36.
36.
Garðaríki. Holmgard.
If one were to unravel its meaning directly, it was the land where villages gathered. Or the land of cities.
It was a land that emerged beyond our Uppsala, past the rough and cold sea to the east.
Of course, one had to pass a few tribes who spoke a tongue slightly different from ours before reaching it, but it was a distance that took little time if traveling by swift ship.
A place that, given fair weather, could be reached far quicker than touching Britain.
Naturally, as close as the distance was, they had been fighting, trading, and binding themselves together by blood ties here and there for a very long time, yet they were distinctly different people from us.
As with all tribal nations of this era, since no notably powerful king had ever emerged, they had shed endless blood due to complex political and economic disputes between villages, between tribes, and even within tribes. And so, from without, they sought a king with the strength to mediate among their own petty affairs.
That man was Hrørekr Geddason.
Originally, the people of the east had called us the Rus, but now it was a name they had themselves accepted.
The name used among those Rus people was Rurik. A man said to have come closest to hegemony in those chaotic eastern lands.
"The honor is rather mine, Helgi Geddason. It is a glorious thing to share a name with a brave warrior."
"Thank you, Konungr! But since it would not do for the Konungr to feel any discomfort on account of my name, I would be grateful if you called me Oleg. The days I have lived as Oleg have grown longer than the days I was called Helgi, so this name is familiar now, haha!"
"Is that so? Then I shall do so, Jarl Oleg. I cannot send a precious guest away empty-handed, so let us share a cup of mead. How does that sound?"
"The honor is mine, Konungr! Ah, I shall finally taste the renowned mead of Árós!"
Somehow, Helgi—no, Oleg—seemed more excited by the prospect of drinking than by the joy of meeting me. We sat together in chairs decorated with comfortable leather, and as the servants brought out the food, we poured the drink.
"Indeed, I have always listened intently to news of my brothers in the east, but I did not expect Konungr Hrørekr's own brother to seek me out. Has some trouble arisen in Novgorod, perhaps?"
Novgorod. The easternmost front of my kingdom's trade, possessing deep ties to Visby on Gotland. It was the place that managed the waterways stretching eastward, used by Ivar and countless other Norsemen.
"Thanks to Konungr Helgi's concern, my brother Rurik and the most precious city of the Rus are fortunately safe. The Horse Riders down below have been showing insolent movements of late... but among them, killing and dying at each other's hands is a daily affair."
The Horse Riders below the Rus were broadly divided into three groups: the Khazar Khaganate that controlled the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, the Magyars situated a bit more to the left of them, and the Bulgars to the left of them, perched above the Eastern Roman Empire's head.
We were hardly people who avoided a fight, but the belligerence of those Horse Riders defied imagination.
So it was not difficult to understand Oleg's unconsciously furrowed brow. That neighborhood was truly one where the weak died or were sold off.
A sudden surge of sympathy made me fill his empty cup with drink.
"Thank you, Konungr!"
"Drink freely. For your sake, I could empty all the casks in my underground cellar."
"You are truly generous, Konungr Helgi!"
This time, I also had my adjutant Refil, who was seated with us, sit down and poured him the sweetly fragrant mead. Then the guard waiting outside the door made his presence known.
"Konungr Helgi, Drottning Áslaug has arrived."
"My mother? Bring her in at once."
"Yes, Konungr!"
With an elder arriving, I could not very well remain seated, so I hurriedly rose from my spot, and Refil and Oleg also hastily got to their feet.
Come to think of it, she was a grandmother to Refil. Good gods, the passage of time.
"Helgi!"
My mother entered, brightening the whole room with her radiant smile, and called my name as she approached Oleg. When two namesakes occupied one space, such awkward moments were bound to happen.
The two of them greeted each other with very pleased faces, sharing an acquaintance that I had not even considered.
"Drottning Áslaug, you have not aged a day. The years have passed by the twinflower of Gotland like a fleeting breeze. When you walked, men lined up, drawn by that fragrance."
"Helgi, stop that. I see my own face every day. More importantly, a twinflower... how long has it been since I last heard that? It is you who remains the same, not changed in the slightest."
"Is that so? My wife scolds me daily, asking how it would be if I lost a little weight. Once, she told me to go on a proper hunt for a good while. She said that if I caught a bit of the outside wind, my old looks might return."
"Haha— she was surely joking, Helgi. Is Konungr Hrørekr faring well? Good heavens, why does the word Konungr placed before his name still feel so unfamiliar!"
"My brother is the same as ever. Still foolish, and aged in the exact image of how he was twenty years ago. I thought he might change a little once he became Konungr, but a foal that grows up merely becomes a horse, does it not?"
"I see, is that so..."
During the conversation between my mother and Oleg as they traced the distant past, Refil and I were momentarily reduced to sacks of barley awkwardly inserted into the room. We exchanged glances, silently asking if the other knew anything, but regrettably, there was nothing to be gleaned.
"...Time has truly flown by."
"No matter how my brother's and my name may change, whatever title may be placed before it, to the Drottning, we shall forever remain the twinflower."
"Thank you, Helgi."
The conversation, filled with gladness, somehow held the emptiness and loneliness of one who had withered before the march of time. It was something every human must face. Growing old, falling ill, and dying.
The talk of those whose days remaining to die were now drawing closer than the days they had lived could not help but be mixed with reflections on the years.
However, one could not simply lament forever. My stepmother Áslaug, who understood that fact well, informed me of the ties Oleg and Rurik had to Gotland.
The Geddason brothers had originally been warriors of Visby, the land ruled by Áslaug's father, the Jarl of Gotland. Famous for their strength and fighting prowess, they had often embarked on eastern expeditions with the wealthy Jarl's backing, and soon raised their names by serving as mercenaries for various tribes.
After that, through various twists and turns, they were ultimately elevated to kingship by the people of Novgorod, arriving at where they stood today.
Naturally, with their support base being weak, they had no choice but to rely heavily on Gotland and the Jarl of Uppsala beyond it, and thus Visby and Novgorod came to form a powerful, de facto trade alliance.
'No wonder the Jarl of Gotland hinted as much to me once.'
The current Jarl of Gotland and Visby was my mother Áslaug's brother. True to his inheritance as the successor of a father famed as the region's greatest rich man, he was widely reputed to be very sharp in matters of commerce. We were both busy people, so we had never had a proper lengthy conversation. With the ice broken like this, I thought I should meet with him at least once.
"Helgi, talking with old friends always blows warmth into my heart, but I can no longer avoid asking. Without any word at all, what business brings you here?"
The two middle-aged people, who had been laughing and chattering like children for a long while as they reminisced, transitioned into business talk as naturally as if the previous mood had never existed.
"This is a thing I say because my wife is not here, but conversation with a beautiful woman always brings me fresh vigor, Drottning. Since you have broached the subject first, I have no choice but to speak. Truthfully, besides congratulating Konungr Helgi on his great victory, there is one more reason for my visit."
Unlike his usual forthright manner, Oleg's expression grew unusually hesitant as he trailed off. Judging by his face, it seemed a matter for which he himself could not quite grasp how to deliver the news.
"Speak comfortably, Jarl Oleg. Nothing will escape beyond this room."
"Of course, Konungr Helgi. How could I ever doubt the Konungr's honor? It is absolutely not that kind of issue. It is just..."
Oleg stroked his luxuriantly grown mustache in deep deliberation.
"It is just that it is a truly unexpected matter. Does the Konungr know of Miklagard?"
"Miklagard?"
Miklagard. The great city of Mikla. The capital of the Roman Empire, which still stood proudly. Constantinople.
Why was that story coming from Oleg's mouth?
"I have heard of it. Is it not the capital of those Romans?"
"Exactly so, Konungr. I daresay it is the most beautiful and majestic city in this world. The name Miklagard was never false."
Oleg's expression shifted as if he were dreaming, as though he were gazing upon the Miklagard that existed in his memory.
"However, that majestic city is, in the end, a place where people live. The story may grow rather long—would that be alright?"
By now, enough time had passed to empty a whole cask of mead, so Oleg asked in case my mother Áslaug might be uncomfortable. Of course, my stepmother did not budge an inch. Rather, befitting one so versed in politics, her eyes seemed to gleam.
"If you mean to send me away, you had best stop there, Helgi."
"Hoho— truly, you have not changed at all. Understood. I shall speak."
Then, draining his cup in one long gulp, Oleg delivered words of a nature that no one in that room could possibly have expected.
"Has the Konungr, by any chance, heard the word væringi?"
"Ivar told me of it once. I heard that if you take the waterway down from that massive lake beyond the Eastern Sea, Ladoga, the land of the Romans appears, and if you take the waterway toward the Örn, the Khazar city of Itill appears... Among them, I was told the Romans call us that. Is my understanding correct?"
"You know it precisely, Konungr Helgi. Come to think of it, Jarl Ivar, the Konungr's brother, traveled as far as distant Itill, did he not. Thanks to that, we too were able to open trade with Itill and the covered ones beyond it, so we owe a debt in various ways."
"A debt, you say. On the contrary, my brother Ivar was more likely the one to have received help. The sight of him boasting to me about a ring he brought from Itill is vivid before my eyes."
Ivar truly did get around a lot.
"Yes, he was a great adventurer. However, the story I wish to tell you now is not about the Khan of Itill, but about the Romans."
Because this was the second floor, a large brazier could not be brought in. Having ordered that a smaller brazier be brought in along with warm furs, I soon draped one more fur over my mother's shoulders as a servant delivered it.
Of course, even in the midst of this, Oleg's words continued unbroken.
"The current Roman Emperor is a man named Michael. I have never seen him in person, but rumors of him being a drunkard are rampant. He could have been a good friend—it is a shame to have had no chance to see him."
Making small talk, Oleg gulped down the mead in his cup once more. My mead reserves plummeted rapidly before his ceaseless drinking capacity, but I could not treat a guest poorly.
I poured him yet more mead as a sign to continue.
"Thank you, Konungr Helgi. May Thor's blessing be with you. In any case, beneath this Emperor Michael, there is a Norseman named Yngvar. Yes, he is the captain of the sworn men serving under the Roman Emperor.
He is commonly called Jarl Yngvar. When last I heard, having gained the favor of two emperors, he had entered the Senet? The Senate? At any rate, I heard he entered a place of complicated name. He seems to be a man of considerable power."
The words he tossed out so casually seemed to hold fascinating clues, hints of something that could someday be woven together well... but for now, it was time to listen to Oleg, who seemed to be gradually growing tipsy.
"Naturally, he also extended much of his power to facilitate trade with our Novgorod. In the midst of this, a letter arrived. It was not from Jarl Yngvar, but a missive sent by his daughter. The current emperor's foster son, co-emperor, and simultaneously a loyal subject... I apologize. But even if you see it that way, I myself do not quite know. That is how it was written in the letter."
Setting aside the dizzying array of titles, my mother, Refil, and I decided first to hear all of Oleg's words.
"...Where had I gotten to? Ah, the letter sent by Lady Eudokia, the wife of Co-Emperor Basileios, requested aid. It was written in rune script, saying that since she had no one to trust, she was requesting help from her own kin..."
'Michael, Basileios, Eudokia. All names I am hearing for the first time... but this...'
An unknown sensation kept tickling my nerves. Amidst the parade of names whose very pronunciations were unfamiliar, my instincts smelled the thick scent of opportunity.