Prologue : Pope Leo 111 

 “I am so tired. 64 years of life coming to a …” 

 My breath rattles out of me in scraping gasps, barely discernible through the laboured breathing of the king before me. The King. A king I crowned. Charlemagne, Charles the Great, The King of the Franks, the emperor of my renewed Roman Empire, and after the many years he reigned strong and victorious it took only seven days for him to die. Seven days for some measly illness to finish him off. For this was what’s happening, he’s dying. A lung disease they say: the doctors I mean, an infectious lung disease, and after all the great and wonderful things he did. I wonder how God could pass such cruel judgement on such a good man. Because he was, he was good.  

Such an undignified death for one so great, one I made. But he is human, and it can only be expected. So, I harden my heart, creating a shell around myself. But I let two words slip through my barrier, weaving through the silence of the dead and dying between us. 

 “I’m sorry.”  

 And then he’s gone.  

Part one: Pope Leo 111 

 The sun shines against my face, cold and bright, cool and sharp, like morning knives against my sleep-worn skin. I shiver, my lavish bedchamber flooding with frost-layered air.  

Today was the day. The day I was to change the world, to save my beloved Vatican. His face flicks through my mind, the blue eyes and stern smile. I suppose he was my role model, and something inside of me lamented that after today we would be distanced. Of course, he didn’t know this, not yet. But I did. I had been told from the moment I could understand the language of God that this was my future, that every one of my predecessor’s was the same. A Pope, that’s what I was, a kingmaker, maybe even a puppeteer. I would control everything. I promised myself this a long time ago. 

 I dress quickly but elaborately, with jewels and silks draped across my body. I don’t call for servants, instead seeing myself out of my room, down the red-velvet stairs and into the winter-bitten gardens. 

The sun-warmed, honey-coloured walls seem to glow in the morning light, the unsurpassed, local, Roman stone showing its elegance.   A few people stare, whisper, even as I walk by, fearful of my power and influence and position, if only they knew where I came from.  A light but reverent voice speaks from behind me. I turn to find a small, portly old man of a rosy complexion and overly large nose.  

“Your holiness,” he starts with a shallow bow, ‘it is requested that you are ready for the ceremony.’  

‘I am.’ I say shortly, not bothering with pleasantries. 

‘But your holiness you need—‘ 

I cut him off.  

‘No. I do not need anything. I am perfectly well and prepared for the coming event. Do not condescend to me, boy.’ 

His face blanches as he grasps his situation, grasps that he grossly overestimated his own place, before he scurries away, fleeing down the corridor like a frightened mouse.   I want to hate my abhorrent attitude towards those less fortunate than myself, but it was how I was treated when I was just as lowly, so why shouldn’t they bear the same?  He doesn’t seem to notice that he is, in fact, older than me by many years.  

 I reach the courtyard with time to spare, and sigh as the scent of roses brushes my nose, breathing in the rich, entrancing smell. I feel my legs bring me to rest before a particularly lush bush of fine, red roses of the highest quality. But in the centre, framed by its fellows, was a red moon to the many stars around it. A true winter rose. Heavy, rich petals smoothed with ruby silk and blood-soaked satin. It was fully in bloom, the stalk straining with the weight of its heady beauty. Each and every thorn honed to utter and complete perfection, protruding like knives from the emerald stem, and yet not marred by it as our lord's dear head was. 

 I check the sun, finding that I only had a half candle left until I should be at the ceremony of Christ’s birth, which is being held in St. Peters church. Little did anyone know that it would also be something else, something amazing, something special. I turn from the roses, going instead to the swaying olive trees that dot the pathway. 

The bare trees swish in the courtyard, their branches swirled with spiralling frost of hues of baby blue and pearly whites. And I feel myself relax at the sound, my body seeming to pool against the trunk I go to lean on. And for a while, I do nothing but breathe, think, enjoy.  

A pounding bell floods through my ears, and I straighten, mentally preparing myself as I walk towards doing the unthinkable thing… but the right thing. 

 The walk over to the the church is excruciating, the truth of the deed I was about to perform sinking into my gut and making itself at home. I was condemning a man to a life he never wanted. And maybe it was for the greater good, maybe most would want the position. But that didn’t change the fact that he might not. But that didn’t matter, not now.  

I briefly recall the heated conversation we shared after he took me in, three days ago. I tried; I really did. But he refused, claiming that he cared more for family and humanity than for power, claiming that ‘No’, he did not want to be emperor, that he was happy with the title ‘King of the Franks’, and anything else was excessive. Little did he know, everyone else did.   

 The doors open. Charles pauses as he strides through the small crowd, but continues as he realises that he can't leave, not now. Sunlight streaming in behind him, a golden halo seeming to shine around his head of curls, his breath puffing into the room like little clouds. And as I see the hesitation swirling in his eyes as he beholds the crown, I don’t know what to feel. Pain? Regret? Satisfaction? None feel right, so I keep myself expressionless, stone-faced, cold. Even as I bring the world to its knees before me, only to rebuild it soon.  

Soon… 

Part Two: Charles 

 I don’t know why I ever supposed he would spare me the pain of ignorance. I thought perhaps he would threaten me, would belittle me, would scare me into accepting his proposition. But it turns out he was willing to do so much more. Genius... bring me too a church, tell me I am celebrating something else, get me dressed up, and make the preparations beforehand seem coordinated, expected even. To me anyway. 

 My clothes feel heavier somehow, like weights had attached themselves to the sweeping train and layered cloth that I bore. The rich scarlets and cobalts coating me seeming to transform to the oceans of blood that came with being an emperor and king.   I would be the most powerful monarch of this generation, of this new century. Could I turn that down? Would I? I don’t know. On one hand there was Irene, the ruler of Byzantium, who had stated her intentions of becoming emperor clearly and without complications, meaning my interference would only cause rivalry, and on the other there was the Pope and my people. Which one was worse? I didn’t know.  

 My heart is in my throat as my steps echo through the church. Two priests have materialised behind me, their clothes and demeanour clearly practiced. They knew.  

I feel eyes on me as I slowly continue walking towards the dais, unable to make myself swerve from my destiny. I couldn’t, not with this many people watching. It would completely undermine my authority if they knew I had no ambition to become Roman emperor, never mind refuse the position outright.  

Charles. I was Charles. And being an emperor wouldn’t change that. Except it would. Becoming king of the Franks changed that, not by a lot, but not by a little either.  

The weights are suddenly gone, my body as light as a feather, even the clothes no longer a burden. 

I think I knew, knew what was coming, knew what Leo would do. And I wonder, if I had been presented with irrevocable evidence, would I have done anything different? Would I have refused to attend this Christmas ceremony? Would I have confronted this manipulative pope? Nay, I doubt I would have done any of these things. Likelihood is, I would have entered through that door just the same.   I think of the deal we had struck only a few days before: the protection of any army at my disposal. And now he had an army of war-hardened Romans as means of security. Of course.  

 A high, grating neigh cuts across the chamber, the still open doors echoing the sound across the room. My horse, the elegant white mare that had faithfully born me here evidently sick of the young, fresh-faced stable boy who had been assigned to her. Would he treat her in the style to which she was accustomed? 

 And maybe these thoughts were intentional, maybe I was just trying to distract myself from the crippling weight that I was too be bound too in naught but a few moments.  I reach the dais, slowly, grandly ascending the few steps to stand just in front of a randle. It was beautiful, if simple. With a burgundy centre, framed by a silver halo and surrounded by a honey-coloured ring of marble.   Just outside it, a new pedestal stood, silver-tinted stone climbing the air and topped by a royal-blue, velvet cushion. And upon that, sat the crown. 

Being produced by the Vatican it was, of course, over the top, elaborate. A gold monstrosity that conveyed nothing but wealth, money, power and… greed. Even looking at the thing made me feel slightly oily. It was a classic design, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and diamonds decorating its surface, the spaces coated in pearls of the finest quality, the actual crown crafted of pure gold.   I stepped inside the circle. I knelt. I prayed. Because it was Christmas, and that was what I needed to do.  

 I hear the rustle of clothing beside me as Pope Leo comes to my side, a priest standing beside him, the crown in his hands. I brace myself, hearing the words flow from the I man I had saved, the man who is betraying me.  

 His voice rings across the hall, rich and deep, with no regret, no sorrow. The crowd’s breath whispering amid the silence.  "To Charles Augustus crowned by God, great pacific emperor of the Romans." 

And he crowns me.  

 I do not know what I feel, I do not know what I should feel. Cheated, angry, bitter? After all, my reign as the most powerful monarch in this world has begun with deceit and lies, or at least hidden truths. I know that in time the dark, nauseous feeling that haunts me will fade, I hope so anyway. And now, now I am emperor, king, protector, ruler. I belong wholly to my subjects. War and politics will rule me from now on. A lifetime of trying to atain peace, prosperity and order yawning before me.  

And besides, it's not all bad. Could being emperor be so truly terrible as I make out? Surely not… 

I stand. 

Epilogue  

 After his crowning, Charlemagne continued to devote his time and resources to uniting Europe. Even before his coronation Charlemagne used his power as the Frankish king to wage a long and bloody war upon the Saxons, which lasted around 30 years, 4 of which were after his coronation.  

 The most notable consequence of Charlemagne’s coronation was the cementing of his partnership with the papacy. 

 It is unknown if Charlemagne indeed wanted to be crowned, or was even aware of it beforehand – kneeling down to pray and nothing else – which is supported by his biographer, who stated that Charlemagne had no idea of the coming procedures. Though most historians believe that this was simply an expression of modesty, because if Charlemagne had openly said that he wanted to be emperor it might cast him in a greedy, power-hungry light.   Charlemagne would in fact shy away from becoming emperor.  

In fact, one of the reasons Pope Leo 111 was so insistent on crowning Charlemagne was because of Irene’s (Empress of the eastern empire) gender. The Vatican disapproved of female rulers.   

 Western Europe at the time was less organised and cultured than Byzantium and the emerging Islamic powers. While from the north, the less civilised aggressive Vikings pushed into Frankish territory.  

 Charlemagne gave his subjects a geographical centre of power, culture, justice, a steadier economy and safety. Although this renewed ‘Roman’ empire disintegrated in the decades after his death, the moment of his crowning was the cornerstone for the development of the next thousand years of Western European culture.

After becoming Roman emperor, Charlemagne devoted his life to unifying Europe and developing a peaceful and prosperous economy, in which he succeeded, in time.  

However, as expected of an 800 Ad emperor and king, Charles’ did not get to where he got through peaceful means, fighting his way to amalgamation through many lost battles and won wars, such as the Saxon wars in 772-804, consisting of 18 harsh battles scattered over 30 years, though this was mostly before his roman coronation. 

 The primary outcome of Charlemagne’s 25th December 800 coronation in Rome was the undeniable connection of the Roman Empire, Frankish kings and the papacy that was born when Pope Leo 111 placed the crown upon the frank king's head, though they frank royalty and the papacy had been close for nigh 50 years before 800 From there on out the church was a crucial factor in most all politics, the proclamation that indeed, a Pope had the power to make Kings, of course boosting the papacy’s reputation considerably among commoners, the Popes own peasant heritage probably aiding on this front.  

There are many queries on whether Charlemagne was actually aware of the Popes intentions before the crowning, saying that it was sprung upon him as he knelt to pray at the alter, and though the theory is indeed possible, the majority of scholars seem to lean more the other way. However, I decided the first hypothesis was more enjoyable to write and read about.  

 Through Charlemagne’s life he was given the title ‘Father of Europe’, referring to the new and advantageous way he ruled his vast empire. Of course, this was only possible because of his new roman title, the emperor. Using this role, he encouraged the Collegian renaissance, a cultural and intellectual revival of Europe.  When Charlemagne died in 814, his empire encompassed much of Western Europe, the lands falling too his son, Louis the Pious.  However, following Charles's death (Charles the 3rd, the fat) in 888, the Carolingian Empire essentially collapsed, ending the powerful reign of the Carolingian dynasty and the entire Frankish Empire.