The Centurion's Empire by Sean McMullen Page A

cheap, simple, and very demoralizing for an enemy."
    "And Vitellan's idea?"
    "Of course."
    The chief's hut was unexpectedly neat and orderly, with plank benches for visitors and no litter on the earth floor. Hides hung on the wall painted with crude Latin declarations of loyalty to the Christian church and to the Kingdom of Wessex. A crucifix was included for the benefit of the majority of his visitors, who could not read. Daegryn greeted them in broken Latin that had obviously been learned by rote, then reverted to a Saxon dialect as he earnestly renewed his allegiance to Wessex and cursed the Danes. He showed them around the stockade and they watched the villagers training. Even though he had seen it all before, Bishop Paeder whistled at the teamwork and discipline that the churls showed. At last the prince raised what he thought was the sensitive subject of the Frigidarium. He had expected Daegryn to become suspicious and guarded, but Paeder had already explained that the prince was in Vitellan's confidence. The chief led the way, lighting a reed torch as they left the hut.
    " 'Tis a great way to save salt for curin' or wood for smokin', sire," he explained. "Aye, and it's been in our village since the time of Christus. 'Tis true, and when Christus was leadin' his armies against the Pharaoh, so too were my ancestors packin' ice in the very fields that ye just rode through."
    "I must make sure that the local priest comes here more
    often," murmured Bishop Paeder in Latin, and Alfred grinned.
    The entrance to the Frigidarium was beneath a stone slab fireplace, and this was lifted aside by a dozen men using two stout poles. Narrow stone steps led down steeply into pitch blackness, and the chief hurried ahead with his smoky reed torch. Alfred counted ninety-two steps before they reached a small anteroom. With some effort Daegryn opened a massive, stone-inlaid wooden door. Cut into the stone lintel was rufus me fecit in neat, square letters.
    "Observe, sire, the stonemason was literate," said Paeder as they entered. "That makes it very old."
    "This place is Roman," said Alfred, holding his torch to the stone lining of the chamber while he shivered with the cold.
    "Look at the arches and stonework. The village must have been built over this chamber after the Romans left. Even the
    name frigidarium is a Latin term for a cold bath."
    The chamber was about fifteen feet long and ten wide, and one could stand up straight near the middle of the roof's arches. Each stone block was neatly cut, faced, and fitted, but there were none of the carvings and decorations common in the Roman ruins that were scattered throughout Wessex. The place was built with a clean, solid grace, and had clearly been meant to last a very long time. The air was dank and clammy, and utterly still.
    "So this place is where Vitellan, ah, lay?" Alfred asked the chief, kicking at the slush from the previous year's ice. The man looked anxiously to Bishop Paeder.
    "It's all right, Daegryn, tell the prince what you first told me," Paeder reassured him.
    "Until two winters ago the great Lord Vitellan slept here, aye. He was a great Christian king, and spread the faith so far and killed so many pagans that Christus said, 'You are too good to go to heaven yet. You will be kept here in this village, in case the pagans come back.' Us churls were commanded to make fresh ice each winter for his bed and in return could keep our mutton fresh here, without need of salt orsmokin'.
    "Then came the pagan Danes, and they burned our chapel and took the silver chalice. Aye, and they burned most of the village besides, and killed twenty people—and fifteen sheep, and six pigs, just for sport. They're cruel, godless pagans, says I to the other village Elders, or those Elders as was still alive, that is. It is time that we called on our sleepin' Master. We came down here and we called, and blew horns and whistles, but he did not wake. That's when I sent for Bishop Paeder, who is skilled