'We were ready to,' Sula said. 'But then she started this chattering, and we can't think, none of us!'

Nectovelin growled. With two strides he closed on the druidh, grabbed a big handful of the priest's robe and hauled him close. 'You! Is this your doing? Are these curse words she utters?'

'No, no! On my mother's life!' The druidh was thin, pale, balding, perhaps forty, and he trembled in Nectovelin's huge grasp.

'Nectovelin!' Cunovic spoke sharply enough to make his grandfather turn. 'That will do no good. It's nothing to do with him. Let him be.'

'And how do you know that?'

'Because I recognise what she is saying. Those aren't the words of gods-not our gods, anyhow.'

'Then what?'

'Latin. She's speaking Latin.'

There was a silence, broken only by Brica's continued chattering.

Nectovelin released the druidh's robe. The druidh slumped to the ground, shamed. Nectovelin said heavily, 'How can this be? Who knows Latin here?'

'Nobody but me,' Cunovic said, 'save for a few words picked up from me or the traders.' And certainly not Brica, who, always a quiet girl, had probably ventured no more than a day's walk from her birthplace her entire life.

'Then what does this mean?'

'I've no idea…'

Cunovic started to hear what Brica was saying, to make out the words. It was only a few lines, like doggerel poetry, repeated over and over. It occurred to him someone ought to write this down. He ought, as the only literate member of the family. He found his bag, dug out a tablet and stylus, and began to scribble. The children watched him, wide-eyed; the letters appearing on the wax must seem like magic to them.

Nectovelin glared and turned on Ban. 'With a birth like this, with his mother gabbling Latin, his life is already blighted. Call him what you want, Ban. He will be no warrior.'

Something seemed to snap in Ban. He yelled, 'You arrogant old man! Must you think of yourself even at a time like this? I have no time for you and your antique war. Caesar is long dead, just as you will be soon, and you and your bragging will be forgotten!'

For a desperate heartbeat Cunovic thought the giant Nectovelin might strike down his grandson, even in this dreadful moment. But Nectovelin merely stared down Ban, contempt hardening his scarred face, and he walked out of the house.

'We must cut her,' Sula said, wearily practical amid the mysteries of Brica's gabbling and the posturing of the men. 'Ban is right. We must free the baby before they both die.' The other women nodded and moved closer.

Sula raised a flint blade. This gift of the earth was the traditional tool for such desperate moments, and its carefully worked edge was sharper than the best Brigantian iron, or even Roman steel, Cunovic knew. As the stone blade bit into her flesh, Brica screamed. Ban bit his lip; he knew the risks of the moment.

But still Brica's flood of Latin continued; still Cunovic scribbled at his tablet. The words were strange, enigmatic, disconnected: Horses large as houses…A little Greek…Dead marble…

Cunovic started to understand that this was a description of the future-or a future-a description of events that could only occur long after he and Brica and all of them were long dead. Fearfully Cunovic imagined a wizard in some dark cell, somewhere in the past or future, pouring these alien words into the head of the helpless Brica, in this moment when birth and death were in the balance-a wizard, a Weaver of the threads of history, threads that were human lives. But why?

Cunovic didn't know if he was serving the cause of good or ill by writing down these words-and yet, once having started, he found he dared not stop. And as the words formed in the wax, words in a language the woman could not possibly know-words in the language of the most powerful empire on earth-Cunovic tried to suppress his own superstitious fear.

Agrippina and her three companions rode to the strip of dunes that lined the coast.

It was close to midday. The air, drenched with sunlight, tasted sharp, like lightning, and Agrippina felt her skin tighten in the gentle breeze. She could already smell the salt in the air, and she thought she heard the soughing of waves. They had crossed a strip of land, drowned at high tide, to get to this near-island, and so the sea surrounded them.

At the edge of the dunes they turned the horses out to forage. The horse Agrippina had shared with her brother Mandubracius, a patient old gelding she had been riding since she was fifteen years old, would not wander far. She was sure that the same could be said of the heavy-muscled beast Nectovelin had been riding: even a war horse would surely not defy her warrior-cousin. Cunedda's horse, though, was much more flighty, though she had enjoyed the ride to the beach, as had her rider.

They walked across the dunes, carrying packs of food, leather bottles of water, spare clothing. They all wore weapons, knives tucked into their belts. This was the land of the Cantiaci, nominally allies of Cunedda's people the Catuvellaunians, but relationships among these strange southern nations were fluid, and it always paid to be on your guard. Nectovelin lugged the heavy leather tent they would all be sharing, folded and tied up with rope. 'By Coventina's shrivelled dug,' he swore, 'this is heavier than it used to be.'

Agrippina hung back a little, letting Nectovelin stomp ahead, while little Mandubracius, ten years old, scampered after him. That way she won a rare moment alone with Cunedda. She leaned close and let him steal a kiss.

'But a kiss will have to do,' she said, breaking away.

Cunedda laughed and pulled back. 'We'll have time.' His southern language was like her own Brigantian tongue, but not quite the same-exotic enough to be pleasing to the ear.

Cunedda was twenty-four, just a year older than Agrippina. Where she was pale he was dark, his hair rich black, his eyes deep brown. Today he wore a sleeveless woollen tunic, and his flesh was turning a tantalising honey brown in the summer sun, quite different to her own pale skin and streaked strawberry-blonde hair. She thought that Cunedda had something of the look of the Mediterranean about him, of the smooth-spoken boys who had pursued her so hard and so fruitlessly while she grew up in Massilia. And he was a prince of the Catuvellaunian royal line, a grandson of dead king Cunobelin, which made him still more intriguing to her.

She could smell the salt sweat on his bare skin, and she longed to hold him. But she could not; not now. They walked on.

Cunedda said, 'Look at old Nectovelin tramping along. He's like a tree uprooted from the forest.'

'He walks like a warrior,' she said. 'Which is all he's ever been.'

'He has the family colour, that red hair going grey. He really is your cousin?'

'In a way. My grandfather, Cunovic, was brother to his father, Ban.'

'He hardly looks the type for a nice day on the beach!'

Agrippina shrugged. 'It was his idea. Any chance to let him get to know you, Cun! In fact he's in charge today, as much as anybody is…'

Cunedda was in this part of the world for trade, to promote his pottery business, but also as an envoy to the Cantiaci from the Catuvellaunian court at Camulodunum, north of the great estuary. Brigantian Nectovelin had been appointed as his bodyguard for the day.

It wasn't terribly unusual to find Brigantians here in the south working for the Catuvellaunians, who had been the dominant power in this corner of the island since before the Roman invasion ninety years ago, when long-dead Cassivellaunus had faced down Caesar himself. It was Nectovelin's service for Cunedda's family which had brought Cunedda into Agrippina's life in the first place.