Caesar (16 page)

“Well, as the Germani are not Druids, there seems no point in felling their trees,” said Caesar to his apprehensive legates. “Nor do I intend to take my soldiers into that kind of horror. We've shown our fangs, and that's as much as we can do, I think. Back to Gallia Comata.”

This time, however, the bridge didn't come down entirely. Only the two hundred feet of it closest to the German bank were demolished; Caesar left the rest still standing, erected a strongly fortified camp equipped with one tower tall enough to see into Germania for miles, and garrisoned it with the Fifth Alauda under the command of Gaius Volcatius Tullus.

It was the end of September, still high summer by the seasons; the Belgae were on their knees, but one more campaign would see a permanent cessation to Belgic resistance. From his bridge across the Rhenus, Caesar pushed westward into the lands of the Eburones, already devastated. If Ambiorix was there, he would have to be captured. The Eburones were his people, but it was impossible for a king to rule if his people no longer existed. Therefore the Eburones would disappear from the catalogue of the Druids. An objective King Commius of the Atrebates applauded; his lands were increasing rapidly, and he had the people to fill them. The title High King of the Belgae grew ever closer. Quintus Cicero, however, was not so lucky. Because he had a happy knack with soldiers, Caesar had given him command of the Fifteenth Legion, the only one still composed entirely of raw troops who had not yet seen battle. Word of the extermination of the Eburones had flown across the river into Germania, with the result that the Sugambri decided to help Caesar in an unofficial capacity. They boated across to Belgica and contributed their mite to Belgic misery. Unfortunately the sight of a poorly formed and unruly Roman column was too much to bear; the Sugambri fell on the Fifteenth with glee, and the Fifteenth panicked so badly that Quintus Cicero and his tribunes could do nothing. Two cohorts were needlessly killed in the confusion, but before the Sugambri could kill more, Caesar arrived with the Tenth. Shrieking with mingled joy and alarm, the Sugambri scampered off to leave Caesar and Quintus Cicero trying to restore order. Which took all day.

“I've let you down,” said Quintus Cicero, tears in his eyes.

“No, not at all. They're unblooded and nervous. All that German forest. These things happen, Quintus. Had I been with them, I doubt matters would have been different. It's their vile centurions at fault, not my legate.”

“If you'd been leading them, you would have seen whose fault it was and not let them fall into total disorder on the march,” said Quintus Cicero, unconsoled.

Caesar threw an arm about his shoulders and shook him gently. “Perhaps,” he said, “but not surely. Anyway, we shall prove me truth of it. You can have the Tenth. The Fifteenth is going to be stuck with me for many moons to come. I'll have to go across the Alps to Italian Gaul this autumn, and the Fifteenth will come with me. I'll march it into stupor and I'll drill it into puppet dolls. Including its slack centurions.”

“Does this mean I'll be packing my trunks with Silanus?” Quintus Cicero asked.

“I sincerely hope not, Quintus! You're with me until you ask to go.” His arm tightened, his hand squeezed. “You see, Quintus, I've come to think of you as the great Cicero's big brother. He might fight a superb action in the Forum, but in the field he couldn't fight his way out of a sack. To each his own. You're the Cicero I prefer any day.” Words which were to stay with Quintus Cicero during the years to come, words which were to cause much pain, greater acrimony, awful rifts within the Tullius Cicero family. For Quintus could never forget them, nor discipline himself not to love the man who said them. Blood ruled. But hearts could ache despite that. Oh, better perhaps that he had never served with Caesar! Yet had he not, the great Cicero would always have dictated his every thought, and Quintus would never have become his own man.

And so that strife-torn year wore down for Caesar. He put the legions into winter camp very early, two with Labienus in a new camp among the Treveri, two in the lands of the ever-loyal Lingones along the Sequana River, and six around Agedincum, the main oppidum of the Senones.

He prepared to depart for Italian Gaul, planning to escort Rhiannon and his son as far as her villa outside Arausio, and also planning to find a pedagogue for the boy. What was the matter with him, that he had no interest in the Greeks on the beach at Ilium for ten long years, in the rivalry between Achilles and Hector, in the madness of Ajax, in the treachery of Thersites? Had he asked these things of Rhiannon, she might have answered tartly that Orgetorix was not yet four years old; but as he said nothing of it to her, he went on interpreting the child's behavior in the light of what he had been at the same age, and didn't understand that the child of a genius might turn out to be just an ordinary little boy.

At the end of November he called another pan-Gallic assembly, this one at the Remi oppidum of Durocortorum. The reason for the congress was not discussion. Caesar charged Acco, the leader of the Senones, with conspiring to incite insurrection. He conducted a formal Roman trial in the prescribed manner, though in one hearing only: witnesses, cross-examination of witnesses, a jury composed of twenty-six Romans and twenty-five Gauls, advocates to speak for the prosecution and the defense. Caesar presided himself, with Cotus of the Aedui, who had interceded for the Senones, at his right hand. All the Celtae and some of the Belgae came, though the Remi outnumbered all the other delegates (and furnished six of the twenty-five Gallic jurors). The Arverni were led by Gobannitio and Critognatus, their vergobrets, but in the party was—of course, thought Caesar with an inward sigh—Vercingetorix. Who challenged the court immediately.

“If this is to be a fair trial,” he asked Caesar, “why is there one more Roman juror than Gallic juror?”

Caesar opened his eyes wide. “There is customarily an odd number of jurors to avoid a drawn decision,” he said mildly. “The lots were cast; you saw them for yourself, Vercingetorix. Besides which, for the purposes of this trial all the jurors are to be regarded as Roman—all have an equal vote.”

“How can it be equal when there are twenty-six Romans and only twenty-five Gauls?”

“Would you be happier if I put an extra Gaul on the jury?” asked Caesar patiently.

“Yes!” snapped Vercingetorix, uncomfortably aware that the Roman legates were laughing at him behind their eyes.

“Then I will do so. Now sit down, Vercingetorix.”

Gobannitio rose to his feet.

“Yes?” asked Caesar, sure of this man.

“I must apologize for the conduct of my nephew, Caesar. It will not happen again.”

“You relieve me, Gobannitio. Now may we proceed?” The court proceeded through witnesses and advocates (with, noted Caesar, pleased, a wonderful speech in defense of Acco by Quintus Cicero—let Vercingetorix complain about that!) to its verdict, having taken the best part of the day. Thirty-three jurors voted CONDEMNO, nineteen ABSOLVO. All the Roman jurors, six Remi and one Lingone had won the day. But nineteen of the Gauls, including the three Aedui on the panel, had voted for acquittal.

“The sentence is automatic,” said Caesar tonelessly. “Acco will be flogged and decapitated. At once. Those who wish to witness the execution may do so. I sincerely hope this lesson is taken to heart. I will have no more broken treaties.”

As the proceedings had been conducted entirely in Latin, it was only when the Roman guard formed up on either side of him that Acco truly realized what the sentence was.

“I am a free man in a free country!” he shouted, drew himself up, and walked between the soldiers out of the room.

Vorcingetorix began to cheer; Gobannitio struck him hard across the face.

“Be silent, you fool!” he said. “Isn't it enough?” Vercingetorix left the room, left the confines of the hall and strode off until he could neither see nor hear what was done to Acco.

“They say that's what Dumnorix said just before Labienus cut him down,” said Gutruatus of the Carnutes.

“What?” asked Vercingetorix, trembling, face bathed in a chill sweat “What?”

“'I am a free man in a free country!' Dumnorix shouted before Labienus cut him down. And now his woman consorts with Caesar. This is not a free country, and we are not free men.”

“You don't need to tell me that, Gutruatus. My own uncle, to strike me across the face in front of Caesar! Why did he do this? Are we supposed to shake in fear, get down on our knees and beg Caesar's forgiveness?”

“It's Caesar's way of telling us that we are not free men in a free country.”

“Oh, by Dagda and Taranis and Esus, I swear I'll have Caesar's head on my doorpost for this!” Vercingetorix cried. “How dare he dress up his actions in such a travesty?”

“He dares because he's a brilliant man in command of a brilliant army,” said Gutruatus through his teeth. “He's walked all over us for five long years, Vercingetorix, and we haven't got anywhere! You may as well say that he's finished the Belgae, and the only reason he hasn't finished the Celtae is that we haven't gone to war with him the way the Belgae did. Except for the poor Armorici—look at them! The Veneti sold into slavery, the Esubii reduced to nothing.”

Litaviccus and Cotus of the Aedui appeared, faces grim; Lucterius of the Cardurci joined them, and Sedulius, vergobret of the Lemovices.

“That's just the point!” cried Vercingetorix, speaking to his entire audience. “Look at the Belgae—Caesar picked them off one people at a time. Never as a mass of peoples. Eburones one campaign—the Morini another—the Nervii—the Bellovaci—the Atuatuci—the Menapii—even the Treveri. One by one! But what would have happened to Caesar if just the Nervii, the Bellovaci, the Eburones and the Treveri had merged their forces and attacked as one army? Yes, he's brilliant! Yes, he has a brilliant army! But Dagda he is not! He would have gone down—and never managed to get up again.”

“What you're saying,” said Lucterius slowly, “is that we Celtae have to unite.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

Cotus scowled. “And under whose leadership?” he demanded aggressively. “Do you expect the Aedui, for instance, to fight for an Arvernian leader in, for instance, the person of yourself, Vercingetorix?”

“If the Aedui wish to become a part of the new State of Gallia, yes, Cotus, I expect the Aedui to fight for whoever is made leader.” The dark blue eyes in the skull-like face glowed beneath their strange black brows.

“Perhaps the leader would be me, an Arvernian and therefore the traditional enemy of all Aedui. Perhaps the leader might be an Aeduan, in which case I would expect all the Arverni to fight under him, as I would myself. Cotus, Cotus, open your eyes! Don't you see? It's the divisions between us, the ancient feuds, will bring us to our knees! There are more of us than of them! Are they braver? No! They're better organized, that's all. They work together like some vast machine, turning like teeth through a cog—about face, wheel, form square, launch javelins, charge, march in step! Well, that we cannot change. That we have no time to learn to imitate. But we do have the numbers. If we are united, the numbers cannot lose!”

Lucterius drew a huge breath. “I'm with you, Vercingetorix!” he said suddenly.

“So am I,” said Gutruatus. He smiled. “And I know someone else who'll be with you. Cathbad of the Druids.”

Vercingetorix stared, amazed. “Cathbad? Then talk to him the moment you get home, Gutruatus! If Cathbad would be willing to organize all the Druids throughout all the peoples—to wheedle, cajole, persuade— half our work would be done.”

But Cotus was looking steadily more frightened, Litaviccus torn, and Sedulius wary.

“It will take more than Druid talk to budge the Aedui,” said Cotus, swallowing. “We take our status as Friend and Ally of the Roman People very seriously.”

Vercingetorix sneered. “Hah! Then you're fools!” he cried. “It isn't so very many years ago, Cotus, that this selfsame Caesar showered that German swine Ariovistus with expensive gifts and procured him the title of Friend and Ally from the Roman Senate! Knowing that Ariovistus was raiding the Friend and Ally Aedui—stealing their cattle, their sheep, their women, their lands! Did this selfsame Caesar care about the Aedui? No! All he wanted was a peaceful province!” He clenched his fists, shook them at the sky. “I tell you, every time he mouths his sanctimonious promise to protect us from the Germani, I think of that. And if the Aedui had any sense, so would they.”

Litaviccus drew a breath, nodded. “All right, I'm with you too,” he said. “I can't speak for Cotus here—he's my senior, not to mention vergobret next year with Convictolavus. But I'll work for you, Vercingetorix.”

“I can't promise,” said Cotus, “but I won't work against you. Nor will I tell the Romans.”

“More than that I don't ask for the time being, Cotus,” said Vercingetorix. “Just think about it.” He smiled without humor. “There are more ways of hindering Caesar than in battle. He has complete trust in the Aedui. When he snaps his fingers, he expects an Aeduan response—give me more wheat, give me more cavalry, give, me more of everything! I can understand an old man like you not wanting to draw a sword, Cotus. But if you want to be a free man in a free country, you'd better think of other ways to fight Gaius Julius Caesar.”

“I'm with you too,” said Sedulius, the last to answer. Vercingetorix held out his thin hand, palm up; Gutruatus put his hand on top of it, palm up; then Litaviccus; then Sedulius; then Lucterius; and, finally, Cotus.“ Free men in a free country,” said Vercingetorix. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” they said.

Had Caesar delayed a day or two more, some of this might have come back to him through Rhiannon. But suddenly Gaul of the Long-hairs was the last place he wanted to be. At dawn the next morning he left for Italian Gaul, the hapless Fifteenth Legion at his back, and Rhiannon on her high-stepping Italian horse. She had not seen Vercingetorix at all, nor did she understand what made Caesar so curt, so distant. Was there another woman? Always, with him! But they never mattered, and none of them had borne him a son. Who rode with his nurse in a wagon, clutching as much of his big Trojan Horse as he could. No, he cared nothing for Menelaus or Odysseus, Achilles or Ajax. But the Trojan Horse was the most wonderful beast in the world, and it belonged to him. They had not been a day on the road before Caesar had long outdistanced them, flying like the wind in his gig harnessed to four cantering mules, dictating his senatorial dispatch to one green-faced secretary, and a letter to big brother Cicero to the other. Never becoming confused, reinforcing with Cicero the considerably modified senatorial version of Quintus Cicero and the Sugambri; all those fools in the Senate thought he tampered with the truth, but they wouldn't suspect it of the official version of Quintus Cicero and the Sugambri. He dictated on, pausing patiently when one secretary had to lean out of the gig to vomit. Anything to get the memory of that scene in the hall at Durocortorum out of his mind, anything to forget Acco and that cry echoing Dumnorix. He hadn't wanted to single Acco out as a victim, but how else were they to learn the protocol and etiquette of civilized peoples? Talk didn't work. Example didn't work. How else can I force the Celtae to learn the lesson I had to teach the Belgae in letters of blood? For I cannot leave with my task undone, and the years wing by. I cannot return to Rome without my dignitas enhanced by total victory. I am a greater hero now than Pompeius Magnus was at the height of his glory, and all of Rome is at my feet. I will do whatever I have to do, no matter the price. Ah, but the remembrance of cruelty is poor comfort in old age!