254. No One Is Without Fault (4).
254. No One Is Without Fault (4).
"Hahaha. This is truly unusual. Most astonishing."
A great fleet vigorously parting the sea, flying the cross of Rome.
The man bursting with admiration at the very front of the ships advancing with tremendous momentum was none other than the lord of Cherson, Basilikinos. He was Rome's envoy, dispatched with the personal attention of the Eastern Roman Emperor.
"This is the empire of a man who has only been enthroned for less than five years? In ten years' time, it will be the Rome of the northern sea. I truly cannot believe it..."
Basilikinos repeatedly praised the somber yet warm beauty of the North Sea.
Though this man was a purebred noble born and raised in Constantinople, Europe's greatest city, and thus possessed an exceedingly refined and discriminating eye, the coastline stretching from Uppsala to Árós—where the characteristically imposing North Sea motifs and Roman delicacy blended together—was indescribably impressive even to him.
"What do you think, Eustathios? Our Roman merchants are already calling this North Sea coast the 'Argyros (ἄργυρος, shining, silver)' coast."
The reason the emperor favored this young and ambitious noble, Basilikinos, was partly because he excelled in martial arts enough to serve as cavalry commander, possessed a sharp mind, and came from a good family background, but more important than all of that was the fact that Basilikinos had a lively, bouncing wit.
"Haha. Strategos, the name of the family people call my own has lost its luster before the mystery of this North Sea. This place is that beautiful. To the degree that, were I not a Roman, I would want to settle here at once."
The way he delivered such somewhat mischievous content so lightly showed that Basilikinos was no ordinary man, but the appearance of the man receiving it was also far from common.
He contrasted slightly with Basilikinos, who was so polished and refined that anyone would say, "Ah, that person is someone of high standing." Yet the young man with neatly trimmed brown hair and a similarly clean-shaven face already had the look of a veteran warrior who had seen blood.
His name was Eustathios Argyros (Εὐστάθιος Ἀργυρός).
He was the heir of the Argyros (meaning silver) family, a powerful house of Cappadocia (territory in Anatolia, Asia Minor) that the now-Fylkir of the North Sea, Konungr Helgi, had advised drawing in to weaken regional influence and strengthen central control when he left Constantinople. He was already a general who had earned merit in the battles against the Muslims.
The emperor had employed a far more flexible and dignified stratagem than simply oppressing the powerful lords of Anatolia and inciting new conflicts. It was to bring in the outstanding sons of powerful families and have them compete against one another.
Perhaps in the next round of recruitment, he would reach out to the powerful families of Greece, and then after that, reach out to Anatolia once more.
The powerful lords of the provinces would compete in loyalty to grasp the emperor's hand and advance toward the center, and consequently, the authority of the Roman Emperor—who had risen to the highest station since Justinian the Great—would grow ever more solid.
'Once the Empire is united, the first place the hammer will strike is you. Muslims of the East.'
Rome did not forget grudges.
Admiral Niketas was fervently advocating for an assault on Chandax (Crete) in the empire's southern seas, but Basilikinos, whose inclinations leaned closer to the army if forced to choose, regarded the Abbasid family in the east as a far greater threat.
"If you wished it, I would speak to the Fylkir of the North Sea for you. Could the one who rules this vast and mysterious land not grant you a single house? And would a man of your skill not be of great help to the Fylkir? Hahaha!"
"If I can somehow settle things with the Muslims of the east, then I will seriously consider it. But until then, I will fight for Rome and the emperor."
"A jest, a jest. Handing an excellent commander like you over to this North Sea, no matter how powerful an ally, is absolutely out of the question. More importantly, the condition of the gifts we are to present to the Fylkir—there are no issues, I trust?"
Rome was ruthless to those who dared raise a blade against it, but even more ruthless to its friends.
What did that mean? It meant that betrayal was Rome's very identity. Good faith? That was something kept by children of a lower weight class... it did not suit Rome.
But the North Sea was different. One had to show one's best face by any means necessary to the conversable bears, wolves, and the dragon that led them.
The logic that everyone surrounding me was an enemy did not apply, at the very least, to the North Sea and its ruler. Above all, the distance was far too great, and the Dnieper River had somehow transformed into a lifeline for the Romans.
In accordance with such a cold internal assessment, the Roman personnel and tribute heading for the North Sea were more splendid and abundant than ever before.
"Of course, Strategos. Lord Damian gave us truly great help. Had it not been for him, we could not have known the preferences of the Fylkir and his family so precisely. At this great festival of the North Sea, our Roman Empire shall remain the most honored guest."
Basilikinos nodded with a satisfied expression at the confident words of Eustathios.
His clever mind was already drifting back to the day he had received the emperor's secret orders.
'Do you understand, Basilikinos? A contest is only entertaining when it is fierce, and the team I support must win. I mean for the North Sea's athletes to stand out. I shall reward the Roman athletes generously enough that they will not be left wanting, so ensure they understand this fully and keep their mouths shut.'
'How could there be any doubt, Basileus? I shall not disappoint you.'
As expected of the emperor, who was once even called the mastermind behind the chariot races, he had pointed out the part Basilikinos had missed. A remarkable man. Incidentally, during the time when the emperor was deeply immersed in chariot racing, the Green faction never lost even once. In the end, a contest must be rigged.
'Of course, from the standpoint of the North Sea and Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson, this Olympiad is a grand festival, but from the perspective of the rulers surrounding the North Sea, it is an opportunity. If they can earn even a little of the North Sea Fylkir's favor, the comfort of this winter may be decided. Is that not terrifying? I am terrified. Because this dependence will only grow stronger in the future.'
What the emperor spoke of was precisely the food problem. Though the produce of the Roman Empire was superior to that of the North Sea and its technology better, it could not compare in the least when it came to wheat, meat, and fur.
The reports sent by the scholars and clergy who had gone up to the North Sea were filled with unbelievable contents, and the ships of the merchants endlessly ascending and descending the Dnieper River did not lie.
In a sense, the emperor's fear was only natural. For now, it was limited to extolling the Fylkir's name, but what if a drought far more devastating than last year's struck, or a brutal winter came? What if such times continued for years?
Given the hot-blooded nature of the people of Constantinople, it would not be strange at all if the emperor's name were to change on the spot, and there was no room for doubt that whoever that name might be, they would be someone who presented a more amicable face toward the Fylkir of the North Sea.
It was a story everyone kept quiet about before the bishops, but was he not a demigod blessed by the goddess Hera herself? A tragic hero born into this distant and harsh land of the Northmen by the gods' mistake.
'So we must be guests, yet maintain the posture of hosts. My heart is uneasy, as it seems I am only burdening you with unreasonable requests.'
'Please, take back those words. Serving the emperor is my joy.'
'Hehehe. The sight of you galloping on horseback is still vivid before my eyes, and now you have become a seasoned politician.'
'I am merely what the emperor wishes me to be.'
'Hahaha. Basilikinos, Basilikinos! I must summon you again before long. Ah, and do cultivate a bit of friendship with the person the Frankish Imperator Lothar will send. Deliver the letter I shall send as well. Do you understand?'
That the emperor, who bore antipathy toward Ludovicus of Italy and indeed all the Frankish chieftains in general, would personally call him Imperator. Basilikinos carefully filed the name Lothar away in his mind.
He did not know exactly what designs the emperor held for the lands of the Franks, the territory of the old empire, but sometimes knowing too deeply was only a danger.
'I will fulfill every task you have commanded without fail.'
'Return in good health. You and I have much work to do.'
[Buuuuuuuuung- - - !!!]
"The North Sea welcomes us. Strategos!"
He was putting on the air of a veteran commander, but did a vigorous young man still reside within after all?
Eustathios spoke, revealing an excitement he could not quite conceal, and Basilikinos, roused from his reverie, replied with a grin.
"Even the sound of the horn seems different here. Let our friends know that Rome has arrived."
"Yes! Strategos! All hands, raise the banners. Sound our pipes."
"Raise the banners-!"
"Sound the pipes!"
"Move briskly! Do you still call yourselves soldiers of Rome acting like that!"
"Do not show a shameful appearance before our allies!"
[Furl- furl- baaaaaaaam - !!!]
A fleet of no less than thirty ships simultaneously hoisted their giant red banners, and the metallic sound of brass instruments, distinct from the horns, answered the majestic sound of the North Sea.
Gazing at the ever-closer form of Árós, Basilikinos felt a sudden sensation as if he were heading toward a city of legend.
[Swaa-]
"There! It's Árós-!"
*****
[Baaaaaaam - !!!]
How boisterously they came.
Every corner of Árós had been touched by Leon's hand and blossomed with a North Sea-Roman hybrid culture, and this waterfront could not escape that fate either.
Our Northmen tradition of basically building a long wooden platform and tying ships to it, or just hauling them up roughly onto the shore, had by then gloriously oxidized into a beautiful old memory.
In its place stood a massive harbor constructed from a wondrous mix of Eastern Roman special cement that hardened even underwater, sturdy granite that had been stubbornly split, and marble that crumbled into fine pieces if I applied just a little bit of force.
By a rough count made in Árós, more than a hundred ships visited this city in a single day, so this harbor had since been repurposed for honored guests, and other vessels had to anchor at the shoreline before reaching Árós.
When I first reached Miklagard (Constantinople), I had wondered why a single city needed so many harbors, and it seemed that curiosity had been resolved through Árós's own development.
Unlike the Roman Emperor's personal harbor, which had been distinguished by the lion and the bull, this one mainly featured a dragon, the goddess Hel, and, according to the excuses of the sculptor who had followed Leon, what was supposed to be a likeness of the god Tyr—though no matter how I looked at it, a statue that looked just like me gazed down upon the approaching Roman ships with a solemn expression.
[Swaa- swaa-]
'Now the ships' hull heights have become roughly comparable, I see.'
Of course, Roman ships were also changing to more easily navigate the rugged Dnieper River, but the sight of their bows resembling those of our new North Sea vessels made my chest swell with pride, as if we were catching up to Eastern Rome in one thing or another.
If only I could somehow obtain that flamethrower that Rurik and Oleg, Haskuldr and Djur had praised so highly, I felt we could secure maritime supremacy for at least the next hundred years.
I had been prodding continually through Damian, but that cunning old snake was not an easy man, as expected.
But time was on my side, and so was the terrain our nation occupied. The North Sea only needed to mind its southern approaches, while Eastern Rome had to watch all four cardinal directions.
Someday, without fail, they would have to face a threat, and when that time came, I could aim for it again.
[Swaaaaa- hwik- tuk- deureureuk-]
A rope flew from the Roman ship as it touched the pure white wharf, and the laborers who had been waiting in advance tied the sturdy rope to a protrusion made of granite.
And then, a gangplank descended from the Roman ship.
'Why hadn't I thought of that?'
As North Sea ships were gradually growing wider and taller, the time had come to utilize gangplanks.
We had been nimbly hopping right off the ships all this time, but that was surely because my physical body was too extraordinary, preventing me from feeling the necessity.
While I was noting this in my mind, thinking I had learned yet another thing, a welcome face descended from the sleek Roman ship, and I immediately stepped forward to greet him, loudly calling out my comrade-in-arms' name.
"Basilikinos! It has been far too long!"
"Hahaha. The Strategos of Rome beholds Helgi Ragnarsson, the Rex (an honorific for a foreign king) of Rome and Fylkir of the North Sea."
The Roman guest, first in the North Sea's order of precedence, had finally arrived, and soon after, the lords from Lotharingia, the Magyars, the Khazars, and all corners of the North Sea would arrive.
This festival was truly going to be joyful and immense. I could not keep the smile from my face.