241. There Is No Wave That Stays Still (3).
241. There Is No Wave That Stays Still (3).
[jjak-jjak-jjak-]
"Now, now! Stop chattering and let's focus! Focus! Konungrs, please, I beg your cooperation!"
"Huh? Are you talking about us? Just pretend we aren't here and carry on! So, where were we?"
"Didn't you say Jarl Rognvald of Orkney was scheming something? But Olaf, I don't know why I have to listen to this. I have to go to my daughter. Do you know that my daughter is pregnant?"
"Of course I know! Congratulations again! I plan to drink myself into a stupor at your house tonight, so if you want to kick me out, you'd better bring strong warriors!"
"You white bastard, I don't need strong warriors to kick you out. You've gotten so old and decrepit..."
"What? You black bastard! If the Fylkir hadn't stopped it back then, you wouldn't even be walking around in one piece!"
"Konungrs, please stop!"
A peaceful afternoon in Árós.
Before long, on the outskirts of this city where white suited so well, a monumental undertaking was in full swing.
It had already been a month since Leon, who had been running around the Árós and Uppsala area with his eyes gleaming, laid out to me his plan for the super-megacity Árós-Uppsala metropolitan area.
When I had readily told him to use money and people however he pleased, Leon, perhaps feeling the pressure instead, immediately built a large diorama-architectural model and held a presentation by inviting the distinguished guests currently staying in Árós, myself included.
However, whether it was me, the financier and master of the North Sea, Hrolf who handled all manner of tasks under me, Refil who was a nominal resident but always outside, or even Ivar and Stórolf who were still preparing for expeditions...
Except for my brothers and subordinates who had homes in Árós or Uppsala or had a keen interest in nearby lands, the Northmen, at this first real estate presentation of their lives, did not disappoint my expectations and immediately started drinking sessions and story circles.
It was the fault of Leon and the organizers for not taking into account the nature of the three Konungrs who were getting old and only speaking their own minds, or the Northmen's custom of immediately passing around a leather water skin of beer and blooming with stories and song whenever three or more gathered.
Leon and Hrolf had prepared the presentation with great ambition, but they were flustered by the reactions of people who were far more indifferent than expected. Watching them a bit longer and leisurely savoring others' discomfort wouldn't have been bad, but...
First, I had to attend the family gathering to celebrate Halfdan and Botilda's pregnancy, and at the same time, call Ivar and Damian to coordinate the composition of the expedition force to the Khazar city of Attila and Ivar's visit schedule to the Eastern Roman Empire, so I didn't have much time to spare here.
[wageul wageul- ungseong ungseong- ssukdeok ssukdeok- beolkeok beolkeok-]
'These people are too lively, that's the problem.'
"Leon! Hrolf! Just start! Those who want to listen will listen!"
[sulleong sulleong-]
When my great voice rang out, the side conversations here and there subsided somewhat, but as soon as Leon, gaining strength from this, began wielding his pointer made of pure white wood and explaining his grand project, murmuring voices started up again here and there.
"Thus, centered around the University of Árós Bridge at the heart of Árós and Uppsala, we will construct a great road, and below and to its sides, we will design channels for dirty water to drain so that future maintenance and repair will be easy—"
"Hey, there's that athletic meet again this year, right?"
"Don't even mention it. Whenever I pass the fields, nobody's working, they're all just talking about the games!"
"Are you going to participate too? You're pretty fast at running, aren't you?"
"Nah, not a chance with my level. ... Still, shall I give it a try?"
"—Currently, Árós and Uppsala drink clean stream water coming down from those mountains, but as the population grows, a new water source may become necessary. So I plan to build aqueducts like those used in Rome here, and since they can be sufficiently made with hard local rock or stone—"
Leon's passionate speech had entered his own world, his face flushed red. Beneath it, whispered stories that strayed from the topic came and went, but my brain only accepted Leon's voice and automatically filtered out the other useless information.
'Honestly, I hadn't expected this much, but Leon had really sharpened his blade this time.'
It felt like a bowling ball that went off course from my intended path but somehow still managed a strike.
The bird's-eye view model of the super-megacity Árós-Uppsala, made even with clay and marble, began to rise in my mind as 3D images along with Leon's explanations that kept flying into my ears.
Then, without me even intending it, this excellent brain worked on its own and showed me the resources and manpower needed for each block, and the difficulty of construction.
"Rune."
"Yes, Fylkir!"
The heir of the Kingdom of Strathclyde, Rhun ap Arthgal, who had taken over as my guard captain in place of Thorbjörn, who was helping Björn in Normandy with local stabilization and cavalry training.
This fine warrior, who had shed all his boyish old self by participating in expeditions and battles across the sea with me, didn't miss my low voice and tilted his head.
"Tell Leon and Hrolf to spare some time after this presentation. They can come to my office. After supper."
Lunchtime was near. Lunch was booked with the two mothers, Inga, Halfdan and Botilda, so impossible. Afternoon working hours were impossible as well, since I had to discuss the relocation of the smithy with Master Smith, the blacksmith Randi, who had come to Árós after a long time.
Supper had to be spent with Inga and Sigmarr, so also impossible. In the end, the only time left was late at night. Work, Leon! And Hrolf!
"Understood, Fylkir."
Beyond Rune's figure nodding and stepping back, Leon's enthusiastic voice resounded loudly.
"—And so, here! From Uppsala to Árós, and even to the far end of the coastline beyond, by making it all into harbors through an unbelievable utilization of space, it will be a miracle capable of accommodating all the ships of the North Sea that come calling! Is that all!? When the road extending to the northern Norrland and even to Kaupang in the west is completed, the mainland of the North Sea, Scandinavia, will finally become one and set a new milestone in logistics! And that stiff-rumped, arrogant Constantinople's—"
'Man, why did Miklagard's rear end come up all of a sudden? If I leave him like that, he'll talk all day.'
Even though not a single spade had been struck yet, Leon's mind seemed to be racing toward a distant future. Knowing this would happen, I gave a look to Hrolf, who I had attached for this purpose, signaling him to stop Leon's runaway train, and I began to check the problems that came to mind one by one and record my own solutions.
*****
Peng!
This sound was the sound of the Britons' notions about the world bursting apart.
Wareureu—
This sound was the sound of everything the Anglo-Saxon people had built up crashing down, from the moment they first set foot on this dreary island.
Who wouldn't have felt it when facing the Fylkir?
That man, who had accepted the title of Bretwalda—which even his father, the great Cyning of Wessex Æthelwulf, had not attained—with an unimpressed expression, could truly be called the Great Warrior of Death.
For he had killed not only people, but sometimes even the notions of groups, which were far more powerful than a single individual.
"The very air here seems different."
Alfred of Wessex, who had crossed the sea himself to the land of West Frankia to seek the Fylkir. At his leaving, the Bishop of Canterbury had said all sorts of unpleasant things about him.
It was truly laughable.
The people of western Wessex, who had suffered a humiliating defeat against not even the Fylkir himself but his ally Hásteinn, and Ealdorman Odda counseled accepting reality instead of crying out for revenge.
The sight of those sitting in eastern Wessex, hiding behind great and sturdy walls, shouting to keep fighting, was truly laughable.
They needed to accept, as soon as possible, the reality that Ealdorman Odda and the refugees of Devon had awakened to.
Alfred, who had briefly stayed at the Fylkir's side and witnessed the North Sea fight, must no longer turn away from the reality he himself had finally acknowledged.
For whether faith or tradition, one must have life to possess and protect it.
[Purruk- purreuk-]
He stroked the neck of the brown horse, which flicked its ears in response to Alfred's muttering. Alfred set aside the problems troubling his mind for a moment and took in the sight of Tamworth, the Fylkir's direct territory in Mercia, once again.
It was a scene that made it impossible to believe that just three years ago the name of the ruler had been different, and only two years ago a great war had been fought here.
The roads leading southeast to Beodericsworth in East Anglia and northeast to Jorvik in Northumbria were so neatly paved, as if finished just last night by some sorcery, and on the carts traveling those roads could be seen what looked like grain and various boxes wrapped in precious cloth.
People who were clearly of high station bowed their heads cautiously toward Alfred himself and hurried their steps. Their clean clothes and shoes caught Alfred's gaze more than anything else.
The healthy glow of those who ate and slept well. The symbol of Hel hanging from their necks was no longer an unfamiliar sight in Britain, save for Wessex, which had become the last bastion of Catholicism.
That was to be expected. Alfred himself, not yet married and childless, was unfamiliar with such feelings. But the world of parents with children was filled solely with concern for their children's welfare and future. Of course, the world had many people and as many minds, so there were often those who lacked the qualifications of parents, but...
For the sake of their children, most parents could do a great many things, and among them, conversion did not even rank among the most difficult. Unlike the opinions of some clergy, for ordinary farmers religion was both important and not important.
Paradoxical though it was, this was reality, and it was undoubtedly why powerful men of the Church, including the Bishop of Kent, were pressuring Alfred. Having crossed the border between Wessex and the North Sea with his own two feet and seen the difference with his own eyes, Alfred's mind was growing increasingly doubtful.
'Could Wessex truly resist this cold reality?'
He had wrapped a simple story in difficult words, but that was only because Alfred cherished the Catholic faith he had believed in all his life. If he admitted this, it would be no different from conversion.
And the problem tormenting Alfred was exactly this:
Could Catholicism and Wessex truly provide this prosperity and those other miracles to the people?
Could Alfred himself defeat the Fylkir of the North Sea and reclaim the crown of Bretwalda?
"Let's go. Hya!"
[Purruk! Dagtak-dagtak-]
The Wessex escort moved as the Cyning moved forward again, and the cross on their raised banner swayed precariously.
Alfred's doubts and fears, curiosity and hope, grew thicker the deeper he entered the endlessly moving, pulsing heart of Tamworth.
And by the time he reached the palace construction site where white marble was rising everywhere, it had hardened like a lump of stone and refused to release his nerves.
Even without bishops and crosses, the sight of the people living without hindrance in a land cast by the priests of Hel and the death goddess seized and would not release the gaze of the Wessex folk.
And from high in that stone palace, a pair of eyes darker than the green sword hung on the ceiling of the office quietly watched the Cyning of Wessex slowly entering.
*****
Not far east of Hamburg, and not far south of Roskilde.
Alongside the Rus and Svear North Sea warriors who followed him, Oleg had been busily seeking out the surrounding jarls in newly captured Liubice to somehow draw in supplies, and he had been imploring his elder brother—who was daily raising cups and strengthening ties with the large and small tribes along the coast—to receive yet more idle manpower from the Novgorod region.
When he had simply fought without a thought under the Fylkir, he had not known. He had not imagined that looking after a single small circular palisade fortress would be this difficult.
But who was he?
Was he not the man who dared share a name with the Fylkir, and the North Sea's greatest siege master, Oleg, who had conquered Huntadun, Karelia, and now even Liubice?
To kneel before such a trial—the Fylkir's trust, which had so readily believed in Oleg's own plans, was far too heavy a weight.
He would surely succeed! He would surely sweep aside or absorb all the tribes to the east and south of this Liubice and present them to the Fylkir—
"Jarl. Jarl?"
"What is it?"
Damn it. He had been steeling his resolve.
These tactless subordinates of his knew only how to fight; they had no sense of occasion whatsoever.
If there were even a slightly clever one among them, he would push them forward and forward, just as the Fylkir had raised up Seutorolpeu or Refil.
The adjutant from Novgorod, who had not the slightest interest in Oleg's thoughts, reported that some guest had arrived from afar. Oleg, who had only been drawing up plans of conquest and had not given a single thought to diplomatic means, welcomed the guest somewhat flustered.
But after listening to the stranger in unfamiliar garments haltingly introduce himself in broken Norse, Oleg concluded that this was not a matter he could judge on his own.
"Greetings. Ruler of the Northmen. Friend of the foreigners who trade with us. I am a guest sent by Siemowit, king of the Polans (Polanie)? I welcome our meeting?"
The snowball that Lothar had thrown began to roll down the hill.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Material☆☆☆☆☆
Walery Eljasz Radzikowski, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Poland can into space!
This is a picture of Siemowit...! This man is none other than the son of Piast, the founder of Poland...! Since Piast himself is a shadowy figure, they are semi-legendary figures, but they were clearly very, very important people for the West Slavs of this period...!
Krzysztoflew, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
Oleg's ambition.
This is a distribution map of the West Slavs in the 9th century...! Now, in the late 9th century, Siemowit of the Polans was exerting influence in a loose confederation...! Near the Baltic Sea by Örn, there seems to be a tribe that looks like they'd be good at fighting (Prussia)...!
Of course, the Vikings, who dominated the waterways at the time, had established various trading posts along their coastline as well, with Truso in Prussia being particularly famous...! In the original history, this was even a place where a merchant/spy/scholar sent by Alfred the Great of Wessex passed through and left records...!
Ssolbergj, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
The summer of 868. It was summer...
This is the definite territory of the North Sea Empire!!!!!
I will attach the final-of-the-final-real-real-final-v219870, which combines all these various decorations and the current conflict structures, tomorrow!!!!
Today is just a taste!