154. The North Sea Wants to Run (4).
154. The North Sea Wants to Run (4).
"Þrír! tveir! einn! fara!"
[peolleok!]
"Iyaaaaa!"
"Run! Run!"
"Faster! Faster!"
"Huff-! Huff! Huff! Huff!"
The great arena where countless crowds had gathered. By now this building, called the circular arena (hringlaga leikvangur) by the people, had been silent save for the sound of wind passing through as if a mouse had died.
But the moment Leif, now thoroughly jaded (having given up on everything), raised a blue flag with a vigorous motion and shouted 'Three, two, one, go!' a thunderous roar followed, as if ten thousand tons of dynamite had exploded.
The crows that had been sneering at foolish humans from high in the sky staggered, and the fish that had been leaping from the sea off Åros momentarily lost their bearings.
The place toward which all that heat and madness was directed.
The runners who had fought through yesterday's fierce preliminary rounds squeezed their thigh muscles with all their might the moment Leif's flag went up.
[Iyaaaaa-!]
The dynamic sweat of the athletes, their ragged breathing, their legs and arms pumping like mad. Even the shrieks of women breaking out here and there because the men had stripped to the waist.
"Hel-!"
"Å-ros-!"
"Hel-gi-!"
"Val-halla-!"
If it differed from what you saw in the 21st century, first, the attire was not spandex; the runners' physiques and faces were a bit rough; and above all, they ran while shouting battle cries.
That ferocity drove the watching spectators into a mad frenzy and showed why athletics was called the flower of the Olympics.
The runners jostled back and forth, dashing toward the distant finish line made of white cloth. The atmosphere, which could only be described as a crucible of frenzy and a scene of madness, finally headed toward its climax. The moment I confirmed that the numbers painted on bare bodies or light clothes—1, 4, and 6—had crossed the finish line in that order, I kicked off from my seat and rose, roaring loudly.
"That's it!"
'Åros won!'
Since my physical reaction speed and kinetic vision were better than anyone's, naturally my reaction was the fastest, and then all the people in the stadium, including the VIP seats, stretched out both hands and each let out cries of joy.
"Whoaaaaa! Ååååroooos!"
"Kauppang! Kauppang! Kauppang!"
"This is the strength of the forest people! You plains bastards! This is a hunter! This is running! Huntadun! Huntadun!"
I wasn't quite sure why Jarl Leofric of Huntadun, who came in fourth as runner number 7, was so overjoyed. In any case, everyone gave generous encouragement and cheers to the runners who had given their best to the end regardless of their placing.
Of course, I was no different. I gently pulled Inga, who was sitting beside me and so completely immersed that she was breathing in sync with the athletes, into an embrace and rested my chin on her snow-white forehead.
I wondered if a pregnant woman might be too excited, but seeing her so elated, I couldn't say anything. Just as I took in her fragrant scent, the scent of a woman like a flower, and shared the joy, releasing the embrace, Damian's voice came from the left.
"What tremendous enthusiasm, Philekir! I was worried about how the people of these vast lands would become one! You have succeeded in a truly unexpected way!"
Damian clapped vigorously to encourage the athletes who had worked hard. He had raised his voice because of the noisy surroundings, but seeing that he still did not lose his decorum, one could tell how rigorous his etiquette training had been.
"This is just the beginning! Even in Constantinople they have chariot races, but don't people divide into factions and fight! We must keep creating a culture we can share together!"
[Bwooooo-!]
[Iyaaaaa! Valhalla-!]
I was already dying from the sheer chaos, and now they were blowing horns. I suspected it must be Stórólf, so I looked toward the source and saw Ivar, his face flushed red, blowing the horn so hard that veins stood out on his head.
His nephew Baldur, whom he had enlisted in the cavalry, true to his calm nature, stared at his father with a troubled expression, while Stórólf, having had his horn taken away, was letting out a full-on war roar.
Seeing that, I shook my head, and Damian spoke even louder.
"So I was saying! How about we exchange with Rome! Including chariot races too! Once in Rome! Once here in Åros! Wouldn't it become a more meaningful and grander competition!"
A gentle smile and courteous posture, but with gleaming eyes.
I couldn't tell what this sly, nine-dan political diplomat and spymaster Roman was plotting, but thinking there was nothing to lose, I readily nodded.
"Let me give it some thought!"
"—!! —!!!"
Below, Oleg, who had been thrown in to run the event, shouted something, but naturally it was drowned out by the enormous noise and I couldn't hear a thing. Of course, my excellent hearing, when I focused a little more, brought me the information I wanted, and soon I happily pulled Inga into another embrace.
[—! The winner is Dagr of Åros! Second place is from Polotsk...!]
[Dagr! Dagr of Åros! Of Åros!]
Soon the voices of countless people who relayed Oleg's announcement by word of mouth echoed, and soon everyone knew the results of this race.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Dagr covered his face with both hands and lay down on the spot, while the other runners put aside their disappointment and congratulated the honorable winner.
*****
Up to now, the overall standings saw Åros in first place. Polotsk in second by a narrow margin. Novgorod and Kyiv, who had been tripping each other up, were sharing third and fourth places.
Indeed, as they say, whoever has eaten something eats it well, and whoever has tried something does it well.
The athletes from the eastern jarldoms, who had already experienced a competition like this, showed outstanding performances.
Especially, the lords of the west (Britain) and the center (Scandinavia) stared with axe-sharp eyes at the continued strong showing of Polotsk.
By all means, this kind of competitive spirit was a good one. Because Jarl Mirosław of Polotsk had exhibited his characteristic boldness and gone off to meet his father-in-law, we couldn't see him stripping to the waist and performing a ceremony today, but the people of Polotsk, who resembled their Jarl so closely, had their shoulders squared with strength.
Of course.
But even so, they couldn't reach the shoulder height of the first-place winner.
"Ahem! Ahem! Ah— today the ale and meat are especially sweet! Sweet!"
Look at that arrogant Stórólf. Stórólf, a native of Åros, had his shoulders raised so high that they almost touched the ceiling, higher than anyone else in the banquet hall.
The second-place warriors, who had not yet given up hope, stared at Stórólf with narrowed eyes, while the jarls who had already fallen far from the rankings and the people of Novgorod and Kyiv, who were vying for third place, whistled and cheered.
In the bustling banquet hall, an atmosphere of laughing and chatting in small groups gradually formed.
The working-level staff who had toiled to prepare this competition together. Hrolf, along with Erik, Leif, Oleg, and Dir, were gathered together discussing something with expressions as if their souls had left their bodies.
Next to them, the boisterous Stórólf, Tostein, Olaf, and Torgny were sharing drinks. No matter how you looked at it, the competition was just an excuse, and they seemed gathered only to drink... I saw Halfdan, who had been watching his wife's reaction, sneakily take a seat beside them.
'He's going to get carried out again at this rate...'
On the opposite side, Björn, Ivar, Ubba, and Uhtred were gathered, discussing something with serious expressions. That group, full of grave people, was likely to be no fun. It was surprising to see Ivar among them, but it was a fairly understandable combination.
Around the three groups, which seemed to have an invisible curtain drawn around them, various people milled about or sat laughing and enjoying themselves, while the bards sang and played instruments.
Naturally enough, Sigurd, the self-proclaimed 'King of Bards' and 'Emperor of Troubadours,' had inserted himself among them and seemed to be singing earnestly with his most greasy expression...
'Damn. I almost noticed it.'
Why is this damn hearing of mine so good? Sometimes it makes me hear things I have no need to hear, so I have to be careful.
Harald of Kauppang, surprisingly talented with instruments, was playing beside Sigurd, laughing along.
The two mothers, along with Æthelthryth, Bothild, Inga, and the other noblewomen, were sitting before them, laughing together as they enjoyed the performance.
'It's peaceful.'
Thinking how Inga's figure glowed in the golden lamplight, I tossed a few pieces of meat to Bok-sil, who was licking my leg, and quietly listened to the conversation flowing between Konungr Halfdan and Konungr Bagsecg, who were seated beside me and likewise enjoying the banquet atmosphere.
"The athletes from Kauppang were quite poor. That place has a weird site to begin with. As your son said, there's a need to move the city across the river."
"Anyone would think Ribe and Hedeby did well? You got lucky and won one fistfight... Aren't the rest all last place?"
"...We're just good at making choices and focusing. So what has Kauppang won!?"
"Nothing. But we placed in the middle in all events."
"What matters is winning!"
"Our overall score is higher, though."
Was this really a conversation between kings who had now retired and stepped back?
Even without listening to their exchange, one could see from their gleaming eyes that these two kings had been greatly wounded in pride.
'The next competition will be even fiercer.'
In that moment, I decided. To train professional athletes.
'It's regrettable, but the sweetness of victory is something that can never be shared...!'
Åros would become Real Madrid of football, the LA Lakers of basketball, the New York Yankees of baseball.
*****
"Damn it! What the hell is this!? Are you bastards really trying to do this!?"
Just as the thirst for victory was blazing in Åros by the North Sea.
On the opposite shore, something else was beginning to kindle.
"Chief Takala! Movements from those bordering the western sea (the Baltic) and the Sámi bastards to the north keep being reported! It's clear these bastards are definitely targeting us!"
How dare they pull something like this right before the sacred bear hunt.
Takala, chief of the Karelians, could neither tolerate nor understand it at all.
Usually, before winter sets in, one must hunt a sacred animal, eat its flesh, bury its bones in the earth, and finally hang its skull on a sacred tree.
And the western neighbors and the barbaric Sámi of the north, who couldn't possibly be ignorant of this, were moving all at once?
Had they really gone mad? Did they not fear the punishment of the gods?
'How have law and tradition fallen to the ground like this...!'
Don't they have mothers and fathers! These ignorant bastards!
Forcing down his boiling blood, Takala inwardly begged forgiveness from the god of thunder and sky, the brilliant moonlight, and the forest goddess.
'Oh Ukko. Oh Kuu. Forgive me. Another matter has arisen that will require me to scatter blood upon the sacred earth...'
"Summon the warriors."
A tribal society may seem flimsy at first glance, but it is truly a terrifying society. If necessity and understanding aligned, the entire tribe could instantly transform into warriors.
Takala felt the time had come to wield the sacred right the gods had granted him, the power of the chieftain. Winter was approaching, yet they dared interfere with the sacrifice to be offered to the gods.
'I will slaughter those impious ones and offer them as living sacrifices.'
"... Yes! Chieftain!"
The trusted warrior hurriedly turned and went out, and soon those waiting outside the chieftain's timber hut scattered in all directions.
[seureureung-]
Drawing the sword he had bought at great cost from those southerners, a sword that shone silvery and resplendent, Takala repeated a fearsome vow to himself.
'You fawns who know not the fear of the bear... This is Karelia. We are warriors who have lived guarding this forest all our lives...'
Do you think numbers will help you in this land? Did we look like easy prey?
'Come as many as you like. I will send you all over the deep lakes, over the dark rivers... to Tuonela.'
[seureureuk- tak!]
Karelia began to prepare for war.