So they had nothing to do but lie there and wait, in the increasingly fetid dark. Wait and think.
Agrippina couldn't get the Prophecy out of her head. She longed to discuss it with Cunedda, and with Nectovelin, though she knew it was impossible. But the more she brooded on the meaning of its enigmatic lines, the more she began to wonder what it might be telling her of their chances of victory today-and the more she thought it through, the more dread gathered in her heart. Emperors three.
In what must have been the middle of the morning there was a bout of crashes, bangs, hammering and splintering, laced by whistles and cheerful curses in Latin, Germanic and Gallic. The legionaries were fitting out the granary to make it ready for an emperor. Agrippina lay rigid, scared that a cough or sneeze might give her away, and fretted that some fat soldier might come crashing down into their hole. After that came a pause that must have stretched through noon. Agrippina heard only softer talk, the rattles of dice, laughter, the clatter of crockery. Guards stationed in the granary were passing the time.
Then, in the afternoon, there was a more general commotion, people running, the ominous scraping of stabbing swords being drawn from scabbards. Agrippina heard soldiers yelling, and was able to make out Latin words: 'The Emperor! He is coming!'
At last, Claudius had completed his procession from Rome all the way here to Camulodunum. Agrippina heard marching feet and cheers-and then thunderous footsteps, as if some monstrous man were walking into the town, to gasps and muttering in Catuvellaunian. She had no idea what this could be, but she thought uneasily of the strange Prophecy line about 'horses large as houses'.
Then there was a roar, half-hearted, and running footsteps. That must be the 'resistance', a few dozen British rounded up and pressed into putting on a show of defiance. Agrippina heard the smash of sword against shield, thuds that might have been javelins landing-and, ominously, screams of pain. Why should the Roman commander keep his promise that few Britons would be hurt in this shameful game? She imagined Braint out there, angry, defiant, perhaps stripped to the waist as that toga-clad Greek snake had ordered. Braint at least would give the Romans as good as she got.
With the 'resistance' vanquished, there was an interval of clattering wheels, marching, speeches and orderly cheering. This must be the entrance of the Emperor himself into the capital. Some of the triumphal pronouncements were in the Catuvellaunian tongue; the Romans, methodical as always, would ensure that the locals knew exactly what was happening here, why the Romans had come, and what the future would hold for the people of Camulodunum.
After that there was more activity in the granary. She heard booming laughter, the clatter of plates, the splash of what might be wine into goblets, and running footsteps that must be serving slaves working. The Emperor and his entourage were evidently having dinner. The smells of cooked food penetrated the hole in the ground, and as Nectovelin had warned, Agrippina felt her empty stomach growl in response.
Nectovelin pressed a bit of dried meat into her hand. He whispered, 'What are they saying?'
Agrippina tried to follow the conversation. She had learned her Latin in Gaul, itself a backward province; the Emperor and his entourage were sophisticated Romans, and their speech was complex. 'Difficult to tell,' she admitted. 'The invasion. Gaul and Britain. But that's the surface. The Romans like to be clever. They like word games-'
Nectovelin snorted. 'A man should say what he thinks.'
'That's not the Roman way.'
'Then I'm glad I'm no Roman.'
The volume of conversation started to die down. Couches were scraped, drunken words of farewell exchanged. Evidently the dinner was over. At last Agrippina identified the Emperor's own voice. It was thin, and broken by an occasional stutter. Responses came curtly, perhaps from slaves, and from a more cultured voice, strongly accented-the Greek in the toga, perhaps, who had walked so arrogantly through Camulodunum yesterday.
Finally the Emperor ordered everybody out.
Nectovelin listened. Now there were no voices at all, no pacing, only a soft scraping that might have been a 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.'