As Steve and Hunter sat down around their campfire, Cynric finally introduced each squad member by name. Inthe gathering darkness, he directed one of the men to ladle mutton out of the pot into wooden bowls already filled with chunks of bread.

“Cynric,” said a young man named Cai. “What will we do tomorrow? More of the same?”

“More of the same.” Cynric looked around the group sternly. “You have much to learn before you can keep an angry Saxon from killing you.”

“Will it be different when the veterans arrive?” Cai asked. “Will we ride with them?”

“Our troop will remain together,” said Cynric. “Lucius will lead us. When the veterans first begin to gather, they will not bother to ride, except on their own. Once the bulk of them have arrived, we will practice maneuvers with them.”

“When will we go out on campaign?” A taller young man named Cadoc looked up from his bowl.

“No one can be sure,” said Cynric. “It depends on what word Artorius hears from scouts and returning veterans. He won’t plan a campaign until he knows something about the enemy.”

None of them spoke.

“You can be sure we’re going somewhere,” Cynric added. “Spring always brings a new campaign for Artorius. You need not doubt that.”

The other men nodded.

Cai chewed on a piece of bread for a moment and glanced at Steve. “I’ve never seen a man of your appearance before, yet you speak our language well. How did you two come to join us here today?”

“It’s a long story,” Steve said cautiously. He was not sure how much detail Cai wanted.

“We met in Gaul,” said Hunter casually. “My wife and I hail from Linnuis, but we fled the Saxons on board ship across the Channel.”

“I have known men from Gaul,” said Cadoc. “None looked liked you, Steve.”

“I come from the eastern end of the Roman Empire,” said Steve. He glanced at Hunter, who watched him silently. Steve decided he was free to improvise. “I traveled to Gaul as a servant to another horse breeder. We met Hunter and I began working for him, instead.”

“But where is this land you come from?” Cai asked. “My grandfather served allover the empire and told me stories about his travels. Do you come from Egypt? Judea? The Parthian border?”

Steve looked at Hunter again.

“His family comes from farther east than that,” said Hunter. “From Sina, the land of silk.”

“Never heard of it,” said Cynric. “Not that I care.” He looked into the distance, where the sun had gone down. A faint glow over the horizon still lit the sky. “Well, men, shall we take our nightly stroll through the village?”

“You walk through the village every night?” Hunter asked. “Why?”

Cynric grinned. “For a goblet of mead, maybe. Or to meet a woman in a tavern. Maybe just for a walk. It keeps these young farmers and shepherds in the saddle during the day, when they know they have a visit in the village at night.”

Steve caught Hunter’s eye. “We’ll join you.”

“Hunter, you can see your wife.”

“Perhaps,” said Hunter. “First, we have business in the village. A certain friend of ours may live in the village now. We will look for him.”

“As you wish.” Cynric shrugged.

As the squad walked back up to the village, Steve noticed that the other squads were doing the same. Not everyone went, however; a few others stayed around their fires. Some of the men had already stretched out in their bedrolls.

The streets of the village had only a few people, just as the night before. Cynric sought out the most crowded tavern, though, calling out to friends he found there.

Hunter and Steve bought mead in dented metal goblets and stood among talkative, laughing men in the middle of the crowd. Steve saw that Hunter was looking around, so he did not bother; Hunter’s height advantage and better vision meant that he could do the job better and faster, anyway.

Steve found the mead interesting at first, but not really to his liking. He held the goblet and glanced back out the open doorway. A small group of other men sauntered past.

Hunter continued looking around the crowd. Steve slipped away from him through the crowd, moving toward the door. The noise in the tavern covered his footsteps. With a glance over his shoulder at Hunter’s back, he set his goblet down on a small table and stepped back outside. He hurried down the street.

After the five earlier missions, Steve no longer worried about changing history through ordinary actions. He did not believe that he would alter the fate of Britain or the shape of Arthurian legend by getting away from Hunter for a few minutes to explore the taverns on his own. At the same time, he knew he would feel more free to act spontaneously without Hunter.

Steve followed the men in front of him into another tavern. This place had about half the crowd of the last one, but the patrons here were also cheerful and talkative. Steve moved to the bar and ordered more mead. When he turned, he found almost every man in the place looking at him.

Slowly the tavern grew quiet.

Steve looked from face to face. For the first time, he realized that Hunter’s company had protected him. No matter how curious or hostile the Britons had felt, none had confronted him in front of Hunter. The squad members had asked their questions politely. Now he was on his own.

A young man with shoulder-length, reddish-blond hair smirked at him over a goblet.

Steve decided to take the initiative. “Good evening,” he said pleasantly.

“So it is, stranger.” The other man snickered. “Who are you, then? Some Pict from the wilds up north?”

“Ha!” Another man sneered. “I say he’s a wild man from across the western sea.”

“I came from Gaul,” said Steve, forcing a smile.

“You’re no Gaul,” said the first man. “But you speak our language. What’s your name, then?”

“Steve.”

“Eh? What kind of name is that?”

“Well, it’s short for Steven,” Steve said lamely. “What’s your name?”

“I heard of a Stephen who followed Jesus,” said another man, quietly.

“What’s your name?” Steve asked the blond man again, still trying to sound cheerful.

The man ignored his question. “You were named for this Stephen?”

“It was the origin of my name,” Steve said hesitantly. He had been named after a relative in the immediate sense. More importantly, he realized that the men around him really wanted to know something about him. He would have to speak up to satisfy them.

“You are a follower of the Church, then.” The blond man cocked his head to one side, studying Steve’s face.

“Yes.” Steve did not know if Britain in this time had different denominations or sects, so he said nothing more. He also could not tell exactly what opinion the others might hold about this.

“What is your purpose here?”

“My friend and I have joined the troop of new recruits,” said Steve.

“That’s true,” a man called from the back. “I saw him riding back through the gate with a big, tall fellow.”

The blond man smiled, finally. “I am Bedwyr. I lead a scouting patrol.”

“Really? Do you live here year-round?” Steve felt a wave of relief at his friendlier tone.

Bedwyr slapped him on the shoulder. “Forgive our questions, friend. Artorius will lead us all out on campaign soon, but we are getting restless.”

Steve glanced around. Not all of the other men had accepted his presence; some still eyed him suspiciously. However, no one else spoke.

“Something wrong, friend?”

“I’ve only seen a few taverns in your village. How about showing me around a little?”

Bedwyr laughed. “Why, sure.” He threw back his head and emptied his goblet. “Come on, let’s go.”

Steve took another swig of his mead and set his goblet down. As he followed Bedwyr out of the tavern, he was glad to see that no one else joined them. He did not feel that he had been made welcome, exactly, but being treated with indifference was good enough.

Bedwyr started up the street, pointing to another small building with flickering candles in the window. “That’s a good place for food,” he said. “Not so much for drinking.”

“Tell me something,” said Steve, falling into step next to him. “You’re the only one who seemed to think my joining Artorius meant something. The others still aren’t so friendly. What’s different about you?”

“You mean, regarding you?” Bedwyr shrugged. “I spoke up first because I was the most curious about you. And Artorius needs every good man he can get.”

“So I have heard.”

“The Saxons don’t ride, but they come across the Channel like endless packs of wolves. Any man who will face them is all right with me. But you must understand that in these times, not everyone loves a stranger.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Enough of that.” Bedwyr pointed up in the moonlight toward the palace as they walked. “My barracks lie there, in the citadel. You can’t see it well in the darkness, but all of Artorius’s personal troop lives with him in that quarter. We are sworn to die for him if necessary.”

“Are you in his personal bodyguard?”

“No,” said Bedwyr. “You misunderstand. He has a personal household troop of about three hundred, depending on casualties from time to time. We live here permanently and accompany him on every trip he takes. His bodyguards are a special group of only twenty.”

Steve wanted to get inside the palace somehow to look for MC 6. However, he did not want to appear too eager for fear of making Bedwyr suspicious of his motives. He decided to approach the subject obliquely.

“How does a new man join the personal troop?” Steve asked. “To maintain the number around three hundred, men killed in battle obviously must be replaced.”

“A man’s loyalty must be proven. For instance, my father died fighting in Artorius’s personal troop when I was young. My mother sent me when I came of age.”

“So connections are important.”

“Yes, or special courage and sacrifice on the battlefield.” Bedwyr nodded.

“What about working in the palace?” Steve asked. “Artorius must have people who keep the fires burning and cook the food and clean up.”

“What of it? You came to fight.”

“Not for me,” said Steve. “I’m looking for a friend. A little guy. He’s coming here, but I don’t know if he’s already arrived or not. He wasn’t in Lucius’s troop, so I wonder if he’s working in the palace.”

“Ah. I understand now.” Bedwyr shrugged. “People like that, the servants…I pay no attention.”