turned to a waiting servant. 'You, fetch my sister. And get some clean water and cloths.'
The servant hurried from the room.
Even now Nennius was more concerned about his precious Prophecy than about his daughter. He read, ' 'Ah child! Bound in time's tapestry, and yet you are born free / Come, let me sing to you of what there is and what will be'…Sixteen lines-the alpha-omega acrostic-it's all here-oh, Tarcho, I think it's genuine all right! And here are the lines about Claudius, and Hadrian-the 'little Greek', hah, I knew what it meant, I was nearly right in my reconstruction. This reference to a 'God-as-babe' must refer to the birth of Christianity, for the faith was finding its feet in Hadrian's time.
'Oh, and here are the lines that must refer to Constantine. 'Emerging first in Brigantia, exalted later then in Rome! / Prostrate before a slavish god, at last he is revealed divine, / Embrace imperial will make dead marble of the Church's shrine'…Yes, yes! Wasn't Constantine proclaimed at Eburacum? Wasn't Christianity always called a cult of slaves? Didn't he have himself deified after his death, despite his conversion to Christ? And a church turned into dead marble-yes, surely that refers to Constantine's institutionalising of the faith. It speaks the truth! I knew it. I knew it all along, that the Prophecy was real, that it was truthful. If only Thalius and his plotters could have seen this document in full! How might history have been deflected?'
Isolde barely heard any of this. Her world contracted to the inside of her head, the heaving of her lungs, and the pulsing contractions of her belly.
Maria murmured in her ear, 'Don't worry, love. We'll fetch the army doctor. He's the son of a doctor too. I told you you're in good hands…'
Somehow Isolde found the words slippery, wriggling from her grasp like fish in a stream. What were words beside the bloody reality of pain? But even as ocean-deep agony washed down her body, she felt impelled to speak. She turned her head, opened her mouth-but the words that poured from her lips were harsh and unrecognisable, even to her. She tried again, but only more alien words came.
Tarcho turned, curious now. 'What's she saying?'
'I don't know.' Maria frowned, concerned. 'It isn't Latin-is it? Or any British tongue.'
'I think it's German,' Tarcho said. 'Saxon maybe. Or Angle-ish. Why would a girl like that learn to speak Saxon?'
But I never have, Isolde thought, locked inside her own head. She tried again to speak but more of the repetitive gibberish, this Saxon, poured from her mouth.
'I know what this means,' Maria breathed, her face flushed. 'It's happening again.'
Tarcho asked, 'What is?'
'The Prophecy! You heard how Nennius described it. This is just as at the birth of Nectovelin-oh, get a stylus, you fool, and write it down!'
Tarcho stared. Then he disappeared from Isolde's view.
Isolde longed for her father to come to her, but he was still poring over his document. 'And the Prophecy's final lines-at last!-'
The pain intensified even further. Maria yelled, 'It's coming!'
Nennius read, ' 'Remember this: We hold these truths self-evident to be-' '
'The baby's head-I can see it'
Even now, even as she pulsed with pain, Isolde helplessly gabbled Saxon.
'Why is she speaking Saxon?' Tarcho growled. 'The future is Brigantian, not Saxon!'
'That may not be up to you,' Maria said. 'Now shut up, you fool, and help me.'
' 'I say to you that all men are created equal, free / Rights inalienable assured by the Maker's attribute / Endowed with Life and Liberty and Happiness's pursuit…' ' Nennius sounded baffled. 'Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? What does it mean? If these are the words of the Weaver, what dream of his is this? Oh, what does it mean?'
The pain squeezed Isolde like a vast fist, and her baby fell into Maria's arms.
