Tired as he was and dark as the night was, Stirling still pinpointed the locations of a full guard contingent along those palisades. If he'd been an invader, he'd have thought twice—three times—before putting this fortress' defenses to the test. Maybe the Saxons counted on drawing Artorius' army into the open by laying waste to the dozens of little villages scattered throughout the region? It was the only sane tactic Stirling could see, without access to black powder and cannons, at the very least. Doubtless, the Saxons had already thought of it—or would very soon after Cutha's arrival. Artorius would have considered that, as well, if he was half the commander Stirling already suspected he was.
What Stirling hadn't expected was the prickle of awe which ran up his spine as they slowed to a walk and filed through the narrow, guarded entrance of Artorius' military stronghold. Stirling was, after all, accustomed to living and even shopping in buildings hundreds of years old. And he'd seen Stonehenge, which was considerably older than these fortifications—by several millennia, in fact. But he couldn't help feeling the strange, hushed wonderment that comes from entering a place of great antiquity, any more than he could help searching out what details he could see.
They entered by way of a traverse outside the fortress gate, a short arc of wall surmounted by an armed guard, which forced them to ride parallel to the fortress wall for a long way before entering the actual gate—then they had to ride back along the return of the long, S-shaped curve past an inner arc of traverse wall, doubling the distance and time a defender could shoot at them. It was nearly as effective as a medieval castle's murder room, which served the same purpose, come to think of it, allowing archers, javelin—or, in the Romans' case, pilum—throwers, or pikemen ample opportunity to wreak their lethal havoc.
Once through the convolutions of the gate, Stirling's gaze came to rest on a veritable small town of red sandstone barracks, stables, buildings for which he couldn't even hazard a guess as to their functions, tired as he was. A broad avenue at least a hundred and twenty feet wide ran along the inside perimeter, with stair-stepped terraces making access to the palisades and towers quick and easy. They followed this road to the left, riding nearly four hundred yards before reaching the corner—whereupon Stirling discovered that they'd entered through the narrow end of the fortress. The length of wall stretching out before Stirling's bleary eyes was half again longer than the length of the wall behind them.
They passed torches at regular intervals, their ruddy light flickering across neat lettering on the walls of buildings at the corners of the perimeter road and interior cross streets. Only half the width of the outer road, the street Artorius led them down was still a good sixty feet from side to side, with the intersection neatly labeled Via Quintana in Roman lettering. Clearly, someone had been renewing the paint during the past century. The Britons were clinging to their Romanized roots with a typically Celtic passion.
Stirling was more than happy to turn his horse over to the boys assigned duty in the stables, which bordered the Via Quintana for many yards. He slid out of the saddle and had to grip the nearest saddle horns tightly to prevent himself sliding all the way to the ground. Horses whickered greetings, tired newcomers welcoming sleepy stablemates. One of the stable boys carried a water pail and dipper, which he gave first to Artorius, who passed it to Morgana, Ganhumara, and Covianna in turn before drinking his fill. Stirling got next crack at the water, which he needed rather desperately. He passed the dipper on to Medraut and the king of Strathclyde.
Stirling was pleased, at least, that he hadn't fallen down, although he had to speak sternly to Ancelotis' legs before they consented to carry him across the open courtyard. Artorius led them through the doorway of Caerleul's principium, clearly the largest building inside the fort, a long stone rectangle with its short end opening onto the Via Quintana. The men of Artorius' escort and the cataphracti of Gododdin and Strathclyde tended their horses before heading for other structures, presumably barracks, laid out with all the formal precision typical of a Roman encampment.
A young girl, a child no more than twelve or thirteen, with dark hair in braids and dark eyes too mature for her years, held the door as they passed the threshold. How much war had this child witnessed firsthand? Eleven victories Artorius had already won, driving back invaders from every direction. And how many children just like this girl had already died? Not as many as would die, if Brenna McEgan weren't stopped.
He saw the room through a haze of bleary-eyed exhaustion and the reddish gold, smoky light of torches flickering across the red sandstone of the walls. Torchlight was augmented by Roman-style oil lamps in both pottery and stone varieties. Sullen coals lay heaped in an immense hearth which sprawled across the very center of the room like a child's playbox full of sand, with marble border stones enclosing a space a good twelve inches deep and at least four feet on each side, sixteen square feet given over to the coals. The hearth had clearly been designed to augment the central heating beneath the floors, a double effort to keep out the chill of a Scottish border town's winter. The huge hearth simultaneously allowed a small army of women to prepare a wide variety of foodstuffs over a blazing sea of embers. A small forest of iron pothooks, support tripods, and roasting spits jutted up like stiff snakes. The huge firepit vented through a smoke hole in the ceiling, an opening that reminded Stirling of the atrium in Roman villas, only smaller and covered with some type of protective hood on the roof to keep rain from falling directly into the firepit during bad weather. Tables and benches surrounded the central hearth, forming a shape that was more a twelve-sided polygon than circular. Weary travelers collapsed onto the benches closest to the fire, huddling beside the coals for warmth.
Servants moved in shadowy anonymity, shapeless in woolen tunics and drab woolen dresses. Flames leaped higher in the huge firepit. Someone had added kindling to the coals. As firelight flared up, Stirling caught more details of the room. Most of the furniture had been crudely constructed from rough planking, underscoring the utilitarian, military function of the place, although he saw a group of massive wooden chairs along one wall, nearly hidden in shadow, which appeared to be more finely wrought. If this was supposed to be Camelot, it was a big disappointment in the aesthetic department.
Still, there was an indefinable air of mystery about the place, a sense that Stirling had stepped into a museum peopled with ghosts who'd forgotten they were dead. He rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his head, senses swimming. Thus distracted, he failed to notice the woman's appearance. At the sound of her voice, Ancelotis jerked his gaze up. Thaney, Ancelotis' niece and queen of Rheged, was not a beautiful girl, but there was a compelling intensity in the clear green eyes and if that mouth had ever uttered a cruel word, Stirling was no judge of human nature.
"Artorius!" she cried with glad welcome, while quietly gesturing for a servant who brought a pitcher of something that tasted strongly of alcohol and washed the fuzz out of Stirling's mouth when his turn came at the cups circulating round the tables. "We feared you would return too late. The Saxon emissaries are no more than a few hours' ride to the south. They will be here by dawn." Her gaze found Ancelotis and her eyes widened in considerable surprise. "Ancelotis? It's good to have you here, Uncle, but I don't understand why you've come."