The pilgrims were Britons; Wuffa could tell from their clothes and hair. The men all wore their hair short and were clean-shaven. The women mostly had their hair in neat plaits and buns. Men and women alike wore sleeveless tunics under cloaks, and were adorned with bracelets and armlets and necklaces. One or two of the men even wore togas, long swathes of cloth that scraped across the dusty ground. But they were mostly dressed for travel, and laden with baggage. Even infants old enough to walk bore bundles on their backs and heads. They looked strained, unhappy, fearful and uncertain.

They were all Christians, most likely. In among them were clergy wearing tonsures cut in the British style, with the front of the head shaved from ear to ear and the hair worn long down the back. That man who led them, though, wore a Roman tonsure, with the crown of his head shaved in a disc.

And as they walked the pilgrims sang, creating a chilling, unearthly music that rose up to the sky, where the hairy star shone ever brighter.

Ulf gaped at all this. ‘So what’s the big building? A warehouse?’

‘No. It’s a church. They call it a cathedral.’ The cathedral was younger than the city. It was built of reused stone; in places where the facing stone had fallen way you could see bits of pillars and statues broken up and used as core. But the reused roof tiles were cracked, the glass in the windows smashed. Nothing was new here, Wuffa thought; there were only degrees of age.

Ulf asked, ‘Was this big church built by your great king?’

‘No, Aethelberht’s church is over there.’ Wuffa pointed north.

‘Why do you need two churches?’

Ulf thought that over. ‘I’m more confused.’

‘The walkers are all British Christians. I think. The man leading them is a Roman, a bishop.’

‘So why are they following him, if he’s not one of theirs?’

‘I—’ Wuffa spread his hands. He knew next to nothing about Christians. He only observed their behaviour from outside, as if they were exotic birds. ‘They are leaving for good. You see it all the time. Look.’ Wuffa pointed. ‘See the jewellery? They are wearing their wealth. These are the people who bury your coin hoards. Their church is organising the flight.’

‘Where are they going?’

‘To the west, perhaps, or over the sea to Gaul.’

‘Away from you Saxons.’

Wuffa grinned. ‘Away from us, yes.’

‘Carrying all that wealth makes them easy to rob.’

They shared another glance. But then they turned away, the thought unfinished. Evidently, Wuffa thought, neither of them was an instinctive thief.