39

Branwen was sitting under the oak tree in the forest near the lake in the great circle of mountains. The oak's trunk was scarred and hollowed out with age, disfigured with a thousand years of battle against the elements. Swathed now with a gentle patchwork of moss and lichen, it was an old friend, wise with the wisdom of the ages. The silence was full of the sound of running water, and around her a thick carpet of mosses was almost luminous in the shady cwm. She had collected water from the falls in her crystal dish. This was where the gods came to slake their thirst; this was where past and future ran together, and when she looked into the immeasurable depths cupped in her two hands she could see Elen and her children as the baggage train rode into the city of Treverorum. Elen's husband's mother had left Aquileia under escort for Galicia that same day after a hurried farewell to Elen and her grandchildren, but old friends were there with them as the horses clattered over the cobbled road between high stone walls; Delyth and Sian and Nia were still with Elen, as was Rhys, an old man now, hobbling along, leaning heavily on a hazel staff. She hadn't known he had accompanied Elen to her destiny. There too were Valeria and Julia, from Segontium, both widowed in that last battle, united with her in their grief. The water began to cloud and Branwen breathed on it gently. It cleared. They were entering the great arched gateway of the palace, the children running ahead towards the rooms that had been their home for so long. They were happy, chattering, laughing, seemingly forgetting that their father had died on the bloody battlefield far away in -Pannonia, and that to all intents and purposes they were the -prisoners of the stone-faced man at the head of the cohort that had escorted them back into Gaul. Crowds had come out to watch them ride through the busy streets, some pleased to see them, remembering the bounty Elen had distributed to the people as empress, some silent, anxious, unsure of their own -destiny now that news of the death of Magnus Maximus Augustus had spread like a summer fire across the states of the -Western Empire. They fell silent as Arbogastes rode past, his standard bearer at his side, instinctively afraid, then dispersed back into the narrow streets and marketplaces to resume their lives, knowing what went on in the palace would not concern them.

It appeared they would not be spending long in Treverorum. Their journey onwards was already arranged. The cohort would spend only one night in the barracks before leaving to march back to the emperor's base.

‘Your escort is ready to leave tomorrow. You will no longer be the responsibility of the bodyguard of the emperor. I have assigned you ten men who were about to retire from active service. They are fully trained and armed and will see you on your way. When you reach the coast you will wait there until the high king or one of his minions'– the sneer in the man's voice was undisguised as he addressed Elen– ‘send someone to fetch you. It will then be up to the men whether or not they decide to enter your service or take up their pensions in Gaul.'

He hesitated as though about to say something else, then with a salute he turned on his heel and left Elen's presence. She stared after him and shivered.

It was in the early hours of the morning that Arbogastes stalked alone and silent through the long corridors of the palace towards the children's quarters. He walked past the room where the two girls slept with a slave to wait on them should they need anything in the night. The three youngest boys slept in the next room with their tutor and one attendant. Victor slept alone as befitted the eldest son and an Augustus, with his own tutor on a pallet bed in the far corner of the room. No one had told him he no longer had the title of Augustus or a position of precedence, and when his tutor was called away, silently, an hour before, there was no one to see that the young man had not returned to his post. The door opened slowly and Arbogastes stepped quietly into the room. He stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping boy by the flickering light of the oil lamp on the stand in the corner. The child was handsome, his hair tousled, carefree in sleep, looking forward to his journey back to Britannia to see his grandfather. For a moment the general considered overlooking the secret order from Theodosius. Who would know if the boy lived or died? The mother would hide him and keep him at her side. But then there was always the chance he would remember his past and one day grow up to try to further his father's treacherous ambitions. Better to end it now. Quietly he reached into the folds of his tunic for the looped length of wire.

Branwen, staring down into the bowl of water, let out a gasp. There was nothing she could do. She had warned Elen. If this was the will of the gods, there was no escape from their plans and the child would be reborn to find happiness and love once again. Elen would know nothing until dawn and by then -Arbogastes, with his horse's hooves muffled and the hobnailed sandals of the men of his cohort carried in their packs to stop them echoing on the cobbled streets, would be well on the road back into history.

Cadi looked up from her notepad, tears running down her cheeks. She had known it must happen, but she had so hoped that it could be avoided, that history had been wrong, that the brave little boy had escaped his cruel destiny, that the historians had believed the gossip when the truth might have been more merciful. Why hadn't Branwen done something? Surely she could have rescued the child somehow, when she obviously knew what was going to happen. Branwen, who had watched the night unfold in her scrying bowl.

Standing up, Cadi walked across the room to stand at the window looking out as the sun lowered in the sky behind the village. Now, the clouds were an angry crimson, bringing in thenight, and there in the street outside the gate she saw Branwen, standing looking in at her. The woman was tall, thin, her hair almost white now, her cloak a deep plaid, the colour of lichen and heather and blackberries, tightly wrapped over a tunic that reached down to brush the surface of the road; Sarn Elen, Elen's road. Cadi bit her lip. She could see the -exhaustion and, was that misery showing in the taut mouth and dark--circled eyes? Branwen had not been able to stop the tragedy; she had tried and Elen had ignored her warnings, and now all she could do for her was make her way once more back down the long road south to the kingdom of Elen's birth to bring news of the return of the king's daughter and wait, here perhaps, up on Bryndinas, for Elen to come home.

As Cadi watched, the colour of the sky faded and so did the shadow of the woman outside her gate. In moments it had gone. Reaching up, she closed the blind. She had been writing all day, with no further word from the police or Charles, or Meryn. They were all busy with their present-day occupations while she had been lost in the past, watching tragedy unfold.

She walked over to the sofa by the garden doors and sat down, exhausted, looking out at the long shadows thrown by her desk lamp through the window and across the lawn. There was no one she could justifiably call. She was alone with her sadness and with the spectre of Ifan in his hospital bed, reaching under his pillow for a hidden phone. If he had escaped, Gwen would have called her, so there was no chance he had been the one knocking on her door last night. She hugged herself miserably. Who had it been outside? Perhaps just someone from the village calling round to wish her well.

She found herself staring over at the desk. What had happened next? She owed it to Elen and perhaps to Branwen too, to write down the rest of the story. It wasn't up to her to mourn. She was the observer, the unseen diarist, the only witness. The novelist. The story spinner.

Dragging herself to her feet again, she wandered back to stand looking down at the strange spider web of writing in front of her in her notebook. Would she even be able to read the story she had written down? The rest of the narrative had been difficult enough to unravel and transcribe onto her laptop, but this tangle of words was different. It was even more unintelligible. She had been writing more and more quickly, trying to capture the narrative, almost trying to outrun the plans of Theodosius's murderous general, and she had been crying.

When had Elen found out that her precious eldest son was dead?

The first person to see what had happened to Victor was his brother Peblig, running, barefoot, clothed only in his little night tunic to show his brother the toy they had left behind by mistake when they set out on the long march to Italia, those few short months earlier, the missing toy with its soft rabbit-skin fur and its little blue scarf that he had found under his bed. ‘Victor! Look! I've found the rabbit you gave me!' The little boy stopped abruptly, clutching the furry animal, gazing down at his brother who was lying as if asleep though his eyes were open, the thin sheet pulled up around his neck. ‘Victor? Wake up.' His voice wavered and it was then the slave girl who should have been helping Peblig dress ran in after him and skidded to a stop, staring down at the child's brother with his unnaturally twisted neck and alabaster-white face, gazing up at the ceiling, still registering the terror and disbelief of the moment of his death. The girl grabbed Peblig and dragged him out of the room and it was only then that she screamed.

They found his tutor in the end. The man's throat had been cut and his body concealed in a storeroom behind the kit-chens. There had been no one with the boy when Arbogastes had entered his room, for it must have been Arbogastes, Elen was sure of that when Delyth woke her moments later. The general had left in the early hours; the watchmen at the gate and on the walls had seen him go with his cohort of men behind him and seen no reason to be alarmed. The man was in charge, acting under the emperor's direct orders. The fact that he had seen fit to flee the palace under cover of night sealed his guilt in Elen's eyes.

The palace was deserted save for its resident staff and servants. The only escort left for Elen were the men chosen to accompany her west towards the coast, less than a dozen -Alamanni mercenaries who might at any moment desert to return to their homes in the north. In the palace too were her own trusted followers, the women and two loyal men, both of whom had followed her from Britannia those five short years before. Somehow Elen had to cope with the agony of loss, the shock and terror of the other children, particularly little Peblig, her fury at the betrayal of the man who was supposed to see them safely on their way, and the realisation that perhaps none of them were safe, that the other boys might yet be the targets of an assassin. As might she.

It was Rhys who had taught the boy to ride, who arranged the swift interment of Flavius Victor Augustus in an orchard to the west of the city walls. Bishop Ambrose was hastily summoned and, shocked into immediate action, came to conduct the service. He poured holy water on the child's body and pretended not to see the furry toy tucked into the shroud by the boy's little brother, then he blessed Elen and her family, consigning them to the Lord's protection.

They left the palace at dawn the next day, heading onto the first of the Roman roads that led towards the coast and the Oceanus Britannicus. For several days they travelled on at a steady rate, stopping at villas, mansiones and cauponae for refreshment and rest. It was on the sixth day that what Elen had feared most happened. Titus Germanicus, the elderly officer in charge of her escort came to her, an expression of such regret on his face she guessed at once what he was going to say. ‘I am sorry, lady, but the men and I have been talking andwe feel we have to leave you at this point. The general knew wewere expecting to return home and this is what we plan to do.' She heard real sadness in the guttural Alammani voice. She knew it was no use trying to dissuade him. She and her small band of followers would be on their own from this point onward. ‘Thank you for telling me and not fleeing in the middle of the night like your coward general,' she said sadly. ‘I'm afraid I can't pay you. The emperor gave me no money to fund our journey into exile.'

‘We have been paid, lady, and we have our pensions.'

She nodded. ‘Then I wish you godspeed.'

‘And I you and yours.' For a moment she thought he would say more but he turned away. His followers were already drawn up outside the mansio where they had passed the night.

‘Where are they going, Mama?' Sevira came and clutched at her mother's hand.

‘Back to their homes in the north.'

‘Then who will guard us?' The girl glanced at their com-panions who were gathering round them. They had a cart pulled by a patient plodding ox for the smallest children and their few belongings, otherwise they were walking, a tightly knit group of women, led by Valeria and Julia, with two men, Rhys and Carwyn, who for all their time in Gaul had been Elen's faithful steward. To the remaining household slaves she had given their freedom, though she was not convinced anyone would register the fact. With their freedom came the choice to accompany them into exile. Only the two children's nurses, Flora and Anna, had chosen to do so. ‘Will we be safe?' Elen heard the panic in Sevira's voice. Since the death of their father and now their brother, the children's world had fallen apart.

‘We will be safe.' Elen tried to sound confident as she surveyed the small group. They relied on her. ‘The bill has been paid'– she had seen Titus Germanicus delve into his own pouch to settle the account– ‘and we are on our way home.'

She wanted to avoid the towns but she needed money and she had jewellery to sell. Concealed under her tunic she had her own pouch. In it were some of the gifts Macsen had given her. As empress she had been expected to show her finery on every occasion. Theodosius had been quick to have her boxes and chests raided, barely leaving her enough clothes to wear, but she had guessed that might happen and had managed to conceal some of the smallest and least ostentatious gems. Ifshe could find an honest trader they would have enough for food at least. There were rugs and cushions in the cart and, although late September, it was still warm at night so they could if necessary sleep under the stars. And she had one more ray of hope up her sleeve. Two nights before at a caupona deep in the countryside she had spotted a group of people sitting beneath a tree in the shade. There was something about their quiet dignity, combined with the deep coloured patterns on their clothes that she recognised. She had stood quietly watching them for several moments and, as if recognising an unspoken call, the eldest of the men stood up and walked over to her. ‘I sense you are in trouble, lady,' he said gently. ‘Can we be of assistance?'

‘Could you get a message for me via the secret ways, across country to the coast and beyond, to Britannia?' She held his gaze. There had been no preamble, no stammering excuses. If these people had had any kind of a Druidic education they would know what she was asking. If not, they would look at her and make cuckoo noises, pointing at their heads, the universal sign of madness.

He looked at her hard for several moments, as if searching deep into her soul, then he nodded. ‘I will see what I can do. What is your message?'

‘The daughter of the high king needs help to return home.'

He raised his eyebrows, then he bowed. ‘I will see the message is sent; and I will see that you receive help where you need it on your way.'

She re-joined her companions and when she next looked round the party under the tree had gone. That evening as they camped under the stars in a clearing a little way off the road and out of sight of passing traffic, she saw a slim column of smoke against the sky. It billowed and swirled and seemed to break at times even though there was no wind and she nodded to herself hoping against hope it was the message she hoped for.

Sometimes the messages, if that was what they were, were passed in distant calls echoing across the valleys from hilltop to hilltop, and sometimes by shadowy figures in the -undergrowth. Once or twice when they felt threatened by marauding thieves and vagabonds, mysterious groups of -woodland folk would materialise out of the trees to follow them, their staves beating a warning on the road. In a small town near a river bridge, a jeweller, when approached by Elen, gave her a more than fair price for her jewellery, and when Julia produced her own almost negligible cache that too was fairly valued and gave them enough to pay for a room overnight when the fine weather finally broke and the rain poured down across northern Gaul.

When they reached the coast at last, a ship was waiting for them, riding at anchor in the harbour mouth. Only once she was safely on board and had found herself a space alone under an awning in the prow did Elen let herself cry. She turned towards the empty shoreline and, raising her arms towards the deserted dunes, she wept again for her lost son, alone in his grave so far away, and then gave thanks to the old gods and their servants who had protected her and her other children on their journey across an empire that was now a hostile land. The second prayer of gratitude to the Christian saints who protected travellers was almost an afterthought.