"Rebuilding the Roman Empire. Do you still think it was a hoax?" asked Alfred.
"After what Vitellan has done? The man teaches a whole tradition of fighting that we know nothing of. Where did he learn it? In the Holy Land, or Byzantium? I hardly know what to believe."
Alfred paced restlessly. A brave and clever man might well take such a terrible chance to gain the status of a dead hero brought back to life. A brave and clever man might
also attempt some strange and terrible voyage, across centuries instead of oceans.
"I have asked him if he is the fabled Artorius who shattered the armies of my ancestors many centuries ago," said Alfred, running his fingers along the neat Roman letters in the stone shelf. "Each time he has denied it, even though many churls insist that he is Artorius returned to life."
"Understandable," said Paeder. "Artorius was a Briton, and many Britons still hate us Saxons almost as much as the Danes. They would love Artorius to return and conquer the land for them."
Alfred frowned as he wrestled with two distasteful conclusions.
"Roman rule was within living memory when Artorius was alive, true, but this man remembers Rome as a mighty empire at its height."
Paeder wrung meltwater from the hem of his cloak and shivered.
"Perhaps he has been telling the truth for all these months past. Perhaps he really was born in Calleva in Anno Domini 54, when the Emperor Claudius reigned. He may really be Vitellan Bavalius, of the Imperial Roman Army." They returned to the surface just as the ice cart was being driven in from the field. Gentor was walking slowly ahead of it, carrying the best formed of all the blocks that had been made that day. The team that had made the block walked on either side of the cart, garlanded with mistletoe. Gentor placed the block on a stone platform as the whole village watched, then five solemn children brought cups of hot, mulled mead for the Icekeeper and his chosen team. Those in the other teams were sent down to scour out the Frigidarium before the first of the new season's blocks were stacked in.
"A fine crop this year," said Alfred, inspecting the heavily loaded ice cart.
"It was not always so," replied Gentor, scowling. 'There have been years when no snow has fallen."
"No snow? Then how did you get the ice?"
"We scraped frost from the grass and bushes, and we sent
our folk far to the north to find snow. Many of us have died to preserve the sleep of our Master."
"I'm sure Vitellan is proud of you—"
"He is! He is! And he will come back to us when he has won your battles for you and killed all the Danes. His place is with us, living forever in the Frigidarium."
"Very good, Gentor, I'm sure Prince Alfred is impressed by your tradition of diligence," Paeder cut in. "Now, my lord, we have a long way to ride before nightfall."
"But, but I..."
Paeder led him quickly from the village and across the ramparts to where their escort was waiting.
"Gentor was getting agitated," he whispered. "He thinks that you want to keep Vitellan awake for years."
"And I do. The man is a treasurehouse of learning. Once the Danes are beaten he will be of even greater use, teaching us the lost scholarship of the Roman Empire."
"You do not understand Gentor, my lord. The man . . . well, gains a measure of immortality by being one of the long line of Icekeepers who has kept Vitellan alive. You might take that away from him by keeping his Master awake too long in a dangerous world."
Alfred shook his head sadly. Power came in many forms, yet people continued to pursue it with the same fervor. The Roman was Gentor's talisman, and he would not let go easily. Neither of them said any more on the long and intricate walk past the traps to their horses.
Alfred and Paeder had planned to spend the night in a fortified town to the northeast, then join Vitellan the next day. Their enigmatic ally was planning a new strategy against the Danes, and he wanted the prince to see his churls in action. All that they needed was a nearby raid by the Danes.
The Danes had begun to conduct raids on horseback five years before, riding swiftly down from their northern strongholds, raiding small towns, then retreating before the Wessex footsoldiers arrived. Vitellan's plan was simple: assemble a force of armed and mounted churls three times the size of a Danish raiding party, then post a network of scouts across the shire. The churls could not fight from
horseback, but then neither could the Danes. It was only a matter of catching up with them. The sun was down and the light was fading fast when a messenger brought word that Danish raiders had struck a hamlet some distance to the south, and that Vitellan had tracked them to a wood fifteen miles from where they were staying. It had been a bigger force than he had expected, but he had decided to pursue them anyway, and to attack at night. Alfred was alarmed: the odds were too heavily in favor of the Danes. He ordered his twenty men to mount up, then they set off through the twilight.
It took them two hours to reach the wood, as most of the journey was in near total darkness. The path through the trees was fairly wide, however, and there was a faint glow a long way ahead. When they stopped, the sounds of a distant battle came to them, and they knew that Vitellan was ahead.
"Brave, stupid gesture," muttered Alfred. "Forward, at a canter. Let's hope these local horses know this path in the dark."
It was a blind, headlong ride through the blackness, with only the hint of a glow ahead. Alfred only managed to fight down his panic at riding blind by placing his trust in the horse. The fast canter was a serene, floating motion—
They slammed into the other group of riders head on, and it was only by the Danish shouts that they knew them to be the enemy. Alfred was thrown through the air into another rider, and when he crawled to his feet and drew his broadsword he found that it had snapped near the hilt. He flung it away, drew his dagger and lunged for a nearby shape in the frantic, struggling mass of men and horses. In such close fighting a short blade is a superior weapon, or so Vitellan had taught.
The fight was near anarchy, often with only the language of the curses as a guide to friend or Dane. Alfred grappled first, then stabbed if he felt sheepskin instead of the Wessex -style armor. A huge pair of hands seized his throat and would not let go no matter how many times he stabbed the Dane's side. Then they went down under a crushing weight that knocked the wind o*t of Alfred, and his face was forced into a bloody mush of snow and mud. Only two nights ago I was having a quiet mug of beer and reading Augustine's Confessions, he thought as the blind melee's din receded. Gawking churls with torches were milling around as Alfred came back to his senses, and people were dragging the body of a horse off the body of the Dane that was pinning him down. The Dane's hands were still around his throat, but the grip was gone.
I'm a scholar, a patron of learning, I've met the Pope himself, he thought as they prized the dead fingers away. What am I doing in the mud under a pile of dead horses and ... "filthy savages," he whispered.
"Did you hear that?" came Githek's voice. 'The Prince is alive, easy now." Alfred was helped to his feet, and he shivered violently as the cold air chilled his soaked clothing through the mail.
"The Danes?" he asked through chattering teeth.
"All dead, my lord prince, but..." Githek's voice trailed off.
"But? But what?"
"It was a mistake. Vitellan's churls annihilated their camp, but were allowing these few to escape. He wanted a few Danes alive to witness that mere churls had beaten them."
Alfred sank to the ground, clutching at his hair.
"My lord?" asked Githek anxiously. "Is it your head?"
"Yes, my head," replied Alfred, almost laughing at the irony. "But it is not serious." They carried Alfred into the woods, where a bonfire was being lit, and he fell asleep even as they were removing his armor. He awoke well after the dawn to find Vitellan waiting for him, already scrubbed and shaved. The prince studied the enigmatic warrior as they talked, fascinated by the odd frailty of his features. He had large, brown eyes,
small but full lips, and a straight nose that was smoothly rounded at the tip. His hair was black and thick, like that of the people Alfred had met in Rome. A few scratches and a bandage on his wrist were the only evidence that he had been in the fighting too.
He cares for his appearance, thought Alfred, he keeps standards that no longer exist. He is so alone, his standards are all that are left of his world. I am alone, because I am a scholar in a world of barbarians, but Vitellan is a soldier from a time when even mere fighters knew more than the greatest of Wessex scholars. Alfred's frustration and longing for the greatness of the past almost blotted out the pain of his wounds.
Gentor had found his way there during the night, and was cooking his Master's breakfast not far away. He scowled at Alfred.
The Danes had raided a small, badly fortified hamlet, then ridden hard for this wood, some thirty miles away. Vitellan had posted a network of mounted scouts, and one of these reported the raid to the main group of Wessex churls while the fires were still alight in the hamlet. They soon found the riders' trail, then rode fast in pursuit. Once they reached the wood the churls dismounted and slipped as silently as foxes through the frosty undergrowth. The Danes were taken by surprise and slaughtered.
"So you led the fighting, Vitellan," observed Alfred. "Is your stomach better?"
"I always lead the fighting," replied Vitellan in slow, heavily accented Saxon. "But yes, the cramps and bleeding have eased for the past week. Thank you for coming to my aid. That was very brave, riding blind through the woods like that."
"I'm sorry to spoil—"
"Please! Say nothing of it. Anyway, that blind fight in the woods has increased the respect of your men for you."
"I'd rather impress them with my grasp of Latin."
"That would not impress the Danes, but it can come later."
After they had eaten they walked through to the remains of the Danish camp. Alfred noted that it was being systematically stripped of everything of value. Not one Dane was alive, and there was a great deal of blood on the muddy snow. Their mutilated bodies were piled in a heap, naked. Many were missing their heads. Vitellan took him to where two kidnapped women who had survived the fighting were telling one of Vitellan's captains all that they could remember of the raiders' tactics and
methods. One carried the head of her recent ravisher by its long, blond hair. She was thin and disheveled, and there was mania in her eyes. Her dress was torn, and there was still blood on her legs.
"This is Prince Alfred of Wessex " said Vitellan, and the bruised, bandaged, and filthy Alfred cringed inwardly as the two women goggled for a moment, then dropped to their knees.
"Please, stand up," said Alfred, taking their hands. "I think we have all spent enough time in the mud. Was, ah, that your own work?" he asked the thin woman, indicating the Dane's head.
"Oh yes, sire, when the attack started he tries to jump up, but I trips him," she said breathlessly. "I snatches up a little cookin' knife, then pulls his hair back and cuts his throat like Lord Vitellan shows me. Oh brave sire, I hears about how ye charged 'em in the dark and was wounded—"
"It will seem less impressive once I have washed," Alfred cut her short in embarrassment. "One day I must visit your village, when it is rebuilt. Mind that you show that head to your people, that all may know how you fought."
"Oh yes, sire, it will sit on a good high pole, I swear. And ye'U always have a welcome in our poor home if the Danes burn your castle or somesuch."
"Have no false illusions," said Vitellan as they walked on. "The Danes fought back fiercely, and two churls died for every one of them. Still, they were wiped out: their heads will grace pikes, and their skins will be flayed from their bodies and nailed to the doors of our churches as a warning."
"That will cheer our people, but it will surely antagonize the Danes in north Mercia as well," said Alfred doubtfully.
"Of course, my lord. Better to have your enemy making stupid decisions through blind rage than to have him planning his .raids against you intelligently."
"My brother's vassals said that your churls could never beat Danish cavalry. I wish they could see this."
"These Danes were not cavalry. They used their horses like their longboats, for the fast transport of footsoldiers." Alfred felt annoyed with himself. This man always went straight to the enemy's weakness and hit him there. If he was a Roman, then this was another legacy of their vast empire. Their armies had fought countless battles in dozens of countries for centuries, and the lessons learned had been preserved and taught. One could do that when the commanders knew how to write reports. How could Rome ever have fallen, with soldiers like Vitellan?
And yet Vitellan had been born three and a half centuries before Rome had yielded to Alaric. Something had changed. Alfred began to think about the ice chamber that he had seen the day before. It was a marvel as well, yet so simple ... as simple as pursuing mounted Danes with mounted churls. There were costs, however, such as the oil that had to be drunk before he could sleep for centuries in the Frigidarium. It was a corrosive poison, and had injured his throat and stomach severely, perhaps beyond healing. It was strange that the oil that kept him alive for so long should also shorten his life. Even as Alfred pondered the paradox Vitellan stopped abruptly and clutched his stomach, gasping.
"Just a twinge," he said as Alfred steadied him. "The first for some time."
"Shall I call for help?"
"No! No, the men would think that I was wounded, and we cannot have that."
Gentor had noticed, however, and was already hurrying over. He drew a small clay jar from his pouch and unstop-pered it.
"The pain is back, Master, yes? Drink this, quickly, you know how it always soothes you."
"Thank you Gentor. What would I do without you?"
"Such a cruel, rough world, Master, full of harsh food to hurt your poor stomach. In the Frigidarium you would be safe, Gentor could look after you so well."
Vitellan swallowed the contents of the small jar, which he could neither smell nor taste. Alfred caught the suggestion of something strong and sweet on the air.
"A few months more, Gentor, that is all I need. Once the Danes have been driven away I shall return to the ice, and I shall be much less of a worry to you there."
"But surely you would not do that!" exclaimed Alfred, alarmed. "You have so much to teach us."
"But I am dying, my stomach is ruined by the freezing oil. If I am to die soon, I would like to take generations to do it." He laughed softly. "Death may be close behind me, but he will freeze his fingers if he tries to take me with too much haste."
"That's just foolishness."
"Horace wrote that it's good to be foolish at the right time."
"But what has the future to offer, Vitellan? The last time you were frozen the Roman Empire passed away. What might happen in another seven centuries? Judgment Day may come in the year of the Millennium."
"You could not understand, it is like becoming a type of god. The star Sirins is blue now, but it used to be red. Red dogs were sacrificed to it in the temples. The sun seems to be colder, too. I remember the summers being quite hot, and the winters mild. There are great cycles in the sky that mortal men cannot see—but I can. Once, in the time of Lucretius, my countrymen thought that mortals like us, rather than gods, live in the sky. If they are very big and very slow, men could not perceive them in a lifetime, yet I could. Empires, religions, I outlive them all in my chamber. The prospect of sleeping there does have an allure, just like that of being king."
He pointed to Gentor, who smiled and bowed, and showed no sign of moving away.
"Here is the faithful captain of my ship through time. The tradition of maintaining the Frigidarium has outlasted even Rome's rule here, and I have more than enough oil left to be put to sleep again. The jar lay beside me in the ice."
"Horace, Lucretius ... you speak of their writings so easily, yet most of their works are lost to us and all the gold in the world could not buy them bac
k," said Alfred bitterly. "Much of the wisdom of Rome is gone forever, apart from what is in your head. Could you stay just one year more? If your stomach does not worsen you could teach us so much."
"Scholarship is a luxury in such an age as this."
"So teach us more about fighting as well. A land safe for
scholars will be safe for your village too, and then churls who tend your ice chamber." Vitellan put his hands on his hips and looked around at the carnage from the night before, then closed his eyes for a moment.
"I often wish that I could close my eyes and awake in my old villa. Oh, we had wars back then, but at least there were centers of civilization to retire to. All this countryside was peaceful farmland, with towns, stadia, baths, temples, and fine villas. The weather was warmer then, and the harvests were always good. I would spend the mornings reading, then there would be long afternoons and evenings talking with my friends about all manner of things: Virgil's works, chariot races, the price of corn, old battles we had fought, the Emperor's new mistress . . . People like us need some civilized and safe place as a touchstone."
"Then help me build one."
Vitellan turned to look at the battered, filthy Wessex prince. In this raw and savage age he was fighting for literacy as well as his homeland. He was a rare type of leader in such times.
"All right, then, I shall stay for one year more, or until I begin to sicken. Poor Gentor, you will just have to be patient." Gentor scowled, but dared not contradict his Master directly. The inspection continued, and Vitellan showed the prince how his churls had skirted the sentries with his own berserkers. He had chosen only men who had lost wives and children in earlier raids for the first wave. The Danish and Norse berserker warriors had terrified them for decades, yet here were local churls who also fought in such a frenzy that they felt no pain and seemed to have the strength of two. Alfred was shown one man who was still hysterical and weeping, with his face in his hands. He killed nine Danes before his axe broke, and then dispatched two more with the shaft.
The Centurion's Empire Page 9
