"I like old men," answered Red. "They're clever."

"And grateful? I'm never grateful."

"I'd hate you to be," Red replied.

"Tell me something about history," said Camillo.

Red hesitated. She said, "There were three King Arthurs. Tribal chiefs. Three Camelots, too. Only one Guinevere. But that wasn't her name."

"Something else," said Camillo.

"Under the Romans, Britain produced some of the best wines in the Empire."

"More."

"In certain Semitic cultures, prostitutes placed gold coins in the mouth of the cervix, after the birth of a child, to prevent further unwanted pregnancies."

"Do you have a gold coin?"

"No. My tubes are tied. I don't want children."

"But you want old men."

Tray turned from the TV and looked suddenly afraid.

"Camillo, shhh," said Miranda. She went to Tray and put her arm about her, and Tray rested her head on Miranda's sequined arm.

Red said calmly, "Old men are only young men in a different skin."

"Not me."

"Well," said Red, "you can teach me, can't you."

They made a camp, down the slope from the house, under the trees. Nobody would disturb them, try to move them on, Camillo had said.

Camillo was not ready yet, apparently. That was fine. They could wait.

The man who had brought them beer brought them down a supper from the house. Wine and beer and vodka, smoked fish and hot toast streaming with butter, wedges of yellow cheese, prawns, a dish of grapes and apples and peaches.

"He's a tease," said Red. She grinned at Connor. "I like that. I'll have to woo him."

Connor thought about Miranda. Viv settled on his chest as they lay in the tent. Viv was tipsy.

Outside, the fire burned. They were a camp of mercenaries. Camillo's now: Waiting. The rain slept. They slept too.

In the morning, early, Connor and Viv got up in the gray-tawny February dawn to relieve themselves. Viv was in high spirits despite her debauch, playing about in last year's leaves. When they came back, a man was standing under the house, regarding the camp.

"Good morning," said Connor. And took a stance on the grassy slope. Viv ran up, staring.

The man was tall and spare, with the longest, whitest hair Connor had seen. The face, Connor knew.

The man said, "Camillo's friends, perhaps."

"Believe it," said Connor.

The man nodded, and walked away around the house. As he went up, the woman, Miranda, came out and down. They passed each other with a vague acknowledgement. Miranda turned, and looked after him, her hands up to her throat.

Connor climbed to her.

"What is it?"

"Ah," she said. She put down her hands. "Some news. He will want Eric."

"Whitey," said Connor. "He's Camillo's son, isn't he?"

Miranda glanced at him. She was preoccupied.

"Oh, no. No. His father. That is, Camillo is Malach's son."

Connor looked away into the distances of the world.

"Malach. You're telling me that white one is the father of Camillo."