304. An Offer You Can't Refuse (2).
Shuwaib ibn Umar, the Emir of Khandax (now Crete) who had retreated to Egypt, and his subordinate, the traitor to the Eastern Roman Empire, Photios, were men who held a most bizarre position in an exquisitely strange location.
Shuwaib himself was the successor to the great Muslim sea raiders who had come from Al-Andalus, and the Khandax (Crete) they had settled in truly served as an intermediary for the Muslims of Al-Andalus, North Africa, Egypt, and Syria—and it even acted as the vanguard for enslaving the stench-ridden Catholic heathens of the upper Mediterranean neighborhoods or plundering their gold.
Now, with the Caliph having fled Samarra for Baghdad and the Turkic generals' power struggles unfolding in real time, the dominion of the once-great and mighty unified Muslim dynasty was shattered and scattered to the winds. And Emir Shuwaib's fleet, which had bound these men together under the name of piracy, along with Khandax itself, were finally lost.
The one most wary of the soaring eagle of the West, the splendid return of the Eastern Roman Empire, was none other than the Aghlabid Muslim dynasty of North Africa.
"What? The fleet of that faithless believer Shuwaib was smashed to pieces? How? Find out in detail what in the world has happened!"
In letters exchanged through envoys, they would amiably address each other with the lofty title of Emir and treat one another with surface cordiality. But if you looked closer, the Aghlabid dynasty, largely composed of North African nomads, could hardly harbor good feelings toward the Umayyad dynasty that had fled to that rootless land in the West, the Abbasid dynasty too far away in the East, or their inconvenient neighbors, the Emirs of Khandax and Egypt.
The tendency to aim for the back of one another's heads at every opportunity could be seen as a characteristic of human society regardless of religion, and the Aghlabid Emir Ibrahim II felt his blood begin to boil.
'No matter how powerful the Eastern Roman navy and that old fox Niketas may be, Shuwaib's stinking young, foolish, and stupid pirates are not weak! If the old admiral and the young pirate have wounded each other badly in their fight, could this not be an opportunity for me!?'
Ibrahim, who had sat on the throne of the ruler of North Africa—the land of ancient Carthage—for barely a year, entertained the hope that perhaps he could go beyond Sicily and lay his hands on southern Italy and even Khandax beyond. He harbored such hopes, but.
The news that followed in rapid succession swept away the bubbling froth of his ambition in an instant and coldly informed Ibrahim just how frigid reality could be, and that there was a bottom beneath the bottom.
"A single man...! It is unbelievable, but the king of those al-Barbari (barbarians, savages), the one they call Fylkir, flew into the sky and crushed the ships of Emir Shuwaib underfoot, they say...!"
"Urgent news! Urgent news, Emir! The valiant warriors of Balharm have, alas, gone over to the side of Ali...!"
"The barbarians of Rome and Shaitan have laid siege to Balharm! By Ali, protect us!"
"This cannot be real! Kwaaaah!"
With events that would be called a disaster even if they happened once a month or once a year occurring nearly every day, Ibrahim, utterly unable to collect his wits, wailed like a child and thrashed his arms and legs about on his bed. But such actions did not change the world, and in the end, Ibrahim had to make a decision, leaving behind the worry-filled gaze and touch of his beautiful wife.
"Wise and brave chieftains of the Berbers, share your wisdom with me. Can we now raise an army, relieve Balharm, and drive off their forces?"
"..."
At Ibrahim's question, the Jund, the tribal chiefs each leading their own Berber military groups, fell silent. But the one who leads them could not remain silent.
And so, Ibrahim spoke with the feeling of driving a knife into his own throat.
"I will bring all those who remain in Balharm here. Let Rome mind the walls and the sea for a time. Should an opportunity ever arise, we can return."
Normally, the North African tribal chiefs, engrossed in their power struggles, would have made all sorts of interjections, but this time, not a single one of them opened their mouth.
For everyone present had received reports that the Muslim pirate ships sunk in the naval battle south of Khandax alone exceeded fifty by a wide margin, and the number of North African warriors fallen in Sicily surpassed fifteen thousand.
Though it was not their own tribesmen who had fallen, the Emir of North Africa would lose the respect of those around him, be held accountable by the Caliph in Baghdad, and undoubtedly reap no good outcome if he failed to bring back safely those who still survived beyond the sea in Balharm. This was a fact known to Emir Ibrahim as well as all the chieftains of North Africa.
"Though there may be exaggeration mixed in, what all circumstances point to is clear. The ruler of these barbarians who came from afar! It is their Fylkir who leads the Roman army. He must be persuaded."
Following Ibrahim's intent, the governor of Balharm moved with haste, and the chieftain of the al-Barbari laid out various conditions, as if grasping this side's intentions.
"My Emir! These barbarians, it turns out, were no barbarians (savages)...! Their ruler is truly fearsome enough to be considered the very incarnation of Shaitan—"
"Enough. Messenger, state the conditions they have set forth."
"Yes, yes! My Emir! Please, forgive this foolish one! The one they call Fylkir, Helgi Ragnarr (mispronounced as Elki), says...!"
The conditions laid out by Fylkir Helgi Ragnarr were as follows.
Vacate the fortress immediately and withdraw from the island of Sicily within ten days. Disgorge a sufficient sum in compensation for the warriors of Eastern Rome and the North Sea fallen on the battlefield. When passing through the waters near Sicily in the future, obtain the permission of the Eastern Roman Emperor and the admiral appointed by him, etc.
A host of these meticulously added conditions were contained in a document the messenger had submitted beforehand, and Ibrahim, who scrutinized the clauses one by one, nodded with a stiff face.
'I thought he would kill all the captives and demand every last warrior of Balharm be handed over. But their Fylkir, though he has not received the protection of Ali, is one who knows mercy.'
Helgi thought he had imposed rather harsh conditions, but this was the harsh world of the 9th century. An offer to return captured prisoners and release the people beyond the walls they had already seized by force only sounded generous.
'That shows how confident he is in the power he wields. Indeed, facing that Fylkir in war is something only fools would do.'
Ibrahim acknowledged that he felt fear. However.
'If that Fylkir has a weakness, it is ultimately that he must return to the kingdom he rules. So I shall gladly accept these conditions. Great warrior of the North Sea, Helgi Ragnarr. But Eastern Rome, Michael. The moment that Fylkir departs and you lower your guard, we will return.'
They had merely been overwhelmed by the unbelievable power of the Fylkir, a power witnessed by too many pairs of eyes. Ibrahim and the warriors of North Africa were not afraid of Eastern Rome or Italy.
"—In addition, we will specially select a few more of our engineers—"
"That is enough. Inform them that we will accept all of it."
'I have lost this time.'
But next time, he would win. Ibrahim and North Africa would not forget this day's disgrace.
Still, nor would they forget those who believed in Christ—Eastern Rome, which had called upon that northern Shaitan, the Emir of Egypt who pretended not to see when their brothers in faith were suffering, the Emir of Al-Andalus, the Emir of Syria, and even Baghdad.
*****
"Our Emir especially bade me convey his gratitude for the Fylkir's magnanimity."
He would accept all of that?
Had it barely been seven days since Balharm's (Palermo's) surrender envoy first sought out the joint North Sea-Roman encampment? To accept every single demand, even the ones I thought were somewhat odd (I had also asked for a few olive saplings) or excessive (technical books and engineers).
I was somewhat dumbfounded by their swift decision-making, and I briefly wondered, 'Should I have demanded more?' But perhaps I was lucky enough to have found a suitable compromise.
Is this my negotiating power? Have I once again hatched from an egg!
"If the Fylkir permits, the people of Balharm will pack the necessary goods and begin the withdrawal this very moment."
The envoy from Balharm, who no longer trembled after seeing my face a few times, spoke in a courteous manner, though he could not hide the anxiety lurking beneath.
Indeed, how could there not be cases where one negotiates only to be stabbed in the back? However, I was a man who knew well the importance of credibility, and even my Eastern Roman comrades, who harbored a fair amount of skepticism about trustworthiness, seemed to have entrusted me with full authority regarding this negotiation.
"..."
When I sent a glance to Admiral Niketas, the supreme commander of the Eastern Roman forces, seeking his agreement, a slight nod came back in reply.
"Do so. However, we cannot release the prisoners we captured on the battlefield."
"Though it is regrettable, their fate now lies with the Fylkir, so that is only natural."
Soon after, the envoy, having discussed compensation, the transport of various items, the date for vacating the island, and the time for the North African fleet to sail toward Balharm, departed with a face that was brightly lit—unlike his expression from days before. Yet my gaze, watching his retreating figure, held a slightly bitter feeling.
It was, in a sense, only natural that the people of Balharm, many of whom would have died or been wounded had a siege taken place, were filled with joy. But the Muslim warriors captured by our allied forces would likely not escape a life of slavery in Eastern Rome.
Honestly, this is not a thought or thing to be said by the very person who contributed more than anyone to killing and capturing so many of them, but even crocodiles shed tears, you know?
It makes me think I should give more benefits to my warriors and look after their families far better.
"From Crete to here in Sicily. All of it is a brilliant feat of arms that will long be remembered in the history books. Fylkir, my family and I shall remember it as an eternal honor to have fought by your side."
By this agreement, Eastern Rome had effectively seized the Mediterranean Sea in its grasp, and Admiral Niketas spoke to me, his expression one of deep emotion, as if he had fulfilled his lifelong ambition.
How profound must the sentiments be for a soldier who had lived solely for the glory of the Empire, finally gazing upon the eagle taking flight?
I dared not presume to know, so I simply smiled and raised the cup before me, filling it generously with wine.
Among the local magistrate of Syracuse who was on the verge of tears, moved by the fact that they had finally won, the bishop, and the Roman officers of Reggio, I caught sight of Edmund, his expression a crossroads of complex emotions, and beside him, Oleg and Seutorolpeu, who were simply content to be drinking liquor.
Truly, there was nothing quite like alcohol, music, and laughter to relieve the extreme stress of the battlefield. And women, of course, could not be left out, so Sicily was bound to become steamy in more ways than one for a while.
Nikephoros, the commander of the cavalry—truly useless for siege warfare—had been assigned to tidying up the battlefield, but upon hearing this good news, he would surely drop what he was doing and come dashing to Balharm.
I am not quite sure how an expedition meant to teach the Khazar Khanate a lesson reached as far as Sicily in the Mediterranean, but in any case, I was glad it had been resolved well.
'Now I can finally rest in peace.'
Along with that thought, I called to mind my wife and children back in Árós.
But it seems this blasted world has no intention of leaving me alone.
"Urgent news! Urgent news flying in from Italy!"
Everyone—the commanders, adjutants, and even the guards who had been clearing away the myriad maps and military intelligence documents that filled one side of the large command tent to prepare for a sticky drinking bout—halted their movements at the urgent voice approaching from afar.
"Th-the Imperator of Italy! Ludovicus has been captured!!"
The messenger, his face deathly pale, dropped the bombshell.