Imaginary interview with Charlemagne
by Charactorium · Charlemagne (742 — 814) · Politics · 5 min read
Aachen, a winter evening. The steam from the hot springs still rises from the baths while the emperor, a marten fur cloak over his shoulders, returns from the hunt. In the great hall of the palace, a stone's throw from the octagonal chapel, he agrees to speak of his reign, his schools, and his regrets.
—What would you say about that Christmas Day in Rome, in the year 800, when you received the imperial crown?
The sky of Rome had barely opened on the Nativity of the Lord, in the year 800, when Pope Leo III placed upon my brow a crown I had not asked for. It is reported that the people cried: “To Charles Augustus, crowned by God, great and peaceful emperor of the Romans, life and victory!” A fine clamor, indeed. But I confess to you: had I known what the pope was plotting that day in St. Peter's Basilica, I would not have entered, even on so holy a feast. A title received from another's hands weighs quite differently than a title won by the sword and by the service of God.
"A title received from another's hands weighs quite differently than a title won by the sword."
—Why did this title of emperor seem so heavy to bear?
Understand this: since the fall of ancient Rome, the West had had no emperor. To revive that name was to restore an edifice that three centuries had left in ruins. In Constantinople, I was regarded as a barbarian king wearing a stolen title; it was not until 812 that Emperor Michael finally consented to call me his brother in dignity. Such a burden is not borne out of vanity. I have always considered myself a servant of the Church and a guardian of the Christian people, not a new Caesar drunk on purple. Besides, the Roman purple I only put on reluctantly: I preferred my linen tunic, my breeches, and my Frankish leg wrappings.
—How did you, who ordered schools throughout the Empire, come to struggle with writing?
In 789, through my Admonitio generalis, I decreed that in every monastery and every bishopric, children should be taught to read, sing, and count — and not only the sons of nobles, but also those of servile condition. See the irony God reserved for me: I who commanded this never learned to trace my letters with ease. I kept wax tablets under my pillow, and at night, when sleep eluded me, I practiced forming characters. I had begun too late in life. But what does my clumsy hand matter, if a thousand younger hands learned what mine could never master.
"What does my clumsy hand matter, if a thousand younger hands learned what mine could never master."
—Do you remember the arrival of Alcuin at your court?
Alcuin of York joined me around 782, and I believe no gift ever equaled that one. He was a man whose head was a granary where all the knowledge of the Ancients lay stored. With him, we undertook to clean up the kingdom's writing, which had become a jumble of scribbles inherited from Merovingian times. From this effort was born the Caroline minuscule, clear and round, legible by any cleric from one end of the Empire to the other. In my scriptoria, monks copied the texts of the Fathers and even of pagan sages who, without them, would have been lost forever. I could scarcely write; but I at least ensured that others wrote better than all our ancestors.
—How did you hold such a vast empire with a single hand?
An empire is not governed from the depths of a palace. So I sent throughout the provinces my missi dominici, my envoys, always in pairs — a churchman and a layman — so that they might watch each other and could not be bribed. In 802, I made it a well-regulated institution: they inspected the counts, listened to the complaints of the poor, and received the oath of fidelity that every free man owed me since 789. My capitularies, those ordinances divided into chapters, thus descended to the last county. Without these eyes and ears constantly traveling the roads, my words spoken at Aachen would never have reached the farthest marches.
—Why did you concern yourself even with the plants growing in the gardens of your estates?
People are surprised that the Emperor of the West took the trouble to dictate which herbs should grow in his gardens. In my Capitulare de villis, I decreed that they should cultivate lilies, roses, sage, cucumbers, melons, and a hundred other plants. Why? Because a well-kept kingdom is known by its smallest details. An estate that feeds its people, counts its eggs, and watches over its beehives is an estate that will not rise up in hunger. The good order of humble things is the mirror of the good order of the Empire. Did not God himself ordain even the blade of grass in the fields?
"A well-kept kingdom is known by its smallest details."
—What decided you to make Aachen your capital?
The water, my guest, the burning water that springs from the very ground. At Aachen, hot springs rise from the earth like a gift from Heaven, and I have always loved swimming more than any other exercise. I had a basin dug there so vast that I could invite my guards, my sons, my daughters, and my household — sometimes more than a hundred bodies splashing together in the steam. It was there, near these waters, that I built my palace and my palatine chapel, octagonal, modeled after the churches I had admired in Ravenna. A man who governs must also relax his body; and nowhere did I feel more at home than in that warmth rising from the Frankish soil.
—It is said that an elephant lived at your court — where did such a marvel come from?
Ah, Abul-Abbas! The Caliph Harun al-Rashid, who ruled far away in the East, sent me this prodigious beast, and it reached Aachen around 802 after a journey that no one would have thought possible. Imagine the stupefaction of my court: an animal as big as a house, with ears like sails, a trunk that grasped things like a human hand. The children trembled at it, and my warriors too. This elephant was a sign that my fame had reached the caliph's lands, beyond seas and deserts. It lived among us for nearly eight years, a living curiosity of the entire Empire, until God called it back to Him.
"This elephant was a sign that my fame had reached the caliph's lands."
—What remains within you of the disaster at Roncevaux?
Roncevaux. That name still grips my heart. In 778, as my army was crossing back through the passes of the Pyrenees, my rearguard was ambushed by the Basque mountaineers, in gorges where cavalry is worthless. There fell Count Roland, and many brave men with him. It was not a pitched battle that I could have won by numbers: it was an ambush, the worst scourge of an army on the march. Already the songs of the jongleurs are beginning to magnify the affair far beyond what it was. But for me, the memory remains that of faithful men fallen in a trap of rocks, far from any help.
—How did you hold borders threatened from all sides?
An empire whose borders are not guarded is but a prey offered. Where the Saxons, Avars, and Saracens lurked, I established marches — border territories entrusted to hard men, margraves, whose sole duty was to watch and to strike. Against the Avars, in 796, my troops broke through their great entrenchment in Pannonia and seized a treasure amassed over centuries of plunder — so much gold that wagons were needed to bring it back to me. Guarding a frontier is not just about erecting palisades: it is about posting men who never sleep but with one eye open. The marches were the shield of the Empire, and the chapel of Aachen remained its heart.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Charlemagne's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.