170. Before the Snowflake Arrives (4).
170. Before the Snowflake Arrives (4).
The time granted to Pope Nicolaus was coming to an end.
Though the old man facing death no longer showed any trace of bitterness, regret, or anger, his throat still burned fiercely for some reason.
Even when it was difficult to drink a sip of water, thoughts drifted through Nicolaus's mind.
He had taken an opposing stance against Photios, the Patriarch of Constantinople, to break the influence of the Eastern Romans, and clashed in Bulgaria and Moravia. He had tried to make Ignatios—his close friend and comrade in whom he had built up friendship in the Lord, his fellow in purpose—the Patriarch of Constantinople, but.
With the failure of Basil's revolt, it all came to naught.
'Should I have put a little more weight behind him?'
In the end, in the Eastern Roman Empire, Photios, backed by Michael the Emperor, remained firmly in place, and Bulgaria had completely turned its back.
Moravia was still under continued attack from the Magyars and the East Franks, and the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons in Britain, into which he had poured so much effort, had collapsed.
The south of Italy was still exposed to the threat of the turbaned ones, and now they were even eyeing Rome.
'My sins are deep.'
A single tear welled in the corner of Nicolaus's eye as he exhaled his few remaining breaths as slowly as possible.
It had only been a week since he had coldly sent away Lothar II's messenger.
Thinking that the weather, now fully entering winter, somehow felt like the prelude to things to come, Nicolaus reflected on his decision once more.
He had devoted his whole life to establishing the authority of the papacy, yet the Emperor of the Eastern Romans and the Patriarch now attacked the Pope without even hiding it, and the Frankish kings only waited for Lothar to die.
Without a clear successor.
In such a situation, what could the Pope possibly do for them?
"Hooo—"
With a long exhalation, Pope Nicolaus let go of each worldly emotion one by one, and finally, in a low voice, he called for the one who would be his successor.
"Adrianus."
"I am here."
A noble Roman aristocrat like himself. A bishop of Rome whom he could trust and entrust things to, with a wife and one daughter.
In fact, he was even older than Nicolaus himself, but he was far healthier than the dying pope and would live for at least ten more years.
Feeling the drowsiness slowly creeping in behind his closed eyes, Nicolaus gradually let out his last breath.
"Cooperate with Augustus the Emperor (Imperator Augustus, meaning Louis of Italy), but at the same time, be wary of him."
He had always shown nothing but a good face toward Louis, so this was a statement that seemed difficult to understand at first glance, but Adrianus was a seasoned bishop who had long watched over Rome and Nicolaus.
Above the silent, nodding head of Adrianus, the low voice of the closed-eyed Nicolaus continued.
"Keep a close eye on Adelchis of Benevento. Though his power is small, his ability is not. And, treat Edmund well. He is a loyal prince with high ideals, and many follow him."
Adelchis and Edmund. Adrianus's eyes curved slightly at those two names.
"The divorce of Lothar (Lothar II) must be approached with gravity. You must closely observe the movements of the Frankish Emperors. Keep watch over the Basileus of the Eastern Roman Empire and Photios. And."
And.
The words that followed did not continue.
'I have spoken too many useless words.'
Listening to the choir faintly resounding from the other side of consciousness, Nicolaus soon fell into a deep sleep.
*****
By coincidence, at that very moment when the Pope breathed his last.
Lothar's messenger, reborn as an incarnation of hatred and enmity, was passing through Uppsala.
"It's changed. It's changed so much."
The one who had boarded the longship bearing a letter stamped with Lothar's seal was none other than Hrørekr of Dorestad.
This man, who shared the same Norse name as Rurik, was an old warrior and lord who had been active in the very same era as Ragnar Loðbrók.
If Ragnar was the legendary Konungr who swept through the British Isles and the Seine River basin, then Hrørekr of Dorestad, or Rorik, was the figure who swallowed up the northern coastal areas of Lotharingia, Frisia.
Of course, the process was less fiery and legendary than that of Ragnar Loðbrók—it more closely resembled an exquisite tightrope walk between the Frankish kings surrounding these lowlands—so he never became a legend like Ragnar, but he was still a warrior whose name was known in his own right.
To the eyes of this old warrior, who had truly seen and experienced much, the sight of Åros was even wondrous.
'Let's see. Fylkir, was it? Heh, what an unfamiliar title. What was that Fylkir's age this year again?'
Was it twenty? Twenty-one?
Even when passing through the flourishing lands of Kaupang and Uppsala after crossing his homeland of Jutland, he had been greatly surprised by their prosperity, but Åros was different to a point that was almost difficult to understand.
He had never seen it, but could Miklagard, far to the east down there, perhaps look something like this?
Neither the palace in Aachen of his nominal first liege, Lothar, nor the palaces of his nominal second liege, Louis of East Frankia, and third liege, Charles of West Frankia.
Compared to the prosperity of this Åros, they would lose their luster.
'If this is the case, my calculations change again.'
"Hm-m-m—"
Rorik was always a man who walked a tightrope with an unflinchingly confident posture, but as he gazed at the sight that made his own longship look shabby, he could not help but adjust the abacus beads in his head anew.
Various crafts of all kinds continuously swarmed in and out around his slowly rowing longship.
Among them, there were ships far larger and broader than the longships unique to the North, and ships that were clearly Norsemen's vessels yet bigger and more majestic than anything Rorik had known passed by.
Weren't Magyars, who would even push into West Frankia if they picked a day, even visible here and there?
'Why are those bastards on ships and not riding horses...?'
Something, something was changing. And that wave of change was no ordinary wave—it concealed a storm behind it.
In Rorik's mind, Lothar's words—'Ask the Fylkir for his cooperation'—vanished, and the desire to spin a new board game grew mightily.
'What Lothar wants is simple. To prick the coastlines of Charles of West Frankia and Louis of East Frankia, those two bastards, and force them to cling to Lothar's trouser legs.'
The price for this would be all the lands of West Frankia and East Frankia bordering the North Sea.
It was a truly venomous heart, one that could not even be imagined among family unless staring at a mortal enemy.
'Well, divorce and succession are grave matters. Lothar's feelings must be like walking in a pit of fire.'
Rorik himself had never had a proper marriage even once, yet he somehow felt he could understand Lothar. It was just that he had not married—Rorik himself had certainly not been free when it came to the problems of women, for he was a philanderer...
Sometimes people beside him asked why he did not start a family, but Rorik naturally had his own circumstances.
Gazing at his fallen brother's son, his nephew Hróðulfr, Rorik's eyes were filled with pity.
Hróðulfr, a sturdy warrior who would turn twenty-seven this year.
That poor lad who could not even remember his father's face. For the moment Hróðulfr came into the world, Rorik's brother and Hróðulfr's father had breathed his last.
It was an excuse, but perhaps that was all the more reason why Rorik could not leave an heir. Because of a sense of debt he felt toward his dead brother, in place of himself.
'Anyway, if things go on like this, Dorestad or Hróðulfr will just be used and discarded, caught between the mighty Frankish kings.'
For his old self, it would be enough to simply go to Valhalla, but not Hróðulfr. My nephew must never live as we did. Fighting, sailing, plundering, drinking, and then dying.
I would never let it be that way.
'Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson...'
Feeling a sense of anticipation and excitement, emotions he had long lost, rising within him, Rorik steadied his mind.
*****
This leisure, which I felt for the first time in a very long while.
In my home in Åros, now entering winter, I was savoring an unaccustomed idleness.
[Hek-hek-hek-hek-]
Boksil had already run around the damp yard, and with footprints left behind, she entered my great hall. As I pressed both hands against the grinning beast's face, I was gazing at a scene like a painting.
A high ceiling and beneath it a long table stretching out. Chairs neatly lined up on both sides, and long windows that brightly opened up walls that might otherwise feel stuffy.
Leon had wanted to place arched corridors and splendid pillars, but at the time there was no marble, so such construction was impossible. No matter how well you carved granite, you could not produce those pillars of Greece or Rome.
'Leon is doing well, right?'
Timber and solid granite. This hall, made from such quintessentially Scandinavian materials, suited my heart perfectly, but Leon's ambition—declaring he would remodel it right away and crossing the sea himself—was so immense that I could not bring myself to stop him.
It was as if his pupils were spinning in strange directions, and I felt that if I held him back, something terrible might happen. It had already been about two weeks since the news arrived that Rurik and Oleg had toppled Beccalatia and struck down the enemy chieftain.
In the meantime, Rurik and Oleg had pushed into the territory of the Karelian Finns, which was collapsing into confusion, penetrated around Lake Ladoga, and at last reached Ruskiala, even occupying the village just above Lake Ladoga, which could be called the heartland of the Karelian Finns.
Leon packed his belongings and crossed the sea as soon as he received that news, roughly four days ago.
Along with Leon, Lefill and Stórolf also crossed the sea to establish the relay system, and my brothers too returned to their positions one by one, so I was enjoying this strangely tranquil atmosphere all by myself.
It was slightly different from loneliness—I felt not a single trace of desolation, but rather something like a sense of liberation filled me, so I was truly happy in this moment.
'Though it feels like a calm before the storm, which makes me uneasy.'
That such a moment had come to my life, which had always been dynamic—was I finally getting to properly suck some honey? Yet somewhere there was an unpleasant feeling...!
Come to think of it, Britain had been thoroughly stirred up this summer, so it would be quiet for a while. The Magyars and Khazars were in a state of cooperative intent toward us.
The tribes around the Dnieper River, stretching long up and down, were hovering around Novgorod, Polotsk, and Kiev, thinking, 'Could there be some falling crumbs anywhere?', so it would not be strange if something were already happening there.
But now it was winter.
Which meant we had entered the first month of winter. That meant I was essentially granted a vacation of about five months until the snow fell and the meadows bloomed.
Yet why were my senses so uneasy...? This was all the more unsettling because my senses had never been wrong before.
[Hek-hek-hek-hek- Eureureu-]
Boksil's ears, who had been enjoying my thick touch and even had her eyes closed, pricked up—and she abruptly turned her head toward the entrance of the hall, where the sky after rain was impressive.
She must have caught an unfamiliar scent, for she growled low in her throat.
She was still a young puppy, but ever since Inga had conceived, she had become more wary. Did she think she had to protect her master?
"It's alright. It's alright."
[Eureureu- Hek-hek-]
Scratching the grey back of Boksil's head, I rose from my seat.
The end of the long table. A chair slightly taller and wider than the other chairs.
As I quietly stroked the chair whose large dragon body was carved with the names of my ancestors in runes, soon, with the bustling footsteps of guards, the guests who had aroused Boksil's wariness set foot in my hall.
One old warrior, so full of grey and white that he brought Konungr Olaf to mind, and beside him, a sturdy warrior with a similar face.
'Father and son? They're faces I've never seen before.'
What was worth noting was that Hrólfr, who happened to be arriving for work at that moment, was standing beside them. What a coincidence.
"Fylkir Helgi. The man beside me is Konungr Hrørekr. He is the lord of Dorestad. He is also the one who offered convenience on the sea route when Fylkir first crossed to the British Isles with Jarl Ívarr."
"So he was a benefactor."
I glanced at Boksil, who was licking my nose with her soft tongue, and then again at my own somewhat large and broad appearance.
Unlike Konungr Hrørekr, who skillfully hid his expression, the warrior beside him was clearly tense.
"It seems this is the first time we've met. Konungr Hrørekr of Dorestad."
He shared the same Norse name as Rurik of Novgorod.
"It is my honor. Fylkir Helgi. The rumors, if anything, fall short. Konungr Ragnar truly sired a dragon."
"Haha. I am ashamed to think you might have heard such absurd rumors. Please, take your seats."
As a proper host, I led the guests to their places and soon offered the food and drink the serving people brought out. Olives that I had been slowly pushing, cabbage for a balanced diet. Soft bread and bottles containing wine, ale, and mead. And above all, large quantities of meat.
[Hek-hek-hek-hek-hek-hek-]
I pressed Boksil's nose, whose breathing had quickened, once, then lightly tore off a large piece of meat and fed it to her.
A cute thing.
After wiping the grease on my hand lightly against Boksil's fur as she buried her nose in her wooden bowl on the floor, I asked Konungr Hrørekr, who was the first to gulp down his drink. After all, speaking with the seasoned Konungr would be easier than with the young warrior who seemed frozen stiff.
As expected, befriending people my own age was, in this life, off the table.
"It looks as though you have come a long way. May I hear the reason?"
Though he wore light leather armor and was relatively lightly equipped, the mud that showed here and there was full of the smell of seawater. He seemed to have come in a hurry—why?
And then, to me, who lifted a cup of clean water with a light heart, Konungr Hrørekr offered an utterly unexpected answer.
"Fylkir. Ruler of the Northern Sea and all Norsemen. The Norsemen of Frisia beseech you for aid."
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Materials☆☆☆☆☆
Tassin & Toustain. pour le versement et les modifications ː G.Garitan, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
A middle-aged man in crisis. The seal of Lothar II, the man who wants a divorce... A man with sad eyes...! However, he did many terrible things to his wife to divorce her... personally, I see it as just reaping what he sowed... lol
Unknown authorUnknown author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
This is Adelchis of Benevento, mentioned for the first time in the story...! He looks pretty intense, doesn't he? He really is a man of strong determination in reality too...! To the east, the Eastern Roman Langobardia (Lombardy); to the southwest, the Saracens (Muslims)! And to the north, the Emperor Ludovicus! A man who properly showed his ability in a land with an insane geopolitical position...! He is recorded as a descendant of the Lombards, and Italy's current situation is truly chaos itself... so it's very interesting...!