293. The Whale (3).
Those who lived on the steppe also built civilization. To settled folk, it seemed somewhat unfamiliar, and at times, one might have wondered where on earth the civilization even lay.
What was clear was that the people of the steppe were perhaps far more versed in the ways of nature than settled folk, and they tenaciously survived even while being blown this way and that.
In a way, it was the western edge of the eastern Bukhae, almost a crossroads between the steppe and settled civilization. Kiyiu.
In the ill‑defined land beyond, on the borderlands of the Magyars, the Bulgars, and Bukhae, a group of warhorses galloped noisily, kicking up dust.
[Dokodokodoko- charakcharak! Pureuk! Pureuk!]
One to two centuries ago, the Bulgar people had dominated the vast steppes around the Black Sea. Though they failed to escape the limits of nomadic life, wandering here and there, and split into west and east when the brothers divided, the western Bulgars subjugated the lands below the Danube, even killed the Eastern Roman Emperor and made his skull into a drinking cup, and so could be considered successful, reigning as a terror to their neighbors.
Likewise, the Bulgar people who remained on the eastern Volga River region also knelt before the rapidly growing Khazar people, but in the end they entered under the demigod of Bukhae and became a powerful lord of the eastern Bukhae, so one must consider them successful as well.
But comparing the two, the western Bulgars—Bulgaria—still retained the sharp ferocity of nomads while securing the stability of settled folk, so they must have fared far better.
At the head of the heavy cavalry now galloping across the Danube River toward Kiyiu was the king of such Bulgaria, Boris‑Mikhail.
'Vladimir! Vladimir, you bastard! Why did you do such a thing! What kind of son are you to me! Why would you start such a thing!'
Boris‑Mikhail, who had obtained an independent Bulgarian church by performing an inspired tightrope act between the Patriarch of Constantinople and the Papal See of Italy.
Perhaps the beginning of all these transformations had been the fortress of Rasate of the Croats (Croatia) where Vladimir‑Rasate was captured.
A young son and the children of tribal chieftains, captured due to his own misjudgment. Himself, forced into humiliating negotiations with the king of the Croats. The chieftains who had stared at him with cold eyes.
If he had remained as he was, a weak Khagan who lost wars, Bulgaria and Boris might have faced a great rebellion.
So he hastened reforms and expelled all opposing chieftains.
Because whether the god they served was called Tengri or God, it did not matter much to Boris. He attached the name of Eastern Roman Emperor Michael to his own to reduce the Eastern Romans' wariness, and he continuously sent envoys to the Papal See of Rome to let it be known that Bulgaria no longer intended to be a savage wolf.
All this was for Bulgaria. Every deed Boris‑Mikhail Knyaz had done was for the dynasty. To protect the Bulgarian Khanate, the Bulgarian Kingdom, bequeathed by the great Khagan Krum.
Such trifles as faith, such chieftains who dared raise their heads stiffly against the Bulgarian crown—for a far greater goal, all could and must be cast aside.
We had already captured and killed an Eastern Roman Emperor once—should we fear the emperors of Italy and East Frankia? Was there any law that a Bulgarian king could not become emperor?
But for that great goal, he had to unite the people of this land. The whip was insufficient to convert all natives into believers of Tengri, and more than anything, cross‑believing emperors glared with wide eyes on either side of the kingdom.
So we had to adopt their faith. If we donned sheep's clothing and waited for the right time, surely an opportunity would come to us.
But why did you not understand this heart, Vladimir? My aching finger. My heir. My son!
[Pureuk! Pureuk!]
'Vladimir! A‑a‑a‑a‑a‑a!'
Boris‑Mikhail's face, though he screamed inwardly, was paradoxically so composed that frost seemed ready to form on it at any moment. The core tribal warriors of Bulgaria, who had silently assisted him when Boris carried out purges marked with blood, rode their horses with all their might to avoid offending the king's mood,
and they soon met a group of horsemen waiting for them on land not far from Kiyiu.
"Magyars...!"
Their snarling archenemies across the Danube River—perhaps more primordial and dangerous steppe birds of prey than even the Khazar bastards who had now been destroyed.
Árpád of the Magyars waited far ahead.
*****
In truth, it was my brothers and I who were unusual; the royal families of this blood‑and‑tears‑soaked 9th‑century Europe were not exactly the kind of bloodline(?) or profession(?) I would recommend to anyone.
At every opportunity, you had to fight with your brothers over a handful of land and power; if things went wrong, you had to grab your parents by the scruff and brawl; you had to warmly share the daggers in the dark with powerful local lords who were hard to ignore or disobey.
That said, if asked whether the lives of ordinary early medieval people, aside from royalty, were beautiful and worth living, I could not readily say yes, but what was certain was that royal life was not easy either.
I could understand the position of Bulgaria's King Boris, and I could understand the circumstances of his son and heir Vladimir. A strong royal power was like life itself, so one could not say Boris was wrong to defend it, nor could one say Vladimir was wrong to defend long‑standing traditions and faith.
What I could not understand, however, was this: why they would bring their own family problem all the way to my land?
But grousing about it here would not make what had already happened curl its tail and turn away, so I would have no choice but to face it directly in the end.
Bulgaria's Prince Vladimir had brought at least five thousand tribal folk, and Kiyiu had to undertake unplanned relief.
Fortunately, thanks to such abundant supplies, it wasn't difficult; if it hadn't been Bukhae, expecting such goodwill would have been hard. But after caring for the refugees, a new problem came knocking at Kiyiu's door.
Namely, that Bulgaria's King Boris‑Mikhail had raised an army to capture his runaway son and the tribesmen!
If one is going to carry out an internal purge, one ought to do it with some subtlety and finesse. It wasn't a slaughterhouse; when you're going to wipe everyone out, who would have the nerve to stay and not run? And without even considering his own fault in that, he raised an army and demanded that those who had fled be handed over?
I had been hoping to let things slide peacefully, but as the situation unfolded, a streak of heat began to smolder deep in my mind. It seemed I had had a similar thought about Sagarya Khagan. Boris‑Mikhail of Bulgaria, did you think you were the only one in this world who knew how to use force?
Did you think I let the lands beneath the Bukhae Sea alone because I lacked strength?
Sure, I was subtly pressuring Haskuldr of Kiyiu to declare independence, but that Jarl and his people were still my followers. And without sending anyone to fully investigate the circumstances, they just blindly charged in with swords?
From the moment Vladimir‑Rasate sought my palace in Kiyiu, the feast Jarl Haskuldr had done his utmost to prepare had already lost its festive air.
In the reception hall, modeled after the palace in Árós, the Rus' lords and steppe tribal lords lined up along both sides held even their breath as they watched for my reaction, and the warriors of the Garmr Brotherhood tensed their entire bodies as if they were about to march at any moment.
'Things in Sicily were urgent. I'd have to crush Bulgaria mercilessly and cross over to Sicily from their western coast. I'd have to give them a thorough tea-bagging.'
As I was mulling over the contents of the letter I would send to the King of Bulgaria with such thoughts, yet another unexpected piece of news reached my ears.
It was that Árpád of the Magyars had raised his army to oppose Bulgaria's advance.
'Árpád of the Magyars? What in the world is this about now?'
As expected of the Balkan Peninsula, perhaps. In this chaotic land where every neighbor loathed one another, it was hard to predict even an inch ahead. In any case, if Árpád of the Magyars was lending a hand, things would be easier.
I told Jarl Haskuldr to prepare for battle in case of an all-out war, then led the necessary men and warriors out onto the plains of Kiev.
In the center, my personal thousand-man unit and two thousand-man cavalry units from Kiev. On the left wing, two thousand of Vladimir's riders. On the right wing, two thousand warriors from the tribes spread throughout Kiev and Novgorod, led by Sveinolf.
It was a force of seven thousand cobbled together with crude stitching, but this much was enough for me.
If a battle broke out anyway, I intended to charge straight in and separate Boris's head from his body.
[Dugudugudugu!]
"Fylkir Helgi!"
"Gyula Árpád!"
As I galloped forward with that murderous mindset, I soon caught sight of our North Sea allies, the Magyar warriors, arrayed in a single line. Every one of them maintained their horses' tension with an air of free-spirited ease. And at their head, a man with splendid feather ornaments. Árpád.
Árpád and I shouted each other's names vigorously and naturally joined forces, then, after brief greetings, we rode on without stopping, each accompanied only by our escort guards.
Our destination was the midpoint between the uninvited guests standing just beyond arrow range—a man of sturdy build seated upon a pure white horse. Boris-Mikhail.
Seeing us approaching without hesitation, the Bulgarian camp likewise sent a comparable number of riders charging out all at once, and because we had been glowering at one another from not so far away, the three leaders were able to confirm one another's faces in an instant.
This was probably what Vladimir-Rasate would look like when he grew older and more wrinkled. Except that while Vladimir still held a pure passion in the corners of his eyes, the King of Bulgaria carried a colder gleam born of having faced reality.
A gaze reminiscent of the Emperor Charles of West Frankia. A man who could wield everything around him for his own purposes. This man possessed the bearing of a sovereign.
"You must be the Fylkir of the North Sea."
Boris spoke first, his face and voice like a sheet of ice.
"That is so, Knyaz of Bulgaria."
After that simple exchange of names, Boris got straight to the point.
"Had I known beforehand that the renowned Fylkir of the North Sea and the Gyula of the Magyars were here, I would not have committed such a discourtesy."
Despite his courteous words, Boris cast a cold glare toward Árpád, who was grinning slyly beside me.
"However, when I received word that traitors of Bulgaria had captured my son and crossed into the lands of the North Sea, I had no choice but to move swiftly. I hope the ruler of the North Sea will take my circumstances into generous account."
Vladimir, standing on my left, clenched his teeth, but Boris did not so much as glance at him. I understood his feelings well enough, but... wasn't that ultimately Bulgaria's own affair?
"Knyaz Boris of Bulgaria. I fully understand your circumstances. Yet, be that as it may, Bulgaria has marched its army into the lands of the North Sea without permission. I know not how you regard matters of territory, but I have never once tolerated those who lay hands on what is mine without my leave."
As my voice went on, not only Boris but the faces of the guards around him hardened. For what came out of my mouth was the Bulgarian tongue, which they knew well.
"And neither shall I coldly cast out those who seek protection beneath my shadow. So if you wish to reclaim them, come and take them."
Just how many different angles Boris's and his companions' faces twisted and contorted into was never my concern to begin with.
My only concern was delivering a precise message to them.
Making everyone around here plainly understand that the North Sea was not afraid of them.
"Fylkir. Vladimir is my son...! He is the heir of Bulgaria, I tell you. So long as that boy remains in your grasp and the North Sea's, we have no choice but to fight."
"Then let us test one another. Knyaz of Bulgaria."
The anger that had been creeping up within my chest was finally about to break through the surface and erupt.
"Know that the moment you turn your back, it is war."
[Gooooo-]
The bated tension rose like wildfire, sounding an alarm to everything that surrounded me.
[Ihihing-! Purureuk! Pureuk!]
The horses, whose senses were far keener than those of men, were the first to perceive the change and cry out. The closer they were to me, the more they thrashed in terror, trying to throw off the frustrating humans on their backs who kept urging them to stay still.
The next to feel the shift were the veteran warriors who had spent long years rolling across battlefields.
With instinctive goosebumps rising all over their bodies, they relived the memories of the most gruesome battles they had ever endured, breaking out in cold sweat and trembling hands.
Boris-Mikhail's coldly hardened expression only grew more rigid still. For my eyes, glaring at him, must have resembled those of an eagle fixing upon its prey.
Conversely, the North Sea warriors who had grown accustomed to my presence all began to drip with maddened glints beneath their face-guards, like hounds before the hunt.
The one who bravely set foot into this space, which seemed ready to explode at the slightest touch, was none other than the man at the very heart of this affair—Vladimir.
"Enough! I beg you, stop, Father! Knyaz! Fylkir!"
Vladimir, sounding even desperate and sorrowful, paid no heed to the gazes converging upon him and shouted loud enough for the entire steppe to hear.
"I shall renounce my succession to the Bulgarian throne! I am no longer a son of the Bulgarian Catholic faith! I shall live as a son of Tengri! This I swear before God and mighty Tengri, and before the names of our ancestors!"
"Vladimir!"
Boris-Mikhail let out a single scream in the face of Vladimir's cry, the chain-bomber setting off yet another explosion.
It was truly a wretched and sorrowful sight, but watching from the side, I found this entire situation both fascinating and irritating at the same time.
'Why on earth are you doing this on my land...?'
Do this at your own damn home.