Emperor by Stephen Baxter Page A

British wave crashed against sturdy Roman block there was a bright froth of blood.
    Nectovelin, beside him, pointed. ‘Look over there.’
    Marching from the west, Cunedda made out more compact Roman units, tramping steadily towards the fray.
    ‘I’ve been counting the cohorts,’ Nectovelin said grimly. ‘I reckon we face three Roman legions today. Ten cohorts each, see? We’ve already broken ourselves on two of them. And now here comes the third, to mop us up.’
    ‘How long was I out?’
    Nectovelin shrugged. ‘Heartbeats. Not long.’
    Cunedda glanced up and saw that the sun hadn’t moved perceptibly from where it had been when the charge had begun. ‘And yet the battle is already lost.’
    ‘Oh, there’s plenty of killing to be done. But, yes. In fact we lost it the moment we charged. Look.’ He pointed to the rear of the British lines, where the non-combatants, the wives and children and traders, were hastily packing up and fleeing. ‘The Roman cavalry will come after them, but the women and children ought to get away. Agrippina has a chance.’ He laughed darkly. ‘Never did think much of Roman cavalry.’
    ‘What of the princes?’
    ‘Who can say?’
    ‘Nectovelin, in the thick of the fighting–the way the Romans killed–it was relentless.’
    ‘This is the way civilised men kill,’ Nectovelin said. ‘It is an industry. They kill as they make pots. To leave a man to fight again is, to them’–he waved a hand–‘a waste of effort.’
    ‘Why did you pull me out of there?’
    ‘Because, by Coventina’s baggy quim, though the day is lost, Cunedda, the war is long. We’ll find Agrippina, and we’ll think again.’
    They turned from the grinding battle and slipped away.

XVI
    Agrippina woke to Cunedda shaking her shoulder.
    “Pina! You have to see this.’
    Reluctantly Agrippina rolled onto her back. She was hot under her thin woollen blanket, and her head was heavy, her throat dry, her bladder full. The air was still smoky from last night’s fire, but strong light poured through chinks in the conical thatched roof. It was late in the day. She had slept too long again, and would suffer from a sore head all day. And yet she did not want to wake up, not to another dismal day in defeated Camulodunum.
    The house was empty, save for herself and Cunedda, whose family had fled north, away from the Roman advance. But Cunedda was here, kneeling at her side. Agrippina reached up to stroke his face. He was growing his beard. With the Romans so close he didn’t dare indulge in such Mediterranean fashions as shaving; sullen in defeat the Catuvellaunians were turning on each other. The beard, thin, straggling, really didn’t suit him at all, but she liked the way it held his scent.
    The love between them had not recovered from that terrible moment on the beach. But there was tenderness, and comfort.
    ‘Come back to bed,’ she said, still sleepy.
    ‘We can’t spend our whole lives in bed, ‘Pina. Besides, Nectovelin has something you must see.’ His eyes were bright with curiosity. Even after the awful shock of the lost battle he was too interested in the world to just lie down and die.
    If that was so, why couldn’t she feel the same? Her bitterness burned inside her like a blade fresh from the forge. A Roman, a man with a Roman name, Marcus Allius, had killed her little brother, in a careless, arrogant moment. But the Romans were simply too powerful. It was as if Mandubracius had been struck down by lightning; what use would it be to raise a sword against a thundercloud? What use was anger, even?
    She had lost hope, then. And yet her heart beat and her lungs filled. She was still alive. And here was dear Cunedda.
    She sighed, rolled over stiffly, and sat up. ‘Give me a minute.’
    He eyed her mischievously. ‘You want any help?’
    She snorted. ‘Not unless you want to hold the cup for my piss.’
    She rummaged through her clothing until she found a loose tunic that didn’t smell too bad.