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fleet was being built. No fewer than five legions and some two thousand cavalry were rumoured to be under orders. Ten days ago, a messenger to the chiefs had paused at Londinos. His message was brief, and definite.
    “Caesar is coming.”
    The offering had been made. The crowd was dispersing. Four of the druids were returning, two to the south and two to the north of the river. As for the oldest druid who had made the offering, it was the task of Segovax’s father to row the priest up the stream to the druid’s home two miles away.
    Having bade a quiet farewell to all those assembled, the old man was about to step into his boat when he turned and let his eyes rest upon the woman. It was only for a moment. Then, with a sign to the humble fisherman, he was on his way.
    Only a moment, but long enough. Cartimandua trembled. They said that the old man knew everything. It might be true. She could not tell. Holding the baby on her hip, she pushed Segovax and Branwen ahead of her as she made her way across to where the horses were tethered. Was she doing right? She told herself she was. Wasn’t she protecting them all? Doing what she had to? But the sense of terrible guilt, the anguish, would not leave her. Was it really possible that the old druid her husband was rowing had guessed about the nobleman?
    She waited for several minutes by the horses until the men from the great chief came. He was amongst them. Seeing her waiting, he turned aside and paused.
    Young Segovax looked at the noble with interest, for this was the man who had stepped forward to hand the druid the shield. He was a stout man with a thick black beard, hard, shrewd blue eyes and an air of blunt authority. Beneath his green cloak he wore a tunic trimmed with fox fur. Around his neck the heavy torc – the Celtic circlet of gold – signified his high rank.
    It was not the first time the boy had seen him. The powerful commander had twice visited the area in the last month, each time staying a night at the hamlet opposite Londinos. “You are to be ready,” he had ordered the men after inspecting their weapons. “The great chief Cassivelaunus expects our forces to gather near this point. I shall prepare the defences.” Now, Segovax’s mother, leaving her son to stand with Branwen and the baby, was moving forward to speak to him.
    The noble watched her thoughtfully as she approached. As was his habit, he considered her sexual potential. She was certainly, as he had observed at their first meeting, a striking creature. Her thick, raven-dark hair fell past her shoulders. Her body was slim, on the tall side, but with heavy breasts. Breasts a man might dream about. He was aware of the small, sinuous movement her body made as she approached. He had noticed it the first time they met. Did she always move that way, or was it just for his benefit?
    “Well?” he said gruffly.
    “Our agreement is still good?”
    He glanced across at the children, then his eyes flicked towards the dugout in which the woman’s husband was rowing the old druid. They were well out in the stream now. Her husband knew nothing. His eyes continued to take her in steadily.
    “I already told you so.”
    He could see her now, in future years. That pale face with its narrow cheekbones would become haggard, the seductive eyes sunken. Her passion would turn perhaps to obsession, perhaps to bitterness. A troubled spirit. But good, very good, for a few more years.
    “When?” She seemed relieved, but still anxious.
    He shrugged. “Who knows? Soon.”
    “He must not know about it.”
    “When I give orders, they have to be obeyed.”
    “Yes.” She nodded but stood there uncertainly. She’s like an animal from the wild, he thought. Only half tame. He indicated that the interview was over. A few moments later he was riding away.
    Cartimandua turned back to her innocent children, who knew nothing of her terrible secret. But soon they would know. And an even more terrible thought crossed her mind.