264. Crescent Moon, Cross, and Pure White Bones (2).
264. Crescent Moon, Cross, and Pure White Bones (2).
"Helgi. I've decided to shave my head."
Good god, in this world, saying such a thing against Hel's enviable locks.
What on earth did that mean?
It was late at night in Árós. Ivar, Nanna, all my siblings were busy people, so to have private conversations with one another, we had to seek out such late hours to meet.
I had to make sure Inga and Sigmarr went to bed, and my second eldest brother had to be wrung out by our stepmother like laundry spinning in a dehydrator, then meet with Baldr and his wife to share all the stories they hadn't been able to until now.
But had our stepmother's dehydrator performance been too intense?! Out of the blue, Ivar declared with a grave face that he would shave his head.
"Ivar. There's still, still some left. Please, don't abandon hope."
Even as the words left my mouth, my voice steadily lost conviction. Because Ivar's hair had gradually thinned and dwindled to the point that it could barely be called hair anymore.
My meager consolation might only wound Ivar, I realized. With that in mind, I hastily swallowed my words.
"Thank you, little brother."
The sight of Ivar forcing a smile and drinking down his cup at my cautious reaction was pitiful. Someone who didn't understand our culture might wonder if such a thing was truly worth such sorrow.
But the grooming of hair and beard was one of the very, very important parts of North Sea culture.
For example, though slaves were now vanishing, at least in the lands I ruled, short hair had originally been a mark of a slave. It meant those of low station were not permitted to grow their hair.
Thus, hairstyle was a kind of right that free men, warriors, nobles, and royals could exercise, so people were exceedingly sensitive about it. Nor was it just hairstyle—the North Sea people, who loved to adorn themselves, even dyed their hair with soap mixed with lye.
Isn't it rather hip, fussing over hairstyles and even dying hair in the 9th century?
And so, from Ivar's perspective, shaving his head was a mar upon his pride as a person, as a man, as a royal.
Perhaps his heart had undergone some change while roaming those vast Khazar plains, or perhaps he had finally reached some immense decision.
Faced with the bitter smile of this wound-laden Ivar, I could offer him no further comfort.
Still, his head shape is nice, so won't it suit him well? While he's at it, coolly shaving it all off, how about growing his beard long? Or maybe try a scalp tattoo?
No. All of that was merely the deceit of the full-haired, and would only add to his grief. Wait, most of the body's tissues, including hair, are heavily influenced by genetics. So does that mean Baldr might also...? Are all us siblings alright?
I desperately suppressed the hand that was subtly creeping toward my own hair. Forcing a smile, I changed the subject.
"Haha. Speaking of which, how were Rome and Khazaria? With Stórolf gone, there's no one else to ask, really."
It was a truly awkward pivot, but fortunately, Ivar didn't find fault with it. He simply drew out a comb carved from reindeer antler from within his clothes and carefully swept it through his last leaves—the few remaining strands of golden hair.
"Stórolf probably won't be able to show his face for a while. He has three prospective wives, right? It's manly and all well and good, but that fellow needs to grow up a bit now. Married life is happy, but also difficult at the same time. Three wives...? I'd rather shave my head a hundred times over."
Ivar shook his head from side to side. Having sorted out his feelings to some degree, he spoke of shaving his head as if it were now a matter of no consequence and slipped the comb back into his clothes.
"In Rome, I met their finance minister, Petronas. He mentioned he was acquainted with you, and he showed us great favor. Opened a splendid banquet, let us enjoy the sight of willowy women dancing, and passed along some confidential words."
Having emptied his cup of ale, Ivar now filled it with wine.
"The Khazar Khagan was saying something similar. In conclusion, our friends to the east fully intend to clash properly with the turbaned bastards. The timing? Perhaps after this winter passes, somewhere between spring and summer?"
Following Ivar's lead, I too drained my cup of mead in one go. We'd already emptied one cask. But countless more barrels of mead still slumbered in my underground cellars. The honeybees of the North Sea were flourishing under the care of their beekeepers.
"Both the Eastern Romans and the Khazars wanted our North Sea warriors, food, weapons, and armor. The Eastern Romans seemed to want warriors a bit more, and the Khazars seemed more interested in food. There's not much to eat out on those steppes, after all. In any case, they didn't seem to expect an immediate answer from me, and asked me to speak well of it to you, Helgi. Thanks to that, I received all sorts of gifts."
Wining, dining, and bribing the envoys of important nations was something that happened regardless of era or place. For Ivar, who had endured hardship in a distant land, even missing his son's wedding, such ancillary income was more than well-deserved.
Pretending not to notice the unfamiliar amber ring glinting on Ivar's finger, I shifted my cup to my left hand and propped my chin on my right.
"This situation is getting quite interesting. As it happens, in the west, we're already fighting the turbaned ones from al-Andalus."
"In the west? Have Björn and Hásteinn set out on another Great Expedition?"
His eyes flashing at the story of the western sea, Ivar leaned his body forward and coolly drank his wine. All the Ragnarsson brothers were famous as drinkers who never truly got drunk (except Sigurd).
"No. Björn and Hásteinn haven't personally stepped in."
Not yet.
But I had a feeling that eldest brother Björn and his soulmate Hásteinn were preparing something.
"Instead, it seems Wessex's Alfred has been running wild to some effect. West Frankia's Imperator Thor, Björn of Rouen Fortress, and Wessex's Alfred have joined forces to fight against the Muslim pirates of al-Andalus. The heat keeps intensifying."
"Wessex? Well, one truly lives long and sees it all."
Bursting into laughter and crinkling the corners of his eyes, Ivar pondered something for a moment, then shook it off and filled his cup with mead.
"Truly, the affairs of this world cannot be foreseen an inch ahead. The son of that Æthelwulf, commanding longships under my youngest brother? Hahaha!"
With Ivar's words, we siblings each sank into deep thought.
I lowered the hand that had been propping my chin and held the leather cup with both hands. I pressed my two thumbs together and moved them idly this way and that, without any real meaning.
No matter how I looked at it, directly dispatching troops to the Eastern Roman Empire and Khazaria held no particular benefit for us Northmen. Just look at the sprawling shape of the lands that had come under the wings of the North Sea. Stretched too long left and right, and far too wide top and bottom.
Granted, without abundant blessings, most of it was useless mountains, swamps, wetlands, and hills. But as long as I was alive with both eyes wide open, the population would keep rising up and to the right, and food production was already a graph line punching vertically through the atmosphere and breaking it.
At this rate, in ten years. In twenty years, we would naturally be nearing global hegemony. I had no wish to shove the precious lives of my warriors into wars in faraway lands.
Instead, the food that our North Sea friends desired could be sent down right this very moment. High-quality weapons and armor too—if the establishment and operation of the industrial complex and academy of sorts (...) that Master Smith Randi and her apprentices were working on proceeded as planned, we could supply a considerable quantity.
"Ah, and. I heard some interesting news from Eastern Rome."
Ivar, who had been deep in thought for a while, raised his head as a forgotten memory surfaced.
"Helgi, you still remember Edmund Cyning of East Anglia, don't you? That brave one you spared. I had been wondering where he went, and it seems he was in Eastern Rome after all. They say he's fighting those turbaned fellows somewhere down in the southern part of Italy, and the Eastern Roman treasurer looked quite pleased about it. Really, the longer you live, the more you see in this world. Isn't that right?"
"Edmund?"
Edmund was in southern Italy?
I wasn't sure whether to call this fortunate that he was alive and well, or lament Edmund's strangely fated lot that he was now fighting Muslims, of all places, there.
"Yes, the longer you live, the more you see."
I briefly met Ivar's eyes, sharing thoughts and feelings through gazes of the same color, then drained my cup in one go. This time, I poured beer instead of mead into the cup.
I would drink a cup for Edmund.
Come to think of it, I wondered how Burgred of Mercia was faring.
Was he, perhaps, somewhere in this world, fighting Muslims just like Edmund?
Somehow, it made me think that life was truly a strange and amusing thing.
*****
"Now—! All of you, raise your spears!"
[dugu-dugu-dugu-]
Somewhere along the western coast of Aquitaine in West Frankia. A place a little removed from a village where Saracen pirates from Al-Andalus were in the midst of plundering.
Comes Burgred shouted until his throat was raw and seized the spear hanging from his saddle.
"The Comes has commanded! Riders of Aquitaine!"
"Burgred! Comes Burgred!"
The riders of Aquitaine responded to Burgred's command with fervent shouts, whipping their fighting spirit to a frenzy.
"Sound the trumpets! Let those demons know we have arrived!"
"Halt! Demons of Saracen! Heathens!"
[bam-bambabababam-]
At the clamorous sound of the cavalry trumpets, the Saracen pirates who had been zealously hunting livestock and people immediately started moving their feet so fast their helmets nearly flew off their heads. But no matter how hard a man tries, even if he dies and comes back to life, he cannot run faster than a horse.
[dugudugudugu-]
"They're fleeing! All of them, fleeing!"
"O Ali!"
"It's already too late! Stand and fight!!"
"Run, you mad bastard!"
The Saracen pirates who were close to their ships far off abandoned the livestock and captives, boarded their vessels carrying only a few sacks of grain and some silver trinkets, but those who lagged behind either scattered in all directions or clustered together to form a defensive line.
For pirates, their armor and weapons were in remarkably good condition, and toward this group of Saracens, Burgred and the cavalry of Aquitaine charged without mercy.
"In God's name! Set your bodies ablaze! Éééé— laaaaannn— (élan)!!!"
"Éééé— laaaaannn!!!"
"Charge! Charge! Charge!"
[dugudugukdugu- kwang!!]
"Aaaagh!"
"Shayāṭīn—!"
[kwang! kwakwang!]
"Aagh!"
[ihihihihing- pureureureuk!]
"Gghak!"
And the Aquitanian cavalry slammed into them at full charge, just as they had raced forward. As the speed of the galloping horses and the mass of heavily armed men and steeds merged into one, scenes too gruesome to face unfolded everywhere.
A horse crumbling instantly, having collided poorly with something, and an Aquitanian rider soaring into the sky. Before the flying rider could even fall, countless Saracen warriors followed in his wake.
Beneath those soaring together through the sky, to the left and right and rear, and among the Saracen pirates being slammed into the ground, the air was filled with the brutal neighing of horses, the battle cries of the riders, and the sounds of spears thrusting down, scraping and tearing and piercing through armor.
[kung! kwajik! keok! ihihing! kwang! hwiii— ééé—laaaannn—!!! peoseok!]
In truth, such a cavalry charge was an attack that defied all sense.
Though Helgi had demonstrated such a sight, that had only been possible because of Helgi Ragnarsson's insane martial prowess, standing at the vanguard and boring through the enemy formation like a colossal drill. The Eastern Roman cavalry drove their spears into the enemy's rear through coordination with infantry and crushed the enemy ranks with one-handed maces and such.
But Burgred, having faced Helgi in Britain and learned nothing but recklessness, had curried the favor of Louis, Dux of Aquitaine, and adopted that suicidal charge as the fundamental tactic of his cavalry.
As a result, the riders of Aquitaine, choosing quality over quantity, armored themselves heavily and even barded their horses, patrolling the western coast of Aquitaine and slamming this insane charge into every Saracen pirate they laid eyes on.
Naturally, the casualty figures were high, but absurdly enough, the wealthy young nobles of Aquitaine, utterly captivated by this macho charge, flocked one by one to Burgred's cavalry. And as their charging technique steadily improved, something like a cavalry force that could only exist in the imagination— the kind seen in animated tales— was being born.
Their tactical doctrine was a single rule. Attack, and attack again. Attack solely with overflowing vitality. The great spirit of the offensive.
The change Helgi had wrought was spreading beyond the North Sea.
"Victory—! We have won again—!"
"Burgred the Attacker! Louis of Aquitaine!"
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Materials☆☆☆☆☆
Berthold Werner, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
It's you again... GOAT...
The supreme authority on hammers and anvils, Alexandros here...!!!
Alexander! Alexander!
Too multifaceted to be called simply a conqueror...! A truly three-dimensional figure...!
Though they say it's an unfounded legend, even his end is so fascinating...! The strongest one shall be my successor!!!! LOL
And after long ages pass, that successor appears in that far, far northern land... (or not)
Public domain.
A painting depicting the Germanic lord Diepold.
Heavy cavalry.
I understand there is still much debate about this heavy cavalry. Especially regarding the manner in which they fought...!
What is certain is that they existed, and long, long before, they had already been the protagonists of battlefields in the Middle East under the name cataphract.
In the original history, the full-fledged appearance of these heavy cavalrymen in Western Europe was something that came a bit later, but the groundwork for it was already underway.
Charlemagne, that outstanding emperor and general, had already crushed Europe like swatting rats by employing cavalry and wagons in large numbers, and by the era of his grandsons, a kind of rapid mobile cavalry force began to be established to counter the Norsquitos (...) rising up from all directions. Perhaps we might regard this as the true beginning of the knight...!
But of course, the charge and the cry of "élan" showcased by Burgred in the story are, LOL, fiction. Still, I couldn't resist putting it in. Isn't it just too cool?
If you are a man who holds the spirit of élan vital in your breast, your heart cannot help but pound. So rise! Quickly now!