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.”
“It’s the best you’ll find in London.”
Brit snapped, “Is that saying much?”
The man ignored her. “Beer and rabbit for three, then. Will there be anything else?”
“A bit of information, if you please.” Merlin was working at cordiality, hoping it would offset Brit’s rudeness. “Would you be Byrrhus, by chance?”
“I would not.”
“Is he on the premises?”
“No.”
He was not to be put off. “But this is his inn, isn’t it? People talk about Caesar’s Bones all over the country.”
The man gave out a short, derisive laugh. “They don’t, and there’s no use saying they do.” Without another word he turned and went back to the rear of the building.
The three of them fell silent, not at all certain how to react. Finally Brit said, “And the man on the road said they’d be happy to see us.”
“They’ll be happy enough to see our money, when the time comes.”
The publican came back with three large goblets of beer. He scowled at them and said, “Drink hearty.”
“Uh, thank you.”
He turned and left again.
Merlin looked himself up and down. “Maybe we look like we carry some disease.”
“We do.” Brit smelled her beer and pushed the goblet away. “It’s called civilization. It’s complete anathema here.”
Nimue sipped her beer and made a sour face. “This is awful.”
“The meat will be worse.”
“I can see why you don’t like to tell anyone this is where you’re from.”
Brit put on a wide smile. “We all have things we want to hide, don’t we, Colin?”
Nimue froze, uncertain how to react. Merlin made a show of drinking his beer then wiping his lips with a broad gesture. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever had.”
“At least Morgan hasn’t had a chance to poison it.” Brit was not drinking, quite pointedly.
“Oh?” Nimue grimaced at her. “You haven’t tasted it.”
The owner came back with three plates of meat and bread. “Here you are.”
“I don’t believe,” Merlin smiled as wide a smile as he could manage, “we caught your name.”
“Robert.” The man frowned.
“Well, Robert, we are from Camelot. I am Merlin, this is Britomart, one of the king’s premiere knights, and this young man is my apprentice, Colin.”
He stared at them. “Yes?”
Undaunted, Merlin pressed on. “We are on a mission from King Arthur, looking for a man named Byrrhus. He used to be a knight in the king’s service, and we’re told he used to own this inn.”
“Will you be needing rooms?”
He looked to his companions. “For tonight, yes. One for Colin and me, and one for Britomart.”
“Two rooms, then.”
Brit laughed at him. “Yes, you’ve got it.”
“And we’d appreciate some assistance.” Merlin took out his purse and made a show of the gold coins in it.
Robert’s eyes widened. Suddenly he was the most gracious host. “Anything you need, sir.”
“Well, as I told you, we’re looking for Byrrhus. Do you know where we can find him? Or do you know someone who might?”
Robert hadn’t taken his eyes off the purse. “He’s mad. He went mad years ago. He lives in the ruins of the old Roman temple on the hill.”
“Which one? Wher
e?”
He pointed vaguely. “Follow that road out of town. The hill’s steep; you’ll know it. Ruins on top.”
Merlin handed him a coin. “I hope that’s enough for our rooms and your trouble.”
“More than enough, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Not now, thank you. You have stables?”
“Yes, sir, out back. Eat well, sir.”
They ate. No one bothered to comment on how bad the food was; it would have been belaboring the obvious. When they were finished, Merlin went off to find Robert and tell him they’d be back by nightfall. Then they departed in hopes of meeting the man they’d come to see.
It was raining more heavily. Their poor horses were miserable. They mounted and set off slowly. “Which way, Brit?”
She pointed, and they began to move.
The streets were quite empty now, so there was no one for Brit to make snide comments about. She seemed unhappy about it. Close to the edge of town the buildings thinned out and the road started to rise. Quite abruptly, the rain stopped, and ahead of them up the hill, through a light mist, they could see a cluster of old, ruined buildings. Rows of columns fronted them; one of them still had part of a dome standing atop it.
It took a few minutes to reach them; the horses had trouble getting their footing on the muddy grade. Finally, they were at the center of what must have been a sizable sacred precinct in its day. Ten temples of various sizes, built in various styles, loomed around them. The smallest of them wasn’t much more than a shrine; the largest would have made a secure little fortress. Rainwater dripped from what was left of the roofs. Toppled statues, most of them missing arms, heads or both, littered the ground.
“Well.” Merlin dismounted, looked around and rubbed his hands together. “At least everything will dry out now. Where do you suppose we’ll find him?”
They stared at one another and shrugged. Brit said, “I think that one over there is the temple of Mars. That might be the logical place.”
For want of a better suggestion they went and looked. Three Ionic columns stood, supporting nothing at all. A fragment of the pediment lay in the mud; carved into it was the name of the god. The walls and roof were mostly gone. An altar where a statue of the god must have stood once was covered with dead leaves and twigs. Nimue had a thought. “Those limestone buildings in town-this is where they got the stone.”
“Should we have let it go to waste?” Brit sounded defensive.
“We? I didn’t think you identified with these people.”
Merlin interrupted the little spat before it could escalate. “Let’s separate and check the other temples.”
They did so. Most of the others were in even worse shape than that first one. Merlin and Nimue found it dispiriting; Brit was businesslike.
Finally, Nimue stepped into what seemed to be the largest and best preserved of them. There was no indication which god it had been sacred to. It was no cleaner than the others. But under a part of the roof that was still intact a fire was burning.
“Hello?” She raised her voice so much it sounded like a girl’s; she quickly lowered it and repeated, “Hello? Is anyone here? Byrrhus?”
Seemingly from nowhere came on old man’s voice. “Who are you? And how did you know my name?” It thundered through the ruins.
“I’m Colin, apprentice to Merlin, King Arthur’s chief advisor.” She ran back to the entrance and shouted, “Some-one’s here!”
In a moment Brit and Merlin joined her.
Merlin looked inside. “Where is he?”
“I heard his voice, but he’s hiding somewhere.”
Brit crossed the floor to where the fire was burning. “Byrrhus? Byrrhus, it’s me, Britomart.”
Startled, Merlin caught her by the shoulder. “You know him?”
“Knew him. When I was a girl. Where do you think I got the idea I could be a knight?”
“Why the devil didn’t you say so?”
She whispered, “He was half-crazy even then. I don’t know if he’ll remember me.”
“He remembers you.” The oldest man Nimue had ever seen stepped out from behind the altar stone. His hair was grey as steel; his face was severely wrinkled; his body was that of an athlete grown old. “You were a tomboy and a brat.”
“Byrrhus!” Suddenly excited, Brit ran and threw her arms around him. “You’re still alive!”
“More or less, yes. Get your hands off me. Knights should be more dignified.”
“Our innkeeper told us you’d gone completely insane.”
“By his lights, I suppose I am. I prefer living in the temple of Venus among squirrels and mice to keeping company with other human beings.”
Merlin stepped forward. “Your view of humanity is so sensible. I am Merlin. This is Colin.”
“I was about to roast some beef. Would you like some? And some wine?”
“We’ve just eaten some foul rabbit at Caesar’s Bones.” Brit hadn’t stopped smiling. It was the first real emotion Merlin had ever seen in her. “None of us ate very much. And a cup of wine would take the taste away wonderfully.”
Nimue banked the fire high with twigs and branches, and Byrrhus cooked meat for them. Merlin and Nimue stayed mostly silent, letting Byrrhus and Brit reminisce about old times.
“The stories you used to tell me about serving at Pellenore’s court.” She was uncommonly wistful. “Nothing in the world could have been more romantic.”
“Poor old Pellenore. Is he still alive?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “And he’s quite insane.”
Byrrhus narrowed his eyes. “So are foxes.”
Nimue asked him why he preferred to live in the temple’s ruins. “I mean, the town isn’t much, but at least the houses must be warm and dry.”
“Warm and dry and full of people. I’ve had enough of them. At first I thought it was just court life I’d had my fill of, so I came back here. But everyplace is as foul as court. Bickering, arguing, lying, cheating… the court is the world in small. A sane man can stand only so much.”
When the meat was finished roasting on its spit, they ate, and it was delicious. Byrrhus poured large cups of red wine. At one point a squirrel scampered in and went directly to Byrrhus. He stroked its head and it nestled beside him, quite improbably. But when Nimue reached out to pet it, it ran off in alarm. “You have the taint of human society,” Byrrhus said.
After Byrrhus and Brit had had time to reminisce, Merlin turned the conversation to Pellenore. “None of us knew him back in his good days. What was he like?”
“He was a good king. He believed in justice and fairness and equality. He built a court based on them, and it was quite wonderful till Arthur came along and destroyed it.”
“But-but-” Nimue couldn’t grasp this. “But Arthur is dedicated to those same ideals. We all know it. Camelot is the best place to be.”
“Then why didn’t he simply join himself to Pellenore? Why squash him?”
There was no answer. Merlin interjected, “Was he mad back then, too? You should see him now, galloping about Camelot, chasing phantoms.”
Byrrhus bit pointedly into a cut of beef. “There are monsters at Camelot. And they are real.”
“Nonsense. Arthur is a good king.” Merlin was testy.
“Pellenore…” Byrrhus lapsed into silence for a moment. Then he seemed to find himself. “Losing his lands and his castle-losing everything he had worked so patiently to build-devastated him. That was what unhinged him, if anything really did. He used to talk about killing Arthur and reclaiming it all. He promised that some day he would.”
Merlin exchanged glances with Brit, then with Nimue. “Did you believe him capable of it, Byrrhus? Really capable of it?”
“He lost his bearings, moral, intellectual, political, social… It was so sad to watch.” He looked from one of them to the next. “I don’t know what he was capable of. And I didn’t want to know. That is why I left.”
None of this was what Merlin wanted to hear.
In the space of a brief, odd conversation Pellenore went from being an unlikely suspect to a likely one. “What precisely unhinged him? Was it the loss of his lands or the fact that he became a mere vassal of the king?”
“Does it make a difference? None of you is drinking your wine.”
“We had some terrible beer at the inn. The wine wouldn’t go well with it.” Nimue was not at all certain what to believe about Pellenore now. “You know what they say-never mix the grape and the grain.”
From nowhere a strong gust of wind blew through the temple. “The gods.” Byrrhus smiled. “They don’t like me living in their houses and desecrating them with cook fires. I use the temple of Mercury for a privy. Someday they’ll take their revenge on me.”
Brit got to her feet. “You seem to be surviving them well enough.”
“They’ll get me someday. There’s a boy in the village who is a werewolf. They’ll send him for me.”
Like Brit, Merlin and Nimue stood. They thanked him for his hospitality and made excuses about having to go. Brit hugged him and told him, “You’re as strong as Stonehenge.No mere werewolf could hurt you. Be well, Byrrhus.”
A few minutes later they were on their horses and heading back down to London. None of them said much.
But later, by the fire at the inn with more of Robert’s bad beer, they went over their encounter.
“I don’t see any room to doubt that he’s mad.” Merlin sounded glum. “We didn’t learn a thing that’s helpful.”
“I don’t know.” Brit swirled the beer in her cup. “Just because he prefers rodents to human beings… I mean, who wouldn’t?”
“And belief in Mars and Mercury? He’s quite daft, Brit.”
“Byrrhus seemed the most wonderful man possible when I was a girl. Now… But does that mean everything he said must be mad?” Brit avoided looking at Merlin, not wanting to see the answer in his eyes.
Nimue pushed her cup away. “I mean, yes, he believes the Roman gods hate him. But does that necessarily mean what he says about Pellenore is nonsense, too?”
The Excalibur Murders Page 12