Two days later, Kocel arrived at the Moravian capital.
The city's stone walls were largely complete, and Greek craftsmen were installing heavy ballistae along the ramparts.
Inside the city, companies of standing soldiers carrying spears could occasionally be seen patrolling the streets. Their shields bore black eagle insignias, and they wore Byzantine-style lamellar armor—likely equipment provided by Basil.
Upon entering the royal court, Kocel noticed that there were far more guards than usual, many of them unfamiliar faces.
A wave of panic washed over him.
For a moment, he nearly felt the urge to turn around and flee.
Around nine in the morning, nobles from across the kingdom had gathered. Kocel followed the crowd into the great hall, nearly stumbling on the way.
Before long, an uproar swept through the assembly.
Kocel looked up.
The old king was publicly listing the crimes of his nephew and seven other nobles.
When he finished, he issued a decree stripping all eight men of their noble titles and placing bounties on their heads—dead or alive.
Fortunately, they're not after us.
Kocel wiped the sweat from his forehead and quickly pieced together what had happened.
For years, the old king had favored closer ties with the Romans, while his nephew, Svatopluk, had aligned himself with the Franks. The two factions frequently clashed.
Now, both the traditionalist faction and the pro-East Frankish faction threatened the king's authority.
Moreover, with the Frankish kingdoms already destroyed, eliminating his nephew's supporters no longer risked foreign intervention.
Over the next two hours, the king announced a series of reforms and sternly warned several nobles who had fallen behind on taxes, ordering them to settle their arrears within a month.
At noon, a banquet was held.
Throughout the feast, Kocel remained uneasy, occasionally glancing toward his five fellow conspirators.
He worried that someone might crack under the pressure and reveal their intentions.
When the banquet finally ended, he left the palace as quickly as possible and rode northwest at full speed until he returned to Žatec.
Two days later, Kocel received word that Svatopluk and his associates had vanished.
They might still be hiding somewhere within the kingdom.
Or they might have escaped south into Croatia.
Whatever the truth, Moravia had become even more unstable after the incident.
News from Moravia reached northern Italy, but the Frankish remnants paid little attention.
Although Svatopluk had once been their preferred candidate, that was now a matter of the past.
Bald Charles had more pressing concerns.
Corsica.
After recovering Sicily, the Eastern Romans honored their agreement and handed over captured Moorish sailors and ships to the Franks.
In early August, a fleet of seventy vessels departed Pisa.
After sailing for most of a day, the rugged coastline of Corsica appeared on the horizon.
The fleet entered a bay.
Dozens of bloated corpses lay scattered along the beach, accompanied by thousands of arrows.
The watchtower atop the nearby cliffs had been reduced to ruins.
Heavy fighting had clearly taken place here.
The landing proceeded in an orderly fashion.
Frankish soldiers jumped into waist-deep seawater and rushed ashore, forming shield walls. Chainmail and lamellar armor gleamed dazzlingly beneath the blazing sun.
Alfred stepped onto the beach.
His boots sank into sand heated by the Mediterranean sun.
He smelled salt, charred wood, and a sickening odor of decay.
The scent of war.
From Britain to the western Mediterranean, some things never changed.
The Count of Orléans divided the army into three columns, each advancing inland along separate routes.
Alfred led the northern force.
They marched along a dried riverbed.
The heat was suffocating.
Heavy armor felt like an oven strapped to the body, and sweat poured from every soldier.
From time to time, rustling sounds emerged from nearby shrubs as startled animals fled.
At sunset, they encountered their first enemy.
Almost instantly, Moorish pirates emerged from behind rocky outcroppings.
They wore loose linen garments and iron helmets, their curved swords glowing orange-red in the fading light.
"Shield wall! Form ranks!"
The battle erupted suddenly and brutally.
Arrows rained down from above.
Most were stopped by shields and armor, yet screams still echoed across the field.
Alfred watched a young soldier collapse backward, an arrow buried in his eye socket as blood splattered across the dry earth.
After five volleys, the pirates charged with wild cries.
Alfred parried a slash and drove his sword into the attacker's chest.
Warm blood sprayed across his gauntlet, carrying a strong metallic scent.
After a brief but fierce engagement, the better-organized Franks gained the upper hand and steadily pushed forward.
The fighting ended as darkness fell.
The Franks lost thirty men.
The pirates left more than ninety dead behind.
Before setting out, the Franks had questioned local fishermen about conditions on the island.
According to their information, the largest pirate band on Corsica numbered fewer than three hundred men.
That assessment proved accurate.
Beginning on the second day, Alfred led over a thousand soldiers deep into northern Corsica and never encountered another large concentration of pirates.
The island's interior was sparsely populated and rugged.
Eagles circled high overhead against brilliant blue skies.
From distant hills came the faint ringing of goat bells.
Corsican villages were usually built in defensible mountain locations, often with watchtowers overlooking the surrounding terrain to warn of pirate raids.
The primary crop was wheat, cultivated on terraces and irrigated valleys.
Smaller plots supported chickpeas, lentils, and grapevines.
Near one village entrance, a shepherd approached the heavily armed soldiers.
"Who are you people?"
Alfred instructed the interpreter to relay his answer.
"Don't you recognize your own king's banner?"
The king?
When Moorish pirates were raiding Corsica year after year, the king never cared about us.
The shepherd muttered quietly before hastily driving his flock back toward the village.
From the perspective of the locals, the arrival of the Frankish army was an unmitigated disaster.
The moment they entered a settlement, they gathered the villagers and demanded payment of decades' worth of back taxes.
They also required one-quarter of all able-bodied men to provide labor.
Alfred could feel the villagers' resentment.
But there was nothing he could do.
Hundreds of thousands of Frankish refugees had flooded into Italy.
They desperately needed food and supplies.
That was the entire purpose of recovering Corsica.
No one could change that reality.
After twenty days of campaigning, the Franks had cleared the island of pirates and collected enough grain to feed twenty thousand people for a year.
"Not enough. Far too little."
The Count of Orléans was deeply dissatisfied with the results.
He complained that the soldiers had consumed excessive amounts of food while gathering supplies, resulting in serious waste.
Then he lowered his voice and proposed a bold idea.
"How about heading south to Sardinia and 'borrowing' some grain from the locals?
"Sardinia is three times the size of Corsica. The island is stable and produces far more food than Corsica, which has suffered decades of pirate raids."
Alfred stared at him in disbelief.
"Isn't that a terrible idea?
"Sardinia is nominally loyal to the Eastern Roman Empire.
"You want to plunder an ally's territory?"
The Count of Orléans looked offended.
"What nonsense are you talking about?
"It's borrowing, not stealing!
"Once we've recovered West Francia, we'll repay them with interest."
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