Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn by Persia Woolley Page A

and no one would see me because I am an infidel who represents the Pagan king of a small and insignificant island.”
    “Hmmph,” Arthur snorted, clearly disconcerted. He picked up his wineglass and began to swirl the contents of it, still watching the Arab.
    “But I saw the most amazing buildings in the city, M’lady,” Palomides went on, turning eagerly to me. “They build them with domes—roofs like inverted bowls that create great open, airy spaces beneath their arch. The Royal Palace has terraced levels all the way down to the shore, and the Hippodrome is immense—the longest arena you could imagine—where they hold chariot races and circuses. Circuses with jugglers and acrobats, trained lions, and dancing bears!”
    The traveler turned back to the Companions with a quick smile. “Noisy, colorful, riotous affairs, full of pageantry and politics—you can’t separate one from the other in that city. It’s a place of constant contrasts, of private gardens filled with lemon blossoms—and stinking streets full of rabble; of the dank, sea-wrack dregs of a harbor overlooked by opulent houses where mosaic pictures cover the walls. Not chunks of murky stone, such as our villa floors have, but bits of brilliant glass, backed by gold, that shimmer with color. They are amazing, those mosaics…changing hues and casts as the sunlight changes, so that they are always subtly different.”
    Palomides paused and lifting his head, let his gaze probe the high shadows where our ridgepole holds up the roof. Awed by the visions his words had called up, we all sat silently waiting for him to continue. In the hush I could hear the rustle of feathers where a stray sparrow, or perhaps a pair of doves, had perched in the rafters for the night. Compared with the great places he told of, Camelot now seemed small and rustic.
    “From Constantinople I traveled down the Incense Route along the edge of the desert, looking for my relatives,” the Arab said presently, bringing his attention back to the Fellowship. He described the Bedouins he met, the Shrine of the Three Goddesses at Mecca, and his eventually finding the tribe his family had come from. “They live outside the southern gates of Jerusalem, and guard the Holy City from attack.”
    “Jerusalem? You were in Jerusalem?” Griflet’s voice reflected his awe, and the other Christians in the audience leaned forward eagerly. Palomides turned aside to whisper something to the turbaned servant, then smiled directly at Griflet.
    “Indeed, I reached Jerusalem in September, in time for the great fair. Crowded, stinking, filled with masses and masses of people…it’s unbelievable. Yet in spite of that, the city is amazing—full of churches and convents, monasteries and hostels for travelers. The church of Golgotha, with its great bronze chandelier, was packed with pilgrims. You’ve never seen so many pilgrims, from Spain and Greece, Antioch and Alexandria, Constantinople—even from Rome herself. Everywhere you hear different tongues, yet the place is filled with piety, and the love of Christ pours over the land. It takes your breath away to see what can be done, all in the name of the one God.”
    Palomides’s eyes shone at the memory, and I wondered suddenly if the man had decided to convert. Back before the Empire collapsed, when every Briton was also a Roman citizen, they say most people were Christian. But in the century since the Legions left, the Old Gods have come back and now one finds most every kind of religion at Court—followers of both Celtic and Roman gods, and those like Lionel and his brother Bors who practice the rites of the soldiers’ god, Mithra…as well as the different kinds of Christians.
    I’d known a number of people born to that faith, like my foster sister Brigit, who went to live in a convent, or the Roman matron Vinnie. And some at Court, such as Griflet’s wife, Frieda, became Christians as adults. Even Lance was fascinated by their mixture of