Emperor by Stephen Baxter Page A

save your own cowardly hides. Isn’t that true?’
    In fact Agrippina thought Nectovelin was unfair. It was the priests’ own laws which made it impossible for them to submit to Roman rule. In their way, the druidh had integrity, even if it was suicidal.
    And this young man now proved he wasn’t a priest for nothing. He said softly, ‘Would you fight Roman legions without your gods at your back?’
    Nectovelin roared, ‘Who are you to stand between me and my gods, boy?’
    ‘Oh, shut up, you bully.’ A burly farmer called Braint got to her feet. Her hair was filthy, like a mass of smoky old thatch. She was an immense woman, as muscular as a man, but Agrippina knew she had raised six children and managed one of the largest farms in the area single-handed since the death of her husband. She said, ‘I’m going to say what none of you men has the balls to say in front of these posturing princes. We should sue for peace.’
    After a brief, shocked silence, there were muttered replies. ‘The Romans make peace only on their terms–it would be surrender!’ ‘We can’t fight them. They have the resources of a continent. We have only a few farms.’ ‘Surrender? Cassivellaunus kicked Caesar himself back into the sea. We can do the same again!…’
    Cunedda surprised Agrippina by standing. He was one of the youngest here, but his status, as a junior member of Cunobelin’s line, won him a moment of silence. ‘With respect to Braint, I don’t think peace is possible. It’s gone too far for that. And we Catuvellaunians are in great danger. The Romans certainly recognise us as their strongest foe, and so we have more to lose than anybody else. Think: if we fight and lose, our power will be destroyed by the Romans.’
    Nectovelin growled, ‘And if we fight and win?’
    ‘Then the Romans will come back, and their vengeance will be terrible. For they cannot afford to appear weak before their subject peoples.’
    Caratacus’s lip curled. The prince wore armour, a leather chest-plate, and cut his hair short, so the lines of his scalp were revealed. His brother was like him but wore his hair in a long, unruly tangle. Caratacus snapped, ‘Then what do you suggest, nephew?’
    ‘That we fight,’ Cunedda said simply. ‘I am no warrior–my own life will be spent cheaply. But we must fight as Cassivellaunus did. We must fight the Romans to a standstill. And then, with our strength proven, we must come to an honourable peace.’ He sat down, trembling.
    Agrippina patted his arm. ‘Well said,’ she whispered.
    ‘If they listen.’
    Nectovelin stood again. ‘So we must fight,’ he said gravely. ‘The question is, how?’
    Togodumnus called out shrilly, ‘The boy said it! Like Cassivellaunus!’
    ‘Yes,’ said Nectovelin, ‘but the Cassivellaunus who won, not the one who lost.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘We must use our strengths,’ Nectovelin insisted. Nobody knew how many troops the Romans planned to field, he said. Reports claimed that many thousands had already landed, and there were more of their terrifying ships on the horizon. But all those Romans needed to be fed, every day. ‘We know the land, they don’t. A corn field becomes a weapon if burning it leaves a hundred legionaries hungry. We draw them in, as far as they will come. And we wear them down, bit by bit.’
    ‘Then you are suggesting raids,’ said Togodumnus. ‘Ambushes.’
    Braint nodded. ‘Cassivellaunus did that. And he used delaying tactics too. He had his allies send embassies to negotiate for peace. All of it used up Caesar’s energy and patience.’
    The druidh got to his feet. ‘Sneak attacks? Delays? Perhaps you should go back to your own country, Nectovelin, for I hear the Brigantians make a living off stealing each other’s cattle.’
    Nectovelin glowered.
    But Caratacus was immediately on his feet. ‘The priest is right. We must fight with devastating force. We must gather an army of our allies and meet the Romans in the