Emperor Read Free

long as he made money at it. He had learned to cope with this. But before proud old men like his grandfather, he sometimes felt as if he was being torn in two.
    The door flap rustled heavily, leaking a little more torch light, and Cunovic could hear Brica’s screams and the obsessive chanting of the druidh.
    Ban stamped on the ground, jerky, restless. ‘It’s going badly. It’s been too long.’
    ‘You don’t know that,’ Cunovic said. ‘Leave it to the women.’
    Nectovelin growled, ‘Maybe it’s the prattling of that priest. Who could concentrate with that yammering in your ear, even on pushing out a pup?’
    When Cunovic had been a boy the priests were there to advise you on the cycle of the seasons, or on diseases of cattle or wheat–all lore passed down through generations, lore it was said it took a novice no less than twenty years of his life to memorise on Mona. In recent years things had changed. Cunovic had heard that the Romans were expelling the priesthood from Gaul, declaring it a conspiracy against the interests of their empire. So the priests went around stirring up feelings against the Romans. Besides, Nectovelin always said that the druidh with their foreign notions only served to come between the people and their gods. Who needed a priest when the goddess was visible in the landscape all around you?
    But Cunovic couldn’t resist teasing the old man. ‘If he’s in the way, grandfather, throw him out. It’s your house.’
    ‘You can’t do that,’ Ban said hastily. ‘It’s said you’ll be cursed if you throw out a druidh.’
    ‘Whether it’s true or not,’ Nectovelin said, ‘enough people believe it to cause upset. Don’t worry, grandson. We’ll stomach the priest as we stomach that Roman piss-wine your brother brings home. And we’ll get on with what’s important–caring for your boy.’ His scarred face was creased by a grudging smile. ‘Brica told me you’re planning to call him after me.’
    ‘Well, you’re seventy years old to the day, grandfather. What other choice could there be?’
    ‘Then let’s hope he grows up like me–strong, and with the chance to break a few of those big Roman noses, for I know he is born to fight.’
    Cunovic said, ‘And if it’s a girl and she’s anything like you, Nectovelin, she’ll be even more terrifying.’
    They laughed together.
    Then Brica screamed, a noise that pierced the still night air. And she began to gabble, a high-pitched, rapid speech whose strangeness froze Cunovic’s blood.
    Ban cried out and ran back to the house. Cunovic ran with him, and Nectovelin lumbered after them both.

III
    Inside the house Brica lay on her hide pallet. The circle of women, clearly exhausted themselves after the long labour, sat back, helpless.
    The paleness of Brica’s face contrasted vividly with the crimson splash between her legs, as if all her life force were draining away there. But Cunovic saw a small head, smeared with grey fluid and still misshapen from its passage through the birth canal. The baby, its body still inside Brica, was supported by the strong hand of Sula, its grandmother. Like its mother it looked very pale, and it had hair, a reddish thatch.
    And Brica, her eyes fluttering as the druidh’s had done as he prayed, was gabbling out that rapid speech. The women were distressed; some of them covered their ears to keep out the noise. Even the priest had stumbled back into the shadows of the house, his eyes wide.
    Cunovic stared, entranced. The speech was indistinct and very fast, an ugly barking–but he could make out words, he was sure.
    Sula, cradling her grandson’s head, looked up at Ban in weary despair. ‘Oh, Ban, the baby is weak, his heart flutters like a bird’s, and still he won’t come. She’s growing too tired to push.’ She had to speak up to make herself heard over Brica’s noise.
    ‘Then you must cut her,’ Ban said.
    ‘We were ready to,’ Sula said. ‘But then she started this chattering, and we