259. Autumn Butterfly.
259. Autumn Butterfly.
Before we knew it, the final day of the Great North Sea Games had dawned.
Was it because this was the end of the daily routine of eating, watching, playing, sleeping, and waking to eat again that had filled the past few days? Or was it because the event to cap it all off was the horse race? The people below the VIP seats, and even those who had come from all over the world, for this moment at least, forgot all their political schemes and stratagems and were simply wild about the riders entering with such dignity.
"Run like Sleipnir! Odin! Loki!"
"I don't care about the rankings anymore! Unhorse that Khazar bastard!!"
"What, you can ride a horse but not shoot a bow!? Then I can't kill that Magyar slave bastard!"
"Go! Man of Macedonia! Run like a mad Jarl and seize glory!"
[Beep- beep- beepbeep- beeeeep-!]
The crowd was so fiercely heated that the irritable blasts of the whistle were buried. The sound was so immense that I felt as if the canopy of the VIP stand was shaking. Was it because the number of visitors had increased since the last tournament, and the number of participating nations had grown as well?
Leon, who had thrown aside everything—including the sports meet itself—to dive into the full-scale construction of the Árós-Uppsala super-megacity and had personally plunged into surveying with the architects he headhunted. Now I ought to summon the Romanesque-Northmen who had even completed their transfer registration to the North Sea, and order them to build a massive Colosseum at once.
Because if the next tournament got any bigger than this, there would really be a fatal accident.
[Beep- beepbeep- beep-]
"Everyone! Please do not approach the starting line!"
"The horses are getting spooked! Move back a little!"
"Hey there! You blockheads and boneheads! I told you fights are for the tavern!"
"Pleeease listen to what I'm saying!!"
Usually, the deeper the commotion got, the more amusing it was for the onlookers, but those who were running or planning the event just wanted to drop everything and disappear into some thatched hut deep in the mountains.
But Baldr, who was in charge of the overall progress of the tournament, was more like a robot than a human, if you really thought about it, and robots are sensitive creatures when it comes to time.
"What is the City Guard doing now? By the calculations, the riders should be at the starting line by now. I will tolerate no more childishness."
"Yes! Jarl Baldr!"
[Beep- beep- beep— thud-thud- thud-!]
As the expressionless—and thus all the more chilling—Baldr gave the low order with emotionless eyes, the poor practical man, the City Guard Captain, broke out in a cold sweat and rushed to the scene, and soon after, with the heavy sound of hooves, mounted heavily armed warriors entered the chaotic scene.
[Clop- clop- prrrrt! Brrr!]
"Uh- uhh-"
"You there in the back, stop pushing, I said. Understood?"
"I swear by Thor's first beard, I wasn't pushing!"
"Friends who ride from the steppes! If you so badly wish to fight, I shall arrange a separate place for you."
"After much thought, we, unlike those despicable Khazars, are people who know the proper attitude of a guest. How could guests ruin the feast of their host? We desire peace."
"Those Magyar slaves are fellows of lowly origin who do not know proper manners. But we, who have long believed in Yahweh and kept friendly ties with the Eastern Romans, may be called cultured people. We are ashamed."
"Thank you for your cooperation."
[Clop-clop-]
What Baldr and the City Guard had summoned were the riders of the cavalry who had ridden the battlefield with me. As the sort of mobile strike force additionally organized for the safety of not only my family but also the dignitaries stormed in, the reactions of the people who had been shouting at the top of their lungs became exceedingly humble.
The North Sea's helmet, in particular, had a mask that covered the face, because when one met the piercing blue eyes flashing beyond it, even the drunkest person would check their own conduct and straighten up.
When the endlessly surging crowds thus retreated and secured space and order, the contestants finally stepped onto the track, slowly moving their nervous horses and gradually raising their body temperatures.
[Clop-clop-clop- prrr- brrr!]
"Go! Show them!"
[Thud! Thud! Thud!]
"Rome! Rome! Rome!"
In the awkward silence that had descended before the threat to life, the first to summon courage and raise their voices were none other than the Eastern Roman friends. These friends who had come into Árós following Basilikinos had come with the status of merchants, at least nominally, but according to Hrolf's opinion and also in my own thinking, these guests were soldiers or at least retired soldiers.
Rather, as if they welcomed the tension created by the heavy cavalry, they stomped their feet in synchronized discipline and shouted "Rome!"—a sight that was quite impressive.
As expected of the land of chariot racing. The chariot races of the Roman Empire were famous especially for the rivalry between the Green and Blue factions, and a few people dying when things got out of hand was nothing special. Would you believe it went so far that rebellions broke out over chariot races?
Anyway, the Romans, accustomed to such culture, bravely cheered for the rider representing them even amidst the sea of Northmen filling the place.
Naturally, starting with the Northmen who had been staring blankly at this, they all joined in the cheering battle, and soon a very advanced cheering war unfolded in the venue.
[North Sea! clap! North Sea! clap clap! North Sea! clap!]
People shouting "North Sea" with clapping and drums, and the Romans, Magyars, and Khazars yelling out all manner of shouts to oppose that immense roar.
Of course, even in the VIP seats, everyone had long since risen from their spots and joined the cheering battle. What was particularly notable was the adorable sight of Inga and Sigmarr, flushed and excited to the point of their faces burning, or Basilikinos and the Roman legal scholars, who today too had unfurled a blue decorative cloth and were vigorously waving it above their heads.
And there was Constantinos, heartily following the North Sea cheers together with Hrola.
"Hm. Now it's to my liking. The timing is appropriate—and the horses should have loosened up by now."
While all of Árós was steeped in a kind of madness centered around the long track modeled after the Eastern Roman chariot racing stadium, the robot Baldr nodded, glanced up at the sun hanging high in the sky, and then took out a horn and blew it long.
[Bwoooooo—ooooooonnnnng---!]
"Riders, to the starting line!"
"Easy, Gold Ship. Good boy. Good boy."
"Whoa-whoa—it's a big game. My brother of the wind."
[Prrrrt- Prrrr! Prrrrt!]
As one feels when watching Camembert, horses are truly clever creatures. Of course, stablehands say there is no animal more stupid than a horse, but that's probably due to professional antagonism. When it comes to running, these animals are especially perceptive, and their competitive spirit is tremendous—so much so that one of the criteria for a warhorse is a temperament that won't cause trouble when among a group.
So, although they were separated by wooden partitions made by skilled carpenters, it was only natural that the horses, having confirmed the rough breathing sounds next to them and the long track they had seen before entering the starting point, would stir up their fighting spirit.
When the breathing and muscles of the horses, ready to break through the wooden gate blocking their noses and bolt onto the track at any moment, twitched roughly—
The referee, confirming Baldr's nod, put the whistle to his lips.
"On my signal! Riders, ready—!"
"Ready!"
"We'll start on the whistle signal!"
[Burr! Burr! Burrrr!]
The voices of the crowd, cheering vigorously, faded as well, and in the sudden silence that fell, everyone held their breath and gathered their strength.
A whistle that sounded like a bird of prey from a distant sky split the sky over Árós.
[Peeeeeeeep-!!]
[Tak! Dugudugudugu!]
[Yaaaaaaa-!]
"Go! Go!"
"Run! Run!"
The instant the whistle sounded, the lines that had been drawn taut all at once flung open the gates barring the horses, and the exhilarating rush of the riders charging forward, like bowstrings released after being drawn tight, flung wide every throat that had been holding its breath.
The shouts and screams bursting from the dignitaries' seats couldn't contain the excitement either, but the energy of the people surging below was something far closer to a much greater collective mass.
[Dugu-dugu-dugu-]
The riders, blocking or evading each other's paths, pounded down the long track and reached the turning point in an instant. On the faces of those watching them, delight and longing settled, and there were countless who cried out, moved more by the moment itself than by the victory they had so desired.
In a race that required three full laps of the long track, the riders from Northumbria and Mercia, who had exhausted too much strength early on, fell behind, and the true contest began among Rome, Khazar, Árós, Polotsk, and Novgorod, in that order.
For the opening event, the 'heavy infantry combat running,' I had allowed some hitting and shoving since it only resulted in bruises or broken bones, and I told them to do as they pleased. But in a horse race, any collision meant at least serious injury, so I made no concessions on this point.
As a result, a remarkably clean(?) fair play was in effect, but without any variables, it was ultimately difficult to overcome the steppe peoples in horsemanship. Soon, exactly as I had predicted, the two riders who began to surge ahead were those of the Magyars and the Khazars.
The Magyar steed, which looked like running gold itself and to which I had personally bestowed the name Gold Ship (Gullskip), dashed madly neck-and-neck with the pure white Khazar horse right beside it, endlessly lifting the spirits of the people into the heavens above.
"Go! Gold Ship!"
"My money! My money!"
"Faster! Just a little more! Just a little more!!"
"Gaaaaaar!"
[Dugudugudugu- Yaaaaaa!]
Even within the colossal roar of the humans surrounding them, the madly dashing gold and silver charges ended at last with a victory for the gold, which mustered just a little more strength in the final stretch, and everyone stretched both arms toward the sky and let out a cheer.
[Clap clap clap clap!]
"Well done!"
"Truly brilliant! A fine fight!"
"This is Valhalla! Oh Odin! I'm not going to Valhalla!"
"Árós! Árós! Árós!"
"Gold Ship! Gold Ship! I spotted you back in the last tournament! You're the strongest!"
"Die, you underdog-betting bastards! Become my money! Ha-ha-ha!"
The wild delight and despair of the gamblers were sharply divided here and there, but for the moment, it was more urgent to listen to the dignitaries, all brimming with laughter.
"Lord Fylkir! Everyone in Constantinople shall hear tell of this glorious spectacle! And how about holding the next tournament in our Constantinople? The Emperor, no, the nobles of Eastern Rome will spare no support! Above all, the chariot races absolutely must—"
"Ha ha ha. I thank you, Basilikinos! Let us consider that matter in due course! Seeing the skill of the Roman rider today, I feel I can understand, even if just a little, the immense power of the Roman Empire!"
"You are too kind! Lord Fylkir! The chariot races, without fail—"
"Congratulations, Fylkir! Truly astonishing!"
"Oh! I hope our brother from Lotharingia thoroughly enjoyed the tournament!"
Chariots, my ass.
Who talks about chariots in the 9th century? Weren't those anachronistic weapons already extinct before Christ?
Actually, I was a little afraid. Because I had seen the Romans' love for chariot racing with my own two eyes. Whatever else might be said, the Eastern Romans were indeed the best at chariot racing on this earth right now.
In any case, once the awards ceremony for the victors was over, we would move with the winners to Fylkir's Hill and hold a banquet to conclude the festival.
And then winter would come again.
For a long while, I conversed with the dignitaries who crowded around me in a flurry, conveying the excitement of the tournament exactly as they felt it. Leaving behind those who still couldn't collect themselves and talked to each other in agitated tones, clutching at one another, I approached Inga and Sigmarr. Sigmarr had his mouth shut tight in the shape of an 's' and was leaning against Inga's chest.
What? What's going on?
I hurriedly sent Inga a glance, and Inga, who grew more beautiful as time passed, smiled awkwardly and shook her head side to side. Then she moved her lips soundlessly to convey the story.
'He's sulking because Bukhae lost.'
Oh, damn.
I had heard that children sulk for all sorts of reasons, and Sigmarr, who until now had slept well and given us no trouble at all, had become sulky at the defeat of his favorite team (Bukhae, Árós).
What on earth was I supposed to do about this? I had absolutely no idea right at this moment.
The flustered novice father fidgeted restlessly, twisting his body this way and that, not knowing what to do with himself. Finding the sight so ridiculous, Inga let out a low laugh and gestured for me to sit down beside her.
Following that command, I sat down and stole a glance at Sigmarr. His two eyes, glistening with tears, and the snot about to reveal itself at the tip of his adorable little nose were too funny. But if I laughed here, I had no idea what kind of catastrophe might unfold. So, desperately suppressing my laughter, I leaned my body toward Sigmarr and wiped the tip of his nose for him.
"Sigmarr. You cute little thing. My son."
While I was at it, I touched his soft, chubby cheek once as well.
"We lost today, but next time will be different. Just as you grow up big and strong, Sigmarr, we will catch up to them little by little and overcome them in the end. So put away your tears and smile. Your mother is worried, isn't she."
"Heu- heu-a- Abu-"
At my soothing voice, Sigmarr finally let fall a single round teardrop, and then, sniffling vigorously, he stretched out his adorable little arms toward me.
I carefully received the pitiful little creature from Inga's arms and confined him in my own. My son buried his head deeply and devoted himself to feeling my warmth.
I gazed down at the crown of Sigmarr's head, where the hair was slowly growing out in abundance, and felt a whirl of emotion I could never put into words. Then, on my other shoulder, the weight of another crown of a head made itself known.
I felt sorry for Sigmarr, but the owner of the most beautiful crown in this world, Inga. My wife looked upon me and Sigmarr together with eyes full of happiness, like a lioness who had just eaten her fill.
"Helgi. I think I'm carrying our second."
The whispered voice became a thunderbolt that struck the inside of my head, and even Sigmarr, who had been sniffling diligently, raised his head with a start.
Soon, it was autumn.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Jean-Léon Gérôme, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
The reason one can't help but be crazy about chariot racing.
Can you feel the dynamism even just through the painting...! Ah... you can feel the power even just from the picture...!
Of course, the stadium in Árós right now doesn't have that level of... sharp angles? But the shape is roughly similar...! It's only natural since we benchmarked it from Eastern Rome... but as more time passes, Árós will also be equipped with a massive stadium...!!!!