And now it was time to make the final preparations for Claudius's victory.

'He's going to need some kind of audience house straight away,' Narcissus said. 'We have a queue of local kings, eleven of them at last count, come here to pledge obedience.'

'My soldiers are good engineers,' Vespasian said smoothly. 'We are prefabricating a suitable dwelling even now; with enough men we can have it built within a day. But it must not be erected before his arrival-'

'Of course not! You can't very well put up an audience chamber in a town you haven't yet conquered; it would make a mockery of the whole thing.'

They were approaching the grandest of the natives' cowpat-shaped hovels of wood and mud. 'I thought perhaps here,' Vespasian said.

Narcissus was shocked. 'You expect an emperor to reside in this midden?'

'Secretary, this was the, um, "palace" of the great king Cunobelin, and of his sons who followed him. This is how they live here.'

'Well, no Roman does-or Greek, for that matter. Of course if it really is Cunobelin's house we must be close to this dung-hill, but I won't place Claudius inside it.' Narcissus stalked around the big house until he came to a smaller building, more conventional to Mediterranean eyes, a low-roofed wooden hut on a rectangular plan. 'How about this?'

One of the soldiers coughed and looked away; he seemed to be trying not to laugh.

'Secretary, this is a barn, I think. Or a granary. You can't lodge an emperor in a granary.'

Narcissus's pride was pricked. 'A good square plan will be much more to the Emperor's taste. I have decided. Get it cleaned up, legate.'

Vespasian bowed, his face expressionless. 'As you wish. Ah, here is Marcus Allius with the recruits.'

The three soldiers returned with some of the locals, around twenty of them, all men, none older than forty. Surely they could easily have overcome the three legionaries, but they came placidly, herded like sheep. Beyond them more townspeople drifted up to watch the spectacle.

With a few barked words from Allius in the local argot, and a glint of sword steel, the men were soon arranged in a rough line. Vespasian stalked along the row in his glittering armour, his magnificence even more enhanced by contrast with these shabby locals. 'By Jupiter but they're a sorry lot. Well-fed I granted you, but knock-kneed, potbellied, slack-jawed.'

Narcissus murmured, intrigued, 'They watch us like cattle. They don't know whether to fear us or to ask us for treats.'

'Well, these will have to do,' Vespasian said. 'We can give them some basic training overnight, shape them up into a semblance of a force. Enough to give the Emperor's chroniclers something to write about. Marcus Allius, do you know their jabber well enough to explain what is required of them? They will be paid for their part, but only if they fight reasonably well. We'll try to minimise injury, and only a few will be killed.'

'Tell them to paint their faces,' Narcissus snapped.

Vespasian pursed his lips. 'We didn't see any painted faces in the field, secretary.'

'Caesar reported painted faces, so painted faces we will have. Blue, if possible.' Narcissus, immersed now in the theatre of the Emperor's victorious arrival, was dissatisfied by the array of specimens before him. 'There were women in the field, weren't there?' He boldly walked to a knot of people, a girl with strawberry-blonde hair who might have been attractive if cleaned up, a dark, defiant-looking boy with a straggling beard-and a burly farmer's wife of a woman, aged perhaps forty, whose cheek bore a scar from what might have been a blade. 'This one, for instance. You. What's your name?'

Allius translated hurriedly. The woman replied, 'Braint.'

Narcissus flinched from the raw hostility of her expression, but stood his ground. 'She looks savage enough to me. Decurion, explain what's wanted of her. And find a few more, will you?' He looked the woman up and down. 'Oh, and tell her to bare her tits during the action. It will be a nice detail for the chroniclers.'

He walked away from the woman. But with every step the space between his shoulder blades tingled, as if Braint's gaze were a dagger being plunged there.

Sheltered from view behind Braint's broad back, with everybody watching the Romans as they strutted through Camulodunum, Agrippina examined the leather document wallet.

After a lifetime pressed against Nectovelin's chest, it was scuffed, battered, and stank of Nectovelin's sweat and blood. The document within, carefully folded, was only a single page of cheap-looking parchment, yellowed with age. It was stamped with a broken seal. And just sixteen lines of Latin, she counted quickly, had been transcribed in a neat hand. Could this really be the hand of her grandfather Cunovic, was this his seal?

She read the first lines feverishly:

Ah child! Bound in time's tapestry, and yet you are born free Come, let me sing to you of what there is and what will be, Of all men and all gods, and of the mighty emperors three. Named with a German name, a man will come with eyes of glass Straddling horses large as houses bearing teeth like scimitars…

If these were the words of a god, it was a literate god. The phrasing was elegant, the meter at least functional. She wondered if the transcript contained more information than apparent to a first reading; the Romans were famously fond of word play-compression, acrostics.

But the lines were terse. After the salutation and that mention of 'emperors three', there followed a reference to an emperor who called himself a German, but who had, mysteriously, 'eyes of glass'. The single other detail, about some kind of exotic beast, merely confused her further. Could these opaque hints have something to do with the invasion? After all, what use was a prophecy if it didn't refer to such a calamity as this? But if so, what did it mean?

She scanned on quickly. The further lines hinted at a 'noose of stone'-some kind of huge building project?-and the elevation of an emperor in Brigantia. How could that ever be possible? The last few lines seemed to be given over to poetry, clumsy stuff that might have been translated from another language altogether, about freedom and happiness: unarguable, but not much use. That, though, was clearly the passage that had touched Nectovelin's heart-

'They took Braint.' Cunedda was tense beside her, his right hand seeking a sword that he no longer carried.

Hastily Agrippina tucked the document inside her tunic, hoping Cunedda wouldn't notice she had it. 'What's happening?'

'They seem to be recruiting warriors. Some kind of display for the Emperor. Must they humiliate us? And I think I heard them talking about Cunobelin's House.' He pointed. 'During his first night here the Emperor is to stay in the granary.'

Agrippina understood. Of course a Roman would seek a square floor plan, rejecting the native roundhouses as barbaric.

It was hard to concentrate on mere events, when the Prophecy, the future itself, burned in her hand. She longed for time to think about it, to decipher its enigmas.

'Just imagine,' Cunedda said, 'the Emperor himself, the very head of the empire, is to stay here, just paces from where we are standing. And we can't do a thing about it!'

'Maybe we can,' Agrippina said, suddenly thinking fast. Perhaps it was the Prophecy that fired her mind. 'Cunedda. I have an idea. The granary must have underground storage pits.'

He frowned. 'So?'

'Do you think the Romans know about them? They might not realise the building is a granary at all. If we could sneak in there-

He started to see. 'And then hide in the pits. Let the Emperor come. And then-'

And then, Agrippina thought, they might strike a blow that would send shudders across the whole world. Suddenly hope sparked in her breast.