The Centurion's Empire by Sean McMullen

mallets faded behind them as they rode slowly through the woodlands. Durvonum itself was on a hillock in a large clearing. Although the huts were as small and crude as might be seen anywhere in the Kingdom of Wessex, they were arranged in orderly rows behind a low, square stockade. It had earth ramparts with sharpened stakes pointing outward to break any charge by horsemen. As they approached, a squad of villagers was drilling in a pike-wall formation.
    The villagers looked around quickly as the riders came into view, but relaxed when they saw the colors of the Royal House of Wessex. As they got closer the churls stared in fascination at the armor and weapons worn by the men of Alfred's escort. The riders in turn preened themselves as they rode past the staring eyes. To a villager they were magnificent indeed, true warriors dressed in leather scale mail or iron chainmail, with helmets of banded iron and leather. Painted roundshields were strapped to their backs, and their axes had never chopped firewood.
    "My, but we're pretty," snapped Paeder sarcastically as they stopped before the line of stakes. "Githek, hold your squad of dandies here and make them watch the churls at practice. They may learn something about real fighting." Alfred had already dismounted and was walking slowly
    through the maze of stakes. Paeder jumped to the ground in a flurry of snow and hurried after him.
    "No wonder they managed to fight off five raids by the Danes," said Alfred, pointing along the line of the stockade. "It's all rough, country work, but under masterful command. In fact there's something almost familiar about the way this stockade is built."
    Paeder grinned. "An outline more often found in old Roman ruins, I'm sure, but there are more marvels to see yet. No magic, just simple, practical things that work miracles."
    It was the first village in Wessex that Vitellan had trained, and after it had withstood several raids by the Danes, dozens of other villages petitioned for his help. After a year he assembled a'force of two hundred churls and razed a Danish camp near Leicester as an example to them. When word reached Alfred he invited Vitellan to a meeting, hoping to dissuade him from setting up a rival state.
    Tension had been expected, and the gaunt, enigmatic Vitellan had everyone on edge at first. The discussions began with politics, fortifications, and strategy, then someone mentioned that Alfred could read. The discussions abruptly became a dialogue between Alfred and Vitellan on literature, poetry and history. At the end of the meeting the pale, clean-shaven commander stunned the onlookers by pledging total loyalty to the Wessex throne. He even offered to train Prince Alfred's own men.
    The fifteen heads on stakes that topped the gates of Dur-vonum had by now been stripped down to skulls by the crows. There was arrogance in the gesture, proclaiming to the Danes that these people had slain their warriors and would be pleased to do likewise to anyone else who cared to attack.
    Because all the villagers were armed and trained—men and women—the place was a total fighting machine. An attacker would encounter twice as many defenders as would be expected in such a place: everyone fought. Children carried weapons, put out fires, and even helped care for the wounded.
    "Mind that you walk only between the little poles," said Paeder, taking Alfred's arm and guiding him.
    "But you said we have to go across to that hut."
    "Follow the path, my lord. They've planted lilies."
    "Lilies? You mean there are gardens under the snow?"
    "These lilies are small, conical pits with fire-hardened stakes at the bottom. In winter the snow covers them, in summer they conceal them with leaves and a thin layer of dust. Your foot would be guided down to the stake, and the point would skewer it, boot and all."
    "Traps? In here, behind their own walls? Where they live?"
    "If the Danes breached the wall they would not be expecting to find still more traps. It's