Cunedda too looked fully alive, for the first time since the battle. 'Agrippina, Braint was right. Maybe it will take a woman to fight the Romans!'

She pressed a finger to his lips. 'Hush. We mustn't chance somebody overhearing. Let's go find Nectovelin. We'll need his help.' And she must sneak the Prophecy back in Nectovelin's pile of clothes before he finished plucking those wretched chickens.

Excited, burning with their secret plan, the two of them rushed hand in hand back to Braint's house.

In the middle of the night it wasn't hard for Agrippina, Nectovelin and Cunedda to sneak into the old granary. As Agrippina had expected there was indeed a storage pit dug into the ground. The three of them clambered down into the pit and fixed planks an arm's length under the floor surface. Once they were safely interred, they had friends of Braint fill in the rest of the hole with dirt, tamp it down, and cover the floor with straw.

It was a ruse that would have been obvious to a Catuvellaunian. But the Romans had not yet inspected the interior of the building and probably knew nothing of Catuvellaunian granaries, and it was a gamble worth taking that when they looked inside and saw an unbroken floor they wouldn't be suspicious.

After that, all Agrippina and her companions had to do was to endure the rest of the night, and the whole of another long late-summer day, stuck in a hole in the ground. It wasn't deep enough for them to sit up properly, and the three of them lay curled around each other, 'like three puppies in a litter', as Nectovelin said. After a few hours even Cunedda's closeness became uncomfortable for Agrippina.

They had brought plenty of water, and as the stifling heat built up in the airless hole they drank much of it. Nectovelin had brought pots to piss in. He had even brought some food-dried bread, stuff that he said wouldn't create a smell that might make some dull-witted Roman soldier suspicious. Agrippina didn't know how he could eat in such a situation, but Nectovelin said he didn't want the rumbling of their stomachs to wake the Romans from their slumber. Nectovelin's gut, however, even while not rumbling, was a bottle of noxious gases, which did nothing to add to their comfort.

So they had nothing to do but lie there and wait, in the increasingly fetid dark. Wait and think.

Agrippina couldn't get the Prophecy out of her head. She longed to discuss it with Cunedda, and with Nectovelin, though she knew it was impossible. But the more she brooded on the meaning of its enigmatic lines, the more she began to wonder what it might be telling her of their chances of victory today-and the more she thought it through, the more dread gathered in her heart. Emperors three.

In what must have been the middle of the morning there was a bout of crashes, bangs, hammering and splintering, laced by whistles and cheerful curses in Latin, Germanic and Gallic. The legionaries were fitting out the granary to make it ready for an emperor. Agrippina lay rigid, scared that a cough or sneeze might give her away, and fretted that some fat soldier might come crashing down into their hole. After that came a pause that must have stretched through noon. Agrippina heard only softer talk, the rattles of dice, laughter, the clatter of crockery. Guards stationed in the granary were passing the time.

Then, in the afternoon, there was a more general commotion, people running, the ominous scraping of stabbing swords being drawn from scabbards. Agrippina heard soldiers yelling, and was able to make out Latin words: 'The Emperor! He is coming!'

At last, Claudius had completed his procession from Rome all the way here to Camulodunum. Agrippina heard marching feet and cheers-and then thunderous footsteps, as if some monstrous man were walking into the town, to gasps and muttering in Catuvellaunian. She had no idea what this could be, but she thought uneasily of the strange Prophecy line about 'horses large as houses'.

Then there was a roar, half-hearted, and running footsteps. That must be the 'resistance', a few dozen British rounded up and pressed into putting on a show of defiance. Agrippina heard the smash of sword against shield, thuds that might have been javelins landing-and, ominously, screams of pain. Why should the Roman commander keep his promise that few Britons would be hurt in this shameful game? She imagined Braint out there, angry, defiant, perhaps stripped to the waist as that toga-clad Greek snake had ordered. Braint at least would give the Romans as good as she got.

With the 'resistance' vanquished, there was an interval of clattering wheels, marching, speeches and orderly cheering. This must be the entrance of the Emperor himself into the capital. Some of the triumphal pronouncements were in the Catuvellaunian tongue; the Romans, methodical as always, would ensure that the locals knew exactly what was happening here, why the Romans had come, and what the future would hold for the people of Camulodunum.

After that there was more activity in the granary. She heard booming laughter, the clatter of plates, the splash of what might be wine into goblets, and running footsteps that must be serving slaves working. The Emperor and his entourage were evidently having dinner. The smells of cooked food penetrated the hole in the ground, and as Nectovelin had warned, Agrippina felt her empty stomach growl in response.

Nectovelin pressed a bit of dried meat into her hand. He whispered, 'What are they saying?'

Agrippina tried to follow the conversation. She had learned her Latin in Gaul, itself a backward province; the Emperor and his entourage were sophisticated Romans, and their speech was complex. 'Difficult to tell,' she admitted. 'The invasion. Gaul and Britain. But that's the surface. The Romans like to be clever. They like word games-'

Nectovelin snorted. 'A man should say what he thinks.'

'That's not the Roman way.'

'Then I'm glad I'm no Roman.'

The volume of conversation started to die down. Couches were scraped, drunken words of farewell exchanged. Evidently the dinner was over. At last Agrippina identified the Emperor's own voice. It was thin, and broken by an occasional stutter. Responses came curtly, perhaps from slaves, and from a more cultured voice, strongly accented-the Greek in the toga, perhaps, who had walked so arrogantly through Camulodunum yesterday.

Finally the Emperor ordered everybody out.

Nectovelin listened. Now there were no voices at all, no pacing, only a soft scraping that might have been a pen on parchment, a stylus on a wax tablet. Nectovelin whispered, 'Here's our chance. We'll have to move fast.'

Agrippina's heart pounded, and she grasped the hilt of her dagger.

'On my count,' Nectovelin hissed. 'One, two, three-'