38

The messenger was drenched with blood. His knuckles were bruised and cut and his shoulder wound barely staunched by a wad of gory wool. He fell on his knees before Elen, his face streaked with tears. He was shaking all over. ‘It is over, lady. All over. Our army is defeated. We met the enemy at Poetovio. The emperor was captured.' He gulped, unable to go on.

Elen stood up, clutching her wrap around her. The only sounds in the room came from the splash of the fountains in the atrium outside and then she heard it, the distant shouts of men, the thud of marching feet, all drawing closer and then, too close, the banging of doors.

‘And the emperor? Where is he now?' Elen's throat was tight with fear.

‘He is dead.' The man's voice was inaudible.

‘What did you say?' She stepped forward, an ice-cold clamp over her heart.

‘Dead, lady. Captured and executed. He begged for his life, but the emperor, our other emperor, our true emperor,' the man stammered over the words, ‘he did not listen. He gave the order and it was done at once. His brother Marcellinus died earlier, at his side, fighting bravely to the end. Our legions surrendered. Their officers, any that still lived, were also executed. The battle is over. We are lost.' His voice faded and as she watched, slowly he crumpled to the floor.

Elen stood looking down at his body as slaves rushed forward to drag it away. ‘Wait!' her voice was sharp. ‘At least make sure the poor man is dead. Maybe he can be saved.'

She could see it was useless. One of the servants knelt before him and put his ear to the man's chest, listening. He looked up and shook his head. Flavia made her way in, clutching a tasselled silk shawl around her shoulders as the body was carried away. She stood before Elen, her face tightly controlled. ‘So. That is it. Both my sons are dead. Magnus's cause is lost.'

The two women looked at each other in silence, conscious of the huddle of silent figures at the far end of the room, their numbers increasing every moment as the news spread and more and more of the household servants and slaves crowded in.

‘Where are the children?' Elen's throat was dry.

There was a long silence, then someone stepped forward. ‘They are in the nursery, with their attendants.'

‘Is there a hidden way out of here?' Elen looked round almost wildly.

The man shook his head. It was her own household steward, Carwyn, his face ashen. ‘We are surrounded. The enemy are already in the palace. The emperor is here.'

They all knew it was not their emperor he spoke of and it was barely a few moments before the sound of marching boots and the rattle of swords announced his arrival at the head of a group of fully-armed men.

Theodosius strode up the long room and came to a halt in front of the two women in Macsen's life, his mother and his wife. He was of middle height, strongly built with even features. Younger than Macsen by some years, or so it seemed to Elen, his expression was grim.

‘So, greetings to my aunt Flavia, and you must be Magnus's British queen.' He gave Elen a speculative look. ‘You have heard the news, I take it. The traitor is dead. I have commanded that the senate pass a decree of Damnatio Memoriae against him which will wipe his memory from the face of the earth.'

Neither woman moved a muscle. Elen clenched her fists, hidden in the folds of her tunic.

‘It is therefore within my rights to condemn you, his wife and his mother, and his children to death.' He paused, his gaze fixed on Elen's face.

‘My children are only here at their father's wish. If it is your command that we all die, so be it. I only ask you to spare the children pain.' She managed to keep her voice steady. She sensed Flavia straightening her shoulders. The family of -Magnus Maximus would die proudly and bravely.

He moved towards her and took the chair in which only moments before, or so it seemed, she had been seated in all confidence in anticipation of the evening meal with her children. Leaning back, he folded his arms.

‘If I spare your life, what will you do?' He looked up at her.

‘I will go back to my father, the high king of Britannia.'

‘And you, Aunt?' He glanced at Flavia.

‘I shall go back to Gallaecia. My campaigning days are over.' Flavia managed to remain upright, her head carried proudly on rigid shoulders.

The emperor sat back, his chin in his hand, in a careful pose of thoughtfulness. ‘Send for the children,' he ordered.

The air seemed to freeze. Even the men who had followed him in and who stood in serried ranks along the walls of the room held their breath. Elen could do nothing except nod at the servants who stood huddled at the back. They disappeared, their shuffled steps audible as they made their way down the long corridor towards the children's quarters at the far corner of the palace.

Somehow Elen remained upright. She did not dare look at her mother-in-law. She fixed her eyes on the fresco on the wall at the back of the room. It showed the lagoon which in real life lay beyond the walls of the city. In this version its blue waters were full of fat happy fish and pretty, draped green and red weeds. She was finding it hard to breathe.

The children came in in a huddled group, four boys and two girls. The girls were holding hands and she could see they had been crying. Had someone told them of their father's death? Her gaze passed over the faces of the boys: Victor trying hard to look tall and brave, as if even now he wanted his father to be proud of him. Then came Anwn, his chin set in an attempt at defiance. Owain and little Peblig too had faces streaked by tears.

Theodosius's gaze sharpened. ‘I had heard they were older than this. One was in charge of the province of Armorica.'

Elen shook her head. ‘My husband had a first wife. Their children were grown. Mine are babies.' Her voice threatened to break.

He remained unmoving, his gaze wandering over the small group, and his expression stayed thoughtful. ‘I will allow the two women to return to their homelands on condition they never return to Gaul or any other part of the mainland empire. You,' he turned his attention to Elen, ‘may take your daughters with you. As to the boys...' Again he appeared to ponder. ‘The smallest are of no interest to me. You may take them on condition they too remain forever at the farthest reaches of the empire. But you'– he turned his gaze to Victor– ‘you who feature on the coins and who have been made Augustus...'

Elen saw Victor sway slightly. He was trying so hard to remain brave, but she could see that he too was almost crying.

‘My son is only seven!' she cried, unable to contain her terror. ‘He had no part in his father's ambitions. He will renounce anything, everything, you wish. I will take him with the others to my distant lands and you will hear no more of any of us. You have my word.' She was dimly aware that Sevira and Maxima had put their arms around their little brother, trying to shield him, their eyes wide with panic.

Slowly Theodosius stood up. ‘I have made my decision. The lady Flavia is to be escorted back to her home in Galicia. I am informed that her son left a division of men there; if they do not surrender at once to my forces she will pay the price of their insurrection. As long as they acknowledge the ruleofmy co-emperor, Valentinian, who I now reinstate as rightful ruler of the Western Empire, she may stay there in peace to live out her days. You, Arbogastes,' he turned to his most -trusted commander who was standing attentively at his side, ‘will take a further division of men and escort the -daughter of the high king of Britannia to Augusta Treverorum and from thence send her back to her father with her children and -servants. If she wishes to call herself queen in that faraway land, so be it. It would mean nothing to me. I expect to see none of them again.' He turned towards the general, who was watching the scene with flinty eyes. ‘See to it. You will have further orders before you leave.'

It was the third time there was a knock at the door. Lost in the past, Cadi hadn't registered the sound. Dropping her pen, she pushed back the chair and walked across to reach for the switch to the outside light. She hadn't realised how long she had been writing and dusk had fallen over the garden outside the windows. ‘Who is it?'

There was no reply.

She felt a sharp prick of anxiety. ‘Who is it?' she called again.

Again there was no reply.

She waited tensely, immediately behind the door, her eyes on the door latch. It didn't move. ‘I'm sorry, I'm not opening the door unless you tell me who is there,' she called, trying to keep her voice steady. She tiptoed over to the kitchen window, but it was too dark to see anything outside and she reached quickly for the blind, pulling it down as she realised someone could have been standing there for hours watching her, without her realising they were there.

‘I'm calling the police,' she shouted. Not for the first time she was desperately wishing Sally was at home. Gemma would have barked if there was someone poking around in the garden. She ran towards the pantry, terrified she hadn't locked the back door when she came in. She had. And the veranda doors too. Her mouth dry, she picked up her phone. Surely the police would have called her if Ifan had escaped from hospital. They would have warned her, wouldn't they? She made herself put the phone down and, trying to steady her nerves, she walked over to the kettle. It was as she was running the tap to refill it that the knocking came again and suddenly she was angry. She had had enough of this; she was not going to allow herself to become a victim. Not giving herself time to think, she stormed over to the door and, pulling back the bolt, she turned the key.

There was no one there. She stepped out and looked both ways up and down the street. There was enough light left in the north-western sky to show that the place was deserted. And then she heard it. The distant tramp of marching feet.

She barely slept that night, huddled against the pillows. Charles hadn't been in touch, although she had been half expecting him to come back later in the evening. Twice she picked up her phone to ring him, then she put it down again. He had probably had more than enough of her and her problems.

Daylight crept slowly in through the curtains and she found herself watching the shadowy details of the bedroom appear one by one, as outside a song thrush uttered the first tentative notes of its morning song. She forced herself to stay in bed until it was light enough to go downstairs and make coffee. Her head was thumping, and she longed to go outside into the garden, to feel the cool morning air. Had there been anyone here last night banging on her door or was it her imagination, just as the sound of marching was probably her imagination.

When at last she plucked up the courage it was lovely outside. There had been a heavy dew and the grass was icy under her bare feet. She retreated to the terrace, sipping her coffee. The sun was throwing a silhouette of the house roof onto the lawn and she could see a rabbit sitting out there under the apple tree, nibbling at the daisies. The sight comforted her. If the -rabbit was there without a care in the world, there was obviously no one else out there. She glanced towards the hedge. The -meadow beyond seemed to be deserted and she realised that for the first time in her life she felt too scared to go over there on her own, just as she had been almost too frightened to open the door and come out into her own garden. She turned back to the door, keys in hand. Behind her the rabbit vanished.

Back inside, the door once again locked, she went to stand at her desk, looking down at the rough pages of notes piled haphazardly in front of her. How long had she been writing last night? She gave a deep sigh, picking up the top sheet to read the last of the tangled web of words. ‘You will have further orders before you leave.' And then a dash where she had finally registered the knocking at the door and dropped her pen.

This was it. This was the moment Elen disappeared from recorded history, if she was ever there. The surviving accounts of what happened, none of them contemporary, seemed to agree that Theodosius spared Macsen's mother and his wife and his daughters after Macsen's surrender and swift execution, but his wife was never named. There was no clue as to who she was. Cadi put down the page ripped from her notebook and stared into the distance, fighting unexpected tears. Macsen had been a hard man, in her version, powerful, ambitious, probably a good emperor as far as it went, certainly -popular amongst his own legions, but dismissed from history as an interloper, a pretender, a fraud who had lasted only five years before his inevitable defeat. The only place his wife was mentioned by name was in the legends and myths of Wales. Cadi would never have known anything about the story at all were it not for her and her cousin's somewhat arbitrary decision to write books of poems based on the stories from the Mabinogion.

‘Rachel? How are you?' She needed to speak to someone, someone who knew nothing of the latest developments in her meadow. ‘How's the painting going?'

It was easy to imagine she could hear the sea in the background as Rachel put down her brush and walked out onto the rudimentary terrace at the front of her cottage. On the far side of the lane that ran along the clifftop there was a narrow strip of grass and then the tumbling cliff began its plunge into the rocks. ‘It's going well, Cadi. I'm so pleased you didn't mind me shelving our little book for the time being. Are you still working on your novel?'

Cadi gave a wry grin. So much for stepping back from her own nightmares. ‘I am. I'm nearly there. The story must end soon.'

She had a sudden memory of the look the Emperor -Theodosius had given his general. She knew what happened next. The little boy would die and she could do nothing to stop it. That child, an innocent, unwilling participant in his father's scheme of things, Elen's precious eldest son, the little boy who loved his brothers and sisters and their pets and played like any small child completely oblivious to the fact that someone could calmly order his death, that he would be killed by the man Elen thought was taking them to safety.

‘Cadi, are you still there?' Rachel was standing staring out to sea. Somewhere out there, to the west, hidden in the mists, beyond the drowned forests of Cantre'r Gwaelod, Ireland– Hibernia– the land of winter, was sleeping under the unaccustomed heat haze.

‘Yes. Sorry. I got distracted. I just wanted to make sure all was OK. Perhaps I'll come over to see you one of these days.'

‘That would be great!' Rachel sounded as though she meant it. ‘You know I can hardly believe I'm safe here now. I'm going to get a tenancy agreement, something I never had before.' There was a pause. ‘At least, I hope I am. I've asked my solicitor to chase it up and she says she's not getting any reply.'

‘This is the chap who's laying on your exhibition, yes?'

‘Yes. He's gone back to New York.'

‘But surely you expected that. You told me he was -American.'

‘I know, but his solicitor was English and Caro, that's my solicitor, says she can't make contact. It's a real firm, she checked,' she added, ‘it's just, the chap who's supposed to be handling the deal has taken leave of absence through illness and he hasn't been there for months.'

‘Oh, Rachel.'

‘I spoke to one of the other partners and he said he would look into it for me. Oh, Cadi, supposing it's a con.'

‘But why should it be?' Cadi felt a cold shiver run down her back. It could be, if Ifan had had anything to do with it. ‘What about the guy who owns your house? Has he heard anything? Presumably the deal is with him initially.'

‘I haven't dared ask. I don't want to sound as though I'm worried. Surely if they had any doubts, they'd have contacted me, or Caro.'

‘I'm sure they would.' Cadi tried to inject some certainty in her reply. ‘I should stop worrying and leave it to Caro. You concentrate on what you do best, which is painting.'

She hadn't expected Gwen to answer her phone so quickly. ‘Cadi? Is everything all right?'

‘Yes. Sorry. I expected to have to leave a message. It's not urgent. I just wanted to check that Ifan is still in hospital. Someone came round last night, knocking at the door, but when I looked there was no one there. I got a bit spooked. And now, well, has he managed to get access to a phone again, do you think?'

‘He shouldn't have. I'll check. Why, has he been ringing you?'

‘No. But someone is messing with my cousin's head, and I suspect— that is, I wonder, whether he might have set up a scam to get at me through her. A deal to buy her cottage. It's all gone a bit weird.'

‘I'll put someone on it.'

‘I don't want to worry her so haven't told her of my -suspicions. She was so excited when someone offered her an exhibition in Cardiff– she's a painter– and then said they'd buy her cottage to keep it safe; its current owner was going to put it on the open market and she could never have afforded it. I know it seems unlikely, but I was suspicious from the start. Ifan hated me working with Rachel. He was very jealous because we were close and he threatened to burn down her cottage at one point. And now it turns out the solicitor nominally in charge of the deal hasn't been working for months, so it sounds as though he couldn't have been handling it anyway. There was this strange condition in the agreement that she sign it at once without anything being checked, and then give up working with me on my books.'

‘Ah, now that does sound suspicious.' There was a short pause. ‘So you think we can add fraud to the list of charges against this man. You may have to confide in your cousin, Cadi. But in the meantime, I'll check about the phone. Try not to worry. And be careful about who you open your door to. We don't know if he has any accomplices.'

‘Before you go'– Cadi had the sense that Gwen was about to switch off– ‘I just wanted to say Kate came to see me. I'm so pleased she did. Thank you for suggesting it.'

She put down her phone and wandered back to her desk. It was still there, the last page of her manuscript, the dash from when someone knocked on the door, the knowledge that she didn't want to know what happened next, the knowledge that she did know what happened next and nothing she could do would change it.

Unless.