Emperor by Stephen Baxter Read Free Book Online Page B

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