scrap of wood, on a patch of high ground unoccupied by the Romans.
Nectovelin, his own face a mask of blood, loomed over him. 'I don't want to hear a word about how you have been dishonoured by not being allowed to die. You're smart enough to know that there's no honour in a pointless death. And it would have been pointless, wouldn't it?'
Cunedda struggled to sit up. They were in the shade of the trees, in cool green. His head banged with pain; Nectovelin said a warrior on his own side had managed to clatter him with a club. He was drenched with blood, but little of it was his own.
The roaring of the battle continued, and the air stank of shit and death. He scrambled to the edge of the copse and peered out.
From this bit of high ground he could see the disposition of the Roman army. The Roman units were still hard, compact blocks, red and black and silver. There were ten of them, with four in a front row engaged with the British and two rows of three waiting in reserve behind. Further away was another set of ten cohorts with a similar deployment. Away from the stolid blocks of the legionary cohorts were smaller units, on foot or horseback. They were auxiliaries, he knew, cavalry or specialists such as archers and slingers. They held their positions, not needed yet.
By comparison the shapeless British mob looked like a tide that had swept forward. And wherever British wave crashed against sturdy Roman block there was a bright froth of blood.
Nectovelin, beside him, pointed. 'Look over there.'
Marching from the west, Cunedda made out more compact Roman units, tramping steadily towards the fray.
'I've been counting the cohorts,' Nectovelin said grimly. 'I reckon we face three Roman legions today. Ten cohorts each, see? We've already broken ourselves on two of them. And now here comes the third, to mop us up.'
'How long was I out?'
Nectovelin shrugged. 'Heartbeats. Not long.'
Cunedda glanced up and saw that the sun hadn't moved perceptibly from where it had been when the charge had begun. 'And yet the battle is already lost.'
'Oh, there's plenty of killing to be done. But, yes. In fact we lost it the moment we charged. Look.' He pointed to the rear of the British lines, where the non-combatants, the wives and children and traders, were hastily packing up and fleeing. 'The Roman cavalry will come after them, but the women and children ought to get away. Agrippina has a chance.' He laughed darkly. 'Never did think much of Roman cavalry.'
'What of the princes?'
'Who can say?'
'Nectovelin, in the thick of the fighting-the way the Romans killed-it was relentless.'
'This is the way civilised men kill,' Nectovelin said. 'It is an industry. They kill as they make pots. To leave a man to fight again is, to them'-he waved a hand-'a waste of effort.'
'Why did you pull me out of there?'
'Because, by Coventina's baggy quim, though the day is lost, Cunedda, the war is long. We'll find Agrippina, and we'll think again.'
They turned from the grinding battle and slipped away.
XVI
Agrippina woke to Cunedda shaking her shoulder.
'Pina! You have to see this.'
Reluctantly Agrippina rolled onto her back. She was hot under her thin woollen blanket, and her head was heavy, her throat dry, her bladder full. The air was still smoky from last night's fire, but strong light poured through chinks in the conical thatched roof. It was late in the day. She had slept too long again, and would suffer from a sore head all day. And yet she did not want to wake up, not to another dismal day in defeated Camulodunum.
The house was empty, save for herself and Cunedda, whose family had fled north, away from the Roman advance. But Cunedda was here, kneeling at her side. Agrippina reached up to stroke his face. He was growing his beard. With the Romans so close he didn't dare indulge in such Mediterranean fashions as shaving; sullen in defeat the Catuvellaunians were turning on each other. The beard, thin, straggling, really didn't suit him at all, but she liked the way it held his scent.
The love between them had not recovered from that terrible moment on the beach. But there was tenderness, and comfort.
'Come back to bed,' she said, still sleepy.
'We can't spend our whole lives in bed, 'Pina. Besides, Nectovelin has something you must see.' His eyes were bright with curiosity. Even after the awful shock of the lost battle he was too interested in the world to just lie down and die.
If that was so, why couldn't she feel the same? Her bitterness burned inside her like a blade fresh from the forge. A Roman, a man with a Roman name, Marcus Allius, had killed her little brother, in a careless, arrogant moment. But the Romans were simply too powerful. It was as if Mandubracius had been struck down by lightning; what use would it be to raise a sword against a thundercloud? What use was anger, even?
She had lost hope, then. And yet her heart beat and her lungs filled. She was still alive. And here was dear Cunedda.
She sighed, rolled over stiffly, and sat up. 'Give me a minute.'
He eyed her mischievously. 'You want any help?'
She snorted. 'Not unless you want to hold the cup for my piss.'
She rummaged through her clothing until she found a loose tunic that didn't smell too bad. For her toilet she dragged her fingers through dirty hair, and wiped a hand over her face. She caught her own breath and was aware of its stink. She really ought to find a bit of willow bark to clean her teeth. She had no idea how she looked, nor did she care. After the battle she had smashed all her mirrors and given the fragments to the river. It wasn't a time for mirrors, or other Roman fashions.
She stepped out of the house. It was close to midday, judging by the position of the sun. It had been a hot, oppressive summer, and though autumn would soon be here the heavy heat still lingered.
She walked with Cunedda across Camulodunum. The town was busy. People were on the move, carts rolled through the lanes, children and animals scurried about as they always did, and spindles of smoke rose up from the smiths' forges. The market was thronged too, as people bartered goods and services, a young pig for a new sickle blade, a basket of strawberries for a dyed wool blanket. All this activity had nothing to do with the Romans but with the seasons. This was a town of farmers and, regardless of the great events of the human world, the sun and moon followed their patient cycles through the sky, and soon it would be time to gather in the harvest.
And yet things weren't the same. People went about their work joylessly. Only a few people dared carry weapons; Cunedda himself didn't. The battle had taken a bite out of the population. There were fewer young men around than there had been at the beginning of the summer. And there were injured, amputees, even among the women, and a few helpless folk who could no longer work at all lay in the shade with wooden bowls or cups before them. But nobody was starving in Camulodunum; if your family could no longer support you, the community would do so.
It had been this way since the defeat at the river, forty days already since that disaster. They had been long days of anxiety and waiting for the final blow to fall, while the humid heat lay like a dome across the landscape.
And all the while the Romans sat in their camp just half a day's ride away from Camulodunum.
Everybody had expected the Romans simply to march straight into Camulodunum. Who could have stopped them? The townsfolk whispered rumours from Gaul and Germany of Roman atrocities, of towns burned, babies disembowelled and women violated-men too, it was said of these decadent Latins. Certainly the Romans might wish to make an example of the town, the centre of the most significant resistance they were likely to face in the whole of Britain. At times Roman soldiers even came riding into Camulodunum itself, as if to inspect their property,
