My time during the raid had been productive, securing the much needed resources and people to fuel our expansion, but I couldn’t deny that it felt good to be back home. Being able to sleep in my own bed next to my wives, work at my own desk, and all the little luxuries I took for granted until they were gone returned to me. Such indulgences did come with a cost, however.
Time.
“The raids into Saxony have increased,” Widukind said, seated across from me. Time had been kinder to him since he abdicated the throne, taking a role as an advisor in my court. One of the few that I trusted without reservation, even if it did come with the understanding he would prioritize Saxony above all the other kingdoms. “Not by Charlemagne's will, officially speaking.”
I let out a quiet hum, “He just doesn't stop them.” To that, Widukind inclined his head to me. “Reprisals will be delivered. It's only a question of how deeply we have to cut into Rome.”
“The border provinces… we've always raided each other with every turn of the season. It's just the way of things, but in these last years, Siegfried…” Widukind's lips thinned. “This year, they were raiding to spill blood rather than take treasures. The garrison helps, but that just limits their damage.”
“Part of that is what happened in Rome,” I offered. “Tensions have risen because of it, and I doubt that they will lessen any time soon.” For a multitude of reasons. My raid across Britannia had begun to spread, as well as my victory over the Christian faithful. As the Romans told the story, I had slaughtered every living thing on Britannia down to the last flea on the last rat. Or I had made mass sacrifices to herald the Christian apocalypse.
The flames of religious fervor across Rome were being stoked into an inferno. In some part as a deliberate action by Charlemagne to solidify his rule over Rome. Another hand stoking the flames was my own -- I knew the narrative that would be spun about my actions in the raid, and we had prepared accordingly. Even before the raid had commenced, priests and men of faith had traveled across the Roman Empire to polytheize.
I still found the branch of Christianity that called me a Prophet of God… distasteful. For many reasons. But it was a potent tool to use against Charlemagne, and one I wielded with deadly intent.
The very same denouncements and fervor that the Christians used to decry me and paint me as the Anti-Christ or a demon were used as evidence to prove that I was a prophet. After all, could I really have won that battle in Britannia if it wasn't God's will? Would my empire thrive as it did if I was not part of His plan?
They were unleashed upon Rome like a pox, delivering a carefully constructed message that would turn Charlemagne's weapon against him. That the Christian God had chosen me to tear down the corrupt church that profited off the misery of the faithful. That God demanded a more humble church to act as shepherds for the Christians rather than the corrupt political quagmire that served as a dumping ground for the second and third sons of nobility.
The message was spreading alongside news of my victories in Britannia. How well the message was being delivered, I wouldn't know for years, but I had already heard tales of purges across cities that proclaimed themselves Norse Christians. It was by design. After all, there were few things that spread a message like martyrs and Christianity thrived in the face of oppression.
“Meaning that it is a fine time to keep my promise to you and begin construction of that wall,” I continued, watching as some of the tension bled out of Widukind. He’d expected he would have to remind me. “It won't be perfect,” I warned him. “A wall that long will have its weak points, which we will use to either delay the enemy from overcoming it or force them to cross where we desire.”
Widukind inclined his head, “I am well aware. It's not a perfect solution, but so long as my people are safe from Rome's raiders… that is what I care about.” He might no longer call himself king, but Widukind still carried himself as one. “I had thought there might be delays given the number of projects you seem to be financing. As I understand, such a construction effort will be no small task.”
It wouldn't be. Saxony was not a small kingdom, and there were swaths of it that were too exposed for my liking. What would serve as the shield against Rome would be high walls connected by a dozen forts. Costly to build, and expensive to maintain.
“The security of my empire is paramount. My other projects are important, but Saxony is where we share a border with our greatest rival. I will spare no expense to see it secure.” It was a necessary expense. The rest of my borders were secured by petty kingdoms, and the Khazars had yet to recover from their civil war, though I expected they would soon. Meaning that when the time for war against Rome came, Saxony would be the doorway for our invasion or the battlefield for our defense.
Widukind chuckled. It was a warm sound, “The raid was quite the success, then.”
“Jasmine has stopped scolding me about the state of the treasury,” I returned with a smile. “For now, at least.”
The projects I had set in motion were still going strong. The King's Road was nearing completion -- from the tip of Denmark, all the way around the Baltic Sea, to the shore of Sweden, a single road connected all of my kingdoms. Though, branches of the main artery would still be under construction for another decade, further binding the towns and cities that were being developed. Resources were being exploited, hubs of production were turning those resources into products that were then sold.
Widukind chuckled again, louder this time. “You've come a long way,” Widukind voiced without prompting. “How long ago was it when you stood before me as a child in the service of another?”
“... Sixteen years, I think,” I mused. Two years fighting against Francia. A year of respite in Norway and reuniting with my family. Another three years in the Mediterranean. A year as King of Norway. Another three securing my empire and forging kingdoms from squabbling tribes. Five long years of ruling them before spending a year in Britannia.
I was in my thirties. No longer a young man, even if I wasn't an old one.
I couldn't help a soft laugh of amusement from escaping me, “In a few years, I'll be the same age as my father when he died.” A strange thought. Father had seemed so much older in my memories. Wiser too. For a moment I hated Horrik and Thorfin anew, realizing now just how short they had cut his life. How much more time he had to live alongside all of us.
“Back then, I knew you were destined to change things, but I never dreamed that you would change things this much,” Widukind recalled fondly.
“I hadn't either. Not until my time in Rome,” I admitted. “There is still more to do, I'm afraid. I won't be able to rest easily for another fifteen years at least.” Probably twenty. Maybe even thirty.
It brought my thoughts toward my succession, and I had to swallow a sigh there. It was… disappointing for a number of reasons that Ragnar had confessed his lack of interest in becoming my heir to his mother, who had quietly passed his intent on to me. In part because Ragnar hadn't felt comfortable expressing such things to me. But also because he had all the makings of a fine king.
Alba would do well under his leadership, of that I was certain. Unfortunately, the kingdom of Alba was the extent of his ambition.
My other children were of course candidates to become my heir. All of them promising. Magnus had distinguished himself in Britannia. Bjorn and Radahn were still young, but brimming with potential. Scáthach and Aífe had little interest in rulership, but they still had the capacity for it. However, at that moment, my thoughts drifted to my youngest son.
Hakon was less than a year old. It would be a decade before I would even be able to tell if he had the temperament to become the Allvaldr. By that time, his siblings would be adults and likely with children of their own. It would be another decade before he would be ready to assume to throne as a man of twenty. Yet…
All my children were smart. They applied that intelligence in different ways, of course, but all of my children were immensely intelligent. Hakon, however, was an anomaly. An exceptional one. By the time he was three months old, he was already crawling. At six, he was attempting to walk. He didn't know many words, but there was a sharp awareness in his eyes and behind them was a ravenous intelligence. Within a few months, I expected him to be speaking in simple but complete sentences.
It was too much pressure to place on a child. A baby. One whose future was so unknown at this time. Still, I found myself considering him as a viable heir.
There was a knock at the door followed by a servant speaking, “King Haldur requests an audience.”
Widukind inclined his head to me, rising out of his seat without needing to be dismissed. “By your leave, Allvaldr.” I returned the nod, and no sooner than he left, Haldur entered with a scowl.
“Read this,” he commanded, presenting a letter to me. Taking it with a raised eyebrow, it only took a few lines before I found myself scowling alongside him.
The letter was from Charlemagne. One concerning the ransom of his son Pepin.
Or the lack thereof.
“It was always a possibility,” I said, setting the letter aside. Still, it was distasteful. “With the reunification of the Roman Empire, his succession has become complicated. Pepin's stay in Britannia was essentially banishment and ransoming him back just complicates his succession more.”
Charlemagne had several children, many of them fathered upon his late wife. His current wife, Empress Irene had borne Charlemagne another son of the name Aurelian. A rather pointed name given that the last Roman Emperor of that name had borne the title of ‘Restorer of the World.’
Which made their intent clear. Aurelian would inherit the Roman Empire.
Irene, prior to her remarriage, had most likely murdered her own son to simplify her succession. Charlemagne, however, had three sons: Charles the Younger, Carloman, who was later known as Pepin, and Louis. Pepin the Elder was a hunchback, and while he hadn't ever been formally disinherited, he had been shuffled to the side.
Now that Charlemagne had a child with Irene and he had lived long enough to escape the deadly times as an infant, it was a question of what Charlemagne would do with his other sons. Would he set them aside? Would he take his wife's route?
What would his sons do when they understood that rather than an empire that should have been theirs by right, they instead inherited nothing?
“Doesn't make it sit any better,” Haldur complained with a sigh. There was a bubbling frustration in his tone. “Even with a twisted spine like that, a father should at least give a damn about his blood. For appearances' sake, if nothing else.”
It had cost my brother leverage when the kings of my empire spoke of dividing the spoils. The son of the Emperor of Rome should have made a fine prize. An expensive one too. Cripple or not, asking for his weight in silver would have been a more than fair price for a ransom.
However, Charlemagne had spent the better part of two decades hiding Pepin's existence. I doubted that the common noble had known Pepin still lived long before he was banished to Britannia.
I also knew what made Haldur's ire rise about being rebuffed. It wasn't solely about the money. Nor was it his lost leverage. It was about power.
All of my kings were kept under my thumb through assets and debts. The mines that I built, the farmland that was cleared, the villages, towns, cities, and the roads that connected them all -- all of them were funded by the crown, and it was only natural that the crown would recoup its investment. That came in the form of higher taxes, percentages of outputs, and ownership of the right titles that secured my grip over the kingdoms. It wasn't something that would last forever, but I didn't need it to. Just long enough for the foundations to settle.
It limited the amount of wealth the kings could gain. All the more so as the realization had settled in that the neighbors whom they raided for extra wealth had become their allies. Or that their dreams of expansion were curtailed by the wall of lesser kingdoms that paid us homage, and were thus under our collective protection, with steep consequences for attacking them.
Some, like my brother, were chaffing under those restrictions.
“What will you do with him?” I asked, swallowing an offer. In the end, he was Haldur's prisoner, not mine. My ability to influence his thinking was limited… and now that I knew Charlemagne had formally washed his hands of his eldest son, I had less reason to.
An unhappy grunt escaped Haldur, and he sensed my position. He didn't bring this letter to me so I could see how cruel Charlemagne could be. He hoped I would offer to leverage my position on his behalf. “He's a cripple, but as far as anyone tells the story, he was half the brains in Britannia. Speaking with him myself, I can believe it.” Haldur scratched at his beard before a contemplative expression appeared. As if he just now had the thought and not hours before he entered my office.
“He is clever. And every king has need of a clever fool,” Haldur voiced. He was attempting to goad me into taking action, and I had to swallow a sigh.
It was tempting. The position of a fool was a dangerous one. They often served as a mouthpiece for a lord or king, saying the king's thoughts and other things a king wouldn't be allowed to say without incurring insults. It wasn't a practice I indulged in, largely because I had no need of it.
However, it was also a position of ridicule. To play the part of a fool, one had to behave as a fool.
Turning a son of Charlemagne, disgraced or not, into such a thing would be a mighty insult to the Roman Emperor. An insult that would demand a rebuttal. That told me Haldur didn't understand our position.
“I can't say that is what I would do, brother, but he is your prisoner. As is your right,” I told him. Haldur swallowed a frown but offered no comment on the decision.
The war with Charlemagne was coming. That was a foregone conclusion. The only questions were when and who would make the first move?
It was something that I had anticipated for years, as I'm sure Charlemagne had. His reunified empire had enough time to bind together. My empire's foundations had some time to settle. Neither of us was ready for the war to come, and we likely wouldn't be for another decade. However, in the time between, we would attempt to goad the other into making the first move before they were ready to act.
Turning his hunchback son into a jester wouldn't be the insult that drove Charlemagne to war, but it would drive him to act.
So, distasteful or not, I would permit it.
When it was clear that I wouldn’t act on his behalf, Haldur’s enthusiasm for an audience waned sharply. He didn’t immediately dismiss himself, but the matters we spoke of next were nothing of substance. Within fifteen minutes, I found myself alone in my office once more, feeling a degree of restlessness.
My thoughts lingered on the topic. The question of succession. Enough so that the pile of reports about increases in food production to match the surplus of population from the raid and the returning warriors from the Mediterranean couldn’t hold my attention. Pushing them aside, I found myself standing up and making my way through the palace.
I needed to move around a bit to clear my head. To focus.
The gardens were the domain of my wives, who often used them as a neutral ground when meeting dignitaries. Some fresh air would do me good, I figured, strolling through them. Winter was fast approaching, so it would be some time before the flowers were in bloom again, so I savored the sight while I could.
My arrival didn’t go unnoticed, “Father!” Radahn exclaimed before he just about knocked my legs out from underneath me by tackling me from behind. “Are you done being busy, yet?”
“For the moment,” I said, ruffling his hair, and we walked together. Radahn took large lumbering steps to match my pace, holding my hand without a care in the world. Careless and free. It was an innocence that Ragnar never had. He had always been a reserved boy. Clever, polite, but reserved.
How much of that was simply his nature, and how much was it a result of my expectations weighing on him? I’d never thought to ask. Never considered that I needed to. My eldest was still young. He might have his armring, but he was still very much a boy who didn’t realize how young he was. While I wouldn’t discount him as the heir yet, as he had plenty of growing to do and could very well change his mind before I had to formally announce another heir…
But given that he was the son of myself and Astrid, his stubbornness was to be expected.
“Radahn,” I spoke up, bringing my son’s attention to me. “Would you want to be the Allvaldr one day?”
Even without saying a word, Radahn’s expression betrayed such a visceral disgust that one would think he had just stepped in dog shit. “Yuck,” he summarized his thoughts on the matter in a word and an exaggerated shake of his head. “Why would I? All you do is sit in your office all day. It’s boring.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. Still, I exhaled a weak laugh, accepting the answer for what it was. “Then what do you want to do?” I asked him, stroking his hair. Guilt churned in my guts when I realized I had never asked Ragnar the same thing. Or Magnus.
“I’m going to be an adventurer!” Radhan proclaimed, puffing out his chest. “Me and Bjorn decided that we’re going to explore the world! Bjorn is going to explore everything to the West, and I’m going to explore everything to the East!”
There was a genuinely excited babble as he spoke quickly, almost as if he were racing to get the words out. “I want to go see the horselords! And that China place that Gyatso told me about. And I want to see what’s beyond it!”
I took a breath and let it out slowly, finding myself smiling while I walked with my son through the gardens. “It sounds like a fine dream, son.”
A fine dream indeed.