On August 1, Alfred was still struggling through the mountains.
Suddenly, deafening cheers erupted from somewhere ahead, echoing across the valleys.
He rubbed his ears in disbelief, thinking he must have imagined it.
Not long afterward, leaning on his walking stick, he reached a narrow mountain pass.
The view abruptly opened before him.
The trail no longer climbed upward.
Instead, it leveled out before gradually descending.
In the distance lay a broad, lush valley overflowing with life.
Vast forests carpeted the valley floor.
A winding stream glittered in the sunlight.
Far away, faint wisps of smoke curled into the sky.
They had made it out.
That afternoon, the Frankish army reached a small riverside town called Bolzano.
Crude wooden houses lined both banks of the river, interspersed with a handful of stone buildings.
Under the astonished gaze of the townspeople, thousands of ragged, armorless Frankish soldiers dropped to their knees.
They kissed the warm, soft earth beneath their feet.
Many wept uncontrollably.
Charles the Bald and the senior commanders crowded into the lord's longhouse, eagerly devouring coarse ale and tough salted meat.
After scraping his bowl clean of oatmeal porridge, Alfred asked about nearby enemy activity.
The Lord of Bolzano shook his head.
"My lord, there are no enemies here.
"This is the heart of the Alps.
"From here to Bavaria in the north lies over a hundred miles of mountain roads, protected by fortresses.
"Those Viking savages from Bavaria will never get through."
Hearing that, much of Alfred's anxiety finally faded.
Exhaustion washed over him.
He found an empty corner, lay down, and slept until the following morning.
The remainder of the journey proved far easier.
The Frankish army marched south for three more days before finally leaving the Alps behind and entering the Veneto Plain.
By then they had lost every horse they owned, together with enormous quantities of armor and weapons.
Only a little over six thousand weak and exhausted survivors remained.
Listening to the casualty reports from every contingent, Charles the Bald stood in a daze.
For the first time, he wondered whether this terrible march had been worth it.
Still...
Whatever the cost, they had escaped the Viking cavalry.
The battered army continued southeast toward Padua to recover.
That very night after entering the city, Charles dispatched another wave of messengers begging Basil for reinforcements.
This time, his pleas extended beyond Constantinople to numerous Balkan states as well.
On August 2, farther west in the Po Valley...
Turin.
After capturing Milan, Vig marched upstream along the Po River to attack the city that housed enormous military stockpiles.
Hoping to secure the supplies intact, he offered the defending commander the title of Count.
The commander refused.
Instead, he demanded to become Duke of Turin, ruling the entire western half of the Po Valley, including Milan, Pavia, and surrounding cities.
Negotiations dragged on for five days.
Eventually, Vig lost patience.
He began to suspect the man was deliberately stalling for time.
That afternoon, twenty bronze cannons fired three coordinated salvos.
A tower at the city's northeastern corner collapsed.
Once the dust settled, hundreds of captured militia were marched before the walls and ordered to shout a proclamation.
"The deadline for surrender is tomorrow morning!
"His Majesty guarantees the safety of every resident except the commander and his family!
"Whoever presents the commander's head shall be granted the title of Count!"
At four in the afternoon, unrest broke out inside the city.
About half an hour later...
Dozens of corpses were thrown from the walls.
Leading them was the greedy commander himself.
The conspiracy had been orchestrated by his own nephew.
Vig accepted the young man's surrender and promised to reward him with a county after the war.
By evening, the Viking army had occupied Turin.
After spending the entire night taking inventory, they discovered enough grain to sustain the army for eight months.
Even better...
More than a hundred inland sailing vessels were moored at the eastern docks.
Future campaigns could now use the Po River to transport supplies.
The burden on Viking logistics immediately became much lighter.
With Turin secured, every city in the western Po Valley had fallen under Viking control.
Vig wasted no time.
He immediately led the main army downstream.
On August 5, Charles the Bald received alarming news.
The Viking army had ignored the cities along the middle and upper reaches of the river.
Instead, it was rapidly advancing toward the lower Po.
"This is bad.
"Vig is still coming after me!"
Charles anxiously studied the map.
His six thousand survivors were no longer capable of fighting.
There was only one option left.
They had to contact Venice, obtain permission to shelter on its islands, and then use Venetian ships to transport the army into central Italy.
Alfred was appointed as the envoy.
Carrying the king's handwritten letter, he rode day and night until reaching the eastern coast.
Before him stretched a vast lagoon.
To the northeast, a chain of narrow sandbars separated it from the Adriatic Sea, with only a handful of channels connecting the lagoon to open water.
Countless islands dotted the lagoon.
The largest were densely packed with buildings.
From a distance, they appeared not to rest upon land at all, but to rise directly out of the sea itself.
Alfred boarded a long, narrow boat after paying the ferryman.
Before long, they approached the Rialto Islands and entered one of the lagoon's main canals.
Buildings crowded both banks.
The first and second floors were constructed from sturdy stone, while upper stories were built from timber.
Many houses had doorsteps descending directly into the water, with stone mooring posts standing outside their entrances.
The homes of wealthy merchants featured arched windows and colorful stained glass.
Ordinary houses, by contrast, looked cramped and plain.
The canals bustled with traffic.
Boatmen shouted warnings to one another as vessels squeezed past.
Looking around, Alfred noticed numerous glass workshops.
Shipbuilding and salt production also appeared highly developed.
"My lord, we've arrived."
The boat docked beside a busy stone landing.
Alfred wound his way through narrow alleys flanked by towering timber-and-stone buildings.
Every structure competed for precious space.
Upper-story windows nearly touched those of the houses opposite.
Laundry lines stretched overhead, hung with clothes and bedsheets.
Because of the tides, water frequently flooded the lower steps.
The streets remained damp, carrying a faint sour odor.
After wandering through the maze-like lanes for quite some time, he finally emerged into a broad square.
There, workers were constructing a massive cathedral.
Scaffolding clung to sections of the exterior while craftsmen busily decorated its walls.
Across the square stood the Doge's Palace.
Its lofty tower overlooked both the city and the lagoon.
The long, narrow arched windows bore unmistakable Byzantine influence.
Soldiers guarded the palace entrance.
After identifying himself and presenting Charles the Bald's letter, Alfred waited briefly before being escorted inside by an official.
Officially, Venice still remained a vassal of the Eastern Roman Empire.
At the outbreak of the war, the Doge had already received orders from Constantinople instructing him to assist the Frankish cause whenever possible.
He did not hesitate for long.
The Doge agreed to allow the remnants of the Frankish army to take refuge on the islands.
There was only one condition.
They had to surrender all of their weapons and armor.
He had no intention of allowing armed Franks inside the city after what they had done during last year's plundering of Corsica and Sardinia.
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