Emperor

by Stephen Baxter

  But the place was busy today. People moved everywhere, lugging bundles of cloth and wooden chests. Leading her horse through this confusion, Agrippina sensed anxiety.

  ‘The place is stirred up,’ Cunedda murmured. ‘They have heard about the Romans already.’

  Nectovelin walked close to Agrippina. ‘News travels fast. We were probably the first to see the Romans, but you can’t hide legions.’

  Agrippina said, ‘They seem to be more busy hiding their treasure than preparing to resist.’

  Nectovelin shrugged. ‘What did you expect? These are farmers. They have children, stock, corn in the fields.’

  Cunedda said nervously, ‘My uncles will already have called their war council.’

  ‘Those hothead princes,’ Nectovelin growled. ‘Let us hope that wise minds win the argument.’

  They reached Cunedda’s house. His sister and aunt lived here. At Cunedda’s call, two ungainly dogs came bounding around the house’s curving wall from the smallholding at the back. Cunedda submitted to leaps and face-licking, clearly relishing the uncomplicated pleasure of the dogs’ affection.

  Agrippina watched him, her heart twisting. ‘The dogs make him happy.’

  Nectovelin said softly, ‘He has suffered too, Agrippina.’

  ‘If I had not been in Cunedda’s arms then I would have been with Mandubracius. I might have stopped him going down to the beach.’

  ‘If and then. You could not have known, Pina. Even if not for Cunedda the outcome might have been the same. This is hard for you, harder than for any of us. It’s not just losing Mandubracius. In a moment you went from admiring Rome, never believing they would come here, to loathing them with a passion. You must not blame yourself, or Cunedda, for any of this. And your love for Cunedda will help you now.’

  ‘Will it? Cousin, I think I hate the Roman who killed Mandubracius, though I have never seen his face, more than I love Cunedda. I hate the Romanness in me more than I love him. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Perfect sense. But when has sense ever been a guide? Come. Before we deal with princes we must eat, wash, sleep if we can.’

  She passed him her horse’s reins. ‘Nectovelin–what will happen to us when the Romans come?’

  Nectovelin considered. ‘That depends on what the princes decide. And, I suppose, how they acquit themselves afterwards. But I know in my heart that in the long run we will win.’

  She stared at him. ‘How can you know that?…Oh. Your Prophecy.’

  ‘I carry it with me always,’ he said, and he rapped his chest with a clenched fist. ‘Though it was written down a half-century ago it speaks of the coming of the Romans. But it also speaks of freedom, Agrippina. And that is what guides me.’

  She resented the perverse pleasure he was taking in all this. Where Agrippina had been plunged into confusion and misery since the Roman landing, where the people of Camulodunum had been thrown into a state of fear, Nectovelin seemed to have grown in stature, his mind clarified. The Romans had come at last; this was what he had been born for.

  But curiosity sparked dimly, even now. ‘Your Prophecy–does it really tell of the future? Does it really promise freedom? If only you would let me read it—’

  ‘My throat is drier than Coventina’s scabby elbow. I need a drink, and so do you. Then we will talk of the future, and a war with Rome.’

  VIII

  That night she managed to sleep, too exhausted even for her fretful mind to keep her awake any longer.

  Not long after dawn, she rose and followed Cunedda and Nectovelin to the hall still known as Cunobelin’s House.

  This was a mighty roundhouse, the supports of its vaulting roof cut from hundred-year-old oaks, and large enough to hold half the town. There were few ornate flourishes, some bosses which bore the mask of the war god Camulos or the seal of Cunobelin himself–and, here and there, ‘C-A-M’, the three Latin letters that the king had used to mark his coins. Agrippina suspected that few people here would understand the letters as any other than a symbol of Cunobelin.

  Everything about the great house was a reflection of that clever king. Thanks to his trade with Rome the old bear had grown wealthy enough to have imported Roman architects and masons, and to have built himself a palace of stone had he wished. He did allow himself to refurbish his father’s bath house. But, aware of the sensibilities of his people, he had also built this, a house in their own best tradition, with every element correctly placed.

  Close to the central hearth, where the night’s fire was fitfully burning itself out, perhaps fifty people were huddled. They were the leading Catuvellaunians and their princes, Caratacus and Togodumnus, sons of Cunobelin. Among the crowd were shaven heads, probably druidh. The princes and their warriors wore weapons and brooches, splashes of iron, bronze and silver, and heavy golden torques around their necks. In Camulodunum you showed your power and wealth by wearing it. But there were others with finger rings and plucked facial hair, Roman styles even here in the house of Cunobelin, before the grandsons of Cassivellaunus.

  Most people, though, wore work clothes from the farms, as dun-coloured as the earth.

  Agrippina and her companions found a place to sit, on a hide blanket thrown on the ground. It was soon clear that the ongoing argument was fractious and unsatisfactory. The discussion had evidently been continuing all night.

  Though people deferred to the princes this was a very equal debate in which everybody was entitled to speak–very un-Roman, Agrippina thought, very unlike the grave councils of the Roman generals which must be proceeding even now. But neither Caratacus and Togodumnus had the authority of their father Cunobelin, and none of his subtlety either–and, challenged, they were becoming increasingly angry. They were like men left over from the past, Agrippina thought, men from an age when physical strength and drinking prowess were all it took to be a leader.

  Cunobelin had always had trouble with his sons. As was the custom of his people, and indeed Agrippina’s Brigantians too, Cunobelin had cheerfully taken many wives, who for twenty years had produced a steady stream of children. Cunobelin had lived to see grandsons grow to adulthood, including Cunedda. But even before his death many of Cunobelin’s sons had quarrelled among themselves. And when Cunobelin at last died it was as if the lid had blown off an overheated pot.

  The two sons Cunobelin had sent for education in Rome, Adminius and Cogidubnus, had been driven out–the talk was they had gone all the way back to Rome to seek Claudius’s help. And meanwhile the two ‘warriors’, Togodumnus and Caratacus, cared nothing for Caesar who was long dead, the signing of his treaties beyond living memory.

  So the princes started to raid their neighbours. This was when Nectovelin had been drawn to the Catuvellaunians, relishing the chance to swing his sword at their side. The peoples they raided were cowed, not assimilated; theirs was a sullen imperium.

  At first all this turbulence appeared to do no harm to the Catuvellaunians’ trade with the Romans. But then the princes deposed a ruler, Verica of the Atrebates, a nation whose sprawling holdings covered many south coast ports. Verica, a friend of Rome, fled there. And this time Claudius listened.

  All summer, Agrippina learned from the talk, just as Cunedda had told her, traders and spies had been bringing back rumours about a build-up of Roman arms and men in the Gallic coastal town of Gesoriacum. The princes and other local rulers had fitfully prepared for an invasion, drawing up their warrior bands on the coast to fend off Roman landings–only to disperse again, bored and hungry. Perhaps, after ninety years of impunity, nobody had really believed that the Romans would ever come again. Meanwhile the princes had continued their wilful ways with the Catuvellaunians’ neighbours.

  And now the storm had broken. The Romans had landed after all, late in the season, unopposed, and were already moving out of their beachhead. There was a good deal of argument about whose fault all this was. Had the princes been foolish in their truce-breaking aggression? Should they have prepared better for the invasion, and listen
ed to the warnings of their spies? Agrippina couldn’t find it in her heart to blame the princes, who had at least tried to assemble a force in response. Even she, who knew Romans far better than they did, had not believed the invasion would come.

  There was no eagerness for a battle. This place was named for a war god, for Camulos. But for all the knives in their belts and the swords they hung on the walls of their wooden houses, for all their myths of themselves as a warrior people, these were farmers. Agrippina could see that even now some of them were growing restless, itching to get away from this purposeless talk and back to work. But their princes, restless as they were blamed for their unpreparedness, were now spoiling for a fight.

  At length Nectovelin stood up. Even the princes hushed as the massive warrior waited for silence. ‘From what I’m hearing I’m glad I had a good night’s sleep instead of enduring all this waffle. The question is not who is to blame but how we are to get rid of the Romans now they’re here.’

  ‘The old man is right.’ The interruption came from one of the druidh. He was a thin young man in a shapeless black robe, and his accent was of the west country, of the Silures or the Ordovices. ‘This land is sacred, and must remain inviolate.’

  Nectovelin was irritated. ‘Everybody knows your game, priest. The Romans drove your sort out of Gaul, and you fled here because you have nowhere else to go. Now the Romans are coming after you again, and you want to spill our blood to save your own cowardly hides. Isn’t that true?’

  In fact Agrippina thought Nectovelin was unfair. It was the priests’ own laws which made it impossible for them to submit to Roman rule. In their way, the druidh had integrity, even if it was suicidal.

  And this young man now proved he wasn’t a priest for nothing. He said softly, ‘Would you fight Roman legions without your gods at your back?’

  Nectovelin roared, ‘Who are you to stand between me and my gods, boy?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you bully.’ A burly farmer called Braint got to her feet. Her hair was filthy, like a mass of smoky old thatch. She was an immense woman, as muscular as a man, but Agrippina knew she had raised six children and managed one of the largest farms in the area single-handed since the death of her husband. She said, ‘I’m going to say what none of you men has the balls to say in front of these posturing princes. We should sue for peace.’

  After a brief, shocked silence, there were muttered replies. ‘The Romans make peace only on their terms–it would be surrender!’ ‘We can’t fight them. They have the resources of a continent. We have only a few farms.’ ‘Surrender? Cassivellaunus kicked Caesar himself back into the sea. We can do the same again!…’

  Cunedda surprised Agrippina by standing. He was one of the youngest here, but his status, as a junior member of Cunobelin’s line, won him a moment of silence. ‘With respect to Braint, I don’t think peace is possible. It’s gone too far for that. And we Catuvellaunians are in great danger. The Romans certainly recognise us as their strongest foe, and so we have more to lose than anybody else. Think: if we fight and lose, our power will be destroyed by the Romans.’

  Nectovelin growled, ‘And if we fight and win?’

  ‘Then the Romans will come back, and their vengeance will be terrible. For they cannot afford to appear weak before their subject peoples.’

  Caratacus’s lip curled. The prince wore armour, a leather chest-plate, and cut his hair short, so the lines of his scalp were revealed. His brother was like him but wore his hair in a long, unruly tangle. Caratacus snapped, ‘Then what do you suggest, nephew?’

  ‘That we fight,’ Cunedda said simply. ‘I am no warrior–my own life will be spent cheaply. But we must fight as Cassivellaunus did. We must fight the Romans to a standstill. And then, with our strength proven, we must come to an honourable peace.’ He sat down, trembling.

  Agrippina patted his arm. ‘Well said,’ she whispered.

  ‘If they listen.’

  Nectovelin stood again. ‘So we must fight,’ he said gravely. ‘The question is, how?’

  Togodumnus called out shrilly, ‘The boy said it! Like Cassivellaunus!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nectovelin, ‘but the Cassivellaunus who won, not the one who lost.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We must use our strengths,’ Nectovelin insisted. Nobody knew how many troops the Romans planned to field, he said. Reports claimed that many thousands had already landed, and there were more of their terrifying ships on the horizon. But all those Romans needed to be fed, every day. ‘We know the land, they don’t. A corn field becomes a weapon if burning it leaves a hundred legionaries hungry. We draw them in, as far as they will come. And we wear them down, bit by bit.’

  ‘Then you are suggesting raids,’ said Togodumnus. ‘Ambushes.’

  Braint nodded. ‘Cassivellaunus did that. And he used delaying tactics too. He had his allies send embassies to negotiate for peace. All of it used up Caesar’s energy and patience.’

  The druidh got to his feet. ‘Sneak attacks? Delays? Perhaps you should go back to your own country, Nectovelin, for I hear the Brigantians make a living off stealing each other’s cattle.’

  Nectovelin glowered.

  But Caratacus was immediately on his feet. ‘The priest is right. We must fight with devastating force. We must gather an army of our allies and meet the Romans in the field. It will be glorious–and we will push the Romans back into the Ocean!’

  That won him a few cheers, but Agrippina saw that the support was only half-hearted.

  Nectovelin remained standing. Despite his obvious anger at the priest’s insult he spoke carefully. ‘But that, prince, is the mistake Cassivellaunus made in the end. When he fought limited skirmishes on grounds of his choosing, he won. When he met Caesar in a pitched battle in the field, he lost. Look around you, man! You have only a few warriors. It will be farmers who would take the field. And this will not be a war against the Trinovantes or the Atrebates, who are like you. Now you will face Roman legionaries, who are trained from boyhood for one thing only, and that is for battle. Even if you were to win a victory or two, what then? Your farmers will come home for the harvest, or to plant the winter wheat. The legionaries have no harvest to gather. They will come on and on, until they crush you.

  ‘You know me, Caratacus. I have fought at your side. I would never flinch from a fight. But I’m urging you to pick a fight you can win.’

  But Caratacus would have none of it. He yelled, ‘I say the priest is right, you think like a Brigantian cattle thief!’

  Nectovelin rested his hand lightly on the hilt of a dagger. The tension in the house was extraordinary.

  Agrippina could bear it no more. She pushed her way out of the house into the dusty air of Camulodunum. She could see the logic of Nectovelin’s argument, that patient resistance was the way to wear down the Romans. But she was not the person she had been a few days before. Her deep, angry core responded to Caratacus’s bold cries of total war; she longed to see Roman blood spilled.

  IX

  Narcissus came to a ridge of high ground. He broke away from his companions and urged his horse to climb the rise. From here, he looked back at the column.

  He would not have admitted it to any of the officers, not even to his ally Vespasian. But the fact was that a Roman army on the march was a stunning sight. The legionaries flowed past, an endless river, their metal armour shining under the watery British sun, the standard bearers identifying each unit. The army was noisy too. The sound of thousands of feet was a low thunder that shook the very landscape, overlaid with the amphitheatre-like murmur of a crowd of male voices, and the clatter of metal on metal, and the brittle peals of signal horns.

  The men were heavily laden. As well as his weapons and armour each man carried a complicated kit containing a saw, a basket, a pickaxe, a water bottle, a sickle, a chain, a turf-cutter, a dish and pan, and enough rations for three days. Narcissus had heard the men grumble about this load; they called themselves ‘Marius’s mules’, after Gaius Mari
us, the great general who had helped define the Roman way of waging war. But this meant that each unit was ready at a command to fight–or to dig out a fort or build a bridge–and the army as a whole was unburdened by a long baggage train.

  Away from the main column of the legionaries the auxiliaries walked or rode. The specialist foot soldiers marched like the legionaries, the slingers and javelin-throwers and spearmen, the archers with their chain mail and bows, while cavalry units rode out to the flanks, providing cover for the infantry. Most of the auxiliaries were recruited from the provinces or even the barbarian lands beyond, and in the drab British landscape they made splashes of colour with their exotic helmets and cloaks and tunics. Indeed, many of the legionaries were provincials now too, a major change since Caesar’s day, and when the cohorts came close enough Narcissus could hear the jabber of alien tongues. This Roman army was a vast mixing-up of races drawn from Gaul to Asia, from Germany to Africa, and yet they all worked in harmony under the command of a good Roman.

  And the marching men threw up dust that caught the sun, so that a band of light stretched dead straight across the undulating British landscape.

  Vespasian came trotting up. ‘You shouldn’t break away like that, secretary. This is hostile country, remember.’

  ‘Oh, I like to test your vigilance, legate. And what a sight!’

  ‘Quite. The poor little British.’ Brittunculi. ‘The legions will crush them like peppercorns in a grinder.’

  ‘Well, it’s a marvel of organisation,’ Narcissus said. ‘It’s like a city on the march.’

  ‘Aulus Plautius is nothing if not meticulous.’

  Narcissus said softly, ‘His enemies say he is nothing but meticulous.’

  Vespasian raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you testing my loyalty, secretary? I suppose that is your job. I’d rather follow a man like Plautius than a Caesar. What we need is planning and control, not brilliance–dedication to the cause, not to oneself.’