Chapter 16: The Gungan Alliance and the Diplomacy of Humility

The Gungan sacred place was not built. That was the first thing Arthur understood about it, picking his way down through the root-laced descent in the grey hour before full morning. It had been found — or perhaps remembered — a vast amphitheater of natural stone worn smooth by water that had retreated a millennium ago, leaving behind the shapes of its passing in every curved wall and hollow. Moss grew in the crevices. The stone was the color of old pewter. In the center, where a Roman would have placed an altar, there was nothing but a shallow depression that had once been a pool.

He had built rooms like this, once. Not in stone — in intention. A space where the shape itself was the argument for what should happen inside it.

The Gungans were already assembled when the Naboo party descended. A hundred at least, perhaps more, ranged in loose tiers along the amphitheater's natural shelving, their great fin-ears arrayed and their pale eyes unreadable across the distance. Arthur counted without meaning to — a general's habit — and noted the distribution of those carrying weapons and those who were not, and what the ratio told him about the morning's purpose. Boss Nass stood at the depression's center, which was not precisely the amphitheater's center, a choice that put the stone at his back and the descent at the Naboo party's feet. A man who understood the grammar of space.