"If Caesar has no son, he will adopt a son of Julian blood and impeccably Roman ancestors. That is the Roman way. And knowing this, Caesar will proceed through his life secure in the knowledge that, should he have no son of his body, his last testament will remedy things.
"Do not bother writing back. I dislike the implication that you class yourself as one of Caesar's women. You are no more and no less than an expedient."
The scribe let the scroll curl up. "That tells us where we barbarians belong, doesn't it?" he demanded, angry.
Rhiannon snatched the letter from him and began to tear it into small pieces. "Go away!" she snarled.
Tears pouring down her face, she went then to see Orgetorix, in the custody of his nurse, one of her own servants. He was busy towing a model of the Trojan Horse around the floor; Caesar had given it to him and shown him how its side opened to disgorge the Greeks, fifty perfectly carved and painted figures each owning a name: red-haired Menelaus; red-haired Odysseus with the short legs; the beautiful Neoptolemus, son of dead Achilles; and even one, Echion, whose head fell forward, broken, when he hit the flags. Caesar had started to teach him the legend and the names, but little Orgetorix had neither the memory nor the wit to immerse himself in Homer, and Caesar gave up. If the child delighted in his gift, it was because of childish reasons: a splendid toy which moved, concealed things, could be stuffed and unstuffed, and excited admiration and envy from all who saw it.
"Mama!" he said, dropping the cord which was attached to the horse and holding out his arms.
Her tears dried; Rhiannon carried him to a chair and sat him on her lap. "You don't care," she said to him, her cheek on his brilliant curls. "You're not a Roman, you're a Gaul. But you will be King of the Helvetii! And you are Caesar's son!" Her breath hissed, her lips peeled back from her teeth. "I curse you, lady Servilia! You will never have him back again! Tonight I will go to the priestess in the tower of skulls and buy the curse of a long life spent in misery!"
News came the next day from Labienus: Ambiorix was finally having some success among the Suebic Germans, and the Treveri, far from being subdued, were boiling.
"Hirtius, I want you and Trogus to continue the conference," Caesar said as he handed the box containing the sash of his imperium to Thrayllus, packing his gear. "My four new legions have reached the Aedui, and I've sent word instructing them to march for the Senones, whom I intend to scare witless. The Tenth and Twelfth will go with me to meet them."
"What of Samarobriva?" asked Hirtius.
"Trebonius can stay to garrison it with the Eighth, but I think it's politic to shift the site of the conference to some place less tempting to our absent friends the Carnutes. Move the delegates to Lutetia among the Parisii. It's an island, therefore easily defended. Keep on trying to make the Gauls see reason—and take the Fifth Alauda with you. Also Silanus and Antistius."
"Is this war on a grand scale?"
"I hope not, quite yet. I'd rather have the time to pluck some of the raw cohorts out of the new legions and slip some of my veterans in." He grinned. "You might say, to quote the words of young Vercingetorix, that I am about to embark upon a gigantic bluff. Though I doubt the Long-hairs will see it that way."
Time was galloping, but he must say goodbye to Rhiannon. Whom he found in her sitting room—ah, not alone! Vercingetorix was with her. Goddess Fortuna, you always bring me luck!
He paused in the doorway unobserved; this was his first opportunity to study Vercingetorix at close quarters. His rank was manifest in the number of massive gold torcs and bracelets he wore, in the sapphire-encrusted belt and baldric, in the size of the sapphire buried in his brooch. That he was clean-shaven intrigued Caesar, for it was very rare among the Celtae. His lime-rinsed hair was almost white and combed to imitate a lion's mane, and his face, entirely displayed, was all bones, cadaverous. Black brows and lashes—oh, he was different! His body too was thin; a type who lives on his nerves, thought Caesar, advancing into the room. A throwback. Very dangerous.
Rhiannon's face lit up, then fell as she took in Caesar's leather gear. "Caesar! Where are you going?"
"To meet my new legions," he said, holding out his right hand to Vercingetorix, who had risen to reveal that he was the usual Celtic six feet in height. His eyes were dark blue and regarded the hand warily.
"Oh, come!" said Caesar genially. "You won't die of poison because you touch me!"
Out came one long, frail hand; the two men performed the universal ritual of greeting, neither of them imprudent enough to turn it into a contest of strength. Firm, brief, not excessive.
Caesar raised his brows at Rhiannon. "You know each other?" he asked, not sitting.
"Vercingetorix is my first cousin," she said breathlessly. "His mother and my mother were sisters. Arverni. Didn't I tell you? I meant to, Caesar. They both married kings—mine, King Orgetorix; his, King Celtillus."
"Ah, yes," said Caesar blandly. "Celtillus. I would have said he tried to be king, rather than was one. Didn't the Arverni kill him for it, Vercingetorix?"
"They did. You speak good Arvernian, Caesar."
"My nurse was Arvernian. Cardixa. My tutor, Marcus Antonius Gnipho, was half Salluvian. And there were Aeduan tenants upstairs in my mother's insula. You might say that I grew up to the sound of Gallic."
"You tricked us neatly during those first two years, using an interpreter all the time."
"Be fair! I speak no Germanic languages, and a great deal of my first year was occupied with Ariovistus. Nor did I understand the Sequani very well. It's taken time to pick up the Belgic tongues, though Druidan was easy."
"You are not what you seem," said Vercingetorix, sitting down again.
"Is anyone?" asked Caesar, and suddenly decided to seat himself too. A few moments spent talking to Vercingetorix might be moments well spent.
"Probably not, Caesar. What do you think I am?"
"A young hothead with much courage and some intelligence. You lack subtlety. It isn't clever to embarrass your elders in an important assembly."
"Someone had to speak up! Otherwise they would all have sat there and listened like a lot of students to a famous Druid. I struck a chord in many," said Vercingetorix, looking satisfied.
Caesar shook his head slowly. "You did indeed," he said, "but that isn't wise. One of my aims is to avert bloodshed—it gives me no pleasure to spill oceans of it. You ought to think things through, Vercingetorix. The end of it all will be Roman rule, make no mistake about that. Therefore why buck against it? You're a man, not a brute horse! You have the ability to gather adherents, build a great clientele. So lead your people wisely. Don't force me to adopt measures I don't want to take."
"Lead my people into eternal captivity, that's what you're really saying, Caesar."
"No, I am not. Lead them into peace and prosperity."
Vercingetorix leaned forward, eyes glowing with the same lights as the sapphire in his brooch. "I will lead, Caesar! But not into captivity. Into freedom. Into the old ways, a return to the kings and the heroes. And we will spurn Your Sea! Some of what you said yesterday makes sense. We Gauls need to be one people, not many. I can achieve that. I will achieve that! We will outlast you, Caesar. We will throw you out, and all who try to follow you. I spoke truth too. I said that Rome will send a fool to replace you. That is the way of democracies, which offer mindless idiots a choice of candidates and then wonder why fools are elected. A people needs a king, not men who change every time someone blinks his eye. One group benefits, then another, yet never the whole people. A king is the only answer."
"A king is never the answer."
Vercingetorix laughed, a high and slightly frenzied sound. "But you are a king, Caesar! It's there in the way you move, the way you look, the way you treat others. You are an Alexander the Great accidentally given power by the electors. After you, it will fall to ashes."
"No," said Caesar, smiling gently. "I am no Alexander the Great. All I am is a part of Rome's ongoing pageant. A great part, I k
now that. I hope that in future ages men will say, the greatest part. Yet only a part. When Alexander the Great died, Macedon died. His country perished with him. He abjured his Greekness and relocated the navel of his empire because he thought like a king. He was the reason for his country's greatness. He did what he liked and he went where he liked. He thought like a king, Vercingetorix! He mistook himself for an idea. To make it bear permanent fruit, he would have needed to live forever. Whereas I am the servant of my country. Rome is far greater than any man she produces. When I am dead, Rome will continue to produce other great men. I will leave Rome stronger, richer, more powerful. What I do will be used and improved by those who follow me. Fools and wise men in equal number, and that's a better record than a line of kings can boast. For every great king, there are a dozen utter nonentities."
Vercingetorix said nothing, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I do not agree," he said finally.
Caesar got up. "Then let us hope, Vercingetorix, that we never have to decide the issue upon a battlefield. For if we do, you will go down." His voice grew warmer. "Work with me, not against me!"
"No," said Vercingetorix, eyes still closed.
Caesar left the room to find Aulus Hirtius.
"Rhiannon grows more and more interesting," Caesar said to him. "The young hothead Vercingetorix is her first cousin. In that respect, Gallic nobles are just like Roman nobles. All of them are related. Watch her for me, Hirtius."
"Does that mean she's to come to Lutetia with me?"
"Oh, yes. We must give her every opportunity to have more congress with cousin Vercingetorix."
Hirtius's small, homely face screwed up, his brown eyes pleading. "Truly, Caesar, I don't think she'd betray you, no matter who her relatives might be. She dotes on you."
"I know. But she's a woman. She chatters and she does silly things like writing to Servilia—a more stupid action is hard to think of! While I'm away, don't let her know anything I don't want her to know."
Like everyone else in on the secret, Hirtius was dying to learn what Servilia had said, but Caesar had opened her letter himself, then sealed it again with Quintus Cicero's ring before anyone had a chance to read it.
4
When Caesar appeared leading six legions, the Senones crumbled, capitulating without a fight. They gave hostages and begged forgiveness, then hustled delegates off to Lutetia, where the Gauls under the easygoing supervision of Aulus Hirtius squabbled and brawled, drank and feasted. They also sent frantic warnings to the Carnutes, terrified at the promptness of those four new legions, their businesslike air, their glittering armor, their latest-model artillery. It had been the Aedui who begged Caesar to be kind to the Senones; now the Remi begged him to be kind to the Carnutes.
"All right," he said to Cotus of the Aedui and Dorix of the Remi, "I'll be merciful. What else can I be, anyway? No one has lifted a sword. Though I'd be happier if I believed they meant what they say. But I don't."
"Caesar, they need time," Dorix pleaded. "They're like children who have never been gainsaid in anything, but now they have a stepfather who insists on obedience."
"They're certainly children," said Caesar, quizzing Dorix with his brows.
"Mine was a metaphor," said Dorix with dignity.
"And this is no moment for humor. I take your point. Yet however we look at them, my friends, their future welfare depends upon their honoring the treaties they've signed. That is especially true of the Senones and the Carnutes. The Treveri I consider a hopeless case; they'll have to be subdued by force. But the Celtae of central Gallia Comata are fully sophisticated enough to understand the significance of treaties and the codes they dictate. I wouldn't want to have to execute men like Acco of the Senones or Gutruatus of the Carnutes—but if they betray me, I will. Have no doubt of it, I will!"
"They won't betray you, Caesar," soothed Cotus. "As you say, they're Celtae, not Belgae."
Almost Caesar's hand went up to push at his hair in the natural gesture of weary exasperation; it stopped short of his scalp and ran itself around his face instead. Nothing could be permitted to disorder his carefully combed, scant hair. He sighed, sat back and looked at the two Gauls.
"Do you think I don't know that every retaliation I have to make is seen as Rome's heavy foot stamping on their rights? I bend over backward to accommodate them, and in return I'm tricked, betrayed, treated with contempt! The children metaphor is by no means inappropriate, Dorix." He drew a breath. "I'm warning both of you because both of you came forward to intercede for other tribes: if these new agreements are not honored, I'll come down hard. It's treason to break solemn agreements sworn by oath! And if Roman civilian citizens are murdered, I will execute the guilty men as Rome executes all non-citizen traitors and murderers—I'll flog and behead. Nor am I speaking of minions. I will execute the tribal leaders, be it treason or murder. Clear?"
He hadn't lost his temper, but the room felt very cold. Cotus and Dorix exchanged glances, shuffled. "Yes, Caesar."
"Then make sure you disseminate my sentiments. Especially to the leaders of the Senones and Carnutes." He got up. "And now," he said, smiling, "I can turn my entire mind and all my energies to war with the Treveri and Ambiorix."
Even before Caesar left headquarters he was aware that Acco, leader of the Senones, was already in violation of the treaty he had signed only days earlier. What could one do with ignoble noblemen? Men who let other men intercede for them, beg Caesar for mercy, then proceeded to break this fresh treaty as if it meant absolutely nothing? What exactly was a Gaul's concept of honor? How did Gallic honor work? Why would the Aedui guarantee Acco's good behavior when Cotus must have known Acco was not an honorable man? And what of Gutruatus of the Carnutes? Him too?
But first the Belgae. Caesar marched with seven legions and a baggage train to Nemetocenna in the lands of Commius's Atrebates. Here he sent the baggage train and two legions to Labienus on the Mosa. Commius and the other five accompanied him north along the Scaldis into the lands of the Menapii, who fled without fighting into their salt fens along the shores of the German Ocean. Reprisals were indirect but horrifying. Down came a swath of Menapian oaks, up went every Menapian house in flames. The freshly sown crops were raked out of the ground; the cattle, sheep and pigs slaughtered; the chickens, geese and ducks strangled. The legions ate well, the Menapii were left with nothing.
They sued for peace and gave hostages. In return Caesar left King Commius and his Atrebatan cavalry behind to garrison the place—a significant message that Commius had just been gifted with the lands of the Menapii to add to his own.
Labienus had his own problems, but by the time Caesar and his five legions arrived, he had fought the Treveri and won a great victory.
"I couldn't have done it without the two legions you sent me," he admitted cheerfully to Caesar, well aware that this gift could not detract from his own brilliance. "Ambiorix is leading the Treveri these days, and he was all set to attack when the two extra legions appeared. So he drew off and waited for his German reinforcements to come across the Rhenus."
"And did they?"
"If they did, they turned tail and went home again. I didn't want to wait for them myself, naturally."
"Naturally," said Caesar with the ghost of a smile.
"I tricked them. It never ceases to amaze me, Caesar, that they fall for the same ploy all over again. I let the Treveri spies among my cavalry think I was frightened and withdrawing"—he shook his head in wonder—"though this time I really did march. They descended on my column in their usual undisciplined hordes—my men wheeled, launched pila, then charged. We killed thousands of them. So many, in fact, that I doubt they'll ever give us more trouble. What Treveri are left will be too busy in the north, fending off the Germani."
"And Ambiorix?"
"Bolted across the Rhenus with some of Indutiomarus's close relatives. Cingetorix is back in Treveri power."
"Hmmmm," said Caesar thoughtfully. "Well, Labienus, while the Treveri are lickin
g their wounds, it might be an idea to build another bridge across the Rhenus. Do you fancy a trip to Germania?"
"After months and months and months in this same stinking camp, Caesar, I'd welcome a trip to Hades!"
"It is on the nose, Titus, but there's so much shit on the site that it ought to grow four-hundredfold wheat for the next ten years," said Caesar. "I'll tell Dorix to grab it before the Treveri do."
Never happier than when he had a massive engineering task to tackle, Caesar bridged the Rhenus a little upstream of the place where he had bridged it two years before. The timbers were still stacked on the Gallic bank of the great river; being oak, they had seasoned rather than rotted.
If the first bridge had been a hefty structure, the second bridge was even heftier, for this time Caesar didn't intend to demolish it entirely when he left. For eight days the legions labored, driving piles into the riverbed, setting up the pylons to take the roadway, cushioning them from the swift and pounding current with huge, angled buttresses on the upstream side to divide the waters and take their force off the bridge itself.
"Is there anything he doesn't know how to do?" asked Quintus Cicero of Gaius Trebonius.
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