232. Can Not the Whole World Be Happy (2).
232. Can Not the Whole World Be Happy (2).
Summer, 868 AD. Southern Italy. Near the Saracen city of Bari.
The Italian Emperor, his heart greatly pleased by the upheaval in the north—this ambitious man, the only one among the Frankish Imperatores to append the title Augustus—rode his momentum and marched his army south.
For the Saracens, coiled in Sicily and southern Italy, had dared to plunder even Rome, and they would sail to any point along the coastline to commit all manner of atrocities.
Though the lords of southern Italy usually did not welcome the Emperor of northern Italy, the descendants of the Lombards, representable by Adelchis of Benevento, at least promised not to hinder this campaign.
Even the Eastern Roman Empire, which still held territories on the island of Sicily as well as in southern Italy, joined this campaign, so many believed without doubt that this would be a great campaign, rarely seen of late, where the capacities of two empires would combine into one. But—
Edmund Cyning, who had joined as a pillar of the campaign leading brave Angle warriors under the Pope's patronage, watched the expeditionary force, which was already creaking from the start, with eyes full of concern.
'The antagonism between the North Italian Emperor and the South Italian lords surpassed all imagination. He had wondered how the Saracens could strut openly about in Italy, the heart of the Catholic world. The truth was that the lords of southern Italy were not strongly religious.'
Though he had suffered a crushing defeat in his own kingdom against the Fylkir of the North Sea, Edmund, who had staked his own life in a duel for his followers' sake, had become a hero among the Angles. The number of warriors who followed him into exile alone had easily surpassed a thousand.
Counting their families, a large group of fully three thousand people had moved at once, which caused a great sensation in the Frankish Empire and in Rome.
'The faithful and noble nobleman, Edmund. The one who lost his throne.'
Thanks to this, although Edmund was no longer a Cyning nor had a domain, he was called Dux and had been secretly designated to receive lands in southern Italy that were to be recovered in the future.
This was, of course, the outcome of the aligned political interests of the Imperator and the Pope, who had taken note of this outside figure possessing the powerful strength of a thousand skilled warriors, a man of royal blood who was deeply faithful and sharp-witted. But for Edmund, who had to take responsibility for those who had turned their backs on their homes to follow a foolish Cyning, there was no reason to refuse.
Contrary to the expectations of Edmund, who had resolved to make this war a victory for the sake of his own family, his followers, and with the added faith to re-establish the authority of Catholicism—
The reactions of the southern Catholic lords surrounding the Emirate of Bari appeared outwardly full of zeal and devoted to the holy battle. Yet when you looked deeper, the elderly warriors who came to the Emperor's camp calling themselves reinforcements were equipped with shoddy arms and received just one meal a day—and not even a proper meal at that, but a bowl of watery gruel.
Naturally, the Emperor welcomed them with a smile, but to the eyes of Edmund—accustomed as he was, as the former Cyning of East Anglia, to the language and gestures between nobles—the Emperor's nonverbal expressions, radiating an uncomfortable air as if saying, 'I am immensely affronted by you right now!' were completely visible.
In the face of such a murderous atmosphere from the Emperor, Adelchis's nonchalance—pushing his brazen face forward without a single flicker of hesitation and praying for the Emperor's victory—was nothing short of astonishing.
Still, reinforcements were reinforcements.
If it had ended there, it might have been one thing, but the Imperator, who should have been focusing on the siege of Bari, was distracted by something else. That was, precisely, a war of nerves with the Eastern Roman naval commander, Niketas Ooryphas.
No, if they had agreed to move together, shouldn't they have joined forces? Why this sudden war of nerves?
To Edmund, who had gradually begun to awaken to military matters after his battle with the mighty and fearsome Fylkir, it was a completely incomprehensible aspect.
Was the Imperator truly intent on conquering Bari? Was Bari merely a pretext, and did he actually want to crack down on the lords of southern Italy?
Such a thought suddenly crossed Edmund's mind.
On the day they had set out on the campaign, the Holy Father had taken Edmund aside and told him that he might be disappointed. Was this what the Pope had meant?
The problem between the Emperor and the Eastern Roman admiral was precisely a problem of titles. The issue was that the Eastern Roman admiral had called Ludovicus, who internally styled himself as Augustus Imperator and even as 'Emperor of all Romans,' a 'Frankish Emperor.'
To Edmund, who had already lost his own kingdom, it seemed best to first defeat the infidel before their eyes and then discuss whether he was Emperor of the Romans or Emperor of the Franks. Yet the Imperator's lofty pride evidently could not allow this.
Of course, it was unlikely that Niketas Ooryphas had done it out of a lack of refinement or arrogance; the influence of the other Emperor in Constantinople, Michael, must have been at work here.
So disgusted did the allied army surrounding Bari become with this tiresome squabble over imperial titles that they even withdrew their camp.
Then, as if waiting for this moment, the mighty Eastern Roman navy withdrew and headed south, and the Emirate of Bari, its sea routes opened, was able to catch its breath with help from Sicily and North Africa.
Thus, the Emperor's South Italian expeditionary force, having achieved nothing but great bluster, was already talking about returning to prepare for winter. And so, into the tent of Edmund—who could not conceal his frustration and anxiety about the uncertain future—guests came one after another.
They respectively introduced themselves as Gaideris, nephew of Adelchis, Dux of Benevento, and Nikephoros Phokas, a subordinate of the Eastern Roman admiral Niketas.
The thick, wicked stench of conspiracy and intrigue assaulted Edmund's nose, but the duty to be responsible for the lives of his followers weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Deciding to hear what they at least had to say, Edmund sat down with them, and as time passed, his two eyes began to gleam.
*****
War was, indeed, harder to finish than to start.
I was feeling this absolute truth keenly—one which humanity had continually forgotten as if stricken with amnesia, and would go on forgetting in the future.
[Flutter— flutter—]
"This is a report sent by the father of Rouen. King Salomon of Brace, who has become Konungr, sent the northern coastal territories as a gift, along with the message that he has no desire to quarrel with the Fylkir over the northern territories, and has confirmed the border with the Imperator of West Frankia—"
I had thought I would only see such a thing in exaggerated cartoons or novels.
In the deepest part of the magnificent palace in Hamburg, the room I used as my office, administrative personnel led by Refil each sat at their own desk, busily sorting through all manner of documents.
'Sorting documents' made it sound grand and highly systematic, but it was not yet at that level; they were merely organizing the various situations flying in from all quarters and reporting them to me.
For example, the various numbers sent by Ubba of Britain, who was in charge of all supplies for the West Frankia expeditionary force, or the various numbers sent by Hrolf of Árós, who was handling all supplies for the East Frankish expeditionary force.
In addition to that, there were the territorial boundaries with surrounding powers that Björn, whom I had placed as commander of the occupied territories, had sorted out.
I was glad to have capable subordinates who worked on their own, but their attitude that, even if it killed them, they must obtain my approval—while inwardly satisfying—also exhausted me.
Was that all?
For any leader, there existed the duty to take responsibility for their followers to the very end.
I had to record the names of the warriors who had died following nothing but my orders in the lands of West Frankia and East Frankia, send them to the great temple of Hel in Árós to inform the bereaved families, prepare condolence payments, and arrange a massive funeral.
In that process, it went without saying that I also had to look after the wounded and the seriously injured.
Naturally, as a war concluded by the North Sea's immense victory, I ought to have prepared a grand triumph and victory festival commensurate with it, but before that, it was only proper to hasten to honor our brothers who had gone to Valhalla and comfort their families first.
As I dealt with such heavy-hearted tasks one by one, before I knew it, Damian, who had attended Lothar's wedding (divorce) ceremony, returned to report the results, and for some reason, he even brought word of the Eastern Roman internal situation—how they were informing me of their military operations—before finishing preparations to depart.
The interesting part was that Edmund was with the camp of the Italian Emperor who had advanced into southern Italy, serving as something like a vanguard commander?
It might seem strange to say this about a Cyning I personally pulled down, but I truly rooted for Edmund. He was not the strongest or most outstanding man I had ever faced, but he possessed rare courage and faith, and above all, a sense of responsibility that deeply cared for his subordinates.
I hoped that in Italy he would achieve what he desired.
I hoped that naive Cyning would survive well in that land, no different from a den of demons.
Speaking of Edmund reminded me: it seemed Burgred, the former Cyning of Mercia, had gone under the Emperor of West Frankia. I heard he received a domain in southern Aquitaine, but since that was a place where the powerful Muslims of Iberia invaded on a whim, Burgred's life seemed bumpy as well, and that didn't sit well with me.
In truth, when you think about it, their misfortunes were all caused by me.
But how many people and houses had been ruined by my hand? I felt only a pang of regret; by now, I felt no guilt over something of this degree.
It felt as though my mental fortress grew sturdier alongside my ever-strengthening body.
It already seemed I had far surpassed the realm of a normal human, and now I too was curious: just how strong I would become.
If I kept going like this, I might truly be able to once again demonstrate the legendary boulder-shattering that had drawn upon all my physical, mental, and even spiritual strength. Even far more easily than before!
Of course, there would be no occasion for that now, but still, with my body and spirit ever strengthened, though I was a bit tired, as I read all manner of letters handed to me by Refil and composed replies, before I knew it the sky had grown dim.
The eyes of the subordinates who had worked so hard with me were filled with fatigue, and Refil—his face as though he had lost his soul—had become nothing more than a working machine, habitually reaching out his hand to grab documents from the next table, but no more parchment met his grasp.
[Swiik- Swiik- Tak!]
"The work... is finished!"
"Ah—Freyr, oh goddess! Take me to your side!"
"Oh goddess of the hearth! Oh goddess of death! Whichever, I am coming...!"
With Refil's declaration, the sound of heads thudding onto desks was heard from all around, and soon after, the sound of vigorous snoring followed.
To me, who had experienced the Hel-Joseon of a past life, night shifts and all-nighters were familiar, but for my warriors, who were inherently active people, working into the evening must have been terribly exhausting.
Though I had unintentionally become the head of a black company, I had finished the withdrawal plan concisely but thoroughly, and with a lightened expression, I dusted myself off and stood.
I ordered my Huskarl, who had silently guarded my side and not retired until late evening, to lay down comfortably those who had collapsed here and cover them well with blankets.
"Yes, my Fylkir."
Then, together with the tenacious—no, outstanding—Refil, who had survived to the end, I stepped out onto the ramparts filled with constellations.
Those already asleep, my warriors patrolling with torches throughout the wide city, and the lights of the newly built fortress visible far across the river all blended into one, flickering in the warm air.
"Refil. You followed me for nothing and have endured much hardship."
"What do you mean, my Fylkir? The people of the North Sea can do anything for the Fylkir. And the bloodline of the great Ragnar will do even more than that for Helgi Ragnarsson."
Refil's voice, which even sent a chill down my spine, was still the same as when he had shyly and earnestly spoken to me on the island of Britain a few years before, but the will contained within it had grown far more resolute and solid.
"But will you really be able to act so Björn-like in front of this letter?"
[Swiik-]
Refil's eyes, full of dark circles, gazed with a questioning look at the letter I handed over with a mischievous smile.
"It is a letter that Mother Áslaug personally sent to me. Such matters are surely things the person concerned must not be ignorant of, so it would be good for you to read it too."
Here and now, it was not a conversation between Fylkir and Jarl, but a place where an uncle of the Ragnarsson household spoke to his nephew.
Reading my mood, Refil took the letter with a still bewildered expression and unfolded it, and soon his face went blank as he read down the runes written on the parchment.
In that letter were written a list of potential spouses for Refil, arranged by Mother Áslaug.
My suppressed laughter disturbed the tranquil summer night sky of Hamburg, drawing the stars' attention.
As each day passed, Refil, with a complex expression that was somewhere between happy and anxious, drew the attention of his mischievous uncles (me, Ivar, Halfdan, Sigurdr).
Time flowed ceaselessly like the Elbe River, and before we knew it, three days had passed.
With the Fylkir at the head, all the notable lords of the North Sea boarded the longships together, and their destination was none other than the heart of the North Sea, Árós.
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The original uploader was Nanoxyde at French Wikipedia., CC BY-SA 2.5 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5>, via Wikimedia Commons
Southern Italy is in a state of chaos, destruction, and oblivion...!
That's because the Aghlabid dynasty of North Africa, supported by the Umayyads of Iberia, was in the middle of pushing into Sicily and southern Italy at this time...!
Moreover, in southern Italy, the descendants of the Lombards who had entered Italy before the Franks remained, eyeing the northern Italian emperor with unfriendly stares...!
A world where Catholics and Muslims cooperate and betray each other as naturally as eating. This is southern Italy in 868! lol
And what will become of Edmund, who has stepped into the middle of it...?
The orange parts on the map above are all the maximum extent of the Aghlabid dynasty...! At the time of the story, Syracuse in Sicily is still under the Eastern Roman Empire, and the Emirate of Bari is a bit smaller than that...~~