Pietro had been right: militarily, Blanchefort had not been in a position to defend either. In front and slightly east of north was the town the map described as Serres. To his left rear he could see the red tiles of Rennes-le- ChГўteau's few buildings. Lang leaned against the cool stone for support as he turned and surveyed three hundred sixty degrees.

The stairs simply ended four or five feet below the crenellated battlements. The deck or floor at the top had also long disappeared. A misstep would have unfortunate consequences. Lang turned his eyes back to watch where he was going. At one time, the structure had several stories, as indicated by the square holes cut into the stone that would have held floor joists. Steps worn by centuries of feet were carved into the stone of the tower's inner wall, each smaller than Lang's size tens. Lang smiled at the thought of Pietro and his brethren's reaction to the frenzied fornication that had obviously taken place here. Judging from the accumulation of lime splotches, used condoms and graffiti, the inside of the tower had served birds, lovers and political satirists equally: The tower, or what was left of it, had been preserved because it would have been difficult to get to the huge stones at the top and pry them loose. Rock already quarried and shaped was far too valuable to ignore. Instead, he saw stones scattered where they had been pulled down, probably by the locals as material was needed for their own buildings. Perhaps a few men in armor, maybe Pietro himself. Deep down, at that place where all men are part little boy, imagination had pictured a well-maintained cloister behind a huge portcullis. He had expected more than this, at least some indication where the walls and buildings had stood. Someone's restoration,project had been abandoned long ago. Only the single tower he had seen from below crowned the top of the hill, its white stones reaching maybe a hundred feet before ending in steel scaffolding that had a head start on rusting away. He began climbing the steep slope to the old fortress, each step sending a cascade of loose dirt and pebbles racing downhill. There were a number of tire tracks in the loose soil but they were rounded, washed out or abraded by the wind, not recent. If it took off on an excursion of its own, he was in for a long walk. Lang parked and got out, making sure the Peugeot was in gear and the brakes on. The path became a track and the track ended at a level spot a hundred yards or so from the summit. By the time he was pretty well covered with dust, the road became little more than a path and its grade increased enough to provoke mechanical protests from the car's already underpowered engine. When he stopped to look at the woefully inadequate map, a capricious wind blew the choking, stinging cloud into the Peugeot's open windows. No matter how slowly Lang drove, white dust billowed behind the car like a chute behind a dragster. Herod notwithstanding, Lang would have inquired if he could have found someone to ask.

The inquiry had a less than salutary effect on a lot of local infants and men haven't asked directions since.

Lang remembered something Dawn used to say, that a man would drive to hell before he would stop and ask directions, to which Lang retorted that the last man to ask directions was one of the Wise Men who asked King Herod where the Christ child had been born.

It headed straight for the old Templar fort, waiting until it dipped over a rise to make a right-angle turn and intercept the same road that had led him not to the castle but to pork. One ended in a barnyard, leaving him staring at a pigsty with the occupants staring right back. Twice he took white dirt roads which headed towards the top of the mountain but turned out to be disappointing. Seeing the old castle was a lot easier than getting there.

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