“Exactly.” Merlin rubbed his hands together like a man about to cut into a succulent steak. “What do you remember about Pellenore from the time when Arthur defeated him, Brit?”

“It’s been years. More than a decade.”

“I know. Try and remember. I was busy trying to get the country functional again, or I’d remember myself. I’d like to find some people who knew Pellenore then. And some who are close to him now, if there are any.”

She concentrated. “I don’t remember a lot. But after the battle, a lot of his knights defected to Guenevere or headed to the Continent to go off on their own quests or whatever. A good knight can find service at just about any court in Europe.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why some of us are still here…”

“Hmm. It sounds vaguely ominous. But are any of them still here?”

“I think most of them are dead, or gone.”

“His servants, then? Did any of them stay with him?” She shook her head as if she was trying to clear it. “I don’t think so. Why would anyone stay with a losing king? There’s no advancement in that.”

The raven fluttered its wings and squawked, and he reached up to quiet it. “Damn. I wonder if Arthur remembers anyone.”

“It can’t hurt to ask.”

And Arthur did.

There was one knight in particular, he recalled, named Byrrhus. He had been among the oldest of Pellenore’s company, and he had signed on to Arthur’s service after the climactic battle. But he had retired and left Camelot soon after that. “He sends me odd notes now and then. Half of them make no sense at all. But he’s alive. Can you imagine it? A knight moving into a quiet, peaceful existence still alive and with all his limbs and both eyes intact.”

Britomart didn’t like the sound of that and said so.

Merlin enjoyed her discomfort. “Face facts, Brit. You’ve chosen a dangerous line of work.” He turned to Arthur. “I don’t suppose you know where he retired to?”

He rubbed his chin. “Londinium, I think. Or London, as the residents call it now. Yes, I’m sure of it. I remember he had opened an inn. It was called… let me think… it was called Nero’s Nose or something of the sort.”

“Fine.” Merlin rubbed his hands together like an eager child smelling cake. “Then to London we go.”

“Are you serious?” Brit sounded extremely unhappy. “Have you ever been there? It’s the dreariest town in England. It only flourished when the Romans made it their headquarters. Once we drove them out of the country…”

“We’re not going for a holiday, Brit. We have a job to do.”

“Suppose he’s dead? Or senile?”

“We’ll know that soon enough.”

London was a small, sleepy town on the banks of the Thames River. It consisted of a few score houses, a shaky wooden bridge spanning the river and a few decrepit shrines to the Roman gods, some of them still in use. The place was dominated by the ruins of a Roman garrison where children played at being soldiers.

When Merlin, Brit and Nimue arrived there after half a day’s travel, it was raining. Brit got a bright red cloak out of her luggage and wrapped herself in it. Merlin told her it made her look like a fallen woman.

“Be quiet.”

The river ran swift and muddy. Overlooking everything were the remains of a Roman fort built of large, dark stones. The long outer wall was dotted with watchtowers. Despite the rain there were children playing atop them. But only the front wall was intact; as they moved past, they could see that the others had huge gaps in them.

They stopped on the hill overlooking the town and took it all in, and Brit voiced her disdain for the place again. “Look at it. What a dump. There isn’t even a decent pub, just a few inns where you can buy gritty beer and sour wine.”

“You know this place. And not just casually.” Nimue’s tone was accusatory. “Why haven’t you said so?”

“There are some things I don’t like to remember.”

Merlin was suspicious, too. “Where are you from originally, Brit?”

She frowned and gestured at the place before them. “From that.”

“Oh.”

They spurred their horses. None of them could wait to find an inn with a good fire and to dry off. To their surprise, the streets were paved with large stones. “The Romans,” Brit said with a snort.

“I’ve heard about Roman roads crisscrossing all of Europe. ” Nimue had a touch of awe in her voice. “Paved like this and still in use. What wonders they must have accomplished. They say that Rome will last forever. If it was all like this, I can believe it.”

“Arthur is right.” There was genuine sadness in Merlin’s voice. “Nothing in the world is getting better.”

“You both spend too much time reading books.” Brit was not disguising how unhappy she was to be there. “Where are the Romans now? Where is Cleopatra? Where is Augustus? ”

“They left us this.” Nimue gestured at the fort and the stones beneath their horses’ hooves. “What will we leave? Beer mugs.”

“Arthur is holding the country together, Merlin.” Brit’s tone was oddly vehement. “That’s more than the Romans were ever able to do. On the far side of town there are temples to their gods. Mars, Venus, Hephaestus, Vesta. Mostly ruins now, but when I was a girl a few crackpots still prayed in them. A lot of good it’s done them.”

Just at the outskirts of the town, Merlin asked a passerby carrying a sack of something for directions to Nero’s Nose.

The man was baffled. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s an inn. Possibly run by an old knight.”

“Oh, you mean Caesar’s Bones, then.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“It’s right on the main street.” He pointed vaguely in the direction he’d come from. “Right in the middle of town. You’ll see it. And they’ll be glad you’ve come. Not many people do.”

There was not much traffic in London’s streets. A number of buildings were made from the same dark stone as the abandoned fort. It occurred to Nimue that they had been built with stones from its damaged walls. A few others were made of limestone. But most were wooden, and ramshackle.

Such people as there were in the streets tended to keep their eyes lowered; no one seemed at all social. Brit muttered, "You see what I mean? The people here… they don’t seem to have personalities. Or minds.”

“You’re too harsh, Brit.” Merlin, oddly, seemed to be enjoying it. “People who know how to mind their own business, and who don’t feel the need to prattle every little thing that occurs to them-that’s a breath of fresh air.”

“Ask another one for directions and see how fresh you find them.”

“There’s no need. Look, here is Caesar’s Bones now.”

The inn was small and unprepossessing. One tiny window, streaked with mud or something like it, looked out onto the street. A sign with a crudely painted skeleton and a Roman eagle announced the inn’s name, a dim recollection of the defeat and expulsion of the Romans centuries before. The three travelers looked at one another, not certain what to expect, and dismounted.

There was no hitching post, so they tethered their horses to a stunted bush nearby. “Nothing here grows well. This is not a healthy place.”

“You grew well, Brit.” Nimue couldn’t resist pricking her mood.

“Be quiet, ’Colin.’ ” She said the name lightly but pointedly, to remind Nimue that she knew something, or thought she did.

Merlin pushed open the door of the inn and they stepped inside. As they’d been hoping, a large fire burned energetically in the hearth. They made straight for it and pulled up a table and chairs.

A thin, wizened old man emerged from a back room. “Good afternoon.” He didn’t sound as if he meant it. And he certainly did not look as if he might ever have been a knight.

“Afternoon.” Merlin smiled at the man. “We’ve been on the road all day. We need wine and some nice hot beef.”

“You’ll get beer and rabbit. No one here eats beef.”

Oh. “Uh… fine. I’m sure it’s excellent fare.”