Chapter 4: The Road of Least Resistance

The road to Rome was a river of mud and men.

Aldric sat his horse with the slumped resignation of a man already dead to the world, watching the columns of the Imperial army snake through the Alpine passes. Behind him, the baggage train stretched for a league, its ox-carts groaning under the weight of tribute, treasure, and the thousand necessities that followed Charlemagne like a second court. Before him, the vanguard’s spears caught the pale November light, glittering like a promise of violence.

He had not wanted to come. He had tried, with the desperate ingenuity of a cornered fox, to avoid it. A fever, he had claimed—a shaking ague that would surely carry him off if he were forced to ride south. Hildegard had examined him with a healer’s eye and pronounced him fit as a stallion, adding that his complexion had never looked better. Then Rotrude had smiled her knowing smile and suggested that perhaps the Lord of the Vosges might serve as her personal escort, a duty so tedious and ceremonial that even he could not object without seeming churlish.

And so here he was. Escorting Princess Rotrude to Rome. Trapped in the belly of the beast.

“You look like a man attending his own funeral,” Gerold observed from beside him, the Saxon’s scarred face split by a rare grin.

“Perhaps I am,” Aldric muttered. “The funeral of my aspirations.”

The road wound through the narrow defile, and the mountains rose around them like the walls of a prison. Snow dusted the peaks, and the air carried the bite of oncoming winter. Charlemagne had chosen to travel in force—not merely for the protection of the Pope, but for the weight of presence. Leo III had fled Rome in April, his eyes gouged and his tongue cut by his enemies, or so the rumors went. The Emperor meant to restore him, and the entire world would watch.

Aldric cared little for popes or their mutilations. What he cared about was that he was a thousand miles from his vineyards, and the vintage was likely rotting on the vine.

“You brood,” Rotrude said, guiding her palfrey alongside his. She wore a riding cloak of deep blue wool, her face half-hidden by a hood, but her eyes were bright and merciless. “I find it unbecoming in a man who has been given the honor of the Emperor’s trust.”

“Honor,” Aldric repeated, as if tasting a spoiled wine. “Your father has a peculiar notion of honor. It involves mud, and cold, and the distinct possibility of being murdered by Lombard brigands.”

“And yet you came.”

“I was outmaneuvered.”

Rotrude laughed, a sound like bells in the thin mountain air. “Outmaneuvered by a woman. How galling for you.”

“By a woman,” Aldric agreed, “and by my own cursed reputation. Your father believes I have a talent for solving problems. He does not understand that my talent lies in avoiding them.”

“And yet the problems solve themselves around you. Or have you forgotten Avaria?”

He had not forgotten. The forged illness that had earned him a month of bedrest had somehow resulted in a treaty that opened the Avar treasure hoard to Frankish coffers. He still did not understand how it had happened. He had merely suggested, in a moment of feverish delirium, that the Avar khagan might be more amenable to negotiation if his favorite wife were returned to him. The suggestion had been relayed, acted upon, and the resulting peace had made Charlemagne richer than any king in Christendom.

“That was an accident,” Aldric said.

“Was it?” Rotrude’s smile widened. “My father does not believe in accidents. Neither do I. You have a gift, Lord Aldric, for seeing the shape of things. The way a stream finds its path around a stone, the way a vine grows toward the sun. You call it laziness. We call it wisdom.”

Aldric opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat. Ahead, the column had halted, and a rider was approaching—a herald in the Emperor’s colors, his horse lathered and blowing.

“Princess Rotrude,” the herald called, reining in. “The Emperor requests the presence of Lord Aldric. At once.”

Aldric closed his eyes. “The stream,” he muttered, “has found another stone.”

He found Charlemagne at the head of the column, standing in the stirrups of his massive warhorse, gazing down at the Italian plain spread before them like a golden tapestry. The Emperor’s breath misted in the cold air, and his beard, now streaked with grey, bristled with the energy of a man half his age.

“Aldric,” Charlemagne said, without turning. “Come here. Look.”

Aldric urged his horse forward, halting beside the Emperor. Below them, the road descended through foothills toward the distant gleam of a river—the Po, he guessed, though he had never seen it. Beyond that, unseen, lay Rome.

“I see a great deal of land,” Aldric said carefully. “And no doubt a great deal of trouble.”

Charlemagne laughed, a booming sound that startled the birds from a nearby copse. “Trouble. Yes. There is always trouble.” He turned, and his eyes, sharp and ancient, fixed on Aldric with an intensity that made the smaller man want to shrink into his saddle. “The Pope is a broken man, Aldric. His enemies cut out his tongue, but God has restored his speech, and he cries for justice. He cries for me.”

“And you mean to give it to him.”

“I mean to give him more than justice. I mean to give him a crown.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Aldric felt the weight of them, the sheer audacity of the claim. An imperial crown. A title that had not been held in the West since the fall of Rome itself. Charlemagne was not merely restoring a pope—he was rewriting the map of Christendom.

“And what,” Aldric asked slowly, “do you need from me?”

Charlemagne smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a man who had already won a game his opponent did not know they were playing.

“I need you to be exactly what you are, Aldric. The laziest, cleverest man in my court. The man who finds the path of least resistance.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “There are those who will oppose my coronation. The Byzantine Empress, Irene, believes the title belongs to her. The Lombard nobles whisper of rebellion. And in Rome itself, the Pope’s enemies still hold power.” He paused. “I need someone who can see the cracks in their plans. Someone who can find the way through, without a single sword being raised.”

Aldric stared at him. “You want me to scheme.”

“I want you to do what you do best,” Charlemagne said. “Be lazy. Find the easiest path. But this time, let the easiest path lead to my crown.”

The Emperor clapped him on the shoulder, nearly unseating him, and wheeled his horse away. Aldric sat in the saddle, the cold wind biting at his cheeks, and felt the trap close around him with the finality of a coffin lid.

Behind him, Rotrude had ridden up, her face unreadable. “Well?” she asked.

“Well,” Aldric echoed. “It appears I am to be the architect of an empire. Or the author of its ruin. I have not yet decided which.”

She smiled, and there was something almost pitying in her gaze. “Perhaps both, my lord. Perhaps both.”

Aldric looked down at his hands—hands that had been meant for pruning shears and goblets of wine, not the weight of kingdoms. And somewhere, in the depths of his soul, that treacherous voice whispered again: *But what if you could do it? What if you could shape it?*

He crushed it, as he always did. But it was getting harder.

And ahead, Rome gleamed on the horizon like a promise—or a threat.