255. The Helm of Awe.
255. The Helm of Awe.
Starting with Basilikinos of the Eastern Roman Empire, guests arrived one after another.
As a result, the great palace was so crowded that it felt full to bursting. Sons of leading chieftains from the Magyars and Khazars had come aboard Bukhae's ships, while Lotharingia chose to come overland via Frisia.
Other notable names included Venice, and the names of tribes bordering the Eastern Sea—the Ests, Livs, and Rani—caught my attention.
I hoped the festival would please them. From what I had quietly observed, the representatives of each tribe were looking somewhat dazed, their mouths hanging open, and they kept turning their heads in all directions.
They had probably come expecting the grassy smell of a longhouse, and the sight and smell of this white palace full of stone made their heads spin.
Was this the joy of winning a cultural victory? Was this why the old Roman emperor Nero had burned down the city?
Perhaps I had chosen a poor example, but in any case, the guests seemed satisfied so far, which set my mind at ease. After all, this was the first event where Bukhae and I had formally welcomed guests. I must have been more anxious about it than I realized.
"Oh, Fylkir! Great chieftain of the Sámi, Suomi, and Finns! I offer you the hide of a bear that passed peacefully, in accordance with the will of the Thunder God and the sacred elk...!"
"This precious bear hide, for me? I have received a truly great gift! Please be sure to convey my heartfelt gratitude to the chieftains of the north. This winter and ever after, the doors of Bukhae will always be open wide to our brothers."
"Our spears are yours!"
And so, in the great reception hall bustling with all manner of faces and clothing, such heartwarming gift exchanges were held.
"Fylkir, is it truly so that Lord Sigmarr has not yet lived through even one winter...?"
"That is so. Will you look at these chubby cheeks? Children are truly mysterious beings. You look away for a moment, and they've grown so fast. Come, Sigmarr. Greet him! This man is Basilikinos, who stood beside me on the battlefield."
"Oo- ah- an-nyung?"
"Oh! He said hello!"
"It is an honor to meet you. You are the first child to be called by name. I am Basilikinos of the Eastern Roman Empire, who fought alongside the Fylkir."
"Ba-ga- eu-oo- sig!"
"Oh! This time he said nice to meet you! Hahaha! Sigmarr! You lovely little rascal!"
"...Truly, if I had not seen and heard it with my own eyes and ears, I would not have believed it..."
I could hear the stunned Basilikinos muttering something about the blood of Olympus or whatever, but I paid no attention, too busy pressing my cheek against Sigmarr's soft cheek.
Did you see that! My son is a genius!! Hahahaha!!!
I did not want to place any burden on the child, but as a parent, the fact that I could boast of my child to the people around me and the renowned figures of the world was truly a great blessing and happiness.
My wish that he grows up healthy and strong remained unchanged, but the heart of a parent is such that the more praise you hear, the more expectations and pride swell up for no good reason. Even as I thought I should be wary of this feeling and restrain it, I could not hold back the laughter that burst out.
Thus, with Sigmarr and Inga, I received gifts from delegations visiting from all over the world, exchanged well-wishes, gave appropriate gifts in return, and opened up avenues for future trade—time flew by in a blur, and before I knew it, it was the day of the first event, the Heavily Armed Sprint.
"Athletes, to your positions!"
[Piiiik- Piiiiiii-]
"Ladies and gentlemen of the audience! This is already the fifth time! Please do not cross the line! Stay behind the line!!"
"Stop blowing that squeaking instrument! It's killing my ears!"
"Then step back! Please, listen!!"
[Piii- Piii-]
"You Odin's arse-hair bastards! Screw it, athletes, get ready!!"
[Shu- Pik- Pik- Pik- Piiiiii-!!!]
"Go!!"
"Yaaaa-!"
"Go! Go!!"
"Roma!! Roma!!"
"If you lose to those Khazar colts, you'll have to swim back!!!"
"Shoot those Magyar bastards!"
[Yaaaa-!!]
It was truly a pleasure to see such a warm and friendly atmosphere.
At the feast the night before the tournament began in earnest, Basilikinos had approached me, pretending to pour wine, and spoke secretly. The gist was that the Roman athletes would give their best effort, but he wore a subtle smile as if he were giving me some sort of signal, so I could roughly tell what this skilled schemer from the Eastern Roman Empire was thinking.
Naturally, I put on a stern face and told him such things were not in keeping with the character of us Bukhae people, and that I expected an honorable contest. Basilikinos, seeming uncertain, replied that he understood, but his expression...
He had been meeting with Damian in the deep dawn hours—had he been learning nothing but slyness?
It wasn't just the Eastern Roman figures; the Magyars and Khazars, who were shouting at each other to shoot, and even Mirosław of Polotsk—a capable man of our Marmaros Council (the Bukhae merchant group) with the official chief Ivar absent—all seemed to be meeting with various people and opening up trade.
Since winter was near, food would be the main export. Lotharingia and Venice had even asked about wheat, jerky, and herring, and interestingly, whether they could procure steel, weapons, and armor.
Lotharingia seemed to be trying to check their burdensome kinsmen to the west and from Örn, and as for Venice, I had no idea what their reasons were, but for now, iron weapons were in such short supply even for our own use that I had to refuse.
We had persuaded the master smith, Randi, chosen a site, and started training craftsmen in earnest, but raising those who hammer steel could take even more time than raising warriors. Bukhae's capacity was still insufficient to produce the rice of industry—steel—as if it were real rice.
But beneath those long northern mountain ranges of Scandinavia lay countless ore veins beyond imagination, and Árós's population kept growing, so in time, time itself would solve our shortcomings.
[Chok! Chok! Chok! Chok!]
"Gasp! Heok- heok- gasp!"
"A little faster! Run just a little faster!"
"Aaah! I really want to run!"
"The finish line is right in front of you! Son of the Divine Eagle! Gather your strength!"
"Roma!! Roma!! Roma!!"
"Yaaaaa!"
[Chik! Chik! Chik! Chik!]
"Garrraaaaaagh!!"
"Gandrraaaagh!"
North Sea, Greek, Magyar-Khazar, and Frankish tongues flew around the arena in a frenzy. Just like the fervor down below, the eyes of the spectators in the VIP seats, erected at a slightly higher vantage point, were rolling back in their heads all the same.
Originally, my idea had been to think of track and field, the crown jewel of the 21st-century Summer Olympics, and choose the short-distance run as the opening event of this Grand North Sea Athletic Meet...
But my pure sporting mind had long since been butchered and modded by the grubby hands of 9th-century humanity, transforming it into a run where 'heavily armed warriors sprint a designated distance while punching, kicking, and bleeding all over each other until the final, last man crosses the finish line.'
[Puk! Kwang! Ppak! Keok! Aaak!]
And so, the result, as you could see, was a blood-soaked mixed martial arts sprint unfolding before our eyes. With the two superstars, Kveldulf Bjalfason and Vadim—the renowned boxing and wrestling powerhouses of the North Sea and Polotsk—absent, skilled fighters from all over the world had risen up to take their place.
These men dragged their heavy armor along as they ran, struggling with every step, yet still found time to throw punches at their neighbors' helmets and ribs, or hook a leg to trip someone up. Enraged, even as they tumbled, they would grab the ankle of the man ahead and start a wrestling match right there on the track.
I, who had hoped for athletics, could hardly bear to watch what in the world was unfolding, but the people of the North Sea, including the VIPs, were going wild over this novel sport.
"Go! Rome! Ram right into them!"
[Kwang!]
"Iyaha!"
"Cut off the Khazar bastard's neck!! Smash the Khazar bastard's limbs!!!"
"Kick the Magyar slave's hamstrings out!!"
In particular, the newly emerged Khazar-Magyar rivalry was of an indescribable ferocity. While the warriors from the North Sea, Rome, and Lotharingia running far ahead were at least trying to somehow reach the finish line, the Magyar and Khazar warriors merely huffed and snorted, seeming to have forgotten the rules entirely as they targeted nothing but each other's torsos.
Of course, with sturdy chainmail and thick padded cloth armor, plus gauntlets and helmets on, a human's bare fists and kicks could not deliver any truly effective blows. So in the end, the Magyar and Khazar competitors just rolled around on the ground, kicking up dust. But anyway, the nearby crowds were cheering fervently, so perhaps it was not so bad.
"Coming in! They're coming in!"
"No! Kick the Polotsk bastard in the crotch!!!"
"Stop him even if you have to tear out every hair from the Novgorod bastard's head!!!!"
[Chik! Puk! Chik! Keok! Chik! Taeng-! Chik! Kung! Urrur- Waaaaa-!!!]
The heavy, tank-like figures jostled and fought as they ran, until their feet finally tangled together right in front of the finish line, sending them all crashing down at once.
The list of the final five standing included one warrior from our Árós, one from Jorvik, two from Novgorod and Polotsk, and finally, one warrior from Rome.
At the sudden collision, people clutched their hearts and stared at the judges. The panel, who had been watching the finish line with their eyes practically bugging out, quickly conferred in whispers before sounding a long blast of the whistle.
'Damn.'
[Piiiiiiii-]
Of course, having already discerned the outcome with my superior eyesight, I just clicked my tongue in bitter disappointment. Soon, silence descended upon the arena, except for the fallen contestants scattered here and there and the Magyar-Khazar fighters still brawling further back. The referee's booming voice then announced the victor.
"First place! The warrior of Eastern Rome! Andreas!"
[Piiiiiiiiii-!]
"What! We won! Roma Invicta!!!"
"Waaaaa! We won!! Andreas! Andreas!"
"Andreas for Constantinople! Andreas for Constantinople!!"
"This is outrageous!! Referee! How much silver did you stuff in your gullet?!"
"Have all your eyes gone crooked?!"
[Piiiiiiii-! Pip! Pip!]
"Enough! Only the distinguished guests may lodge a protest! If you come any closer, you will be banned from entering all arenas hereafter!"
"Stand back! Stand back, I say!"
[Yaaaaaaa!]
Amid the chaos of cheers and protests, Baldr, the chief overseer standing silently on his high platform, showed not a single twitch of expression. How in the world had a robot-like man like that come from under a monster like Ivar...? Did opposites truly attract?
In any case, faced with the crowd rejoicing in victory—likely those who'd bet silver on the longshot Rome—and the crowd bristling with rage, Baldr mercilessly blew his whistle and advanced the guards. The commotion quickly subsided under his force of will.
Medical staff, their tunics stitched with the North Sea's unique helmet sigil in red thread, were hastily deployed not only to peel apart the Magyar-Khazar warriors still fighting down below but also to treat the injured. As the madly fevered atmosphere gradually began to settle, the VIPs in their seats still could not hide their excitement. They guzzled down their cups or stared at each other, shaking their heads as if they could not believe what they had just witnessed.
"Waaaaaa-!!! Roma Invicta!!!! God is with us!!! Basileus! Are you watching?! The sons of Rome have won!!!"
Among them, one man stood on the railing, tearing off the decorative blue cloth bound at his waist and swinging it around in a circle, his eyes even welling with tears.
"Rome!! Rome!! Rome!!"
'Basilikinos, didn't you tell me you were going to fix the matches?'
Forget match-fixing, had that been a ploy all along to make me let my guard down? Truly Eastern Rome. Well then, from now on, I would be sincere too.
"...Hrolf. Relay the order that the prize money for the contestants is to be tripled."
"...I shall empty my own private coffers as well, Fylkir."
So far, only the first event of the first day of the tournament had concluded. Yet somehow, I felt as if I had just witnessed the starting point of a long and fiercely waged rivalry to come.
"Rome!! Rome!!!"
"Begin the next event at once!"
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Dbh2ppa, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
This is the sigil borne by the medical personnel of the North Sea in the story, the Helm of Awe—Ægishjálmr!!!!
Eight tridents guard the eight directions... and outside this border, three more great serpents lie, so that any who approach are bitten first and poisoned with venom...!
Naturally, it is a sigil of protection, and these days it is also a very popular choice for a tattoo!!
In Helgi's world, it is highly likely to gradually become the sigil of medical personnel, much like the Red Cross...!!!