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encompassing an array of auxiliary services. It covered over sixty acres and was bounded by an immense wall of rubble stone and flint, set at intervals with watchtowers. The pillars on either side of the gates were made of ruddy brick. The northern gates themselves, made of British oak, stood wide open.
    â€œThat old farmer with one eye told us they’ve blocked up the east gate completely,” Dinas said to his horse. “So why is this one open? Could it be a trap?”
    Through the man’s buttocks and legs the stallion communicated his answer: The horse was alert but relaxed. Sensing no trap, he pricked his ears in the direction of Deva and waited.
    Dinas shifted weight. “Forward. Now,” he murmured. The stallion obeyed. Although horse and rider remained calm, they both knew Dinas could spin the animal on its haunches in the blink of an eye and gallop away.
    As they approached the gates Dinas scanned the nearest watchtowers. They appeared to be unmanned. Part of the roof on the right-hand tower had collapsed. The ladder to the left-hand tower was missing altogether.
    Through the open gateway Dinas could see two middle-aged men engaged in conversation. A shorter, somewhat younger man stood listening to them with his hands clasped behind his back. Dinas squinted, focusing on details. Knee-length homespun tunics over checkered woolen breeks identified all three as native Britons. The more animated of the talkers also sported a mantle sewn of otter skins. He and the silent listener wore their hair in the elaborate braids favored by men of the Deceangli tribe. The third man had no braids, only a sparse gray fringe that clung to his otherwise bald head like a high-water mark. A wooden cross depended from a cord around his neck.
    â€œAha,” Dinas said under his breath. Recognizing the badge of a man who believed what he was told. A man who sought to be good and hoped to buy his way into heaven with coins laid on the palm of a priest. An almost imperceptible current ran through Dinas’s body.
    The dark horse gathered himself.
    As they came through the gateway the trio turned toward them. With a disarming smile, Dinas addressed the wearer of the cross in formal Latin. “I wish you good morning, brother. I am a poor pilgrim on a pilgrimage.”
    The three stared up at him. Stared at his unruly mane of hair and his worn clothing. His magnificent horse.
    â€œWe don’t get many pilgrims here,” said the balding man. His Latin was colloquial; the accent rustic. His cheeks were chapped and his jowls were sagging but his face was friendly.
    The man in the otter-skin mantle had narrow eyes peering from beneath an overhanging brow, like weasels peeping from their hole. “Deva is a bit out of the way these days,” he remarked. “Even the Hibernian slave-catchers aren’t coming this far inland—though of course we bar the gates at night. This is the only one we keep open during the day.” He waved one hand toward the northern gateway.
    The stallion flattened his ears.
    Dinas raised one eyebrow—dark and sharply peaked—but maintained his friendly smile. “In my experience,” he said in a polite tone, “any place worth visiting is usually out of the way. I understand you’ve converted the old Roman amphitheater into something you call a martyrium?”
    The wearer of the otter skins gave him a hard look. “You know about that, do you?”
    â€œI’ve heard of nothing else since I crossed the Severn.”
    The balding man fingered his cross. A beautifully carved wooden cross hanging on a leather cord. “Surely you exaggerate. Our small efforts here are not that noteworthy.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself,” snapped the other. “You know perfectly well how long and hard I’ve worked and how much I’ve accomplished.” He turned back to Dinas. “You say you crossed the Severn? You came from the south, then? Where