“Pina! You have to see this.’

Reluctantly Agrippina rolled onto her back. She was hot under her thin woollen blanket, and her head was heavy, her throat dry, her bladder full. The air was still smoky from last night’s fire, but strong light poured through chinks in the conical thatched roof. It was late in the day. She had slept too long again, and would suffer from a sore head all day. And yet she did not want to wake up, not to another dismal day in defeated Camulodunum.

The house was empty, save for herself and Cunedda, whose family had fled north, away from the Roman advance. But Cunedda was here, kneeling at her side. Agrippina reached up to stroke his face. He was growing his beard. With the Romans so close he didn’t dare indulge in such Mediterranean fashions as shaving; sullen in defeat the Catuvellaunians were turning on each other. The beard, thin, straggling, really didn’t suit him at all, but she liked the way it held his scent.

The love between them had not recovered from that terrible moment on the beach. But there was tenderness, and comfort.

‘Come back to bed,’ she said, still sleepy.

‘We can’t spend our whole lives in bed, ’Pina. Besides, Nectovelin has something you must see.’ His eyes were bright with curiosity. Even after the awful shock of the lost battle he was too interested in the world to just lie down and die.

If that was so, why couldn’t she feel the same? Her bitterness burned inside her like a blade fresh from the forge. A Roman, a man with a Roman name, Marcus Allius, had killed her little brother, in a careless, arrogant moment. But the Romans were simply too powerful. It was as if Mandubracius had been struck down by lightning; what use would it be to raise a sword against a thundercloud? What use was anger, even?

She had lost hope, then. And yet her heart beat and her lungs filled. She was still alive. And here was dear Cunedda.

She sighed, rolled over stiffly, and sat up. ‘Give me a minute.’

He eyed her mischievously. ‘You want any help?’

She snorted. ‘Not unless you want to hold the cup for my piss.’

She rummaged through her clothing until she found a loose tunic that didn’t smell too bad. For her toilet she dragged her fingers through dirty hair, and wiped a hand over her face. She caught her own breath and was aware of its stink. She really ought to find a bit of willow bark to clean her teeth. She had no idea how she looked, nor did she care. After the battle she had smashed all her mirrors and given the fragments to the river. It wasn’t a time for mirrors, or other Roman fashions.