39.
39.
[I thought I had become King of the Norsemen, but it turned out I was King of the Rus.]
That wasn't a novel title; it was my current situation.
I'd had a faint uneasy feeling, honestly, ever since we left behind the beautiful scenery of Lake Ladoga and started working our way up the gently flowing Volkhov River. Oleg's expression had looked somewhat grim. Back then, I had merely taken it for the anguish of a royal wrestling with Novgorod's tangled affairs...
From the moment I first set foot in Novgorod—a city marked by a long wooden palisade and a great mead hall built in the Norse style—I knew something was off. When people suddenly knelt before me and Oleg quietly bowed his head, and when a man who eerily resembled Oleg knelt on one knee and identified himself as the Knyaz of Novgorod.
I realized then that things were not going to go the way I had expected.
If there was a misplay, it was that I had overestimated the power of Novgorod and the Rus. There could hardly be another people using the uncommon name of Rus... so it was clearly my mistake to assume these people were the direct forerunners of Russia.
What kind of nation was Russia? By 21st-century standards, even in a world where combat power had been ferociously leveled upward, it was a country that never dropped from the global number two spot in military might. First in territorial area! First in vodka consumption! And so on and so forth...!
The forerunners of such a nation, I thought, would be overflowing with pride in themselves and love for their king. I had figured I'd be lucky just not to face open hostility as an outsider...
So where the hell did they learn diplomacy that meant smashing their foreheads into the ground right off the bat?
Oleg, with his solemn face, at least seemed to harbor some lingering regret. But Rurik, up close, was a different story: tortured by extreme stress and bearing dark circles so deep they seemed carved into his face. The moment the feast began, after sitting me in the high seat, he had taken a lower place and was acting as my Örn-arm.
The really bigger problem was that no one thought this was strange.
Only after the drink had made about two more rounds in this chaotic atmosphere did I understand. Right now, the Rus people were not united. More than the identity of 'Rus,' labels like 'a man of such-and-such city' or 'hailing from such-and-such place' were far closer to their own self-identity.
In short, Rurik, the Knyaz of the two cities of Novgorod and Polotsk, had been losing power because the supply of warriors from his support base on the Scandinavian mainland had been cut off. Under threat from the Magyars and Khazars, Polotsk was at last on the verge of breaking away when—just as he could endure no more—the king from the mainland across the sea appeared! In answer to his desperate plea for aid. A plea Rurik himself had held little real hope would be answered.
To make a very rough comparison, was it like the great Gwanggaeto who came to the rescue of Silla? Of course, it's quite different from that case... The Wanli Emperor who saved Joseon? Though I, at least, was a workaholic while the Wanli Emperor was an allergic-to-work-aholic.
One could say it was a situation like Rohan charging to Gondor's rescue from the clutches of the wicked Sauron.
'Oh, my head...'
Reality is merciless and flows without pity.
Now that I had a rough grasp of what was going on, I had to decide on my next move.
'Polotsk. I bear it no particular ill will, but since it sits squarely blocking the southern water route, I must absolutely bring it under Novgorod's influence.'
First, I would have to try talking. It was time to use the Árós style of diplomacy. First, overwhelming material goods; next, fists.
Of course, since you never know how cold this winter will be until time passes, I couldn't transport massive amounts of supplies right away. But if they wanted peace, they could receive my promise. A king's word, worth far more than a fortune in gold.
If they refused, however, they would lose something precious. Like half of their wealth.
"Hrørekr Konungr, what is the name of the man who called himself the Knyaz of Polotsk?"
"Please speak comfortably, Helgi Konungr. I dare not stand on the same level as you; if you would simply call me Knyaz, I would be grateful...!"
"...I shall do so, Knyaz Hrørekr."
"Thank you, Konungr. The man who called himself the Knyaz of Polotsk bears the name Mirosław. As the flow of slaves from across the sea dwindled, he found himself in somewhat of a bind. I've heard he was a great slave trader who had already amassed a vast fortune even before my brothers and I came to this land."
Ah—a slave trader, then.
Having already awakened in the distant past, long before Hangul was even invented, I had long since thrown away every scrap of 21st-century common sense. I felt no particular disapproval. I simply filed the information away.
"Moreover, it's no exaggeration to say that Polotsk is essentially in a competitive relationship with Novgorod. While the water route from Lake Ladoga is far wider and safer, there is a waterway that allows one to enter Polotsk directly from the Eastern Sea."
"Then Polotsk had more than enough reason to bristle at Novgorod's monopoly."
"Exactly. Merchants, as a rule, wish to make up for their losses. As the numbers of sworn men who came with me—fighting together and training under me—gradually increased, it seems Mirosław concluded it was worth testing his strength. Though he surely never imagined that a true Konungr would personally cross the sea."
Mirosław of Polotsk. His relationship with Rurik must have been far more complicated than what Rurik had told me, because a bitter smile spread across Rurik's face as he spoke the name.
"He was also a comrade with whom I fought the Khazars, Magyars, Bulgars, and the western tribes. But when one does the work of a Knyaz, are we not fated to point our swords at one another regardless of personal feelings?"
Amidst my loudly laughing and chattering subordinates, I saw Rurik's form, his face gloomily veiled by shadows cast from the flames.
The duty of a king, was it... Feeling a pang of kinship with his pitiful figure, I refilled his empty cup.
[Pourriing— glug glug! Puh-ha!]
"Thank you, Konungr Helgi. Haha—"
Rurik emptied the cup I had carefully poured in one gulp. As he let out a light laugh, as though recalling some amusing joke, I refilled his cup and asked.
"You look as though some pleasant old memory has come to mind."
"Haha. No, Helgi Konungr. It's just that whenever I speak your name as Konungr, it always reminds me of my younger brother. Ah, I mean Oleg. When we were growing up like little rascals in Visby on Gotland long ago, we always used to call each other Konungr and Jarl and the like."
"To share a name with a warrior like Oleg is an honor for me as well."
"Thank you, Konungr. I will be sure to tell my brother those words."
Thanks to Rurik's brief moment of sentiment, I too was able to think of my own brothers and father. Come to think of it, I had truly been blessed with a good life. A family who treated me well without ever showing even a hint of my being a bastard.
Though it was a happy memory, it was now time for a king's work.
"This man Mirosław."
My iron-willed mental discipline did not permit me to waste time on idle thoughts, and I soon conveyed my opinion on our next move to Rurik.
"Go on, Konungr."
"Do you know exactly what it is he wants? Has he no intention of talking?"
"Hmm. The last exchange of words was already five nights ago, so I have no idea what he might be doing in Polotsk right now... But judging by how exceedingly rude and aggressive the messenger's words were, he already seems to have made up his mind to try a fight."
"Huh."
They'd shared a pot for quite some time. Even if this Mirosław was blinded by greed, did his followers go along with it too? Or was this simply a land where people fought first and asked questions later?
The moment my brow began to furrow, Rurik tried to bow his head in apology, and I had to forcibly stop him.
'Well, I suppose there's no help for it now. I'll have to meet him.'
I needed to ready the army and read the terrain first.
'If things go wrong, a battle could break out...'
In this way, the feast, which had grown ever more boisterous as time passed, finally came to an end. Amid the most generous hospitality, I rested comfortably and replenished my strength. It was roughly three days later that the news which shattered this temporary peace reached me.
The news that Mirosław of Polotsk had mobilized the forces under his command and begun marching north.
*****
People said this place was similar to where I had lived, apart from the people. But put another way, since the most important thing—the people—was different, I couldn't understand their way of thinking at all.
"You bastard—! Rurik! Ever since you presumptuously planted yourself in the seat of Knyaz...! Look at what has befallen us!"
Perhaps because I had mostly fought 'civilized' enemies in Britain, I had expected some sort of tactical maneuvering. So the sight of them boldly marching up in a single line, then immediately baring their arses and flinging insults at each other... was profoundly awkward for me.
"Per-Rune is wroth! When those horse-riding bastards on the plain were stealing away our wives and daughters, our sons and mothers—what in the world were you doing!"
Those filthy—not metaphorically, but literally filthy—fellows. At their very center, the enemy leader whom Rurik, standing beside me, had pointed out as "That one is Mirosław!" had leaped forward and was pouring out every curse and invective imaginable.
"You swine! And you Novgorod morons beneath him who do nothing but wipe Rurik's arse! You're all wrong! When we can't even get enough by capturing and selling off the tribes to the west and north! Yet all you do is get yourselves plundered left and right!"
The way he shrieked was a little funny, but I feared that if I left him like that, he might truly snap and charge. So I slowly walked forward, flanked of course by Rurik and Refil.
"See here, Mirosław! Let us talk—"
"And who the hell are you!"
?
Had this bastard lost his mind?
I had started speaking politely, but Mirosław cut me off at once. Strike one.
"You cur! Hold your tongue! The one who stands before you is—"
"You shut your mouth, you dogs of Rurik! You must have dragged along some big fellow, but this old body of mine has hunted four sacred and fearsome bears!"
"Hurrah—! Bear-slayer Mirosław!"
"Our Knyaz hunts bears! You who serve this shallow, flashy Norse Knyaz! Kkik-kkik!"
"Eat this—!"
[Prrrrt!]
"Kehehehe! Hck...! Uwek—!"
Th-that...
When I used to hear that the warriors of the Mongol Empire were famous for their false retreats and luring tactics, I once wondered, 'Why would anyone fall for such an obvious provocation?' But now, I thought I understood. When you see fellows who keep cutting you off and farting right in your face while cackling, anyone would want to charge out.
Even Genghis Khan would have grabbed his sword and charged, I'd wager?
Just look at how Refil's face had turned bright red as he stepped forward to defend my honor.
But I was different.
"Hoo—"
With a deep exhale, I instantly quelled the heart demon within my chest. I could master my own emotions. Still, Mirosław—strike two. I would grant him exactly one more chance.
"Th-this...!"
"Enough, Refil. Step back."
"Yes...! Konungr...!"
I pulled back Refil, who was grinding his teeth, and took another step toward Mirosław, who was squinting in order to see my face more clearly.
"See here, Mirosław. I am called Helgi Ragnarsson."
Because I did not wish to expend any more mental energy, I stated my name quietly and casually laid my hand on the hand-axe at my side.
Please, insult me again.
"Enough—!"
"You bastards, have another taste of—... Huh?"
"Haha! You can't do a thing! You lot—... Eh?"
Contrary to my expectations, this time Mirosław did not interrupt me. Instead, he even calmed down his own warriors, who had been gleefully running wild.
The warriors of Polotsk were staring at Mirosław with puzzled expressions, but he merely fixed me with his narrowed eyes. Then, stepping forward, he raised both arms toward me.
"Let us speak peacefully! Helgi Konungr!"
"..."
A moment of silence passed through the field, and soon enough, I set aside my disappointment and nodded.
You are fortunate, Mirosław. You at least have the head on your shoulders to avoid a strike three.