Wolves Converging on the Feast

The 9th-Century Struggle for Souls and Power in Central Europe

Sometimes, when I sit with my history books in the quiet of the morning, the past stops feeling like distant dates and starts looking like something raw and alive—a fresh kill in the forest, with wolves circling from every direction. In the late 800s, that carcass was Great Moravia, the heartland of the West Slavs in Central Europe. It sat at a dangerous crossroads: between the fading shadows of the Avar Khaganate, the expanding Frankish realm to the west, the Byzantine Empire to the southeast, and the restless steppe powers beyond. What was at stake wasn’t only land or tribute. It was the souls of the Slavic peoples, the language in which they would hear the word of God, and ultimately, who would shape their identity for centuries to come.

The feast had been prepared long before 863. Earlier waves of missionaries had already left their mark. Echoes of the rigorous Irish and Scottish monastic tradition—rooted in the teachings of figures like Saint Columba—had filtered into the Frankish world through Saint Columbanus and his followers in the 6th and 7th centuries. These ascetic monks planted seeds of a more independent-minded Christianity across what is now France, Germany, and Bavaria. By the 8th and early 9th centuries, Irish-influenced clergy (such as Bishop Virgil of Salzburg) were active in the eastern marches of the Frankish empire. Some traces of their work, or at least of Western Christian practices carried by Bavarian missionaries, may have reached the edges of Moravian territory before the main drama unfolded. Yet by the time Duke Rastislav sought greater spiritual independence, the dominant pressure from the west came from organized Frankish clergy tied to the dioceses of Salzburg and Passau—operating in Latin, aligned with Carolingian political interests, and carrying the weight of Charlemagne’s earlier conquests that had broken Avar power.

Then the Byzantine wolves arrived with a different hunger. In 862–863, Rastislav, wanting to loosen the Frankish grip, sent envoys to Constantinople. Emperor Michael III responded by sending two brothers from Thessaloniki: Constantine (who later took the monastic name Cyril, the philosopher) and Methodius (the former administrator). They brought something revolutionary—an alphabet (Glagolitic) created specifically for the Slavic language, along with translations of the Gospels, liturgy, and other texts into what we now call Old Church Slavonic. This wasn’t just missionary work; it challenged the prevailing idea that Scripture and worship belonged only in Hebrew, Greek, or Latin. Their approach offered the Slavs a path to Christianity in their own tongue, free from heavy Frankish oversight.

Pope Hadrian II eventually gave approval during the brothers’ visit to Rome, but the local Frankish bishops resisted fiercely. Methodius faced imprisonment. After his death in 885, the Byzantine-led disciples were largely expelled from Moravia, and Latin-rite practices regained the upper hand in the core territory. Yet the mission’s deeper legacy endured. The expelled students carried the Slavonic liturgy and writings southward, helping shape the Christian culture of the emerging Bulgarian Empire and laying groundwork for the Cyrillic alphabet that followed.

The wolves were not only from Constantinople and the Frankish west. To the southeast lay another powerful player whose story adds rich layers to the contest. Before the Bulgaria we usually picture in the 9th century, there had existed an earlier nomadic confederation known as Old Great Bulgaria (or Magna Bulgaria), founded in the 7th century by Khan Kubrat on the vast Pontic-Caspian steppe. This was the territory I saw on the map that caught my attention: a wide expanse stretching between the Black Sea and the approaches to the Caspian, with influence reaching toward Crimea and the surrounding steppes. Kubrat had broken free from Avar overlordship around 635 with Byzantine support, creating a formidable power that mixed Turkic Bulgar traditions with diplomatic ties to Constantinople. Some in his circle even received Christian honors.

This earlier Bulgar world faced intense religious and cultural pressures—almost like a multi-front “attack” on their traditional Tengrist beliefs. From the southeast came the expanding influence of followers of Muhammad, as Arab Muslim power pushed northward from the Caucasus. Jewish influence arrived through the rising Khazar Khaganate, which helped dismantle Old Great Bulgaria around 665–668 and later adopted Judaism at the elite level; the Khazars dominated trade routes and steppe politics between the Black and Caspian Seas. The Avars themselves brought their own syncretic mix of shamanism and borrowed elements from contacts with Byzantium and the Franks—beliefs that could easily appear “heretical” or pagan from a strict Christian viewpoint. Christianity, too, pulled from the Byzantine side as a tool of alliance and legitimacy.

After the collapse, one branch of the Bulgars under Asparukh moved southwest to the Danube, founding what became the First Bulgarian Empire. By the mid-9th century, under Khan Boris I (who ruled from 852), this new Bulgaria sat right in the middle of the same converging forces. Boris faced overtures from both the Frankish/Latin west and the Byzantine east, while echoes of Islamic, Khazar-Jewish, and lingering steppe traditions lingered in the background. He ultimately chose Christianity from Constantinople in 864–865 (taking the name Michael), though he skillfully played Rome and Constantinople against each other to secure greater autonomy for the Bulgarian church. Later, he welcomed the disciples of Cyril and Methodius, giving the Slavonic liturgical tradition a safe home that helped it flourish and influence Slavic Christianity far beyond Moravia.

Add to this mix the opportunistic Scandinavians (Varangians) following river trade routes for gold, amber, and advantage—rarely bringing religion themselves but adding another layer of instability and exchange. The remnants of Avar groups and the Slavic tribes themselves were the living “meat” in this feast: peoples caught between empires, seeking survival, unity, and a voice of their own.

Internal betrayals sharpened the drama. Rastislav was overthrown and blinded by his nephew Svatopluk, who at times swung toward Frankish alliances before expanding Moravia significantly. After Svatopluk’s death in 894, the kingdom fractured under Hungarian raids and internal divisions. The immediate Byzantine mission in Moravia ended in expulsion, but the seeds planted by Cyril and Methodius took root elsewhere, shaping Orthodox Slavic traditions, literature, and identity for centuries.

What lingers with me is how little the human pattern has changed. Faith, language, and power have always intertwined when groups vie for influence over a people. Leaders like Rastislav and Boris I actively sought paths that honored their own voices rather than submitting fully to any single wolf pack. The “feast” scattered the players, but it left lasting marks: the first Slavic literary language, a deepened East-West Christian divide, and a reminder that cultural independence is often forged in the midst of converging pressures.

While I prune my bonsai, I find myself reflecting on roots and resilience. History shows us that the strongest growth sometimes comes precisely when the wolves are circling—by choosing one’s own language, one’s own path, amid the clamor.

Have you felt similar dynamics in your reading of the past, or even in today’s world where powers still converge on identity and belief? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

This is My Truth