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Clearly, the state of religion in the sixth-century British Isles was every bit as explosive a matter as it was in twenty-first-century Northern Ireland. Stirling vowed never, ever to get into a philosophical debate over religion with anyone from the sixth century. Ancelotis' vehemence reminded him all too unpleasantly of Belfast's raging argument over which version of Christianity would be the accepted, right, and true one. Nominally Christian or not, Stirling spotted occasional roadside shrines, some of them obviously pagan. These were often situated near groves of trees, wells, or natural springs. He caught glimpses of women in several of the groves, doing what, he wasn't at all prepared to guess and Ancelotis wouldn't be baited into commenting.
Surrounding it all—hill forts, villages, churches, fortlets, and pagan shrines—were the stubbled fields, orchards stripped of their ripened fruit, their leaves having mellowed in shades of buttery gold and coppery fire against the dark, wet wood, and water meadows and common-land pastures where flocks of hardy sheep and sturdy cattle grazed. Peasant farmers and shepherds, busy at the tasks of slaughtering pigs and cattle for the winter's larder and the shearing of wool from those sheep marked out for mutton stew, shaded their eyes and shouted as the cataphracti passed, a glittering cavalcade of armor and sun-burnished weapons.
Near sunset, the road they'd been following met up with another Roman highway ru
Artorius halted the combined cavalcade long enough to eat a hot meal, rest and feed the horses, and catch four hours' sleep. Stirling craved that more than anything else; more, even, than the thick stew and hot bread which their hosts at the little garrison served their royal guests. There wasn't even plaster on the walls here, just bare stones, squared off and mortared like brick. The lack of potatoes in the stew reminded Stirling with dull and admittedly selfish unhappiness of other deprivations he would face during the coming year. No fish and chips—at least, no thick-cut, deep-fried potato slices to eat with the fish—no ketchup to eat with the nonexistent potatoes, no corn, no coffee, no tea... not even a lowly chocolate bar. None of those items would be available anywhere in the British Isles for centuries.
The reality of sixth-century Britain crashed down across Stirling all over again, in all its appalling crudity, bringing home with brutal sudde
He held back a groan and sought the privy, a separate room with troughs engineered into the stone floors and wooden planks with holes cut through them topping stone retaining walls. The trickle of water could be heard, a steady stream of it entering from one side of each trough, washing the troughs clean through a drain hole in the other end, presumably into a communal cesspit. His privy business done, he staggered past several dark storage rooms piled high with weapons and spare lamps, jugs of oil and probably wine, judging from the smell, and stored foodstuffs, then reeled into the wet night air. He found the barracks where they were to be quartered by following the sound of Artorius' snoring.
Weary to his toe bones, Stirling collapsed on the camp bed reserved for his use, asleep before he finished falling down.
Lailoken had rarely been happier.
He'd ridden almost nonstop from Caer-Iudeu to Caerleul, in the process leaving behind two stolen farm horses, badly foundered by his ruthless determination to reach Caerleul ahead of the Dux Bellorum's cataphracti and its royal escort. Exhausting as it was, he reached the ancient Roman fortress on the Solway Firth well in advance of Artorius. He arrived just past sunset, riding a third sturdy draft horse liberated during the night from a farmer who had failed, foolishly, to brand his livestock. Ba
Sell it? But—but, 'tis the most wealth I've had in years! It is one thing, surely, to ride an animal into the ground for good cause, but now we've made it safely here, you want me to just give it up?
Ba
Within half an hour, he'd sold the horse for a good price, which left Lailoken's purse delightfully heavy with gold. At Ba
Deeply chastened by the rebuke and mortified to his toes to be found wanting by his supernatural visitor—he didn't even dare to ask what a "centimeter" was—Lailoken bought a cake of soap, a new pair of boots and fine new clothing, even a warm woolen cloak to replace his tattered and much-mended one. Having cleansed himself in ritual appeasement, Lailoken emerged from the alley behind the stable as a man transformed, clad in the thickest woolen trousers he had ever owned, a beautiful yellow linen tunic worn under a crimson one of embroidered wool.
Strong leather lacings bound warm boots to his calves. He fastened the new cloak with a silver pena
He even bought a felted wool hat, a well-made Phrygian-style cap that he could pull down over his ears to keep them warm. His old clothing he gave to a one-legged old beggar sitting outside the gates of the massive legionary fortress, whose walls dominated the town.
Lailoken followed his nose to the nearest public taverna to fill his empty belly and proceeded to polish off an entire roasted chicken, a heaping plateful of cooked parsnips and beans, half a loaf of bread, and a thick hunk of cheese, washed down with several mugs of mead. The taverna was crowded with off-duty soldiers from the fortress, whose voices roared like summer thunder and echoed off the ceiling beams. Laughter, ribald jokes, and stories of dubious veracity extolling the teller's great prowess in bed or in battle were shouted across the scarred wooden tables while cheap alcohol flowed like the tide.