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in some distant, primordial time some gene in a fish-like prototype of Man had obstinately refused to change its watery character entirely, and so passed on this vestige of its origins. Indeed, with his large-eyed face and his wiry little body, the boy did somehow make one think of a tadpole or some other little creature of the waters, a quick survivor down the endless eons of time.
    His grandfather had also exhibited the condition. “But they cut the extra skin away when he was a baby,” Segovax’s father had told his wife. She could not bear the thought of the knife, though, and so nothing had been done. It did not trouble the boy.
    Segovax glanced around at his family: little Branwen, with her affectionate nature and her fits of temper that no one could control; the baby boy in his mother’s arms, just starting to walk and babble his first words; his mother, pale and strangely distracted of late. How he loved them. But as he stared past the druids, his face broke into a little smile. By the water’s edge was a modest raft with two men standing beside it. And one of them was his father.
    They shared so much, father and son. The same little tuft of white hair, the same large eyes. His father’s face, scoured by crease lines almost resembling scales, made one think of some solemn, fish-like creature. So dedicated was he to his little family, so knowledgeable about the river, so expert with his nets, that the local people referred to him simply as the Fisher. And though other men, Segovax realized, were physically stronger than this quiet fellow with his curved back and long arms, none was kinder or more quietly determined. “He may not be much to look at,” the men in the hamlet would say, “but the Fisher never gives up.” His mother, Segovax knew, adored his father. So did he.
    Which was why, the day before, he had formed the daring plan that, if he managed to carry it out, would probably cost him his life.
    Now the glow along the eastern horizon was starting to tremble. In a few minutes the sun would rise and a great shimmering ray of light would come dancing from the east along the stream. The five druids facing the crowd began a low chant while the people listened.
    At a signal, a figure stepped out from the crowd. He was a powerfully built man whose rich green cloak, golden ornaments and proud bearing declared him to be a nobleman of importance. In his hands he carried a flat, rectangular metal object whose burnished surface glowed softly in the gathering light. He handed it to the tall, white-bearded druid standing in the centre.
    The druids turned to face the glowing horizon and the elderly figure in the centre stepped forward and on to the raft. At the same moment, the two waiting men – Segovax’s father and another – stepped on to the raft behind him and with long poles began to push the raft out into the broad stream.
    The other four druids chanted, a droning sound that mysteriously grew, spreading out over the waters as the raft drew further away. A hundred yards. Two hundred.
    The sun appeared, a huge red curve upon the water. It grew, its orb flooding the river with golden light. The four remaining druids, silhouetted against it, suddenly seemed to have grown into giants as their long shadows leapt into the waiting crowd.
    The senior druid was out in midstream, the two men with their long poles keeping the raft steady in the current. On the northern bank, the two low hills were bathed in the sun’s reddish light. And now, like some ancient grey-bearded sea god rising up out of the waters, the tall druid on the raft raised the metal object over his head so that it caught the sunbeams and flashed.
    It was a shield, made of bronze. Although most weapons on the island were made of iron, the more ancient and easily worked bronze was used for ceremonial arms requiring delicate workmanship, such as this. And a masterpiece it was, sent with one of his most trusted nobles by the great chief Cassivelaunus