It paid to tell an emperor what he wanted to hear, but she saw no point in concealing what must be obvious. 'We've grown apart.'

'But you loved Cunedda!'

'I did. But-' But the vast dislocation of the invasion had overwhelmed their petty human plans, and the death of her brother seemed to have aged Agrippina prematurely. 'I think I simply grew out of him.'

He studied her. 'I do understand, I think. But tell me: if you are no longer in love, what are your plans now?'

'Plans?' She frowned. 'You make the plans.'

Claudius looked irritated. 'Well, then, tell me your dreams.'

'Cunedda is a potter, like his father before him. I think he would like to go home. Back to Britain. And to begin building up his family's business once more.'

Claudius nodded. 'A shrewd choice. Believe me, now that you are part of Rome there will be a market for his pots!' He tapped his teeth. 'I see no reason to keep the boy here-not past the triumph next year, anyway. I will talk to Narcissus about it.'

She nodded. 'Thank you.'

'And what of you?'

'I would like to stay here in Rome,' she said firmly. 'As you said I am a Roman now. I believe I have wits. Perhaps I could be a clerk, a chronicler.'

'Oh, you may do better than that. I see promise in you. As a barbarian, indeed as a non-Roman, you will face prejudice; I wouldn't hide that. But you could support a suitable husband in an appropriate profession: a lawyer, perhaps, or a moneylender.'

'Or I might just make my own way,' she said.

He raised his thick eyebrows. 'You are ambitious indeed.'

More than even you know, she thought to herself. After all she had already come far. She had survived the storm of invasion. She had plotted the assassination of an emperor, and survived that too. Now here she was, a woman from the edge of the world at the centre of everything.

And, though her hatred of Rome had become meaningless so complete was its victory over her, she still clutched one dark ambition to her heart.

Claudius was immersed once more in his books and parchments. He had probably already forgotten she was here. With a bow she backed out of his presence and left the room.

It was when the Romans began to use their siege weapons in earnest, when a cloud of iron-tipped projectiles came sailing over the burning walls of the hill fort to penetrate the bare skulls of posturing Durotriges warriors, that Nectovelin knew the war was lost, and that Britain would not be rid of Romans in his lifetime. And when a bolt penetrated his leg-he could feel his kneecap shatter like a bit of smashed pottery-he knew his own battle was over.

The legionaries entered the fort. Business-like, they torched its buildings and began to demolish the remains of its defences. And they walked among the wounded. Some they put to the sword immediately. Any who looked worth a ransom were rounded up and made to sit in the dirt under a weighted-down net. Nectovelin was one of those chosen to live; he sat among the groans of injured Durotriges, racked by his own pain.

Vespasian had launched his assault on the west while the Emperor was still in the country. Resistance was expected here, as Caratacus had known, for the Durotriges had been nursing a grievance ever since Caesar had disrupted their trading links with Gaul. And so it had proved. The Durotriges and other nations opposed the Roman advance with a ferocity that put the Catuvellaunians to shame.

But it had not been enough. Not even Nectovelin had anticipated the savagery and relentlessness of Vespasian's charge. The legate had fought more than thirty battles, and taken more than twenty towns. And Nectovelin had not anticipated how effectively the Romans could lay siege. Vespasian had been supported by the Roman fleet which had tracked its way along the south coast; the sight of the great silent ships had struck fear into those who watched from the land.

And now the conquering Romans were destroying this fort.

It was in fact a very ancient place. There was a kind of track extending around the rim of the hill, a rutted ditch. The local people talked of the old days when they would appease their gods by walking around the sacred track, repairing the causeway, making offerings. Children, digging in the dirt on summer afternoons, would often find shaped bits of stone, metalwork in bronze or iron-even, occasionally, a human bone. This hill had been occupied and venerated for a time beyond counting; the fort that topped it was only the latest manifestation.

But now the Romans had come and it was the end. The legionaries pushed the ramparts into the ditches, and levered the big stones out of the tall gateways, ensuring the fort could never be used again. The hill would be abandoned, its purpose forgotten, to become a brooding puzzle for later generations, ancient causeway, ruined ramparts and all. Romans always finished what they had started.

'…I know you.' The words were in Latin, but Nectovelin had picked up a little in his years with Agrippina. He looked up dully.

The legate himself stood over him: Vespasian. He didn't wear his dress uniform now, as he had that night in Camulodunum, but scuffed and bloodstained armour plates. Dirt and sweat smeared his forehead. Vespasian had always had a seriousness about him, and Nectovelin sensed that now. Vespasian killed in great numbers; that was his job. But he didn't relish it.

As well as his staff officers, Vespasian was accompanied by a younger man, obviously one of the Durotriges serving as an interpreter. He was clean, his tunic unmarked, and he showed no shame in this burning fortress of his people. The young man asked a question in the tongue of the Durotriges.

Nectovelin answered, 'I am of the Brigantians.' The young man switched easily to that tongue.

'I know you,' Vespasian said again through his interpreter. 'That night in Camulodunum. You were the buffoon who tried to kill the Emperor.'

'And but for bad fortune I would have succeeded.'

Vespasian smiled. 'Bad fortune? But you boasted of your Prophecy. I remember digging into your sweating armpit to find it. Where is your Prophecy now? Did it foresee this?'

Nectovelin thought of the ancient fort, now being kicked apart by Roman legionaries. He thought of the Catuvellaunian farmers who had pulled on their grandfathers' chain mail and had gone into battle expecting a clash of champions, only to be met by a Roman meat-grinder.

'No, it didn't tell of this,' he said. 'But the Prophecy tells of freedom for every human being, long after you are dead, Roman.'

'But not for you.'

'No, not for me. I die for that freedom, and for Coventina's rocky heart.'

And with that Nectovelin thrust his arms through the net. He ripped the skin off one hand, and felt a finger break on the other, but he got his hands through the mesh and around Vespasian's throat, before a staff officer stepped forward with his stabbing sword and skewered his belly.