Emperor: Time’s Tapestry Book One

by Stephen Baxter

  Isolde recognised a granary, its floor raised for ventilation, a second granary which looked abandoned, and blocky buildings which might be the fort’s headquarters. Some of the buildings were quite impressive, large and stone-built. But many were derelict, their roofs collapsed, their walls robbed of stone.

  Nennius was excited to be here. Once their remote ancestors had lived here, he said. He knew that because his grandfather, Audax, had told him that the famous Prophecy had actually been created here at Banna. But there was no sign of that lost primeval home in this decaying fort, and even Nennius’s nostalgic enthusiasm soon faded.

  To Isolde’s surprise, they were led to the intact granary. As they walked inside Isolde realised that it had been converted into a hall, its interior divided up by wooden partitions. But there was still an agricultural smell about the place, Isolde thought, the dry tang of the grain that had once been piled up here to feed hundreds of long-dead soldiers.

  They were greeted by Tarcho, Nennius’s cousin and commander of Banna, and by his wife, Maria. Evidently about the same age as Nennius, in his fifties, Tarcho was a big, slightly plump man with a bristling moustache, and his hair was a pale strawberry-blond laced with grey. He wore the insignia of a Roman soldier, including a handsome officer’s belt, but also a shoulder-brooch and a belt heavy with knives, like a Saxon. His wife, too, a plump ball of energy and bustle, wore silver sleeve-clasps, Isolde noticed with faint envy. The Saxons hadn’t come this far in great numbers, but their fashions had, it seemed.

  Nennius greeted Tarcho eagerly. For him the end of a long quest was nearing. For Isolde, though, it was just another day of her pregnancy, and a long, hard day at that.

  Maria saw this and immediately took Isolde under her wing. ‘Oh, my dear, I know exactly how you are feeling. I should, I had five of my own, all boys, all of them as fat as their father, and look at him. Come,’ she said, taking Isolde’s arm, ‘let’s see if we can make you comfortable in this soldiers’ hovel…’ She led Isolde to a small private room with a couch and pillows, and brought her hot water in a bowl. Her palm was rough, her grip strong, her skin dry, a worker’s hand. ‘I know you’re far from home,’ Maria said, ‘and you must be frightened. But your father and my husband are cousins, so you’re with family, aren’t you? And believe me you’re better off here than anywhere else. The soldiers always did have the best doctors. You’ll be in good hands, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Isolde said sincerely. It was a huge relief not to be totally dependent on her father.

  It was already late afternoon. She lay on her cot and slept awhile, to gather her strength before the evening meal.

  That evening Isolde was the last to join the group. They were in the largest room in the granary-hall, set out like a Roman triclinium with couches around a small central table. Nennius was holding forth about politics in Rome. He had a small leather satchel on the table before him. Isolde knew it contained documents about the purpose of his quest – to retrieve the Prophecy, as he called it, lost so long ago.

  Her belly feeling heavier than ever, Isolde levered herself down onto a couch. The light from lamps and candles was cheerful enough, and the food, meat, bread and stewed vegetables, was warming and palatable, if it lacked spices for Isolde’s taste.

  This corner of the old granary was walled on two sides by unplastered stone through which holes had been roughly knocked to make windows. It was a working room, an office of sorts, with desks heaped with scrolls and tablets. Christian symbols could be seen in the clutter on the desks – a bronze fish, a chi-rho medallion. And the papers on Tarcho’s desk were weighted by a stone statue, a reclining woman painted crudely in blue, the colour of the Virgin Mary. Isolde learned later it was a much older piece, a Roman soldier’s carving of a local goddess called Coventina of whom nobody remembered anything but her name, now repainted as Christ’s mother.

  But despite these hints of civilisation, of religion and literacy, there was something brutal about the place, Isolde thought. Uncivilised. Armour and weaponry hung from the walls, along with the heads of animals: deer, a fox, a wolf. There was even the outstretched wingspan of a buzzard, evidently brought down by a soldier’s arrow.

  Tarcho, knives glinting at his belt, seemed in his element here. To Isolde’s eyes he seemed more barbarian than Roman, and there was something in his hard, calculating expression she didn’t like.

  Maria prompted Tarcho: ‘So you and Nennius share the same grandfather.’

  Tarcho spoke around a mouthful of dripping meat. ‘His name was Audax. He was born a slave but died a soldier. He named his son Tarcho, after the soldier who took him in and cared for him. That Tarcho was my father, and he named me for himself.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Nennius said, ‘but Audax came from an old family who hadn’t always been slaves. He was evidently a clever man, and that hereditary intellect seems to have been passed down to his second son, who was my father, called Thalius after another of his patrons. Thalius moved to Rome where I was born, as was my daughter. I’m sure old Audax would have been proud to see you in command of a place like this, Tarcho.’

  Tarcho shrugged. ‘Ten years ago I was a serving soldier in the Roman army. Then the British Revolution came. Farm boys in turmoil,’ he said dismissively. ‘We didn’t really know what was going on up here. We just kept the peace along our stretch of the Wall. But there was no more pay…’

  Without pay, some of the soldiers stationed on the Wall drifted away from their posts, some turned mercenary, others resorted to brigandage and robbery – and others, Tarcho said, had gone off to Gaul with their service records in their packs, wistfully hoping to get their back pay. But most of the Wall troops, born and bred where their forefathers had served for generations, just stayed put. This was home; where were they to go?

  ‘When the dust settled we got new orders from the Duke.’

  Isolde asked, ‘The Duke?’

  ‘The Duke of the Britains.’ The military commander who, under the emperors, had been in command of the Wall and the northern forts that supported it. ‘He was no longer receiving orders from the diocese, or indeed from the prefect in Gaul, or the Emperor.’

  The Duke of the Britains, suddenly finding himself free of his chain of command, took control. The troops would continue to function as army units, he ordered; they would continue to protect and police the population. But without central pay it was up to the local people, the farmers, to supply the fort, paying in kind in foodstuffs, materials, animals, labour.

  ‘There was some grumbling,’ Tarcho said honestly. ‘But then the Picts came. One night they tried to sneak over the Wall, as bold as you please. Well, my men dug out their Roman armour and weapons, and we formed up and sent those brutes packing. After that the farmers were happy enough to cough up, and they turned out to cheer the Duke when he stayed at Banna a few months back…’

  Isolde cynically wondered what choice the farmers had but to pay up. This Duke of the Britains, a Roman commander, seemed to be setting himself up as a warlord of a very old type, with the Wall his seat of power. No wonder this granary had the trappings of a barbarian chief’s hall. Still, perhaps the locals were glad of some order and protection, for any was better than none. And perhaps to many of them, toiling at their land, it made no difference who called himself their lord from one day to the next.

  She noticed Tarcho made no mention of the provincial government at Eburacum, nominally still in control of this area. Evidently, ten years after the British Revolution, the political situation had still to sort itself out.

  ‘Ah,’ Nennius said, ‘but need it have been this way? Need the great tide of empire have drawn back from Britain?’

  Tarcho frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Pelagius preaches of free will,’ Nennius said. ‘Each of us is free to shape his or her destiny. The future is unfixed – it depends on the decisions we make – and so the past too was malleable, dependent on human actions.’ He smiled. ‘There is a passage
in Livy, written before the time of Augustus, in which he speculates what might have happened if Alexander had lived on, rather than die so young. Suppose he had turned his attentions west, rather than dissipate his strength in the endless deserts of the east?’

  ‘He’d have come up against Rome, even then,’ Maria said.

  ‘Yes – a young but vigorous Rome which would have defeated him – so said the good Roman Livy! The history which seems so fixed to us is actually a fragile tapestry whose weave depended on human whim. And that’s my point. If the decisions of the emperors had been made differently perhaps the eagle would still fly over Britain even now.’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ Tarcho said reasonably.

  ‘Then take one example,’ Nennius said. ‘What if this Wall had never been built? What if the Emperor Hadrian had decided that rather than fix the border here he would complete the conquest of the whole island of Britain, all the way to the north, and devote a legion or two to keeping it? For it was tried, you know, several times, from the age of Claudius himself, and by the Emperor Severus, and later Constantius Chlorus led a force to the far north.’

  ‘But the land up there is poor and the people are ugly savages who live in bogs,’ Tarcho said practically. ‘What use would it have been? Better to draw a line here.’

  ‘In the short term, perhaps. But we are living with the long-term consequences of Hadrian’s decision, Tarcho. And what do we find? Secure beyond a frontier fixed in stone, the barbarians have organised, federated, found capable leaders, and now break through the Wall to crush us. But if Hadrian had taken the land of the Caledonians they would be Roman by now, and Britain would be secure, at least internally. Think of it – a whole island to serve as a garrison for western Europe. Couldn’t Gaul and Spain then have been defended when the Franks and the Goths came?’

  ‘Yes, well, if you want to know what I think,’ Maria said suddenly, ‘we all got into this mess because of the way Constantine barbarised the empire. That’s my view. That’s why Gaul is full of Franks and Spain is full of Goths and the south of Britain is full of Saxons. I know, I’ve been down there. They care nothing for our ways and they’re only out for themselves. And now, who is strong enough to throw them out? Nobody, that’s who.’

  Tarcho grunted. ‘I see what you’re driving at about Hadrian, Nennius. But she’s right. If it’s decisions and their dire consequences you want to talk about it’s Constantine you have to consider. After all he did move his capital to Constantinople, taking all the money with it.’

  ‘Then there’s another possibility,’ Nennius said. ‘Suppose Constantine, instead of moving his capital to the east, had moved it west – to Gaul, even to Britain itself, where he was after all elevated. Imagine the empire run from Londinium or Eburacum! Why not? Britain was stable, relatively, and rich too: its corn and metals supplied the armies on the Rhine and the Danube for generations. That is why Britain has been the seat of one usurper after another, including Constantine himself. And with the British garrison behind them, and the focus of the emperors here rather than in the greasy fleshpots of the east, isn’t it possible the empire could have been saved?’

  Londinium as the capital of the Roman empire! The thought was so breathtaking it silenced them for a moment – and Isolde knew it wasn’t such a terribly implausible idea. After all many of the usurpers of the last few decades before the final British Revolution had tried to set up a separatist empire of the western provinces.

  ‘But I don’t see what difference any of this talking makes,’ Maria said now. ‘Maybe things could have been different if somebody had done this instead of that – but so what? What’s done is done. The past may have been malleable for those who lived in it, Nennius, but to us it is surely fixed.’

  ‘Ah, but is it?’ Nennius asked. ‘Have you read what Augustine has said of eternity – in between his diatribes against Pelagius, that is? God is eternal, not time-bound as we are. He is supreme above time – I think that was the phrase. And to Him past, present and future coexist in one timeless moment. And if that is so, isn’t it possible that God could intervene in the past as well as in the future?’

  Tarcho pulled his moustache. ‘Ah. I think I see where you’re going with this, cousin.’

  Nennius nodded. ‘This is why I came here. We must talk of the Prophecy of Nectovelin.’ And he pulled parchments from the leather case on the table before him.

  IV

  Nennius sketched the history of the Prophecy: how it had been uttered by Nectovelin’s mother during his birth, how it appeared to predict events that occurred during the reigns of Claudius, Hadrian and Constantine. A trace of it had survived, as tattoos on the skin of generations of slaves, all the way down to Audax himself. But apart from that it had been lost to history – perhaps.

  ‘I have this,’ Nennius said, brandishing one of his documents, a dog-eared scroll. ‘It is a memoir of the Emperor Claudius, who, it seems, actually saw the Prophecy for himself. This book was my father’s, in fact, given to him by Audax, and he left it to me on his death. The Prophecy as Claudius describes it had sixteen lines, and though he doesn’t reproduce it here – he seems to assume his readers would have it available – he summarises most of it well enough to reconstruct.

  ‘This story of the Prophecy has fascinated me ever since I was a boy and heard it at my grandfather’s knee. It is about emperors, you see, three emperors of Rome who would come to Britain. And it contains a crucial passage on Constantine. From my reading – and what my grandfather told me of the events of his own youth – it implored the reader to kill the Emperor! I believe that the assassination of Constantine was the purpose of the Prophecy. All the rest of it, predictions about Claudius’s invasion and the building of the Wall, were included only as proof of the Prophecy’s authenticity. They were there to make those who owned the Prophecy in Constantine’s day take its mandate seriously.

  ‘But these are only guesses. How I long to know more! I have written down my own reconstruction of the piece – here, somewhere…’ He scrambled in his bag, producing more bits of parchment. ‘But the last few lines are not recoverable from Claudius’s memoir, for he seems uninterested in them. He describes them only as “maunderings on freedom and the rights of peoples”.’

  Maria said, ‘You spoke of God having the power to rewrite the past. Are you suggesting God himself ordered our family to kill an emperor?’

  Nennius struggled to reply. ‘Surely not God – but if God has such powers, who’s to say that humans won’t be able to emulate Him some day? What if it was a man, a man or woman of our time – or even of our own future – who, through the power of prayer, reached back to meddle with the past through the Prophecy? The family legend is of a Weaver, who stands outside the tapestry of time and can pluck at the courses of our lives as if they were mere thread.’

  Tarcho said, ‘And if he did, this Weaver – what was the point? Why murder Constantine?’

  ‘To save Christianity,’ Nennius said briskly. ‘That was clearly the meaning our grandfather and his companions extracted from the surviving acrostic. If Constantine had died then, he could not have corrupted Christianity into an arm of the state – and it would not have become as intolerant as it has. There would have been no persecution of one Christian by another, no hounding of a thinker like Pelagius.’

  Tarcho nodded. ‘So Christians of the future tried to have Constantine killed, and their faith restored to a lost purity. Is that what you’re getting at?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nennius said. ‘Well, perhaps. I don’t know! I am reconstructing events of centuries ago, and the mysterious motives of figures behind them, without even having available the primary evidence, the Prophecy itself.’

  Tarcho frowned. ‘It all sounds a bit devilish to me.’

  Maria mused, ‘But if you had such power, if you could deflect history – why use it that way? The Church is surviving even where the empire isn’t – like here, in Britain. It’s like a suit of clothes worn over the body of the empir
e, still standing even though the skeleton within has rotted away. If I could change history, I wouldn’t worry about the Church, for the Church is robust enough to withstand the meddling of a thousand Constantines. I think I would find a way to hurry up the day when Britain returns to Rome.’

  Nennius nodded sagely. ‘Of course. Britain has always been part of the Roman world. It is only a matter of time—’

  Tarcho snapped, ‘No. It’s different now. Rome is the last of a line of antique empires that go back to Alexander. But the world has changed, and Rome has had its day. If the Caesars ever do come back they won’t be welcomed.’ He eyed Nennius. ‘You know, you should stay here, cousin. Here in Brigantia. Our family has been many things, soldiers, stonemasons and scholars. But at heart we have always been Brigantians.’

  Nennius frowned. ‘But Aeneas of Troy came to Britain and—’

  Tarcho waved a hand. ‘Forget that garbage. Here in the north, we haven’t forgotten who we are. Our grandfather Audax grew up a slave, yet he remembered he was a Brigantian. And now the Romans have gone we’re in a position to restore Brigantia to her old power. Think of that. Why not an empire of the Brigantians this time – and with us at the top? Why, we could take on the Caesars themselves.’ His eyes gleamed.

  Isolde wondered what the Duke of the Britains and the Eburacum government would have to say about such an ambition. And Nennius looked confused. Isolde knew that exiled Britons in Rome boasted that they were descended from Trojans who had fled the Greek siege, and that such groupings as ‘Brigantians’ were just artificial labels, imposed by the Romans for their administrative usefulness.

  Was the future to resemble the past, then? Would Rome return, as Maria seemed to hope? Or, if they ever existed, could Tarcho’s old erased nations really be reborn? And what of all the Saxons milling around in the south? They weren’t going to disappear. She had a feeling that the future would be much more complicated than either Maria or Tarcho imagined, or hoped for – complicated, and bloodier—