The answer was here in a part of England that had once belonged to Rome.
The town of Bath was pleasant, with old Tudor dwellings and modern dwellings, and what was left of Rome had been reconstructed in the mineralwater baths themselves. Bacteria had formed down at the base of the springs in the old Roman piping, which had to be removed. In the process, many coins and artifacts were found.
The baths were housed in a building, and in that building Remo went to a section where he was supposed to get dressed, and laid out the scroll in full. The Praetor Maximus Granicus had set up his headquarters here because he had aching bones. He had wanted to be near the springs as long as possible, until he and his legions left the Britannic shores for Gaul and Rome.
Granicus, like most ambitious men, loved luxury, and along the military road two stadia north, he built himself a palace which was supposed to be impenetrable to entry by anyone but friends.
"This Granicus domicile," the scroll went on, "had walls collapsing within walls, so that portholes were really traps. Secret entrances beneath the domicile were really mazes, and the beauty of this defensive structure was that the only way to enter it was to know how it worked.
"While I as a Master would love to record a new defense overcome by me, Wa, I regret that it was not a challenge at all, although later I would tell the Divine Claudius how dangerous it was, describing the gigantic trap as the worst obstacle of all. This, of course, was in keeping with the rule of the Great Wang, that no assassination should ever be made to look easy. A client does not think you are more wonderful because the work was easy, rather he thinks you deserve less.
"The great Granicus' defensive network was really only a weak imitation of Pharaoh Ka's lower cataract home, which was a brilliant interpretation of early Su-dynasty imperial residences. It was penetrated easily by an open confrontation in the main, not the auxiliary entrances, which could prove problematic. Granicus was completed with a simple death during sleep, a smothering with his own pillow. His legions were given to a more loyal Claudian servant, and the civil war was averted. Tribute: pearls, three saludia in weight, eighteen in number; gold in the sum of forty-two Hibernian pharongs; twelve minor rubies, seven obols apiece; and a lengthy laudation from Claudius with an offer of games in the honor of Sinanju, offer declined."
Remo folded up the scroll. Since there was only one place mentioned in the scrolls Chiun had given him, and since Chiun knew before being told that the area where the Prime Minister had disappeared had to be Bath, therefore Remo concluded the place of action had to be the old defensive home of Granicus Maximus, two stadia north on the military road.
Since Granicus, even if he had not left the world early with the help of a Sinanju Master, would have been gone for almost two thousand years now, and since everyone who ever knew him would have been gone that long, and since anyone who knew the people who knew him would have been gone by centuries also, Remo Williams didn't bother to ask for directions but simply headed north.
In a British control base, the stranger in the gray slacks and black T-shirt was being duly recorded. It was recorded that he entered the house containing the springs, read a scroll, and then asked the nearest person, who happened to be a plainclothesman like most everyone now in this area, where the old military road was.
Constable Blake answered.
"There was a road here used to store arms for D-Day, if that's what you mean, sir."
The stranger, named Remo Williams if his passport was correct, answered:
"No. Not that one. An older one."
" 'Twas built on an old Norman road, sir," said Constable Blake.
"Bit older. How many roads north do you have?"
"Quite a few."
"What's the oldest?"
"I wouldn't rightly know, sir."
The subject, Remo, was followed to the roads north. He looked at every one of them and walked around, a bit confused. He asked several passersby how long a stadium was, and was told by a young schoolgirl the exact distance.
The schoolgirl also knew which was the old Roman road. She pointed out little white posts about a foot high along the side of the road. She told Remo:
"These are Roman mileposts. They left them all over their empire. Any idiot knows that."
"I'm an American," Remo said as Scotland Yard prepared to remove the girl from danger-if that were possible, considering the strange powers of this intruder.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Just follow the white posts. Can you count?"
"I can count. I just didn't know which was the old Roman road, that's all."
"Yes, of course. That's all right. You really can't be expected to know all these things. Just follow the white posts."
"Lots of people don't know Roman mileposts."
"Yes. Many don't. If you get lost, ask for help from a bobby," said the little girl, age nine.
"I can find it," said Remo, who could count the number of men watching him in surveillance, who could even sense the monitors on him sending signals back to their headquarters.
"I'm sure you can," said the sweet little girl with the separate teeth, schoolbooks, freckles, braids, and all the other usual accoutrements of an English schoolchild. "Just don't walk in the middle of the road, sir. Cars are dangerous."
Remo cleared his throat. "Cars are not dangerous. I'm dangerous."
"Well of course you're dangerous. You're a very dangerous man," she said, humoring him the way children sometimes do with adults. "But please do stay on the side of the road."
Remo saw a police van parked along the side of the road. It was the one containing the cameras watching him.
He sauntered over to one headlight and unscrewed it. Along with the tires, the man at the wheel, the wheel, and finally with a great roaring rip, the roof. "Dangerous," said Remo.
"Destructive," said the British schoolgirl.
The Scotland Yard detectives poured out of the van without a roof.
"Stay where you are. I'm going to get you your prime minister. Just don't crowd me."
"Do stay near him," said the girl. "He can be violent, of course, but he does seem like a dear sort, don't you think?"
"I'm not a dear sort," said Remo. "I'm an assassin. I kill people. I kill lots of people."
"Well then, they must be nasty people, but do please stay on the side of the road, and do be careful whom you let offer you a ride."
Remo shot the onlooking police a dirty glance. He could hear one of them say into a telphone: "Subject identified self as dangerous assassin." Remo blew a raspberry at the police, and one at the little girl, and counted his way up the old Roman road for as many white posts as the girl said.
He knew the road had to be underneath him.
That was how roads worked- They built new roads on top of old roads, and they just layered the pathways. Or wore them down as the case might be. It was the same thing they did with cities. They just kept piling the new city on top of the old one.
Remo reached the correct milepost and looked around. To his right was a field of grain. To his left was a flock of sheep. Stone walls surrounded the road, and far off was a little cottage billowing smoke.
There was no ruin of a mansion. Not a hint of an old Roman building. Nothing. British countryside and nothing.
"He's stopped just where they left the Prime Minister's car. He's looking around," came a voice that was supposed not to carry as far as Remo could hear.
"He's turning around now, looking back here, putting a finger over his mouth. By Jove, the man can hear me a half-mile away down the road."