A servant, one of the burliest roustabouts Stirling had ever seen, who fairly bristled with weaponry and stiff-necked military pride, held the door. Stirling expected to find the interior as faded as the outside, perhaps because every Roman villa he'd ever seen, in pictures or on the telly, wore a melancholy air of ancient glory gone dim, a ghost dissolving into the light of dawn. But when he stepped into the vestibule, his jaw dropped.
Frescoes in a beautiful, deep red covered the walls, highlighted with golden birds frolicking amongst painted fountains. Beyond the vestibule lay an atrium, with its marble basin for catching rainwater, its frescoes bright and fresh, depicting deities, pastoral scenes, and architectural elements. And beyond the atrium, through open doors that could, at the owners' whim, be closed for privacy, was a stunning colonnaded reception hall, reminding him strikingly of the Fishbourne Roman Palace, but on a smaller scale.
The entire villa was an archeological treasure trove. These two rooms alone were. He moved forward through the atrium and reception hall with a sense of awe, glad of his soft-soled boots, for even a clicking footfall would have been sacrilegious in such rooms. The marble basin of the atrium pool glinted like quicksilver where sunlight struck the grey stone through a shimmer of clear water. The colonnaded hall was the backdrop for bronze statues on marble pedestals and a breathtaking fountain in the center of the floor. Water splashed softly in the hush, catching sunlight in brilliant sparkles, obviously fed by the aqueduct outside.
The villa's mosaic floors might have been laid yesterday, they were so immaculately maintained; they caught the eye with complex patterns, depicting the wildlife of the Scottish border counties—deer with liquid eyes, hares and songbirds, snarling Scottish wildcats, blood-red foxes, and leaping silver fish, in groups of three paying homage to a divine huntress and a horned god at the very center. Celtic triskelions, sunwheels, and intricate knotwork borders ran along the edges. The fusion of Celtic sacred images with the Roman medium of expression—thousands of tiny, colored tiles laid with loving precision—created a breathtaking hybrid art form.
Ancelotis asked irritably, What is it you're staring at, man? 'Tis nothing but a floor and we've just as fine at Trapain Law! Even at Caer-Iudeu! It took enormous effort to tear his attention away from what Ancelotis must have seen dozens, if not hundreds, of times. Voices further along drew his footsteps through the hall and out into a peristyle garden, where more fountains danced in the sunlight and beautifully shaped hedges marked the borders of winding pathways. Again, Stirling was reminded of Fishbourne, with its formal gardens that led awed visitors into the private sanctum of Britain's ruling elite. A barbarian seeking an audience with the king and queen of Rheged would be forced to run this whole, immaculately civilized gauntlet of rooms, altered landscapes, and engineering which shrieked of organized power.
Beyond the garden lay an open, airy chamber that clearly served the kings of Rheged as throne hall, given the presence of two immense chairs, beautifully carved from oak and decorated with writhing, animal-form Celtic knotwork. Silver and gold leaf on the carvings glittered in the sunlight, which fell like a golden river through the open doors leading from the peristyle garden to the throne room. It was here the leading citizens of Caerleul and most of the northern kings and queens had gathered to wait for Cutha and his Saxon escort. The Britons made a colorful splash of movement against the cool elegance of the Roman room.
Queen Morgana stepped into view from the shadows of an adjoining chamber, a slim and pale figure in black, her hair as glossy as a raven's wing, her eyes shadowed with grief and worry. Gold glinted at her throat and wrists, even her hips, where a delicate girdle of golden links circled her waist. She stood unmoving for a long moment, as icy and silent as a figure carved from basalt. Stirling wished he could find something comforting to say. Ancelotis cleared his throat, also feeling awkward in the face of her grief and the dire political disaster they all faced.
"You bear no ill will, Morgana?"
One corner of her lips twitched. "Ill will, brother of my husband? How should I, when I refused the throne outright when it was offered me? No, you are my first and best choice for Gododdin." She held out a slim hand and he crossed the mosaics quickly, taking the offered hand and kissing her cheek. "You slept well?" she asked worriedly, gazing into his eyes while her fingers sought the pulse at his wrist.
He quirked his own lips in a faint smile of response. "I did. Perhaps better than I should have done."
"Exhaustion," she agreed, "has a way of assisting in such matters."
A sound of voices reached them and Thaney swept into the room, greeting them both with genuine warmth. "Morgana, Ancelotis, there was so little time last night to greet you properly." She gave Morgana a hug that spoke eloquently of the younger woman's feelings. "Please forgive me if I cannot be overly distressed by my father's death," she added, peering anxiously into Morgana's eyes.
"Of course not, child," Morgana smiled, brushing a wisp of hair back from Thaney's brow. "Did you think I would not understand? He tried to murder you. Your son is well?"
Thaney broke into a radiant smile. "He is. And you will be so proud of him, Uncle," she added, turning her attention to Ancelotis. "He rides like the wind and has never taken a fall, although my heart bids fair to choke me when I see him set his mount at some obstacle he is determined to leap."
Ancelotis chuckled. "As I recall, a certain young girl used to do the same, terrifying the wits out of her uncle when she set her mind to something a strong man would have thought twice of attempting."
"Fond uncle," she laughed. "I have missed you."
"And your laughter has been too long absent from Trapain Law. You will be welcome there, as from now."
She touched his cheek with a gentle hand. "As from now, I accept the invitation. But first," and the smile died from her eyes, "we must deal with the Saxons. My husband has gone with Artorius to brief the officers they will dispatch as escort to bring the Saxons into town. They've commanded half-a-hundred cataphracti to greet them, to prevent any mischief Cutha might have planned for their arrival."
"A wise precaution." Morgana nodded gravely.
Artorius, wearing chain-mail armor over a fine tunic and gripping the hilt of his sword, strode into the throne room at that very moment, arriving from the peristyle gardens. His choice of armor, Stirling realized abruptly, was a calculated insult to the Saxons: Your visit is supremely unimportant, was the message that ordinary mail conveyed. So unimportant, I won't even bother to wear my cuirass and battle-dress armor. He paced restively across the mosaics, looking like he hadn't slept for even five minutes, and said tersely, "They're in sight at the edge of town. Meirchion will join us momentarily, for it would not do to give Cutha the impression that we will ride placatingly to meet him, like some trembling virgin bride awaiting her doom."
Ancelotis nodded agreement at the wisdom of that decision.
Young King Clinoch of Strathclyde, pale and silent in his finery, entered the hall, fingers white on the pommel of his own sword, which he gripped the way a younger child might have clutched at a stuffed toy. The boy wore the look of the exhaustion which comes from prolonged stress and chronic lack of sleep. Emrys Myrddin strode into view, querulous blue eyes raking the room with a narrow gaze. He stalked over to Clinoch, speaking to him in a low voice that did not carry. A group of minstrels drifted into the room, touching fingertips to harps and lips to flutes, playing a soft melody that helped soothe Stirling's on-edge nerves. Ancelotis frowned slightly, however, catching sight of one of them.