Plunder (1)
“Take up your weapons!”
“Battle! Battle!”
“The Valkyries will lead us to Valhalla!”
Shouts like these echoed as the men charged forward. Standing amid them, I felt utterly bewildered. Screams rang out from every direction. Church bells clanged deafeningly in my ears. I stared blankly at the cathedral engulfed in flames.
As I stood there dazed, a surge of killing intent prickled from behind me—raw and vicious, like it meant to end me right then. Without thinking, I swung the axe in my hand.
“Gurk... urk...”
My axe was buried in the chest of a man who looked like a monk. A sickening sensation crawled up the handle.
“Uh...”
My first kill in this life. I'd been born in a nation ruled by law, never even imagined taking a life. Guilt should have crashed over me... guilt... guilt...? What was this? It felt like my emotions had been severed clean—no guilt at all. Even after killing a living person.
All I felt inside was like toppling a dressed-up mannequin. Just like that.
Feels like my guilt's gone numb.
As that thought crossed my mind, the monk's body slumped forward. Shoving the corpse aside appeared a man in armor etched with a distinctive emblem. He had the impression of a lion.
“You really did it. Well done.”
Praise spilled from the man's lips. Apparently, the monk I'd killed wasn't just any priest—likely the bishop of that cathedral or something similar.
“I want to reward you right now, but hold on just a bit longer, little brother. We'll talk after the Hauteville family drives every last Catholic force from this land.”
With that, the man departed. Left alone, I numbly examined the dead cleric. Only then did I realize he was no ordinary priest, but a bishop from the Papal States.
“Papal forces? Hauteville family...? No way...”
The Hauteville family. The lineage that gave rise to the Norman dynasty. They traced their roots to Tancred of Hauteville, a petty lord with no land to give his twelve sons. Following Viking tradition, the boys roamed far and wide to carve out their own domains. One of them was Onfroi—Humphrey of Hauteville in English.
He and his three brothers had invaded southern Italy, provoking fierce resistance from the Papal army. And all this happened in...
“The 11th century.”
Before William the Bastard conquered England. Recognizing the era and circumstances, a headache pounded in. But before I could suppress it, new screams brought fresh killing intent.
“Die, you plunderers!”
A soldier in Papal colors charged me, eyes blazing with clear murderous intent. The old me would've fled in terror. But just like with the priest, no emotion stirred. The onrushing soldier looked weak. One kick and he'd crumple.
So I kicked—just as I'd thought. The man tumbled across the ground.
“Kuhk... guk... kuh... They said barbarians are strong... ugh...”
Toppled by a single kick. I approached with my axe raised.
“S-spare me... I... I have a w-wife... and a d-daughter...!”
“Usually at times like this, don't people call on God first?”
Just like with the priest. The soldier's head flew from his body.
Around the bonfire, men danced and sang.
“Hahaha! Dance better than that!”
“You call that worthy of Valhalla?!”
Bearded warriors guffawed in revelry. With beer—or more like liquid bread—in hand, how could they not be in high spirits?
As I mulled that over, the man I'd met earlier approached.
“Not enjoying the feast, little brother?”
His eyes held an intellectual glint, a far cry from the warrior I'd seen before. Without the beard, he could've passed for early twenties—boyish, even.
“Honestly, a party full of bearded guys like this is tough to enjoy.”
He chuckled and poked my side. Then, raising his tankard, he continued.
“Still, enjoy it while you can. Geoffrey's coming soon.”
Geoffrey. Humphrey's half-brother, who'd joined the Hauteville raids on southern Italy.
“Geoffrey? What about the lands at Capitate...?”
Humphrey tilted his head.
“Lands? We came all this way to claim our own territory—what are you on about, brother? Hallucinogenic mushrooms?”
By my knowledge, the three brothers raided southern Italy around 1055. Geoffrey had been Count of Capitate then. For him to abandon his lands for this? And Humphrey should've been in his forties or fifties, yet he looked early twenties. None of it added up.
“I should've suspected when you—the guy who hates frontline fighting—suddenly charged the enemy leader and took his head.”
Humphrey eyed me worriedly, reaching to pry open my mouth. I recoiled in alarm.
“Wh-what are you doing, brother?”
“What? Worried my only little brother's hooked on berserker mushrooms and turned into a mad warrior.”
Berserker. Scholars later theorized Vikings ate hallucinogenic mushrooms to numb battle pain—deadlier than modern drugs. Some said they fed them to deer and drank the urine...
He seemed to mean that.
“I get you want the warriors' respect. But I always thought you shone more in strategy than...”
Humphrey tapped my head.
“...direct combat. Not just anyone can do that. Right, Robert?”
The name from Humphrey's lips confirmed my worst fear. Robert Guiscard. Guiscard meant cunning, sly, foxy in ancient English. Sly Robert—that was me.
As that sank in, Humphrey suddenly shot to his feet and bellowed to the crowd.
“Brave warriors! Today we fought a battle worthy of Valhalla!”
“Woooaaah!”
“Odin watches over us!”
“Humphrey! Humphrey!”
By this era, Vikings had long embraced Catholicism. But post-battle feasts harkened to ancestral ways.
“And among us, the one who achieved a feat fit for the Einherjar is...”
Humphrey seized my hand and hoisted it high.
“My proud little brother! Robert!”
“Robert! Robert!”
“Incredible!”
“A feat worthy of the warrior's name! Robert!”
The warriors chanted my name. Stunned, I waved back at their fervor. As the mood peaked, Humphrey lowered my hand and addressed the throng.
“This land we landed on—the Italian peninsula, famed since ancient times for its riches.”
Center of Roman culture. Mountains of valuables—irresistible to barren northern warriors.
“Sell just the bells from that Catholic cathedral, and we're rich.”
Church bells were pricey bronze. Vikings, outlaws anyway, ignored Christian scorn. Silver candelabras and ornaments from masses? One cathedral raid outyielded a year's Scandinavian harvest.
“We've crushed the Catholics blocking us in Calabria. Now all that's left is...”
“Blood and plunder!”
“Plunder! Plunder!”
Calabria: region near Sicily. No match for wealthy northern Italy, but Byzantine-held, ripe for looting. Where people gathered, wealth piled. Cities above all.
“Warriors, take up your arms! At dawn, we march on the city!”
Vikings roared, weapons aloft. The excitement was palpable, but unease gnawed at me. No proof, though. I chalked it up to not fitting in yet and buried the anxiety.
“The barbarians have landed after all.”
Armor emblazoned with a cross. The man who screamed commander scowled at the Viking raid. His adjutant asked worriedly,
“We must request aid from your father at once, Your Grace.”
The commander shook his head.
“Father's busy. We can't burden him with worry.”
The adjutant nodded. He knew why no request to the Papal States: it'd cede command of Gerard's forces to them. Losing troops under his nose? Unpalatable.
“Besides, I have a way to turn this around.”
“Truly, Your Grace?”
The adjutant stared wide-eyed. The duke nodded, pointing to the map.
“The barbarians landed here.”
He indicated Calabria's coast.
“Plunder's their goal—they'll head straight there.”
Duke Gerard of Lorraine jabbed a city on the map.
“This place...”
“Surrounded by wild hills. Perfect grave for savages ignorant of the terrain, like so many before.”
The duke grinned at the map. The spot: Reggio Calabria, heart of the Punic Wars.