The Centurion's Empire

Home > Other > The Centurion's Empire > Page 16
The Centurion's Empire Page 16

by Sean McMullen


  The sentries of the village militia watched a dozen pilgrims approaching on their way south to Rome. They pitched ragged tents on the wayfarers' green beside the bridge, but only one chose to cross to the guardhouse and enter Marlenk. He was a priest, well spoken and friendly, and carried no weapon but the knife that he-used for eating. Outside Marlenk's inn two grizzled English men-at-arms were cutting firewood in the snow slush. They wore leather jerkins and heavy mittens, and the liripipes of their hoods were wound around their necks against the cold. Supper came soon after sunset at this time of year, and the aroma of roast pork was strong on the air.

  "The day's old," observed Lew as the sunlight retreated up the peaks.

  "Year's old too, world's old, just like us as is old," complained Guy, trying to balance a skew-cut log on the chopping block. "Our village in England fallin' apart, and such young as is left all want to go to France and fight in the Free Companies."

  "More fool they," said Lew, shaking his head before swinging his axe again. "France is full of strange and evil men."

  "Aye, the Jacquerie. Fought 'em at Meaux, and in other parts of Brie." Guy spat into the snow.

  "I heard they roamed the north killing nobles. I heard they roasted one knight on a spit after killing him, and made his lady and children watch. Then they ravished them, and tried to make them eat his flesh before they killed them too."

  "That might have been at Beauvais," said Guy after thinking for a moment. "A few good men-at-arms could have stopped 'em before they'd done such mischief, but France has nonesuch. France is fallin' apart. We're fallin' apart too." He paused for Lew's reply, but when he got none he selected another log from the pile. "It's quiet here in the mountains, then?" he asked with a trace of sarcasm.

  "Quiet? We're on a major road." Lew laughed. "And what with the League expandin' there's been no shortage of wars. I've fought in every one since the Confederates defeated Leopold of the Habsburgs near Schwyz in 1315. I've become a good citizen of the cantons so as to live here and do the Master's work."

  "So who's to watch over the Master when we're dead?" Guy asked testily. "The young of our own village don't care for tradition. Hah, there's scarcely any young left!"

  "That's as why we're here," replied Lew, forever optimistic. "That's why you revived the Master from his sleep, brought him over the salt sea, crossed the Kingdom of France, fought the Jacquerie and climbed up here into the Berner Alpen."

  "Cold, bare place."

  "I like it. Came here wi' Tom Greenhelm in 1311.1 dug

  the ice for his chambers, even married a wench I rescued near the Grimsel Pass. Ah Guy, we're lucky to see such wonders as these mountains, just as we're lucky to have met the Master."

  "Lucky? My bones ache with the cold, and I can't draw breath of God's air as easy as can in England. Lungs hurt, feet hurt, piles hurt, and for what? End of our lives and end of tradition! In a few days the Master leaves us, then where are we?"

  "Here in Marlenk. Come spring we'll go down into Ob-walden and marry you to a fat widow. What with wars and the plague there's a shortage of husbands. You could have the empty cottage near mine."

  "Me? Live on this icicle in the middle of nowhere?"

  "Why not? Much commerce and news goes by on that road, and all manner of folk call in here to—ah, see? A traveler on the bridge. Looks to be a priest."

  They watched a man in a dark clerical tunic with a pilgrim's badge pay the toll, then come tramping up the path to the village, his iron-shod clogs clinking against the stones. He leaned wearily on his staff, and hailing them in Latin he asked what language they spoke. Lew replied that Latin would suffice. They had both learned it for years in preparation for Vitellan's revival.

  "Father Guillaume of Chalon," said the priest, as if he expected them to know him by reputation. After a moment he took the cue from their blank stares. "I'm a scholar, well known in northern France. As I passed through Berne with my fellow pilgrims the bishop there told me a wondrous tale of an English traveler named Vitellan. He'd left a week before us, so we hastened to catch up."

  "Ye wish to talk of learned matters to Master Vitellan?" asked Lew.

  "Yes, very learned matters. The bishop said that Vitellan is soon to leave again, for places where none of us may follow." Lew looked to Guy and raised his eyebrows. Guy nodded. Their Master's instructions had been quite clear: he would always be available to talk with scholars. Lew stamped off to his cottage, where Vitellan was staying. The Countess of Hussontal was at the inn, and to avoid unsavory

  rumors Vitellan now refused to sleep under the same roof as her.

  "So what of the Master d'ye know?" asked Guy.

  "That he was a Roman soldier, that he fought the Danes with Alfred the Great of England, and that he was born in the time of Christ."

  "How much d'ye believe?"

  "I keep my mind open. He may be a fraud, he may be a madman. He may be Lazarus, raised from the dead by Christ and now unable to die. He may even be the devil, trying to tempt us."

  "He's none o' those," said Guy defensively. "He's slept packed in ice beneath our village in England for most time. On his own reckonin' he'd not have walked the earth and breathed God's air more than thirty-six years out of all his centuries."

  "He slept in ice? In England?"

  "Aye. We harvested ice in winter to last through summer, but now the young folk don't care for tradition. They want to serve in great castles, or fight in France or even fight in the Holy Land."

  "Surely not, there's not been a crusade for ninety years."

  "Aht, some Cyprus prince plans a Ninth Crusade once he ascends the throne, but no matter. Our young folk will turn to anything rather than tend the Master's ice. That's why we're here in—ah, what's that new name for the Cantons'

  League?"

  "Switzerland."

  "Switzerland, where there be mountains an' rivers of ice all year round and Master Vitellan can sleep without ice harvests."

  The priest nodded as if he already understood the wonders being explained.

  "How long has your village kept him frozen?"

  "Oh, I don't know countin'. Master Vitellan's father met wi' Christ, so that's how old he be."

  "But that's thirteen centuries, at least."

  "Aye, that sounds to be right. He was unfrozen once, as I knows it, and defeated the Danes. Now our village in England is all but deserted and can't make ice. We planned for

  it, though, so the Master's been unfrozen again and brought here."

  "I don't follow."

  "We're all old, we can do nowt but launch the Master one last time, wish him well, then live what lives we have left in fear o' God as the good Christians we be."

  The priest frowned. "So your master is not immortal," he said flatly. "While awake he ages as we do, but when he sleeps, he sleeps in ice for centuries."

  "Aye, that he does," Guy confirmed, but Father Guil-laume was no longer paying him attention. Lew was returning with a man of medium height dressed in a quilted surcoat, war boots and shoulder cape. His face was emaciated, but his features were still recognizably Mediterranean.

  Much of the traffic that passed over the Alps between the Italian states and the rest of Europe came by Marlenk, and its people knew of the latest fashions in dress and cuisine even before those who lived in the capitals of the great kingdoms. Marlenk's inn was the focus of the local economy, and although most of its patrons were humble pilgrims and merchants, it was sometimes used by nobles. Tonight there was a French countess, the knight commanding her escort, a great scholar, and an English traveler named Vitellan to whom they all deferred.

  Fresh straw was on the floor, and the table was set before the fire and laid with two layers of damask. The serving-trestles were already heavy with pewter plate, although some silver had been put out for the use of the countess.'The French knight, Raymond, entered. He surveyed the room, then checked with the guards outside. The sky was clear and the moon full, and he shivered with the implication before retu
rning inside and sending a maid for his sister, the countess. He was a survivor of Poitiers and had an ugly scar on his upper cheek to show for it. To distract eyes from his face he wore a tunic gleaming with Bargello work in silver thread, and a wide hip belt with polished latten plates sewn all around.

  The innkeeper, local priest, and captain of the militia passed as the dignitaries of Marlenk, and were waiting by the fire and wearing their best. Vitellan entered with Father Guillaume, and a moment later the countess appeared. She had changed out of her traveling robes already, and was wearing a green sleeveless surcoat with diagonal vermilion striping over a gown with tight, buttoned sleeves. Her hair was netted, and framed by a long silk veil, adding a suggestion of modesty to what was otherwise the height of fashionable dress. The sweet scent of her concealed ambergris pomme-d'embre cut through the lingering reek of the recently evicted cattle and sheep.

  While introductions were being made over sheep marrow fritters and goose heart pastries, Lew and Guy crept in with their firewood and began to stoke up the blaze. The innkeeper served wine mulled with his best spices.

  "These spices are from further away than our geographers could guess at," he told the knight as he sipped from his goblet.

  "But never as far as Master Vitellan's journey," added the countess. The innkeeper waited to see that the others were smiling and nodding before responding with a polite laugh himself.

  Over bacon broth Vitellan gave what was by now a well-rehearsed account of how he had obtained ajar of what was now known in his village as either the Frigidarium Elixir or the Oil of Frosts. This allowed him to be frozen without dying. Lew was then called over to recite a couple of dozen verses of an epic describing how the Roman's servants had established the village of Durvonum, now Durvas, in the southwest of England, and how they had harvested ice each winter to keep their master preserved through thirteen hundred English summers. A roast piglet was brought in on a large dish, flanked by capon pastry subtleties in the form of towers that seemed to guard it. Serious conversation trailed off, to be replaced by the soft notes of a slender lap-harp under the fingers of a thin, intense Bohemian itinerant. Vitellan, who could eat no solids, was given more broth.

  Father Guillaume of Chalon rapidly proved himself to be an enigma. He knew all the courtesies to be accorded the countess and her knight, yet he displayed brash familiarity as well. Once the piglet had been reduced to bones Vitellan took up his story again, explaining that traditions had begun to break down in his English village at the start of the century. The Icekeeper of the time, Tom Greenhelm, made a decision to move Vitellan to the perennial snows of Switzerland. Tom journeyed there with six others, including the teenage Lew, and they explored and dug at several sites. It was forty-seven years before they had finally excavated a chamber that was suitable. Tom, well over eighty by then, returned to England and had the Master revived. He presented Vitellan with a map sealed in a lead tube that showed where the new Frigidarium was located, then died some days later in his sleep. Guy Foxtread was appointed the new Icekeeper.

  "The higher regions of the Berner Alpen are permanently frozen," Vitellan concluded, "so I shall not need villagers to supply my new Frigidarium with ice."

  Vitellan had spent many such evenings with the scholars, clergy, and nobles of the time. First they would marvel at how he had preserved himself, then they would move on to subjects closer to their hearts. The clergy would ask about Christ, the apostles, and whatever other saints he might have met; nobles would want to discuss Roman fortifications and fighting arts; scholars would be eager to know if he had read manuscripts that were by now incomplete or lost. The countess sat serene and smiling, saying little but very proud of her unique and brilliant protege. Guy and Lew sat beside the fire, sipping at the local beer and listening to the harpist. Three men of the escort stood by the door, alert but expecting no trouble.

  "I can see weaknesses in your Frigidarium," declared Guillaume.

  His voice was sharp, cutting through the pleasantly drowsy mood. Vitellan blinked and sat up. Nobody had ever questioned his Frigidarium's viability before.

  "You question that Master Vitellan is who he is?" asked the countess, indignation in her voice. The other conversations died as she spoke.

  "Oh no, great lady, not at all," Guillaume replied, now with the breathless eagerness of an experienced debater. "I merely wonder how he solved certain difficult problems."

  "Please, name them," urged Vitellan.

  "Your new Frigidarium needs no people to maintain the ice, but you still need people to revive you. Who is to do that?"

  "Master Vitellan saved me from the Jacques," the countess interjected. "That counts for a lot. My descendants will see to it that he is revived. The map showing the location of the Frigidarium and instructions for reviving him will be kept in my castle. If English peasants could keep the first Frigidarium working for over thirteen centuries, French nobles could do at least as well."

  The countess was used to her word being taken as the ultimate verdict in any dispute. It never crossed her mind that Guillaume might not accept it. She failed to notice his strange, eager, even predatory expression.

  "I disagree!" he exclaimed, leaning over the table and raising a finger for emphasis. The countess gasped with surprise, but Guillaume went on, even as she opened her mouth. "With the great ritual of ice-gathering to keep Vitellan's memory alive, the English villagers were forced to preserve the revival knowledge as well. People forget more easily if there is no actual work to do. Tradition alone is not enough to sustain a memory."

  Vitellan restrained the countess with a discreet gesture, but did not take his eyes from Guillaume.

  "I have faith in my good patroness and her descendants. There is a risk, but then merely being alive risks death."

  "But this is not just a matter of life and death. You might remain in the ice forever, neither alive nor dead. The Day of Judgment would come."

  "So?"

  "So study the Bible! The Day of Judgment will not mean the end of the physical world'—that has been revealed to us by God. The world will continue to exist, as will the ice of these mountains, as will you in your Frigidarium. For you there will be neither the glories of Heaven nor the torments of Hell: you will be neither alive nor dead for eternity." Guillaume sat back and folded his arms. His eyes were wide and his lips apart in a shallow smile.

  "The year 1000 was thought to herald the Day of Judg-

  ment, yet it did not happen. I slept through it inside my Frigidarium." "You took a chance."

  "Passing through Beauvais and Brie when the Jacquerie were on the rampage was taking a chance. Traveling in France at all with,the Free Companies pillaging and looting was taking a chance."

  "Your Frigidarium could be a gift of the devil. It's a machine to defy the will of God, a blasphemy to be stopped by the might of the Church."

  "So what is blasphemy? Christ revealed that even the smallest bird is watched over by God, so I believe that He watches over me as well. If on the Day of Judgment He sends fire to melt the ice around me, my body will truly die and my soul will be judged."

  "Would God go to so much trouble? You seem to flatter yourself unduly."

  "Now who is talking blasphemy?"

  The innkeeper raised an eyebrow to a watchful maidservant, and the argument was interrupted by the sodden trenchers being cleared away. The remains of the piglet were left to be picked at.

  "Indeed, indeed, blasphemy is as much politics as theology," conceded Guillaume amid the clatter. "Perhaps my fears are unfounded. Surely a noble French family can do at least as well as your loyal peasants. But tell me, Vitellan, why do you travel thus?"

  "You study the past, I study the future. I hope to reach the year 2000 with my next sleep. Perhaps I shall stop there and die in some wonderful castle in the company of the nobles and scholars of that year. Perhaps I shall return to the ice to journey on."

  "And what of these times?" asked the countess. "Who will be remembered? What is
our most memorable achievement?"

  "The English philosopher William of Ockham made such advances in clear thought as have not been seen since the great Greek thinkers like Aristotle. I missed William of Ockham by a mere eight years, such a pity. If the world of the year 2000 is very different it will be be-

  cause of him. Black powder is the greatest and most terrible invention to come from your times, and it too will mold the future."

  The answer disappointed the countess, who turned to her brother for assistance.

  "But surely the English longbow is more devastating," Raymond protested. "We French were annihilated by it at Crecy and Poitiers."

  "Only because you allowed the English to choose the battlefield," replied Vitellan. "Black powder hand-gonnes demand neither the training nor the strength of a bowman, while the large bombards are more portable and versatile than catapults."

  "Such weapons have no place in chivalry," admonished the countess, and Raymond nodded his approval.

  "Chivalry is a good and civilizing code, I am not denying that. Black powder is a fact of life, however, and the task of chivalry should be to moderate its use."

  A spiced apple tart was brought in, steaming fresh from the oven. While it was being apportioned the serving trestles were spread with honey pastries, roasted nuts in cinnamon, and little bowls of spices to aid digestion. Guillaume's aggression seemed to drain away, much to the company's relief, and they were inclined to humor the abrasive yet perceptive guest.

  "Sweet Saracen delights," observed Guillaume. "At least something good came out of the Crusades."

  "My cook was a Genoese seaman, he made many voyages to the Mameluke Sultanate," the innkeeper explained.

  "So now the sailor lives in the mountains?"

  "There was trouble over a lost ship; the mountains seemed better for his health."

  "Ah, indeed, we are all fugitives from one thing or another," Guillaume replied, turning back to Vitellan. "May I see the Frigidarium Elixir that keeps you alive while frozen in your time ship?"

  Vitellan drew back the dagger-pin closure of his large pouch and took out a bottle wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped enough of the neck to display the viscous, honey-brown fluid inside.

 

‹ Prev