148. Fylkir and the North Sea.
148. Fylkir and the North Sea.
Lothair's Land. (Regnum Lotharii, Lotharingia)
Master of Aachen, the city that had been the heart of the Frankish Empire since the time of the great ancestor, Charlemagne.
Lothair II wanted a divorce so desperately he was going mad.
'How had it come to this...?'
Had it begun when his father, Lothair I, who held both Rome and Aachen—the land of Emperors steeped in history and tradition—had forced him into marriage?
When no heir came from Teutberga, whom he had married purely out of political calculation, while his beloved Waldrada waited?
More terribly, from the moment the son he so longed for was conceived not in the womb of his lawful wife Teutberga, but in Waldrada's?
A child who had seen but twelve winters now, Hugh.
By the bloodline of the imperial house, this child stood ahead of all others, yet he possessed a single weakness: this boy, so precious he would feel no pain even if placed in his eye, was a bastard.
To overcome that weakness, he had even appointed him nominal Dux of Alsace and received renewed internal oaths of loyalty.
But what mattered most were the intentions of his greedy uncles surrounding Lothair's land and his damnable brother in Italy.
His uncle in East Frankia, Ludovicus Germanicus, had at least been positive toward his divorce and Hugh's right of succession... but lately, that attitude had shifted oddly.
As a result, the monarchs of West Frankia, East Frankia, and Italy had, in effect, declared they would not stand by and watch him and Lotharingia gain an heir.
And leading that charge, astonishingly, was the Pope.
This could not be borne.
Something had to be done.
Lothair II, who had scarcely ever left the land of Aachen his entire life.
What then reached his ears was a tale of another Emperor of Rome, far to the east.
A story so incredible it was hard to believe, the stuff of a tale-spinner's craft, yet mesmerizing because it so astonishingly mirrored his own situation.
A marriage made for political purpose, while the one he loved was set aside. And a son born of that beloved woman.
Surely, that Emperor of Rome had also anguished and grieved as Lothair himself did now, his heart rotting away just the same.
Though it was said the Eastern Roman Patriarch and the Pope were at each other's throats, God's servants foamed at the mouth especially over royal divorces, after all.
'What is the difference between you and me, Emperor of Rome...?'
Legitimacy? Or the strength to cut down all surrounding kin? Or that audacity to have the beloved enter a sham marriage? That decisiveness?
No.
Lothair II's mind already knew the answer.
The new overlord of the North Sea.
How many times had that name been uttered in the tale-spinner's stories?
The Eastern Roman Emperor's most trusted friend, they called him. Did anyone know the lengths the Frankish royalty had gone to, striving for such a title?
'Helgi Ragnarsson. Philkir of the North Sea.'
The more he dwelt upon that name, the deeper Lothair's heart sank into darkness.
'My uncles, my brother. My own blood. Please, do not corner me any further. Please, do not put this ruler of Aachen to the test. Help me.'
Beneath the cross of the great cathedral, built by the great ancestor himself and where he now lay sleeping.
Lothair prayed fervently.
'If you do not, then I too know not what I might do.'
The dragon of the North Sea was said to be that greedy.
He had heard the Angles and Saxons of Britain were ruined wholesale, and the north of West Frankia was in chaos.
And was East Frankia quiet?
The Moravians still resisted, and the Magyar horse-barbarians lurking beyond them bided their time, ever watchful for a chance to plunder.
If he timed it well, the north of East Frankia could also be thrown into disorder.
If only he could divorce.
It was no loss to him to cede a little of the north of West and East Frankia—lands not his to begin with.
'I must summon HrœrekR of Dorestad.'
As he had said, Lothair was finished making his preparations to do absolutely anything.
And he prayed, most earnestly, that the messengers sent to Rome, Ahtini, and Regensburg would return with favorable answers.
*****
To the west, as far as Dublin beyond Britain; to the east, as far as Kiev beyond Novgorod.
Messengers raced out, summoning the Jarls and Konungrs of all lands incorporated into the order of Árós.
While Leif, thirsting for marble, was dissuaded from setting out on campaign with his 'disciples' (Norseman warriors who stammered in Latin and Greek) just as I had predicted, and while Hrólfr, who had been making every kind of fuss, got moving in earnest to build the framework and flesh out the second athletic competition.
Time flowed without pause, and before we knew it, the fields were full of gold, and sweat and smiles covered the faces of those hurrying about their work.
Around the time people flocked to Hel's temple to give thanks for the unfailing bountiful harvest and pray for their families' health and long life, I visited the 'Árós Training Grounds' with the Björn-Ivar duo, whom I hadn't seen together in a while.
'The scale is bigger than I thought?'
The concept of a military base, even in this era, was not so different from the 21st century: barracks were usually built on the outskirts of major cities.
Of course, Norseman villages were essentially garrison towns where every man who could stand straight and move about had undergone military training, but in any case, military encampments were built closer to nature than to the city center, for training purposes.
Árós, which operated a large standing army, was especially notable in this regard. Upon seeing it, Leif had remarked that it resembled a legionary fortress of the Roman Empire.
"You have come, Philkir!"
At any rate, this was a hilly area visible if one went straight up from the library situated between Árós and Uppsala.
Here, at the foothills of the mountain range where rugged, colossal peaks stretched northward one after another, stood the forge where Árós's warriors were made.
It did not take long for Norrland—a name once used roughly for the entire area north of Uppsala—to become the official name of this garrison city.
"Stórolf! Your complexion has brightened! Have you been well?"
"Haha! Of course, Philkir! And both Jarls, please, come quickly!"
The two Jarls who governed this special-purpose city, Norrland, were Leif and Stórolf. They had succeeded Björn and Hrólfr, who had originally overseen this place.
But Leif had since fallen into Hrólfr's clutches and been dragged away to serve as an advisor (handling practically all the actual work) to the athletic competition organizing committee, leaving Stórolf here alone.
He seemed to be managing far better than I had expected. I had actually been a little uneasy about it.
"The buildings have increased somewhat?"
"That they have, Jarl Björn!"
"Whew— The world has truly become a fine place. In the old days, if you said to go raiding, a man just grabbed his axe handle from his house and that was that."
"Is all this not thanks to the grace of Philkir, and of both you Jarls!"
Following Stórolf's guidance, we toured the rectangular fortress built on the large site, and Leon's impression had indeed not been false... this place was no different from a Norse version of a Roman military camp.
Except that it bore my influence, being rather more concerned with the warriors' living conditions, so instead of a long communal sleeping platform, there were individual beds, personal shelves and lockers, and a full issue of equipment.
As I inspected every corner with the feeling of The President and Minister of Defense inspecting a military base, flanked by the two General Postas, the sensation was somewhat peculiar.
Stórólf, who seemed even more on edge today than usual, guided us through every nook and cranny with the utmost courtesy, even breaking out in a cold sweat.
At the training ground, soldiers were in the middle of a run that surely had not been on the training schedule, while sparring matches filled the air with spirited shouts like 'Hooah!' and 'Kiyaaah!'
The latrines were spotless, without a single speck of dust, and the food in the mess hall was, honestly, even better than the balanced meals I ate at home. Smoked meat, a cool beer that was nearly liquid...
Of course, having to live a communal life here would be a burden in itself, which was why they were paid a generous salary of silver coin.
In any case, once their assigned duties and shifts were over, they could head down to the civilian(?) town that had formed below the barracks building, so the soldiers' faces were filled only with happy light.
...
'They wouldn't be going that far just because I came, would they?'
"Stórólf. Were there any complaints from the warriors? Even the most trivial ones?"
"...!!! L-Lord! Complaints, you say! Lord Fylkir! This place would not be greatly inferior to Valhalla itself, ruled by Odin, so how could anyone dare harbor such impious thoughts!"
"—No, still, you never know—"
"For us, the warriors of Árós, the brothers of Garmr, words such as complaint, impossibility, or surrender do not exist! Lord Fylkir! Is that not so! Brothers!"
"It is so!"
"Such weak words must be erased from this world!"
"Hooah!"
In the middle of their meal, the warriors shot to their feet in unison, pledging their loyalty.
Hrolf, Björn, Leif, Stórólf.
Just what on earth have they created...?
When my wavering gaze met Björn's, he quietly turned his head, and Ivar ducked his head low, visibly struggling to suppress his laughter.
"Árós! Árós!"
Since this simple Stórólf seemed to genuinely enjoy these... sorts of things, I would have to talk it over with Björn or Leon later.
"...I understand. That is truly fortunate. Everyone, sit down and eat comfortably."
"Thank you! Lord Fylkir!"
"Fylkir Helgi! Fylkir Helgi!"
"He looked at me! He looked at me!"
"Aah! Aah! Aah! Aah!"
The mess hall had instantly turned into a scene of frenzy. Stórólf gazed upon this sight with satisfaction.
Shaking my head, I waved my hand and, having stopped Stórólf from pulling out a horn inside, I made my way to the center of this barracks city, to the command office.
*****
Along with a light scolding about why he was trying to blow a horn indoors, I was able to hear more detailed matters from Stórólf, who was still beaming from ear to ear.
A standing army of approximately ten thousand when combined with the existing forces. A large-scale city of roughly fifty to sixty thousand, if one included the warriors' families who had gathered around it.
That number seemed a little small, but it was indeed considered large-scale in the North.
No matter how ignorant I was of numbers, the warrior mobilization rate of the North, where tribal traditions still lingered, defied reason.
Even if this place, Nørreland, was a special case centered on a barracks from the start...
Perhaps it was because the atmosphere of society itself was a warrior society.
It would be good to keep this tradition alive. I would have to think of a way to do so gradually.
Of course, not all of those ten thousand standing troops were present here. Some warriors remained in Britannia, in Mercia, under Ubba's command, and there were also warriors patrolling the roads from Árós to Kauptún in the west and Roskilde in the south.
Moreover, there were warriors patrolling the great trade route to the east as well.
In practice, five thousand warriors were carrying out duties in rotation. Since the country was overflowing with abundance, and the men of the generation born alongside me were both numerous and highly motivated, it would soon be acceptable to increase the army's numbers.
A census was also beginning in various regions, so an administrative system would soon be in place.
Since the military could be used as an educational institution in particular, the plan was to spread letters centered here the moment Cyril finished improving the script.
However, there was a separate matter of immediate importance.
"Stórólf. Though I must speak again once Hrórekr, Jarl of Novgorod, arrives, the current situation is somewhat troubling. We need that stone called marmaros."
As we sipped simple food and beer, I told him of Karelia and the marble.
Snorting fiercely, Stórólf said exactly the same thing as Leon.
"Lord Fylkir! Only say the word! I shall take up my axe and smash in the heads of every last one of those ill-mannered bastards!"
"..."
Did something connect when one reached the extremes? That a man nearing genius, Leon, and a man nearing a fool, Stórólf, would say the exact same thing.
Of course, Björn and Ivar, who had lived longer and seen more, scratched their heads.
"Karelia... Karelia. It would be good if we could pass through quietly, but those fellows are ordinarily fierce."
As if some old memory had surfaced, both Björn and Ivar wore tired expressions.
"It is not that we strike right now, Stórólf. I mean to prepare, just in case. If the worst comes to pass, I intend to send you and Leif. Can you do it?"
"Of course! Lord Fylkir! No matter how fierce those Finns are, the warriors of the Fylkir are without fear!"
At the answer given without an instant of hesitation, Björn and Ivar let out hearty laughs, and my heart was gratified.
☆☆☆☆☆ Reference Materials ☆☆☆☆☆
Archives nationales, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
This is the seal of Lothar II...!
When you look at this carefully... there were more Emperor-kings than I thought who suffered from divorce...! As expected, the way people live is the same now as it was then...!
Trasamundo, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
This is the situation after the death of Lothar I...! The difference from the situation in 867 is that the orange part, Provence, has been split in half between West Frankia and Lotharingia...!
If Lothar II meets his end without an heir, the kingdom will be divided just as Provence was...!
Sonty567, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
This is the location of Dorestad...!
The Hrórekr here notably sheltered Judith, the Margrave of Flanders, Baldwin's partner with whom she fled for love...!
He was a figure who was virtually an independent power and walked a tightrope among various powerful Frankish kings...! There are also suspicions that he was involved in the two sacks of Paris in the original history lol
Truly, the Frankish Empire is a bundle of chaos....
