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Valentinian fled from Mediolanum before they arrived. Macsen's troops marched unopposed into the great city with its high walls and many watchtowers, its magnificent amphitheatre and basilicas, and within days the court was ensconced in the imperial palace, Macsen now the undisputed emperor in Northern Italia.

Messages arrived from Britannia. Vortigern sent a bag full of reports, including pleas for Macsen to send reinforcements to the meagre forces that had remained when he left. The encroaching tribes, a threat always to the northern boundaries of the empire, were again targeting its most distant western borders. And it was not only the threat from the Déisi and the Scoti from Hibernia that the rulers of Britannia had to manage; the Picts were once more on the march from Caledonia. He confirmed the sad news that Elen's father's palace in the land of the Silures had been burned to the ground and the remaining occupants had withdrawn to Venta Silurum, to the high king's town house there. The livestock had been left to the tribal peoples in their great hill fort that still towered above the former glory of the old king, and as the ruins were looted and dismantled and the fences removed, the meadow reverted to a grazing ground for sheep and horses, while the wild boar and the great white cattle roamed through the woods and forests as they had always done. In a special message for Elen he said Conan had left Emrys and three of the best mares at Eboracum and they were all safe and well. Conan himself had returned to Armorica as Macsen had ordered.

‘Was there word from Branwen?' Elen had read through the pile of scrolls and note tablets her husband had passed on to her. A considerable number, she noticed he had put aside to take to his office.

‘Nothing.' He barely raised his eyes from the scroll he was reading. ‘I doubt you will hear from her again.'

‘Why?' She fixed him with a steely gaze.

‘Because she has finally accepted that her interference in the imperial household was unwelcome and is unnecessary.'

She did not bother to reply.

‘Vortigern thinks I should send him reinforcements. The wild neighbours are raiding Britannia again.'

‘And will you send them?'

‘I left him enough manpower.' He grimaced. ‘I can spare him no one at the moment.'

‘You left almost none, as I recall, save for my native troops.'

‘Which my armies trained. If he is any kind of a general, with your father's oversight and Conan's support, he will have more than adequate forces to hold an island nation moated by the sea. I left a token garrison at Segontium, but that it appears was a mistake. They turned out to be a seditious group of -heathen rebels.' He threw down the scroll and stood up. ‘I need to go to the office. We have to reinforce our own borders in northern Gaul and we still don't know what Valentinian is up to. His silence perplexes me. My guess is he will try to chase me out of Italia. But maybe he needs to grow up a bit first. My spies tell me he is at present hiding in Thessalonica.'

Elen shook her head in despair. ‘Don't underestimate him.'

‘I don't. We had an agreement to share the Western Empire but it was no longer viable. I informed him of my decision and he must take the consequences. And until he decides what to do, we will enjoy the hospitality of the imperial palace here and I shall get on with ruling my large and expanding empire. It is nearly Christmas, Elen. Bishop Ambrose is to celebrate in the basilica. Forget that godforsaken misty isle of yours and enjoy the climate of Italy. One thing my predecessor got right was to make his capitol here. And here we shall stay until I make my move on Roma.'

When Macsen's spies brought further news of -Valentinian he chose not to tell Elen. It appeared his cousin was at last comfortably ensconced at the court of Theodosius and was busy pleading with his brother-in-law to join him in confronting his enemy and destroying him and his claims to the empire for good. Theodosius, Macsen was told, was listening. Macsen filed the reports. They would not change his plans, but in any case nothing would happen until the spring.

His mother, Flavia, joined them for Christmas. She had made the long trek from Hispania with her household now that her ambitious son seemed to have settled down at last. She had no time for her nephew, Theodosius, and young Valentinian. As far as she was concerned her son was the only true and unquestionable emperor. Her worries about her warring family seemed to have left her youthful looks unscathed. She was a tall, slim woman of immense dignity, her Spanish colouring and aquiline nose proclaiming her aristocratic descent. Her hair was still ebony without a trace of grey, her face relatively unwrinkled, with only the laughter lines around her mouth and the radiating crows' feet at the corner of her eyes betraying her age and her years in the hot suns of Hispania. The children adored her and with their popular uncle Marcellinus there as well for the Christmas festival the palace rang to the sound of excited laughter and the thunder of children's feet. It was all their nursery staff could do to keep them in the private wing of the enormous building. Only Victor seemed withdrawn, muddled and confused by his dual role as miniature emperor and little boy at play with his siblings. He spent a lot of time with his mother. In her company he could relax and giggle and cuddle the children's puppies and kick a ball around the family's private garden. He was in awe of his grandmother; her mock reverence to the little emperor confused him. All he wanted was the gentle secure base of the nursery, but it was not to be. He had his sworn role and there would be no let-up in the relentless lessons, weapon training and horseback riding. His father had cemented his son's position as Augustus by having coins minted in the boy's name. The head on the coin was that of a young man, not a child, but Victor was crowing with pride as he showed them off to his brothers and sisters.

The weather was growing colder now, winter setting in. The city, far from being the warm haven they had anticipated, was enveloped in cold damp fog, made worse by the smoke from thousands of fires and braziers and ovens. Macsen's mother and Elen huddled in the empress's apartments swathed in furs with the senior ladies of the court, entertained by local musicians and storytellers and games with the children.

There had been no more babies after Peblig. This last little boy was the only child to inherit her colouring, her pale skin, his dark curls growing progressively more fair. Only thirteen months younger than Owain, the two were as inseparable as twins and both mischievous, constantly plaguing their bigger sisters. Anwn was the quiet one of the family, sitting in corners on his own, building endless towers out of bricks, drawing on old scraps of parchment or on his own carefully treasured wax tablets. When Victor was with his tutors, the little boy would creep in and listen to his brother's lessons without a sound. The two teachers privately agreed the boy was far more intelligent than the elder son and had huge potential for scholarship. This was tactfully and quietly mentioned to his mother, who made sure he had all the tablets he needed. She correctly guessed his younger son's academic potential would not be of any interest to her husband.

The letter she had been waiting for had arrived in mid--December. The detailed account of her trip home and what had happened since must have taken Branwen a long time to write, but it was worth waiting for. Elen waited until the palace was asleep to lift the seal and unfold it.

There had been no sign of Macsen in her bedchamber for several weeks and she wondered occasionally where he was. She tolerated his visits, as was her duty, and her love for him still -persisted deep down, but the shock of realising he was not -faithful had changed it forever. It was no more than usual behaviour, she realised, for men of high rank. Women would always be throwing themselves at him and he had the right to take what was offered should he wish it. Now she made her own position clear. Six -children in barely more than as many years was her duty performed. She wanted to go home. He had refused her that right, but the least he could do was make her life as easy now as possible. Another baby would be unconscionable.

She was content with her own hand-picked companions and her trusted British household. The two wives from Segontium, Julia Cassia and Valeria Valentina, were at least nominally both part of that household. Valeria and her husband, the tribune, had an apartment in one of the great townhouses requisitioned by the army and Elen saw little of her. Julia and her husband were in the officers' quarters. Julia still came regularly to the imperial suite as one of Elen's companions. Neither woman had young children. Julia's had grown and left home before they had left Britannia, and as far as Elen knew Valeria had none. The atmosphere of the court was too intense, too public, too crowded, to allow for much privacy and for that at least Elen was thankful. She had no idea if Macsen was still sleeping with Valeria, and she would, she realised, rather not know, although she was fairly sure Macsen's affair with her had ended soon after their move to Gaul. If he had mistresses, she assumed they would be younger and more beautiful than the tribune's wife.

The empty bedchamber was very peaceful. Taking a spill, she lit a second oil lamp and sat down at the table to read. The light was weak and flickered in the draught, but Branwen's writing was neat and her ink colour strong.

Dearest lady,

I am home in the land of the Silures and back in my own warm corner of my grandfather's house on the hill. I am told the seas are increasingly rough now as winter draws close and we should be safe for the next few months against the raiders who destroyed your father's beautiful palace. Only one man is -presumed to have died; his body was never found. It was -Marius. The others fled up to the oppidum with all the beasts and those who wished to leave have now settled safely in Venta.

I look daily into the scrying bowl to see if there is news of you. A man pesters me in the bowl, and he scares me. He knows the way to see through the shadows, but he is not from our time. I fear he seeks to find you and you are in danger, my empress. I see it every day.

Please beg the emperor to allow you to come home. You could rule the entire province for him– your father grows old now and although he is still high king, come next season when the attacks commence again on every side, I fear he will not be strong enough to fight. He is much loved and supported, but the tribes need a leader who is in the fullness of youth and you, the carrier of the royal blood would win their instant obedience as would your children in due time.

I write this knowing it will be read by others, but it is for you to put it to your imperial master and husband...

Elen dropped the letter and turned to the wrapping she had dropped on the floor. The seal had not been broken and redone or replaced as far as she could see; it was unmarked other than by the quick slit of her own knife which had lifted the wax whole from the parchment. She looked at it thoughtfully. -Branwen would have chosen a trustworthy messenger to bring her the missive, but she was right, it could have been intercepted at any point, and if it had, it would most likely have happened here in the palace. In which case she should take it to Macsen as soon as possible. She stood up but then after a moment's thought she sat down again. Time enough in the morning. She did not want to risk demanding entry to his bedchamber and being refused by a slave, or worse still, being granted access to find he was not alone.

She picked up the letter again and held it to her breast. It was as though Branwen were there in the room with her, the woman who had taught her to read and write, painstakingly helping the little girl to trace her letters with a stylus onto a wax tablet. Elen had copied sentences and then longer extracts; she had borrowed scrolls from her father's library and Branwen had helped her read them. When she was old enough she had been taught by Conan's tutor, who was grateful for the reason to stay on with the household after his pupil had graduated to learning philosophy and geometry with another instructor. Elen was a bright little girl and a ferociously clever student. Branwen had taught her further skills later, but without the help of books and ancient texts. The learning she taught came from her own people, and when Elen was at her father's palace awaiting the birth of her second child she had taught her the secrets of the forests, and to recite by heart, to hone her memory and to respect the fact that some of what she heard orally was for her ears only. Elen treasured that learning. One day, she felt sure, it would stand her in good stead.

She read the letter again. She had skimmed over Branwen's reference to her scrying bowl. It made her uncomfortable to think the woman could be watching her from afar, but who was this man she mentioned? Hadn't she spoken of him before when she was with them at court. It was someone who worried her; a persistent spy. Someone tracking her through the secret ways.

She stood up again. No matter that it was late, she had to speak to Macsen. She rang her bell for her maid, pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders and set off after a lantern boy through the long corridors towards the emperor's apartments.