Becoming Charlemagne: Europe, Baghdad, and the Empires of A.D. 800

by Jeff Sypeck

sagacious

children of discord.

pallium,

Triclinio Leoniano

“God Should Not Be Sought in Any Place,” according to the title of the poem, “but Cultivated through Piety.”

The City of God.

Again, the heavy anchor summons me to sail this doubtful course, To trust this fleet of mine to fickle winds, To gird my weary limbs, which conquered storm and gale,

To rest these tired arms for battles new, To take these heavy oars in conquering hands, To skim the gentle seas where light breeze calls, To use the wind to sail into the waves, To cruise with greatest speed to unknown lands, To risk their rugged cliffs in rapid course. The east wind stirs the sails; its gentle gusts Direct me now upon this arduous route, To where, with lofty light, our Europe’s beacon shines.

Wars call. On all sides, a terrible battle is born. Brother kills brother, the uncle his nephew; The son now shows his father no respect. … This crime, which I have written in this poem, I, Angelbert, saw it—I fought alongside others. Of the many on the front line, I alone survived. There, from the hilltop, I beheld the valley deep, Where brave king Lothar crushed his foes As they took flight across the little stream. On Charles’ side, on Louis’ side as well, The ground grows white with shrouds to cloak the dead, Just as in autumn, when fields grow white with birds. This battle owns no praise; it is not fit for song. May east, and south, and west, and north Lament the men who died in so much pain. Cursed be that day. Let it be numbered not In any calendar, but expunged from all remembrance, Unlit by the sun, unlit by creeping dawn. That night—that dire night—and the day after— That night, tears and sorrow mixed, And some men died, and others groaned, forlorn. O mourning, lamenting: Naked are the dead. The vulture, crow, and wolf consume their flesh. Their corpses, vacant, stiffen; they have no tombs.

I’ll tell no more of weeping or of woe; A man should hold his tears as best he can. For those men’s souls, we beg before the Lord.

“Be not dismayed by the signs in the sky at which the nations shudder.”

Heu mihi misero: “Alas to me the misery!”

Fontenoy,

“blood flows in waves.”

Beyond bloodshed, the price was a dismantled empire.

Our selfish cares are all. Only God is forgotten.

Nos homunculi in fine seculi, “We are little men at the end of all things.”

“punish wrong-doers, guide the straying, console the sorrowing and advance the good.”