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-'
XX
Agrippina rolled, got her legs underneath her body, and pushed up with the others. The wooden planks covering their temporary tomb splintered and fell away, and dirt tumbled in around her. Then she found her shoulders pressing against a dense mass of carpet. They had expected this. Nectovelin drove his sword up into the weave and dragged it backwards to make a broad cut.
They thrust upwards into a soft light of torches and oil lamps. Agrippina blinked; it was the first light she had seen all day.
She took in the scene in a heartbeat. The granary had become a palace, the walls hastily whitewashed, a thick carpet with a richly woven pattern laid over the floor. Oil lamps splashed pools of light. Low couches and tables lay littered around the floor, the remains of the dinner party. Amid these bits of luxury Agrippina, standing in a hole in the floor, felt filthy, stinking, a beast in the world of humans.
And at one end of the granary a desk had been set up, heaped with scrolls and parchments. A man, unassuming, dressed in a plain-looking woollen tunic, was sitting at the desk. He was looking over his shoulder at the intruders. Slowly he got to his feet. He was perhaps thirty feet from Agrippina.
Nectovelin roared, 'Claudius!' And he threw his stabbing sword.
Claudius flinched, but shuffled aside. The sword slammed into the desk top, skewering scrolls. The attack had already gone wrong, Agrippina saw. It was chance that their hole in the ground was at one end of the long granary, Claudius's desk at the other, giving him time to step aside.
Nectovelin bellowed his frustration, drew a dagger and began to run at Claudius. But the Emperor, recovering from his shock, called for his guards: 'Custodiae!'
The first to respond were the two senior Romans of the day before in Camulodunum, the impressive commander and the Greek-though the commander's armour was half undone, and the Greek wore a nightshirt. The commander, unarmed, unhesitating, hurled himself at Nectovelin's legs and brought him crashing to the ground. Nectovelin struggled but the Roman, younger, just as heavy, was on his back, and in an instant he had taken Nectovelin's own dagger and pressed it to his throat.
More soldiers burst into the room. Agrippina didn't hesitate. She grabbed the Greek, easily twisting an arm behind his back, and cut his cheek with a savage swipe of her knife. The Greek screamed, his voice high, like a distressed sheep's.
The Emperor seemed more concerned for the Greek's fate than his own. He took a step forward. 'Narcissus!'
'Stay back,' Agrippina snapped in Latin. 'Let Nectovelin live. Or this one dies before your eyes.'
The crowded granary had become a tableau-the Emperor, Agrippina with Narcissus, Nectovelin with his own blade cutting into his flesh, and the guards staring wildly, their swords drawn. One of them had Cunedda in a bear- hug.
The Roman on the ground looked up. 'Emperor,' he hissed. 'Let me finish off this fat pig.'
Claudius was a small, middle-aged man. The single step he had taken was uneven, a limp, and his mouth open and closed, gulping like a fish, as he took in the situation. The rumours in Gaul were that Claudius was a weakling, perhaps even deformed, the runt of the imperial litter. He wore thick socks, comically; perhaps he had poor circulation too. But he was an emperor, and after that first moment of shock he stood straight, and his voice was firm. 'Let him up, Vespasian.'
'Sir-'
'Let him up! I am in no danger now.' He glanced at one of the soldiers. 'We will deal with the issue of my personal security later, Rufrius Pollio.' The man, perhaps the commander of the guard, cowered. 'But I would not lose my secretary to these grubby thugs. Let him up, I say.'
The Roman commander, Vespasian, clambered reluctantly off Nectovelin. He hauled the Brigantian to his feet with a massive hand at the scruff of his neck, and he kept a grip on Nectovelin's arm. 'One move out of you, you ugly bastard, and I'll slit your throat no matter what the Emperor says.'
Nectovelin had not taken his eyes off the Emperor. Agrippina kept her knife blade at the throat of the Greek, Narcissus.
Claudius walked forward, his gait uneven but his command now obvious. 'Another warrior woman. You were right about their temperament, Narcissus. But this one seems rather more presentable, under all that dirt, than the muscular hags you paraded before me today. That rather attractive strawberry hair…'
Narcissus, breathing hard, a knife at his neck, seemed to be trying to regain command of himself. 'I apologise for my poor taste, Emperor.'
Vespasian growled, 'Sir, we must end this.'
'Now, legate, have patience. I would rather enjoy seeing how this little drama plays out. Quite a cast-a hairy savage, a beautiful girl, and a weakling boy who, from the moon-eyed glances he throws, is more in love than fearful.'
Agrippina hissed, her anger overcoming her fear, 'I understand every word you say, Roman.'
'Yes, you spoke Latin, didn't you?' Claudius peered at her, his small face creased with curiosity. 'But accented. Are you Gallic?'
'I am Brigantian.'
'I don't know what a Brigantian is.'
'An as yet undomesticated strain of British,' Narcissus said tightly.
'I was educated in Gaul,' Agrippina said.
'Then you must know who I am.'
'You are Claudius.'
He smiled. 'Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus, to be precise.'
Germanicus. Named with a German name…The recognition shocked her, and her blade at Narcissus's throat faltered. Vespasian saw this; his eyes were hard, waiting for an opportunity to move against her. She summoned her concentration. 'My name is Agrippina.'
Claudius clapped his hands. 'A good Roman name! Your parents had sound instincts, even if you don't share them. How ironic, then, that the logic of your life should lead you to this point.' He turned to Cunedda. 'And you?'
'I am Cunedda.' Despite his uncertain Latin he spoke firmly, and Agrippina was proud of him.
Nectovelin growled in his native Brigantian, 'What are they saying, 'Pina?'
With interest Claudius turned to him. 'Ah, your attack dog speaks too! But this hairy fellow has no Latin, I should imagine. Not very friendly, is he?'
Vespasian growled, 'Emperor-'
'Oh, don't fuss, Vespasian. You,' he snapped at Cunedda. 'Speak to your comrade in his own guttural tongue, if you know it, and relate his words to me.' Claudius turned back to Agrippina. 'So you are here to kill an emperor.'
'That was our plan.'
Nectovelin said darkly, translated by Cunedda, 'And I swear by Coventina's ravaged arsehole that if I get the chance I will do it, little man.'
Claudius nodded, as if this was quite matter-of fact. 'Of course you will. And who sent you?'
'You have invaded the island. Every Briton, from the Brigantians to the Atrebates, is your enemy.'
'Oh, come now! Do you expect me to believe that?' Claudius spoke with the manner of a hectoring parent. 'Out with it! Who put you up to this? Was it Valerius Asiaticus? Or Magnus Vinicius, who was nominated before me to my throne?' He went on, listing senators and equestrians and freedmen with grudges, all of whom he suspected of plotting against him, or of scheming to restore the Republic.
