Emperor: Time’s Tapestry Book One

by Stephen Baxter

  ‘That was our plan.’

  Nectovelin said darkly, translated by Cunedda, ‘And I swear by Coventina’s ravaged arsehole that if I get the chance I will do it, little man.’

  Claudius nodded, as if this was quite matter-of-fact. ‘Of course you will. And who sent you?’

  ‘You have invaded the island. Every Briton, from the Brigantians to the Atrebates, is your enemy.’

  ‘Oh, come now! Do you expect me to believe that?’ Claudius spoke with the manner of a hectoring parent. ‘Out with it! Who put you up to this? Was it Valerius Asiaticus? Or Magnus Vinicius, who was nominated before me to my throne?’ He went on, listing senators and equestrians and freedmen with grudges, all of whom he suspected of plotting against him, or of scheming to restore the Republic.

  Cunedda spoke up. ‘You think so little of us that you imagine we need a Roman to tell us what to do? This was for our own purposes, to rid our lands of you. And even if we fail today, with the men of the west and the druidh at his side, Caratacus will return, and you will pay the price in blood.’

  Claudius seemed puzzled. He asked his secretary, ‘Caratacus?’

  Narcissus said, his voice tremulous, ‘A son of Cunobelin.’

  ‘Ah, of course, the useful princes who harassed their neighbours, drove their rival chieftains into the arms of Rome, and made themselves healthy profits from the slaves they took.’

  Cunedda frowned. ‘Slaves?’

  Vespasian said coldly, ‘Your princes postured in defiance of Rome. But at the same time their raids on your neighbours won them a healthy flow of slaves to send to the markets of Gaul, in return for Roman gold.’

  Claudius was watching Cunedda’s face. ‘You are actually disappointed, aren’t you? Are you British fussy about selling slaves? Was Caratacus a hero for you? But can’t you see that this is part of your conquest, that the Roman slave market distorted your politics long before a single soldier set foot here? Caratacus and his brother played two games at once, you see. They were not heroes, little boy. They were hypocrites and fools. And such men can never prevail against Rome.’

  Nectovelin was as crestfallen as Cunedda, but he sneered, ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘How defiant you are! But how do you imagine you could possibly succeed, you or your Caratacus? Rome is a system, you see, a system that works on timescales far longer than a mere human life, even an emperor’s. And it feeds on expansion. The acquisition of wealth flows back to pay for the army, which then wins still more territory and wealth – on and on the wheel turns. Rome was always going to come here; it is destiny.’ His eyes sparkled; he was fascinated, as if this was all an intellectual game, Agrippina thought. ‘But emperors have been assassinated before, and no doubt will be again. Yes, if you had killed me it would have made a mess of things for a bit. Is that what you imagined, you hairy Briton, that history trembled at the point of your sword?’

  ‘You gabble, Roman,’ Nectovelin said. ‘You speak of destiny. But I have a Prophecy, given to me at the moment of my birth. A Prophecy of victory and freedom. That is why we will win.’

  But you are wrong, Agrippina thought, her heart sinking.

  XXI

  ‘A prophecy? How very interesting. What prophecy?’

  Nectovelin glared.

  ‘Search him, Vespasian.’

  Vespasian called a guard to help him. It took only a moment for the leather document wallet to be placed in Claudius’s hands.

  Claudius fingered the wallet gingerly, his face pinched. ‘It smells as if it has been strapped to a horse.’ But he loosened its ties, extracted the parchment, and unfolded it. He carried it over to a lamp for better light, and squinted. Then he picked up a little wire frame mounted with two lenses, and held it before his eyes.

  Agrippina gasped, thinking of another Prophecy phrase – a man will come with eyes of glass. Somehow, was it all coming true?

  Nectovelin looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Well, well,’ Claudius said. ‘A British prophecy written out in Latin – and quite good Latin at that. Tell me how this came to be.’ When Nectovelin did not reply the Emperor took off his ‘eyes of glass’ and turned on him. ‘You do understand that all that is keeping you alive is my curiosity.’

  Nectovelin seemed to be shaking with rage. Agrippina understood that to him the Prophecy was an amulet, its magical powers independent of whatever its words actually said – and now, in this moment of ultimate failure, he was having to endure those words being read by a stranger, an enemy. But he made himself recount the story of his birth: the Latin chatter of his mother in labour, how her words had been transcribed by Agrippina’s grandfather.

  Claudius eyed Agrippina. ‘So it’s a family matter. And when was this? How old are you, man?’

  Nectovelin gave his age: forty-seven summers.

  ‘Forty-seven, forty-seven…’ Claudius went to his desk and began pawing through scrolls. ‘Something is in the back of my mind. What else was significant about that date? We Romans are partial to a good prophecy, you know,’ he said, lecturing the party of rebel Britons and tense soldiers, while casually facing the other way. ‘You can see the appeal. We mortals fumble our way through the mist of events like men in blindfolds. How marvellous it would be to glimpse the future clearly – or even the past! We Romans have our own prophetic books…’

  The Sibylline Books had been a gift to a king of Rome by a sorceress called the Sibyl. The Books foretold the entire future of Rome, so the sorceress said.

  ‘Sadly the Books were destroyed in a fire more than a century ago. But a collection of fresh oracles has since been gathered from shrines around the world, and housed in the temple of Apollo on the Palatine since the time of the deified Augustus. Perhaps this new oracle will find a place in that strange library – what do you think?…

  ‘Ah, here we are.’ He dug out a scroll, unrolled it on his desk and ran his thumb along its surface. ‘Um. According to this compendium the year of your birth was unremarkable, hairy man – save for one thing: another birth, of a certain prophet in Judea. The Jews, you know, an excitable people! The villain was crucified in the reign of my uncle Tiberius as I recall, and rightly so. No more than a coincidence, no doubt – though if I were a god composing a prophecy, nothing about it would be coincidental.

  ‘And what is it we actually have here?’ He held up the parchment, peering down through his lenses. ‘Quite brief, isn’t it?’

  Agrippina found herself saying, ‘Only sixteen lines.’

  She saw Nectovelin’s shoulders stiffen. In that moment Nectovelin knew for certain she had somehow seen the document herself, against his express wishes. Whatever the outcome today, she feared that she had already destroyed her relationship with a man who had been like a father.

  Claudius watched this with interest; he seemed fascinated by the British. ‘Sixteen lines, yes. You’ve evidently read it, girl. But I wonder how well you know it – if your education was only Gallic then perhaps not well at all. There is some subtlety here. Why, there’s even an acrostic.’ He held up the bit of parchment to Agrippina. ‘Look, girl, can you see how the first letters of the lines combine to form a phrase? A – C – O – N…Perhaps this is the key to the whole thing. The original Sibylline Books featured similar acrostics, as I recall. An intriguing connection.

  ‘There are some specific predictions here, aren’t there? Of an emperor with a German name…And I am Germanicus.’ He looked up sharply at Agrippina. ‘Interesting. But what’s this about a noose of stone around the neck of the island?’ He glanced at Vespasian. ‘Does this island have a neck, legate?’

  ‘Nobody knows, sir.’

  ‘On we go, cryptic and confusing – baffling, as are all such oracles, or I suppose we wouldn’t value them so highly – ah, and at the end, a few lines about freedom and happiness and so forth. Clumsy poetry, nothing more; I’m surprised the gods saw fit to include it.’ He turned to Nectovelin. ‘You, hairy man – can you read this at all?’ Claudius threw back his head and laughe
d. ‘So you have a prophecy, uttered by your own mother, in the language of your conquerors – a language you can neither understand nor read! The gods may or may not know the future, but they certainly have a sense of humour.’

  ‘I don’t need to read it,’ Nectovelin said. ‘I know what it says. That you Romans will be thrown off this island, and I will enjoy doing it.’

  Claudius seemed perplexed. ‘Actually it says no such thing.’ He turned to Agrippina. ‘Do you believe this is prophetic?’

  ‘Yes,’ Agrippina admitted.

  ‘And what does it mean?’

  ‘I think we cannot fight you today,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What? What? Speak up, girl!’

  She took a deep breath, aware of the harm she was about to do to Nectovelin, whether he lived or died. ‘We can’t win today. The Prophecy says so.’

  Nectovelin rumbled like a bull. Vespasian’s grip on his arm tightened. All around the room the soldiers tensed, and Narcissus shivered in Agrippina’s grasp.

  Claudius whispered, ‘Well, in that case, what happens next all depends on you, Agrippina. If you will let me, I will spare you. Not through mercy – because you intrigue me, you and your lover.’

  ‘And if I allow you to let me live, will you spare Nectovelin?’ The bargaining sounded strange to Agrippina’s own ears.

  Nectovelin turned to face Agrippina. ‘You’ve betrayed me once today already, child. Don’t do it again.’

  Vespasian, too, was outraged. ‘Sir, you can’t listen to this!’

  Claudius was composed. ‘How amusing that both captor and captive should reject a peaceful solution!’

  Somehow Agrippina was in control of the situation. ‘Let Nectovelin go,’ she said. And in her own tongue she said to Nectovelin: ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Disarm him and throw him out, legate.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘He’s broken already. He’s no threat to us. And now we’ll have to decide what to do with you two children – if you will first stop giving my secretary that unwelcome shave.’

  With Nectovelin ejected, Agrippina released Narcissus. He stumbled away from her with a look of murderous hatred, massaging his throat and fingering his cut cheek.

  Cunedda, freed, approached Agrippina. ‘How could you do that to Nectovelin?’

  ‘I saved his life.’

  ‘But he lost his honour. And the Prophecy—’

  ‘He never understood the Prophecy. Claudius was right. There are times when being able to read is a great advantage. Cunedda, the Prophecy talks of three emperors. Claudius is only the first. So we can’t defeat him – not if the Prophecy contains any truth. For the Romans will be here for a long, long time.’

  He rubbed his upper arm, bruised from a soldier’s grasp. ‘And Mandubracius?’

  She flinched. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I will avenge my brother. I’ll just have to find another way. There’s one thing I’ve learned today above all else, Cunedda. This is a long game we’re playing.’

  Rufrius Pollio, commander of the Praetorian Guard, approached them. His sword was sheathed, but his look was venomous – but then he was in significant trouble for allowing assassins to come so close to the Emperor. ‘Time to go,’ he said in Latin.

  Agrippina blurted, ‘Emperor—’

  Claudius turned.

  ‘I must believe the Prophecy is truthful, for its predictions have come to pass. But there is a detail I don’t understand.’

  Claudius frowned. ‘What detail?’

  ‘That you would come to Britain accompanied by exotic beasts – horses big as houses, teeth like scimitars…’

  Claudius stared at her. Then he turned to the commander of his guard. ‘Rufrius Pollio, will you open that curtain?’

  The soldier did so, to reveal a rectangle of deep blue evening sky. And, through the window, Agrippina saw a shadow moving by: massive yet graceful, a great head nodding. Perhaps distracted by the light from the tent the head turned, and a startlingly human eye peered at her. A trunk was raised, and tusks flashed.

  Claudius said gravely, ‘Some of this little poem of yours could be no more than sensible guesswork. Rome was bound to come here under one emperor or another. But it’s hard to see who but the gods could have foreseen them, isn’t it?’

  Agrippina felt as if the world had come to pieces, and was reassembling in a different shape entirely.

  XXII

  When the burly soldiers bundled Nectovelin out into the dark, the commotion disturbed the animals in their hastily erected compound. They stomped back and forth, rumbling, their massive bulks like clouds shifting against the darkling sky.

  They weren’t happy. They were from different families, for the African traders who had sold them to the Romans had been unconcerned about such niceties. They had not enjoyed the sea crossings and the overland journey through Gaul any more than most of the Emperor’s companions had. Now they were confined in this strange, cold place, and, missing their siblings and mothers, they growled and jostled restlessly.

  But they had served Claudius’s purpose, in striking awe into the people of this island. After all, since the glaciers had sullenly drawn back and the last mammoths died, these were the first elephants to have set foot in Britain in ten thousand years.

  XXIII

  Claudius left Britain after only sixteen days. And he took Agrippina and Cunedda with him, all the way back to Rome.

  On the Palatine Hill, where the emperors since Augustus had been building their palaces, Agrippina and Cunedda wandered in silence under ceilings as tall as the sky, and across floors of marble as flat as lakes, all drenched in dense Mediterranean light. Claudius had talked of Rome as a system that worked on timescales that transcended human lifetimes. For more than half a millennium already the wealth of Europe, Asia and Africa had drained here, as water drains through a funnel. And the result was visible all around them in the marble-plated hills of Rome.

  Though they remained under nominal guard, Claudius seemed keen to keep Cunedda and Agrippina within his household. He even assigned them tutors. They were his two Brittunculi, he said, apparently without malice. Later Agrippina learned that he had brought Gauls home too, and showed a similar interest in that relatively new province. They were treated like pets, Agrippina thought, but there were worse attitudes for a conqueror.

  A month after the Emperor’s return to Rome Agrippina was brought to Claudius to find him busily engaged in preparations for his triumph, scheduled for the following year. ‘There’s so much to do,’ he told her, fussing over heaps of correspondence. ‘So many details to organise! And it’s hard to delegate. Even Narcissus, whom I value dearly, is a Greek, and understands little of the tradition, not to say the archaism, with which Rome runs its affairs.

  ‘And I am also busy composing the dedicatory inscription for my triumphal arches.’ He showed her a rough outline. ‘You can see half of it is taken up by my own formal names, pah! But I have chosen the words carefully, I think. I mention the formal submission of eleven kings. The invasion was carried out without loss of honour to Rome, for it was a response to the breaking of treaties by British princes – it was, you know! Roman wars are always legal. And here I show that Roman rule is now extended to the barbarians across the sea.’ Barbari Transoceanum.

  ‘Where will your arches be?’

  ‘The Senate has awarded me three – in Rome, and on the coast of the Ocean, perhaps where Plautius made his first landing, and perhaps one in Cunobelin’s capital.’

  Agrippina said boldly, ‘There will be few celebrations in Britain.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Your invasion was brutal. You care nothing for our culture, our identity. You want only the wealth you can extract.’

  Claudius sat back and pursed his lips. ‘So we are bandits. Violent robbers. But that is the way of things. On your island, you Britons have fallen behind the march of Europe. We have literacy; we have law; we have records; we have a political system which does not depend on the idiosy
ncrasies of its leader – at least not entirely. For all the undoubted qualities of your culture, in this new world Britain is an anachronism. And in the collision of an advanced culture with a lesser, only one outcome is possible.

  ‘Times change, Agrippina! Once Rome was a vibrant, ancient Republic, and no one would have believed that democrats would abandon democracy – and yet in the tensions of global power Romans yielded to emperors. But the sun continues to rise and set even so. If we suppress your British identity, good: shed it! The future belongs to Rome – and you are a Roman now.’

  She nodded, listening carefully. ‘I value your words, sir, but—’

  ‘“But you are a pompous old fool!”’ He sat back with a sigh. ‘You see, I am such a wise ruler that I can even finish your sentences for you. And what of you two? I saw the bond between you, even in that difficult night in Camulodunum. Is love blossoming here in the sweet light of Rome?’

  It paid to tell an emperor what he wanted to hear, but she saw no point in concealing what must be obvious. ‘We’ve grown apart.’

  ‘But you loved Cunedda!’

  ‘I did. But—’ But the vast dislocation of the invasion had overwhelmed their petty human plans, and the death of her brother seemed to have aged Agrippina prematurely. ‘I think I simply grew out of him.’

  He studied her. ‘I do understand, I think. But tell me: if you are no longer in love, what are your plans now?’

  ‘Plans?’ She frowned. ‘You make the plans.’

  Claudius looked irritated. ‘Well, then, tell me your dreams.’

  ‘Cunedda is a potter, like his father before him. I think he would like to go home. Back to Britain. And to begin building up his family’s business once more.’

  Claudius nodded. ‘A shrewd choice. Believe me, now that you are part of Rome there will be a market for his pots!’ He tapped his teeth. ‘I see no reason to keep the boy here – not past the triumph next year, anyway. I will talk to Narcissus about it.’