136.
136.
[Kiii- swoosh- Kiii- swoosh-]
The rhythmic sound of water struck the bow.
Originally, what captains hated most was someone who knew little of ships and waterways standing at the very prow of the vessel, but no one could say such a thing about this person.
'Constantine...'
This slender figure, her head wrapped in expensive, thin cloth that served both practicality and style, tucked a stray lock of dark brown hair back in as she recalled her son's name.
He would have passed through this arduous journey with that rugged, legendary warrior.
The Norse sea—the Baltic—did not temper its temper at all even in midsummer, and where the rough winds rose, even seasoned captains had to break out in a cold sweat.
Yet, from a mother's perspective, her heart was rather light.
For it seemed that even in this way, God was meting out punishment.
A punishment justly deserved.
When she, standing at the very forefront of the party, at the prow above all others, turned her head, the endlessly undulating Norse sea and the distant horizon beyond came into view along her gaze.
Behind her, a fleet of a scale rarely seen was steadfastly climbing the current in the leader's wake.
All these were ships moving toward the new ruler of the north.
People knew that the Emperor—who had of late been judged to have come remarkably to his senses—and the Patriarch—who grew ever more fervent in his confrontation with the Pope of Rome—had joined forces to support this venture.
But in truth, the one who had supplied all manner of scholars, trade goods for purchasing additional provisions, and high-quality slaves from the troubled East was the de facto owner of the trade fleet: Constantine's mother, Maria.
Contrary to all the insidious speculations of Constantinople, Maria—who had shut herself away after the death of her ex-husband Basil—had moved.
It truly stemmed from nothing more than a longing to see her son.
'It seems the time has come to settle the relationship between us. Maria.'
'Your love was one that cooled as quickly as it once blazed. Basil. Then what of our son? What becomes of Constantine?'
'Maria. I still love you. But I merely pursue something more important than that. You may not understand now... Constantine will be fine.'
Was that more important thing death, then?
Maria never had the chance to speak with Basil again after that conversation.
Naturally, Constantine was not fine either.
When Basil lost his head, she had thought disaster would soon befall Constantine and herself as well.
But Emperor Michael did no such thing, and talk of Constantine could be heard nowhere in the city, as if someone had erased it entirely.
He had either died without a trace, or departed for some faraway place.
Despite the elders of her house advising her to give up, Maria—who could never abandon the flesh and blood she had borne from her own body—doggedly managed to find a trace of Constantine.
Ironically, the one who gave her the clue was none other than Basil's widow: the current Empress, Eudokia.
The foreign-born Empress, with golden hair, snow-white skin, and blue eyes, sent her a pitying look and told her that Constantine had departed with that Rex of the North. He would never return to this place again, she said.
But Maria was one who had long survived in the political world of Constantinople, this pit of serpents.
She perceived in the Empress's gaze not only simple pity, but some other hidden intent...
Yet it did not matter.
She herself now intended to meet her son and never return to this foul pit again.
And so, with the Empress's aid, she petitioned the Emperor and invested every last bit of Basil's divorce settlement and her family's fortune that had come down as her share.
Thus was created the great trade fleet that could only be called unprecedented.
The credit would be shared equally between the Emperor and the Patriarch, but again, it was a matter of little meaning to Maria.
Soon after, she had departed the bay of Constantinople, stained golden by the sun, and after being received with the utmost hospitality in Cherson, then in Kiyiu—ruled by Helgi Ragnarsson's subordinate, which the Northmen called Kœnugarðr—and Novgorod, she had finally.
Quickened her pace for the last stretch toward the city gradually coming to be called the jewel of the North, Árós.
Recalling all that journey in her mind, Maria once again called Constantine's name.
"Constantine..."
"It will be well. Maria. If it is the Helgi Konungr I know, it may even be far more livable than Constantinople."
A voice answering her soliloquy sounded from behind her, and Maria turned fully around with a faint smile.
Not the mask-like smile etched onto her face over long years, but a smile that, though utterly weary, held a flicker of hope.
"Strategos Damian."
"I am no longer that, but call me as you please. The wind is chill; you had best go back inside the cabin."
Where the soft, courteous voice came from stood a man who seemed on the threshold of old age, with scarcely any of his snow-white hair left.
*****
"Causantín."
[Dugu- dugu- dugu- dugu-]
The last remaining enemy of this campaign.
I murmured the name of Causantín, son of Cináed, in a low voice.
I wished he would simply fall quietly, but Causantín—who posed as the king of the Scots but was in truth the king of the Picts—did not give up easily.
'Well, they kept fighting even against Rome itself. Wasn't there a movie about the brave heart? They were portrayed as fiercely independent and warlike people.'
However, in this world already so greatly changed from the original history, there were three pieces of news, not so good for Causantín.
First, I was neither Rome nor England. I was Helgi Ragnarsson of Árós.
I had no intention of extorting taxes, nor any wish to receive oaths of fealty. The objective of this operation was the capture of the eastern coastal stronghold of the Kingdom of Scotland, Aberdeen.
Once this was done, the eastern coast of the Kingdom of Scotland, its northern coast, and its southern lowlands would all be occupied by me and my allied forces.
The rough lands of the remaining central highlands and mountains could be wholly taken by those tough, fierce people I had seen in the movies, for all I cared.
If we defended the strategic points over time like that, a moment of reversal of power would surely come someday.
If necessary, I could finish it then.
Second, the delicate situation between the Picts and the Scots.
The story Paereogeos had told me. What were the Picts and the Scots?
Simply put, the Picts were Gaels who had crossed over from Ireland on the opposite sea.
The Scots were Germans who had gradually crept north along the eastern coast from Vernika, north of Northumbria. More precisely, Angles.
And this difference was precisely why we were now able to ride our horses like mad and leap past the territory of the Kingdom of Scotland.
Though nominally the Kingdom of Scotland, the people of the Scots—who were effectively under the rule of the Pictish king—were in fact closer to us invaders in sentiment and, above all, we spoke the same tongue...
Without lying, we were occupying every Scot village we encountered as we climbed along the eastern coast from the southern lowlands.
Without shedding a drop of blood.
And the third and final piece of news, which would be a tragedy for Causantín.
Was the advance speed of me and my cavalry.
[Dugu- dugu- dugu- dugu-]
"Put more strength into it! The brothers of the Isles await us! The battlefield awaits! Seutorolpeu! Do you still have strength left!"
"Compared to pushing up the Dnieper River in the dead of winter, this is nothing! Konungr!"
We had already thrust into a forced march for three days, and the time for sleeping and resting seemed scarcely less than five hours a day...
But Seutorolpeu, along with Thorbjörn and the 200 riders who had stubbornly struggled to keep up, still looked full of life.
'If I had my way, I'd like to eat and sleep on horseback like the Mongols...'
But such skill was only possible for those truly born on horseback, so I had to be satisfied with this much.
As we climbed along the coastline of the Kingdom of Scotland, there was no enemy force deployed in this direction, and the villagers rather welcomed us like some liberation army, so I was able to grasp Causantín's intent.
Causantín meant to concentrate his forces on one side and decide the fight.
And his opponent would likely be the military forces of the Kingdom of the Isles and Dublin, led by Ivar and Olaf, rather than my warriors numbering a full 12,000.
Uhtred, having left a small force in Glaschu and now commanding the River Clyde, still had enough strength left to move alongside the Vernika army, so the war was already effectively over.
He was just trying to save face by making one last big bet.
Of course, I had no intention of watching that happen.
"Good! Blow the horn! So that Causantín of the Kingdom of Scotland can hear it! Let us proclaim to this land that we have come!"
[Boooo- boooong-]
Seutorolpeu, whose horn-blowing skill had grown somewhat, drew out a majestic note with a practiced motion, and the breaths of the horses following Camembert mingled rhythmically with the breaths of the riders.
Above the sound of hooves kicking against the earth, I keenly felt that the end of this campaign was not far off.
*****
Central Kingdom of Scotland. Somewhere between the northern coastal fishing village of Moray and the eastern coastal city of Aberdeen.
At that breathtaking position where the mountainous region began, the host of the Northmen and the host of the Kingdom of Scotland stood facing one another.
The Jarls leading the Northmen were all names renowned throughout this region.
Jarl Ivar, Olaf, Ketil, Togeunbaldeu, Baldr, Thorstein.
Yet the number of troops was 5,000, not particularly large. Of course, it was truly threatening for the Northmen, who had only ever scattered for sporadic plundering, to gather in one place like this.
Still, it was a manageable number compared to the host of Helgi Ragnarsson that was closing in from below.
The host of the Kingdom of Scotland opposing them consisted of 7,000 warriors, composed mainly of Picts.
The clans of the west and the Scots of the south who had dared not answer the summons of their Ríheu would have to pay the price once all this tide had passed.
Still, having retreated from Moray to this place and ceaselessly waged skirmishes, the Northmen were somewhat weary, and they had even conceded the advantageous high ground.
'I must win without fail.'
As if casting a spell upon himself, Causantín sent his warriors forward with a hardened resolve.
"Warriors of Causantín! You who remember the name of my father Cináed! Advance! Drive these barbarians all back into the mire they crawled out of!"
"Advance! Advance!"
"Prepare javelins! Prepare javelins!"
His father Cináed was a man of foresight. He was the one who realized that the Picts too must change in the fight against the Angles who had suddenly burst in and these Northmen.
The Kingdom of the Canyons to the west and their kin beyond still clung to the old ways, but his own kingdom, the Kingdom of Scotland, was different.
[Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Chuk!]
[Shhhk- shhhhk- thud! Thwack!]
Though they could not be issued to everyone because of the maddening cost, look at the warriors armed with chainmail, good helmets, quality spears, and shields.
Javelins, hurled with force, embroidered the sky, and the heavy infantry descending the gentle slope let out a single battle cry, seizing the moment the Northmen's advance, formed in a shield wall, was slowed.
"Lord! Grant us victory!"
"Causantín! Causantín mac Cináed!"
"Kill the barbarians!"
[Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Crash! Thud! Clang!]
The Pictish warriors, using their speed and mass, slammed into the Northmen's defensive line with all their might.
"Ugh!"
"Aaargh!"
"Kek!"
Northmen who had taken that charge with their whole bodies fell here and there, and soon realizing that even those fierce Northmen were mere humans who screamed screams similar to their own.
Causantín's warriors became entangled with the Northmen in the ranks that had been thrown into disarray everywhere.