"Now—here be the hard part, brothers."

The old tribal forts, no more than circular earthworks, were to be modernized and rendered impregnable. Cir-cumvallations were to be dug around them. Committed to this work, the engineers would be vulnerable to attack. The Prydn would defend them, mounted or afoot.

There was only one comment on that, from Bredei.

"Who takes this great hill so diggers can dig?"

"We do." Padrec added quickly that they would be followed in by foot troops after the mounted assault to deliver a second blow on top of the first. The Prydn stared at the picture-war on the ground. They were mountain men and knew what mountain ponies could do. They would be the first blow, moving uphill with no protection but speed. Most of them did not think in words but saw the problem in terms of success, no matter how difficult. Their word was given to Padrec and Christ. They didn't know or care that they were an experiment, but they proved its exact worth with no uncertainty. As Ambrosius later acknowledged in a classic of understatement, all new ideas need refinement.

Padrec and Malgon sat their mounts at the top of the last hill before River Wye. They could expect to engage Coritani at any time now. Padrec hadn't expected to find the bridge intact, but there it was. Mere ants in the distance, two scouts from Hawk fhain nosed the approaches to the bridge, crossed it, and dismounted on the other side.

Padrec's stomach felt queasy leading men in an enterprise so foreign to him. Not much consolation that officers like Gallius were no more seasoned beyond the drill ground. He would lose lives from now on and feel each loss like a blow.

Malgon munched currants from a cloth bag, offered some to Padrec, and bent forward over his pony's mane to feed him a treat. Below them on the road leading to the bridge, the long worm of Gallius's maniple inched toward their hill.

"They're coming back, Mai."

Their scouts wheeled the big army horses and cantered across the bridge, stretching out into a gallop when they cleared it, making straight for the hill. Good that the bridge was whole. Gallius was bad-tempered enough and never subtle in his contempt for Faerie, who got the oldest and leakiest tents in any camp they pitched. For

rations, what was left over from the other mess units. Padrec wondered why Ambrosius served them this way after such hearty promises.

The scouts worked their long-legged mounts up the slope, riding like small monkeys high on the animals' necks, clattering up to Padrec and pointing back at the bridge. Coritani had been there not long ago. Many tracks, both sides of the river.

"How long?"

In their own terms, the scouts knew exactly how long, but it was still hard to think in the Roman way of time. They pointed to the sun and then to the east: about three hours, a large mounted force had come to the river. Some had turned south again, others crossed to this side and veered northwest.

"Braw work, brothers/' Padrec brought the black's head around. "Now we go home."

Until the bridge was secured, First Centurion Gallius Urbi's mission was specifically scouting. The annoying priest had brought him good news for a change. A number of points along Wye were fordable, but if they were attacked in the middle of the stream, they were helpless.

"Intact, you say?"

"Yes, but they've been there today in some force. I'd say we were expected."

Gallius glared at him. The centurion was one of those florid, tallish men, once in fine condition, who'd gone to fat concentrated all in his stomach, an incongruous paunch. His bullhide breastplate had to be specially shaped. It helped him to be a little more imposing.