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privilege fiercely. In any case, he had no intention of going to bed when he knew the best tale was yet to come. He curled in his cloak beside his mother with Hail resting on his other side and set himself to listen.
    Breaca sat further round, on the right hand of the elder grandmother, ready to offer assistance should the old woman have need of it. Her scarred hand ached, deep down between the finger bones, as it did when she was tired. Absently, she rubbed the place on her knee. Gunovic leaned inwards and passed her his jug. They had raced their horses earlier and he had won, but only by a short head. He had complimented her on the grey filly afterwards and given her a brooch shaped like the small fierce owl who hunts by day. It was the only way in which he showed that he had heard of the death of her mother and it was done privately, with kindness, as was his way. Next to her father, he was the best warrior she had ever known and he had taught her some of the dirtiest moves with the sword that a man could think of. If she had killed the Coritani by skill with weapons, Gunovic was as much to thank as anyone. She accepted his jug with a nod, drank, and passed it on round the circle. The ale was warm and bitter and it cleansed the last taste of garlic from her mouth if it did nothing for the pain in her hand.
    There was some shuffling and rearranging of seating as people filled the spaces closer to the fire. A piece of salt-laden driftwood as long as a man’s arm was laid on the embers, sending up fierce blue sparks to dance in the roof space. The smell of it was sharp with the iron-salt tang of the sea. The flame built higher, casting long, leaping shadows to the thatch above. Carved beasts on the doorpost shimmered and came to life. Smoke layered above them, holding in the heat. A third jug was opened for Gunovic, who took it back to the singer’s place on the far side of the fire. Before, he had been standing, the better to show the shadowplay with his hands. Now he sat, resting his back on a hide stuffed with horsehair that leaned against the wall. When he had quiet, he addressed the elder grandmother, as tradition demanded.
    ‘Grandmother. You have heard all tales that can be told. The choice of which to hear now is yours.’
    The old woman stared into the heart of the fire, her head cocked as if listening. Presently she lifted her eyes to meet those of the smith. ‘Give us the tale of Cassivellaunos,’ she said.
    Other voices murmured approval. It was a classic tale of good against evil, where the colours were clear and right prevailed against the odds. Gunovic was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he lifted his head and began.
    ‘I tell the tale of the greatest warrior, of Cassivellaunos, grandfather’s father to Cunobelin, the Sun Hound, who rules over the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni who live to the south …’
    His voice was new. It lost the singer’s lilt and became the voice of Cassivellaunos, speaking on the eve of battle; the warrior who, alone of all the people, had the strength and foresight to unite the warring tribes at the time of Caesar’s two invasions.
    In her mind, Breaca saw a giant of a man with flowing copper hair seated on his roan battle horse. His great brindle war hounds gathered about him, collared in leather and iron, ready to rip the throats from the legions. Around his neck he wore the torc of leadership, cast for him in gold by a smith of the Eceni. More black feathers than could be counted hung from the end-pieces of the torc, each with its quill stained red to mark the warriors he had killed in fair battle. His shield was of bull’s hide and so heavy it took two other men to lift it. His sword was of iron and when he drew it on horseback the tip reached to the ground. About his shoulders he wore a great multicoloured cloak, patched with the colours of all the tribes who came to join him: sky blue for the Eceni, white for the Ordovices, red and black striped for the