239. There Is No Wave That Stays Still.
239. There Is No Wave That Stays Still.
"Hrolf. If there were a vast world beyond that sea, one we couldn't even dream of, would you believe it?"
"Oh, that is an interesting tale. But right now, I'd rather focus on the more immediate problems of our North Sea, together with you, Fylkir."
It was a topic I'd brought up with considerable resolve. Yet Hrolf's expression, which had opened into an O-shape of apparent wonder with an "Oh—" of exclamation, soon shifted to one that seemed to say 'please, do act your age,' and he fixed me with a tired gaze.
He probably thought I was just rambling on with pointless stories to avoid work.
Honestly, it was true that about 50% of my intent was to escape this endless tide of parchment, but the other 50% was filled with my own deep deliberation on the possibility of opening a genuine new world for our North Sea.
Being treated like this simply deflated all my enthusiasm.
"I'm telling you, there's definitely something beyond that sea."
"My Fylkir. Right now, the parchments on my desk are also numerous. The way they keep piling on without pause is like the wrath of Njord himself."
"Tch."
[Shk—]
It was the height of summer. Western Europe, having concluded the massive event known as 'Lothar's Tumultuous Divorce Commotion,' was quiet.
However, the region further south was still ablaze with fierce sparks.
According to intelligence from Eastern Rome coming through Damian's letters, cooperation between Emperor Michael and Emperor Ludovicus of Italy had been creaky from the start.
In the end, their respective concentrated offensives on Chandax on Crete and Bari in southern Italy didn't yield much success, but surprisingly, in Calabria—the toe of the boot-shaped Italian peninsula—near the fortress of Reggio, Edmund and the exiled Angle warriors had settled after thoroughly routing the Saracens.
Should I call this a happy ending? Speaking frankly just between us, no joke, isn't it a good thing for Edmund too, living in the warm Mediterranean climate of southern Italy rather than a grim land like East Anglia with its dreary weather 365 days a year?
And for Edmund, a fervent Catholic who clung desperately to his faith even in the face of obvious death looming right before him, perhaps Italy truly was the land suited to his beliefs.
So, when you really think about it all, since it was ultimately thanks to me(?)—who crushed him thoroughly in East Anglia and even spared his life—Edmund should actually be sending me his thanks, shouldn't he?
'What a truly garbage thought.'
"Heh heh—"
"..."
When I thought about it quietly, it was indeed such a shameless thought that I involuntarily laughed, but Hrolf's gaze, now entirely as if he were looking at something pathetic, stung me, so I quickly wiped the smile away and pretended to study the oversized parchment specially made for my large hands.
Speaking of garbage, Mother Nature was truly an entity like a trash bin, giving us everything while simultaneously taking it all back.
My fellow human beings who harbor a vague nostalgia for nature's phytoncides would point their fingers and call me impertinent if they heard this thought, but this was the stark reality of Europe not yet reached the year 900 AD. I'd traveled quite a bit of land, and nowhere had I seen people using trash bins.
Even in our North Sea, we hadn't yet introduced trash bins, so unless it was the designated day for periodic road cleaning, not only Árós but also various spots on the prettily paved roads of Scandinavia were decorated with miscellaneous organic matter and wastes of unknown origin.
With Árós and its vicinity being this bad—despite my efforts for road cleanliness that no one else could understand—other places were, well.
To put it somewhat dirtily, if people simply refrained from casually relieving themselves on the roadsides, the citizens of that city or village could be seen as possessing an exalted civic consciousness.
The cleanest city among those I'd occupied or visited, Constantinople, had a good thousand years' worth of know-how, so it was indeed quite clean considering the sheer number of people living there, but recalling 21st-century cities, there were still more than a few problematic aspects.
First of all, just seeing filth and wastewater returned directly to nature without any particular filtering made my head spin, to the point where I wanted to let go of everything, become one with nature myself, and run naked through the meadows.
But for the health of my precious people and my own mental satisfaction, I couldn't do that.
Therefore, we'd begun primitive filtering utilizing the deep marshlands found throughout Scandinavia. We made the waste pass through thick pools mixed with an abundance—to the point of rotting—of twigs, blades of grass, soil and sand, and powdered lime, removing the solid matter (...) and discharging the slightly diluted filth and wastewater into the deep sea through pipes buried near the shore.
Naturally, much deliberation went into this process, and I was establishing plans to add more filtering stages in the future.
However, there was a problem: due to the distance of the marshlands located slightly northwest of Árós, we needed to extend the still-incomplete pipelines. For now, I decided to solve it within my lifetime through the overflowing volume of mineral resources.
I had once paired Leon and Hrolf together and sent them to explore parts of Scandinavia's majestic mountain ranges; at that time, they discovered not only copper mines but iron, silver, gold mines, and other mineral veins we couldn't yet identify.
'Wait, does this mean we might not even need to go to the New World?'
Should we only set out when the daily-increasing population exceeds the carrying capacity? But just where exactly was this land's carrying capacity?
Leon, who had changed his profession from mad scientist to mad architect, boldly declared to me his ambition to connect Uppsala and Árós into one and construct a super-megacity unprecedented in recorded human history.
Then, his posture immediately shifted to a groveling one as he rubbed his palms together and demanded money and people, so, with a 'go ahead, try it as you please' mindset, I gave my approval.
As for manpower, there were, of course, the old Irish slave friends who had now been converted to citizens of the North Sea, as well as Sámi and Finn friends who came ambling towards the large, warm southern city (Árós), and immigrants from the western coast of Scandinavia, not to mention those crossing over to Árós seeking new opportunities from the Rus' land beyond the Eastern Sea.
With the naturally growing population plus the added immigrants, worrying about manpower for whatever we undertook now was no longer an issue. Seeing the children's laughter increasing day by day, there would be no manpower worries for the foreseeable future, and since silver coins and supplies were more of a problem because we couldn't spend them fast enough, I welcomed such large-scale construction from my side.
'Did the pharaohs of old Egypt build pyramids for this reason? Mad people. Seriously, how did they manage to build not just one, but all of them?'
Having tucked a quill behind my ear and scratched my chin, I finally confirmed the contents of the parchment in my hand, only after I'd completely run out of other things to think about.
'Ah, I was holding it upside down.'
[Shk— Flap—]
It was fortunate that Hrolf, Baldr, and the other square-hatted administrators were frantically engrossed in their own tasks, scribbling away ceaselessly.
What was written on the parchment bore the title: [Proposal for Strengthening Cooperation with the Magyar Tribes for the Smooth Control of the Dnieper Basin and Efficient Operation of the Garmr Brotherhood].
The new script of the North Sea, commissioned from the linguistic genius Kyrillos, had absorbed several Alpha-type letters that distinctly looked Greek, achieving a state where complete pronunciation was possible.
This new script, being tested experimentally by officials ranging from bureaucrats to Konungr, Jarl, and Karl (hundred-man leaders), was essentially the old script (Elder Futhark) with a few unnecessary decorative characters removed and some new phonetic symbols added (New Futhark). Thus, it really posed no hindrance for those who already knew the Norse tongue to learn it.
Now, Latin or Greek would enter as elective subjects, and the plan was for the people of the North Sea and their descendants to fundamentally master this script.
Whether one's ancestors were from Éire, or Angle, or Saxon. If you were a person of the North Sea, you would now have to learn this script.
Therefore, the document that appeared to have been personally written and sent by Haskuldr no longer contained content like [horse-riding bastards, entrust, big river, hard, alone, together, win] but instead far more precise content, which greatly satisfied me.
'Entrust a few rapids points to the Magyars?'
The mighty, winding Dnieper River had several rapids points, and naturally, ships had to be handled carefully near them, and at points where the rapids were too severe, boats had to be physically lifted and carried. As such, these strategic points were already serving as the North Sea's relay stations, established under Refil and Sigtrygg's direction.
Since they were points the horse-thieves—no, the warriors of the steppe, who were plunderers never outmatched by any Viking—would likely target, the continuous management and garrisoning of troops there was something that had to be maintained and managed unconditionally, unless we washed our hands of future trade with Eastern Rome and beyond.
This would clearly remain the greatest challenge our North Sea would face going forward.
Come to think of it, we also needed to establish military doctrine and conduct training to counter those steppe warriors.
I took the quill that had been resting on the rim of my ear, fed it a little pitch-black ink, picked up a sheet of good quality parchment, and began writing a reply.
[Scratch— Scratch— Scratch—]
The large quill befitting my large hand moved elegantly, depicting the new culture of the North Sea in a beautiful hand. My handwriting, which vied with Erik's for the finest in the North Sea, was once appraised by Kyrillos as having a grand, unhindered energy—a true masterwork.
[The Fylkir of the North Sea sends word to Jarl Haskuldr of Kiyiu. The Magyars have never fought with us, and their leader Árpád has never once broken faith with us since first he met me.
Árpád and the Magyar warriors are strong and wise, so it is right that we make them our friends and together safeguard the bounty of the Dnieper.
However, as I gave further thought to the wise Jarl Haskuldr's opinion, I believe it would be good to also confirm whether our greatest friend and ally, Eastern Rome, would likewise be willing to lend a hand on this matter.
May the blessing of the Goddess Hel ever be upon you, your family, and the strong and goodly people of Kiyiu—]
[Scratch— Scratch—]
Due to the nature of the quill-parchment combination, which cannot be erased or revised midway, most of my bureaucrats habitually practiced sentences beforehand using a wax-clay tablet and stylus (think of an iPad or Galaxy Tab pen) kept close at hand, stained with much handling.
But for the great literary figure, Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson, who dared to contend with Erik for the finest script in the North Sea, to use such an amateurish (?) tool was a matter of considerable face.
Thus, even while working the quill, my brain was fiercely revising sentences in my head, weighing the geopolitical situation around Kiyiu, and probing all kinds of possibilities.
'They say Árpád of the Magyars fought a great battle with East Frankia and pushed through Moravia as far as Bohemia.'
The way he stood unflinchingly before me, even though I was a good three times his size. Quite impressive. And it seemed his actual skill far exceeded that first impression.
First off, I knew well that these horse riders were good fighters, but the skill with which he drew in Moravia was astonishing.
'This means they don't have to worry about a fierce East Frankish counterattack on northern Saxony and Liubice for the time being. The Emperor of East Frankia will have to devise a plan to save Bohemia first.'
In this era, a truce agreement in Western Europe was, in principle, more worthless than a pile of burned firewood.
If Frisia and our North Sea were to act crazy and push south, pressuring southern Saxony—no, not even pressuring. If we simply went around the villages along the various streams branching from the Weser River, they would be so thrilled they would just die.
And if at that moment, Moravia struck Bohemia?
Of course, it didn't seem likely that Árpád of the Magyars, having so generously squeezed East Frankia's emperor, would make such a bold choice on his way home, any more than the ruler of Moravia would. But it was a matter worth thinking about.
'Hrolf is right. The New World is good, but first, we must draw our North Sea's borders firmly in this Old World.'
The Karl of West Frankia, who unexpectedly displayed a soft attitude, was indeed deeper and more cunning than Ludwig of East Frankia, who seemed to do nothing but scheme for treachery.
However, since East Frankia was far stronger in terms of the quality of its soldiers, their state of training, the commanders' abilities, and the level of its cavalry, if war were to break out again in this Western European land, it would most likely be over Saxony.
'Moravia and the Magyars.'
And below them, East Frankia and Bulgaria, all the way to Eastern Rome.
Then, now, and in the future.
Truly, Eastern Europe and the Balkans were hell.