No Roman would have called this a palace. The long rectangular building, covered with thatch, would at best have been a barn on a Roman estate. But the dark German forests provided more wood than stone, and the home of Hermanfred, king of the Thuringii, was built of wood and roofed with straw. Still, the polished planks that lined the walls, the gold hung about them, the silver plate set on shelves, gave some hint of his magnificence. No windows opened in the deeply sloping roof, but light entered at one end where the wall above the door stopped short of its peak.

The half-light barely lit a stone altar, set along the wall, which held two crude wooden paddles, each painted with a face: Odin and Thor, the household gods. A girl of nine spooned millet gruel into a bowl before them. Her horse, one of the beautiful silver Thuringii horses, had hurt its leg, and so the child began to chant:

The Fair and the Father traveled to the forest.

Then was for Baldur's foal its foot wrenched.

Then encharmed it Sindgund, Sunna her sister,

then encharmed it Frija, Volla her sister,

then encharmed it Odin, as best he could.

As the bone-wrench, so the blood wrench, so the limb-wrench,

bone to bone, blood to blood,

limb to limb, so be set.

With that, she nodded towards the gods and started skipping towards the door.

Stag's heads peeked out from her bright blonde hair, set on hoops hung from her ears. The inlaid buckle of her finely wrought belt, set with garnet, showed two facing profiles of birds, red against the green of her woolen dress. As sunlight struck her jewelry and her brilliant blue eyes, she looked every inch the princess she was.

Hrotgund was not however Hermanfred’s daughter. He and her uncle Berthaire had killed their brother, her father, when she was three. She did not hate the king for this; she had barely known her father. Nor did she mourn Berthaire, whom Hermanfred had now defeated with the help of Theuderic, one of the Frankish kings. Almost as soon as she had learned to speak, she had learned that brothers killed brothers, that an uncle like a father might suddenly be gone. Neither did it shock her that Hermanfred, having promised half his kingdom to Theuderic, had betrayed him as well. In war, her aunt had told her, treachery was as fair a weapon as a sword.

She thought only of her suffering horse, one of many in a long building parallel to the palace, filled with the king’s living wealth: both cattle and the famous silver Thuringii horses. As she scampered up to her aunt, she told her eagerly, “I prayed for my horse!”. A handsome woman in her forties, with bright red hair under her green and red scarf, her aunt smiled and stroked the child’s head. But she was peering down the hill, past the women outside the daub and wattle huts, busy at their sundry tasks, to the gate in the wooden palisade. The gate, flanked by wooden towers, opened to a rough wooden bridge which crossed the muddy Gera, flowing past this Thuringii capital of Erfurt.

She was watching for war. “All this because of that Goth bitch.” Hrotgund did not have to ask who this was; she had heard the tale before. How one night Hermanfred had come home to supper and found only half the table covered. His wife, a fierce daughter of Theodore the Ostrogoth, had said, “It is fitting that a man have only half a tablecloth who has only half a kingdom.” The strongest men, her aunt told Hrotgund, were weakest in their pride, and so Hermanfred, humiliated, had declared war on Berthaire. But he had required the help of the Frankish king, and made him the promise he had now betrayed. No doubt again on his wife’s advice.

“It is never wise,” said Hrotgund’s aunt, “to anger the Franks.” She knew better than to take their wrath lightly. Two of Berthaire’s daughters lived among them; one was even married to Theuderic’s brother. Now Theuderic was on the march with that brother, Chlothar. Each was king of part of Gaul, heir with two others to Clovis, who had conquered Gaul for the Franks.

Behind her aunt, at the top of the hill, sun hit the roof of the Great Beer-Hall, where round golden shields were set in the thatch on either side. Above the wide door with its richly carved posts, a golden boar’s head gleamed. When the Thuringii met inside, torches lit benches edged with gold and rows of red and white shields hung along the wall. At the far end rose a platform where Hermanfred would sit on his small folding throne, flanked by his lords in their brightly colored cloaks, firelight sparking on their arms and ornaments, drinking horns held up for the fresh, foaming beer, as the warriors stretched out before them shouted and sang. It was truly a marvelous sight, showing all on its own the might and magnificence of the Thuringii.

But now the hall was dark, and all the shields were gone, along with the warriors and the Thuringii lords. Even Amalfred, Hrotgund’s favorite cousin and sometime playmate, was now old enough to ride with the men.

As she turned back towards the gate, a rider came racing into the courtyard, his bright sword defying the air. Long blond hair flowed freely onto his blue tunic, showing his royal blood. From far off, one might have mistaken him for a man, but seen up close Berthefred was barely fourteen, even if, to his adoring sister, he looked manly enough.

“What a trick we have played on the Franks!” he chortled. “Our warriors lifted sheets of grass, dug pits and put sharpened stakes in them, then covered them over again. When the Franks came riding towards them, they found themselves sinking, and impaled on the stakes!”

Hrotgund thought of those poor horses, impaled before their human riders. Her aunt frowned. “They will not fall for the same trick twice.”

The Thuringii knew horses well, and so many heard the hoofs from far off, even before the shouting, and the terrible roar of warriors’ voices, fierce, deep, raucous, followed by the cries of the guards in the wooden towers: “The Franks! The Franks!”. Two men closed the gate as women urged their children into the huts and craftsmen who had stayed behind grabbed their swords, bows and spears, and ran towards the walls. Berthefred started to follow, but one turned back and commanded, “Protect the women!”.

The smell of smoke grew strong, as the sound of hoofs and shouting grew louder. The guards in the towers began to fire arrows, but were struck by others from outside. Shouting drowned their cries as they died. Inside, men climbed ladders to peer above the walls, then fell backwards, wounded.

Heads began to appear on every side, the mustached faces of Franks, their hair dyed a dull red and hanging in braids before them. More Thuringii ran to meet them, grabbing the ladders of the fallen, as Franks rose higher above the walls and aimed spears and arrows towards the defenders. Several clambered over and dropped down, raising their swords. Soon men were dueling on every side, many Thuringii falling as yet another Frank hopped down from the palisade and joined his fellows. It only took minutes for some to reach the gates and lift aside the great beam barring them. At once Frankish warriors began to pour in.

Berthefred shouted, “Get inside, Hrotgund!” Struck by surprise more than terror, she had not moved. But her aunt too urged her into the long palace. Her brother followed, grabbing a shield from the wall and one of the spears leaning beside it. Hrotgund began desperately praying to the household gods.

Harsh voices and footsteps approached; Frankish warriors burst inside. Berthefred ran towards them, raising his spear. One of the warriors grinned, lightly sparring with him, easily deflecting his futile blows. Hrotgund watched, terrified, until the warrior, weary of the game, knocked Berthefred to the ground and raised up his scramasax, the single-edged Frankish sword. Without a moment’s thought, she hurled herself on her brother, hysterical. Maddened, the warrior began to tear her off. But all around them others were grabbing the jewelry, the plate, everything of value off the walls. Fearful of losing his part of the booty, he turned from the two on the ground to grab his part.

As others carried their spoils outside, one saw Hrotgund’s aunt, who glared at him as he approached. She lifted her hand to scratch him, but he slapped her hard and threw her face down. Then he lifted the back of her robe and the front of his tunic and began to push his hips against her. Seeing her aunt snarl and rage, her face red, Hrotgund started towards her. But she frantically waved the child away.

As the Frank finished, she got up and started towards Hrotgund and Berthefred. The Frank hurled his throwing ax and Hrotgund gasped as her aunt’s head split open, blood pouring down on either side. She began to scream from the depths of her heart, as rough hands grabbed her and her brother and dragged them into the daylight.

Some distance from the palace, everything of value lay in piles – the gold, the silver, the belts and pendants, the fine cloth. A Frank pushed them towards these, as others took torches inside. Soon smoke and the smell of burning wood billowed from the door. Others began to light the roof and the outside walls. Hrotgund and Berthefred watched as the royal palace became a rectangular mass of flame. Beyond it, the Beer-Hall had been stripped of its gold and Franks began to torch the bare wood.

Turning away, the two saw bodies of Thuringii strewn about. Blood flowed from cut throats, from gashes in the backs of skulls, from split bellies oozing intestines. Many of the women who’d been working outside were already dead; others lay beneath Frankish warriors, raging helplessly. Milk spilled from the breast of a mother who’d been giving suck, as a Frank grabbed her baby’s foot and dashed its head against a wall. Others gathered children old enough to sell as slaves and herded them towards the gate. Where they found old men and women, they slaughtered them in the dust.

Blood ran everywhere, soaking the bare ground. The smoke grew thicker as Franks searched houses for anything of value, then set them ablaze. Screams and moaning filled the air.

A warrior came over to the terrified siblings and pulled them roughly to their feet. He pointed towards the gate. Looking back, Hrotgund saw a long glowing mass of embers: all that remained of the palace.

The Franks began to move their booty to the far side of the river, where a large plain stretched from a distant forest. As Hrotgund came to the Gera, she saw piles of bodies floating, their blood mixed with the river’s muddy water. Most were Thuringii, some lacking heads or hands, others with split skulls. But some Franks too floated face down, the shaven backs of their heads barely showing above the water. The stench was terrible. But the shouting and the smell of smoke distracted her from it.

The warriors sat brother and sister on the ground, besides piles of precious goods and simple prizes like pots and spits. Smoke grew within the palisade, until that too caught fire, the towers by the gate and along the side tilting and collapsing. The walls grew bright with flame, burning until the blackened wood tumbled into a smoldering heap, showing the rows of burnt houses behind it and the ravaged bodies of the dead: all that remained of Erfurt, the royal seat of the Thuringii.

Wagons began to arrive, pulled by oxen, commandeered from neighboring farms and driven by terrified farmers. Directed by Franks on horses, they got down and began to load the booty onto the wagons.

Hrotgund clung to her brother, crying until she could cry no more. Berthefred struggled to be manly, but she could feel his heart racing in his chest. Finally, when she looked back at the ashes of Erfurt, she no longer felt either grief or fear. Both belonged to the world, and the world she knew had been destroyed, completely obliterated. She knew no other; everything and everyone she knew was gone – except for Berthefred; he was her whole existence now.

Franks formed a circle around them, their faces impassive, no longer fierce. The circle parted and two men stepped into it, followed by a youth no older than Berthefred. Unlike the others, all wore long loose hair, undyed and black; the two older men wore beards. The round guards on their swords were richly inlaid with garnets; the clasps on their cloaks were of gold.

Seeing these signs of royal rank, Hrotgund guessed the older one to be Theuderic, whom Hermenfred had so unwisely betrayed, the other his brother, Chlothar. Though the boy had a youthful beauty long lost in the other two, he looked more like Theuderic, and stood close behind him; no doubt, his son. All were broad-shouldered, with dark, burning eyes. The older men began to point to her and to argue. Though she found the Frankish tongue harsh, it was not so far from her own, and soon she understood they were deciding which would take her. Whose booty she was.

“This was my war!” cried Theuderic.

“Which you could not have won without my help. And it was my men who found her!”

She understood that they found her beautiful, if “yet too young”. Too young for what? They knew too that she and her brother were royal, the last now left of the Thuringii royal line.

She flinched as their voices rose and each gripped his scramasax. The warriors around them too grew tense. But at last, Theuderic threw up his hands. “Take them then! Take them both. But let there be no mistake – it is I who am now master of Thuringia.” Chlothar smiled; not a pleasant smile. “Of course, my brother. On that, there is no dispute.”

He raised his hand and the warriors before him parted. He pointed to an empty wagon, urging the siblings towards it.

The journey -->