The Ice King

by Hume, M. K.

  The road eventually bisected lines of shacks that obviously plied their trades on market days. Crude drawings on wooden walls indicated what was for sale and, sometimes, indicated price. In a world of illiterates, a picture was far more powerful than any number of words.

  Gareth sensed that this town was teetering on the very edge of collapse. The shanty village and cottages outside the obviously once-Roman township were filthy, and many dwellings were abandoned. Those still in use were surrounded by churned mud paths, while obscenity-shouting children ran between the structures like small feral beasts.

  Germanus noted that the children were undersized, lousy and swollen-bellied from malnutrition. Even more distressing were the young girls and women who were idling outside the doorways, trying their very best to look seductive despite being forced to don as many filthy clothes as they could wear to try and keep warm. Gareth was approached by one red-haired girl whose hair parting was visibly crawling with lice and whose smell took away any thoughts of sex as soon as he breathed it in. Whatever the town had once been, it was now a rat-hole, and it would remain a visible blot on the landscape until it was scoured clean by a new and vigorous master. Even the whores were thin to the point of emaciation; winter was almost over, but anything that could be eaten was long gone.

  A hunchbacked peasant in a greasy cowl was already closing one side of the northern gates when the three travellers reached it. Thord recoiled visibly when he saw the man’s diseased face; the man flinched under Thord’s appalled gaze and, sensitive about his appearance, was trying to hide behind a rough woollen hood.

  His breath whistled through two crude holes in a face that was a mass of scar tissue. His upper lip was mostly gone, exposing his teeth and gums in a gruesome parody of a permanent smile, while half his lower lip had been cut away, as if nibbled at by a voracious rat. With a gut-wrenching stab of pity, Gareth noticed that several of the poor man’s fingers had been amputated. No doubt some of his toes had suffered the same fate.

  ‘Well, gents,’ the peasant whistled, his voice forever rendered comical by the horrors of his deformity. ‘Yer only just made it into the town. Good thing yer did, for I’ve heard wolves howling these past few nights. The peasants say it’s been a hundred year since the wolf packs came out of the north, but what can yer expect? These be bad times.’

  ‘Plague?’ Germanus asked, studiously keeping his face bland.

  ‘Aye! We hopes it’s been and gone! Two-thirds of our people died, so Lord Eoppa has banned all movement through the countryside to stop any new outbreaks. The farmers still come to market, but they live close-like. We’d have no food at all without them, so the thane’s man closes his one good eye and lets them come and go whenever they’ve got something to sell.’

  The grotesque face grinned amicably. ‘Be careful, gents! The thane’s like to order your throat cut to make sure you’re free of disease. Since his son died, Eoppa’s been . . .’ The peasant twirled his forefinger round his temple to indicate the universal sign of madness.

  ‘We know nothing of what you speak. My friend here is Thord, and he’s a recent arrival from Friesia, with some training as a healer. My other friend is Gareth, a part-Roman bastard out of Aquae Sulis. Before you get nervous about him, he’s a mercenary who hires his sword to the thanes for gold.’ Germanus rubbed his finger and thumb together suggestively.

  ‘I’m a Frank, but I’m a bit long in the tooth for blood work, son. I’ve been looking for a new master, since my last thane died of the plague in the south. We’d be interested in getting any advice you could give us, perhaps over a drink or two?’

  The universal language of alcohol cured the peasant’s wariness and he hastened to pull the gates into position, a difficult task with his ruined hands. His new friends helped him with the task.

  ‘And now, what’s your name, good sir? If we intend to share some beer or wine with you, it’ll be good to know who we’re drinking with.’

  Flattered, the peasant attempted to straighten his tunic and voluminous cloak to neaten his appearance. ‘I’m Ludic No-Nose,’ he said proudly. ‘I know my face would fair frighten children, but I survived that damned disease, and not many men can say that. Men look at me now, and they know I’m not likely to pass it on to others.’

  Thord wondered at how bleak life had to be when survival from a grim disease could be considered a measure of worldly success. What had he got himself into by travelling to this far-off land and leaving behind everything he knew and understood?

  Then Germanus showed his mettle and his manhood. He extended his hand to Ludic, man to man. Ludic stared for a short moment, but then stood a little taller in his run-down boots. He extended his own paw.

  ‘That makes two of us who’ve survived this terrible disease, friend Ludic. You might not know it, but I’ve discovered from experience that we’re both safe now. The physicians have assured me that you can’t catch the illness again once you’ve survived its first onset. I was one of the lucky ones!’

  Germanus caught Ludic staring at his unmarked mouth and nose. The mutilated peasant could also see that the Frank had ten good fingers and bore no obvious signs of the disease. His face expressed his chagrin at his own appearance.

  Germanus sighed softly to show his sympathy.

  ‘The healer that treated me knew a little something about that bitch of an illness. As I said, I was lucky. He massaged my face and all my extremities, so the sickness didn’t take them. He kept the blood flowing continuously around my body, and I even managed to keep my prick!’

  ‘Me too!’ Ludic giggled, as he realised that an odd friendship had formed between them.

  Later, as Gareth and Thord watched Ludic and Germanus drinking companionably in the filthy inn, both men felt a little ashamed at their want of compassion.

  When the three scouts returned to the fortress, they were able to give Arthur a valuable insight into Anglii motivations. Arthur was especially pleased to hear about Eoppa, a canny old Angle who had risen to his full height not only because of his intelligence, but because he understood the fallibility of men.

  But time cursed Eoppa when the Yellow Disease killed his last surviving son, a stalwart warrior called Ida. For years, Eoppa had survived sustained attacks from the remnants of the Otadini, the Picts and several Celtic armies who had penetrated into the north from their lands in the south and the west. He had given three living sons and several daughters to these lands, so his blood was hand-fasted to Britain forever. But love it? Never!

  Thord attempted to put his understanding of the complex political situation into words. ‘Eoppa’s determination keeps him here. That and the fact that this is the final resting place for his sons. The Yellow Disease appears to be the same plague that we know so well and it seems to have wormed its way through northern Britannia. The sickness came here with trading ships that crossed from Friesia and Saxony to Dubris and made their way up the coast. The disease spread like Greek Fire at every place where the traders stopped.

  ‘From what we heard, the Britons have suffered even more casualties than the Angles, but that news is the stuff of rumours. What is certain is that Eoppa’s people have borne the full brunt of it.’

  He paused, and allowed his message to sink in for a few short seconds.

  ‘Some of the survivors we met were badly scarred but they were still grateful to be alive. One thing’s for sure, the onset of the illness has denuded these lands of farmers and labourers.’

  Thord continued to explain the situation as patiently as he could, but he was constantly interrupted with questions that had little bearing on the subject in hand.

  ‘Give Thord a chance, friends,’ Arthur ordered quietly, his fingers drumming on the table top. The hubbub subsided with remarkable speed.

  ‘Thane Eoppa rules lands that stretch from the coast to positions well south of the Wall and extend along the Roman
road leading to the fortress town called Habitancum. In recent times, this town has been called The Rising because of the sloping terrain in the area. He’s not a true king, but his ancestry is as regal as any Anglii lord’s can be in these difficult lands. At this time, he is surrounded by enemies who would happily destroy him, and this danger is compounded by the remnants of the Otadini tribe and the other British kings who wait to the north of the Wall and hide among the inaccessible mountains. To these enemies can be added those Saxon outlaws and blue-faced Picts who steal whatever plunder they can find. He has been at war with different enemies for too many years now, and he’s turned into a tired old man.’

  At the use of the Otadini name, Arthur’s face twitched and he massaged his chin. His raised right eyebrow asked his next question without any need for words.

  ‘I was told that Eoppa is the nephew of Ine, the king of Wessex, which is a vast tract that lies far to the south. Historically, Eoppa’s ancestors were kings in Jutland, but they were displaced by the Dene. Eoppa has an excellent pedigree and I would have to concede that his capacity for ruling his people is considerable.’

  Thord went on to explain how the thane lost his sons during the battles that had been fought to maintain control over the land. The new rulers of the British tribes were his greatest enemies, men who remained arrogant and unbending because of their descent from King Gawayne and King Artor. They refused to cede a single inch of their ancestral lands, and waited to pounce on Eoppa at the first sign of a chink in the old man’s armour.

  Arthur felt his throat constrict. ‘What happened to the Otadini?’

  Thord could think of no way to soften his news.

  ‘From what I was told, master, their kings are long dead or they’ve fled north and west to continue their resistance with the remnants of the other British tribes. Our informant told us that the Picts have tried to kill off the survivors, so heaven knows how strong they are now.’

  Arthur thought of Blaise who was living in safety at The Holding, and how fortunate she had been to avoid the certain death that would have awaited her if her planned marriage into the Otadini ruling class had taken place. Her betrothed had been murdered by stealth, possibly by Arthur’s own kinsmen.

  ‘Who killed off the Otadini? Was it this Eoppa? He must be a clever strategist if he achieved what so many Saxons and Jutes failed to do.’

  Gareth took up the tale smoothly, but his brow was lined with perplexity. He guessed that these questions were intensely personal.

  ‘According to a disreputable Angle called Ludic No-Nose, the Otadini rulers were betrayed from within by one of their own kinsmen.’

  Gareth’s use of Ludic’s name was followed by soft titters from the jarls.

  ‘The man’s name seems humorous, but he has lost his nose and most of his lips to the Yellow Disease,’ Gareth continued. ‘But Germanus found him to be a knowledgeable sort of fellow. He was likeable too. He told us that a kinsman of the Otadini, domiciled in the south, had brokered an arrangement with Eoppa to kill off the tribe’s ruling family. When Eoppa quibbled at the use of treachery to gain control of the Otadini lands, this man, who is apparently called Bran, left Eoppa in no doubt that his alternative plan was to take the Otadini lands by making a pact with Pict mercenaries to assist him in an invasion of the north. At the completion of this campaign, Bran threatened to put all of Eoppa’s men, women and children to the sword. Ultimately, Eoppa was forced to comply with Bran’s demands. Ludic, of course, was just repeating rumours, and I heard several other names mentioned as being among the perpetrators of the plot.’

  Gareth stared directly at Arthur. ‘I know it sounds bizarre, but Eoppa’s position is tenuous and is centred on a place on the Wall called Onnum. If the Angles were to survive and prosper, the thane would have to make treaties to deal with this Bran, a prospect he found unattractive. Is this the same Bran who is your kinsman?’

  ‘Do you think so, Gareth?’ Arthur’s voice was controlled, but his eyes were an ugly shade of wintry grey.

  ‘Lord, you know how unreliable gossip can be. Everything Ludic had ever seen of Britons suggested they would die before they would give up a foot of their ancestral lands. He warned us to be careful of what we came to believe – and what we passed on to others, especially if Eoppa’s men were listening.’

  ‘Yes! Eoppa submitted,’ Ragnar interrupted cynically. ‘But he didn’t surrender out of fear. Such a course of action suited his purposes at the time.’

  ‘As it turned out, you’re right,’ Gareth answered. ‘But everything we’ve learned of Eoppa indicates that he is a brave man who’s tried to act with honour and decency during most of his reign in Britannia. I don’t see him as a murderer or a barbarian, for the orders he issued to save his people from the Yellow Disease were sensible and would have saved many hundreds of lives. He confiscated the coastal lands of the Otadini out of the same rational acceptance of a bad situation.’

  ‘But he is an Angle, so he must be an enemy!’ Knud rumbled from the end of a long table.

  ‘That kind of thinking shouldn’t apply here,’ Arthur said diplomatically in an attempt to avoid alienating the impulsive Knud. ‘By your rules, I’d have to consider all of you as lifelong enemies because you’re aliens in my homeland. Besides, we have a number of Angles among the settlers we brought to Britannia with us, so we shall have to accept that all these people are worthy of inclusion in our plans for the future.’

  ‘Real men like my friend, Conn Long-Jaw, don’t count,’ Knud mumbled, shame-faced. ‘He might be an Angle, but he’s already committed to living with us.’

  ‘That doesn’t make much sense, my friend,’ Germanus stated, and Snorri, who had been very quiet, nodded.

  ‘We’re strangers in this land, so where we come from doesn’t matter to most of the people who live here. We’ll have to start thinking of ourselves as Britons, because to go home in failure and disgrace is unthinkable,’ Snorri explained. ‘We need to leave our prejudices out on the grey seas from where we came. You too, Arthur, because you’ve never been over-fond of Saxons.’

  ‘I agree, Snorri! Their forebears have lived here for well over a hundred years. Much as I hate to say it, they are Britons now. In fact, my grandfather was half-Roman and most of my ancestors were aliens here too.’

  Arthur was bleeding inside. He had been prepared to go to war against Eoppa with a cheerful heart because this unknown thane had supplanted and decimated the Otadini. But he found himself cut to the quick by these rumours of Bran’s involvement, strategies so overt that even the peasants gossiped about them. Still, there would be time to think these horrors through. Right now he only needed the evidence of his scouts’ eyes and ears.

  ‘Enough! We’ll return to the here and the now. Tell me everything you can remember about the town.’

  Thord lurched into nervous speech. ‘Aye, master. The town walls were once the walls of a Roman fort. We could see the towers and the four gates, just like here. One of the Roman roads runs northwards through the walled town, and the whole area inside the walls has been filled with rickety wooden structures. You’d be hard put to get a wagon into the smaller streets. I could just recognise the main Roman buildings, although the townsfolk of today use them for other purposes.’

  From Thord’s description Arthur could imagine how the Angles and Jutes must have used the extra space bequeathed to them by the Romans. The security of the thick walls would have contributed to their successful occupation of the town.

  ‘There were a number of buildings clustered outside the Roman walls, filthier and more decrepit than others I’ve seen, although it’s hard to tell what the place was like before the plague visited. Most of the buildings are deserted now and there’s a real stink of failure about the place. I discovered the name of the fortress from a commemorative pedestal at the city gates,’ Gareth added. ‘The word on the stone was Habitancum but, a
s Thord says, everyone we spoke to referred to the town as The Rising.’

  ‘It’ll be years before I forget the bed in that inn,’ Germanus interrupted, shuddering. ‘I stripped off my clothes before I had the courage to lie on the floor, and I could still see the lice as they crawled around on that pallet. I don’t think I brought any of those little buggers back with me, but every stitch of clothing I wore is boiling away as we speak.’

  ‘All three of you should take every precaution to ensure you’re clean again,’ advised Arthur. ‘Burn all of your clothing if you have any doubts, because one of the things we know about the plague is that it travels with lice. Meanwhile, Germanus, is there anything else you learned that might be of use to us?’

  ‘Eoppa controls the coastal area around the Wall and his influence extends a little way into the north. He is also in control of a Roman road referred to as the Dere Path in those parts. But he leaves much of the inland area and the hills to the Britons, the outlaws and those landless men who eke out the barest of livings up there. The thane is pinned down inside an area that is relatively wealthy, but he can only further his ambitions if he can acquire further tracts of land. From all that I heard, I’m convinced that Eoppa will have to relinquish any dreams of glory now that the last of his sons has passed into the shades. I was assured that the Briton, Bran, is just waiting for an opportunity to attack him.’

  ‘So! What can we do to protect ourselves?’ Ragnar asked. How bad could their luck be? They had landed in the area where a kinglet had carved out a small, wealthy, but precarious kingdom. Eoppa’s external threats would have made him very vigilant to the presence of strangers.

  ‘The plague came at exactly the right time for us,’ Arthur stated baldly. ‘With luck, it will remain dormant throughout the winter, so we must work hard to prepare for spring and the arrival of our families and livestock. Meantime, we don’t invite the plague to turn on its tracks and revisit this place. We shall keep the fortress clean! Eoppa will be licking his wounds throughout the rest of the winter months, and we know he’s ordered his peasants to stay within their villages, so I’m hoping we can remain undiscovered until spring. By then, it’ll be too late to dislodge us. Like the ticks in Germanus’s tunic, we’ll be too deeply embedded to shift.’