planning here, none of the neat grid-system layout of a major Roman town. Green pushed right into the centre of the settlement, fields with wheat growing, or sheep and cattle grazing, as if Camulodunum was one vast farm. To a Roman this would scarcely be a town at all. Even the defences were just straggling lines of dykes and ditches.
But the place was busy today. People moved everywhere, lugging bundles of cloth and wooden chests. Leading her horse through this confusion, Agrippina sensed anxiety.
'The place is stirred up,' Cunedda murmured. 'They have heard about the Romans already.'
Nectovelin walked close to Agrippina. 'News travels fast. We were probably the first to see the Romans, but you can't hide legions.'
Agrippina said, 'They seem to be more busy hiding their treasure than preparing to resist.'
Nectovelin shrugged. 'What did you expect? These are farmers. They have children, stock, corn in the fields.'
Cunedda said nervously, 'My uncles will already have called their war council.'
'Those hot-head princes,' Nectovelin growled. 'Let us hope that wise minds win the argument.'
They reached Cunedda's house. His sister and aunt lived here. At Cunedda's call, two ungainly dogs came bounding around the house's curving wall from the smallholding at the back. Cunedda submitted to leaps and face- licking, clearly relishing the uncomplicated pleasure of the dogs' affection.
Agrippina watched him, her heart twisting. 'The dogs make him happy.'
Nectovelin said softly, 'He has suffered too, Agrippina.'
'If I had not been in Cunedda's arms then I would have been with Mandubracius. I might have stopped him going down to the beach.'
'If and then. You could not have known, Pina. Even if not for Cunedda the outcome might have been the same. This is hard for you, harder than for any of us. It's not just losing Mandubracius. In a moment you went from admiring Rome, never believing they would come here, to loathing them with a passion. You must not blame yourself, or Cunedda, for any of this. And your love for Cunedda will help you now.'
'Will it? Cousin, I think I hate the Roman who killed Mandubracius, though I have never seen his face, more than I love Cunedda. I hate the Romanness in me more than I love him. Does that make sense?'
'Perfect sense. But when has sense ever been a guide? Come. Before we deal with princes we must eat, wash, sleep if we can.'
She passed him her horse's reins. 'Nectovelin-what will happen to us when the Romans come?'
Nectovelin considered. 'That depends on what the princes decide. And, I suppose, how they acquit themselves afterwards. But I know in my heart that in the long run we will win.'
She stared at him. 'How can you know that?…Oh. Your Prophecy.'
'I carry it with me always,' he said, and he rapped his chest with a clenched fist. 'Though it was written down a half-century ago it speaks of the coming of the Romans. But it also speaks of freedom, Agrippina. And that is what guides me.'
She resented the perverse pleasure he was taking in all this. Where Agrippina had been plunged into confusion and misery since the Roman landing, where the people of Camulodunum had been thrown into a state of fear, Nectovelin seemed to have grown in stature, his mind clarified. The Romans had come at last; this was what he had been born for.
But curiosity sparked dimly, even now. 'Your Prophecy-does it really tell of the future? Does it really promise freedom? If only you would let me read it-'
'My throat is drier than Coventina's scabby elbow. I need a drink, and so do you. Then we will talk of the future, and a war with Rome.'
VIII
That night she managed to sleep, too exhausted even for her fretful mind to keep her awake any longer.
Not long after dawn, she rose and followed Cunedda and Nectovelin to the hall still known as Cunobelin's House.
This was a mighty roundhouse, the supports of its vaulting roof cut from hundred-year-old oaks, and large enough to hold half the town. There were few ornate flourishes, some bosses which bore the mask of the war god Camulos or the seal of Cunobelin himself-and, here and there, 'C-A-M', the three Latin letters that the king had used to mark his coins. Agrippina suspected that few people here would understand the letters as any other than a symbol of Cunobelin.
Everything about the great house was a reflection of that clever king. Thanks to his trade with Rome the old bear had grown wealthy enough to have imported Roman architects and masons, and to have built himself a palace of stone had he wished. He did allow himself to refurbish his father's bath house. But, aware of the sensibilities of his people, he had also built this, a house in their own best tradition, with every element correctly placed.
Close to the central hearth, where the night's fire was fitfully burning itself out, perhaps fifty people were huddled. They were the leading Catuvellaunians and their princes, Caratacus and Togodumnus, sons of Cunobelin. Among the crowd were shaven heads, probably druidh. The princes and their warriors wore weapons and brooches, splashes of iron, bronze and silver, and heavy golden torques around their necks. In Camulodunum you showed your power and wealth by wearing it. But there were others with finger rings and plucked facial hair, Roman styles even here in the house of Cunobelin, before the grandsons of Cassivellaunus.
Most people, though, wore work clothes from the farms, as dun-coloured as the earth.
Agrippina and her companions found a place to sit, on a hide blanket thrown on the ground. It was soon clear that the ongoing argument was fractious and unsatisfactory. The discussion had evidently been continuing all night.
Though people deferred to the princes this was a very equal debate in which everybody was entitled to speak-very un-Roman, Agrippina thought, very unlike the grave councils of the Roman generals which must be proceeding even now. But neither Caratacus and Togodumnus had the authority of their father Cunobelin, and none of his subtlety either-and, challenged, they were becoming increasingly angry. They were like men left over from the past, Agrippina thought, men from an age when physical strength and drinking prowess were all it took to be a leader.
Cunobelin had always had trouble with his sons. As was the custom of his people, and indeed Agrippina's Brigantians too, Cunobelin had cheerfully taken many wives, who for twenty years had produced a steady stream of children. Cunobelin had lived to see grandsons grow to adulthood, including Cunedda. But even before his death many of Cunobelin's sons had quarrelled among themselves. And when Cunobelin at last died it was as if the lid had blown off an over-heated pot.
The two sons Cunobelin had sent for education in Rome, Adminius and Cogidubnus, had been driven out-the talk was they had gone all the way back to Rome to seek Claudius's help. And meanwhile the two 'warriors', Togodumnus and Caratacus, cared nothing for Caesar who was long dead, the signing of his treaties beyond living memory.
So the princes started to raid their neighbours. This was when Nectovelin had been drawn to the Catuvellaunians, relishing the chance to swing his sword at their side. The peoples they raided were cowed, not assimilated; theirs was a sullen imperium.
At first all this turbulence appeared to do no harm to the Catuvellaunians' trade with the Romans. But then the princes deposed a ruler, Verica of the Atrebates, a nation whose sprawling holdings covered many south coast ports. Verica, a friend of Rome, fled there. And this time Claudius listened.
All summer, Agrippina learned from the talk, just as Cunedda had told her, traders and spies had been bringing back rumours about a build-up of Roman arms and men in the Gallic coastal town of Gesoriacum. The princes and other local rulers had fitfully prepared for an invasion, drawing up their warrior bands on the coast to fend off Roman landings-only to disperse again, bored and hungry. Perhaps, after ninety years of impunity, nobody had really believed that the Romans would ever come again. Meanwhile the princes had continued their wilful ways with the Catuvellaunians' neighbours.
And now the storm had broken. The Romans had landed after all, late in the season, unopposed, and were already moving out of their beachhead. There was a good deal of argument about whose fault all this was. Had the
