The Musketeers had ridden ahead of the Spanish army to inspect it. Greg had expected it to be a rather small bridge, given that it had only been designed to support water and the occasional horseback rider. Instead it was massive: sixteen stories high and nine hundred feet long, stretching between the steep, forested slopes of the valley. It was actually three bridges, each stacked atop the other. The lowest level was the largest, widest, and sturdiest, with five giant arches; it was on this level that the Roman road crossed the river. The middle level was just as tall, but longer, since the valley grew wider as it rose. The topmost level, which had carried the water, was significantly smaller, but the longest of all, with over twenty arches. The Gard River churned angrily beneath it all. “We’re going to need a big explosion to take that out,” Greg said. “Yes,” Aramis agreed. “But if we set it off at just the right spot, everything will come crashing down. Right there.” He pointed to the central bridge piling on the lowest level, which sat in the middle of the raging river.
