Coalescent dc-1

by Stephen Baxter

  And perhaps, in Britain’s greatest city, other opportunities would open up. Before setting out, with no clear intention in mind, she had taken the three matres, her deepest symbol of family, carefully wrapped them in her softest cloth, and lodged them in her luggage.

  * * *

  Artorius held his war council in Ceawlin’s reception room. It was a large, well-appointed chamber, but it was crowded, for it held no less than ten petty kings and their advisers.

  Regina quickly got to know a few of these ambitious warlords. Aside from Ceawlin, two struck her as significant.

  One was a very young man, barely twenty it seemed, who called himself Ambrosius Aurelianus. In his shining body armor he was a slab of muscle and determination, and it seemed to Regina that he would follow Artorius wherever he asked — and perhaps, on Artorius’s inevitable death, take up Chalybs and wield that mighty sword himself against the Saxon hordes.

  The other was a thin, intense man called Arvandus. He was actually an official of the Roman Empire, a prefect in the troubled, half-dislocated province of Gaul. But his ambition was clearly to rule not in the Emperor’s name but in his own right. Regina fretted that because he had already betrayed one ruler, in the Emperor, he would likely have few qualms in betraying another.

  Artorius, in his zeal and passion, seemed to have no idea that such complexities might be brewing among his nominal followers, that these men were not like the loyal soldiers with whom he had fought side by side, but men with their own goals and ambitions, even their own dreams: In Artorius’s blindness Regina felt she saw his destiny clearly shaped.

  They spent much time discussing the tactical situation across the country. Information was patchy, the situation complex. Though the Saxons were unified in their hostility to the British and the Roman legacy, they were not a politically coordinated force, and their advances were opportunistic and scattered. Meanwhile the British response was equally fragmentary.

  “But what is sure,” said Artorius grimly, “is that there isn’t a blade of grass east of Londinium that isn’t now in Saxon hands. And time is short …”

  He described the Saxons’ destruction of the town of Calleva Atrebatum. They had not just slaughtered or driven off the population, not just plundered and burned down the remaining buildings; the Saxons had also hurled blocks of building stone down the wells, so the site of the town could never be reoccupied. It was an erasure, systematic and deliberate.

  “And by such acts they are erasing our will as well as our towns,” Artorius said. “We still far outnumber the Saxon settlers. But in some parts you feel as if the Saxons have won already. While the old elite flee to Armorica, I’ve seen farmers give up their lands to the Saxons without a fight. But if they think the Saxons will welcome them, they’ve another think coming. For the Saxons don’t want us, we British! Oh, no. The Saxons just want our country. And if we don’t oppose them now — it may take them decades, but in the end they will kill us or push us out, bit by bit, until we are banished from the land that was once ours, our only refuge in the rough lands to the west and north. And the worst of it is, nobody will even realize it’s happening …”

  Now Arvandus said, his heavily accented voice as thick as oil, “Perhaps we should wait for the response to our plea to the magister militum.”

  Regina had seen a copy of this letter to the Roman military commander in Gaul. “To the thrice consul, the groans of the British … The barbarians drive us to the sea and the sea drives us back to the barbarians. Between these two types of death we are either slaughtered or drowned …” It had given her hope that such a missive had been sent to the Roman authorities, even if it was stated in such ludicrous terms.

  “If the magister were going to reply,” Ceawlin said, “he would have done so by now. There will be no help from Rome. Besides, they are too busy facing the Huns.”

  “Then we should try again,” Regina said.

  Every head swiveled. She was the only woman here, save for the servants.

  She said, “We will not defeat barbarians by acting like barbarians. We must ensure we maintain our alliance with the civilized world. That is the only way things will ever return to normal.”

  Ceawlin laughed. “ Normal! Woman, what is normal ? It is a generation since Constantius. There are children — adults — all across Britain now who have never heard a word of Latin …”

  “The Empire has lasted a thousand years,” she said calmly. “We can wait a thousand days for the magister to reply.”

  Artorius shook his head angrily. “I will crawl to no magister, in Gaul or Rome or anywhere else. This is our island. We will defend it, and we will build it anew — not the Roman way, not the Saxon way, but our way.”

  There was a silence; none of them seemed sure how to respond.

  Artorius stood. “We will break. Eat, bathe, sleep — with your kindness, Ceawlin.” The fat negotiatore nodded his head. “We will talk later.”

  After the meeting broke up Artorius came to Regina and led her to a quiet corner of Ceawlin’s colonnaded courtyard, away from the others. “Why do you betray me?” he demanded in a sharp whisper. “I found you in your wretched scraping on the hillside and made you what you are. I brought you into this council. Why will you not support me before the others?”

  “Because I don’t agree with you,” she said. “The adventure you are planning in Gaul. Your drive for the purple—”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you worried that I will make the mistake of Constantius, and drain the island of its strength?”

  She tried to explain how she felt. “Yes, there is that. But there is more. I think you are being — seduced. Your war against the Saxons is justified, because it is clear that given the chance they would kill every one of us, and fill our island with their own bawling, blond-haired brats.

  “But now you are talking of fighting for its own sake. I think to you war as an adventure, a great game. But this is no game of ’soldiers,’ Artorius. The tokens you spend are not stones or beads of glass. They are men — humans, each with a soul, an awareness, as bright and vivid as yours or mine.”

  He looked at her blankly. “Regina—”

  “Your soldiers believe there were better people in the past,” she said, “who built the great ruins at which they gawp. I wonder if people will be better in the future. Perhaps our remote grandchildren will understand the sanctity of life, and to them using the lives of others, as if they were of no more consequence than bits of stone, will be as unthinkable as for me to pluck out my own heart.”

  “But until that happy day, we flawed mortals must get along as best we can,” said Artorius dryly. “How do you think the Empire itself was built, save through war? How do you think its peace was kept for so long, save through endless war?” He grinned. “And — Regina, if it is a game it is a marvelous game. The world is an arena for the ambitious, and the prize for victory is no petty favor from a stadium crowd. What else is life for?”

  “Once you prized my strength of character,” she said. “My defiance.”

  “But now you are starting to irritate me, my Morrigan.” He stepped closer to her, his face even. “Do not oppose me tomorrow.”

  When he had gone she stood for a time, in the cool shade of the colonnade, thinking through her problems. Artorius was determined on this course, a course that must lead him to disaster. And then there was Brica with her moon-faced barbarian boy.

  Both her problems had a single solution.

  It is time, she told herself. She must not go back to the dunon. Perhaps she had anticipated this decision, for she had after all packed the matres, the heart of her home. The decision made, all that remained was to work out how to achieve her new goal.

  And yet, standing here, she felt suddenly old, and weak, and tired. Must she do this? Must she uproot herself again, build yet another life? And would she have to fight even her own daughter to do it? But she knew there was no choice, not anymore.

  As it happened, an opportunity to get wha
t she wanted showed itself before the next council.

  * * *

  Ceawlin sought her out in her small chamber. Standing in the doorway, his bulk seemed to fill the room.

  “I saw the tension between you and the riothamus,” he said evenly. “If I can help—”

  She eyed him, calculating, wondering what motives had brought him here. “Perhaps you can. I need passage.”

  “Passage? Where?”

  She took a breath. “Rome.”

  “Why do you want to go to Rome?”

  “To find my mother.”

  He gazed at her, his eyes invisible behind layers of fat. “You fear Artorius. You think he is leading us all to disaster. You, specifically.”

  “My relationship with Artorius isn’t your concern. Can you get me a passage?”

  He shrugged massively. “I am a negotiatore. I can provide anything — for a price.” He considered.

  “Come with me.”

  He walked with her out of the house and along the line of the wall beside the river, heading west toward the bridge.

  After a short time they came to the docks. A massive series of timber quays and waterfronts had been constructed in the shadow of the bridge. Behind the quayside was a row of warehouses, and behind them, as Ceawlin pointed out to her, was a district of workshops. There was a handful of boats in the quays. Most of them were small, but one was larger, with bright green sails furled against its masts.

  “Here is the heart of Londinium. Goods from the heart of the Empire flow into these wharfs and warehouses, and our goods flow out. The workshops house crafstmen — shipwrights, carpenters, metalworkers, leatherworkers — to service the ships, and to process the trade goods. Once British wheat fed half the western Empire, and our metal clad the mighty armies that held Gaul. Now the port is much declined, of course. But there is still a profit to be made,” he said, patting his belly complacently.

  “Why have you brought me here, Ceawlin?”

  He leaned close, so she could feel his breath on her ear; there was a stink of urine about him. “To see that green-sailed ship. It belongs to the Empire. It is bound for the coast of Spain — and from there, my note of credit will buy you passage to Rome itself. Once you are out of British waters, away from the raiding Germans, the sailing is safe.”

  “How much?”

  “More than you can pay,” he said lightly, as if it were a joke. “I know that you are a creature of Artorius, with no wealth of your own. There is nothing you own that I could want — your pathetic bits of jewelry are of little value …”

  “Then why are we talking?”

  “I do have other — ah, needs. Call it an appetite, perhaps.” He lifted his hand to her breast. He pinched her through the layers of her clothes, hard; his hands felt strong despite their pudginess.

  She closed her eyes. “So that’s it. You disgust me.”

  “That hardly concerns me,” he said.

  “How do I know you won’t betray me? Take what you want and—”

  “ — and leave you stranded here? Because I would be stranded, too. And you would no doubt go to Artorius, who would no doubt have me killed.” He winked at her. “Of course you could do that now. Oh, you see, you already have the upper hand in our negotiation. I am a poor businessman!”

  She nodded. “What now?”

  He eyed her with an intensity she hadn’t experienced since Amator. “Perhaps you could grant me a little on account.” He began to pull up his tunic.

  So there, in the shadow of the river wall, she knelt before him. His crotch stank of stale urine. As he grew excited he began to thrust, threatening to choke her.

  “But it is not you I want,” he said, gasping. “Not a fat old sow like you. Your daughter. That is the bargain, lady Regina. Send me Brica. If not I will risk the wrath of Artorius himself …” He grabbed her head and pushed her face into his crotch. “Aah.”

  * * *

  Artorius faced his council. He was naked, save only for an iron torc around his neck, made for him by Myrddin. He had shaved his body, and the hair on his head was thickened with limewash so it stood up in great spikes from his head. This was how his ancestors had met Julius Caesar, he believed, and how he would challenge the latest holder of the purple.

  His council gazed at him, frozen in shock. In the stony expressions of men like Ceawlin, Regina saw veiled amusement, even contempt. Only young Ambrosius Aurelianus stared at this savage, antique figure with something like awe.

  You fool, Artorius, she thought.

  Artorius said, “Many centuries ago — so the bards say — a great host of those the Romans call barbarians, the Celtae, thrust across Europe and burned down Rome itself. There were British among them — so it is said. What can be done once will be done again …”

  He was calling for a great rising of the Celtae — for their culture had been swept aside, he argued, first by the Caesars and now by the Christian popes. It would be a campaign to free Britain and Europe once and for all from the yoke of Rome. And he would do that by taking Rome for himself.

  “Some accuse me of seeking the purple,” Artorius said now. “The mantle of the Emperor. But I seek the mantle, not of the Caesars, but of Brutus and Lear and Cymbeline, the forefathers of Britain. And the gods who will protect me are not the Christ and His father, but the older gods, the true gods, Lud and Coventina and Sulis and the triple mothers …”

  Ceawlin maneuvered himself close to Regina. There was a faint stink of urine even now.

  Regina closed her eyes. His stink made her gorge rise, as it had done that day by the river wall. And yet she must put that aside, and think with the clarity for which she prayed daily to the matres.

  Brica would be harmed by her contact with this fat pig. But the family would be harmed more badly if she sat by while Artorius submitted himself to his suicidal venture, and all he had built was cast to the winds, all the protection she had carefully accrued dissipated. Brica was the most precious person in the world to her. But together they were family. And the family, its continuity into the future, was of more importance than any individual.

  There was only one choice.

  She whispered to Ceawlin, “One condition. Don’t make her pregnant.”

  Ceawlin sat back, and the stink of him receded a little.

  Artorius had done talking now. His colleagues — those who would follow him across Europe, and those who would betray him before he walked out of this room — cheered and yelled alike.

  Chapter 23

  Lucia took a bus to the Venezia. From there it was a short walk to the Piazza Navona. She took a seat at an open-air cafй and sipped an iced tea. It was a bright January day.

  The Piazza was a long, rectangular space surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. The square was crammed with street painters and vendors selling bags and hats and bits of jewelry from suitcases. There were no less than three fountains here. The one at the center was the Fountain of the Four Rivers, four great statues to represent the Ganges, the Danube, the Plate, and the Nile. When she was small Lucia had wondered why the Nile statue was blindfolded; it was because when the statue was created the source of the Nile had still been a mystery.

  This pretty piazza was one of her favorite places in Rome. She wondered how Daniel could have guessed that. Then she decided she was being foolish; it was just coincidence. She glanced at her watch: a quarter past three. She sipped her tea and, masked by her blue glasses, flinched from the speculative stares of the passing boys and men.

  Of course she had no right to expect him to be here. It had been three weeks since that chance meeting by the lake, and even that, contaminated by Pina’s hostility, had only lasted a few minutes.

  She was pretty sure Pina hadn’t told any of the cupola what had happened before the Temple of Aesculapius. But since then Pina had found a reason to accompany Lucia every time she left the Crypt. For the first few days she had even followed Lucia to the bathroom. On her last trip out, though, Pina, busy with other
chores, had let her go alone. Perhaps Pina had relaxed a little. Lucia hadn’t dared do anything that day. Today, however, she had again managed to leave the Crypt’s aboveground offices without Pina seeing her, as far as she could tell. And so Lucia had taken the chance.

  But she had wasted her time. Twenty past three. This was stupid. She began to collect together her bag, the magazine she had spread on the table for cover. Maybe it was for the best, she thought. After all, if this boy had turned up, what could she possibly have said to him? And besides -

  “Hi.” He was standing before her, no sunglasses this time, that high forehead glistening with sweat. “I’m sorry I’m late. The damn bus broke down and I had to run.”

  She was sitting there, foolishly clutching her bag.

  He sat down. “But you know what? I wasn’t worried. I told myself that the Law of Sod wouldn’t let me down. Today was the one day in three weeks I am late, so today is the day you would come …” He grinned. “Sorry.”

  She put her bag down under her seat, and in doing so nearly knocked over her iced tea. Daniel had to grab it. “Don’t apologize,” she said. Even her voice sounded awkward. “I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s me who hasn’t turned up for three weeks.”

  “You had no reason to. You don’t know me.” He looked more serious. “Anyhow, I know you have difficulties. That bulldog of a sister of yours is very protective.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” she said defensively.

  He studied her, his blue eyes wide.

  A waiter in white shirt and bow tie slid past their table with menus. Daniel quickly ordered more iced tea for them both. The waiter smiled at them, and moved a little bowl of dried flowers from a neighboring table.

  “How about that. He thinks we’re on a date.”