294. The Whale (4).
'What the shit.'
Honestly, this situation felt kind of shitty.
I had blown the Khazar Khaganate sky-high along with Sagarya Khagan's head and brought a bit of stability centered on Attila, so now I was displeased that the Bulgarian yogurt bastards were making a racket in Kiyiu.
Hot breath was practically streaming from my nostrils and I wanted to swing my fists right then and there. But as I quietly watched the father and son of the Bulgarian Kingdom fervently arguing back and forth, it occurred to me that perhaps this situation wasn't so bad.
It had been an unexpected hassle to summon my army, but I had confirmed that Árpád of the Magyars was certainly a reliable ally, and in any case, together with Vladimir, I had gained a force that could be organized into cavalry right this moment, free of charge.
And while Vladimir had said with his own mouth that he was giving up the succession to the Bulgarian throne, no one knew how the ways of the world would turn out. Wouldn't this powerful and unpredictable nuisance of a neighbor called the Bulgarian Kingdom be useful in controlling things to some extent?
"Fine! Do as you please, then! From this moment on, Vladimir-Rasate is no longer my heir! You and the tribes under you shall never set foot on Bulgarian soil again!"
Boris cried out as if vomiting blood, staring at Vladimir with bloodshot eyes, the very picture of iron stubbornness. The emotions contained within were so complex that they made even the hearts of the listeners ache, but I simply wanted to end this entire ridiculous situation now.
"Knyaz of Bulgaria, and Vladimir. I shall be the witness, so let us settle this firmly here. First, the Bulgarian Kingdom must apologize for crossing the Danube at will and setting foot upon the territory of the North Sea. Otherwise, it shall be war."
At my firm words, Boris nodded his head agreeably, unexpectedly.
"As Knyaz, I have made an unbecoming mistake, Fylkir of the North Sea. Not only have I shown a shameful sight, but I have wounded Fylkir's honor, and thus it is only proper that I apologize. May the Fylkir of the North Sea forgive this person with a generous heart. I shall select and present to you the fine furs of the beasts caught this past winter."
Raise an army once and receive fine furs? The math didn't quite add up, but it did feel like my irritation with this nuisance neighbor subsided somewhat. As they say, a good word can pay a debt of a thousand nyang—the 3-second apology truly is a universal rule!
But my personal feelings easing and matters of state were separate things. Having accepted Boris's apology, I went on to list my demands.
"Vladimir-Rasate and the tribes that followed him into my domain shall henceforth be considered people of the North Sea. No form of retaliation against them can be accepted."
Boris, who had apologized without hesitation, hesitated slightly at this point. But soon his face hardened and he nodded.
"Vladimir is no longer my son. He has become your man, so whether you kill him or keep him alive, I shall not concern myself. Only ensure that they do not cross back into Bulgarian lands. If such a thing occurs, I will have no choice but to kill them."
Contrary to his cold words, near Boris's eyes, emotions like sorrow, worry for his son, and pain drifted this way and that, unable to find their bearing.
I nodded, and Boris of Bulgaria, without sparing a single glance for Vladimir or Árpád, immediately turned and returned to the standing ranks of the Bulgarian army, which had not wavered.
Soon after, a clamorous sound of arrows rose up here and there from the Bulgarian camp, and the heavy cavalry, having turned about in unison, stirred up great tremors and clouds of dust as they slowly grew distant.
And the warriors of the North Sea and the Magyars, who had been watching that sight, likewise turned their horses' heads in the opposite direction.
*****
In Kiyiu, where a great battle had been in preparation, a second round of grand feasting was held.
I, having suddenly received new subjects of Bulgarian origin, bestowed the title of Jarl upon Vladimir according to the organization of the North Sea and settled them here between the Dnieper River and the Don River's Sarkel.
As for the Bulgarian rebels, who were semi-farming, semi-pastoral newcomers(?) to the North Sea, they were the sort of fellows who could manage well on their own with just decent land, so I gave them the empty grasslands below Sarkel.
Vladimir, having won independence from his father, bowed his head deeply every time he saw me thereafter, and the same was true for the Bulgarian chieftains at Vladimir's side.
Seeing it this way, it almost looks like it was a good thing I helped, wasn't it?
In the case of Árpád of the Magyars, I had intended to present him with an armful of gifts along with my thanks, but since he personally declined, swinging both arms, I wrapped things up roughly by giving him a fine horse.
Rather, Árpád smacked his lips in regret that he hadn't been able to press Bulgaria further in this opportunity. In my thinking, the Magyars, gradually advancing west of the Danube, and Bulgaria, below the Danube, seemed bound to clash greatly at any time.
Even if the North Sea, which was gradually becoming excluded from the discussion when it was time to boast of weight class, was set aside, the struggle for the second-in-command position over the Danube was bound to be fierce. Among Europe's rivers, the Danube was the one place the North Sea Empire, which normally kindled fire in its eyes and rushed at any river, remained uniquely indifferent to.
This river, allowing one foot in the Black Sea trade, was also the crossroads where the Magyars and East Frankia in the north met Bulgaria in the south, and it was a money stream that made mouths water. In a way, a collision seemed predestined.
That must have been why Árpád of the Magyars could so readily side with the North Sea. Multiple tribes within the Magyar confederation were already entangled in the interests of the Danube and Dnieper Rivers.
As they say, money even drives ghosts. The full-scale trade between the North Sea and the Eastern Roman Empire was twisting the power relations of surrounding forces this way and that.
Thus, as we spent time deepening our friendship with both the newly made friend and the friend I had already known, time flowed on before we knew it, and the departure date drew near.
Vladimir and Árpád were regretful, but they too had much to do immediately, so we parted promising a next time, Árpád heading west of Kiyiu, and Jarl Vladimir east of Kiyiu.
I headed south along the Dnieper River. My destination was Cherson in the Eastern Roman Empire. The place where my Roman friend Vasilikinos was waiting for me.
[Swaaa- Swaaa-]
The 50 longships, advancing unhindered while receiving the cool wind blowing from behind, scattered the wild animals that were poking their faces out everywhere as they greeted spring in all directions.
Some hungry bears, awakened from hibernation, would boldly stand up on two legs and stare at the passing lunchboxes (longships) with drooling mouths, and every time that happened, I personally lent my strength to population control by hurling javelins.
[Hwoong-! Kkiik- Chulsseok! Hwiiiiing-! Peoseok!]
"Kuwoooh-!"
The javelin, thrown with enough force to make the massive longship momentarily rock, smoothly pierced the thick hide of the bear that had been standing vacantly and struck the ground; the bear, unable to comprehend what had just happened to it, poured out streams of bright red blood and fled in terror before collapsing with a flop and moving no more.
"Yaa-! Hel-la-!"
"Fylkir has caught another bear!"
"They'll have to bring tougher hides next time!"
Among the people of the North Sea, especially those of Finn or Rus origin, they still often held the bear sacred. But that tendency was vanishing as time passed. The natural selection of totemism and animism, one might say?
It was a shape of the goddess Hel gradually wedging her way into the domain of the existing gods and superstitions. With the completion and dissemination of Hel's Scriptures, this tendency would grow even stronger in the generations below.
The reason I hunted the bears on the riverside from the prow was, above all, because these fellows had increasingly grown accustomed to the merchants traveling the trade routes and begun to covet the domain of men.
Just as humans adapt to nature, should one say that beasts too adapt to the changing environment? Bears, contrary to their dull appearance, were particularly clever and persistent creatures, with a tendency to endlessly pursue or wait for prey once they had marked it. Unlike their cute looks, the number of merchants suffering damage on the riverside was increasing, so co-existence with these fellows was impossible.
Regrettably, our bear friends cannot go with us.
So, if I had to do it, I had to end their lives cleanly; I exerted the utmost mercy(?), collecting the lives of every bear I saw.
Otherwise, these fellows would be persistently pursued by the Dnieper River patrols, their entire bodies decorated with javelins like hedgehogs, and at the end, they would collapse in agony feeling the long blade thrust through their gaping palates or tattered hide.
This truly was my personal version of mercy.
"You stupid bear-like fool! Fylkir is the true Bear!!"
"Bear of the North Sea! Bear of the North Sea!"
"All fake bears, kneel! Bow your heads if you wish to live! You beasts!"
They didn't even know my intentions in hunting the bears. The warriors of the North Sea, moving alongside me, simply couldn't restrain themselves because they found every moment of it so amusing.
Among my warriors, who performed all manner of teabagging upon the bear that had breathed its last as if asleep, there was one particularly loud-voiced and conspicuous figure, and his name was, of course, Seutorolpeu Oreum-hand. He had matured somewhat after marriage, but Seutorolpeu was still Seutorolpeu, and this eminent Jarl provoked the laughter of those around him by mimicking the bear that had stood with a stupid expression.
That too was a talent if one could call it that—normally, when people rise to a high position, they first worry about face and status and spare their bodies, but Seutorolpeu had none of that. There he was, still saying and doing foolish things, mingling with the warriors under his command without any special privilege, just as he had when he was the youngest warrior of the Garmr Brotherhood.
Though not a perfectly rounded hexagonal commander like Refil, Seutorolpeu had certainly grown into a fearsome commander.
I hadn't decided for certain yet, but when more years passed and the time came for Björn and Ivar to fully step back, their successors would be Refil and Seutorolpeu, respectively.
Retirement.
Perhaps because I had watched the Bulgarian morning drama unfold right before my eyes, such thoughts had lately been roaming around inside my head. These and other thoughts about what came next for me and my brothers.
There was still time left, but in the end, death and endings come to everyone.
When my complicated feelings mixed with the thought that I missed Inga, the leisurely flowing Dnieper River carried us to the entrance of the Black Sea, and soon Cherson appeared before my eyes.
A city much changed from when I first saw it. A place rapidly solidifying its status as the second city of the Eastern Roman Empire.
Far off, Cherson's strategos (lord) Vasilikinos was smiling brightly.
*****
"May God's authority reach from the heavens to the earth! Great Fylkir! Rome offers its respects to you!"
The greeting had changed, hadn't it?
Vasilikinos, still with that striking, handsome impression, greeted me with arms spread wide as I disembarked from the longship. Familiar air, familiar smells. Changed looks, changed expressions.
Petronas, who now occupied a seat beside the emperor as financial officer, had conveyed that exact same sentence in Latin when I first arrived at Cherson.
But now Vasilikinos addressed me not in Latin, but in Greek.
It seemed similar, yet it was indeed changing.
"The Fylkir of the North Sea returns his respects to great Rome and her people. Vasilikinos! How have you been? This man has put on some good weight, I see!"
Whenever I met someone with whom I had crossed the line of death together, I always felt an indescribable joy.
Smiling as broadly as the beaming Vasilikinos, I extended my Örn arm and clasped Vasilikinos's forearm. Judging by the firm grip, this excellent cavalry commander had evidently been eating and living well in the meantime.
Vasilikinos, personally offering to act as guide, showed me every corner of the much-changed Cherson ver. 2, while I diligently followed behind. We exchanged stories about our wives and children, reminisced about old battles, and also talked about the king and prince of Bulgaria.
The stories we shared so comfortably, like friends who had parted just yesterday, continued on into the evening's banquet.
When wine and music flowed, and the warriors of the North Sea and the soldiers of Rome, now fairly accustomed to each other's languages, laughed heartily and danced and sang. Vasilikinos, his face flushed from back-to-back gulps of wine, brought up the main point in a low voice.
"Constantinople is finished preparing to welcome the glory of Hel. Fylkir Helgi."
It was Hel, not Hera, damn it.
"The emperor will tell you himself, but at present, our Rome has no capacity to concern itself even with Sicily. The emir (lord) of Egypt covets Crete, and the caliph of Baghdad is deploying soldiers along the border regions."
Before I knew it, no trace of intoxication could be felt in Vasilikinos's expression or voice.
"Therefore, while we cannot give you much support, Fylkir, at the very least, the imperial fleet will escort Fylkir's side so that the warriors of the North Sea may safely reach Sicily."
"That will suffice, Vasilikinos."
Dancing shadows flickering in the firelight. In a space filled with laughter and music, I raised my cup.