151. The North Sea Wants to Run.
151. The North Sea Wants to Run.
"Yiaaaaa-!"
"Polotsk! Let's go-! Kill them all!"
"Va-dim! Va-dim! Va-dim!"
This was the circular arena of Árós.
For the grand festival, they had expanded the area that used to be outside the west gate, but even so, there were not enough seats for everyone to fit.
Thus, even behind the safety line cordoned off to keep people out, the tide of people was packed full.
'I really fought a lot of duels here.'
That was right. Those who knew, knew; this arena was the very place where the series of duels that earned me the nickname Sterkr (the strong one) took place.
Right now, a javelin-throwing competition was underway here.
"Finally, our turn! Go! Vadim! Show them what you've got!"
Originally, my plan had been to hold events simultaneously in multiple places like the 21st-century Olympics, but surprisingly, the people of Árós as well as the Konungr, all the Jarls, and their retinues wanted to watch every single event in person, so they were proceeding one sport at a time.
The javelin throw had kicked things off.
The competition that had started when the morning sun rose had long since become a drinking snack for the gathered people who had finished the harvest. Beer, something never absent from any gathering of Norsemen, was going around, and Vadim, the renowned warrior of Polotsk, was steadying his breath at the spot where contestants who had already finished their turns watched with anxious or relieved hearts.
Jarl Miroslow, who had been watching this from the VIP box, was hanging onto the railing that had been built to prevent falls and yelling at the top of his lungs; among my brothers and the other Jarls who were bursting into laughter at the sight, the Jarls of regions that had already placed low were hurling curses with somewhat sulky faces.
Soon, Vadim of Polotsk, having finished his full arming, rested the long javelin shaft on his shoulder and clapped his hands above his head to draw the crowd's cheers.
[Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!]
"Va-dim! Va-dim! Va-dim!"
"Polotsk! Polotsk!"
Besides Miroslow, who was cheering so hard his clapping hands might catch fire, the Jarls and people of Árós, simply finding this unseen form of cheering battle amusing, were enthusiastically joining in, all united in heart and soul.
Matching the quickening beat, Vadim of Polotsk vigorously stomped the ground.
[Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clapclapclapclap!]
[Thud! Th-thud! Th-th-thud!]
"Eura-yap!"
[Fwooong-]
At last, the red javelin launched powerfully into the air.
The javelin that flew as if to pierce the sky left a sonic boom in its wake, and the mouths of the people staring blankly at the sky fell open, their pupils dilating.
[Shwooong- ... Thwack!]
The red line that had cleanly split the air planted itself in the soft ground, and the officials who had safely moved to the side dashed over, waving the blue cloth wrapped around one arm.
"What?! What was going on?!"
"Was it short...? Did it pass...?"
"Please...! Please!"
Wherever there was drink and competition, gambling naturally followed.
Having already seen plenty of this kind of gambling while fighting countless duels as Árós's gladiator, I had ordered Hrólfr, the general manager of this tournament, to limit the maximum wager.
... Of course, there would be underworld gamblers who dared defy my orders, but it was important to draw a line like this now.
Right now, I lacked the manpower and administrative capacity to cover every corner of this massive city, but when the time came, this would be one of the foundations for rooting them all out.
'It was a bit short.'
Even while everyone was rising from their seats, craning their necks like giraffes, and squinting hard to compare the white flag far off with Vadim's javelin.
I, who possessed the eyesight of a bird of prey, could confirm it sufficiently from where I was sitting.
"Helgi! I think Vadim of Polotsk's javelin went farther than Kveldulf of Árós!"
Inga, who had also risen from the seat beside me and clung to the railing like everyone else, spoke in a voice brimming with excitement. Around us, people were laughing and chatting just like Inga, saying Vadim had won, or Kveldulf had won.
In particular, Rurik and Oleg were cursing with veins bulging in their necks, insisting Vadim had lost.
"Inga. The result will be out soon."
'How about being a little careful?' or 'I wish you'd come back and sit down.' Words like that hovered on the tip of my tongue, but seeing her so overjoyed, I could not bring myself to say them.
Come to think of it, Inga, who was my age, was now nineteen. By the reckoning of my previous life in Korea, that was only twenty.
Though she was already carrying a life, she was still a girl.
If it came to it, I could just lift that blonde beauty up. Since she had already entered my radius, no one could die as they pleased. This place was a kind of barrier protected by Hel's great warrior.
My gaze lingered on my bright-faced wife's surroundings, and while the people surrounding the VIP box were each gulping down their drinks and predicting the outcome, the officials, who could not simply be happy at this enormous festival, were moving about restlessly.
[Flap- Flap-]
In the distance, the judges who were comparing the spot where the previous farthest javelin had been planted and the spot where Vadim's javelin had landed waved a white flag in their own signal, and even as Hrólfr, the general manager, was scolding those around him to please be quiet, Refil, who had been running the javelin competition below, was conversing with the surrounding judges.
Then, a thin piece of parchment was soon delivered to Hrólfr. After checking it, Hrólfr's eyebrows twitched, and he told Stórolf, who had just returned to Árós after a long time, the winner of this match.
!!!
Stórolf's expression greatly wavered, and just as the patience of those following his every move reached its limit, Stórolf's voice resounded powerfully enough to shake the vast space.
"By the width of a finger joint! The winner of this match is! Kveldulf Bjalfason of Árós!!!"
"Kveldulf af Árós!"
"Kveldulf af Árós!"
Warriors nearby relayed Stórolf's voice, and soon everyone was mouthing the name of the honorable winner.
[Kveldulf af Árós!]
"Yiaaaaa!"
"Hel!!!"
"This is justice! This is how a match should be!"
For some reason, the Konungr, Jarls, and retinue of Novgorod and Kyiv were even more delighted than the people of Árós.
"Jarl Miroslow. It was close. A finger joint's difference is about this much? I want to give a special reward to that warrior Vadim, so please pass it on well. It was a fine match."
I called over Miroslow, whose already ruddy face had flushed so crimson it looked like pricking it would draw blood, and offered him consolation.
Beside me, Inga smiled brightly and added that it was a shame.
Miroslow, perhaps very conscious of the revelry Rurik's party was making behind us, forcibly lifted his trembling cheeks into a smile and bowed courteously to me and my wife, expressing his gratitude.
"Fylkir, Drottning. Your mercy will surely help Vadim overcome his despair. However, many events still remain, so I shall certainly show you both a fine showing."
"Of course. Jarl Miroslow. I shall look forward to it."
Was the next event boxing?
Since each person was allowed to enter up to three events in duplicate (beyond that was forbidden to protect the athletes), the rivalry between Kveldulf and Vadim would likely continue.
Given that glima (wrestling) came after boxing, that rivalry would probably grow even more intense.
I saw a fierce competitive fire in the eyes of Jarl Miroslow as he clasped my hand, a determination to seize victory.
'Polotsk. No easy opponent.'
Among the competitors from the other prominent cities—Novgorod, Kiev, Kaupang, Roskilde, and the powerful towns of the British Isles—I could not yet see any rival for Kveldulf.
On the first day, we would have to take down this Polotsk in the three physical contests.
'Should I start training elite athletes?'
Not just within our realm, but the way Damianus was watching all these spectacles with deep interest was far from ordinary, meaning the next tournament might even become an international competition (?).
Surprisingly, I disliked losing in this sort of thing, and I felt the child called 'competitive spirit' that slept in my heart awaken.
[Áros! Áros!]
[Kveldulf! Kveldulf!]
Down in the arena, the first- and second-place winners of the spear-throwing contest clasped each other's brawny forearms and exchanged heated gazes.
Riding high on that heroic display, the crowd gulped down godly beer, and the bards, with godless indifference, scribbled something on parchment—
[Ding— diriding— dding!]
—or, like Sigurd in the back, they touched their instruments with their eyes closed.
"Now— now! Calm— a little calm— ... The next event is fist-fighting! This is a contest to honor 'Helgi's Proof,' where Lord Fylkir personally demonstrated his godlike majesty! It will be conducted wearing the fist-guards personally developed by the jarls! Participants must wear the protective gear that Lord Fylkir especially emphasized—God—"
Giving up on bringing order to the VIP seats that showed no sign of calming down, Hrolf took an 'in one ear and out the other' attitude and just rapidly shouted out what he had to say.
Since the practical work was being handled by the referees led by Refil down below anyway.
Even as I sat, I took in the sight of Inga clapping with delight, and her gaze found mine.
'It would be nice to hold many events like this.'
Inga was the same, and seeing Bothild, Halfdan's wife, Aethelthryth, Sigurd's wife, and the other noble ladies present apparently enjoying it even more made me feel unreasonably buoyant.
'Áros... only victory...!'
It was not because Áros won that I was in a good mood.
*****
The first day of frenzy ended.
Refil, who had worked hardest among us, lay draped over his chair beside Björn, utterly drained of all vitality, while in my great manor on the eastern hill of Áros, all the konungrs and jarls from various regions had gathered to enjoy an evening banquet together.
The undisputed center of conversation was the bloody battle of the fist-fighting (boxing) that had taken place after the spear-throwing, and the glima matches that followed.
The roughly three-round, three-minute boxing tournament held as a participant tournament went as expected: Kveldulf and Vadim fought fiercely and both advanced to the finals, but contrary to my support, Kveldulf, who had fought a grueling semifinal against a warrior from Vernica, lost to Vadim by a very narrow decision.
Looking at the overall fight, Vadim had thrown far more punches and landed more effective strikes, so there were no complaints about the decision.
As Vadim had advanced after TKO'ing a warrior from Novgorod in the second round of the semifinals, after his victory the people of Áros shouted his name with all their might as he burst into tears.
The sight of the two warriors embracing passionately was the highlight of today's games.
Jarl Miroslow of Polotsk, who shed tears together with them at that passionate sight, grew so excited that he stripped off his tunic on the spot, whirled it like a windmill, and even ran circles around Rurik.
Naturally, Rurik, his eyes rolling back in fury, lunged at Miroslow, and in the VIP seats which instantly devolved into chaos, a wrestling match nearly broke out right then, but the people around hastily pulled them apart.
The result was that over there, at the long table arranged to the right of the high seat where I sat, sat two men who had traded blows and now hung their heads low with bruised, swollen faces.
Having displayed such a disgraceful scene in front of all the gathered dignitaries, well... Still, after some time passed I would have to call them aside and tell them it was all right. Because the surrounding brothers and jarls all said it was funny rather than unpleasant. Something about how the affection between the eastern lords looked strong or whatever.
In the subsequent glima (wrestling) competition, both Vadim and Kveldulf, who had entered again, were eliminated in the quarterfinals. An unexpected warrior of the Jutes took the victory, and Halfdan roared on the spot, shouting 'Jute! Jute! Jute!' and drawing cheers from the traveling fans.
Konungr Bagsecg, who was impressed by Miroslow's display, also tried to tear off his tunic, but was stopped by his daughter's rough hand.
Watching Halfdan earnestly shout 'Jute!', Ivar muttered, 'Wasn't that fellow a Svear?', but Halfdan had already snatched Stórolf's horn and was blowing it.
Naturally, this mad fervor spread throughout the city even after the games ended, and now the sounds of a great festival could be heard outside.
Tomorrow, the stone-throwing similar to the shot put would begin, followed by the heavy rock lifting and the preliminary heats of the short-distance footrace.
The number of participants in those events was so large...
Of course, festivities were festivities and business was business, so I excused myself from Inga, who was laughing and chatting with the two mothers and two sisters-in-law—that is, Aethelthryth and Bothild—and told Torbjörn to bring the two eastern jarls to the private chamber.
"Understood, Fylkir!"
Rurik and Miroslow hung their heads low.
I figured I'd give the two lords a chance to save some face, and also hear about the Karelian matter.