295. Heracles.
I had heard many times that childhood memories were important, and I finally understood why. The sight of Constantinople upon my return was not as splendid as the one in my memory, and that special sentiment only the ruler of the 9th century could convey no longer overwhelmed me.
Had I grown? Or had Árós caught up to Constantinople to that degree?
No, it must have been because my inner stature had risen far higher than when I visited this place a few years ago.
When I thought about it, the world itself remained the same, and it was only my gaze that had changed.
This was the conclusion I reached upon greeting the Queen of All Cities for the first time in a long while.
[Heracles! Heracles!]
[Buuuuuung---! Buuuuung--]
[Yaaaaaa!]
A tremendous roar, cheers, and fervor that made me suspect every last human in the Eastern Roman Empire had gathered to shout, like an audience witnessing the highlight of a chariot race, like people meeting the star of their dreams.
The imposing sea walls of Constantinople were packed with stomping people to the point I worried they might collapse at any moment, and the navy the Eastern Romans took pride in stretched out in a long line, guarding the path my fleet would take, making the fact that a great battle loomed seem utterly irrelevant.
While the longships of our North Sea that mainly traveled along rivers had a limit to how large they could grow, the Eastern Roman warships (dromons) included some ridiculously huge ones, though most were only slightly larger than ours.
Although I could not bring it along on this expedition, a great shipyard had been built in Uppsala, which was a little closer to the sea than Árós, and in accordance with my conviction that bigger is always better, they were building one that was absurdly, ridiculously large and tall, surpassing mere ignorance. Just you wait, world. I will show you a real dragon.
In any case, the dragon of the North Sea was not beside me at this very moment, and my warriors, who adored simple things, erupted in constant exclamations of admiration as they beheld the large and majestic Roman fleet.
It was fortunate that there were warriors among them who were visiting this splendid city for the second time; those who kept turning their heads in all directions looked innocent to the point of being naive.
"Oh! Look at that! How many oars does that thing have?"
"Ramming the enemy with something like that would be absolutely devastating!"
"But it looks impressive from afar. Wouldn't it be dreadful to actually row that thing?"
"As long as it's not me!"
My guards, naive as they were but utterly ruthless the moment they took up arms, chatted amongst themselves as they slowly advanced along the path laid out upon the sea.
The closer we drew, the louder the cheering became, mingling with flower petals scattered from the top of the towering walls, conveying the feeling of entering Valhalla itself.
Just how much money did this cost...? No, money aside, I could not even begin to estimate the sheer effort that went into scattering flowers like this. No matter how much the Eastern Roman Empire might still secretly be employing Muslim slaves, this level of devotion was astonishing.
All I had done was save the emperor's life once and suppress a massive rebellion. Was this not an excessive welcome?
"Heracles! Our protector! Demigod of the North Sea and Rome!"
"Fylkir Helgi! Please just come back to Constantinople! Please!"
"I have already collected sixteen of your icons (idols, usually painted necklaces)!"
The clamor from the ever-nearing walls gradually resolved into distinct voices.
People whose faces were flushed red, looking as though they themselves barely understood what they were shouting. Though I did not quite know why, I had become something akin to an idol for these people, and my warriors, feeding off the energy, puffed out their chests, squared their shoulders, and lifted their chins, straightening their backs for no real reason.
While here and there in the distance, people were fainting, swept away by the atmosphere, a welcome figure who could perhaps be called the source of all this commotion greeted me at the harbor splendidly adorned with carved bulls and lions.
"Fylkir Helgi!"
"Basileus (Emperor) Michael!"
A title also pronounced Basilevs, using a more comfortable tongue. The one who ruled from Greece to Anatolia, the boundary between Europe and the Middle East. The Emperor of Rome came personally to welcome me.
*****
"My original plan was to greet you at the harbor on the city's eastern side or at the port of the outer walls, so we could walk together along the city's most glorious path. However, such a great crowd gathered that I had no choice but to receive you here at the Harbor of the Bull and Lion. I pray the Fylkir of the North Sea will understand."
Michael's appearance as he spoke with sincere regret had perhaps changed a little.
When I first saw him, he had been a ruddy-faced drunkard. Now, the wine bloat was completely gone, and the countenance of an emperor seasoned with experience was faintly visible.
875. I was 27. Michael was 35.
We had first met about six or seven years ago. Ah, time had indeed passed. It felt like just the other day that I had carried that emperor on my back and dashed through the hippodrome.
Thinking that life was truly an interesting thing, I shook my head.
"I saw the people upon the walls as we entered the harbor. The people of Rome were so full of vigor they seemed ready to march straight into battle. Rather, I feel fortunate that we came directly into the Palace of the Bull and Lion like this."
"Hahahaha! I thank you for saying so! Now, this is my wife, Eudokia. And this is my son, Leon."
The emperor, whose hearty nature still remained, laughed joyfully as he introduced his family to me. I was already well acquainted with Eudokia Ingerdottir, and Leon Michaelsson was someone I was seeing for the first time since his cheeks were chubby in infancy.
"Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson, Ruler of the North Sea. Rome welcomes you."
"Thank you for the welcome. How fares your father?"
"My father is well. He retired from the Senate and now tends a small field. It is all by the Fylkir's grace, and our family always bears a grateful heart toward the Ruler of the North Sea."
Her pale skin and facial features clearly marked her as having Norse blood, yet her conduct was unmistakably that of a Roman noblewoman. How should I put it—it felt familiar and simultaneously foreign, like looking at a second-generation immigrant?
"It is an honor to meet you. Ruler of the Northern Sea. My name is Leon."
Turning my head away from the gently smiling Eudokia, the third-generation immigrant stood before my eyes.
Nine years old. A young child only one year older than our Sigmarr. The heir to the Eastern Roman Empire, who took after Eudokia far more than Michael, his nose bridge and brow already thick and striking, was shining his bright, clear eyes, seemingly proud that he had successfully delivered the greeting he had diligently memorized.
"The honor is mine. Heir of Rome and the Bull and Lion, Leon Michaelsson."
When I inclined my head slightly, the boy, having returned the same gesture, turned to his mother and shot her a gaze seeking praise. Eudokia smiled with her eyes and took Leon's small hand.
"The Emperor and the Fylkir will surely have matters to discuss, so Leon and I shall take our leave. We will meet again at the evening banquet. Farewell."
Eudokia, exuding elegance, and Leon, mimicking his mother's every gesture with utmost effort. As the two withdrew, those who appeared to be handmaids and eunuchs followed them out. Then the familiar face of the Parakoimomenos Rentakios emerged from the shadows and brightly opened a window on one side of the great council hall.
Of course, the chamberlain did not do it himself but directed his subordinates, but his skill was so masterful it was like watching a brilliant conductor lead an orchestra.
[Deolkeok- Deolkeok-]
The glass windows opened smoothly, without so much as a common hinge squeak, a testament to how rigorously they were maintained. Soon, a warm breeze from Constantinople filled the council hall, and the sounds of the still ecstatic city wafted in faintly, like a distant echo. Rentakios sent me a silent greeting with his eyes as he moved to the emperor's side, and just as I was about to nod back, familiar heads began to appear one by one through the opposite door from the one Eudokia and Leon had exited.
"Fylkir Helgi."
"Fylkir."
Patriarch Photios, Treasurer Petronas, Grand Admiral Niketas. The empire's key power brokers, with whom I was already well acquainted. All were familiar faces.
"Now, I have not called you all here today to discuss complicated matters. As this is a place to speak lightly with a friend who has traveled a long way, please exercise restraint on your own. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Your Majesty."
"Hahaha. I have no heavy talk to offer the Fylkir."
"It shall be so."
The empire's power brokers responded enthusiastically to the suave emperor's words. Yet, contrary to their hearty replies, sparks flickered in the eyes of the Patriarch, the Treasurer, and the man representing the Eastern Roman military.
"I, too, am glad to see you all again."
Not even a full day had passed since I entered Constantinople, and I already felt tired.
*****
As expected.
The light meeting was in truth a heavy one, and so many subjects were discussed that the dishes boasting all manner of exotic flavors—characteristic of the Eastern Roman Empire, which touched directly upon the Orient—hardly registered in my memory.
With the number of North Sea warriors contracted as mercenaries under the Eastern Roman Emperor already exceeding 5,000, I had to discuss with the Patriarch the establishment of a Hel faith branch in Constantinople at their request. Simultaneously, with the number of Eastern Roman merchants permanently residing in Árós also surpassing 1,000, we had to further negotiate the establishment of an official church in Árós and the dispatch of a bishop for their sake.
The next speaker was Petronas, the Empire's treasurer and the former lord of Cherson on the Black Sea, who was, in a way, the person I had the closest ties and bond with in the Eastern Roman Empire.
Unlike his easygoing smile, Petronas looked as though he truly had a great deal to say, so much so that the Emperor and the next speaker, Niketas, had to interrupt and stop him after he had already spent an excessively long time talking.
Yet he had every reason to, for with the collapse of the Khazar Khaganate, our North Sea Empire had filled the vacant position in the northeastern Black Sea. As the Empire's treasurer, he had to revise the existing slave trade routes established with the Khazars, and his will to push Roman merchants across the Black Sea and all the way to the Caspian Sea was burning fiercely.
South of the Caspian lay the great Middle Eastern market centered on Derbent, and eastward, past the steppe, was the Silk Road across the desert.
As a rule, the more money, trading partners, and trade routes one had, the better. The half-crazed eyes of Petronas were filled with an unconcealable greed, but I did not find that sight so disagreeable. For surely, if I looked in a mirror, my own eyes would not be so unlike Petronas's.
But time was finite, and the list of matters the North Sea and the Eastern Roman Empire needed to share was far longer, so Petronas and I had no choice but to set aside our regrets and move on to the next topic.
A matter that was, perhaps, far more important than religion or money.
The very next topic was the war between the Muslim powers linking Syria, Egypt, North Africa, and Sicily—that vast, crescent-like coalition—and the North Sea-Eastern Roman-Italian alliance.
"The Abbasid Caliph of Baghdad has deployed troops on our Roman border. It is a blatant ploy to disperse our strength, but it is a threat the Empire cannot ignore."
Niketas's voice was composed as he briefly summarized the situation, while his finger, pointing at the great map that Rentakios had brought in, was resolute.
"Consequently, the Empire cannot currently project much power into southern Italy and Sicily. The moment the Fylkir and the imperial fleet move, those Muslim pirate wretches who fled from Chandax (Crete) will swarm out of the coasts of Syria and Egypt all at once. However, I shall personally step forward and, at the risk of my life, escort the Fylkir and the warriors of the North Sea."
The old veteran, whose hair had gone from grizzled to stark white, flashed a still-intense gaze and offered a crisp military salute to the Emperor and me.
[Cheok!]
It was a quite moving moment, but another thought floated into my head.
'Would the ships of the turbaned ones be sturdier than Attila's Seongmun?'
It seemed the time to show off my swimming skills was approaching once again.