Weaver

'Sergeant Tanner now, thanks very much.'

The photographers were close enough for Mary to make out their accreditation. Some of them worked for Reich information agencies, but there were reporters from neutral-country newspapers – Swiss, Spanish, Irish. She knew that part of Trojan's objective today must be to bind her up in a Reich-friendly story that might mitigate the impact of her report of the Peter's Well atrocity. Let him think that. One way or another the day wasn't going to unfold as Trojan expected. She smiled for the cameras.

Now Trojan made more introductions. 'Mrs Wooler, you have met my colleague Unterscharfuhrer Julia Fiveash. And this is my brother, Obergefreiter Ernst Trojan.'

The obergefreiter wore a Wehrmacht uniform. He bowed to Mary crisply. He was a younger, paler version of his brother, she thought, less vivid – less certain – a more interesting character, perhaps. But there was no time to speak to him.

And Julia Fiveash, when she walked up to Mary, was extraordinary, a mass of contradictions, a beautiful Englishwoman in a mannish SS uniform. 'Mrs Wooler? I'm delighted to meet you again.' She bowed to George, who nodded back, more stiffly.

Josef Trojan clapped his brother's back. 'I dragged Ernst here, away from his other vital duties for the protectorate, because this is Christmas! A time of friendship and family. A time to demonstrate loyalties that transcend the temporary barriers of wartime. And today here we are, American, German and English, all gathered to celebrate intellectual endeavour.'

Mary thought she ought to say something. 'You do understand I'm not representing my nation.'

'Of course.'

'I'm here for the scholarship. Whichever sides we find ourselves on temporarily, your work here deserves praise and encouragement,' she deadpanned. 'For it is only scholarship, education, learning, that will ultimately remove the shadow of war from mankind.'

'I could not have put it better myself,' Trojan said. 'I won't keep you waiting any longer. Come now.' He turned and led the group back towards the largest of the new buildings.

George and Julia walked together, stiff, not looking at each other. Mary knew there was something going on between them, unlikely as it seemed. And George in fact was troubled by his 'betrayal' of Julia today. Mary didn't understand it. She had always thought of war as a simplifying process, a lining-up of good against evil. But on the ground things were messy, in just about every way you could imagine. Mary couldn't figure out George and this Julia, and maybe she never would; it was best to look away.

The brick building was unprepossessing, a couple of storeys with a flat roof, like an office building. But once they passed through the big double doors Mary found herself in a grand space, with a floor of polished pink granite and oak-panelled walls. A rather over-ornate staircase led up to the upper storey, and down to a basement. The hall was dominated by an enormous Christmas tree, a towering affair covered with silver balls and tinsel and little swastika medallions. The Nazis did everything big, it seemed, even Christmas.

Once they were out of sight of the cameras, just for a minute, Trojan asked them to submit to a search. Their bags were opened, their bodies briskly patted down.

Then the party was lined up for more photos, before a wall which bore a proud name plaque – 'Richborough College – SS Ahnenerbe – 1941' – and an embossed swastika and various other insignia. Above all this clutter Mary made out two hooks, neatly fixed.

Trojan grinned. 'You can see we are ready for your gift.'

'I think that's your cue, George,' Mary murmured.

George stepped forward, and made a ceremony of handing Trojan his wooden box. Trojan opened it to reveal the battered Roman spear that had once graced a farmhouse wall at Birdoswald. For the sake of the cameras Trojan cradled the spear, earnestly inspecting it. All this as the flashbulbs popped, and the photographers called him to look this way and that.

'And the provenance – this is authentic, a spear that witnessed the Crucifixion, so to speak.' Trojan stroked the spear tip, caressing it, almost sexually. 'Astonishing to think, isn't it? The Reichsfuhrer will be delighted! Here, Ernst. See if you can get this mounted. It will make another good picture.' He passed the spear to his brother.

The young obergefreiter sent another soldier running; he returned with two short step-ladders.

'I don't know what the Nazis want with an old spear,' George murmured.

Mary whispered back, 'It's quite neat. Tom Mackie did his own research about Birdoswald, since it seems to be so pivotal to this whole saga. There is a fragmentary story that the fort served as headquarters to one of the officials involved in the construction of Hadrian's Wall. An auxiliary commander called Tullio, a Bavarian. And this Tullio had some kind of contact who was present at the Crucifixion.'

That jolted George. 'Really? What's this based on?'

She grinned. 'A good historian's question. Very little. Grave markers, that sort of thing, and a lot of speculation. But Christ had died less than a century earlier. Given that, it's at least plausible that Tullio would have had in his possession some sort of relic of the Crucifixion. A soldier's trophy. A spear, perhaps – like the Spear of Longinus, said to have been used to wound the dying Christ.'

'Ah. Hitler's got that, hasn't he? And Himmler and his crew are always on the look-out for holy relics.'

'Yep. But if Tullio did have such a spear, and he was stationed at the Wall, and his descendants stayed on after him-'

'It might have finished up buried at Birdoswald. Only to be dug up by a Navy bloke two thousand years later.'

'That's the general idea.'

'This is an utter pack of lies, isn't it, Mary?'

'Absolutely. But Himmler's toadies have been fooled by much less convincing frauds.'

The photographers took more snaps, of the party as a whole under the spear, then of Josef Trojan and Mary together, and Trojan alone. He had the photographers crouch, so they looked up at his handsome face, his crossed arms, the spear on the wall behind him.

Mary watched this, fretting, light-headed. Knowing what was to follow, she felt furiously impatient with this buffoon and his show-boating, even though she knew it was that quality about him that had got her in here in the first place.

At last Trojan was done. He straightened his uniform and approached Mary again. 'This day is perfect, for me – perfect. And now let me make it perfect for you, my dear Mary Wooler.' He turned and nodded to his brother, who, looking a bit embarrassed by all the song and dance, opened a door to a staff room.

And Gary walked out. There was a young woman as his side. He wore a smart suit and tie, his shoes were polished, his hair cut and combed.

Mary ran to her son and grabbed him. She hadn't seen him since the invasion, since his capture. Gary hugged her back, hard; she felt his strength, an echo of his father's. Flashbulbs popped. Trojan and the other Germans applauded. Mary ignored them all.

Gary drew back and held her arms. 'Mom. Hey, no tears. You'll mess up the suit.'

'I wasn't expecting- when I thought of you, I imagined you in your uniform. Seeing you in a suit, it's as if the war never happened.'

'Yeah, but my uniform don't look so good after a year in the stalag, believe me.'

She looked at him intently. 'And you're well?'

He shrugged. 'Life in Rutupiae is pretty good. Their doctors gave me a good check-over. Compared to the stalag, I'm well off.'

'And of course he has me.' The young woman approached tentatively. She was dressed in white, attractively if soberly; her face was square, sensible, and quite well made up. This was Doris Keeler, and one eye flickered, a subtle wink at Mary, her old friend from Colchester. 'Sophie Silver,' she said boldly. She held up her left hand and waggled her ring finger. It bore a band of silver. 'Though, with your blessing, it will soon be Mrs Sophie Wooler. And hopefully before any little Aryans come along.'