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reached Rome. It was not the city that he had studied as a boy, learning
     his Latin and Greek at his tutor Merlin’s knee. Rome was no longer the center of the far-flung empire that had ruled Britain
     in his great-grandfather’s day, nor in fact of any empire. Imperial Rome had held the greatest empire the world had ever seen,
     but empires, like men, have lifespans, and Rome had grown old and senile, lapsing into decay and factions as it lost its hold
     over the lands it had once ruled. Justinian ruled what remained of the Roman Empire from his new city of Constantinople in
     the East, and what had once been the Western Empire had become the prey of Goths and Vandals who had brought chaos, destruction,
     and ruin in their wake.
    But though the mantle of the empire had departed and Rome was only a shadow of what she had been, the glorious city herself
     was eternal, though dressed now in a gypsy’s rags.
    By now less than half remained of the party of forty-four valiant handpicked knights that had set out with Arthur from Camelot
     so many years before. Time and hardship and magic had winnowed their numbers until this small band was all that remained of
     the pride of Britain.
    When they had reached the city, Arthur’s knights had, as was their custom, sought out a monastery in which to find lodging.
     They had taken humble lodgings in its guest house outside the city gates, while Arthur and Gawain went in search of allies
     who might aid Arthur’s quest for the Grail.
    Sir Kay had grumbled mightily about being left behind, but he was still injured from their battle with the Knights of the
     Ford, and in any event, diplomacy was not Kay’s strong suit.
    “Stay here, brother,” Arthur had said. “Rest. Gawain and I will return soon—with what I hope will be good news.”
    “We could use some of that, for a great change,” Sir Bedivere muttered.
    Afoot and dressed in the finest clothing remaining to them after their many adventures, Arthur and Gawain walked through the
     city toward Vatican Hill, trying hard not to marvel at what was, even though in ruins now, the greatest city the world had
     ever seen. Its streets were still choked with marvels—and none of them, Arthur knew, owed anything to the Old Ways. All were
     the product of mortal ingenuity.
    At last the two men reached their goal, the Holy See itself.
    When Pagan Rome had ruled the world, this hill had held the
collegium
of the Vestal Virgins who kept watch over the sacred flame of the Eternal City. When the New Religion had defeated the Old
     Ways, it had become the stronghold instead of the flame of faith, and the center of all that remained of goodness and learning
     in these dark times.
    “Who goes there?”
    The pikemen who challenged Arthur and Gawain did not even wear armor, so civilized was this city. On their doublets they wore
     the crossed keys of the Papal insignia, and long curling feathers in their soft black hats.
    “King Arthur of the Britons, and his liegeman Gawain,” Gawain answered, before Arthur could speak. “We seek an audience with
     His Holiness.”
    “The Holy Father does not see many travelers,” one of the guards said cautiously.
    “He will see me,” Arthur said, with more confidence than he felt. “Tell him it is about the Holy Grail.”
    One of the guards left to bear a message, and soon a priest appeared, wearing long plain robes of cardinal red, and a small
     round skullcap in the same color.
    “If you will come with me, travelers?” he said.
    The Cardinal admitted Arthur and Gawain to the papal palace itself, and conducted them to an antechamber while the Holy Father
     was notified of their arrival.
    “This is a grand sight,” Gawain said once they were alone. “Won’t Jenny love to hear about it?”
    “You’ll have to tell her, Gawain,” Arthur said. “You’ve a poet’s way with words. I just don’t have the knack.”
    “And it would take a poet to do justice to this place,” Gawain agreed,