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Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, we left off with Otho’s final act—the self-inflicted dagger thrust meant to spare Rome from further bloodshed. He chose to die rather than drag the empire into a prolonged civil war. His sacrifice, noble or not, was in vain. Because just as the Senate declared Vitellius emperor, the eastern legions declared Vespasian emperor. The Year of the Four Emperors was not over yet.

But who was Vitellius? Unlike Otho, whose name might evoke some measure of tragic dignity, Vitellius is often remembered—if he is remembered at all—as a gluttonous buffoon, a placeholder in history, a doomed man whose only legacy was to be the stepping stone for the true ruler who would follow. And as is often the case with history, this reputation was largely shaped by the people who wrote it.

Much of what we know about Vitellius comes from the biographer Suetonius, who paints a picture of a man almost comically decadent—a bloated, insatiable eater who indulged in banquets four times a day, so addicted to excess that he used emetics to purge his stomach and make room for more food. Suetonius tells us that Vitellius would wander from house to house in Rome, stuffing himself on the hospitality of the aristocracy, reveling in his new imperial privilege like a man who knew his days were numbered. Was this a factual portrayal? Maybe. But maybe it was the kind of character assassination that tends to follow emperors who lost their power, especially when their successors had a vested interest in making them look weak, corrupt, and unworthy.

But let’s not kid ourselves—Vitellius was no paragon of virtue. He was ruthless when it suited him, pragmatic when it came to consolidating power, and absolutely unafraid to spill blood to secure his throne. One of the darker stains on his record? The murder of his own son—his child from a previous marriage, whose only crime was being the sole heir to a wealthy family fortune that Vitellius wanted access to. It’s the kind of act that cements an emperor’s legacy in infamy, the sort of cold, calculated brutality that Roman rulers were often judged by.

Vitellius wasn’t a nobody before his rise. He had a distinguished career under emperors like Tiberius and Nero, holding various administrative and military posts. But his path to the purple was carved by the legions on the Rhine. Early in the chaos of of the year 69, while Galba still sat uneasy on the throne, the Rhine legions revolted and declared Vitellius their emperor.

By the time Vitellius and his forces reached Italy, however, Galba was already dead, cut down by Otho’s coup. But Otho’s rule was fragile, built on quicksand. Otho, seeing the writing on the wall, took his own life, leaving the throne open for Vitellius to claim.

With Rome now his, Vitellius sought to cement his power. He rewarded his legions by expanding the Praetorian Guard and filling it with his own men from the Rhine army, ensuring that his power base in the capital was loyal to him alone. He allowed important positions of state be filled by competent members of the equestrian class. He also, interestingly enough, embraced the legacy of Nero, a move that probably seems bizarre to modern audiences but made perfect sense in the context of the year of 69. Nero, despite his vilification by the Senate and later historians, had remained wildly popular with the lower classes of Rome. 

Now, who was Vespasian? Unlike many of Rome’s past rulers, he wasn’t from an ancient, aristocratic family. He came from more modest equestrian origins. His father had been a tax collector, and his family had no grand political legacy to lean on. Yet, like so many men of his generation, he built his career through military service.

Vespasian had seen combat early in his career, serving in the legions along the Rhine, but his real rise began during Claudius’ invasion of Britain in year of 43. As a legate, he led the Second Legion and distinguished himself in battle. By the end of the campaign, he had captured dozens of enemy strongholds, defeated local chieftains, and firmly established himself as a capable military commander. This success earned him the governorship of Africa—a position that, for many Romans, was less about governance and more about personal enrichment.

It was common for provincial governors to return to Rome wealthier than when they left, having used their time in office to extract as much profit as possible. But Vespasian took a different approach. Rather than amassing great wealth, he focused on maintaining good relationships. He built connections instead of fortunes—a decision that may not have seemed immediately beneficial but would prove invaluable in the years to come.

By the year of 66, Rome had a new problem: the province of Judea was in full revolt. The previous governor had been killed, and a Roman army sent to restore order had been routed. Nero, still emperor at the time, needed someone reliable to take control of the situation. Vespasian was chosen to lead the effort, given command over two legions, with his son, Titus, bringing additional reinforcements from Alexandria.

But the world was changing fast. By the time Vespasian had stabilized the situation in Judea, Nero was gone, and Rome had entered the chaotic period known as the Year of the Four Emperors. As one ruler after another fell, the legions of the East held off backing any candidate until Vitellius was Emperor. When this happened, they backed Vespasian.

Tacitus, Suetonius, and the Jewish historian Josephus all mention a prophecy that circulated widely in the Eastern provinces. It foretold that from Judaea would come the rulers of the world. They ascribed this prophecy to Vespasian as he was the Roman In charge of judea. While someone in modern times would almost certainly ascribe this prophecy to the christians who were the heirs of the Roman world, at the time, Vespasian seemed like the obvious answer. 

Vespasian sent Mucianus, governor of Syria, to lead his forces against Vitellius. And while Mucianus gathered forces and prepared for the march westward, something happened—something that would decide the fate of the empire before he even arrived.

The legions began to rise in favor of Vespasian. Dalmatia. Illyricum. And perhaps most significantly, the Danubian legions stationed in Raetia and Moesia. This was no minor force—these were hardened veterans, some were men who had once set out to support Otho before he was cut down by Vitellius. 

This was an army. And this army had a leader. Marcus Antonius Primus.

Primus was the commanding officer of the 7th Galbiana legion, and he wasn’t about to sit around waiting for orders. While Mucianus prepared his own forces, Primus took the initiative.

Vitellius wasn’t blind to what was happening. He knew his grip on power was slipping.

He dispatched Caecina, one of his top generals, with a massive force. Four full legions along with auxiliaries and detachments from seven more legions. This was no token defense—this was an army built to crush rebellion. They made their way north, moving to intercept Antonius Primus and his advancing Danubian legions.

By the time Antonius’ men reached Verona, Vitellius’ army was already positioned. The battle lines were drawn.

And yet… no battle came.

Caecina hesitated.

Some said he feared splitting his forces, that he wanted to wait for the rest of Vitellius’ armies. But the truth was more insidious than that. Caecina had been plotting. Behind closed doors, in whispered conversations, he had been preparing to switch sides. He had already reached out to Sextus Lucilius Bassus, commander of the Classis Ravennas—the fleet stationed at Ravenna—and together, they were planning to defect to Vespasian.

But soldiers are not pawns on a chessboard. They are men. And men do not always follow orders. When the troops caught wind of Caecina’s betrayal, they mutinied. They refused to switch sides. They turned on their general, put him in chains, and effectively decapitated their own command structure.

With Caecina in chains, the army he once commanded was now like a headless beast—still dangerous, still lethal, but without a guiding hand. 

Antonius had positioned himself at Bedriacum, a place that had already witnessed one civil war battle that year, when Otho’s forces were shattered months earlier. He rode out with his cavalry, meeting the Vitellian vanguard on October 24th, somewhere between Bedriacum and Cremona. After Scattering the Vitellian cavalry, Antonius sent word back to Bedriacum: Send the legions.

And so they came. What followed was the Second Battle of Bedriacum—a decisive, bloody engagement that would carve a place in history. But there was still no firm hand to lead them. Valens, the man meant to replace Caecina, had not yet arrived.

And then… something happened.

A small act. An ordinary ritual.

One of Antonius’ veteran legions, had served in Syria for years. And in that distant province, they had picked up a tradition. As the sun rose, they turned toward it and saluted it with cheers—a moment of routine, of discipline, of custom.

But the Vitellian forces? They saw something else entirely.

From their vantage point, they misinterpreted the cheers. They saw men celebrating. Greeting something. And their minds, already frayed by the stress of battle, filled in the blanks.

They thought reinforcements had arrived from the East. That more legions—perhaps even Vespasian’s Syrian forces—had just joined the fray. And in that instant, the psychological tide shifted. The hesitation became panic. The formation became a rout.

The Vitellian army collapsed.

Antonius’ forces stormed their camp, cutting down those who resisted and scattering the rest. Then they turned to Cremona, the city that had sheltered Vitellius’ supporters.

Cremona surrendered.

The war wasn’t over, but the back of Vitellius’ power had been broken.

Now, Antonius marched on Rome.

Vitellius, once the most powerful man in the empire, was now a man without an empire. His supporters—once so eager to pledge their loyalty—began to disappear like shadows at dusk.

He knew what was coming.

Tacitus tells us that Vitellius attempted to abdicate. At Mevania, he waited for Vespasian’s representatives to arrive, and with them, the terms of his surrender. In a world that had seen emperors rise and fall, perhaps this could be done with dignity. Perhaps he could step down peacefully.

But Rome was not a city built on peaceful transitions of power.

The Praetorian Guard—Vitellius’ own protectors—refused to let it happen. He was on his way to the Temple of Concord, the sacred place where the insignia of empire was to be laid down, relinquished. But the guards intercepted him and forced him back to the palace.

When Antonius’ troops entered the capital, Rome surprisingly fought back. Vitellius’ remaining supporters—many of them not even soldiers, but civilians—didn’t surrender. They entrenched themselves in the streets, turning Rome’s very buildings into fortresses. From the rooftops, they rained down stones, javelins, and shattered tiles on the advancing Flavian forces. In the alleyways, they fought like cornered animals.

The cost was staggering. Cassius Dio tells us that 50,000 people died in this battle for Rome. And the destruction wasn’t just human. Fire and chaos consumed whole districts. The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus—Rome’s most sacred temple, the very symbol of its supremacy—was destroyed.

Vitellius, meanwhile, was no longer an emperor. He was a fugitive. Tacitus tells us he was found in a doorkeeper’s lodge, trembling in the shadows, hoping against hope that he could still slip away, still disappear into the cracks of history. But there was no escape for fallen emperors.

They dragged him out. Through the streets of the city that had once cheered his name, past the ruins of the battle he had lost, to the most infamous execution site in Rome: The Gemonian Stairs.

They beat him, mocked him, humiliated him. And as the final blows fell, Vitellius spoke his last words:

“Yet I was once your emperor.”

And with that, the Year of the Four Emperors came to an end.

The next day, on December 21, in the year of 69, the Senate—those same men who had so quickly sworn loyalty to Galba, then to Otho, then to Vitellius—declared Vespasian emperor.

And so, without leading an army in person, without even setting foot in the capital until a year later, Vespasian won the war.

And Rome, exhausted and battered, was finally at peace.

Vespasian’s reign would be one of stability, of restoration, of practicality. He would repair what had been broken, restore the economy, and—perhaps most importantly—rewrite the history of what had just happened.

The historians of his time—Tacitus, Suetonius, Josephus—they all wrote with suspicious admiration for the new emperor. Tacitus owed his career to Vespasian. Josephus, once a rebel in Judea, now called Vespasian his patron and savior. 

Coincidence? Maybe. But power doesn’t just win wars. It wins narratives.

Galba, Otho, and Vitellius were condemned as failures, as weak or corrupt or gluttonous. Vespasian? He was the savior. The restorer. The man who brought order out of chaos.

That’s the story Rome remembers.

That’s the story he made sure would be told.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, the first of the four emperors of the chaotic year 69 met his end at the hands of Otho. But who was Otho?

A man of noble Etruscan blood, Otho was no stranger to the intrigues of the imperial court. He had once stood among Nero’s closest confidants—a companion in excess, a fellow reveler in the extravagant world of the young emperor. For a time, he basked in the glow of imperial favor, indulging in the limitless pleasures that came with proximity to absolute power. But in Rome, favor was as fleeting as a whisper in the Senate halls, and friendships among emperors were nothing more than illusions, dissolving the moment they became inconvenient.

Otho’s great misfortune—if misfortune is the right word—was falling in love with the wrong woman. Or perhaps, more accurately, having a woman whom the wrong man desired. That woman was Poppaea Sabina, a vision of beauty and ambition, the same Poppaea who had ensnared Nero himself. And when an emperor desires something, desire does not remain merely a wish—it becomes law.

Nero, with the effortless cruelty of a godling toying with mortals, ordered Otho to step aside. He was not merely asked to surrender his wife—he was commanded to. His marriage was to be erased, not by his will, but by the emperor’s whim. And Otho? He was not just discarded—he was exiled.

But Nero, ever theatrical, did not send him away in chains. No, that was too crude. Instead, Otho was handed the governorship of Lusitania, a province on the far western fringes of the empire. On paper, it was an honor. In reality, it was a gilded cage, a polite banishment to a provincial backwater—a place where old ambitions were meant to wither and die.

Yet, Otho did something unexpected. He thrived.

Unlike so many disgraced courtiers who faded into obscurity, he did not wallow in self-pity or plot reckless revenge. Instead, he ruled Lusitania with surprising competence and discipline. For a decade, he proved himself an able administrator, a man capable of governing wisely, not merely indulging in luxury. He became something few in Rome would have expected—a statesman.

But a man like Otho, a man who had once stood in the shadow of emperors, does not simply forget the taste of power. And when the empire trembled once more, when Rome found itself on the brink of another upheaval, Otho was ready.

He played the part of the loyal provincial administrator, a governor content with his quiet exile. But beneath the surface, a wound festered, one that time did not heal—it only deepened.

If Otho had truly loved Poppaea, one can only imagine his reaction upon hearing of her death. The rumors were grotesque—whispers that Nero, in one of his infamous fits of rage, had struck her down himself. A brutal, ignoble end for the woman he had once called his wife. Nero had stolen everything from him—his marriage, his position, his future. And Otho would never forget.

So when rebellion flared in the year of 68, when the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis, a grizzled old senator named Galba, dared to defy the emperor, Otho saw more than just a coup. He saw revenge. He pledged his forces, his wealth—his very soul—to Galba’s cause. He marched with the rebel legions toward Rome, his heart burning with the thought that soon, Nero would pay for what he had done.

Then the news came. The Senate had declared Nero a public enemy. The Praetorian Guard had abandoned him. And then, at the final moment, Nero took his own life.

One wonders how Otho reacted to this. Did he rejoice at the downfall of his old enemy? Or was there a flicker of disappointment that he had been denied the satisfaction of seeing it for himself? Did he curse fate for robbing him of the chance to drive the dagger into Nero’s chest with his own hands?

But revolutions are fickle things. One moment, a rebel is a liberator—the next, just another tired old man on a crumbling throne. And Galba was very much an old man. He was rigid, austere—too stiff-backed to navigate the bloody tides of Roman politics. And then, he made a fatal mistake.

Otho had gambled everything on Galba’s rebellion. He had expected a reward, a recognition of his loyalty. Surely he would be named heir. Surely his sacrifices had not been in vain. But when Galba chose his successor, it was not Otho. It was another.

Otho turned to the Praetorian Guard—the true kingmakers of Rome. He whispered promises of gold and power, rekindling the greed that had always lurked within their ranks. And on January 15, in the year of 69, they answered his call.

Galba was cut down, his body was butchered, his severed head paraded on a pike. His lifeless corpse was left for the mob to trample underfoot. And in the span of a single bloody day, Otho was emperor.

Ironically, despite the hatred he bore for Nero, Otho knew that the people of the city had loved the fallen emperor, especially in comparison to Galba. And so, with the calculating mind of a man who understood the weight of public favor, he ordered Nero’s statues restored. His freedmen and household officers—men Galba had cast aside—were given back their positions. It was a move not of sentiment, but of strategy.

For all his thirst for vengeance, Otho knew that emperors did not rule by strength alone. They ruled by perception. And in a city as treacherous as Rome, perception was everything.

Otho had barely settled into the imperial purple before reality came crashing down—a truth so stark, so immutable, that no amount of political cunning or backroom maneuvering could change it. His reign was nearly over before it had even begun.

The moment he cracked open Galba’s private correspondence, the illusion of stability shattered. In the frigid north, far from the marble halls of Rome, the legions had already made their choice. And it was not him.

Their loyalty belonged to another—Aulus Vitellius, the commander of the Rhine legions. A man of indulgence, yes, but also a man backed by some of the toughest, most battle-hardened soldiers in the empire. And worse still, they weren’t waiting for senatorial decrees or diplomatic overtures. They were already marching south.

Otho was no fool. He recognized the danger immediately. In a rare moment of restraint, he attempted a compromise, extending an offer to Vitellius—perhaps they could share power, rule as joint emperors, divide the vast Roman world between them. It was a desperate bid for stability, an attempt to halt the march of war before it reached Italy’s doorstep.

But men like Vitellius don’t share. His legions weren’t marching for diplomacy. They were marching for spoils. The die had been cast as Julius Caesar would say. Or, for a more modern perspective, when you play the game of thrones, you either win or you die.

And so, Otho prepared for war.

His position wasn’t entirely hopeless—not yet. The distant provinces remained indifferent, their governors watching, waiting to see who would emerge victorious before pledging their allegiance. But the legions of Dalmatia, Pannonia, and Moesia? They had sworn loyalty to him. The Praetorians, those elite household troops who had put him on the throne in the first place, were still his to command, their devotion secured by silver and imperial favor. And, crucially, Otho held control over the imperial fleet, giving him mastery of the Italian seas.

It wasn’t an overwhelming force. It wasn’t even an even fight. But it was enough—if he played his cards right.

The problem was, Otho’s court was anything but disciplined. Inside his war camp, debate raged like a wildfire. His seasoned officers—men who had fought real wars, who had seen empires rise and fall—urged caution. Time, they argued, was on their side. The legions from Dalmatia were still marching, reinforcements that could shift the balance if only Otho could wait.

But patience is a virtue rarely afforded to those who sit on a stolen throne.

His brother, Titianus, and the hotheaded prefect of the Praetorians, Proculus, whispered poison into his ear. Waiting was weakness, they insisted. Delay would only embolden Vitellius. Every moment wasted was a moment their enemy grew stronger. Otho had seized power through boldness—why hesitate now?

And Otho listened.

The result was catastrophe.

Desperate to crush the rebellion before it could properly take root, Otho ordered his forces into the field. The two armies met in the plains of northern Italy. The Battle of Bedriacum. It should have been the moment that secured his rule. Instead, it was his undoing.

Forty thousand men left dead in the mud.

And in the end, it was Otho’s army that broke and collapsed into retreat.

Yet even now, even in defeat, all was not lost. The war could have continued. His forces were still considerable. The battle-hardened legions of Dalmatia had already reached Aquileia. His soldiers—men who had followed him into this desperate gamble—were still loyal, still willing to fight. The setbacks had wounded them, yes, but they had not lost faith in the cause. They were ready for another round.

But Otho was not.

It was a decision that seemed almost un-Roman in its selflessness. A man who had schemed, who had plunged a dagger into Galba’s rule, who had seized the empire with blood and iron, now chose to relinquish it.

Not through exile.
Not through negotiation.
But through an act that would etch his name into history.

He gathered his officers—his closest men—and spoke his final words. The line, recorded by historians, is haunting in its simplicity:

“It is far more just to perish one for all, than many for one.”

And with that, Otho withdrew.

He did not rage. He did not despair. He did not flee.

Instead, he lay down to rest, as though all the weight of empire—the crushing burden of ruling a world teetering on the brink—had already lifted from his shoulders. When the morning came, he reached for a dagger hidden beneath his pillow, pressed it against his chest, and with one swift, decisive motion, ended it.

By the time his attendants rushed in, it was already too late. The man who had seized an empire with blood had now relinquished it in blood—his own.

They burned his body swiftly, just as he had commanded. No grand spectacle, no elaborate funeral games, no triumphant oratory about divine favor or the eternal glory of Rome. Just flames and ashes. And that was it.

Ninety-one days on the throne. And then—nothing.

But that’s not quite true, is it? Because the manner of his death—that was what transformed him.

In life, Otho had been a usurper, a schemer, a man whose name was whispered with disdain in the halls of power. To the Senate, he had been a parvenu, a man who had slithered his way into the imperial purple by bribing the Praetorian Guard and cutting down Galba in the streets. To the aristocracy, he had been an unremarkable shadow of Nero, tainted by his association with the debauched excesses of the fallen emperor’s court.

But in death, he became something else entirely.

Because Romans, ever attuned to the ideals of virtus, of noble sacrifice, began to see Otho through a different lens. Here was a man who could have prolonged the war, could have let his legions fight another battle, spill more Roman blood, unleash another round of horror upon an already fractured empire. But he chose not to. He chose to die so that others might live, to end the bloodshed before it spiraled into something far worse.

Even Tacitus, no great admirer of imperial usurpers, was struck by the weight of this act. He tells us that some of Otho’s soldiers—hardened veterans of Rome’s endless campaigns—chose to die alongside him. They threw themselves upon their own swords at his funeral pyre, unwilling to live in a world where their emperor, their commander, no longer existed. These were not court sycophants or desperate politicians looking to preserve favor—these were warriors, men who had spent their lives in the business of death. And yet, something in Otho’s final moments stirred them. It meant something.

It is one of the great ironies of history that men often become more in death than they ever were in life. Nero, a man who had ruled for fourteen years, left behind little more than a trail of infamy. Otho, a man who ruled for three months, left behind a legacy of self-sacrifice, of an emperor who chose death over civil war.

And so, his story came to an end.

But Rome? Rome was not done tearing itself apart.

With Otho gone, the imperial throne passed to Vitellius, the man for whom so much blood had already been spilled. But this was The Year of the Four Emperors—and the empire was still in turmoil.

Because even as Vitellius settled into his rule, another contender was rising in the east. A general. A veteran of Rome’s wars. A man whose name would not only end this period of chaos but lay the foundation for a new dynasty.

His name was Vespasian.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, Neo lay dead in a villa outside Rome. And from the smoldering remains of rebellion, a new figure emerged: Galba. But who was Galba? It is not a name that leaps to the forefront of our collective memory when we think of Rome’s most famous emperors.

He was a man of already advanced in years when he seized the throne. He was not born of the Julio-Claudian bloodline either. No, Galba hailed from a family of old, and aristocratic lineage. His forebears had on a number of occasions held the consulship—the very pinnacle of Roman civic authority.

Yet, Galba’s narrative extends far beyond the dry recitations of ancestry and political maneuvering. According to Suetonius, the great chronicler of Rome, Galba interlaced his own lineage with the divine. In an act of unbridled audacity, he claimed that his father was none other than Jupiter, the king of gods, and that his mother traced her roots to Pasiphaë, the fabled wife of Minos. Imagine the implications: a man weaving his mortal existence with the threads of myth, suggesting that his very blood was touched by divine favor. Though this may seem odd to people of the modern era, such claims were not uncommon among those who wished to rule. This is particularly true of a usurper who technically had just as much claim to the throne as anybody else. 

But while Galba reached for the divine, the ruthless, cold mechanics of Roman politics were never far behind. It was said that he was distantly connected to Livia, the formidable and enigmatic wife of Augustus—a link that resonated powerfully within the intricate web of Rome’s aristocratic networks. Livia, a woman whose very presence had helped shape the empire, had reportedly intended to bequeath to him a fortune of fifty million sesterces. This sum, immense by any standard, had the potential to completely upend the power dynamics of the time, a true game-changer in the brutal arithmetic of imperial ambition.

Yet, in the unforgiving world of Roman politics, where fortunes could be diminished with a mere stroke of a pen or an imperial decree, Emperor Tiberius stepped in. With a cold, calculating efficiency, he reduced Galba’s anticipated windfall to a mere five hundred thousand sesterces. A pittance compared to what Livia had planned—a deliberate act that underscored the capricious and often arbitrary nature of power in Rome. 

By the time he reached 30, Galba had already begun to carve out his destiny on the tumultuous stage of Roman politics. He had earned the rank of praetor—a vital stepping stone in a system where every promotion was a battle against fate—and soon found himself entrusted with the governorship of Aquitania. For about a year, in that rugged and distant province, he honed his skills, preparing for the relentless struggles that lay ahead. Then, in the year 33, he ascended to the pinnacle of Roman political life by becoming consul—a title that few ever achieved and one that set him apart in an empire driven by ambition and bloodshed.

His meteoric rise, however, did not occur in a vacuum. It was forged in the crucible of one of Rome’s most infamous eras—the chaotic reign of Caligula. In the year 39, as whispers of treachery swirled around the mad emperor, Caligula, desperate to secure his position, acted with brutal decisiveness. In a move designed to instill order amid the madness, he installed Galba as the commander of the legions in Germania Superior. In that role, Galba’s reputation for uncompromising discipline grew, and his methods became the stuff of legend—a stern reminder that in the Roman military, there was no room for weakness or hesitation.

Now, let’s pause for a moment and consider the term “decimation.” Today, we might use it loosely to describe any severe defeat, but its roots plunge into the very heart of ancient Rome. The word originates from the Latin for ten—a grim nod to a practice so brutal it still sends shivers down the spine of military historians. When a Roman army showed cowardice, perhaps by retreating in the face of overwhelming danger, the punishment was both symbolic and savage: one in every ten soldiers was selected at random, and the remaining nine were ordered to execute their comrade—beating him to death. This wasn’t an arbitrary act of cruelty; it was a calculated measure meant to instill terror and reinforce the sacred code of honor. By the imperial era, few generals dared to use such a barbaric tool, regarding it as wasteful and excessively harsh. Yet, Galba was said to have employed decimation on at least one occasion—a testament to his relentless commitment to discipline. Imagine the terror that must have gripped a unit of battle-hardened soldiers, knowing that any sign of faltering could lead to the ultimate, and very public, punishment delivered by their own brothers-in-arms.

But Galba’s severity on the battlefield was matched by his adherence to the ancient customs of Rome. Even before he reached the height of middle age, he clung to traditions that had long since faded from the public eye. Twice daily, without fail, his freedmen and slaves would appear before him. In the stark light of dawn, as the first rays of the sun cut through the chill of early morning, they gathered one by one to offer their respectful greetings. Come evening, under the weight of the setting sun and the quiet of the day’s end, they returned to bid him farewell. This ritual was no mere formality; it was a living link to an older, more disciplined Rome—a Rome where every man, regardless of his station, played his part in a grand, time-honored ritual of loyalty and order.

Despite the chaos that defined this era, Galba managed to navigate the treacherous waters of power with a keen sense of survival. When Caligula’s successor, Claudius, ascended to the throne in the year 41, Galba remained largely loyal—a pragmatic decision in a time when shifting allegiances were as common as betrayal. Yet, the whispers of history tell us something even more provocative. Suetonius hints that, in the aftermath of Caligula’s shocking assassination, there were those who advised Galba to seize the throne for himself. Was it a genuine glimpse of ambition, or merely a crafted legend meant to magnify his latent hunger for power? Either way, it casts a long shadow over our understanding of his character—a man who might have been ready to grasp destiny by the reins even then.

In the years that followed, around the year 44 or 45, Galba was appointed governor of Africa—a post that was nothing short of prestigious. Imagine the vast, sun-baked provinces of North Africa, a linchpin in Rome’s economic and military machine, entrusted to a man whose reputation was built on discipline and hard-edged pragmatism. He held this esteemed role until what was called his retirement, likely around the year 49. Yet, in Rome, retirement was never a true escape from the relentless pull of power.

In year 59 or 60, Emperor Nero, sensing the need for a steady hand in troubled lands, recalled Galba and sent him to govern Hispania—a land of rugged frontiers and simmering unrest. This appointment underscored Galba’s enduring value to the empire, even as the old order creaked under the weight of its own contradictions.

Then, in the year 68, the empire reached a boiling point. In Gaul, under the leadership of Gaius Julius Vindex, a rebellion erupted—a spark that threatened to set the entire Roman world ablaze. At this critical juncture, Galba made a decision that would mark his place in history. Refusing to further endorse Nero’s faltering rule, he boldly rejected the title “General of Caesar.” Instead, he proclaimed himself “General of The Senate and People of Rome.” In doing so, he wasn’t just changing a title—he was signaling a profound break with the old order, a declaration that true power resided not in the whims of a single ruler but in the collective will of the people and their governing institutions.

The atmosphere was charged with uncertainty, and the situation grew even more volatile when Nymphidius Sabinus, an imperial official with his own hidden agenda, spread a false rumor among the praetorian guard that Nero had fled to Egypt. This lie, echoing through the corridors of power, fanned the flames of rebellion. At midnight on June 8th, in the year 68, swept up by these rumors and the unstoppable momentum of change, the Senate declared Galba emperor. In that moment, as Nero’s crumbling regime collapsed into chaos, the tormented emperor chose to end his own life.

As Galba marched from Hispania toward Rome, he was flanked by Marcus Salvius Otho, the governor of Lusitania. In the eyes of history, Galba assumed the mantle of emperor with a stark, uncompromising vision. Picture, for a moment, a leader who, much like the unyielding figures of modern epic tales—think Stannis Baratheon—believed that loyalty was not a currency to be rewarded with lavish gifts, but an obligation born of duty. His allies, mere functionaries fulfilling their sworn oaths, were not entitled to accolades beyond their service, while his enemies were to be crushed without mercy, their past transgressions met with a punitive force that left no room for leniency.

Galba’s reputation was as formidable as it was feared—a double-edged sword that cut both ways. The annals of the Spanish and Gallic provinces are replete with tales of his ruthless retribution. When cities wavered in their allegiance, he unleashed a relentless fury: crushing taxes that bled them dry, and tore down walls that once stood as bulwarks of civic pride.

But the iron fist of Galba did not stop at meting out brutal punishments. He was a man who believed that the state’s needs justified even the most draconian measures. Properties belonging to Roman citizens were seized under the guise of serving the common good. Even the Praetorian Guard, the personal legionaries of the emperor, were denied the customary donatives. This bribe, a one-time payment traditionally bestowed upon an emperor’s ascent, was meant to secure the loyalty of these elite soldiers. Yet Galba saw it as an affront to the very honor of their service. To him, their duty was not a commodity to be bought with gold, but a sacred commitment owed solely to the emperor. To pay such a bribe would reduce their valor to mere transaction, undermining the very principles of military discipline and loyalty that he held dear.

Even as modern historians might find a certain grim logic in Galba’s disdain for the donative—given the Praetorians’ later infamy for corruption—the stories that survive of his reign are saturated with accounts of boundless greed. It is a paradox, isn’t it? A man who castigated the use of bribes to secure loyalty, yet whose own hunger for wealth and power was whispered about in every darkened corner of the empire. 

On January 1, in the year 69, the Fourth and Twenty-Second Legions of Germania Superior erupted in defiance—a moment of raw, unbridled fury that still resonates in the annals of history. These battle-hardened soldiers, long accustomed to the brutal rigors of frontier warfare, refused to swear loyalty to Galba. With a visceral act of rebellion, they toppled his statues—symbols of authority forged in the traditions of Rome—and demanded that a new emperor be chosen. This was no mere mutiny; it was a dramatic renunciation of a regime that had lost its moral and martial legitimacy.

The very next day, the contagion of dissent spread further. In Germania Inferior, soldiers—driven by similar discontent and wearied by years of harsh discipline and unfulfilled promises—proclaimed their governor, Aulus Vitellius, as emperor. This act, echoing through the legions of a restless empire, signaled that loyalty to a single ruler was no longer a given. Instead, it was a prize fiercely contested by men who had seen too many broken promises and too much betrayal.

In a desperate bid to salvage his crumbling authority, Galba resorted to a calculated maneuver: he adopted the nobleman Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus as his successor. This was not a mere family arrangement but a strategic ploy designed to lend legitimacy to his rule at a time when every political move was under scrutiny. The adoption was meant to project stability, a tether to the old Roman values and traditions, even as chaos roiled around him. But the treacherous arena of Roman politics was not so easily placated.

Remember Otho? He was the governor of Lusethania who accompanied Galba to Rome at the start of the rebellion. Resentful of being bypassed in the succession, Otho conspired with a cadre of disaffected Praetorian Guards, the very men who were supposed to be the embodiment of imperial loyalty. Their simmering resentment was a potent mix, fueled not only by personal ambition but also by the harsh realities of a regime that had forgotten the sacred duty of rewarding its soldiers. For these men, the customary donative had been callously withheld, a slight that deepened the fissures within the military establishment.

The capital itself, Rome, soon transformed into a powder keg of dissatisfaction. Discontent spread far beyond the Praetorian Guard; it infiltrated Galba’s legion from Hispania and reached detachments from the fleets of Illyria, Britannia, and even Germania. In each corner of the empire, soldiers who had been denied their due rewards and subjected to ruthless purges saw their honor and loyalty being systematically eroded. 

As tensions reached a fever pitch, the stage was set for a final, harrowing act of betrayal. In the swirling chaos of the Forum—the ancient heart of Roman civic life—a soldier, emboldened by the anarchy, boldly claimed to have slain Otho. In that charged moment, Galba’s voice rang out across the tumult, defiant yet desperate: “On what authority?” His words were not merely a question but a challenge to the very legitimacy that had crumbled around him. Lured from the false security of his inner sanctum by conspirators weaving a web of deceit, Galba was drawn out into the open air of the Forum—a place that had witnessed the rise and fall of countless titans of Rome. There, amid the clamor and the clashing of ambitions, he met his ultimate demise.

In an almost surreal and macabre postscript to his tragic downfall, Galba’s severed head was carried—like a grim trophy of conquest—into Otho’s camp. This act was a stark, brutal symbol of the complete disintegration of authority; it sent a clear message that in the relentless, bloody struggle for power, there was no room for mercy or the old rules of loyalty.

Galba’s reign, which had lasted a mere seven tumultuous months, was over. Yet his death was not the end of the chaos. With Galba gone, Otho seized power in Rome, his claim swiftly affirmed by the Senate. But the struggle was far from settled. In Gaul, Vitellius had already been proclaimed emperor by his legions, and he was marching towards Rome. In this fevered, anarchic moment, the declaration of one man as emperor was an irrevocable act—it was a stark choice: attack Otho or be killed.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

Emperor Nero is remembered by many as one of the most evil rulers of the ancient world—a tyrant whose notorious deeds were immortalized by the very enemies who sought to tarnish his legacy. The accounts of his reign come largely from hostile sources, leaving us to wonder if he was truly a monster of unmatched cruelty or simply a man unfairly maligned by history’s victors. These sources detail a ruler who blurred the lines between sovereign and performer, transforming his role into an elaborate stage show that scandalized the Roman elite and captivated the common people alike.

Nero’s rule was marked by relentless suspicion and brutal purges. He saw conspiracies in every shadow, and his response was swift and unforgiving—targeting both genuine plotters and innocent bystanders. Obsessed with opulence, he commissioned the magnificent Domus Aurea, his Golden House, a palace of dazzling luxury that stood in stark contrast to the suffering of a people who watched their beloved city burn. During the Great Fire of Rome, as the flames devoured entire neighborhoods, Nero is said to have remained idle, his inaction overshadowed only by the subsequent decision to lay the blame on the burgeoning Christian sect. This accusation sparked a persecution whose grim legacy echoes through the ages.

The grisly tales do not end there. Legends assert that Nero was responsible for the death of his own mother, Agrippina—a deed that shocked even the hardened denizens of Rome. His cruelty extended into his personal relationships as well; he is alleged to have murdered his first two wives, one of whom was pregnant with his child. In an act that defies all convention, he is even said to have castrated a slave boy and taken him as a husband, choosing the youth for his uncanny resemblance to the wife he had slain. Such stories, whether fully true or the product of politically motivated exaggeration, have long cemented Nero’s reputation as a figure of unbridled savagery.

Yet Nero’s reign was not solely defined by acts of personal brutality. On the military and diplomatic fronts, he demonstrated a keen, if ruthless, acumen. He oversaw the war against Parthia by sending his capable general, Corbulo, into battle—a campaign that eventually secured a lasting peace and culminated in a treaty outlining the method by which the ruler of Armenia would be determined. On the distant frontiers of the empire, Nero’s strategic decisions left their mark as well. The rebellion led by Boudicca in Britain was decisively quashed by General Paulinus, reaffirming Rome’s grip on its territories. Simultaneously, the Judean revolt was met with the formidable resolve of General Vespasian, whose actions ensured that unrest in the region would not spiral out of control.

The political landscape within Rome itself was no less turbulent. The infamous Piso conspiracy—a vast network of plots and counterplots—implicated many, including members of Corbulo’s family, thereby deepening the climate of mistrust and prompting further purges. Amid this relentless storm of intrigue and violence, Nero managed to maintain a significant degree of popularity among the population of the city of Rome, who found themselves both enthralled by his dramatic displays of power and reassured by his effective, if harsh, methods in securing Rome’s borders and keeping dissent at bay.

In the provinces, things were different. A rebellion erupted in Gaul and Hispania that would ultimately unravel Nero’s reign. It began when Vindex, the governor of Gallia Lugdunensis, rose up against the oppressive fiscal policies and autocratic excesses that had come to define Nero’s rule. His revolt, fueled by longstanding grievances over heavy taxation and mismanagement, quickly ignited a wider crisis. Seizing the moment, Galba, the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis, declared himself emperor and rallied the loyalty of legions disillusioned by Nero’s erratic governance.

The Senate, alarmed by the cascading dissent and emboldened by the promise of change, swiftly declared Nero an enemy of the people. Even the Praetorian Guard—the protectors of the emperor—turned away from their sovereign, aligning instead with the Senate’s repudiation of Nero. Isolated and abandoned by both the political elite and the military, Nero’s position became untenable.

Aware that capture would lead to a fate far worse than death—an ignominious public humiliation that would forever tarnish his legacy—the emperor resolved to end his own life. On June 9, 68 AD, with his back firmly against the wall, Nero chose suicide as his final act, a desperate bid to reclaim a semblance of control over a destiny that had spiraled irrevocably out of his grasp.

The death of Nero marked not merely the end of an emperor’s life, but the collapse of the Julio-Claudian Dynasty—the very family that had produced both Caesar and Augustus. With Nero’s passing, a monumental chapter in Roman history was abruptly closed. Every Roman had lived under the rule of a member of this venerable lineage, and now the future of the empire hung in a delicate balance. Would Rome be plunged into a perpetual cycle of civil war reminiscent of the turbulent times before Augustus, or could it somehow return to the old republican ideals, even though no formal constitution ever existed? The principate, after all, maintained only the illusion of a republic while concentrating power in the hands of a single ruler.

In the power vacuum that ensued, a dramatic struggle unfolded. Within the span of a single year, four men would be declared emperor by the Senate, each seizing the mantle of leadership amid intense political turmoil. Three of these claimants would soon fall victim to the brutal realities of their ambition, while one man would emerge from the chaos to lay the foundation for Rome’s second dynasty.

Before the storm of civil war and bloodshed could fully erupt, it is essential to understand the men whose ambitions would reshape the destiny of an empire. Let us journey back in time to explore the lives of Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Vespasian—a quartet of men whose careers, personalities, and motivations were as distinct as they were complex.

Let’s begin with Galba. Born into one of Rome’s most ancient and venerable families, Galba was not a man molded by the glitter of court life but by the austere rigor of military and provincial command. His early career saw him proving his mettle on the distant frontiers of the empire—an environment that honed his discipline and instilled in him a deep respect for the old Roman virtues. Galba was a traditionalist, a man who believed that Rome’s greatness was built on simplicity, order, and honor. In his extensive service in the provinces, he developed a reputation for fairness, severity, and an unyielding commitment to duty. His ambition was driven not by a lust for personal luxury, but by a profound conviction that Rome needed a leader who could restore the dignity and discipline of a bygone era. Galba’s motivations were as much philosophical as they were political; he saw the corruption and excess of imperial decadence as a betrayal of the Republic’s storied past, and he longed to reclaim a purer, more virtuous Rome.

Now, consider Otho. In stark contrast to Galba’s rigid austerity, Otho was born into a world of privilege and cultivated refinement. His early life was steeped in the opulent circles of Rome’s elite, where education, art, and rhetoric were as vital as military prowess. Otho’s personal charm and innate political acumen allowed him to navigate the intricate labyrinth of court intrigue with ease. Unlike Galba, who was the embodiment of conservative discipline, Otho exuded an air of suave elegance and calculated ambition. His career before the tumult of civil war was marked by a series of high-profile political appointments and a reputation for decisive, sometimes daring, maneuvers behind the scenes. Beneath his polished exterior, however, lay a burning desire to prove that his refined sensibilities could translate into the kind of leadership that not only commanded respect but also transformed the fabric of Roman society. Otho wasn’t content to simply inherit the glories of the past; he sought to redefine what it meant to rule, to infuse the imperial office with a blend of cultured sophistication and unyielding authority.

Then there is Vitellius—a man whose very name evokes images of both martial vigor and unrestrained indulgence. Vitellius’ career was a study in contrasts. He cut his teeth on the battlefield, earning a reputation as a formidable military commander in campaigns that tested his resolve and strategic acumen. Yet, equally notable was his penchant for excess, a trait that set him apart from the more stoic figures of his time. Vitellius was a man of raw, unfiltered impulses. His experiences in the heat of combat were matched by his equally passionate approach to the pleasures of power—whether it was the lavish banquets, the exuberant displays of wealth, or the indulgence in the finer tastes of life that his position promised. This duality made Vitellius an unpredictable figure. On one hand, he was celebrated for his battlefield exploits and his capacity to rally troops with a charismatic intensity; on the other, his personal life was a whirlwind of extravagance that bordered on debauchery. His ambition was not tempered by a desire for moral rectitude but was fueled by the intoxicating allure of both conquest and excess—a dangerous combination in the volatile political arena of Rome.

Finally, we turn to Vespasian—a figure whose ascent to power was defined by grit, pragmatism, and a deep-rooted sense of responsibility. Unlike the others, Vespasian’s origins were more humble, and his rise was not guaranteed by the silver spoon of noble birth. Instead, he earned his stripes through years of hard-fought military campaigns and unrelenting determination in the face of adversity. Vespasian’s service in the legions took him to the far reaches of the empire, where his keen insight and tactical brilliance earned him the loyalty of his soldiers and the respect of local populations. His approach to leadership was practical and unsentimental; he saw the role of an emperor not as an opportunity for personal aggrandizement, but as a duty to restore order and stability to a realm that had long been plagued by internal strife. Vespasian’s ambition was rooted in a vision of a reformed Rome—a Rome that could harness the strength of its military and the resilience of its people to overcome chaos and rebuild a more equitable society. His career, marked by hard-won victories and a deep connection with the common soldier, spoke to a man who understood that true power lay in the ability to lead with both courage and compassion.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

When we left off, the tide of the Umayyad invasion had, for the first time, been halted. Duke Odo of Aquitaine had struck the first meaningful blow against an army that had, until that moment, seemed unstoppable. And in the rugged northern reaches of the Iberian Peninsula, a man named Pelagius—perhaps an unlikely hero—had done something few would have dared to imagine: he had defied the greatest power in the known world and won.

The battle at Covadonga in 718 was not a decisive engagement in the traditional sense—there was no cataclysmic clash between two massive armies, no open-field slaughter that saw tens of thousands cut down in a single day. Instead, it was something much more insidious, something that the Umayyad commanders would have immediately recognized as deeply problematic. It was a successful rebellion, a defiant flicker in the darkness, one that—unlike so many others—would not be snuffed out.

The Kingdom of Asturias, under Pelagius, had broken free from the Umayyad grip, and the first phase of what would later be called the Reconquista had begun. And yet, despite this defiance, the Umayyads made no real effort to retake Asturias. Why? Because, quite simply, it wasn’t worth it. The economic rewards were minimal, the mountains were treacherous, and the logistical challenge of subduing this tiny corner of Iberia was simply too costly.

But the Umayyads had bigger ambitions. They had set their eyes on a prize far more tantalizing, far more lucrative.

The Kingdom of the Franks.

The Umayyads were not content with merely holding what the Umayyads had already taken. He wanted more. He wanted to expand the reach of the Caliphate deep into the heart of Europe. And so, the Caliphate turned its attention to Septimania—the last vestige of Visigothic rule north of the Pyrenees, a crumbling province clinging to its independence but standing as a tempting target for the forces of Islam. By 725, the mulsims had swept through Septimania, capturing city after city. The great walled fortress of Carcassonne fell. Nîmes, too, yielded to the invaders. The power of the Umayyads now stretched deep into southern Gaul, an empire growing not just in territory, but in confidence.

And yet, they didn’t stop there.

The campaign pressed forward, pushing into the kingdom of Burgundy. The great Frankish heartland was now under threat. By 725, Umayyad forces reached as far as Autun—a city deep in the east, far beyond what most Franks could have ever imagined. For a moment, it seemed as though the Muslims might continue northward, marching ever closer to the core of Frankish power. And if that had happened, if the Franks had fallen as the Visigoths had before them—well, history, as we know it, might have looked very different indeed.

But then, almost as quickly as they had arrived, the Umayyads pulled back. The siege of Autun was brief, the occupation fleeting. They withdrew south, retreating from Burgundy, and the great march northward ground to a halt.

Why?

There are theories. Some say logistical challenges, that they had stretched their supply lines too thin, too quickly. Others argue that the resistance in Burgundy had been stronger than expected. Perhaps Anbasa simply calculated that holding this far-flung territory wasn’t feasible, at least not yet. Whatever the case, the Umayyads abandoned Autun, consolidating their rule over Septimania.

Pushing so far into Gaul, one must wonder; where are the Franks. Where is the great Frankish counter attack? Imagine a realm—one that was meant to be mighty, meant to be powerful. A land that was the very beating heart of Europe. It was meant to be a kingdom of emperors, of warlords, of unbreakable rulers… and yet, it wasn’t.

This is the early medieval kingdom of the Franks. A land that, at least on parchment, was a single realm. But in reality? It was anything but unified. It was fractured, a collection of warring lords and rebellious dukes, each of them more interested in their own power than in the survival of the so-called kingdom. A kingdom that—on paper—should have been an indomitable force, but in practice, was a tempting target. A target for enemies both within and without.

And in the middle of all this? A man. A man who would not be king, but who would be more powerful than any king before him. A man whose descendants would forge an empire out of the wreckage of chaos.

Charles Martel.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s start with why the Frankish kingdom was in such a state to begin with. The Franks had been a dominant force in Europe since the fall of Rome. Under Clovis, their first great king, they had united much of Gaul under their rule. But Clovis had a problem, one that would haunt his kingdom for centuries. Frankish inheritance laws. You see, the Franks didn’t follow primogeniture, the system where the eldest son gets everything. No, in Frankish law, every son of the ruler got a piece of the kingdom. And that might sound fair—except that it meant every generation saw the kingdom shattered into ever-smaller pieces, ruled by rival brothers, cousins, and uncles, all clawing for dominance. And when one of them died? Well, his sons divided his portion even further.

What this meant was that while the Frankish kingdom had the potential to be a European superpower, it spent most of its time at war with itself. Kings weren’t all-powerful rulers; they were, at best, the most dominant warlord in a realm full of warlords. And sometimes, not even that.

Take Duke Odo of Aquitaine. Aquitaine was technically part of the Frankish kingdom, but in reality? Odo ruled it like an independent state. He had his own armies. He made his own decisions. He even fought against the Frankish king when it suited him. France—or, more accurately, what would become France—wasn’t a nation in any real sense. It was a battlefield, a land of noble factions locked in a struggle for power, a place where the title of ‘King’ often meant very little.

And if you’re a foreign power, looking at this mess? Well, you might be thinking, ‘This looks easy.’

But just when it seemed like the kingdom might fall apart completely, a new power began to rise. And that power didn’t come from the throne. It came from the man who held real power: the Mayor of the Palace.

Now, let’s talk about the Merovingians. This was the ruling dynasty of the Franks, going all the way back to Clovis. But by the time—the early 700s—they were barely ruling at all. They had kings, sure, but these kings were more like ceremonial figureheads, puppets on a throne while the real power lay elsewhere. And the person who really held power? That was the Mayor of the Palace.

It’s an interesting title. It sounds almost like a glorified butler, right? Like someone who organizes the king’s household, makes sure the royal court runs smoothly. But in reality? The Mayor of the Palace was the true ruler of the Frankish lands. And by the time we get to Charles Martel, that position had transformed into something akin to a warlord—a ruler in all but name.

And Charles? He wasn’t just any warlord. He was a military genius, a hardened commander, and—maybe most importantly—a man who understood the game of power in a way few others did.

Before Charles could even think about ruling, he had to win his kingdom. And that meant dealing with his rivals, both within and outside the realm. In 718, he faced off against the Neustrians and the Aquitanians, powerful factions within the Frankish world. The Neustrians weren’t just some rebellious noble house—they were a serious rival, a faction that had its own power, its own ambitions, and its own dreams of ruling the Frankish lands.

The two sides met at the Battle of Soissons, a clash that would decide who truly held the reins of power in the Frankish kingdom. Charles crushed the Neustrians and Duke Odo took what remained of his forces and Fled back to Aquitaine, And in doing so, Charles cemented himself as the de facto ruler of the Franks. He wasn’t king—officially, that title still belonged to the Merovingians. But in practice? He was the one calling the shots.

And now that he had control, Charles began his true work: shaping a realm that was actually capable of defending itself. He spent the next decade bringing rebellious nobles to heel, waging campaigns to centralize power, and—most importantly—preparing for the storm he knew was coming.

In 730, the Umayyads returned to Aquitaine. The duchy was still ruled by Duke Odo, a man of pride and ambition. Confident in his past victories, he chose to face the Muslim forces alone. To his credit, he had done it before—crushing the Umayyads at Toulouse in 721. He was, in fact, the first to ever defeat them in open battle.

But this time was different.

From the south came Abd al-Rahman al-Ghafiqi—a warrior, a governor, a strategist. He was not merely leading a raid; he was leading a conquest. His eyes were set on Aquitaine. At his command was an army 20,000 strong. In the days of Rome and Persia, such a force might have been unremarkable, but in this age, it was a juggernaut.

In 732, the two forces met at the River Garonne. The battle was a massacre.

The Umayyad cavalry, swift and ruthless, tore through the Aquitanian lines like a hot blade through wax. The battlefield became a graveyard. Thousands fell, their cries swallowed by the chaos. The Garonne ran red with blood. Duke Odo, once the proud defender of his land, watched in horror as his army was cut to pieces.

He fled.

Only then did he grasp the truth: this was not a war he could win alone.

Fortune, however, offered him a reprieve. Al-Ghafiqi’s men, undisciplined in victory, lost precious time looting monasteries and ransacking the countryside. Seizing the moment, Odo did what had once been unthinkable—he turned to his old rival, Charles.

For years, Odo had defied Charles’ authority, asserting Aquitaine’s independence. But politics, like war, is about survival. And Odo understood this: if he could not convince Charles to stand with him, there would soon be no Aquitaine left to rule.

Charles agreed to assist Odo in return for Odo formally recognizing him as his overlord. After reorganizing his remaining forces, Odo joined Charles, and together they set out for battle.

It was October 10th, 732. Two armies stood poised on a battlefield near the city of Tours, On one side, a battle-hardened Frankish force and on the other, the Umayyad Caliphate’s elite, an army forged in the fires of conquest.

Before a single sword was drawn in earnest, Charles played the long game. He knew his enemy. He understood the power of the Umayyad cavalry, warriors who had ridden through the Iberian Peninsula like a scythe through wheat. A head-on clash in open terrain? That would have been suicide. Charles, ever the tactician, needed an edge. He chose his battlefield carefully, positioning his forces on high ground, among thick forests and uneven terrain—places where cavalry charges would lose momentum, where the Franks’ steadfast infantry, trained and hardened by years of warfare, could stand firm against the storm.

For an entire week, both sides stared each other down, an eerie calm before the inevitable clash. Abdul Rahman, ever the strategist himself, held back, waiting for reinforcements, watching, calculating. But Martel had patience—an iron will forged through years of conflict. His forces stayed disciplined, their numbers obscured by the landscape. He was drawing the Umayyads into his web, and when the moment came, he would spring the trap.

And then, after seven days, the dam burst. Abdul Rahman, sensing that time was slipping through his fingers, unleashed his cavalry. The first wave hit like thunder—horses and men slammed into the Frankish lines, expecting the usual result: panic, collapse, victory. But Martel’s men… held.

The chaos was unimaginable. The sounds—the clash of iron, the desperate screams of men being trampled under hooves, the battle cries echoing across the hills—filled the air. Again and again, the Umayyad cavalry charged, their lances piercing flesh, their swords hacking at the Frankish shield wall. And yet, time and time again, the Franks, like a living fortress, absorbed the impact and refused to break.

And then came the turning point—the moment where history pivoted on a knife’s edge.

Somewhere on that battlefield, a rumor took root among the Umayyad forces. It spread like wildfire. Their camp, the place where they had stored their plunder, their wealth, their very livelihood, was under attack. Maybe it was a group of Frankish raiders. Maybe it was just battlefield paranoia. We will never know for sure.

But we do know what happened next.

A portion of the Umayyad army peeled away from the fight, rushing to defend what they believed was under siege. The discipline that had held them together—gone in an instant. And Martel, ever the opportunist, saw his opening. He ordered a counteroffensive. His men surged forward, pressing into the now-weakened Umayyad ranks. And somewhere in that swirling maelstrom of steel and death, Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi fell.

Leaderless, bleeding, and suddenly very aware that they were in a fight they could no longer win, the Umayyads began to retreat. Under the cover of darkness, they abandoned their camp, their supplies, their wounded. 

By dawn, the battlefield belonged to the Franks. The battle resulted in the deaths of 12,000 Umayyads, while only 1000 Franks perished.

The morning after was eerie. The Frankish forces, expecting another attack, found only silence. The Umayyads were gone, slipping south, back across the Pyrenees, back to the lands they had conquered so effortlessly before. But their advance into the heart of Europe? Stopped cold. 

In the years that followed, Martel became a legend. The man who had held the line, the man who had turned back the tide. They called him “The Hammer,” a name as fitting as any in military history.

Would the Umayyads have eventually pushed further into Europe if they had won that day? Would the world we know today be entirely different?

Historians still debate the importance of the Battle of Tours. Was it truly the battle that saved Christendom? Or was it merely one clash in a much longer struggle? The answer may depend on perspective. But one thing is certain: After Tours, the Umayyads would never again push so deeply into Western Europe. And on that October day in 732, in a battle that could have tipped the balance of civilization, Charles Martel and his Franks stood their ground.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, we left on a rather dramatic note—the Battle of Guadalete, where King Roderic, the last king of the Visigoths, was cut down as 7,000 determined and battle-hardened Muslim soldiers swept north from Gibraltar into the heart of Hispania. What followed would change the fate of the Iberian Peninsula forever. But before we move forward into the chaos of invasion and rebellion, let’s rewind a bit and dig into the story of a man who would unexpectedly become one of the most pivotal figures of this time—Pelagius, or as the Spanish call him, Don Pelayo.

Who was he? That’s a mystery wrapped in centuries of myth and legend. Even the chroniclers of his time couldn’t agree on his origins. Some say he was a Visigothic nobleman, a descendant of the old warrior aristocracy that had ruled Hispania since the fall of the Roman Empire. Others claim he was of Roman lineage, a symbol of the old imperial bloodlines lingering in the shadows of a crumbling post-Roman world.

What most sources do agree on is this: Pelagius and his family had been victims of the brutal political power struggles that consumed the Visigothic court. One name stands out in this story—Wittiza, a king remembered by later historians as corrupt, cruel, and dangerously unpredictable. It’s said that Wittiza had Pelagius exiled from the royal city of Toledo, banishing him to the far northern reaches of Hispania, beyond the mountains and into the wild and remote territory of Asturias.

Now, at the time, this probably felt like the worst possible fate for Pelagius—a death sentence for his family’s ambitions, cutting them off from the power and influence of the Visigothic court. Imagine it: You’ve grown up in a world where wealth and status are everything, where alliances are built on who you know at court. And suddenly, you’re cast out into the wilderness, watching from the sidelines as the political drama unfolds in Toledo, powerless to change your fate.

But here’s where the story takes a wild turn.

That exile may have saved his life.

When the Muslim armies under Tariq ibn Ziyad landed on the southern shores of Hispania in 711, Toledo—the city where Pelagius might have once lived—was directly in their path. King Roderic, already weakened by internal divisions and struggling to hold his kingdom together, was overwhelmed. The Visigothic forces were shattered at Guadalete, and within months, much of the peninsula was under Muslim control.

Had Pelagius remained in Toledo, he would likely have shared the same fate as so many Visigothic nobles—dead, enslaved, or forced to submit to the new rulers of Hispania. Instead, he was far away in the rugged, unforgiving north, a place the Muslim invaders initially had little interest in. It was a region known for its isolation and fierce independence, where the people had never fully embraced the rule of distant kings—whether Roman, Visigothic, or otherwise.

And here’s where we begin to see the outlines of the legend.

So here we are. It’s 718, and by this point, Hispania—or what’s left of it—is almost unrecognizable. The Muslim armies, initially just 7,000 men under the command of Tariq ibn Ziyad, had grown into a tide of reinforcements under Musa ibn Nusayr, the formidable governor of Ifriqiya. With every passing year, they pushed further and further into the peninsula, tightening their grip. 

The Visigothic kingdom had been obliterated. Its last remnants, once clinging to life in the northeastern region we now call Catalonia, were led by Ardo, a shadow of what the Visigothic kings once were. Some say Ardo fought until his death, desperately trying to hold back the inevitable. Others claim he made a deal with the new Muslim rulers, securing a place for himself as a representative of Christian interests in the Islamic court. Either way, it didn’t matter in the long run. When the Muslims finally captured Narbonensis, the last Visigothic stronghold, the conquest was complete.

The Visigoths were gone. Their kingdom had fallen into history like so many before it, another casualty in the endless churn of empires. And as often happens in history, some adapted and survived, bending the knee to the new rulers. The nobility began swearing oaths of loyalty to the Umayyad Caliphate. Even the family of the former king Wittiza, whose rule had been so disastrous, now found themselves negotiating favorable terms with the new masters of Hispania. They chose survival over honor, submitting to Muslim rule in exchange for land, wealth, or simply the chance to keep breathing.

But there was one man who refused to kneel. In 718, Pelagius—this once exiled noble – was elected as the leader of Asturias, the rugged mountainous region in the far north. Now, if you’re imagining Asturias as a safe, peaceful haven in these chaotic times, think again. The north of Hispania was a wild, harsh place, filled with steep mountains, deep valleys, and people who had always lived on the edge of the world. They weren’t city dwellers or courtly aristocrats; they were herders and warriors, fiercely independent and deeply suspicious of any authority beyond their local chieftains.

Pelagius started by rallying the local population, building a small but determined force from the rugged highlands of Asturias. At first, it might have seemed like a fool’s errand. What chance did a handful of mountain warriors have against the most powerful empire in the world? The Umayyad Caliphate stretched from the Atlantic to the Indus. They had crushed the Visigoths, who were a professional military force, and yet here was Pelagius—leading what was essentially a guerrilla uprising in the backwoods of Hispania.

When the Muslims swept across the peninsula, they brought with them a highly organized system of governance. Taxation was key to maintaining control, and non-Muslims—dhimmis—were required to pay the jizya, a tax that symbolized submission to Islamic rule. Most of the surviving Visigothic elite accepted it. After all, if you could keep your land, your title, and avoid execution by paying a tax, it wasn’t the worst deal in history.

But Pelagius refused. Refusing to pay the jizya was a declaration of rebellion. The refugees who had fled north to escape Muslim rule were ripe for recruitment. Many were former soldiers, aristocrats, or dispossessed farmers who had lost everything when the Visigothic kingdom fell. These people had nothing left to lose, and in the wild mountains of Asturias, they found something they hadn’t had in years: a leader, and a cause worth fighting for.

Pelagius’s first moves were hit-and-run attacks—the kind of guerrilla tactics that work best in rough terrain. They struck at small Muslim garrisons, then melted back into the mountains before reinforcements could arrive. And in one of his boldest early moves, Pelagius drove out the provincial governor, Munuza, and took control of large parts of Asturias.

At first, Córdoba barely noticed. The Umayyad Caliphate had bigger fish to fry. Their eyes were on Narbonne and Gaul, where Muslim forces were raiding deep into Frankish territory, eyeing the heart of Europe. In comparison, the rebellion in Asturias seemed like a minor nuisance—a mosquito bite in the grand scheme of an empire that stretched from the Atlantic to the Indus.

For years, the response was half-hearted at best. Occasional expeditions were sent into the mountains to deal with Pelagius, but the Muslim commanders found the terrain difficult and the enemy elusive. They would temporarily establish control, only to have Pelagius reappear as soon as they left. This wasn’t a conventional war. It was something older, something tribal, fought in the hills and forests where armies couldn’t maneuver, where supply lines were impossible to maintain.

The Umayyads didn’t see Pelagius as a true threat, and perhaps at the time, he wasn’t. He had no grand army, no organized state—just a growing network of mountain warriors who refused to be conquered. What kept him alive wasn’t sheer strength; it was the fact that the Umayyads didn’t have the manpower or the interest to fully crush his insurrection.

But the rebellion refused to die.

Then, something happened that changed everything. In the early 720s, the Umayyads suffered a major defeat—not in Asturias, but far away in Gaul, at the hands of the Franks. 

The governor of Al-Andalus, formerly Hispania, set his sights on the city of Toulouse. Toulouse was a prize worth taking, and the man leading the Umayyad force—Al-Samh ibn Malik al-Khawlani, the governor of Al-Andalus—intended to seize it. Al-Samh had reason to feel confident. After all, no one had successfully stopped the Umayyads since they first set foot in Iberia. City after city had fallen, and local rulers either submitted or perished.

This campaign was supposed to be no different.

But it didn’t quite go as planned.

Duke Odo wasn’t in Toulouse when the siege began. His absence seemed like a stroke of good luck for the besieging force. With their leader gone, the city’s defenders were isolated, outnumbered, and doomed to fall. Odo, however, wasn’t running away; he was searching for reinforcements, trying to muster whatever help he could from his allies to the north. He gathered what he could—Aquitanian, Gascon, and even some Frankish troops—and marched back to Toulouse.

By this point, the city was on the brink of collapse. Al-Samh and his forces had been hammering its walls for months. Supplies were running out, and surrender seemed inevitable. But here’s where the overconfidence of the Umayyad army became their downfall. Convinced that victory was only days away, they had grown careless. They didn’t bother maintaining outer defenses around their camp. They stopped sending out regular patrols to scout for threats. Why would they? The city was theirs for the taking—or so they thought.

Then, on June 9, 721, Odo returned.

It was an attack straight out of a military manual on how not to let your guard down during a siege. Odo’s forces struck hard, hitting the Umayyads from two directions—from within the city walls and from behind with his newly assembled army. The Umayyads were caught completely off guard. They had been expecting surrender, not a counterattack, and when the assault came, it came with terrifying speed and precision.

Chaos erupted in the siege camp. The Umayyad soldiers—many of them resting, unarmed, or scattered—had no time to organize a defense. Odo’s forces cut them down where they stood. Some tried to fight back; most ran for their lives. The result was a massacre. Those who fled were cut down in the surrounding countryside, hunted by Odo’s men in brutal pursuit. The siege had turned into a slaughter.

Al-Samh ibn Malik al-Khawlani, the once-proud governor of Al-Andalus, managed to escape, but with only a fraction of his army. He would later die of injuries from the battle.

Suddenly, the expansion of the Caliphate into Europe ground to a halt. The strategic focus shifted, resources were redirected, and the rebellion in Asturias—this seemingly insignificant thorn in their side—was no longer just a local problem. The stage was now set for something legendary.

History can be tricky. Sometimes we look back and see what appears to be a grand, defining moment—a heroic stand that changes everything. But often, when we dig a little deeper, we find that these events weren’t so clear-cut at the time. The Battle of Covadonga is one of those moments.

Depending on which account you read, Covadonga was either a turning point in history, the first real victory of the native peoples of Hispania over the Muslim invaders… or just an insignificant skirmish, barely worth mentioning in contemporary records.

The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between.

By 722, Pelagius and his followers had become a thorn in the side of the Umayyad authorities in the region. Some sources claim that the Muslim forces sent to confront him were battle-hardened troops retreating from Gaul, who were looking for an easy victory after their losses in the north. Others say it was just a large patrol, sent to crush this lingering nuisance in the mountains once and for all.

Regardless of the reason, something happened at Covadonga—something that would echo through the centuries.

According to Christian sources, this was the first significant victory over the Muslims in open battle. This wasn’t just another raid or skirmish; this was a real fight, and it ended with a massive Muslim defeat. But how accurate are those accounts? That’s where things get murky. The Mozarabic Chronicle of 754, one of the few Christian sources that provides a near-contemporary account of the major events in Hispania, doesn’t even mention Covadonga. Meanwhile, Arabic sources either downplay it as a minor skirmish or ignore it altogether.

So what really happened?

Here’s what we know—or at least what the later chronicles claim.

Pelagius may have had as few as 300 men. Not exactly an army, even by the standards of the time. But if there’s one thing history has shown us, it’s that terrain matters. And the Asturian mountains were perfect for guerrilla warfare. Narrow passes, steep cliffs, thick forests—this was Pelagius’s domain. He knew every trail, every cave, every hidden path.

When the Umayyad general Alqama arrived at Covadonga, he brought a significant force—large enough that he felt confident enough to end this rebellion once and for all. Before launching an attack, Alqama sent an envoy to offer terms of surrender to Pelagius.

Pelagius refused.

Alqama ordered his best troops into a valley. It was a classic tactical error—one that commanders have been making for thousands of years. His soldiers were advancing into terrain that was perfectly suited for an ambush, surrounded by high cliffs and dense woods.

As Alqama’s men moved into the valley, arrows and stones rained down from above. The Asturians had positioned themselves on the slopes of the surrounding mountains, using the natural landscape to their advantage. Then, at the climactic moment, Pelagius led a surprise charge from a cave where he and his men had been hiding. The Muslim forces were caught in a trap, surrounded and unable to maneuver in the narrow space.

The Christian sources describe it as an overwhelming victory—a massacre. Alqama himself fell in the fighting, and with their commander dead, the remaining Umayyad forces broke and fled. What followed was pure chaos. As they retreated through the mountain passes, the local villagers—armed and emboldened by Pelagius’s victory—emerged from their homes and attacked the fleeing soldiers. Hundreds of Umayyad troops were killed in the aftermath, cut down as they tried to escape.

But it didn’t end there.

Munuza, the same provincial governor Pelagius had driven out before, tried to rally the survivors and organize another attack. Gathering what was left of his forces, he confronted Pelagius near the modern town of Proaza. This time, however, the balance of power had shifted. Pelagius’s victory at Covadonga had drawn more men to his cause, swelling his ranks. What had once been a small band of rebels was now a formidable force.

The two sides clashed again, and once again, Pelagius emerged victorious. Munuza was killed in the fighting, and with his death, the Umayyads abandoned their efforts to control Asturias—at least for the time being.

In the aftermath of these battles, Pelagius’s rebellion transformed into something much bigger. No longer a ragtag insurgency, it became the foundation of the Kingdom of Asturias, a Christian stronghold that would stand for centuries as a bulwark against Muslim expansion. Later generations would look back at Covadonga as the moment it all began—the first victory of the Reconquista, a centuries-long struggle to reclaim Hispania.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

Imagine a war that lasts not for years, not for decades… but for centuries. A war that spans generations—so long that the people who started it would be remembered only as legends by those who finally ended it.

This is the story of the Reconquista.

It wasn’t one war, not really. It was something messier… something more complicated. It was a long, grinding struggle—part holy war, part political chess match, part personal vendetta—that played out on the rugged, sun-scorched landscapes of the Iberian Peninsula. It wasn’t fought by a single army or a single king. It was a patchwork conflict waged by dozens of kingdoms, warlords, and dynasties, sometimes united by faith, other times torn apart by greed and ambition.

It began in 711 AD, when the Islamic armies of the Umayyad Caliphate swept across Iberia, toppling the Visigothic Kingdom in a matter of months. And from the highlands of Asturias to the plains of Castile, the christians bided their time, waiting for the chance to take it all back.

Over the next seven centuries, the Reconquista would become something far bigger than a military campaign. It would evolve into a clash of civilizations, a battle between Christian and Muslim powers—not just for territory, but for the soul of Iberia.

But how did the Visigoths—a people once powerful enough to challenge the mighty Roman Empire—fall so quickly and decisively? To understand their downfall, we must first examine the state of their kingdom before the storm of external invasions swept across Iberia.

Witiza isn’t exactly a household name. He doesn’t get the attention of, say, Alaric—who sacked Rome in 410 AD—or Theodoric the Great, who ruled over the Ostrogoths like some sort of barbarian emperor. No, Witiza is different. He’s one of those rulers you only hear about when you start peeling back the layers of history, and by the time you’re done, you realize his story is one of missed opportunities, betrayals, and the kind of political intrigue that would make Game of Thrones look like child’s play.

Now, let’s back up a bit. The Visigoths had been ruling Hispania for centuries. They were originally Germanic outsiders, but over time, they built a powerful kingdom on the ruins of the Western Roman Empire. And yet, by the time Witiza takes the throne, things are looking… rough. Internal factions are at each other’s throats. The church and the nobility are engaged in a cold war of influence, and the system of government—once a balance of military strength and political maneuvering—has turned into an unstable mess. The kind of mess that collapses the moment a real threat appears.

Witiza comes to power in 698 AD, following in the footsteps of his father, Egica. And let’s just say he doesn’t inherit the throne of a stable empire. His father had already spent much of his reign cracking down on rivals, persecuting Jewish communities in an attempt to shore up his own power, and dealing with economic crises that had left the kingdom vulnerable. By the time Witiza steps in, he’s not taking over a well-oiled machine—he’s inheriting a kingdom that’s slowly being pulled apart at the seams.

Now, depending on who you ask, Witiza is either a reformer or a tyrant. Some sources claim he tried to limit the power of the church—repealing laws that enforced clerical celibacy, for example. Others argue that he was consolidating power in his own hands, placing family members in key positions to ensure total control. Either way, one thing is clear: he made enemies. A lot of them.

Limiting the power of the Church during this time was no easy task. When the Germanic warlords took over the remnants of the Western Roman Empire, they established a warrior aristocracy. But while they knew how to fight, they had little experience in governing. They didn’t understand how to manage a complex civilization like Rome, with its sophisticated institutions and administrative systems.

To compensate for this gap, they delegated much of that responsibility to the Church. The Church held the institutional knowledge necessary to run a state. Its members were the most highly educated people of the time, and they controlled vast resources, making it an indispensable pillar of governance and power.

Now, here’s where things get interesting. Because when Witiza dies—whether by natural causes or something more sinister—there’s no smooth transition of power. His supporters want his son on the throne. His enemies want him gone. And in the middle of all this chaos, a new king emerges: Roderic.

Let’s set the stage.

Roderic—sometimes called Rodrigo—is a powerful warlord. Some say he was the Duke of Baetica, a veteran commander who seized the throne through force. Whatever his origin, not everyone agreed that Roderic should be king. Spain’s noble class was split. Some supported Witiza’s heirs, believing they had the rightful claim. Others—likely seeing an opportunity—threw their support behind Roderic. The result? A kingdom divided, and a distracted ruler

Achila II was a rival king who controlled parts of northeastern Hispania, including Tarraconensis (around present-day Catalonia) and possibly parts of Narbonensis in southern Gaul. Achila’s reign is believed to have begun around 710 AD, overlapping with Roderic’s. Another supposed claimant to the throne was Oppas was a Visigothic noble and possibly a bishop. Some sources suggest he might have had ambitions for the throne or at least played a major political role in the power struggle. According to later chronicles, Oppas is accused of siding with the Muslim invaders, helping facilitate Roderic’s downfall, though his exact role is debated and may have been exaggerated in later Christian sources.

Now, when a kingdom is fractured like this, you expect backstabbing. You expect betrayals. But what you don’t expect… is someone to invite the enemy in.

Enter Count Julian.

Now, who was Julian? That’s a great question. Depending on which source you read, he’s either a loyal general betrayed by his king, or one of history’s greatest villains. He was the governor of Ceuta, a Visigothic stronghold in North Africa, right across from Spain. Basically, he was the guy responsible for defending the kingdom’s southern flank. 

And here’s where things get interesting.

There’s a story—one that medieval chroniclers loved to tell—that Julian had a daughter, Florinda la Cava. She had supposedly been sent to the royal court in Toledo, as many noble daughters were, to receive an elite education or serve in the royal household. And while she was there, according to legend, Roderick raped her.

Let’s stop right there.

This part of the story is controversial. We don’t know if it actually happened, or if it was a later addition by medieval writers looking to dramatize the downfall of a kingdom. But the idea that a king’s lust led to his empire’s downfall? It’s the kind of narrative that historians in the Middle Ages ate up. It turns a geopolitical disaster into a moral tale

True or not, the legend says Julian wanted revenge. And revenge, in this case, meant betrayal on a massive scale.

And so, in the early months of 711 AD, Count Julian reaches out to an unexpected ally—Tariq ibn Ziyad, a general in the service of the Umayyad governor of North Africa, Musa ibn Nusayr.

The Umayyads were the heirs to an Islamic explosion that, within a single lifetime, spread from the Arabian Peninsula to the Indus River, from the heart of Persia to the fortress cities of North Africa. By 705 AD, the Umayyads had conquered North Africa. They solidified their control, integrated local tribes, and converted thousands of Berbers to Islam. But this wasn’t just about religion—it was about recruitment. The Berbers didn’t just become Muslims they became warriors. Warriors who would soon march north, across the sea, into the heart of a divided, crumbling Visigothic kingdom.

And in 711 AD, under Tariq ibn Ziyad, those Berber and Arab warriors, battle-hardened from decades of conflict in North Africa, would cross into Spain. And what began as an expedition would turn into a cataclysm.

Now, Tariq is a fascinating character. He’s a Berber, not an Arab. A warrior with a reputation for fierce, unconventional tactics. And when Julian whispers in his ear that Spain is ripe for the taking, Tariq listens.

Sometime in April of 711 AD, Tariq gathers a small force—about 7,000 men, mostly Berbers, not Arabs. This isn’t a full-scale invasion yet—it’s a test. A scouting mission. But because Julian controls Ceuta, he helps them cross the Strait of Gibraltar without resistance. He gives them intelligence, supplies, and a safe landing. Without Julian? This whole invasion probably doesn’t happen—at least not this easily.

Tariq’s men land near a rocky outcrop that will one day bear his name—Jabal Tariq… or as we call it today: Gibraltar.

At first, it’s just raids. Small, fast-moving attacks on Visigothic settlements. But then, something unexpected happens. There’s no serious resistance. No great Visigothic army rushing to push them back into the sea.

Tariq realizes something shocking: the gates of Spain are open.

Roderick, meanwhile, doesn’t even know this is happening. He’s off in the north, putting down a rebellion, because, again—his kingdom is already falling apart. By the time he hears that Muslim forces have landed, it’s already too late. He scrambles together an army, supposedly twice the size of Tariq’s force—maybe 25,000 to 30,000 men.

By July of 711 AD, the two armies meet near the Guadalete River, somewhere in southern Spain.

And what happens next… changes history.

Roderic’s men are mostly heavy cavalry, Visigothic nobles in armor, ready to ride down their enemies. Tariq, on the other hand, commands an army built for speed and agility. His men are used to desert warfare, ambush tactics. They’re fast, relentless, and smart.

The battle rages for days. And then, at a critical moment, Visigothic loyalty shatters. Some of Roderic’s own commanders switch sides. They pull their forces back, leaving gaps in the line, allowing the muslim cavalry the ability to encircle Roderick’s forces. The army routed. The casualties were massive.

And Roderick?

Well, no one really knows what happened to him.

Some accounts say he died in battle, his body lost in the chaos. Others claim he tried to flee, only to drown in the Guadalete River. His body is never found. The last Visigothic king just disappears—swallowed by history.

What matters is this: the Visigothic army ceases to exist.

And when that army falls… so does the kingdom.

After Guadalete, everything unravels shockingly fast.

The Muslim forces, now emboldened, push forward. Cities surrender one after another—some by force, others because their rulers would rather negotiate than die. The capital of Toledo as well as major cities like Seville and Cordoba fell with little resistance.

By the time Musa ibn Nusayr, Tariq’s superior, arrives in 712 AD with fresh reinforcements, Spain was practically conquered.

But every great conquest breeds its own resistance. As unstoppable as the Muslim forces seemed, history rarely moves in straight lines. No empire—no matter how fast its rise—ever truly has an open road.

And in the chaos that followed the Muslim conquest of Spain, whispers of resistance began to spread through the crumbling ruins of the Visigothic kingdom. Imagine the scene: small bands of survivors—refugees, local nobles, and warriors—fleeing north into the rugged mountains of Asturias, where the land itself becomes a fortress. It’s wild, inhospitable country where few armies dare to venture, and it’s here, in this isolated northern corner, that one man will emerge—a figure who will stand against the tide and refuse to submit.

But resistance in Spain isn’t the only force brewing against this unstoppable wave. To the north, beyond the Pyrenees, a new kind of warrior-king is preparing to meet the challenge head-on.

A king? No. Not yet. He’s a mayor of the palace, technically a servant of the Frankish kingdom, but in reality, the power behind the throne. Think of him like a king who hasn’t bothered to take the title yet. He’s not interested in politics or fancy titles. He’s a warrior—brutal, relentless, and forged in the fires of battle.

Heroes are about to be forged in the fires of these battles. One man will light a spark of rebellion in the north of Spain. Another man will bring the hammer down on an unstoppable advance and prevent the Muslim expansion into the heart of Europe.

Their names will become legendary. Their battles, the stuff of myth. And their victories will set the stage for a conflict that will burn across the next seven centuries.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

So here we are again… just two years after the last great war between the successors of Alexander the Great, another one breaks out. The ink is barely dry on the settlements from the last bloodbath, and already, the same men—who have spent decades fighting, scheming, betraying—are at it again. Because for these men, power is never enough.

See, when Alexander died in 323 BC, he left behind the greatest empire the world had ever seen… and no clear successor. It was an empire that stretched from the shores of Greece to the mountains of India. But an empire is only as strong as the hands that hold it, and with Alexander gone, his generals—his most trusted men—weren’t about to just sit back and let someone else rule over what they thought should be theirs. So they fought, and they kept fighting, through war after war, tearing apart what Alexander had built in a brutal contest of ambition.

And in 307 BC, the contest was far from over.

Ptolemy, down in Egypt, had been quietly—but aggressively—expanding his influence. He was reaching into the Aegean, securing Cyprus, fortifying his naval power. He had carved out a kingdom that was, at least for now, stable. Meanwhile, Seleucus, out in the east, was consolidating his hold over the vast lands stretching from Syria to the farthest reaches of Alexander’s conquests. But Antigonus? Antigonus wasn’t going to wait. He had always been the most dangerous of Alexander’s successors, and he had spent years preparing for another shot at dominance.

And so the war began again.

This time, Antigonus sent his son—Demetrius, the man history would remember as Poliorketes, the “besieger”—to retake Greece. And what a figure Demetrius was. If history had action heroes, Demetrius would be one of them. He was charismatic, bold, and most importantly, he was good at war.

In 307 BC, Demetrius arrived in Athens, a city that had been under the control of Cassander’s governor, Demetrius of Phaleron. Now, the Athenians? They had not forgotten what it meant to be free, and when Demetrius stormed in, they didn’t resist. In fact, they welcomed him. He kicked out Cassander’s governor and, in an act of political theater, proclaimed Athens free once again. And that was a big deal. Because Athens was still Athens—it had a name, a history, a legacy. If Demetrius was in control of Athens, he wasn’t just some warlord—he was a liberator, a champion of Greek freedom. At least, that’s how he wanted to be seen.

But Athens was just the beginning.

Demetrius set his sights on an even bigger target: Ptolemy. He turned his war machine toward Cyprus, the strategic island that Ptolemy had been using as a naval base. If Demetrius could take Cyprus, he could deal a serious blow to Ptolemy’s ambitions.

And that’s when things got really intense.

In 306 BC, the two sides met in what would be one of the greatest naval battles of the era: The Battle of Salamis—not that Salamis, the famous one from the Persian Wars a century and a half earlier, but another Salamis, a battle just as dramatic in its own way.

Imagine the scene: hundreds of warships lining up in formation, the sun gleaming off their bronze rams, the sound of drums and oars splashing in unison. This was naval warfare in the ancient world—massive ships packed with marines, built not just for sailing, but for boarding, for ramming, for brutal hand-to-hand combat on the decks.

When the dust settled, Demetrius had won a stunning victory. Ptolemy’s fleet was shattered. Not only did Demetrius win—he captured 40 of Ptolemy’s warships intact, crews and all. That was huge. Capturing a ship meant adding it to your own navy, strengthening your fleet while weakening your enemy’s. But the real prize? Over a hundred of Ptolemy’s transport ships, loaded with some 8,000 troops, were taken. Just imagine that—8,000 trained soldiers, ready to fight for Ptolemy, now in the hands of Demetrius. It was a crushing defeat.

Fresh from his son’s stunning naval victory at Salamis, Antigonus saw an opportunity. He declared himself king. No more regencies, no more mere claims to legitimacy in Alexander’s shadow—he crowns himself, and he places his son Demetrius at his side as co-king.

It’s a move that will send shockwaves through the ancient world.

Now, to understand the audacity of this moment, we have to step back. Because the Macedonian throne? It had been in a state of chaos since Alexander’s death in 323 BC. His legitimate heir, Alexander IV, had been murdered by Cassander in 309 BC, and since then, the Diadochi—the successors—had danced a delicate and brutal waltz of power.

For years, these men had paid lip service to the idea that they were guardians of Alexander’s empire, stewards of his legacy, pretending as if they were merely waiting for a legitimate heir to emerge. But by 306? That pretense was dead. And when Antigonus took the title of Basileus, or king, it was an open challenge to all the others. And the others? They weren’t about to let him get away with that.

Upon hearing of Antigonus’ self-crowning, his rivals acted swiftly. Ptolemy in Egypt, Seleucus in Babylon, Lysimachus in Thrace, and finally, even Cassander in Macedon—they all followed suit, crowning themselves kings. The illusion of unity, of a single Macedonian empire, shattered once and for all. Each now ruled as sovereign, each now laid claim to their own piece of Alexander’s shattered dream.

And in the midst of this chaos stood Demetrius, the son of Antigonus, the man history would come to know as Demetrius Poliorketes, the Besieger. With his father’s blessing, Demetrius launched a campaign across Greece, sweeping through central territories, expelling Cassander’s forces from key strongholds. By the spring of 303, he had entered the Peloponnese, taking Sicyon and Corinth, expanding his father’s influence further. He moved like a storm through Argolis, Achaea, Arcadia—bringing the northern and central Peloponnese under Antigonid control.

Demetrius formed a new Hellenic League, the League of Corinth, reviving the very institution Alexander had used decades earlier to rally the Greeks under his banner. But this was not a league for the sake of Greek freedom. No, this was a league with himself and his father at the top, a tool to solidify control over the Greek world and position themselves as its protectors.

Cassander saw what was happening and knew he had to act. He sued for peace. But Antigonus? He was not a man for compromise. He rejected Cassander’s offer outright. And so Demetrius marched north, into Thessaly, clashing with Cassander’s forces in battle after battle, though neither side could claim victory outright.

But here’s where history throws a curveball. Because while Demetrius was fighting in Greece, his father’s position in Asia was being threatened. Lysimachus, one of the kings who had declared himself sovereign in response to Antigonus’ move, saw an opening. With Demetrius occupied in Thessaly, Lysimachus launched an invasion of Anatolia, forcing Antigonus to call his son back from Greece. Just like that, the stage was set for a final confrontation, a showdown that would determine the fate of the Antigonid dynasty.

For Antigonus, it must have felt like the climax of a long life of struggle. In his eighties now—an age practically unheard of for a battlefield commander—he had spent the past twenty years fighting, scheming, and warring to reclaim the empire that Alexander had left behind. And now, here he was—leading an army of 70,000 infantry, 10,000 cavalry, and 75 war elephants. Because, just as Antigonus thought he had positioned himself well, the balance shifted. From the east, Seleucus I Nicator arrived to reinforce Lysimachus and Cassander, bringing an army that was smaller in infantry but contained a trump card Antigonus could never have predicted—400 war elephants. Now, this was a staggering number. War elephants were the superweapons of their day, massive beasts capable of crushing infantry underfoot, terrifying cavalry into flight, and sowing sheer chaos on the battlefield. Seleucus had acquired them during his eastern campaigns in India, and now they were here, on the plains of Ipsus, poised to change the fate of the Hellenistic world.

And so, the battle began

Demetrius, eager to make his mark, led the cavalry charge against Seleucus’s right flank. And for a moment—just a moment—it looked like he might break through. His elite Companion cavalry smashed into Seleucus’s forces, and they started to push them back. But Demetrius—so very much like his father in his boldness—made a crucial mistake. He pushed too far. He drove his cavalry deep into enemy lines, so deep that he lost contact with the main battle.

And that’s when Seleucus made his move. With terrifying precision, he deployed his elephants to cut off Demetrius’s retreat. Suddenly, Antigonus’s son and his cavalry are trapped outside the battlefield, unable to return to help their embattled phalanx. And the moment Demetrius is isolated, the tide turns.

Antigonus looked around—his massive phalanx of 70,000 men suddenly finds itself leaderless, surrounded. What does he do? He calls for reinforcements, he calls for help from his son —but the battlefield had already turned against him. His men, seeing their doom, began to surrender, to flee, to defect.

What does it feel like to stand on a battlefield at that moment, watching everything slip away? Antigonus did not run. He was old. He was proud. He stood his ground. And in that moment, the last great dream of Alexander’s empire died with him. The javelins fly, the spears thrust forward, and the One-Eyed King—the last man who could have truly put the empire back together—was cut down.

Seleucus and Lysimachus divided the spoils. Seleucus took Syria, Mesopotamia, and the vast eastern satrapies. Lysimachus strengthened his grip on western Anatolia and Thrace. 

Demetrius, realizing the battle was lost, fled the field with what remained of his cavalry. Thanks to his formidable navy, he was able to regroup and escape to Greece, but his influence was permanently crippled.

The Battle of Ipsus marked the final great war of the Diadochi, as it was the last conflict in which all the major successors of Alexander the Great fought against each other. From this point forward, wars would continue but in smaller, more localized struggles between individual rulers.

And that’s the tragedy of the Diadochi, isn’t it? These men, these brilliant, brutal warriors who once fought under Alexander, couldn’t stop fighting. They couldn’t stop killing each other over the empire they had all helped to build. In the end, nearly every one of them met a violent end. Lysimachus? Killed in battle against Seleucus. Seleucus himself? Assassinated by Ptolemy Ceraunus, the son of Ptolemy I. 

Ptolemy Ceraunus would go on to rule Macedon, but not for very long. The death of Lysimachus had left the Danube border of the Macedonian kingdom open to barbarian invasions, and soon tribes of Gauls were rampaging through Macedon and Greece, and invading Asia Minor. Ptolemy Ceraunus was killed by the invaders, and after several years of chaos, Demetrius emerged as ruler after defeating Cassander’s heirs, but eventually lost everything and died a prisoner. In Asia, Seleucus’s son, Antiochus I, also managed to defeat the Celtic invaders, who settled down in central Anatolia in the part of eastern Phrygia that would henceforward be known as Galatia after them.

The Partition of Babylon, the first great division of Alexander’s empire, had been drawn in ink. But the true borders of the Hellenistic world would be written in blood. And yet, for all their ambition, for all their relentless struggle, none of them would ever achieve what Alexander had.

For nearly fifty years, the greatest military minds of their age tore each other apart in a series of brutal, relentless conflicts we call the Wars of the Diadochi. These wars weren’t just about winning battles. They were about assassination, betrayal, backstabbing, and the kind of power plays that would make Game of Thrones look tame. Alliances were made and broken, rulers were poisoned, heirs were strangled in their beds, whole cities were wiped off the map. It was like the apocalypse had come for the Greek world.

The thing is, if you were watching this happen in real-time, you wouldn’t be thinking about Rome. Rome was still just some growing republic in Italy, fighting its neighbors and figuring out how to run itself. But what nobody realized at the time—what’s only obvious in hindsight—is that these wars were laying the groundwork for Rome to take over the entire Eastern Mediterranean.

If Alexander had lived another twenty years, imagine what he could have built. Maybe Rome never rises the way it did. Maybe the legions never even make it to Greece. But he didn’t live, and because of that, his empire fell apart, leaving behind something Rome could exploit centuries later.

The Greek world after Alexander wasn’t just divided—it was perpetually at war. Every kingdom was locked in a struggle for dominance, and that meant endless battles, shifting alliances, and economic exhaustion.

This did two things.

First, it weakened the Hellenistic world. The manpower and resources of Greece, Egypt, and Persia were poured into wars that solved nothing. Entire generations were wiped out in these conflicts. The grand armies of the Diadochi—huge phalanxes, war elephants, elite cavalry—were incredibly expensive to maintain. And after decades of fighting, these kingdoms were running out of money and soldiers.

Second, it made it easy for Rome to step in as the “deciding factor.”

Think about it. If the Greek world had been united, Rome would have had to face a single, powerful enemy. Instead, every Greek kingdom saw Rome as a potential ally against its rivals. So when Rome started flexing its muscles in the Eastern Mediterranean, they didn’t meet unified resistance. They met a fractured, squabbling mess—one that they could manipulate.

From that moment on, the writing was on the wall. Rome was the new dominant power.

Now, here’s the big question: what if the Wars of the Diadochi hadn’t happened? What if Alexander’s empire had stayed together?

Well, for starters, Rome would have had way more trouble expanding east. Instead of fighting fractured Greek states, they would have faced a powerful, unified empire—an empire built on the best military traditions of Greece and Persia, an empire with the resources of Egypt and Mesopotamia behind it.

Would Rome have ever made it past the Adriatic? Would they have even bothered trying? Maybe not.

But that’s not what happened. The Wars of the Diadochi shattered Alexander’s empire, leaving behind weak, divided kingdoms. And when Rome came knocking, they didn’t find an unstoppable force—they found a collection of states too busy fighting each other to put up a real resistance.

This is one of those moments in history where everything could have turned out differently. If Alexander had lived… if his empire had held together… if the Diadochi hadn’t torn it apart…

But they did. And that’s why, a few centuries later, it wasn’t a Greek-speaking empire ruling the Mediterranean. It was Rome.