Ch 13: Hunting Grounds

The Emperor is only a year and a half old, he cannot even speak, why would he send for us?

Vig muttered to himself, urged by the cavalry, he squeezed into the carriage with his comrades. Gazing at the scenery rapidly receding outside the window, he suddenly realized the carriage was heading towards the city outskirts.

“Strange, the Imperial Palace is on the Southeast City District near the sea, why are we being taken West?”

Under Vig’s puzzled gaze, the carriage passed through the bustling city district and arrived at the towering Theodosian Walls of Constantinople. After passing through the City Gate, the caravan traveled a short distance, finally arriving at Constantinople’s outermost fortifications—the Theodosian Walls.

These world-famous fortifications have two layers, inner and outer. The inner wall is about twelve meters high, composed of large blocks of cut limestone. Every fifty meters, there is a square tower, about twenty meters high.

The outer wall is relatively low, only about eight meters high, and there is a twenty-meter-wide moat outside the wall.

Vig swallowed hard, “What sturdy fortifications.”

Assuming he were the attacker, lacking siege cannons, neither siege engines nor ballistae would be enough to destroy these fortifications. One could only use tens of thousands of infantry to forcefully attack the city, or attack from the sea.

But on closer thought, a naval assault would be even more difficult. The Eastern Roman Empire’s secret weapon—Greek Fire—is extremely effective against wooden ships. During the Arabian Empire’s heyday, its navy held a significant numerical superiority, and twice besieged Constantinople, yet suffered heavy blows from this secret weapon, forcing them to give up the conquest of the Eastern Roman Empire.

Two hours later, the caravan arrived at its destination. Vig jumped out of the carriage and found many purple tents on the West Side hill. A large number of Imperial Guard soldiers were deployed at the foot of the hill, their flags fluttering, spears like a forest, as if a yearly autumn hunt was taking place.

“You’re finally here.”

The Steward appeared from somewhere, leading the Vikings toward the hill, giving a brief explanation along the way,

“At the beginning of this year, Master prepared to send an envoy to contact the Rus’, inviting them to fight against the Pecheneg Tribe on the steppe, so as not to let these nomads harass our settlements on the Northern Black Sea Coast every now and then, seriously affecting grain imports from the North. Unfortunately, the envoy was killed along the way. Given your fighting prowess, Master wants you to escort the next batch of envoys on your return trip.”

After he finished speaking, Rurik explained to his comrades in Norse. Vig’s tense nerves finally relaxed.

“It’s just escorting envoys, why didn’t you say so earlier? You made me worry so much.”

After a body search, the caravan members were taken to the hilltop and, led by the Steward, paid their respects to the one-year-old infant draped in purple robes on the throne.

For some reason, His Majesty the Emperor was not afraid of these tall Vikings, clapping his little hands and giggling foolishly, causing the surrounding nobles to laugh along, easing the tense atmosphere.

Vig lowered his head, using his peripheral vision to observe the surroundings, secretly guessing,

“To the Emperor’s left sits a middle-aged woman in purple robes, with a reserved smile, surrounded by many noblewomen. She should be Empress Dowager Theodora. The middle-aged man on the right exchanged glances with the Steward; he should be Bardas. Furthermore, the man on the far right has an arrogant expression, and a group of well-dressed nobles stand behind his seat; he should be Minister Theoktistos.”

At this time, the Empress Dowager raised her goblet, signaling Rurik to recount the whole incident from beginning to end. Soon, when she learned that Vig single-handedly fought the nomads, killing ten and scaring away the remaining four, she suddenly turned her head and whispered something to Bardas.

The next moment, Bardas’ smile faded considerably, “Since the Empress Dowager suspects the Viking is lying, why not have a soldier fight him? I bought a Damascus Steel Sword last month, and it would be a good reward for the victor.”

“Very well, let’s have a duel.” The Empress Dowager surveyed the nobles present, asking if anyone was willing to participate.

Behind her, a noblewoman from Patras recommended her guard. The Empress Dowager agreed, letting them use blunt swords.

From Vig’s perspective, this opponent named Basil looked to be in his thirties, of average height by Greek standards, about seven or eight centimeters shorter than himself.

Judging by his pace and gaze, he didn’t seem like a skilled swordsman. Was he deliberately concealing his abilities?

“Begin, don’t keep His Majesty waiting too long.” The Empress Dowager said lightly, then raised her right hand goblet, signaling the Eunuch to pour wine.

Seeing this, Vig’s eyes sharpened. He suddenly took a large step forward, using the momentum to lift his sword and slash downwards. His opponent raised his sword to block, but he didn’t expect this Viking barbarian to have such incredible strength, causing him to stagger.

Taking advantage of this opportunity, Vig instinctively used the blade of his sword to entangle his opponent’s blade, then gently lifted it upwards, like a viper striking, the tip of the blunt sword quickly hitting the opponent’s right wrist.

Before anyone could react, the man’s blunt sword had fallen to the ground, and the duel was declared over. The speed was so fast that even the Empress Dowager’s goblet hadn’t been filled yet.

Amidst the many astonished gazes, even Vig himself was stunned, “Am I that strong? I don’t think so?”

He looked around in a daze, staring at the bronze mirror, falling into a stupor. He found that he had grown taller in the last more than half a year, his remaining childishness had completely vanished, growing into a tall and strong Viking man.

“Good, I knew Norsemen weren’t good at lying. Quickly, bring that Damascus Steel Sword.” Ignoring the slight displeasure on the Empress Dowager’s face, Bardas laughed heartily, and even Emperor Michael laughed along.

In the subsequent discussions, Bardas’ proposal to support the Rus’ received the approval of most. For him, not only had he achieved his goal today, but he had also suppressed the Empress Dowager’s arrogance. This autumn hunt was simply perfect.

Returning to the warehouse, Vig carefully examined the newly acquired Damascus Steel Sword. Its weight was similar to a typical one-handed sword, about 80cm long, with a blood groove near the guard, its surface covered with intricate and winding patterns, and a crimson pomegranate stone inlaid at the end of the hilt.

Beside him, Rurik clicked his tongue in amazement, “Your luck is quite good. This kind of sword combines toughness and sharpness, it’s arguably the best weapon in the world. Have you thought of a name? I think ‘Oathkeeper’, ‘Slayer’, ‘Widow’s Cry’ are all pretty good.”

Vig gazed at the magnificent patterns on the blade, feeling as if the sword had been forged by a dragon’s breath in a fantasy novel. After much deliberation, he decided to name it “Dragon’s Breath”.

“What a strange name, oh well, it belongs to you anyway.”

Rurik yawned, signaling everyone to count the wealth Bardas had given as a reward—or more accurately, the payment for their escorting the envoys.

After counting, he looked up at the starry night sky and sighed, “The profit from this trip is equivalent to eight ordinary trips. With this wealth, I can end my trading career early and pursue my true aspirations. Wow, I didn’t expect this day to come so quickly.”