253. No One Is Without Fault (3).
253. No One Is Without Fault (3).
[Mûsâ rasûl Allâh]
"Moses is the messenger of Allah."
[sururuk-]
As he moved the silver coin between his fingers, Manasseh murmured lowly.
Moses is the messenger of Allah.
This was not a sentence he uttered to revive his own faith, which had already grown jaded from hearing and seeing too many things during long trade journeys and frequent travels.
It was merely an intention to remind himself of the interesting reality he himself faced.
Muḥammad rasûl Allâh
"Muhammad is the messenger of Allah."
Two sentences, suspiciously similar. One written on the silver coins used by the Khazar Khaganate, the other on the silver coins used by the Abbasid Caliphate.
The wise rabbis declared that the Khazar Khagans were moved by the true faith and returned to the side of Yahweh. But Manasseh, who followed the will of the current Khagan, Zachariah, knew well that this saying differed slightly from the truth.
"I am the messenger of Zachariah."
He knew not about the world of those gods, but in reality, the one who brings silver was not so different from a god. As far as Manasseh himself knew, the powerful Khazar Khagans merely followed Judaism to survive between the far more powerful Eastern Roman Empire to the west and the Abbasids to the east.
These pragmatic and cold-hearted hunters would have chosen the Cross had the Eastern Romans believed in Judaism, and would have chosen Islam had the Abbasids believed in Judaism.
Yet, in any case, it was precisely because the Khazar Khagans believed in Judaism that Jewish brothers from the Eastern Roman Empire, the Abbasid realm, the Caucasus Mountains, and elsewhere had flocked to the Khazar lands. For Manasseh, who followed Yahweh while worshipping silver coins at the same time, the Khazar Khagan Zachariah, who expanded the markets and increased the customers, was a benefactor and liege standing just below Yahweh.
Was the great trading caravan he now led on a journey to the distant and mysterious land of the North Sea not proof of that?
[sururuk- ting! tak!]
After flicking the silver coin he had been rolling between his fingers high into the sky and snatching it at the right moment, Manasseh heard the voice of a stranger at his ear.
"The silver coin is very beautiful. The color truly suits these beautiful waves. Don't you agree?"
He turned his head slightly to see a man of striking impression standing there, smiling gently beneath an expensive fur cap.
Was he perhaps in his twenties? The clothes he wore were neat and embroidered with high-quality needlework. A cross. A man from the west.
"Beautiful, and dangerous at the same time. It sometimes blinds the eyes of those who look upon it, you see. I am Manasseh, leading the delegation attending the great festival of the North Sea under the orders of the Khazar Khagan."
He had heard that people of the West held a poor impression of Jews. Manasseh, born in the Khazar Khaganate and having spent his entire life traveling around that region, expected the other party, whose name he did not yet know, to frown or something similar. But the other's smile-filled face did not distort in the slightest.
"Oh! What a coincidence is this? Haha! I am Badoario, leading the delegation sent by Doge Orso of Venice! I am also, humbly, his younger brother."
Frankly, Manasseh did not know well what Venice did, but he could instantly tell that the one before his eyes was no ordinary person. Something more than the air of a warrior he had felt around the Khazar Khagan...
'This one is a merchant.'
One could say the scent of a fellow in the same trade was thick on him.
Instantly raising his guard, Manasseh beamed back just as brightly and gave a slight bow of his head.
"Oh my! You were a person of high standing! On the steppe, it is a disgrace to entertain a noble guest carelessly. Would you please grant me the opportunity to host you, Lord Badoario?"
"Lord Badoario, you do me too much honor. We travel the same way, so naturally we should journey together! Hahaha!"
"Hahahaha!"
While the two exchanged courtesies, their minds were filled with schemes to pry out the items, quantities, and expected prices of the goods the other had brought.
Such scenes were unfolding not only among the merchants of Venice and the Khazars but also among those of the Magyars, Bulgaria, and the Eastern Roman Empire.
As they ascended the Dnieper River, these people beheld the well-maintained roads, the elite fortresses stationed at every rapid, and the fierce warriors of the North Sea. They revised their calculations countless times in their heads and ceaselessly composed the contents of the intelligence they would send back to their respective lords.
The great festival of the North Sea approached right before their eyes.
*****
Late summer in the North Sea, where the preparations for the great festival had been completed.
In Southern Italy and Sicily, a great festival of a different meaning was taking place.
"Attack-!"
"Iyaaaaa!"
The warriors charging frantically threw their entire bodies against the shields of the enemy without feeling their breath fill up to their chins, and between the spear tips coming and going all at once, someone's blood and flesh splattered.
[puk! pupuk! taeng! tatak!]
"Agh!"
"Áli!"
"Keok!"
"Deus! Deus Vult!"
Reggio. Or, in the speech of the people of Sicily across the strait, Riggiu.
Edmund, after relieving the city at the tip of the Italian peninsula and being appointed its Comes with the approval of the Pope and the Eastern Roman Emperor, faced the fierce challenges of the Saracens that approached him one after another.
It was because the Saracens from Al-Andalus and North Africa, who had burst forth in desperation, swarmed in madly—even leaving aside the Saracens east of Egypt who remained quiet due to internal circumstances.
Moreover, these increasingly bold raiders, once they gathered their numbers at some point, began to challenge Edmund in earnest.
[heung-huheung- pak! papak!]
"Kuk!"
"Euuugh!"
Fundamentally, the javelins of the Saracens, who made good use of projectile weapons, were fearsome.
"Cowards are not tolerated! Descendants of Idris! Kill the heathens!"
"Áli has foretold our victory!"
[Yaaaaa!]
Their warriors, packed to the brim with powerful faith and greed, were armed with armor, helmets, and sturdy shields, and they did not retreat easily.
[chaeng! chachaeng! pak! keok! seogeok!]
"Warriors of the true faith! Do not retreat!"
"Warriors of Edmund, protect the Cyning!"
"Cowards die! Take courage!"
However, the ones the Saracens faced were the warriors of Edmund and the vengeance-burning warriors of Calabria (the administrative district where Reggio was located), who had fought without yielding an inch even against enemies that could not possibly be overcome by human strength alone.
While he still lacked any flashy strategies or tactics, Edmund, who had gained the absolute loyalty of his warriors through life-and-death battles against the Fylkir, pulled victory after victory through a boldness that cared not for his own safety.
"Victory! We have won!"
"They are fleeing!"
"Let them go! Any who break formation will be severely punished!"
The more battles they fought in the villages near Reggio with its sturdy walls and along the shore, the more the Angle men who had followed Edmund on that long journey, as well as the men of Calabria, were forged into an elite force.
Before he knew it, having fought frantically all through the summer, Comes Edmund had effectively become Dux of Calabria. His name was being watched not only by the Saracens of Sicily and beyond, but also by Eastern Roman commanders, the Italian Emperor, the Duke of Benevento, and even the Pope.
Edmund paid little heed to the intricate schemes the eminent rulers around him might be devising; he simply carried on with his mission of protecting the weak.
That was when signs appeared that Calabria, at the southernmost tip of the Italian Peninsula, was becoming an independent power centered on Edmund, contrary to the Italian Emperor's intentions.
Edmund accepted an invitation from the Eastern Roman naval commander Niketas Ooryphas, who had ultimately failed to capture Chandax on Crete, boarded his flagship, and soon heard an unexpected proposal.
"Comes Edmund. Since you will soon receive the rank of Dux anyway, allow me to congratulate you in advance."
"It is only natural to rescue our Catholic brothers from the clutches of these heathens; I feel I am being treated far too generously."
"Haha. In this land, there are countless people who fail to do what should be natural."
Such as the pathetic lords of Italy who moved only for their own ambition, for instance.
Niketas did not voice the rest, but somehow those words rang clearly in Edmund's ears.
"The Emperor was deeply impressed by Dux Edmund's achievements. I should certainly have captured Chandax to relieve your burden, but my abilities fell short, and I only showed you a shameful performance; I can barely face you."
Hearing a man who was an admiral of Eastern Rome offer such a sincere apology, Edmund hastily replied.
"What are you saying? Had you not attacked Chandax, my warriors and I would already have fallen to the surging Saracen attacks. On the contrary, it is I who owe you thanks."
"Hahaha. Hearing you say that puts this old soldier's heart a little at ease. Thank you, Dux Edmund."
"As I said, the thanks are mine to give, Droungarios."
After that brief awkward silence, the two men toyed with their cups as they sorted their thoughts.
As expected, having failed to capture Chandax, the enemy would naturally reinforce their defenses and lie in wait for a chance to counterattack. Before the Saracens who kept pouring in from beyond Sicily, the fates of Reggio and Syracuse trembled precariously.
Imperator Ludovicus of Italy also seemed to have failed in his assault on the Saracen city of Bari, east of Calabria.
Once Imperator Ludovicus finally withdrew his army, the lords of southern Italy would now have to face a full-scale Saracen offensive.
Adelchis of Benevento, the leading lord of the south and one of Edmund's patrons, would also find it difficult to provide active support.
Unlike the warriors who mingled with the soldiers of the Eastern Roman fleet anchored near Reggio and celebrated the small victory of capturing 150 heathen prisoners, Edmund's mind was full of worry over the threats yet to come.
Niketas, who had been studying Edmund as he sank deep into his own thoughts, carefully brought out the main subject.
"Dux Edmund. The circumstances surrounding us are difficult, but Eastern Rome will never abandon the people of Calabria and Reggio, nor you, Dux. At this very moment, our central and provincial armies are tied up defending the Aegean coast and have no strength to spare, but fortunately there is one legion the Emperor can dispatch personally... though there is one problem."
Problem?
Was there a problem worse than the Saracens, who would swoop down at any moment and enslave the people of Calabria?
With a stern face, Edmund spoke to Niketas, who was oddly gauging his reaction.
"What is the problem? If it is to protect Reggio and the people of Calabria who took in me and my Angles, I will promise anything I can."
"The name of that legion is the Tágma tōn Varángōn."
"Varangon?"
"Varangian, or in other words, the Northmen."
Northmen.
Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson.
His face rose before him. The man who had looked at Edmund with eyes that acknowledged him after he had struck with all his might in that final duel. Then the darkness that followed, and when he opened his eyes again, Sigebryht's face. His tearful wife, the Angles who had followed a worthless Cyning on that harsh journey.
All those memories flashed past like a revolving lantern, and emotions he thought he had forgotten surged back into Edmund's heart all at once.
Overwhelming fear, wretchedness, shame, self-mockery, resentment.
What had been the reason he overcame all of these? It was to somehow feed and sustain his wife, his warriors, and their families who followed him.
'There is no longer any path I cannot walk. My body is already covered in filth; there is nothing more I cannot endure.'
"Dare I say, no one in this world knows better than I how well the Northmen fight. If I fight alongside them, I will not fear those Saracens. Indeed, it is I who wish to beseech the Eastern Roman Emperor; please, Admiral, do convey our situation here well."
How beautiful was the will of a man who had overcome humiliation.
Facing Edmund's gaze, which even radiated nobility, Niketas could only marvel.
"I shall do so. It will certainly be so. Edmund, you are a true saint."
Was there ever a saint who had lost his country?
A hollow laugh escaped Edmund, but his heart was no longer bitter.
For now, Edmund was determined to block every last Saracen, and if he were given a little more time...
The thought kept rising in his mind: might he not even set his sights on Sicily itself?
For the first time in his life, a deep ambition was swelling in Edmund's breast.
*****
Since the first shovel had not yet been driven for Leon's colossal super-megacity construction plan, there was no heart-stirring ultra-grand Colosseum like the one in the giant diorama.
But the tracks and various arenas adorned with fine wood already bore a fairly professional air.
Just as everyone in Árós was brimming with anticipation and singing about the great festival soon to come, the first guest finally passed through Uppsala.
Basiliskianos, a young noble from Eastern Rome with whom I had ties—commonly shortened to Basilikinos—the current Strategos of Cherson, had personally come to the North Sea.