Boniface smiled. 'The Weaver sees all. The Weaver controls all. But now our usefulness is done. One stanza is complete; the next is about to be read. The Northmen have come, just as was foretold in the prophecy, and we are to be discarded. All that remains for us to do is to deliver the prophecy into their hands…'

Macson slammed his fist into the wall. 'What? Are you saying we should give the prophecy to the raiders? Has that tumour sucked the brains out of your head, old man?'

Belisarius held him back with a hand on his arm.

Boniface kept his eyes closed. 'But that is what the verse instructs. "Old claw of dragon/pierces silence, steals words." Steals words! The Northmen have come to take the prophecy-even if they don't know it.

'And as to why, you've all seen the text. The purpose of the Menologium is to ensure the coming of the Aryan empire of the future. And it will be an empire of the sea. "Across ocean to east/And ocean to west/Men of new Rome sail/from the womb of the boar./Empire of Aryans/blood pure from the north…" Who but the Northmen and their dragon ships could knit together an empire of oceans? And, can you not hear, the Menologium is telling us that we of the north, we Germans and Northmen-we Aryans-we have the purest blood, the better stock. Rome and Greece and Baghdad flame brightly today, but the world will belong to us in the future, not the Greeks or the Romans or the Saracens or any of that lot, for we are the superior race…'

Aelfric remembered how Boniface had spoken of his own people as poor, illiterate, pagan barbarians, how Bede had been wrong to look back to the Romans. Perhaps the Menologium's cruel poetry of race and blood was a consolation to him for his own poor birth – a confirmation that if the past had belonged to the south, the north would own the future.

Belisarius said coldly, 'And for this dream you have betrayed your brethren? Do you really imagine you are carrying out God's will, Domnus, by allowing your monastery to bum?'

'My brothers have been released from the prison of their lives,' Boniface murmured. 'And besides, our lives don't matter. Not to the Weaver. To him, we are mere figures embedded in the past, locked in history as firmly as Romulus and Remus, Julius and Augustus. In a sense we are already dead, nothing more than ghosts invoked by the master of the future.'

Macson lunged. He grabbed the old monk's habit and shook him. Boniface flopped, limp as a doll. Macson shouted, 'Enough of this rubbish. The prophecy was robbed from my ancestor, Sulpicia. I'm damned if I will allow it to be robbed again!' He thrust his hand inside the monk's habit, searching.

Boniface tried feebly to resist. 'Leave me be! You shouldn't be here. You British are irrelevant – the prophecy doesn't concern you – leave me be!'

Macson dragged the Menologium out of his habit. It was a slim scroll.

Boniface, slumped against the wall, lifted his head and began to scream, high-pitched but strongly. 'Help me! You Northmen, help me! In here!'

Macson jumped on him again. 'They'll hear! Shut up, you old fool!' But he couldn't quell Boniface's yelling.

Belisarius took Aelfric's arm. 'The game is played out. Aelfric – go now, quickly. There is no need for you to suffer, to die.'

'But the Domnus, the prophecy-'

'Boniface wants to die, and God will soon grant that wish. As for the prophecy -' He extracted a slim scroll from his sleeve and passed it to her. It was the Menologium; she had not seen how he took it from Macson as he struggled with Boniface. 'I'm not sure I want these "Aryans" to own the future of the world.'

'What about you?'

'We will look after ourselves,' he said grimly. 'Go. Hide. Return to your father.'

'But-'

'Go!' He opened the door and shoved her out.

The raiders came to the cell as rapidly as Belisarius had feared. Belisarius, Boniface and Macson were hauled out. They stood blinking in the bright fresh air. Belisarius had to support Boniface, who, murmuring his prayers, seemed too weak to stand.

The three of them were surrounded. The Northmen were covered in blood, their clothes, their axes, their faces, even their hair, as if they had waded through an ocean of it. They were strong, murderous, solid as trees. At this moment Belisarius envied them their moral emptiness, their lack of doubt.

It was late in the morning now, and the sun was warm on Belisarius's face. It had become a beautiful day, he noted, now the morning mist had burned off. Though fire licked only a few paces away, he could hear the calls of sea birds, undisturbed by all the human foolishness around them.

One raider crawled through the vacated cell. When he emerged and spoke, his tongue was close enough to the German for Belisarius to guess his meaning. 'It's empty, Bjarni. Just these three.'

The leader, Bjarni, glanced over them. He met Belisarius's eyes, and the Greek thought he detected regret there, weariness. But he shrugged. 'Very well. Askold, kill them.'

'Wait.' Macson stepped forward. 'I have something you want.'

He snagged the raiders' interest. The weapons were held still.

'Ah,' Boniface whispered to Belisarius. 'The moment of destiny.'

Bjarni studied Macson. 'What? Don't waste my time, boy.'

'A prophecy,' Macson insisted. 'An augury, an omen. Do you understand? It tells the future. It is worth something to you.'

'Bird guts tell me the future.'

'Not like this. It is written down.' Macson smiled, a ghastly grimace. 'You will need me to read it to you.'

'Show me.'

Macson hunted through his tunic. When he realised he didn't have the scroll he turned on Belisarius. 'You! How did you take it?' He lunged at Belisarius, but was easily restrained by the raiders.

Another voice broke in. 'I know him.' A smaller man emerged from the ranks of the raiders, dark, weasel-like. When he spoke again it was in Macson's tongue. 'Macson, isn't it?'

Macson gaped. 'Rhodri?'

Bjarni turned to this Rhodri. 'You know him, slave?'

Rhodri smirked. 'He's another slave. I knew him in Brycgstow.'

'If he's known service, he might have value. Spare him.' Bjarni turned away.

But Macson protested, 'I'm no slave. My father bought his freedom, and mine.'

Bjarni seemed irritated. He said to Rhodri, 'Explain that he can either live as a slave, or die free.'

Macson bowed his head, his submission needing no more words.

Bjarni approached Belisarius. 'Now,' he said, suspicious. 'What of you?'

The other man, Askold, looked interested. 'Perhaps he's a Roman.'

'I am from Constantinople,' Belisarius said. 'I am an east Roman.'

'Then he might be worth a ransom.'

Bjarni thought this over. 'Move away from the worthless old monk, east Roman, and you will be spared.'

Belisarius stood his ground.

Boniface closed his eyes once more. 'You are a visitor, Belisarius. A traveller. A dilettante. And you're an eastern orthodox. You have no need to die here.'

'The Northmen's ransom would break my poor family. Better for me to die now, leaving them rich. And I think I've seen enough of this world. Besides, do you want to die alone, monk? The truth now.'

Boniface hesitated. 'No.'

'Then hold on to to me.' Belisarius took the monk's frail hand in his, and gripped it firmly.

Bjarni shrugged and took a step back. 'Your choice.' Askold spat on his hands and lifted his axe, taking his time, while his companions laughed.

Belisarius murmured to Boniface, 'By the way. The Menologium has many possible interpretations, it seems to me. I am not sure you have found the correct path through its tangle, Domnus.'

'Perhaps. But we'll never know, will we? Even if we had survived this day, we would not. That is the glory of our faith. But we, less than dust, will nevertheless have played our part…'