The Druid King (40 page)

“Look!” he cried, planting his right forefinger on Bibracte. “Here is Bibracte!” He moved it to the southwest. “And here
we
are, more or less.”

He began moving his finger northeast, along a line that would take it somewhat east of Bibracte. “We march north, making it appear that the plan is to pass northeast of the city, and circle round to attack from the northwest—”

“But Vercingetorix will surely ride out and—”

“—and chase us down!”

“Do you really think so?” Caesar purred. “Chase us eastward?”

“East, west, north, south, it doesn’t matter, he’s got five times the cavalry we have left now, he’ll chase us down wherever we go and slaughter us!”

“Not if we hire enough mercenary reinforcements to give him a very unpleasant surprise when we allow him to catch us,” said Caesar.

“Mercenaries!”
exclaimed Tulius. “Look what happened with Litivak! Nowhere in this cursed land are there mercenaries we can trust!”

“But there are, Tulius, there are!”

The din of talk and laughter in the Assembly Hall redoubled when Vercingetorix and Litivak entered, then guttered away to an expectant moment of silence as Vercingetorix stood there frozen by a bittersweet memory.

For the scene reminded him of Keltill’s last feast in the Great Hall of Gergovia, when he was but his father’s proud son in the long ago. This place might be larger and it might be lit by brazen oil lamps rather than torchlight, but the walls were also hung with the arms and skulls of defeated enemies, and a boar spitted in a fireplace at one end and an ox in one at the other filled the air with the same savory tang of roasting meat and burning wood. Here too the vergobrets and tribal leaders sat at a big table in the center of the room, and though this feasting table was covered with a cloth of blue, the fare laid out upon it was much the same: boar and mutton, bread and poultry, kegs and tankards of good yeasty beer. Vercingetorix could almost see Keltill seated in the central place of honor with a horn of beer in his hand, and a welcoming smile on his lips.

But here the seat of honor was to be his, on its right hand an empty place for Litivak, and on its left—

The center table was surrounded by smaller tables crammed into the hall to accommodate as great a crowd as the place would hold— craftsmen, warriors, traders—and now they were on their feet, banging tankards on the table, chanting his name, and expecting some words as he made his way to his seat of honor. But the sight of who it was who already sat at the left hand thereof rendered Vercingetorix indifferent to all else.

For it was Marah.

She wore a plain white linen Gallic shift trimmed with the red and black of the Carnutes, though her long blond hair was elaborately coiffed and held high off her neck by a golden tiara in the Roman style, and her cheeks rendered rosier than natural by artifice, and her eyes dramatically framed by black kohl.

Once more, the Great Leader of Warriors was transported back to the long ago, when a young boy’s manhood had risen to salute his first sight of a budding beauty.

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

But since then, Marah had lain with Caesar, become half a Roman, and scorned him as a barbarian. The “barbarian” who was now the hero of Gergovia and could have himself acclaimed king with a word. And to Marah’s left sat her mother, Epona, who he doubted had brought her here for entirely sentimental purposes.

No, he was no longer that beardless boy, and she was no longer that young virgin. It was the eyes of a woman into which he gazed now, and behind them he saw neither innocence nor simplicity.

Nor were they alone.

Other eyes were watching this tender reunion. The eyes of the Carnutes, via the mother who had arranged it. The eyes of the Edui, who had hosted it. The smiling eyes of Litivak, who would seem to have had his friendly hand in it too. The eyes of Rhia, across the table a few places down, looking upon him with a face of stone.

And ears were listening. The ears of those at the table, the ears of those in the Assembly Hall, to whom what was said would be swiftly relayed, and unseen ears far beyond who would hear later, through the distorting ripples of word-of-mouth. No, thought Vercingetorix, we are not alone. We can never be that boy and girl again. We have become a tale the bards will tell.

“You have come to bask in the glory of the hero of Gergovia?” were the first words he spoke.

“To salute the man who spared Bourges,” said Marah. “For
that
man would be a worthy king.”

Well spoken! thought Vercingetorix. From the heart? Or carefully crafted to seem so?

“And you would be his queen?” he said.

“I laughed when I was asked by the boy, but I would be honored to be asked by the man.”

The words seemed to hang in the air. Vercingetorix became even more acutely aware that the words they spoke were being spoken for thousands of ears not present, perhaps for ears yet unborn.

“I have vowed that there shall be no king in Gaul while a single Roman soldier stands upon our soil,” he said.

“I can wait,” said Marah, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

Which brought a cheer of acclaim from those at the table.

All save Rhia.

And Vercingetorix himself.

With all the guests at the table straining their ears to overhear whatever he might say to Marah, Vercingetorix pretended to give his full attention to food and drink, forcing himself to gobble down great chunks of meat for which he felt no real appetite, and appearing to quaff more beer than he was really drinking, observing with sidelong glances that she seemed to be doing the same.

Only when he saw that their tablemates had consumed enough beer so that even Litivak and Epona allowed their attention to drift elsewhere did Vercingetorix seek to converse with Marah, and then softly and without meeting her eyes, still pretending to be concentrating on his meat and beer.

“Why did you really come here?”

“I spoke the truth.”

“Did you?”

“Sparing the granaries of Bourges was a noble act. The man who risked all to do it proved he had a noble heart.”

“But the consequences for the city were disastrous.”

“But not for Gaul. Had you destroyed Bourges, Litivak would not have returned to your side, the battle of Gergovia would have been lost, and—”

“And you would now be sidling up to Caesar?” Vercingetorix blurted, and immediately wished he had bitten his treacherous tongue off instead.

But Marah took no umbrage. “I deserved to hear that,” she said in a gentle voice, “and it is only just that I hear it from you.” And Vercingetorix felt his heart soften toward her at that forthright admission. But was it crafted to achieve such an effect?

“Then you no longer deem me a petulant barbarian?” he said, and softened his own words by adding jestingly: “Or at least I have become one with a silver tongue?”

“The man who burned people alive
was
a barbarian who made me ashamed to be born a Gaul. But the man who spared Bourges and accepted the consequences made me ashamed to have been seduced by the allure of Rome.”

“And by Caesar?”

“I would be lying if I told you I regretted . . . knowing such a great man,” said Marah.

“You can call the man who butchered Bourges ‘great’?”

“Great as Rome is great, Vercingetorix. A great man determined to rule the greatest civilization the world has known.”

“The greatest civilization the world has known!” Vercingetorix hissed, so that his anger would be heard by Marah alone. “Which seeks to conquer and despoil and enslave every people it encounters! Including your own!”

“To conquer, yes, but not to despoil. You have seen this city and you have seen Bourges. Can you truly say that either was left poorer by its commerce with Rome? Less rich in worldly goods or learning or the arts? Provided with a less abundant supply of water? Less . . . civilized?”

“But at what cost?” demanded Vercingetorix. “And if you find the
civilization
of Rome so admirable, why are you here among such rough Gallic barbarians?”

“Because,” said Marah, “though Rome, like Caesar, is great in all the things of the world and therefore to be emulated and admired, it is not great at heart, and therefore, like Caesar, not to be loved. But Gaul
is
great at heart. As is the man who taught me this lesson, not with silver-tongued words or a mighty victory, but with a foul deed nobly left undone.”

Vercingetorix’s heart begged him to trust these honeyed words, but he could not be sure they weren’t just silver-tongued words of a woman who would be queen.

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

Bellies had been filled to the point of torpor, beer had been drunk to the point of red-eyed intoxication, and there was nothing left but to hear the words of the victor of Gergovia and the conqueror of Caesar, the silver-tongued Vercingetorix.

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

Tankards slammed on tables, spilling beer. Feet stomped on the floor, scattering the dogs who were gorging on scraps. Dagger and sword pommels banged on shields as if they were Roman heads.

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

“Listen to that!” exulted Litivak, his bloodshot eyes shining with battle lust. “Speak to them of glory and they’ll be ready to follow you off the edge of the world!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Vercingetorix, having dreaded the coming of this moment all through the feasting. For he knew what he
should
say, and glory had no part in it.

He was rescued from having to answer Litivak’s befuddlement by Liscos. His blond hair half gray, his heavy face weighed down by more than fatigue, the Eduen vergobret had tried to play the overjoyed host of the feast, to pretend that he had commanded Litivak and his warriors to the rescue of Gergovia. No one really believed it, but no one had yet found it useful to deny this unifying falsehood. Now Liscos leapt up onto the big table unsteadily, knocking several platters of meaty remains onto the floor. No one seemed to notice save the dogs that commenced squabbling for them under the table as he began to speak.

“Are you enjoying our feast?” he shouted in a voice a good deal less than sober. “Are you enjoying the magnificent hospitality of Liscos, vergobret of the Edui?”

The chanting and rhythmic pounding only became more insistent.

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

Liscos made a rather vain attempt to mask his envious scowl. “Are you enjoying the greatest victory since the time of Brenn?” he bellowed at the top of his voice.

At this, Critognat leapt to his feet down at the end of the table and roared even louder: “The greatest victory in the history of the world! We have done what no one has ever done before! We have defeated the greatest army of the greatest general of the greatest army of the greatest—”

At this, the hall burst into good-natured laughter, rescuing Critognat from his drunken befuddlement.

“Six legions of them!” someone shouted.

“Ten!”

“A hundred!”

This was a boast ridiculous enough to draw laughter even from wellbeered Gauls. But also enough to allow Liscos a graceful exit.

“A thousand legions and we would still have sent them fleeing before us!” Liscos declaimed grandly. “Our women could slaughter a hundred legions, our children a hundred, and our dogs could take care of the rest!”

At this there was more raucous laughter.

“We have defeated the despoiler of our land and the scourge of our people—Julius Caesar himself!”

Jeers, hissings, feigned fartings.

“Defeated by a greater general still—”

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

The chanting began again, and Liscos, frowning, surrendered at last to the inevitable and shouted: “Vercingetorix! Who has brought us this greatest of victories! Vercingetorix! In whose honor I, Liscos, vergobret of the Edui, will now treat you all to three full days of the greatest
feast
in the history of Gaul!”

This was enough to earn him such a loud cheer that he could return to his seat with his hostly dignity more or less intact. But it was not quite enough to bring order.

“After which we’ll ride out of here and smash the Romans once and for all!” Critognat shouted.

“Death to Caesar!”

“Why wait? Let’s do it now!”

Many men were rising woozily from their seats, drawing swords, waving them wildly, drunk enough on beer and glory to ride out right now and try.

“Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!”
some shouted.

“Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!”

“No!”
shouted Vercingetorix as loudly as he was able, leaping up onto the table. The tumult died down into confused mutterings, and he decided to at least try to say what he must.

“I have sworn not to wear the Crown of Brenn while Roman legions still shame the soil of Gaul, and though we have won a great victory, we have not yet won the war.”

“Well spoken!” shouted Critognat. “Let’s ride after them and finish them off!”

“Well spoken yourself, Critognat!” said Vercingetorix, seeking to bend Critognat’s words back to his own purpose. “Critognat is right— we must finish what we have begun. But our victory at Gergovia must be the last battle of the war.”

“You speak in riddles!” shouted Critognat. “The war is not won, but there must be no more battles? How can this be?”

“We cannot win this war in Gaul,” said Vercingetorix. “We must win it in Rome.”

Once more, Critognat deflected his words from their intended purpose. “Now you’re speaking like a
real
Gaul! Let’s march on Rome! Burn it to the ground!”

Vercingetorix saw nothing for it but to press on as if these words had not been spoken.

“Caesar is desperate for a victory that he can take triumphantly back to Rome. We would be fools to give him such a second chance. All we need do to win the war is deny him both battle and supplies until winter approaches once more. Then will he be forced to retreat over the mountains with a starving army as the humiliated victim of a famous defeat. After which it will be a long time if ever before any Roman general thinks to make his reputation as conqueror of Gaul!”