748 (or 742, dates blur like mead), was the elder at 20, a giant among men at six-foot-three, with flowing auburn hair and a voice like rolling thunder. Educated in the saddle more than scrolls—he spoke the rough Frankish tongue, Latin for liturgy, and bits of Greek from Byzantine envoys—Charlemagne was Pepin’s shadow warrior. He’d tasted blood in minor raids, issuing charters by 760, his name already a seal of authority. Carloman, three years junior, was the scholar-soldier: slighter, with a mind honed on theology and tactics, married young to Gerberga, a Lombard princess whose dowry was dynastic dynamite.
The kingdom split along old lines: Neustria and western Aquitaine to Charlemagne, the industrial heartland of Austrasia, Burgundy, and Provence to Carloman. Maps weren’t precise—parchments with rivers inked in ochre—but the divide snaked from the Loire to the Rhine, a recipe for rivalry. Nobles gathered in Soissons, that ancient Roman crossroads, swearing fealty amid incense and intrigue. Bertrada, ever the mediatrix, shuttled between sons, her letters pleading unity like a mother hen. But the air crackled with ambition.
October 9 dawned crisp, the Oise River misting Noyon’s timber-framed cathedral. Noyon, cradle of bishops since Roman times, was Charlemagne’s stage: stone walls etched with crosses, altars aglow with beeswax. Archbishop Fulrad of Cologne—Pepin’s old confessor, a spider in clerical robes—anointed the elder son with chrism oil, murmuring Psalms as the crown, a circlet of gold filigreed with Carolingian bees, settled on flowing locks. Trumpets blared, the *Laudes Regiae* hymned “Charles, most excellent king, by God’s grace renewer of the Roman Empire.” Across the realm in Soissons, Carloman mirrored the rite, his crown lighter, his gaze keener. It was dual pomp, but unity’s facade: two kings, one realm, zero trust. The *Royal Frankish Annals*, those terse chroniclers, note the pomp but hint at the peril: “The Franks acclaimed both as kings according to custom.” Custom, aye—but custom bred chaos.
The brothers’ courts diverged like forked rivers. Charlemagne’s at Aachen, that spa-town gem Pepin had gilded, buzzed with warriors: grizzled Austrasian counts, Lombard exiles nursing grudges. He hosted feasts where boars roasted on spits, skalds spun yarns of Martel’s hammer, and envoys from Saxony arrived with tribute—or threats. Carloman’s at Metz, the old Merovingian haunt, leaned learned: abbots debating canon law, scribes illuminating gospels with ivory ivories. Yet both were war machines. Aquitaine burned for reconquest; Waifer’s raiders torched abbeys, kidnapped merchants. In late 768, the brothers marched south together—a rare tandem, 10,000 strong, banners snapping like dragon wings. They stormed Clermont, Waifer fleeing like smoke. But Carloman peeled off northward, citing “illness” or intrigue, leaving Charlemagne to grind alone. By 769, Bordeaux fell; Waifer, cornered in a Pyrenean pass, surrendered his sword—or so the annals claim. Charlemagne paraded captives through Paris, a grisly lesson in loyalty.
This Aquitaine grind revealed fraternal fault lines. Charlemagne chafed at Carloman’s half-measures, seeing shadows of Merovingian weakness. Bertrada, that wily widow, played favorites: she wed Charlemagne to Desiderata (or Himiltrude? annals muddle), daughter of Lombard King Desiderius, a match stinking of realpolitik. Desiderius, that bearded bear, had clawed papal lands; the alliance bought peace but irked Rome. Pope Stephen III, successor to the anointing pontiff, penned frantic missives: “What devilry is this? Lombards devour us!” Carloman, sniffing opportunity, courted the pope, sending alms and assassins’ whispers. In 770, Bertrada trekked to Lombardy herself, brokering the marriage in Pavia’s marble halls, where mosaics of Justinian glared down. Charlemagne, ever pragmatic, consummated the pact—producing a daughter, then annulling it when politics pivoted. Himiltrude, his pre-coronation love, bore Pepin the Hunchback, a son later tainted by conspiracy.
Tensions simmered like stew over embers. In 771, a plot bubbled: Grifo, that exiled half-uncle, escaped Lombard chains with Desiderius’s nod, landing in Carloman’s court like a bad omen. Charlemagne parried with diplomacy, but the east-west rift widened. Then, lightning: Carloman, hunting near Metz on December 4, 771, collapsed—hemorrhagic fever, or poison? At 20, he was gone, leaving toddlers Pippin and Carloman under Gerberga’s wing. She bolted to Desiderius, babe in arms, begging Lombard legions. Charlemagne moved like a chess master: envoys to nobles, bribes to bishops, a wedding to Hildegard of Swabia—Carloman’s turf—to bind the east. At Xanten’s assembly in early 772, under Rhine oaks, magnates acclaimed him sole king. No bloodbath; just shrewd absorption. Gerberga’s sons vanished into monasteries (or graves? history hushes), and the realm healed.
With the crown undivided, Charlemagne unleashed. Saxony first: in 772, he torched the Irminsul, that pagan pillar-tree, hauling silver to fund cathedrals. Thirty years of war followed—massacres at Verden (4,500 Saxon heads rolled), forced baptisms by swordpoint, until Widukind knelt in 785. Italy next: Desiderius, spurned and spiteful, crowned Carloman’s ghosts in Pavia. Charlemagne besieged the city in 773-774, his army tunneling under walls like moles, emerging to thunderous surrender. He donned the Iron Crown of Lombards, annexing the boot without a whimper from Byzantium. Spain’s fringe got a Roncesvalles drubbing in 778—Roland’s epic fodder—but the core consolidated. Bavaria’s duke Tassilo III bent knee in 787, his duchy digested. Even the Avars, those steppe horselords, crumbled in 791-796, their ring-hoard (a wagon of gold) bankrolling Aachen’s splendor.
Charlemagne’s court evolved from war tent to wonder: Aachen’s palatine chapel, octagonal marvel inspired by San Vitale, rose with Syrian marbles and Ravenna bronzes. Scholars flocked—Alcuin of York, that Northumbrian sage, revamped schools; Paul the Deacon chronicled Lombard lore; Einhard, the biographer-to-be, hammered statues. The *Admonitio Generalis* of 789 mandated grammar, rhetoric, astronomy for clergy; missi dominici—royal inspectors—roamed like circuit riders, enforcing justice from fjords to foothills. Coins bore his effigy: “Karolus Rex Francorum,” a nod to Roman revival. Christmas 800 saw Pope Leo III crown him Imperator Romanorum in St. Peter’s, amid cheers and Byzantine sneers—a new Rome, Frankish-flavored.
But glory’s underbelly? Brutality. Saxon wars scorched earth, enslaving thousands; Lombard integration bred resentment. Charlemagne’s kin—18 kids by five wives—weren’t immune: Pepin the Hunchback plotted patricide in 792, earning blinding and chains. The old king, ailing in 813, crowned Louis the Pious co-emperor at Aachen, dying January 28, 814, his sarcophagus a porphyry echo of emperors past.
This tapestry of 768’s echo weaves through centuries: Carolingian script birthed Carolingian minuscule, our lowercase font; legal codes influenced canon law; Aachen’s model inspired Versailles. The Holy Roman Empire, that “neither holy, nor Roman, nor empire” quip, traced to this day. Without October 9’s dual crowns—one brother’s death, the other’s daring—the map of Europe redraws blank.
Yet history’s not just kings and conquests; it’s the human pulse beneath. Charlemagne, that illiterate illiterate (he carved letters on wax tablets by lamplight, per Einhard), embodied resilience: from divided heir to unifier, turning fratricidal fracture into imperial forge. Carloman’s shadow lingers—a what-if of a scholarly realm, perhaps softer, less scarred. Their mother’s machinations, the nobles’ oaths, the monks’ inks—all threads in fate’s loom. Fun fact: Bertrada swam the Tiber in a barrel to flee scandal, or so gossip goes. Or consider the Irminsul’s fall: Saxons wept as axes bit bark, their world-tree toppling like Yggdrasil’s whisper. These vignettes—grimy, grand, grotesque—paint 768 not as prologue but pulse.
Diving deeper into the coronation’s choreography: Noyon’s rite drew on Visigothic ordines, oil from Jerusalem’s holy vial (or so claimed), chants in Gregorian mode. Fulrad’s homily thundered on Deuteronomy’s kings: “Choose wise men, fearing God.” Crowds—serfs in wool, knights in byrnies—roared *Vivat Rex!*, tossing autumn apples like confetti. Carloman’s Soissons echo was quieter, his crown from Reims’s treasury, but no less laden. The *Continuator of Fredegar* notes envoys from every duchy, bearing falcons and furs, sealing the split with spectacle.
Post-coronation, the realm’s machinery ground on. Charlemagne’s first charter, December 768, granted abbey lands near Liège—proving his grip. Taxes flowed: one-third harvests to the fisc, tolls on Rhine barges laden with Rhenish wine. Carloman mirrored, endowing monasteries in Auxerre. But Aquitaine’s embers flared: Waifer’s son, Hunald II, rallied Bretons in 769, only for Charlemagne’s host to raze Angoulême. Chronicles relish the rout: “The duke’s banners trampled in mud, his guard drowned in the Charente.” Victory feasts at Poitiers lasted weeks, with jongleurs mocking Waifer’s flight.
The Lombard tangle tightens the tale. Desiderius, that Pavia plotter, hosted Grifo in 753, only for Pepin to snatch him back. Post-768, he eyed Frankish weakness, seizing Sutri from papal grasp. Bertrada’s 770 embassy—ox-cart over Mont Cenis, blizzards biting—sealed Charlemagne’s marriage in a ceremony of unease: Desiderata in silk, Desiderius toasting with poisoned smiles. Annulment followed in 771, Hildegard (mother of Louis) wed amid Carloman’s corpse-cooling. Gerberga’s flight? Dramatic: through Alpine snows, babes bundled, to Desiderius’s dubious door. Her plea: “Avenge my lord!” sparked 774’s siege, Pavia starving as Franks catapaulted heads over walls.
Saxony’s saga spans decades, but 772’s kickoff was poetry: Charlemagne, at Worms assembly, vows Christianization. Thirty thousand strong, they ford the Weser, torching villages. Irminsul—forty feet of oak, gilded idols—crashed amid Saxon screams, its loot (300 camel-loads) gilding Peter’s pence. Widukind’s guerrilla genius prolonged pain: ambushes at the Lippe, mass baptisms under blade. Verden’s meadow, 782: 4,500 “rebels” beheaded in four days, a harvest of horror that haunted annals. Yet conversion stuck; by 804, Saxony was Frankish clay.
Italy’s absorption was smoother silk. 773’s march: Charlemagne divides forces, feints over Great St. Bernard, slams via Mont Cenis. Pavia’s moats froze; sappers mined gates. Desiderius emerged haggard, tonsured for monastic mercy. Charlemagne entered Rome in Easter 774, Leo I’s successor Hadrian I draping him in purple. The Iron Crown, Lombard relic from Monza, pinched his brow—a title without troops, but prestige priceless.
Bavaria’s bite was bureaucratic: Tassilo’s independence irked, his wife Liutperga kin to Desiderius. 787’s Regensburg diet deposed him; Charlemagne adopted his sons, folding the duchy like origami. Avars’ fall was fiscal jackpot: their “ring” treasury, amassed from Slavic tribute, flooded Frankish coffers—enough for Aachen’s aqueducts and basilica bells.
Court life glittered grimly. Aachen’s hall, timber-beamed, hosted 300 at Yule: swans in gold leaf, mead horns clinking. Alcuin schooled princes in quadrivium; Theodulf penned verses on vines. But plots percolated: 792’s conspiracy, Pepin the Hunchback blinded, his co-plotters strangled. Charlemagne’s laws—capitularies on Jews’ rights, widows’ dowers—blended mercy with might.
The Renaissance flickered: scriptoria at Corbie, Fulda produced uniform Bibles; Einhard’s *Vita Karoli* lionized the king as Augustus reborn. Missions to Denmark, Denmark’s Harald converted in 826—seeds of Nordic faith. Charlemagne’s piety: barefoot pilgrimages to Monte Gargano, relics hoarded like dragon gold.
Death came quiet: January 814, Aachen bedchamber, pneumonia or pleurisy. His last words: “Pass the salt.” Sarcophagus in the chapel, effigy gazing eternal. Louis inherited a colossus, but divisions doomed it—Verdun’s 843 carve-up birthing France, Germany.
This deluge of detail drowns in drama: from Pepin’s pyre to Charlemagne’s pantheon, October 9, 768, is pivot. The dual crowns, a Merovingian millstone, became Carolingian catapult. Brothers’ brief blaze—cooperation in Aquitaine, competition in Italy—forged the survivor. History’s humor: Carloman’s early exit spared war, but his shade spurred conquests. Educational edge: partible inheritance’s peril, church-state tango, migration’s might. Fun? Picture Charlemagne hunting boar, arrow true, or Alcuin quipping on eclipses as “dragon bites.”
Now, the forge’s fire to your anvil: that 768 outcome—division dissolved into dominion—mirrors life’s splits: lost jobs, broken bonds, shattered plans. Charlemagne didn’t whine; he welded. Here’s how you harvest that historical harvest in your daily grind, specific as a spear-thrust:
– **Embrace the Split as Strategy**: Like the kingdom’s carve, view career forks—corporate ladder vs. startup leap—not as curses but canvases. Audit your “Aquitaine”: list three draining duties, delegate two, conquer one weekly. Track wins in a journal, turning partition into propulsion.
– **Anoint Your Allies Early**: Bishops crowned the brothers; you crown your circle. Identify five “Fulrads”—mentors, peers—who anoint your ambitions. Schedule monthly “oath-swears”: coffee chats where you trade conquest tales, forging loyalty that outlasts Lombard plots.
– **March Joint, Then Solo**: Charlemagne and Carloman synced on Aquitaine; you sync on team projects, then solo-shine. In your next group endeavor, lead the charge collaboratively for the first phase, then pitch a solo extension—e.g., expand a report into a presentation—claiming the glory without grudge.
– **Annul the Toxic Ties**: Charlemagne ditched Desiderata for Hildegard; audit relationships. List three “Lombard leeches”—draining contacts—and phase out with grace: polite fades, boundary scripts like “I’m focusing inward now.” Replace with “Hildegards”: nourishing networks via hobby clubs or online forums.
– **Raid the Irminsuls**: Destroy your sacred cows. Charlemagne felled pagan pillars; identify three “idols”—procrastination rituals like doom-scrolling—and raid them daily: set a 10-minute timer for deep work bursts, looting “silver” in productivity gains.
– **Assemble Your Xantens**: Post-Carloman, nobles acclaimed unity; host your “assembly.” Quarterly, gather trusted voices for feedback feasts—virtual or venison—acclaiming your progress, adjusting course like Charlemagne’s missi.
– **Crown the Co-Emperor**: Charlemagne prepped Louis; mentor your “heir”—a junior at work or kid at home. Dedicate one hour weekly to their “anointing”: teach a skill, share a saga, ensuring your legacy lives beyond your lifetime.
Your 30-Day Dominion Plan: Week 1 – Map the Divide: Journal your life’s “Frankish realms”—health, wealth, wisdom—split into domains, crown one priority. Week 2 – Joint March: Partner on a goal, like co-crafting a budget with a spouse, syncing steps. Week 3 – Annul & Raid: Cut one tie, smash one habit; track the freedom flood. Week 4 – Assemble & Crown: Host a huddle, mentor one soul. Measure by momentum: not perfection, but progress, Charlemagne-style. This isn’t motivational fluff; it’s medieval muscle for modern might. Your empire awaits—seize the crown.