229. A Season Full of Red (3).
229. A Season Full of Red (3).
'This damned duel culture.'
"Hyaaaaah-!"
Once upon a time, so very long ago. Even in this 9th century, roughly a thousand and one hundred years distant from the 21st century, there lived in the distant past—at the twilight of the Spring and Autumn and Warring States era—a figure named Xiang Yu.
A Hegemon-King whose strength could uproot mountains and whose spirit overshadowed the world.
Even that man, who bore every manner of fearsome slaughter record and was draped in awe-filled epithets, ultimately took his own life in the face of encirclement and annihilation. What special trick could the commander of Hamburg possibly have had?
Ivar's false retreat and the astonishing maneuver of Uhtred on the left wing and Baldr on the right—which could fittingly be recorded in future history books as the textbook example of encirclement and annihilation—was far too elegant to attribute merely to superior numbers, and it filled my heart with satisfaction.
So our standards had risen to this level now. My warriors wouldn't be going anywhere to get beaten anymore.
It was a moment when such pride washed over me, when I could feel that all the efforts I had poured in so far had not been in vain.
When I stepped forward to avoid shedding any more unnecessary blood in an already-decided contest, the enemy commander, who gave his name as Bruno, suddenly leveled his sword at me and charged with that shout, did he not?
Apart from that desperate expression, Bruno's movements—slow and sluggish like a clumsy grub—couldn't pose any threat to me, and in my mind, walking alone through a different time, the faces of the countless warriors who had challenged me over the years flickered up one by one.
There were the madmen who charged at me to claim my mother, a renowned beauty, the only daughter of a wealthy, ancient family of highly esteemed hereditary priests. There were the assassins of powerful men who charged, eyeing the land deeds of Árós and its surrounding territories.
There was King Ælla of Northumbria, and Osberht, and the faces of heroes like Edmund of East Anglia also flashed through my mind.
A low-grade murderer, an ambitious mercenary, an old warrior seeking Valhalla, a king trying to save his people, a king trying to keep his throne.
Those whose wills were broken, whose lives were snuffed out, or whose seats vanished under my blade—regardless of rank, regardless of the degree of a person's nobility, all equally.
Having cut down so many, I had now developed something of an eye for discerning a person's character.
"—Hyaaaah!"
[Fwoong-]
What showed on Bruno's face as he charged, putting his momentum into a great sword swing—resignation.
Seeing such a clumsy attack, what is often called a telephone punch in boxing terms, where the shoulder moves greatly and tells the opponent exactly where you will swing, this man had not charged out to win against me.
King Edmund of East Anglia had possessed truly wretched skill, but he had still done his utmost in his own way to try to beat me. The Dux of Hamburg, it seemed, had something far too complicated on his mind.
[Bwoong-! Pwak-!]
His whole body was so open that it was difficult to even choose a spot, but my left hand, extended while being as considerate as possible, moved slowly as if pushing through heavy water and reached Bruno's head.
[Tulseok! Chalgeurak! Tuk!]
It was an attack that merely pushed his forehead lightly with the palm, but the point of impact and the timing were exquisite, so Bruno fainted just like that and toppled forward. At the same moment his armor touched the ground, the quality sword he had raised high dropped from Bruno's right hand and fell onto its owner's torso.
Beside him, I, still with my left arm extended, confirmed Bruno's faint breath—him collapsed in a rather unsightly manner—and once again commanded the warriors of Hamburg, who were staring at me with eyes full of fear, to surrender.
At last, the Hamburg warriors accepted defeat with their whole hearts and dropped their weapons one by one. Astride Camembert again, I slowly advanced toward the southern gate of Hamburg.
That gate, which had seemed as if it would stand firm until the whole world burned, swung wide open as if it had been mine from the very beginning.
*****
Could it be that the speed at which the years pass quickens in proportion to the number of people who die?
The Emperor of West Frankia, whose hair had suddenly become heavily streaked with white these days, Carolus, thought to himself, alone.
I, who received my father's favor, was driven to such a crisis, while my cousin in Italy, who received grandfather's favor, had reached a position where he could gain everything without doing anything.
Then, was this my father's original sin? Or was it mine?
The imperial throne was enjoyable precisely for this reason. Though it was a seat of maddening solitude and constant sorrow, this pleasure could not possibly be let go of.
"Hreup—"
In the moment Carolus inhaled and downed a cup full of wine in one breath, the events of the past one or two months swiftly welled up and subsided in his mind.
The struggle against that dangerous Fylkir of the North Sea. The handing over of Rouen at a great loss. The way the girl of Flanders and the boy of Aquitaine had balked at his request for support.
'You grew up very well indeed, Judith. Louis. Truly well.'
As the Emperor of West Frankia, as a father, he should rightly have been angered by the sight of his children following their own will rather than his. But instead, Carolus was gratified by his children's actions.
Instead of the unreliable, simple son-in-law Boudewijn, so perfectly suited to being manipulated this way and that by bishops using faith as bait, it was undoubtedly his lovely daughter Judith who had seized the real power in Flanders. By refusing the request of the West Frankia Emperor this time, she had gained the trust of that Fylkir of the North Sea and had firmly consolidated her and Boudewijn's position in Flanders.
The people of Flanders were originally, like those of Frisia, strongly independent in nature. For Boudewijn and Judith, who were outsiders that had rolled in from elsewhere, to establish themselves as their masters, some sort of catalyst was needed. And through this series of events, the Margrave and his wife had gained an authority that nothing else could replace.
The only regret was that the background for it was not Carolus himself. In any case, from the moment Rouen was surrendered, the influence over all lands touching the northern sea had been unable to escape that Fylkir's hand. So Carolus inwardly applauded his daughter's judgment, her ruthless heart, and that ability to translate resolve into action.
'Use the grudge against me, Judith. Given its location, Flanders will inevitably be precarious in the future, caught between the North Sea and the Frankish Empire. You will have to secure a firm alliance.'
In Carolus's mind, the forces suitable to be that partner pushed their faces forward one after another, but now this was a matter for Judith and Boudewijn to resolve, not Carolus himself.
Carolus's thoughts soon moved to the next order.
It was his own son, Louis, who bore the insulting nickname 'the Stammerer' of Aquitaine.
When he had last parted ways with Helgi Ragnarsson of the North Sea before Rouen Fortress, Carolus had intended to plant a single seed of doubt about Breizh in his heart.
Inherently, a vast empire was something that cracked here and there due to the petty desires and jealousies of its nobles.
Carolus, who vividly remembered how his own brothers in his father's time had carved up the great empire, had prepared a deadly poison in his heart, but the situation unfolded somewhat differently from his expectations.
Salomon of Brittany, who had nominally claimed to be a vassal of West Frankia, finally styled himself with the title Rí (King), and wished to be called Konungr.
It was a truly shameless act, promoting himself from duke to king and changing his overlord from West Frankia to the North Sea, but Salomon had always been a man of great ambition, so it was fully understandable.
The fact that Margrave Robert of Neustria had died a gallant death trying to save refugees fell outside Carolus's comprehension.
To die for refugees? That Robert, who had been practically no different from that self-proclaimed king Salomon, except for being hostile to Salomon? That Robert, who had not hesitated to raise rebellion to secure his own position and had even cooperated with Breizh and the Northmen—had something unknowable happened to him?
Now, no answer would return from asking futile questions of the dead.
In any case, through the series of events that occurred in Neustria, Carolus himself had dispatched a trusted man, never outmatched by Robert in military ability, to swallow the Maine region centered on Le Mans. And his son, Louis of Aquitaine, who bore a bitter grudge against Robert, had also profited.
To Carolus's messenger, who ordered him to immediately lead his army and strike Salomon, who was besieging Le Mans, or to attack their strongholds of Breizh and Nantes, Louis of Aquitaine sent a secret letter. In sentences that were not long, he unraveled the complex contracts entangled between Breizh, Aquitaine, and Nantes.
[What Salomon of Brittany desires is prestige and cause to quell internal factions. What the Emperor of West Frankia can gain is Le Mans and Maine. What Louis of Aquitaine gains is Angers and Anjou.]
This son of mine used the war his father was entangled in to strike down his political rivals and expand his own territory!
It was a skill that drew a hollow laugh and a serpent's heart.
Therefore, weighing the gains and losses of this war, it was certainly a colossal crisis for the empire of West Frankia, which lost Rouen Fortress and even saw Le Mans Castle threatened. But for the emperor personally, the massive political rival that was Robert was struck down, the internal situation was brought under control, and, rather, key regions of Neustria—Maine and Anjou—had been seized.
And so, while all the surrounding vassals bowed their heads and read the emperor's mood, Carolus was actually not in such a bad mood.
It would be one thing if Carolus himself were a young and clumsy emperor of twenty or so, who thought only winning battles was the greatest glory. But Carolus was already closer to a seasoned politician, who had been soundly beaten by his elder brother, who fought well, and had also achieved great victories himself.
Carolus instead slowly fixed his gaze upon a new political rival, who was gradually revealing himself from afar. A figure who had proven himself far more dangerous than Robert.
"My dear nephew, the Imperator of Lotharingia, is coming."
The very mastermind who had effectively instigated that sudden invasion by the North Sea Empire during the sowing season. The architect of all this embarrassment and confusion.
Him, whom he had thought was undoubtedly still a child, was the son of a valiant lion who had grown up and bared his fangs before he knew it. The sinister Lothar II.
The distance closed until they could distinguish each other's faces. Sitting upon a chair on the deliberately raised dais of the conference hall, watching Lothar's approach, Carolus at last admitted it.
His nephew, who had holed up in Aachen Palace harassing his wife and her family, or chasing after the coattails of bishops trying to discern God's will, was no longer the weakling that Carolus himself had once known.
[Kagak-kagak-kagak- Cheok!]
"Imperator Karolus."
"Imperator Lothar."
Lothar, who had boldly raised an army, had immediately charged toward Burgundy in the south of the empire, Carolus's power base, under the pretext of rescuing West Frankia.
How on earth would those Northmen—no, those North Sea people—get past the Saracens of Iberia to reach Burgundy? This was naturally just a pretext. From the beginning, what Lothar wanted was one single thing.
It was only to divorce his wife and secure the succession rights of his bastard son, Hugh.
This was something that not only Carolus but even the fearsome second elder brother of East Frankia, Ludovicus, tacitly rejected.
Carolus could understand Lothar' harsh heart in his mind, but in his chest, he felt his anger slowly rising.
I must repay this humiliation I suffered to this impudent nephew. I must repay several times over that insult I felt when I faced that Fylkir of the North Sea.
Naturally, one's inner thoughts and one's outward expression must always be different things.
With a smiling face, Carolus personally guided Lothar to his seat and spoke again, taking another mouthful of wine. With a composed expression, Lothar answered.
"My nephew Lothar. I can see your father's face in you now. To think you would move in person from Aachen all the way here to Burgundy... I hadn't realized your heart for me was so exceedingly devoted."
To an unknowing observer, it would seem like ordinary tones and sentences, as if asking after someone's well-being. But the thorns contained within them.
"Esteemed Uncle, Imperator Karolus of West Frankia. The Imperator Augustus of Rome has recognized it, together with the Pope. So, please, let it now be recognized by you too, Uncle. My divorce, that is."
Unlike the smooth Carolus, Lothar's words were, in a way, simple and even straightforward. Yet, Carolus could not bring himself to criticize Lothar's posture or rebuke him as an elder of the family.
For it was a time to wait.
With heavily sunken eyes, Carolus downed his wine once more, and Lothar merely faced that gaze with composure.