Nectovelin released the druidh’s robe. The druidh slumped to the ground, shamed. Nectovelin said heavily, ‘How can this be? Who knows Latin here?’

‘Nobody but me,’ Cunovic said, ‘save for a few words picked up from me or the traders.’ And certainly not Brica, who, always a quiet girl, had probably ventured no more than a day’s walk from her birthplace her entire life.

‘Then what does this mean?’

‘I’ve no idea ...’

Cunovic started to hear what Brica was saying, to make out the words. It was only a few lines, like doggerel poetry, repeated over and over. It occurred to him someone ought to write this down. He ought, as the only literate member of the family. He found his bag, dug out a tablet and stylus, and began to scribble. The children watched him, wide-eyed; the letters appearing on the wax must seem like magic to them.

Nectovelin glared and turned on Ban. ‘With a birth like this, with his mother gabbling Latin, his life is already blighted. Call him what you want, Ban. He will be no warrior.’

Something seemed to snap in Ban. He yelled, ‘You arrogant old man! Must you think of yourself even at a time like this? I have no time for you and your antique war. Caesar is long dead, just as you will be soon, and you and your bragging will be forgotten!’

For a desperate heartbeat Cunovic thought the giant Nectovelin might strike down his grandson, even in this dreadful moment. But Nectovelin merely stared down Ban, contempt hardening his scarred face, and he walked out of the house.

‘We must cut her,’ Sula said, wearily practical amid the mysteries of Brica’s gabbling and the posturing of the men. ‘Ban is right. We must free the baby before they both die.’ The other women nodded and moved closer.

Sula raised a flint blade. This gift of the earth was the traditional tool for such desperate moments, and its carefully worked edge was sharper than the best Brigantian iron, or even Roman steel, Cunovic knew. As the stone blade bit into her flesh, Brica screamed. Ban bit his lip; he knew the risks of the moment.

But still Brica’s flood of Latin continued; still Cunovic scribbled at his tablet. The words were strange, enigmatic, disconnected: Horses large as houses ... A little Greek ... Dead marble ...

Cunovic started to understand that this was a description of the future - or a future - a description of events that could only occur long after he and Brica and all of them were long dead. Fearfully Cunovic imagined a wizard in some dark cell, somewhere in the past or future, pouring these alien words into the head of the helpless Brica, in this moment when birth and death were in the balance - a wizard, a Weaver of the threads of history, threads that were human lives. But why?