Below them the Materazzi had been very roughly drawn into four groups of men-at-arms, fully armored (though many were not yet fitted) and each group eight thousand strong. On either side and behind these four lines were armored cavalry numbering about twelve hundred. The front lines of the Materazzi were still unformed-many had sat down to eat and drink, and there was a good deal of shouting, cheering and laughing as well as a good deal of unofficial pushing in and jockeying for position in the front line. Sheep were being roasted as well as a horse, with long lines of steam coming from the boiling kettles. Those too excited to sit and eat, with their still unarmored legs tucked under them on the light yellow stubble, buckled up, took up their position and tried to get closer to the front with more heavy shoving, though none of it was so undisciplined as to descend into anything more violent.

Two hours later and nothing had happened. A pale Arbell Swan-Neck joined them, accompanied by the now well-fed IdrisPukke, Kleist and also Riba. For all her loss of plumpitude during the preceding months, she was still and always would be a striking contrast to her mistress. She was shorter by nearly eight inches, dark, with brown eyes, and still as curved and abundant as Arbell was sinuous and blond and slim. They were as different to look at as a dove and a swan.

An anxious Arbell asked them what they thought would happen, and all agreed that the Materazzi were right to stay put because sooner or later Princeps would be forced to attack. However Cale looked at it, the Redeemers’ position was satisfyingly desperate.

“Has anyone seen Simon?” said Arbell.

“He’ll be with the Marshal,” said IdrisPukke. These days Simon and the Marshal were inseparable. “Almost like father and son,” joked Kleist, out of Arbell’s hearing. Still worried, she was about to dispatch two servants to check on her brother when a group of five mounted soldiers approached them. One of them was Conn Materazzi. He had not been this close to Cale since their fight.

“I have been sent by Field General Narcisse to see if you’re safe.”

“Quite safe. Have you seen my brother?”

“Yes. I think so-about an hour since. He was in the White Tent with the nerk who translates for him.”

“You’ve no right to talk about Koolhaus in that way. Look for Simon and please make sure he’s sent here.” Then she turned to her two servants and sent them down to the White Tent with the same instructions.

For the first time Conn Materazzi looked at Cale.

“You should be safe up here, I’d say.”

Cale said nothing. Conn turned his attention to Kleist. “How about you? If you’ve got more courage than to sit up here and let us do your fighting for you, I’ll arrange a place for you in the front line.”

Kleist looked interested.

“All right,” he replied agreeably. “There’s one or two things I have to do here, but you go ahead and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Conn lacked much of a sense of humor, but even he realized he was being made fun of.

“At least your soapysam friends out there have the courage to fight for themselves. The three of you are just standing up here and letting us do it for you.”

“What’s the point,” replied Kleist, as if explaining to someone of diminished understanding, “of having a dog and barking yourself?”

But Conn wasn’t so easy to mock, or rather it made less impression on him because he had been born to regard himself as of immense worth.

“You’ve more reason to be in this fight today than any of us. If you think that’s amusing, then I don’t need some buffoon’s last word for anyone to see what you really are.”

And having had the last word himself, he turned his horse away and was gone. The truth was that this had little effect on Vague Henri, none at all on Kleist, but scraped a sore spot on Cale. His victory over Solomon Solomon had shown him that his skill was dependent on a terror that might come and go at any moment. What was the good of such gifts if panic could obliterate them? He knew that what kept him on top of the hill was that it was not, strictly speaking, his fight, that he was bound by duty as well as love to protect Arbell Materazzi, but also the remembrance of the trembling, the weakness and his dissolving guts-the horrible funk of being afraid and weak.

Now there was another visitor to the top of Silbury Hill and one whose appearance caused a fascinating stir from the very important persons gathered there. Although he had arrived at the foot of the hill in a coach, he had transferred into a completely covered sedan chair of the kind used by Materazzi ladies to travel in the narrow streets of the very old town where a carriage could not be used. Eight men, clearly exhausted by the climb, carried the chair and another ten watched over it.

“Who’s that?” Cale asked IdrisPukke.

“Well, I can’t say I’m often surprised, but this is a wonder.”

“Is it the Ark of the Covenant?”

“Look down, not up. If the devil himself were ever possessed, this is the creature who could do it. It’s Kitty the Hare.”

Cale was suitably impressed and for a moment said nothing while he looked over the ten guards. “They look handy.”

“So they should. Laconic mercenaries. Must cost a bob or two.”

“What’s he doing here? I thought he was heard of but never seen.”

“Mock on. You cross Kitty and you’ll regret it. He’s probably come to keep an eye on his investment. Besides, today is a chance to see history being made and be safe doing it.”

Then the door of the sedan opened and a man got out. Cale groaned in disappointment.

“That’s not Kitty,” said IdrisPukke.

“Thank God for that. Beelzebub should look the part.”

“I forget sometimes that you’re still a kid. If you ever get the chance to meet that one,” IdrisPukke added, gesturing at the man, “remember, Mister Wet-Behind-the-Ears, to find a pressing engagement somewhere else.”

“Now you’ve made me scared.”

“You’re a cocky little sod, aren’t you? That’s Daniel Cadbury. Look in Dr. Johnson’s General Dictionary under ‘henchman’ and you’ll find his name. See also ‘assassin,’ ‘murderer,’ and ‘sheep stealer.’ Quite a charmer, though-so obliging you think he’d lend you his arsehole and shit through his ribs.”

While Cale was puzzling out this interesting claim, a smiling Cadbury made his way over to them.

“It’s been a long time, IdrisPukke. Keeping busy?”

“Hello, Cadbury. Just dropped in on your way to strangle an orphan?”

Cadbury smiled as if genuinely appreciating the malice in Idris-Pukke’s voice and, a tall man, looked down approvingly at Cale.

“He’s a card, your friend, isn’t he? You must be Cale,” he added in a tone that implied that being Cale meant something. “I was at the Red Opera when you put out Solomon Solomon. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer chap. Quite something, young man, quite something. We must have lunch when all this unpleasantness is over.” And with a bow that showed Cale respect but as if from an equal who was worth having respect from, he turned and went back to the sedan.

“He seems very nice,” said Cale, meaning to be aggravating.

“And will be, right up until the moment when he is obliged, with the greatest regret, to cut your windpipe.”

There was a shout from Vague Henri. There was movement in the ranks of the Redeemers. In a line about ten deep the five thousand archers and the nineteen hundred men-at-arms slowly moved forward. Fifty yards farther on, at the edge of the plowed field that stretched nearly as far as the Materazzi, they stopped and the front rank knelt down.

“What in God’s name are they up to?” said IdrisPukke.

“They’re taking a mouthful of earth,” said Cale, “to remind themselves that they are mud and will return to mud.”

With that the first rank stood up and walked onto the plowed field. The rank behind them moved forward, knelt, took a mouthful of earth, followed them, and so on. Within less than five minutes the entire Redeemer army were back in their loose battle rank, walking at no more than a stroll and out of step on the rough surface. All there remained for the Materazzi and the observers on Silbury Hill to do was wait and watch.