290. The Most Important Problem (4).
To be honest, titles like Jarl Oleg's nicknames—Siege Master of the North Sea, Ravager of Walls—felt a bit faded now when I looked back on them.
Because in our North Sea, there was one monster who could smash castle gates with his bare hands.
So their luster had diminished somewhat, but that Oleg was a terrifying warrior was something acknowledged by all who had waged war alongside him. A man of hollow fame alone would never have received the meteor sword from me.
That such a trusted general of mine would suddenly send out an SOS signal?
I entered Attila's palace, acknowledging the prostrating North Sea merchants and the new(?) steppe-North Sea people imitating them alike, and immediately began scrutinizing Oleg's letter in detail.
Before long, I came to understand that the island in the middle of the Mediterranean, familiar to me under the name Sicily, was in a truly wretched situation.
To explain it briefly, would it be easy to understand if I called it a 9th-century version of crusaders and jihad? Except the main actors were the Eastern Roman Empire and the Muslim states of North Africa, that much was different.
There was a film called Kingdom of Heaven, and I remembered watching it with great enjoyment. The clash between Saladin and Balian, a story not about right and wrong but about one man's growth and redemption. Especially the actress who played Queen Sibylla—though not as much as Inga, she had been exceedingly beautiful—.
Anyway, the difference between the movie and the reality of the 9th century was that the ones furiously attacking the island of Sicily were the Aghlabid dynasty, an Islamic dynasty from North Africa. And that the general fiercely defending against them alongside my general Oleg was named Edmund, and they were lords of the Eastern Roman Empire, not lords of a crusader kingdom?
...Looking at it this way, it was quite different, but I understood the basic context was similar. A clash of faiths and faiths? Since this fight was still happening in the 21st century from my past life, maybe humans would keep beating each other up until they all joined hands and marched to extinction.
When I examined the letter closely, the rescue request Oleg spoke of was practically a status report, neatly summarizing the events that had occurred over the past five years in the southern Italian peninsula and the island of Sicily across from it.
The Emperor of Italy, who had been attacking the Muslim fortress of Bari in southeastern Italy for six whole years, and the Eastern Roman Empire, which had seized Chandax, the gateway to Greece famous to me under the name Crete, in five years.
'It took five, six years just to capture one fortress?' In that moment, such an impudent thought rose up, but I calmed the black flame dragon writhing in my right arm.
Still, the Roman Empire being the Roman Empire, the navy of the Eastern Roman Empire that captured Chandax promptly sank all Islamic ships approaching from the east and south of the island, and it was said that as pirates were gradually replaced by the regular navy of Egypt, the Eastern Roman navy was preparing for a massive battle.
The one who benefited most from this was none other than Ludovicus, the Emperor of Italy, who was in the middle of attacking the stronghold in southeastern Italy.
I knew the detailed circumstances of this man surprisingly well, because over the past five years, Lothar of Lotharingia, who had established himself as a very close friend of our North Sea, had told me all sorts of things in minute detail.
Emperor Lothar seemed quite fond of me, and the more his formal heir Hugh, who was now quite strapping, grew up properly, the more Lothar seemed to draw closer to our North Sea. Opening markets, sending Lotharingian merchants, or even encouraging the Konungr Hrørekr of Frisia to enter into a dual vassalage contract with me.
By this point, it seemed he trusted me far more than his own family, and indeed he had reason to. Since Lothar's family were his brothers, Emperor Ludwig in the east and Emperor Karl in the west...
Anyway, according to Lothar, who ignored his two uncle emperors each busy with the problems besetting their own empires and still diligently extended a helping hand to his older brother, Emperor Ludovicus of Italy below the Alps, Ludovicus of Italy should actually be called the Emperor of northern Italy, and the lords of southern Italy below the Papal See of Rome enjoyed a practically independent status.
That was why the attack on the Muslim stronghold of Bari had been so lackluster. These lords of southern Italy, if only they kept still it would have been fine, but sometimes they hired Muslim pirates with money (!!) to instigate plundering raids in northern Italy or attacked neighboring lords they found unsightly. They engaged in things my mind could hardly comprehend, constantly tripping up the Emperor.
No wonder a siege could drag on for five years with that going on.
But even this sluggish, chaotic mess was showing signs of resolution with the fall of the Eastern Roman Empire's Crete, and as the number of Muslim pirates coming from the east decreased, the fall of Bari was now just around the corner.
However, once the situation reached this point, the Muslim pirates of North Africa, faced with the loss of their pirate base in southern Italy, began swarming in with desperate fury. Their rallying point was none other than Balharm in northern Sicily—a Muslim base on the island of Sicily familiar to me under the name Palermo (as an avid overseas football fan)—and there they began to gather!
Before the law of this world where nothing flows smoothly, the Eastern Roman territory of Syracuse in Sicily, taking the brunt of this unexpected Muslim wave, this 9th-century jihad head-on, naturally went into convulsions and summoned together the generals currently fighting best in southern Italy: Edmund and Oleg.
Ten thousand to fifteen thousand, sometimes twenty thousand.
Every year when winter passed, faced with attacks from 300 to 400 Muslim pirate ships, Edmund and Oleg had to conduct a tower defense. They had held out well so far, but the letter concluded with the words that it was becoming increasingly difficult.
In the end, the problem was that no matter how well Oleg and Edmund repelled the enemy's offensive, they would have to keep fighting endlessly unless they completely routed all the Berber warriors of North Africa.
I understood why Jarl Oleg, the general to whom I could entrust ten thousand-man units without any hesitation, had sent this rescue signal.
That fight on the island of Sicily was, ultimately, a battle of whether Eastern Roman Syracuse would fall, or whether Muslim Balharm (Palermo) would fall.
As long as both remained intact, that grueling war of attrition would drag on without end. Oleg, well aware of this fact, wanted to tear down Balharm, and so he sought the aid of the one he knew to be the best besieger in this world.
And I resolved to accept this request for aid.
Before calculating various gains and losses, Oleg was my warrior. Those who had ventured into that far Mediterranean under Oleg's command were all my people in the end. I would not turn my back on those seeking help.
"So you intend to go."
As I stood staring blankly, churning over all sorts of thoughts in my head while holding the letter, Ivar's voice reached me. Ivar, now the lord of Attila. In my heart I wanted to lend him my nephew Baldr, but I had already marked Baldr as Hrolf's successor, so I couldn't easily spare him, which weighed on my conscience.
Instead, I had attached Hrolf's son Hrolafr to his side, so perhaps they were even (?) in a sense.
"I must go."
At my answer, Ivar's grin flashed brilliantly.
[Twinkle—]
Ivar's head glinted, unable to catch the light properly. The dazzling beam attack struck my eyes harshly, but I did not blink once.
"The sea calls you, Helgi."
"I must send word to Árós that my return will be delayed slightly."
The faces of my wife, son, daughter, and mother briefly flickered before my eyes. I missed them greatly, but I had work to do.
It would not take long.
*****
"Who are you!?"
"We are the Fylkir's strongest blades!"
"We are the Garmr Brotherhood!"
"We are the wolves of the North Sea!"
"Then who am I!?"
"The Fylkir's sharpest sword!"
"Conqueror of Huntadun! The Red Thunder of Karelia! The Boar of Liubice!"
"The misfortune of the turbaned bastards! The biggest son of a bitch among the Varangians!"
"Yes! That is me! I am the Fylkir's easternmost sword! Oleg! I am the foremost son of a bitch of the Garmr Brotherhood!!"
"Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!"
"Awoo-ooooooo!"
"Oleg the bastard! Oleg the bastard!"
"Look at those turbaned bastards! Look at the state of those bastards! Weaklings who all alike shit themselves and shed tears! Those whose wrists are thinner and frailer than the sturdy wrist of a North Sea woman! Anyone who dies to those bastards should be ashamed! Is that not so!"
"Awoo-ooooooooo!!"
"Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!"
[Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!]
"Let us go! Children of the Fylkir! Warriors chosen by Hel! You who climbed the frozen mountains of Norrland with bare hands! You warriors who accepted Jarl Stórolf's insane training! If you die by the sword, to Valhalla! If you die old, to Hel's side! We are together! In life! And in death!"
"Arrrrrr!"
"Awooooooo!"
[Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!]
"Kill them all! Leave not one behind! Skin every last—!"
[Bwoooooooong—!]
"Now is the time! Charge! Charge! Glory to Hel! Fylkir! Give us strength!"
"We are all Hel's—!"
"Hel! Watch over me well!"
"Awoo-oooooo!"
[Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!]
The warriors of the North Sea pounded their shields in unison and howled like beasts. The Tágma tōn Varángōn. The Varangian warriors, who could be called the personal mercenaries of the Eastern Roman, or more precisely, Eastern Roman Emperor Michael.
When the Eastern Roman commanders inquired about their chain of command, the Emperor had said such a thing was unnecessary. The Eastern Roman commanders, who had been uncertain, were able to understand at once when they saw the Garmr Brotherhood fighting in southern Italy and Sicily.
"Aaaaaaah! Val-ha-la-!"
"Javelins!"
"Javelins—!"
[Bam—bambabababam—!]
[Hwoong! Hwoohwoong! Hwiiiiik— Hwik—]
[Thud! Crunch! Smack! Crack—]
"Gah!"
"Agh!"
"O Ali!"
"Hold on!"
Regrettably, among the Eastern Roman commanders of this era, those who could fight so ferociously could be counted on one hand. The spectacle of solidly heavy-armed infantry charging all at once, hurling their spears at the exact right moment, and collapsing the crumbling enemy ranks with terrifying axes and thrusting spears to shatter them in an instant.
It was like watching the famed legionnaires of old Rome. The sight of them crushing the ranks of an enemy equally heavy-armed as heavy infantry. The Eastern Roman Empire, having competed with the nomads and Islamic empires further east, had reorganized its military system around cavalry long ago. As a result, they had gained the mobility to govern a vast imperial domain, but the beast-like appearance shown by the warriors of the North Sea was something they had lost long ago, and so the Varangians did not follow the orders of Eastern Roman commanders.
They merely did what they had to do according to their contract with the Eastern Roman Emperor. Yet, the mere fact of having a contract did not allow the Eastern Roman Emperor to use them as he pleased either.
The contractual relationship between superior and subordinate was ambiguous, but regardless, the warriors of the North Sea fought ferociously on the battlefields of their choosing.
The sound of heavy armor clashing against armor, axes cleaving the air, fists smashing into faces. Mostly the Muslim warriors howled and the North Sea warriors let out battle cries thick with the scent of blood.
A group of cavalry surged into the flank of the Muslim warriors, already tattered from being struck by javelins.
"Let us go! Riders of Michael! Let us fight without shame before God and Emperor! May the Roman Empire be eternal!"
"In God's name!"
"God wills it!"
[Bambabambambam—!]
Amid the clamor of brass instruments, the heavy cavalry swiftly maneuvered behind the heavy infantry fighting furiously. Nikephoros Phokas, a core figure of the next military leadership and currently the Emperor's cavalry commander, led the Eastern Roman elites forward, trampling the soil of Sicily. Soon after, they pointed their lances at the Berber warriors' cavalry maneuvering to follow them.
[Dugudugudugu—!]
[Dagadakdagadakdagadak!]
The heavy cavalry of both sides, yielding not an inch and instead ramping up their speed. Since the transport of horses was limited by ship, their scale was smaller than one might think, but their force lacked for nothing.
"Ali-hu! Akbar!"
"God is great!"
"Ali-hu! Al-lah!"
"In God's name! In God's name!"
[Kill all those heathens!!]
[Dugudugudugu— Crash!]
The vanguards of the two faiths, spitting out words astonishingly similar in different tongues, rode mercilessly and crashed into each other, soon sending horses and men flying high into the air.
As if to reach the heavens above.