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The Emperors Babe A Novel - Bernardine Evaristo
The Emperors Babe A Novel - Bernardine Evaristo
Prologue
Amo Amas Amat
II Metamorphosis
Two Hot Chicks
Sisterfamilias (Relative Values)
Zuleika and Her Girls
Another World, Natale Solum (Native Soil)
VI Post-coital Colloquium
The Language of Love (I)
The Language of Love (II)
Amari Aliquid (Some Touch of Bitterness)
Epilogue
Vivat Zuleika
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
www.bevaristo.com
PENGUIN BOOKS
One of The Times’s ‘100 Best Books of the Decade’, November 2009
‘Sexy, clever and ingenious: a verse romp set in Roman Londinium. Why
must fiction always be in prose?’ Independent: ‘A Dozen Alternatives to the
Booker longlist’
‘Exotic, erotic and incredibly entertaining, this is, amazingly, a verse novel
you can’t put down’ Observer
‘Evaristo’s strikingly original The Emperor’s Babe makes you feel that you
are reading something that has never before been attempted, a sensation to
savour. Written in fresh, zingy, witty language that combines tags of Latin,
historically authentic references and twenty-first century teen slang, it is a
fast, exciting read whose occasional bittersweet notes build until it turns
like a ballad from comedy to tragedy … The Emperor’s Babe is a modern
work of art that uses the literary tradition with such light assurance that
everything seems new. Brushing off the dust of 1,800 years like a cobweb,
Evaristo’s golden lads and girls dance in the sun before us, glistening, frail
and real. Vivat Zuleika’ Sunday Times
‘The Emperor’s Babe is unexpectedly sassy, funny, engaging and very sexy.
Honest to God, you’ll love it’ Sunday Independent (Ireland), a Book of the
Year, 2001
‘If there is any justice in the world, The Emperor’s Babe will be a huge hit.
Fictions like Evaristo’s, overflowing with energy and originality, are as rare
as the sautéed peacock brains she has her heroine consume … Evaristo’s
triumph is to transmute politics and history into a glittering fiction whose
words leap off the page into life … brilliant’ The Times
‘Evaristo’s skill lies in taking standard metaphorical models and twisting
them in the most unusual, original, inventive ways. The Emperor’s Babe is
exactly what the title suggests: the adventures of a sassy, sexy, girl about
town … It’s also funny, engaging and a daring evocation of the possible
genesis of black British history. By puncturing the imperial pomp of Latin
vocabulary with the cut and thrust of modern street talk, Evaristo
demystifies much of the gilded decorum Rome evokes … The punchy
poetry is perfect for the rhythm of the emperor’s babe, the epitome of all
that is fast, fresh, funky’ Independent on Sunday, a Book of the Year, 2001
‘Evaristo uses her second verse novel to set about the Roman Empire with a
gleeful disregard for decorum … the ancient Romans haven’t suffered such
irreverence since Carry on Cleo … It has great charm and vitality’ Daily
Telegraph, a Book of the Year, 2001
‘Evaristo is youthful and daring, with hidden depths of wisdom and hilarity,
and she has delivered an entirely new concept for the historical novel, as
well as the London novel’ Independent
‘There are few books more quirky and original than Bernardine Evaristo’s
new offering The Emperor’s Babe. Evaristo has managed to capture, with
contemporary clarity, humour and a host of quirky characters, what London
might have been like 2,000 years ago’ New Nation
His pupils
are soaked in desire,
spiders crawl
up his forearm,
I am level
with his beige linen
Zuleika,
cherished daughter
fills
the trembling gold
and withdraws
ever so,
ever so,
ever so
and smile.
He has just made
of my greatest gift
an exile.
Osmosis
II
III
IV
VI
VII
VIII
II
III
IV
VI
* * *
and-it’ll-be-ten-bucks-more number.
Flippen ’eck! I need a bona fide husband!
I need a C-O-N-I-U-N-X!
Whadoesthatspell? Husband!’
* * *
of Rome-cum-Orgy Queen
comes a-visiting this quaint little town
Templum of Excrementum.
I feel the snakes breathe of the early sun,
I am done.
Nostalgia is a most efficient enema.
I walk into the atrium, gaze up
at the square hole of sky. You see, our villa
– JUVENAL
of groans. I hover
above the marital bed, the cat-gut
II
III
My brain is dripping
through to the floor, my light
in a pool
at the top of my sodden thighs;
my breathing, my ribcage
is crushing my lungs. I am dizzy.
I am cloying,
my flesh has sunk
on the ground,
I will vaporize, a puff of steam,
when he is in residence.
Come to think of it, Venus would love it.
‘Congratulations,’ I repeated.
‘Oh, that,’ and he went back to his True Love.
middle-income bracket.
Faeces float on the water,
* * *
A pathological comfort-buyer?
Barrels were being rolled off a barge
Her head
comes apart in two sections,
a fringe
with ringlets, plaited cone at the back, air
wood smeared
on to oily cloth, she
of them all,
my amber necklace
is unclasped, gold
swan earrings slid out,
oval brooch
unpinned so my gown
away
from my mind, the day is over,
the tangle
of vines in my shoulders, I
recline
into sighing breasts, Valeria
massages my fingers,
which ones are mine?
Aemilia
leans over from behind,
to steady,
I am too often alone,
to a bunch of emperitos.’
We were in Mount Venus. The bar was packed
Beauty 8
Age 7
Dispositio 9
CV 10
References 10
Total 44
Songbird Surprise
was my favourite dish,
I had imagined
being crushed into the imperiales
purple robes
of Emperor Septimius Severus,
finally,
in my triclinium,
a lyre-player
in the background,
as we reclined
on sofas, the low marble table
in asparagus sauce
with quails’ eggs, dormice
cooked in honey
and poppy seed, salted fish
courgettes, boiled
whole, sautéed peacock
brains,
melt in my mouth,
feathers
and peppered
rose petals,
sweet wine cakes to follow, olives
with thyme,
is on our side, all drowned down
like a gladiator,
my Libyan, my lover-to-be,
my libidinous warrior,
my belcher,
of my shoulders, my shimmering
cerise gown, décolleté,
my shining bazookers,
the rise and fall,
me squeal, growled,
Are you ready for war?
My Legionarius
for my forging.
Are you ready for war, soldier?
whisper obscenities,
plant blue and purple flowers
on my barren landscape;
here,
beseige me,
battery-ram my forted gateway,
on your back,
Septimius,
it is crushing my carriage,
the weight of a soldier trained to march
tortoiseshell,
on the battlefield, on
your back,
making the whole world Roman.
suspended
on feathers we were
borne on wind windows framed azure sky far off silver
wicks flickering
embroidered silk throws
thrown to the ground were crushed indigo and crimson
anemones we did not stir soaked
limp on my shoulder
deep breaths inflating his chest lifting
mine melded
chin into moist arc
of thick neck
mid-
summer mid-
night memory blaze
not since
the first months of life
had I felt another complete
myself
I knew
not
where I began
VI
Post-coital Colloquium
2, 4, 6, 8!
Who should we exterminate?
Be honest, Zeeks,
for all your pathetic poetic pretensions,
raising my goblet.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.
‘Five boys.’
Now it was my turn to look away.
spear-carrying guards,
and a house full of hushed slaves.
a pastel-pink micro-mini
(usually the attire of ladies nocturnae,
Basta! he bellowed,
and, swishing his toga like a toreador,
Until Quiescete!–shouted
by the coppers at the bottom of every tier,
Encore! Encore!
My tears subverted into blood vessels,
had I cried.
Abyssus Abyssum
(One Depravity Leads to Another)
None of us is guilty,
each of us took part, as limb
was severed from bleeding heart, I lost
my mind
was flung wide open,
found that demons danced inside,
you only know you truly live
when those before you –
– VIRGIL
(a) happy
(b) having my assets plundered
(c) been to the countryside
(d) poems are pouring outa me like piss.’
in other words,
what’s for dinner tonight, darling.’
Scarce a day has passed wherein we have not been entertained with the recital of some
poems.
– PLINY JR
barbarian Hrrathaghervood!’
She blew him a kiss, and winked.
‘Come rant and rave at me, bay-bee, anytime!’
Next up was Pomponius Tarquin,
my cubiculum, sheepishly.
It was the morning after.
– OVID
I deepened my breaths,
you ripped its succulent hide apart
with your hands and proffered
with chunks of bread dipped in garum.
dying,
I slap you again,
to crawl
on your tied hands and knees, laughing
I mount,
we are in mud, mud and more mud,
in sludge,
you are helpless,
beasts,
with no history, no future
taunting.
‘Don’t stop now,’ he panics.
‘Please, Zuleika,’
‘Say the magic words.’
‘You are!’
‘I am what?’
‘You are –
my imperatrix, my canny dominatrix,
please, Zuleika,
take me …’
he spumes
into me and we are all pulpa,
the swollen river
has become a torrent,
your head
gently, rinse the mud from your curls,
you hold me
so tight I do not fall,
we walk
back to the tent, me
leading you,
we dry each other off, gently,
into Rome.
are adorned,
with flowers and ribbons
Bellissima! Bellissima!
they call out to your new bride.
where we sleep
the sleep of newborns,
I am your life,
we will re-create each other,
like a volcano,
the sun inside me, lightning
striking me,
I am on fire,
I am riding a wave,
I grab the mud either side
back my head
and howl.
X
When You Least Expect
you
have
murdered me
you bastard
you have
died
at
York
Albatross
Requiescat in pace,
there is no more war, soldier.
I rise,
the room is spinning and I am flying,
I have wings,
my span is great,
I take flight.
The Language of Love (III)
for a shit.
Exit Stratagem
‘Innit.’
‘I can’t imagine life without you.’
‘The best!’
‘It was all that bloody schooling that did it.
Go home.’
EPILOGUE
Vivat Zuleika