The Druid King (39 page)

Even as he scrambled to his feet, a dozen or more legionnaires, seeing him fall, dashed to protect him.

The rearing horses and the writhing men, the clash of sword upon sword, the shouts and cries and screams of the battlefield seem to Vercingetorix to dissolve into mist. Not the white mist out of which emerged his vision at Bourges, but a blood-red mist out of which emerges—

—a bright crimson banner snapping and whipping about in a storm of slashing metal.

A bright crimson cloak.

The standard of Gaius Julius Caesar.

Draped across the shoulders of Caesar as he rises from the blood-soaked ground, sword in hand, as legionnaires gather to him, like some demonic serpent who may be defeated, who may be brought down, but who will not die.

Vercingetorix urges his horse toward that undying monster, toward this moment of shared destiny, and, as if the gods would have it so, he glides forward, untouched and untouchable, as if all is unreal here save himself and Caesar.

Through the red fog of battle, a figure on horseback rides toward Caesar; young, blond, blood-spattered, Great Alexander as savage nemesis. But it is Vercingetorix, not Alexander, and as he draws closer, Caesar sees that his eyes gaze out from elsewhere, and he rides forward as he might in a dream.

Caesar cannot look away from those eyes as Vercingetorix approaches. They trap him in the nightmare of defeat which this day has become, as if he himself has become but a figment in the dream of glory of its victor.
Yet Vercingetorix seems unable to look away from his eyes too. As if this is a dream they both share, a dance of death or of destiny, an eternal moment outside of time.

Caesar hardly notices when a mighty blow from somewhere strikes his sword from his hand and sends it tumbling through the air.

As a boy once caught the Crown of Brenn falling from the brow of his father before it could touch the floor, so now, without thought, does Vercingetorix pluck from the air the sword of Gaius Julius Caesar.

Time stops for Caesar as he stands swordless and defenseless before Vercingetorix, staring transfixed into the eyes of his conqueror, into the eyes of the man who will now slay him with his own sword.

And yet in those eyes he sees . . .

How can this be?

Before Vercingetorix stands his defeated and defenseless enemy, gazing unwaveringly into his eyes as if accepting his fate.

Yet what Vercingetorix sees in his vision of the next moment, in a moment outside of time, is not himself plunging the captured sword into the heart of Caesar, but himself holding a sword in both hands before him as an offering.

A token of surrender.

Caesar wonders if Vercingetorix sees what he sees.

But how can he?

For what Caesar sees is not his own impending death, but Vercingetorix, today’s victor, meekly handing him back his sword as if
he
were the vanquished.

Caesar nods, as if to acknowledge the vision of unknown destiny which in this moment they share.

Without knowing why, but without being able to do otherwise, Vercingetorix nods back.

And raises the hilt of Caesar’s sword before his lips in salute.

And then, holding it aloft, he gives a wordless cry of triumph that sounds hollow in his own ears, turns, and rides away.

XVII

RHIA RODE on Vercingetorix’s right hand, holding high the Arverne bear. Litivak rode on his left with a standard-bearer displaying the Eduen boar. Behind them paraded a wonder unknown since the days of Brenn—a united and triumphant army of Gaul.

The gates of Bibracte were open wide, the ramparts were crowded with shield-banging warriors and cheering citizens, garlands were tossed, and carnaxes blew welcoming salutes. Vercingetorix entered the Eduen capital to the acclaim of its inhabitants, basking in the greatest glory known to a Gaul since Brenn had held Rome itself to ransom.

Yet his enjoyment of the greatest moment of his life was shadowed. He had spared the life of Caesar. He knew not why, save that he had followed a vision which had commanded him far more surely than he had ever commanded this army. And so Caesar had lived to rally his battered and bloodied army, to withdraw it from the battlefield of its defeat and shame in an orderly manner, a feat that Vercingetorix could not imagine himself performing had Caesar been the victor.

Now Caesar was probably marching the remains of his army back across the Alps and already planning to raise an even greater force with which to return. For Vercingetorix knew that to accept his failure to conquer Gaul would doom Caesar’s ambition to rule Rome itself. And Caesar would die before he would accept that.

The Gauls believed that they had won the war. In truth, all that had been won was a battle. But Vercingetorix could hardly voice such misgivings, least of all to Litivak.

Litivak had risked all—not just his ambition to succeed Liscos as Eduen vergobret, but the turning of Caesar’s wrath against his own people, and hence his honor—to unite the Edui and the Arverni in the blood rite of victorious battle, creating thereby the beginning of a nation proud to call itself Gaul.

Vercingetorix knew he must now repay that debt of honor. He must hold this army together and use this victory to enlarge it, to draw in those who had defected, and those who had held back. He must play the man of destiny who knew no doubt.

Bibracte was somewhat larger than Gergovia and enriched far beyond the wealth of the Arverne capital by the commerce with Rome that Diviacx had brought the Edui before the war began. Now no one dared wear Roman garb, but the marketplace of the main plaza still abounded in Roman goods.

Some of the original Gallic buildings that had been given Roman facings and decorations had been cleansed thereof, save for the ghosts of men and women and strange gods still showing through where they had been painted over too lightly. But there were large new buildings— temples, markets, a mint, a treasury—built in the Roman style with marble and stone, which stood unchanged, save for the empty niches where Roman gods had been removed. And there were many elaborate dwellings in a new style too—square buildings with smooth tan walls, some with the crowns of trees visible above flat roofs of reddish tile, as if growing within.

The aqueduct on its narrow bridge of stone arches that the Romans had built had been preserved, and so too the system of piping that distributed the water to clean wells and pleasant fountains, nor had the new sewage drains been abandoned in favor of the old open ditches. The baths that the Romans had built across the plaza from the Assembly Hall likewise remained.

The Assembly Hall of Bibracte itself retained its entrance portico and the broad stairs leading up to it, apparently added in an attempt at Roman grandeur, but they had been stripped to plain oak.

The plaza was thronged with Edui when Vercingetorix, Litivak, and Rhia arrived, and Vercingetorix was pleased to see among the crowd quite a few nobles in the colors of other tribes. For, although he had brought his army here to repay Litivak by assuring that Bibracte would not be left defenseless against Caesar’s promised vengeance, this had been done with a leisurely parade through the countryside, and he had dispatched invitations far and wide, hoping to make it a victory celebration not of Arverni and Edui but of
Gauls.

The plaza was far too small for the army to enter it even had it been empty, so Vercingetorix dismissed his men for some well-deserved revelry, and he, Litivak, and Rhia dismounted and began to make their way to the gathering in the Assembly Hall afoot. But they had hardly begun to cross the plaza when Vercingetorix and Litivak were recognized, and hoisted up on shoulders, and then on shields, and then deposited on the portico atop the stairs leading into the Assembly Hall like the main dishes on a banquet table.

As, in a way, we are, Vercingetorix thought as the crowd banged swords and daggers on shields, feet upon stone, hands upon each other, shouting
“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”
And he knew that he could not escape inside the building without speaking. So he held up both arms high above his head, and the din swiftly became an expectant hush.

“We have defeated the legions of Rome!” Vercingetorix shouted. “Julius Caesar himself has fled before us! We—”

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

On and on and on it went, those who had been calling for him to speak now making it impossible for anything but their own voices to be heard.

“Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

They were drunk on it, and Vercingetorix would have had to be a man of stone not to feel the seduction himself. At length he raised his hand to quiet both the crowd and the tumultuous clamor of his own heart.

“Cheer if you would for Vercingetorix of the Arverni!” he cried out, placing his right hand on the shoulder of Litivak. “Cheer if you would for Litivak of the Edui!”

They did, and Litivak grinned at him as the crowd shouted both their names, drowning out the syllables in a wordless confusion. At last the shouting gave way to another silence, and Vercingetorix decided to fill it with words that came as close as he might dare to what was in his heart.

“Cheer for the victory of the warriors of Gaul, but cheer not for tribes whose names will soon be forgotten,” he said, perhaps more somberly than he had intended, and certainly more somberly than the crowd wished to hear, for these words were greeted with nothing better than guttural muttering. And so Vercingetorix finished by combining what he knew they wanted to hear with what
he
wanted them to acclaim:

“Cheer for what, with this victory, has now been born, and whose spirit shall never die! Cheer for
Gaul
!”

And they did.

“Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!” someone shouted out.

And the rhythmic banging resumed. But the song the multitude now sang was different:

“Vercingetorix! King of Gaul! Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!”

The words that the silver-tongued Vercingetorix had extracted from them. The words from the vision that had brought him to its fulfillment in the here and now. All he had to do was accept them and they would come true.

And yet, when at length the chanting had died away, he found that he could not.

“I shall not wear the Crown of Brenn,” he found himself saying, “while there is a victory yet to be won! We have won a great battle, but not the war!”

No great cheer greeted this. Litivak gave him a lidded sidelong glance and the subtlest shaking of his head. Vercingetorix knew that he could not end it with those words.
Yet he could not take them back. And so he must find a way to make them sing.

He drew his sword and held it high above his head.

“No king shall rule Gaul while Roman troops remain on our soil!”

The light drizzle falling on the encampment seemed appropriate to Caesar’s mood as he stood in the entrance to his tent, observing his army. Legionnaires huddled just inside their own tents before fires rendered smoky by the rain, tending to wounded survivors, hammering dents out of armor, resharpening swords, cooking field porridge in blackened pots, tossing dice, arguing, grumbling, drinking.

There was no joy in this bitter aftermath, but Caesar took a grim satisfaction in commanding such an army, rendered dour by ignominious defeat, but licking its wounded pride and gathering its remaining strength to fight and win another day.

And win we will, for have I not seen Vercingetorix hand over his sword in a battlefield vision? Caesar told himself sardonically.

The disaster at Gergovia had taught him three very expensive but useful lessons that he would not forget:

Never, ever, not even in the most tempting circumstances, trust a force of Gallic auxiliaries or mercenaries.

Never, ever, allow a Gallic army to attack your rear with cavalry.

And, finally, do whatever it takes to trap Vercingetorix’s main force in a siege. For Gergovia, even more than Bourges, has proved that this is what he fears the most.

Caesar turned and strode back into the warmth and comfort of his tent—large enough so a fire could burn within, and cleverly vented to release most of the smoke; equipped with oil lamps, a decent bed, and camp stools. Within, Tulius, Labienus, Gallius, Galba, and Glavius, his new so-called spymaster, sat over hot porridge salted with bits of meat and goblets of rough Gallic beer in lieu of wine, glumly waiting to report.

Quartermasters had piled up a dozen swords for his selection as replacement for the one he had lost, and Caesar sat down before them, hefting each in turn as they spoke.

“Well, how bad is it?” he demanded, lifting a sword speculatively.

“Our cavalry took the worst of it,” said Galba. “Now, if it came to our cavalry against theirs in the open, we wouldn’t have a chance.”

Caesar merely nodded, trying another sword for weight and balance, having already assumed this and taken it into account.

“Our infantry was decimated,” said Tulius. “Somewhat worse. The tenth part or so killed, another tenth part rendered useless for combat.”

Caesar tried out yet another sword.

“Food could be a problem,” said Galba. “We lost a lot when we retreated. We can probably last
until
winter with what we have if we are careful, but not
through
it.”

“Butcher the dead or useless horses and smoke the meat,” said Caesar.

The Gauls would never think of doing such a thing. They might have carnal intercourse with their mounts if they were drunk enough, but they’d sooner eat their own feces. They believed their horses had souls like their own.

“Equipment?” said Caesar, lifting a fourth sword.

“We lost all the siege towers and catapults, but not what we need to make more,” said Gallius.

Caesar picked up a fifth sword, shrugged, and slipped it into his empty scabbard. These swords were all similarly crafted; one was as good as another, more or less. Including the one Vercingetorix had captured, though he probably thought its loss was some sort of blow to its former master’s manhood.

“What do you think the Gauls will do now, Caesar?” asked Labienus.

“Were I Vercingetorix, I would avoid another battle at all costs. I would declare victory, crown myself king, continue to burn everything before our path and harry our rear and flanks until we finally ran out of food and fodder again and were forced to slink back over the Alps. Where Caesar would spend the winter trying to keep the Senate from recalling him to Rome and probably failing.”

“A clever strategy,” muttered Tulius. “If they pursue it, we are probably lost.”

“Indeed,” said Caesar. “But that’s what
I
would do. What I believe
they
will do is try to finish us off.”

“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” said Galba.

“Finish us o f?”
scoffed Tulius. “They win one battle thanks to treachery, and they suppose they have defeated Rome?”

“Vercingetorix is clever,” Caesar told him, “but patience is no Gallic virtue, and he doesn’t command a true army but a horde of warriors, few of whom are likely to obey orders they do not want to hear.”

“The question is, what do we do now?” said Labienus.

“Not quite,” said Caesar. “The question is, what do the Gauls
expect
us to do now?” He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Glavius. The spymaster shrugged. Caesar scowled.
What a lame replacement for Gisstus this man was!

“Where is Vercingetorix’s army now?” Caesar asked, sighing, in the tone of a Socratic teacher addressing a dim student.

“At Bibracte.”

“Doing what?”

Glavius, looking disquieted, shrugged once more. “Celebrating their victory?” he ventured.

“And what else?”

“What else?”

“By the buttocks of the gods, man,
why Bibracte
?” Caesar shouted in no little exasperation. “Why does Vercingetorix not celebrate the great victory of Gergovia in the place where it happened—which just happens to be the capital of his own tribe?”

The blank stare that greeted this made Caesar pine for the counsel of Gisstus.

“Because Litivak betrayed you?” Labienus suggested. “You forced him to fight with us at Gergovia only by vowing to destroy Bibracte if he did not, so when he betrayed
you
instead of his own people—”

“You’re right!” cried Caesar. “Vercingetorix brought his army to Bibracte to protect it from my expected wrath!”

He sprang to his feet and began pacing in small circles. “Well done, Labienus!” he exclaimed. “
That’s
thinking like a Gaul!”

“But if we do march on Bibracte in our current state, he’ll bring his cavalry out of the city and slaughter us,” said Tulius. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Vercingetorix takes me for a fool,” said Caesar. He laughed. “Or at least for a Gaul.”

The quizzical looks they all gave him were choice, and he found himself wishing once more for the company of Gisstus: his sardonic friend would surely have enjoyed this.

“Were I a Gaul, I would be honor-bound to seek vengeance on Litivak to fulfill my vow, no matter that it would be an act of military idiocy,” Caesar said. “And therefore a Gaul will be taken in when I pretend to do it.”

“You have quite lost me, Caesar,” Tulius said.

“Get me a map of eastern Gaul that goes as far as the Rhine, Glavius,” Caesar ordered, and then, when Glavius brought it, he dropped to his knees and spread it excitedly on the bare earth.