By Sasha Alex Lessin, Ph.D. (Anthropology, UCLA)
THE HOLY MURDERER
In the late 700s CE, a towering figure strode from the ruins of Rome’s empire—a Frankish king whom popes hailed as Christ’s champion.
Charles the Great, Charlemagne, declared that he would “unite Europe under the Cross.” Yet his unity was forged in blood.
His armies stormed across Germany and Frisia, torching shrines of Woden (a k a Zeus/Marduk), Thunor (a k a Ares/Ninurta), and Frigg (a k a Hera/Ninmah).
To Charlemagne, their worshipers were vermin to be baptized—or beheaded.
“Bow to Christ or die,” his heralds cried in town after town.
From Saxony’s forests came defiance. We honor our own gods and elders,” replied their chieftain Widukind. “No man rules our souls.”
The clash became a thirty-year crusade: an Anunnaki-style domination war, a replay of Enlil’s old campaign to break humankind’s free tribes.
WHEN CHARLEMAGNE BURNED THE SAXON’S SACRED TREE, THEY REVOLTED
Charlemagne’s first invasion in 772 looked easy.
He captured forts, looted temples, and cut down the sacred Irminsul—the world-tree the Saxons said joined heaven and earth.
Its fall echoed like a death-cry across Germania.
“He has slain the Tree of Life,” widows whispered. “Now the sky itself may fall.”
But in the north, WIDUKIND rallied the tribes. From hidden halls came smiths and singers, swearing by Odin-Poseidon (aka Enki) to fight the usurper king.
When Frankish garrisons withdrew, the Saxons rose like fire. They crossed the Rhine, burned forts, and vanished into shadowed woods.
For a decade, war flared and ebbed. Each time Charlemagne baptized captives, rebellion rekindled.
BETRAYAL AT THE SUNTHAL MOUNTAINS
In 782 Charlemagne’s nobles marched to crush the rebels near the Sunthal peaks. Four counts quarreled over glory. One, THEODORIC—Charlemagne’s cousin—ordered caution. The others charged ahead into the fog.
Their cavalry thundered into a waiting spear-wall.
“Hold fast!” cried Widukind. “Let them break upon us like waves on rock!”
Frankish horses impaled themselves; knights toppled, screaming. By nightfall, thousands lay dead—among them nobles bound by blood to the king.
When word reached Charlemagne, his wrath burned hotter than Hephaestus’ forge. “They shall learn what defiance costs,” he said. He summoned every Saxon chief to Verdun.
RIVER OF BLOOD
Four thousand five hundred men stood bound before him—rebels offered up by frightened elders. Widukind himself had fled to Denmark.
“Your chieftain hides,” said the king. “Your gods hide. But I am here.”
At dawn he raised his hand. The axes fell. All day the killing went on until the river ran scarlet. Chroniclers called it “justice.” The Saxons called it the VERDUN BLOOD-BAPTISM.
No angel stayed his hand. No pope reproved him.
PARTNERSHIP DEFERRED
Even then, within the terror, sparks of partnership flickered. Some monks begged mercy for children and women; some Frankish captains turned their eyes away.
Widukind, years later, would accept baptism and call Charlemagne godfather—a gesture that sought peace more than faith. Yet the rivers of Saxony whispered another gospel: that domination never truly converts, it only silences.
The wars dragged on until 804, when the last free tribes submitted. Charlemagne’s empire rose upon their graves—a Christian Rome reborn, ruled by the sword of Enlil’s priest-king.
And from the north, the Vikings—sons of the dispossessed—set sail again, bringing back the thunder of Odin-Enki’s freedom to the shores of Europe.
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