‘Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about it,’ the computistor said, his tumour flaring hotly. ‘Not only that, we must colonise the pagans’ emblems of belief. Think of Christ nailed to His cross. He is pinned to a tree, the fount of wisdom for our German forefathers, and fixed with iron nails, like the elf-shot which brings the pagans sickness and death. What a rich mixture of symbols, eh, Belisarius? ...’

They talked on. And at last, with ill-concealed impatience, Macson brought the conversation around to the subject of the Menologium of Isolde.

Truth be told, this ‘Menologium’, as Boniface called it, was only a curiosity for Belisarius; he had let it guide his footsteps here but he expected little of it. But now he had a chance to inspect it he grew intrigued. It was written in some sort of German, competently transcribed, rather crudely illuminated. He counted a prologue, nine stanzas and an epilogue, all more or less puzzling. The poetry seemed authentically German, what he knew of that earthy art form, with each line composed of two balanced halves, each with two stressed syllables. It was peculiarly full of numbers for a product of a more or less innumerate people.

‘It is enigmatic,’ Boniface said, watching Belisarius’s reaction. ‘But as a prophecy it is true.’

‘How do you know?’

And Boniface summarised the first four stanzas, explaining the meaning of each of them, leading to the summoning of Cuthbert by the King in the year 684 by the Christian calendar.

Macson sat up straighter, his greed evident in his posture.

Belisarius asked, ‘Are prophecies possible in your theology, Domnus?’

Boniface said, ‘Ah! Interesting question. Can even God know the future? Augustine of Hippo believed that God stands outside time, and sees past and future all of a piece - as a scholar might survey the pages of a book, laid out on a table before him. But even Augustine put limits on God; he didn’t believe God could change the past, for instance.’

Belisarius grunted. ‘It seems to me heretical to put limits on God.’