169. Before the Snowflake Arrives (3).
169. Before the Snowflake Arrives (3).
After roughly sorting out the heavy discussions and coming out, a full-blown drinking-song party had broken out.
Aethelthryth and Harthacnut had slipped away to avoid the chaos, and those who remained were clutching the darkness and singing their throats raw.
The undisputed highlight was Sigurd, who had climbed onto the table. The self-proclaimed Konungr of all bards was stomping his feet with gusto while playing a stringed instrument.
[Dring- driring- dring-]
"Tell me, Odin! The place where you hid your God's eye!"
He was still hopelessly out of tune, but Sigurd's strength, and weakness, was that he had no idea his high notes were ghastly.
There was no way I could listen with any kind of God-given sanity, so the moment I sat down and gulped some mead, the laughter of the crowd and Sigurd's lyrics kept ringing in my ears.
"Drinking mead from the spring of Mimir! I call your God's name!"
[Dring- dring- dring-!]
As if hitting the highlight, Sigurd scraped the strings with dazzling skill to draw cheers, then stomped his feet to provoke applause—or, as I'd call it, 'Park-clapping.'
[Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!]
[Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!]
"Whiik-! Whiik-!"
"Sigurd! Sigurd!"
"Óðinn á yðr!"
Björn, Ivarr, Halfdan, and the other Konungrs, along with Hrólfr, all drunk and merry, were clapping loudly and laughing, while even the little children who had no idea what was going on and the women, including the two mothers, beamed with happy smiles.
The guards, the high priests, the merchants, the servants who had gathered around—everyone who had been invited to this place or had come along was mingling together, clapping, exchanging glances.
'The birth rate is going to spike again.'
[Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!]
"I call your God's name—! Aldafaðr! Bragi! Baldrs faðir!"
Now Sigurd had put down his instrument and was pointing his finger at people one by one, rattling off Odin's countless names. Every time Sigurd shouted a name, the crowd roared in response, each raising or drinking from their cups in a mad drinking game. When the name 'Baldr's father' came up, he pointed at Ivarr and Ivarr's son, Baldr.
"Am I Odin!?"
"Ivarr Odinsson! Baldr Odinling!"
Whether the commotion around Ivarr and Baldr grew or not, Sigurd, his excitement soaring past his hairline, kept spitting out more names in a row.
Faðmbyggvir Friggjar: the one who dwells in Frigg's embrace. Fjǫlnir: the wise one. Gangari: the wanderer. Grímnir: the hooded one. Hangadróttinn: the lord of the hanged. Rúnatýr: the God of runes.
After that, Sigurd and the people kept attaching this name and that name.
The bards played accompaniment in tune with Sigurd's melody. The red glow of the hearth fire flickered on people's faces, and the face of Inga, who sat beside me, shone brightly too.
I gently pulled Inga into my arms and, sitting there like some Arthur, quietly watched the feast growing merrier for a while.
[Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Bwahaha-!]
Soon, it was winter.
*****
The warm night gave way to an early morning when the saturation and brightness of the sun felt awkward, as always after a night of senseless drinking and revelry.
When the people who had failed to return home and slept in my great hall were wandering Odin's hall in their dreams.
The men of the Ragnarsson family, all born drunkards by blood, and a few of my family members had gathered in one place.
"Ah— am I in Valhalla right now? Could one reach here even if he drank himself to death?"
"Halfdan, if you keep drinking like that, you'll soon be off to the goddess Hel's side."
Surprisingly emotional and moody, Halfdan had released his inhibitors around the time Sigurd's concert began the previous evening and started drinking as if he were going to drain every last drop of liquor from my underground stores.
And as a result, this man, still wandering somewhere between reality and Asgard, was shaking his head this way and that.
Björn and Ivarr smiled at the ridiculous sight, and Ubba looked on as if it were pathetic.
Sigurd hadn't been able to attend this gathering. He had burned his own self to brilliant cinders and was now occupying a spot in my hall, snoring away while strolling through the world of Bragi (the god of music).
'I'm jealous. Should I try living that thoughtlessly too?'
I made a mental note that the devil in my heart was whispering 'work them all to the bone...!', stopped scolding Halfdan, and turned to Damian and RePhil, who were also present.
"Damian, according to Leon, apart from the pozzolana (a crucial construction material), devices for loading heavy stones onto ships and devices for lifting those stones to high places are necessary. Could you invite the books and engineers who deal with these things? I am willing to pay several times over in whatever silver coin is required."
At last night's wild party, Leon had mixed mead, beer, and wine and downed them one after another, declaring that now that he too had become a jarl of the North Sea, he had to accept the culture of the North Sea down to his very soul. He was probably collapsed somewhere next to Sigurd by now.
The scribe for this meeting was a Norse scholar, one of those 'disciples' of Leon's. Good heavens, a Norse scholar. The times really were changing.
"Of course Rome will aid the Philkir of the North Sea. To speak of silver coin is unthinkable. The Basileus might even feel hurt by it. Are the Philkir and the Basileus not comrades who have crossed the line of death together? The prosperity of the North Sea is Rome's joy, so the engineers may well have already set out by now."
"...Thank you."
Michael and I had indeed crossed the line of death together—mainly by me pulling Michael out of the pit of death, though.
Still, affairs between nations have nothing to do with personal feelings, so I had to take what this old, seasoned eunuch, whose face had not changed one bit despite having partied harder than anyone last night, said with a grain of salt.
Rome might seem to be giving away without measure, but in fact Rome was gaining far more through trade with us. And besides, wasn't the size and quality of the Varangians, who were growing into something like Michael's personal standing army, steadily increasing anyway?
What I had discussed with Harald of Kaupang was not unrelated to the Eastern Empire either. Before long, Rome might receive another batch of rather more... wild, shall we say, Norse warriors.
In the end, one could say the long distance between the North Sea and Rome was actually a case of mutual benefit. We were happy because we could trade with that insane market of an estimated eight million people, and the Eastern Empire was likewise happy because it could secure quality warriors and food supplies.
Paradoxically, the larger an empire grows, the fewer friends it has around it, so a solid ally was necessary.
"Regarding the reconstruction of Árós and the North Sea, we will discuss that further once Jarl Leon awakens. The reason I have asked you all to gather here is to discuss the establishment of the messenger system that Jarl RePhil and Stórolf are working on, and the matter of siege warfare."
Everyone already knew roughly about the messenger system, but the warlords expressed interest at the siege warfare discussion, as if they were hearing about it for the first time.
Unexpectedly, Damian also raised an eyebrow, showing interest; it seemed the Eastern Empire was also planning to move in earnest once this winter passed.
'It means they aren't showing goodwill for nothing.'
Bulgaria had fully tilted toward Michael's Eastern Empire while putting down its rebellion and settling more stably, and the Khazars and Magyars, though still growling at each other, were quiet for now. It was highly likely that Michael would target Syracuse (Sicily) or southern Italy, which had been precarious even when I left Constantinople.
The capabilities of Grand Admiral Niketas had already been confirmed when I subdued Basiliscus. If I were the Emperor, I would probably want to use him—and also clean up the Aegean Sea swarming with Muslim pirates while I was at it, and perhaps aim for Crete too.
Michael would be busy, indeed.
"Even without that, I asked Jarl Leon a bit about siege engines, and there seem to be more interesting toys than I expected,"
Björn said in a deep, low voice, having switched into his official Jarl Björn mode.
"Though fortresses in the middle of hills can't be helped, castles built right next to rivers or the sea need a way to be attacked from the waterfront. You see, the walls on the coastal or riverside tend to be built hastily!"
Whether in official gatherings or private ones, the ever-free-spirited Ivarr then voiced his own thoughts. Indeed, these two had traveled far and wide and were quite well-informed.
"If we have siege warfare in mind, we'll need to strike more deeply from the start—"
Then RePhil, who always viewed the battlefield broadly, began to offer his opinion, and the discussion deepened.
With Halfdan's breathing as background music—he had finally laid his head on the table and fallen asleep with a groan—I, my brothers, my family members, and the Roman envoy prepared for winter.
*****
Lotharingia. Aachen.
The nest of Lothar—or Lothar II.
Unlike the Frankish kings, who generally moved from place to place to rule and wage war, Lothar did not know how to leave Aachen.
Unlike his father, Lothar I, who had fought ceaselessly with the brothers on both sides, he had not caused any particular trouble.
To put it one way, Lothar II was a truly exemplary man who devoutly believed in God and valued friendship with his uncles, brothers, and family.
Everyone had thought he would be that way forever.
'I really want to kill them all.'
[Crackle- crackle-]
Beyond the firewood spitting sparks, Lothar's mind, as he held his long-time lover Waldrada in both arms, was filled with hatred and loathing.
'Karl in the west, Louis in the east, Louis in the south. I want to line them all up in a row and smash their heads one by one.'
Uncles like dogs, pigs, and goats.
Ambitious men who, to a man, had refused his sincere appeal with words like "difficult," "unlawful," and "impious."
Did they covet my land that much? Did my rights grate on them that much? Would they only be satisfied if they carved up my father's and my land (Lotharingia) the way they had divided up Provence and devoured it?
His wife on the family register, Teutberga, had finally consented to a divorce from him. So what gave his uncles the right, what gave the Pope the right, to plague and torment him so?
If one only considered legitimacy, his father Lothar I was the rightful Roman Emperor. He himself, who had inherited his father, ought to be the true Emperor of Rome and Francia.
'So it has come to this.'
It was a season when snowflakes might begin flurrying at any time without seeming strange. Standing by the window of the palace where the great Frankish kings had once walked, at that uncanny point where warm air and cold air collided, Lothar looked down at his own son.
A twelve-year-old child he had appointed as the Duces of Alsace. Hugh.
The eldest son who ought to inherit his own and his father's legacy. Yet, still a bastard.
'They say the cold wind that heralds the coming winter blows from the north.'
Lothar finished steeling his heart.
Originally, he would have left Aachen himself, traveled east, west, and south, and given everything to secure the promises of his uncles, the bishops, and the Pope.
But had a new method not appeared? The thing his uncles were best at. The thing his father had been best at.
"Waldrada, I must summon Roricus of Dorestad (HrœrekR)."
Still a graceful and wise woman, Waldrada merely leaned her slender body against the sturdy Lothar and softly stroked both his arms.
With her tacit consent, Lothar pulled the oath he was swearing to himself out of his mouth.
"Through Roricus, I will speak with the ruler of the North Sea."
Was it Helgi Ragnarsson, he believed?
The Dragon of Northumbria, the Konungr who ruled Konungrs. The Emperor, the Philkir of the fierce and savage Norsemen.
"Lothar."
Waldrada's eyes, gazing up at Lothar as he was lost in thought, were filled with concern.
"There will be another way. God will surely not turn away from your sincerity."
She must clearly have read the fury and fear residing in Lothar's voice.
But Lothar already knew. That there was no other way.
"Waldrada. I cannot give up Hugh. I will pass on what is rightfully his to my child."
Even if that path meant burning all of his uncles' lands to the ground.
There would be no hard feelings either way. According to his uncles' attitudes and actions, it had been for the sake of their own kingdoms, after all.
'Isn't that so, descendants of the great Carolus?'
Lothar made up his mind, and the next day, a messenger rode out hard toward Dorestad.