Mary tried to imagine such a journey, coming so close to Gary a full year after seeing him, and all for a lie.

'But even if you do make it to Richborough, you'll need some reason to get close to Fiveash and Trojan and their Ahnenerbe loonies. You say you've met them, but you're a bit notorious among the Nazis because of your piece on the Peter's Well incident. We need something for you to bluff your way in with. Hmm. I expect we'll come up with something.' He glanced at the Roman spear on the wall behind him. 'We have some thinking to do. Come! Shall we walk again?'

She stood. 'A restless type, aren't you?'

'Spent too long on ships to waste the opportunity to stretch my legs… Do bring your papers with you.'

They walked across the heart of the Roman camp, heading south. The sun had climbed, but there was scattered cloud around and a bit of dampness in the air. It felt autumnal, in that lovely English word. As they walked he glanced over her papers and scribbled with a stub of pencil on a notepad.

At the camp's southern perimeter the land fell away spectacularly to reveal a river wending through its valley, and a folded landscape beyond. 'On a good day you can make out the hills of the Lake District,' Mackie said. 'Bit too murky today. Autumn mist and whatnot.'

'I wonder if the Germans will ever come this far, if you will have to build pillboxes and barbed wire fences into the line of Hadrian's Wall.'

'Let's hope not, but I suppose it's a possibility. Or on the other hand we might just push them back into the sea where they came from.'

'History really is fragile, isn't it? So many possibilities for the future open out from this very moment, from the position of the war.'

'Well, that's true,' he said. 'But I can tell you that makes it tricky for us. Everything is poised. You Americans are supporting us, but you're not yet in the war, despite Churchill's best efforts to persuade you. And there is a real risk of defeat, you know. History doesn't seem to be on our side. I mean, if you look at the global picture, you have these dreadful totalitarian empires, the German and Japanese and Italian, just gobbling up the world. It's quite possible that if Hitler ever did plant a swastika on the Wall, it would be a long time before we could get rid of him. It took centuries for the Christians to kick the Moors out of Spain, didn't it? Rudolf Hess is in York, you know, Hitler's deputy, negotiating away about an armistice. There are many in the British establishment who want to listen to him – and many more, believe me, who sympathise with Hitler's global war aims, who fear and loathe Bolshevism more even than the Nazis.'

'And all this shapes your thinking about our options.'

'Quite. We must avoid provoking the military government in the protectorate overmuch; we may after all choose to sign that armistice. And on the other hand we have to try to keep the Americans onside. It's dashed tricky all round. We must be discreet. No parties must be overly alarmed. It will have to be a covert operation, put down to a random act by the auxiliaries, perhaps. We may even be disowned by the government if we get caught.' Even as he spoke he was still doodling on his pad. 'But look, as I say, this is all speculative unless I can get backing from my highers-up, and for that we need some clear proof that this material came from the present – proof that we aren't the subject of some hoax, or misunderstanding. I have to tell you that not all the experts I've consulted are finding in our favour.' He dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket. 'Thought you might like to see this.'

It was a letter written in a neat but wavering hand. She read, 'Like Mr Dunne, I fear you have taken my playful description of duration as a dimension of space far too seriously…'

'I did hope the old boy would be a bit more supportive; he still has an audience in the government.' His eyes were unfocused, his thoughts chasing.

Mary was mystified. 'Who?'

Mackie came back to himself. 'Oh! Sorry. H.G. Wells. Wrote to him; thought he was worth a try. What we need is proof, just a grain of it.'

'What is it you're scribbling?'

'I'm just intrigued by what you said about acrostics. This Menologium is a lot more complete than the Nectovelin prophecy, and I wondered if I could make something of it.'

'I tried that. Actually it works with the epilogue.' She took a pencil and wrote down:

'Why, so it does.' He smiled.

'But I can't make sense of the rest of it.'

'Let's have another crack. I rather enjoy ciphers and such. Got me into Bletchley for my sins.' Still walking, he wrote down the leading letters of the verses, omitting the prologue and epilogue:

'Nothing,' she said. 'Told you.'

'Yes, but look – there's some redundancy here.'

'Redundancy?'

'A coder's term. Repeated letters. Each verse, save the last, begins and ends with the same letters, T and N. If you were encrypting this lot for transmission you'd put in some kind of summary cipher and cross the lot out. Suppose I try that.' He took an eraser and went through the line, removing the first and last letters each time:

Mary considered this. 'Is that another AMEN at the end?'

'No,' he said softly. 'Look – if you group the letters differently – ' He wrote out the line again.

'Ben Kamen,' she said 'Oh my.'

'He's sent us a message,' Mackie said. 'A message through history. Clever boy, clever boy indeed. This will do the trick, I think. I must call Lindemann.' He turned on his heel and trotted back towards the farmhouse.

She followed more slowly.

She admired Mackie's pragmatism, his determination to deal with this extraordinary problem, his ability to absorb this astounding new development and act on it decisively. But she felt only profound shock at this latest discovery. Could it really be true that this message from Ben Kamen had been waiting, embedded in a document from the fifth century, written down in whatever original had existed and then transcribed into copy after copy – waiting for her to detect it, on this fall day in England?

She shivered, and hurried after Mackie, not wanting to be alone.

21 October

The convoy bowled along the Hastings road.

Heinz Kieser was driving the staff car. He was relaxed, the top buttons of his uniform open, but Ernst thought he was pushing up too close to the truck ahead of them. And he insisted on having the top down, although the day was blustery and overcast. Viv had her scarf tied tightly over her head, to try to keep her hair from blowing all over the place.

Beside his sister in the back seat, Alfie leaned forward. 'Can't this old bucket go any faster, Ernst?'

Heinz snapped at him, 'You shut your mouth. And speak respectfully to the officer.'

Alfie flinched back, shocked. He looked small and very young in his Jugend uniform. But he said bravely enough, 'He's not an officer. He's an obergefreiter, and so are you.'

Heinz, barely understanding, scowled at Ernst. 'What?… Just shut up, boy, or-'

Ernst said, 'Enough. Sit quiet, Alfie.'

'Yes, Ernst.'

Heinz shook his head, and said in German, 'Wretched little kid.'

'There's no need to speak to them like that, Heinz. Not these two.'