Stephen Baxter - Coalescent

She stood between her people and the interlopers. She drew herself to her full height, disregarding the dirt on her face and legs, her disheveled clothes, the people in their mud-colored clothes behind her.

The leader hadn’t even noticed her. “Riothamus — “ One of the soldiers tapped his shoulder, indicating Regina. He seemed surprised to find himself facing a woman. He asked, “Are you the leader here?”

“If you wish it. And what rank are you, riothamus ?” She pronounced the word mockingly, masking disappointment. It was Latin, but a version of a British word — ’high king.’ This was no soldier, no officer of the imperial army, but a mere warlord.

He nodded. “That is the only rank I have, and not one I wished for.”

“Oh, really?”

He spread his hands. “I am not here to harm you.”

“Oh,” she said. “And you did not harm this boy, Bran, by burning down his home.”

“I did him the least harm that way.”

“Your definition of harm is interesting.”

He grinned, his eyebrows raised. “Defiance! We have found a new Boudicca, boys.” He won a ripple of laughter from his troops.

She drew herself up. “You will not mock us. We are living poorly here; I can’t deny that. But if you think we are illiterate Saxons—”

“Oh, I can see you are no Saxons.” He waved a hand. “Your grain pit, for instance … I have seen some Saxon farmers. There are many in this country already, you know, off to the east. The way they do things is sometimes better, sometimes worse than what you have worked out here. But they do not do things quite like this. And it is the threat of the Saxons that has brought me here. Listen to me,” he said, raising his voice to address the rest of the people. “Things have changed. The Saxons are coming. ”

“We know that,” Regina said.

He growled, “Perhaps you have heard of Vortigern. That foolish kinglet was much troubled by Pict raiders from the north. So he invited in the Saxons, to help keep the Picts at bay.” It had been an old trick of the Romans, Regina knew, to allow in one set of enemies as allies to oppose another lot. “I will not deny that the Saxons did a good job. They are sea pirates after all, and fared well against the Picts in their clumsy coracles.

“But,” said the riothamus , “the Saxons, under their brute of a leader Hengest, who is already notorious on the continent, betrayed Vortigern. They brought in more and more of their cousins, and demanded more and more in tribute from Vortigern. But the more they took from him, the less he could pay them, and the weaker he became.

“Now Vortigern is dead, his council slain. And now that they have a foothold in the east, the Saxons are becoming greedy.

“You may have heard of their cruelty. They are not the Romans! They hate towns and villas and roads, all things of the Empire. And they hate the British. They are spreading across the countryside like a plague. They will burn these flimsy huts, they will drive you out of here, and if you resist they will kill you.”

“The Emperor will help us,” somebody called.

The riothamus laughed, but it was a grim sound. “There have been pleas. No help comes. We must help ourselves. I will help you,” he said boldly. “I am building a new kingdom in the west — I have a capital there. It is a place the Romans themselves struggled to defeat, and it will see off a few hairy Saxons.” There was a little laughter at that, and Regina saw the skill in his mixture of fear and humor. “But I need you with me. The land is emptying. Everybody flees, fearing the raiders. And if you come with me—” He drew his sword, and flashed its polished surfaces in the air above his head. “ — I swear before the gods that I and Chalybs will protect you to my own death!” Chalybs, which he pronounced Calib , was the Latin for “steel.”

He was met by uncertain silence.

Regina stepped forward to face him. “We don’t need you, or your shining Chalybs. For all your posturing and speeches you are just another thug, another warlord, as bad as the Saxons or the Picts.”

The riothamus eyed her. “You have done well to survive here, Boudicca. Few have prospered so well. I can see you are a strong woman.”

She glared. “Strong enough not to be patronized by a popinjay like you.”

He seemed to want to convince her. “I am earnest in what I say. I am not a Saxon or a Pict. I am like you. I am your kind. I grew up in Eburacum, where my father was one of the landowners …”

“Earnest or not — son of a citizen or not — you are still a warlord. And if I submit to you it will only be because I have no choice, because of your force, not because of your rhetoric.”

He laughed. “Are you bargaining with me? I offer you survival, with me, in my compound. But you want more than survival, don’t you?”

She glared at him. “I am old now—”

“Not so old.”

“ — and I may not live to see the day when the emperors return. When we don’t have to scratch at the land like animals, and live in fear of barbarians. I may not see it. But my daughter will, and her daughters. And that is what I want for my family. For them to be ready …” She fell silent, suddenly aware of how wistful she sounded, before this silent tower of muscle in his scuffed cuirass.

“I have met Romans,” he said softly. “I have dealt with them in southern Gaul and elsewhere. You know what the Romans call us? Celtae. It means ‘barbarians.’ Their Empire is a thousand years old. We were barbarians before our assimilation, and we are barbarians now. That is how they think of us.”

She shook her head tightly. “My daughter is no barbarian. And when things get back to normal—”

He held up his hand. “You are determined that the light of civilization will not go out. Very well. But until that day of blessed recovery comes, until the Emperor rides in to tell us what to do, we must fend for ourselves. Do you see that? Well, of course you do, for I can see what you have built here. You must come with me — you and your family, and the others who depend on you. I can protect you in the dangerous times to come … You can’t do it all yourself, Boudicca,” he said more gently.

“And if we refuse?”

He shrugged. “I can’t let you stay here, for what you have built will give succor to the Saxons.”

“What will you do — burn us out, as the Saxons have our neighbors?”

“I hope not,” he said. But he was still and silent as a statue, and she could see his determination.

Once again she faced an upheaval in her life — the abandonment of all she had built, the security she had made. But it could not be helped.

“Do you make iron?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes,” he said. “Not well. But we have begun.” He seemed amused. “Are you assessing me?”

“I would not throw my lot in with a fool,” she snapped. “I have lived too long, and seen too many fools die. If we come with you, it will not be as captives, or slaves, or even servants. We will live with you as equals. And we will live inside your fort — we will not grub in the fields beyond, exposed to the blades of the Saxons.”

The moment stretched, and she wondered if she had pushed him too far. And she was aware, too, of the crusted mud that clung to her legs and stiffened her hair. But she held her nerve, and returned his startled gaze.

At last he laughed out loud. “I would not dare challenge you, my Boudicca. Very well. As equals.”

She nodded, her heart pounding. “Tell me one more thing, riothamus . What is your name?”

“My name is Artorius.” It was a Roman name, but his t was soft, and he spoke in the Welsh style: ar-