The Druid King (19 page)

“For
you
perhaps, Caesar,” said Vercingetorix. “It has served
us
well enough since the time of Brenn.”

“You believe your own father was wrong, then?” Caesar said slyly. This silenced and befuddled the boy utterly. “I have studied the histories and governments of many lands, and the most important lesson that I have learned is that peoples must adapt their forms of government to the needs of the times. Rome too was once a chaos of fractious tribes. Then a kingdom. Now a republic. Later . . . whatever destiny may require . . .”

He raised his goblet.

“This much Keltill understood, and for that I salute him!”

Vercingetorix seemed properly moved by this gesture.

“It was all very well for each of your tribes to be ruled by its own vergobret, and those rotating from year to year, as long as you could afford petty feuds and the occasional battle as sport and entertainment,” Caesar told him. “But, confronted by the need to wage war against a common enemy like the Teutons, it just didn’t work. And so you were constrained to seek the aid of Rome.”

“
Diviacx
sought the aid of Rome!”

“And was right to do so. Had he not, the Teutons would have ruined Gaul.”

“And instead we now confront Rome!”

“And I have come to believe that, to succeed in doing that, Gaul needs a king,” said Caesar.

Vercingetorix needed another swallow of wine to aid in his digestion of that one. “Caesar offers Gaul advice on how to fight his legions!” he exclaimed.

“No,” Caesar told him. “Gaul can never prevail against the legions of Rome. I offer advice on how Gaul may
confront
Rome and survive. Your people need a king to lead them into a fruitful relationship with the civilization destined to rule the world.”

Strangely enough,Vercingetorix seemed to take no great umbrage at this. “But Rome has no king!” he said instead.

“Rome had kings once, but we grew beyond them and established a republic,” Caesar told him, gliding blithely over a century or two of bloody and turbulent strife.

“And now Rome is ruled by a Senate of educated and enlightened men acting in harmonious concert under a system of written law,” Marah gushed with the convert’s enthusiasm, a description of the Senate that Caesar himself needed a drink of wine to wash down.

“Not that our system of government is perfect either,” he managed to say with a straight face. “Rome too suffers from lack of a single strong ruler able to hold office long enough to really get things done—”

“—but Roman law provides for the election of a kind of king called a dictator when needed,” said Marah, “and Caesar—”

“Gaul is hardly ready for such politically sophisticated solutions at this stage,” Caesar said, cutting her off hastily. “Why, it’s not even fully a province of Rome yet.”

“And never will be!” Vercingetorix exclaimed fervently. “How can you speak of our need for a king and turning Gaul into a Roman province at the same time?”

“And why not?” Caesar said spontaneously, and as he did, a grand vista opened up. Until this moment, he had simply sought to crown the boy his puppet king and use him to unite the fractious tribes long enough to declare Gaul a conquered province and return to Rome in triumph. But now he realized he had stumbled on a system that would serve him well when he became dictator, and indeed well serve the new Rome he would create even after he was gone.

“Every Roman province is ruled by a proconsul elected by the Senate,” Caesar said, thinking aloud. “Almost always a Roman politician sent to rule a conquered people. But if a local king agreed to his country’s becoming a province of Rome in return for being elected proconsul for life, Gaul, for current example, could indeed become a Roman province and be ruled by its own king at the same time! And so might the circle be squared!”

He fixed Vercingetorix with a seductive stare.

“What do you think of that, my young friend?”

Though the boy’s eyes remained bloodshot, something behind them suddenly seemed to clarify as he gazed unwaveringly back, like mist evaporating from the surface of twin pools to reveal bottomless blue depths.

“You seek not to become proconsul of Gaul for life yourself,” he said. It was not a question.

“Your gods and mine forbid!” Caesar told him with total honesty. “I tell you plainly, my destiny is to rule Rome, not Gaul, and since Gaul will then need another proconsul, why not a local king?”

“You sound as if you have someone in mind . . .” said Vercingetorix, in the strangest tone of voice, as if the wine had transported him elsewhere, as if he were speaking from within a dream.

“It would have to be someone rich enough so we wouldn’t have to worry about him skimming more than his fair share of the taxes. . . .”

“Someone with a Roman education,” said Marah. “Or at least . . . with a queen who had one . . .”

“Can you think of anyone who fits that description, Vercingetorix?”

“You could not simply appoint a king of your own choosing, Caesar,” said Vercingetorix. “Gauls will only follow a hero who has proved himself so. A . . . man of destiny.”

“Heroes are made, not born, my young friend, or, rather, they can make themselves, with a little help from their friends. And our campaign in Britain is a chance for many Gauls to earn themselves crowns of laurel. If the gods so will it.” Caesar shrugged. “On the other hand, Mars is a capricious god, and may decide that one hero is quite enough to wear the laurels. Or . . . if political necessity so dictates, I could always decide so myself. . . .”

“You offer me a crown of laurel?” said Vercingetorix.

And once more he seemed to be speaking from within a dream.

“I cannot accept a hero’s crown that I haven’t earned, Caesar,” Vercingetorix tells the Roman general, just as he rejected the crown of laurel in the Land of Legend. Indeed, he seems to have entered the Land of Legend, outside the dream called time. He knows what Caesar will do next because he has seen him do it, and he has seen him do it because he has stood upon the hill of his own death looking down on all that was, and is, and will be, and his life does not proceed from the past into the future moment by moment like beads on a string.

And so, even though he remembers that he has entrusted it to Guttuatr, he is not surprised when Caesar reaches into a leather sack behind him and withdraws the Crown of Brenn—or a Crown of Brenn—and holds it up before him, for he has seen this moment before. The only surprise is Caesar’s, at his lack thereof.

But Caesar masks this quickly and proceeds as if he too is in the Land of Legend. “And would you accept
this
crown from my hand, Vercingetorix?”

“Nor can I accept the Crown of Brenn from your hand,” he tells Caesar. “But that does not mean it is not my destiny to wear it.”

And as he speaks these words, Vercingetorix realizes he has said too much, and the spell is broken, and he comes back down from the Land of Legend into the world of strife.

Where he now knew in all-too-practical detail how his vision in the Land of Legend would be fulfilled; how, and perhaps why, it would be Gaius Julius Caesar who would make him king of Gaul, and how it would be possible for him to be acclaimed as such in Rome.

The man of action was exhilarated by this revelation and more elated still by the rapt and eager gaze of the woman he had promised to make his queen. But the man of knowledge was troubled. For, although the vision he had seen in the Land of Legend had told him that it was his destiny to be acclaimed king of Gaul by Rome and Caesar, it had not told him whether accepting such a destiny would be to serve Gaul and the memory of his father or to betray them.

More disquieting still, if a man’s life did not proceed through time from moment to moment like beads on a string, if he had stood upon the hilltop of his own death and seen his destiny entire, did he
have
the choice to accept or reject it?

Vercingetorix had more to digest than the copious Roman food soaked in strange sauces, and so spent an uneasy night sleeping in the open with his men. Who would not be tempted by the offer of a crown and the appearance of the girl he had lusted after as a boy as a beautiful and sophisticated woman eager to become his queen? Would I betray Gaul by accepting such an offer? How so, if Gaul would be united and ruled by a Gaul, and Caesar’s legions would return to Italy?

These thoughts troubled Vercingetorix’s sleep far more than the abundant snores of the men around him; while his mind could find no reason to reject what Caesar offered, his heart would not agree.

The next morning, Vercingetorix breakfasted with his troops, ordered Critognat to see to their more orderly disposition, and then returned to the Roman fortress to meet with the other Gallic leaders. It would seem that word that the Arverne leader had passed the night with his men rather than luxuriating in a Roman pleasure tent had spread among the warriors of the other tribes: for as he passed each of their encampments on the way, many warriors greeted him with smiles and nods and even the scattered thumping of swords on shields, no doubt as much in rebuke of their own leaders as in his praise.

The manner in which he was greeted by the Gallic leaders who had spent the night inside the Roman stockade, however, was another matter. These were gathering in the open near the tents that Caesar had provided for them. Some were already seated on Roman stools, others were still in the bleary process of emerging from the previous night’s revelries.
There were about a score of them, among whom Vercingetorix recognized by face or reputation Epirod of the Santons, Comm of the Atrebates, Luctor of the Cadurques, Cottos of the Carnutes . . . and Dumnorix, a man whose face and reputation the son of Keltill was not likely to forget.

Dumnorix was seated on a stool near the center of the rough semicircle, and complaining.

“Rusty old junk that’s seen more campaigning than a hundred-year-old whore!”

“The wooden swords we played with as children were better,” a Sequane whom Vercingetorix did not know agreed.

“What troubles you?” Vercingetorix asked the Sequane, pointedly avoiding speaking to the brother of the man who had condemned his father.

“The quality of the weapons the Roman merchants sold us to equip our warriors has proved even lower than the price.”

“You brought your armies here unarmed?”

“Not completely. But most of us did not have all the weapons we needed for our men—”

“—or the time to forge them—”

“—and the Roman merchants offered to supply what we needed immediately at half what it would have cost—”

“You bought weapons you hadn’t even seen?” exclaimed Vercingetorix. “What did you expect?”

“We’re not all as rich as . . . the son of Keltill!”

“Nor do we all dine alone with Caesar,” sneered Dumnorix.

“They weren’t alone! Caesar’s paramour was with them.”

“A real beauty!”

Vercingetorix’s ears burned; whether from the urge to defend Marah’s honor or from chagrin at hearing the plain truth, he did not know, but he found his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

“A Carnute girl dressed up as a Roman harlot,” said Comm.

“Hold your tongue!” Vercingetorix shouted.

“The three of them?” said one of the Parisii. “I have heard that Caesar cares not which hole he plants his standard in. Or whose. Perhaps Vercingetorix was in . . . a position to tell us whether this is true?”

At this, Vercingetorix’s sword leapt forth. But Dumnorix stood up and shouted, “The man who draws the blood of another Gaul inside this Roman trap will answer to me with his own!”

Vercingetorix was not the only one dumbfounded by this. All fell silent. No one moved.

“Fools!” said Dumnorix. “You think Caesar truly plans to enrich us all with half the booty? The same Caesar whose merchants have already cheated us? He’ll put us all in the forefront of battle to take the casualties, and then—”

“If you have so little stomach for battle, why are you here?” demanded Comm.

Dumnorix shrugged. “Because I’m a Gaul,” he said. He laughed. “Because I fear death in battle less than I fear being deemed a coward by the likes of you!”

The general laughter broke the black mood. Vercingetorix sheathed his sword, but he could not quite allow Dumnorix to escape verbally unscathed.

“Or perhaps, like the moth drawn to the flame, you could not resist the bait within yonder tent even though you believe it a trap, Dumnorix?”

Vercingetorix said this in a light tone, but there was no bantering spirit in the looks he and Dumnorix exchanged.

“Strange talk from the man who passed the night in Caesar’s tent,” said Dumnorix.

“I passed the night sleeping outside among my men, and all who slept outside the palisade know it,” said Vercingetorix. He raked the nobles with a disdainful eye. “And so would you, had you shared the hardships of your men!”

This produced some shamed faces, but more ugly murmurs, and Vercingetorix sensed that, like it or not, it was his turn to make peace.

“I begrudge you not the pleasures offered here by Caesar,” he said. “I chose to sleep outside because otherwise the envious among you might have believed I curried special favor by accepting Caesar’s offer to dine with him.”

And thus have I taken my first step toward kingship in alliance with Rome by telling my first silver-tongued lie, he realized.

“If you so feared our contempt, why didn’t you refuse?” demanded Comm.

“And gravely insult the leader of this whole expedition before we even left Gaul?”

He then compounded the dissimulation by concocting what he hoped was a sufficiently lustful leer.

“Rest assured, I shall not always so deny myself,” he said, vowing to himself that he would spend alternate nights in the tent provided by Caesar, but vowing also that he would not avail himself of the carnal services of his “body servants,” without quite understanding why.

He then approached Dumnorix and forced himself, against his rising gorge, to lock arms with the Eduen.

“Like Dumnorix, I too pledge that any Gaul who draws the blood of another Gaul within this Roman fortress will answer to me with his own!” he declared. “Here we must show the Romans that we are united as Gauls and will fight together as brothers!”