by Eugène Sue
“It shall be done — rely upon me!”
“Carry out your plan, brave Marion, from point to point. Cut the Frankish reserve to pieces, burn their camp and wagons. Ours is the day if I succeed in forcing the barbarians to retreat,” said Victorin.
“And you will, Victorin! I shall run for my friend, Eustace, and carry out your orders.”
Before leaving the room Captain Marion drew his sword, presented the hilt to the Mother of the Camps and making the military salute, said:
“Touch this sword with your hand if you please, Victoria — it will be a good augury for the day.”
“Go, brave and good Marion,” answered the Mother of the Camps returning the weapon after she had clasped the hilt with a virile hand; “go, Hesus is with Gaul!”
“Our battle cry shall be, ‘Victoria!’ and it will resound from one bank of the river to the other,” Marion exclaimed with exaltation; and leaving precipitately he added: “I shall run for my friend Eustace, and then to our barks! to our barks!”
As Marion was rushing out of the room, several chiefs of legions and cohorts, having learned of the landing of the Franks from the officer who brought the tidings to the camp — tidings that rapidly spread among the soldiers — hastened to Victorin in order to receive the orders of their general.
“Place yourselves at the head of your detachments,” he said to them, “and march to the parade ground. I shall join you there and assign you your posts in battle. I wish first to confer with my mother.”
“We well know your valor and military genius,” answered the oldest of the chiefs of the cohorts, a robust old man with a white beard. “Your mother, the angel of Gaul, watches by your side; we shall await your orders confident of victory.”
“Mother,” said the young general in touching accents, “your pardon, here before all, and a kiss from you will give me the needed courage for this day of bloody battle!”
“The excesses of my son have often saddened my heart, as they have the hearts of you all who have known him since his earliest days,” said Victoria to the chiefs of the cohorts; “I hope you will forgive him as I do.”
Saying this she clasped her son passionately to her heart.
“Infamous calumnies against Victorin have floated about the camp,” the old captain proceeded to say. “We gave them no credence; but, less enlightened than ourselves, the soldier is ever hasty in censure as he is in praise. Follow the instructions of your august mother, Victorin, and no longer offer a handle to calumny. We shall wait for your orders on the parade ground; rely upon us, as we do upon you.”
“You speak to me like a father,” answered Victorin deeply moved by the simple and dignified words of the old captain. “I shall hearken to your words as a son; your old experience guided me on the field of battle when I was still a child; your example made me the soldier that I am; to-day and always I shall strive to approve myself worthy of you and of my mother — worthy of Gaul—”
“It is your duty, seeing that we glory in you and her,” rejoined the old captain; and addressing Victoria: “Will the army not see you before we march to battle? To the soldiers and to us your presence always is a good omen — and your good words fire our courage.”
“I shall accompany my son as far as the parade ground — let the battle and triumph follow! Once the Roman eagles circled over our enslaved nation! The Gallic cock drove them away! And it will again drive away this cloud of birds of prey that seek to swoop down upon our Gaul!” cried the Mother of the Camps in so proud and superb a transport that, at the moment, I believed I saw before me the goddess of our land and of liberty. “By Hesus, shall the barbarous Franks conquer us? Before that happens neither a lance, nor a sword, nor a scythe, nor a club, nor a stone can have been left in Gaul! By Hesus! We shall triumph over the barbarian Franks!”
At these brave words, the chiefs of the legions, sharing the enthusiasm of Victoria, spontaneously drew their swords, struck them against one another, and cried in chorus the war cry that they had more than once intoned:
“By the iron of our swords, Victoria, we swear to you that Gaul shall remain free! — or you will never see us again!”
“Yes, by your beloved and august name, Victoria, we shall fight to the last drop of our blood.”
And all left the room crying:
“To arms, our legions!”
“To arms, our cohorts!”
During the whole scene, in which the military genius of Victorin, his tender deference for his mother, the controlling influence that both she and he exercised over the chiefs of the army were displayed, I more than once cast a covert look at the Governor of Gascony, who had withdrawn into a corner of the room. Was it fear at the approach of the Franks? Was it secret rage at witnessing how idle were his calumnies against Victorin? — because, despite the blandness and skilfulness of his defense, my suspicions were not lulled to sleep — I know not; but his livid and disturbed face grew by degrees more horrid to behold. Doubtlessly, evil thoughts and impulses, that he meant to keep concealed, came to the surface in that moment. Immediately after the departure of the chiefs, and as the Mother of the Camps turned to speak with the governor, the latter strove to resume his customary mask of mildness. Making an effort to smile he said to Victoria:
“You and your son are endowed with a sort of magic power. According to my feeble understanding nothing can be more alarming than this march of the Frankish army upon our camp, while neither of you seem to be particularly concerned, and you deliberate as calmly as if the battle was to be to-morrow. And yet, I must confess, the tranquility that you display under such circumstances inspires me with blind confidence.”
“There is nothing more natural than our tranquility,” replied Victorin. “I have calculated the time that it will take the Franks to cross the Rhine and disembark their troops, form their columns and arrive at a place that they are forced to cross. To hasten my movements would be a mistake, a grave strategic error. Delay serves my purposes well.”
Victorin thereupon turned to me:
“Schanvoch, go and put on your armor; I shall have orders for you after I shall have conferred with my mother.”
“You will join me here, before proceeding to the parade ground,” Victoria said to me. “I also have some recommendations to make to you.”
“I almost forgot to notify you of an important thing,” said I. “The sister of one of the Frankish kings feared that her brother would put her to death, and fled the camp of the barbarians. She accompanied me to ours.”
“The woman can serve as a hostage,” remarked Tetrik. “It is a valuable capture. She should be kept a prisoner.”
“No,” I answered the governor. “I promised the woman that she would be free in the Gallic camp, and I assured her of Victoria’s protection.”
“I shall keep the promise that you made,” replied my foster-sister. “Where is the woman?”
“At my house.”
“Have her sent to me after the departure of our troops. I wish to see her.”
I left the room together with the Governor of Gascony. As I stepped out several bards and druids, who, adhering to our ancient custom, always marched at the head of the armies in order to encourage the troops with their songs, stepped in to confer with Victoria and Victorin.
CHAPTER XII.
TO BATTLE!
UPON LEAVING VICTORIA’S house I hastened home to arm myself and take my horse. From all parts of the camp trumpets and clarions were heard blowing signals. When I entered my house I found Sampso and my wife, whom the tidings of the landing of the Franks had speedily reached, busily engaged getting my arms ready. Ellen was vigorously furbishing my steel cuirass, the polish of which was soiled by the fire that was kindled upon it the day before by order of Neroweg, the Terrible Eagle and powerful king of the Franks.
“You are truly a soldier’s wife,” I said smiling to Ellen, seeing her provoked at not being able to restore the tarnished spot to the brilliancy of the rest of the cuirass. “The bri
lliancy of your husband’s armor is your own greatest ornament.”
“If we were not so much pressed for time,” Ellen answered, “we would have succeeded in furbishing off this black spot. Sampso and I have for the last hour been wondering how you managed to blacken and tarnish your armor in this manner.”
“They look like traces of fire,” said Sampso, who was actively engaged polishing my casque with a piece of smooth skin. “Only fire can tarnish the polish of steel in that way.”
“You have guessed right, Sampso,” I answered her laughing and taking up my sword, my battle axe and my dagger; “there was a big fire in the camp of the Franks; those hospitable folks insisted that I draw near to the brasier; the evening was cool, and I hugged the fire a little too closely.”
“I perceive that the announcement of battle throws you into a mirthful mood, my Schanvoch,” put in my wife. “That is like you, I have long noticed it.”
“And the announcement of battle does not sadden you, my Ellen, because you have a stout heart.”
“I draw my strength from the faith of our fathers, my Schanvoch. It teaches me that we proceed to live in other worlds in the company of those whom we have loved in this,” Ellen sweetly answered me while she and Sampso helped to buckle on my cuirass. “That is why I put into practice our mothers’ maxim that the Gallic woman never grows pale when her brave husband departs for battle, and that she reddens with joy at his return. And if he does not return, she is proud at the knowledge that he died as a brave man, and every evening she says to herself: ‘One more day has passed, one more step is taken towards those unknown worlds, where we shall meet our dear ones again.’”
“Let us not talk of absence but of return,” said Sampso, offering me my casque, which she had so carefully polished with her own hands that she could have seen her sweet face in the burnished steel. “You have always been so lucky in war, Schanvoch, that I feel sure you will return to us.”
“I rely on your faith, dear Sampso. I depart happy in the knowledge of your sisterly affection, and of Ellen’s love. I shall return happy, above all if I shall have been able to leave a fresh mark on the face of a certain king of those Frankish skinners of human bodies, as a token of acknowledgment for the loyalty of the hospitality that he yesterday bestowed upon me. But here I am armed. A kiss to my little Alguen, and then to horse!”
As I was about to proceed to my wife’s room, Sampso held me back, saying:
“Brother — what of the strange woman?”
“You are right, Sampso; I forgot all about her.”
As a matter of precaution I had locked Elwig’s room. I knocked at the door and called out to her:
“Shall I come in?”
I received no answer. Alarmed at the silence I opened the door. Elwig sat on the edge of the couch with her head in her hands, in the identical posture that I saw her last.
“Did sleep bring you rest?”
“There is no more sleep for me!” she answered brusquely. “Riowag is dead! I weep for my lover!”
“My wife and sister will take you at noon to Victoria the Great. She will treat you as a friend. I announced to her your arrival in our camp.”
The sister of Neroweg, the Terrible Eagle, shrugged her shoulders with indifference.
“Do you need anything?” I asked her. “Would you eat or drink?”
“I want water — I am thirsty—”
Despite the priestess’ refusal to eat, Sampso went for some provisions — a pitcher of water, some bread and fruits — and placed them near Elwig, who remained motionless and mute. I again locked the door and gave the key to my wife, saying:
“You and Sampso will take the poor woman to Victoria at noon. But be careful that she is not left alone with our child—”
“Do you fear anything?”
“Everything is to be feared from those barbarian women; they are as wily as they are ferocious. I killed her lover in defending myself against him; she is quite capable of strangling my child out of vengeance.”
You came running in at that moment, my child. Hearing my voice from your mother’s room, you left your bed and came half naked to me with your little arms outstretched, smiling with pleasure at the sight of my armor, the brilliancy of which pleased your eyes. Time pressed; I embraced you, your mother and aunt tenderly. I then proceeded to saddle my horse, my good and strong Tom-Bras, whom I named in remembrance of our ancestor Joel, who also gave the name of Tom-Bras to the spirited stallion that he rode at the battle of Vannes. Sampso and your mother, the latter of whom took you in her arms, accompanied me to the stable. Your aunt helped me to put on the bridle, and, caressing his sinewy neck, said to the war steed:
“Tom-Bras, do not leave your master in danger; save him with your swiftness, if need be; defend him like the brave Tom-Bras of old who, as he bore the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, attacked the Romans with his hoofs and teeth.”
“Dear Sampso,” I answered smiling as I leaped into the saddle, “do not give Tom-Bras bad advice by urging him to save me with his swiftness. A good war horse is rapid in pursuit, slow in flight. As to plying his teeth and hoofs, he does that to perfection; the Frankish horse that I captured, and that he almost tore to shreds in the stable, can testify to that. Tom-Bras is like his master; he abhors the Franks. Adieu, dear Sampso! Adieu, my beloved Ellen! Adieu, my little Alguen!”
Casting one more look at your mother who held you in her arms, I departed at a gallop to the parade ground, where the army was assembling.
The distant sound of the clarions, and the neighing of the horses, to which he responded, enlivened Tom-Bras. He bounded with vigor. I calmed him with my voice, I patted his neck so as to control his buoyant spirits and reserve his energy for the hard day’s work ahead. When I was near the parade ground I perceived Victoria about a hundred paces ahead of me. She rode with an escort of several mounted officers. I quickly joined them. Mounted on a palfrey, Tetrik rode to the left of the Mother of the Camps; at her right rode a druid bard named Rolla, whom she greatly esteemed for his bravery, his noble character and his poetic talents. Several other druids were scattered among the various army corps, and were to march beside the chiefs at the head of their several detachments.
Coifed in the light brass helmet of the antique Minerva, which was surmounted with the Gallic cock in gilt bronze holding an expiring lark under his spurs, Victoria sat with proud ease her beautiful steed, whose satin coat shimmered like silver. The housings of the prancing animal were, like its bridle, of scarlet color, they almost reached the ground and were partially covered by the long black robe of the Mother of the Camps, who seemed to inspire her mount with her own self-restraint and confidence. Her beautiful and virile visage seemed animated with martial ardor. A light flush suffused her cheeks; her bosom heaved; her large blue eyes shone with matchless brilliancy, under their long black lashes. Without being noticed by her, I joined the riders of her escort. With their banners to the breeze and their platoons of trumpeters at their head, the cohorts passed by us one after the other on their way to the parade ground. The officers saluted Victoria with their swords, the banners dipped before her, and soldiers, captains and chiefs, in short, the whole armed force cried in enthusiastic chorus:
“Greeting to Victoria the Great!”
“Greeting to the Mother of the Camps!”
Among the first soldiers of one of the cohorts that passed us, I recognized Douarnek, one of the four oarsmen of the day before who was wounded in the back by an arrow. Despite his recent wound, the brave Breton marched in his place. I pricked my horse, drew near him and said:
“Douarnek, the gods send a propitious opportunity to Victorin to prove to the army that, unworthy calumnies to the contrary notwithstanding, he is still worthy of his post.”
“You are right, Schanvoch,” the Breton answered. “Let Victorin win this battle, as he won the others, and in the joy of their triumph the soldiers will acclaim their general and forget many a disagreeable thing. We shall meet again, Schanvo
ch!”
Some Roman legions, our then allies, shared the enthusiasm of our own troops. As they passed under the eyes of Victoria their acclamations also greeted her. The whole army, the cavalry on the two wings, the infantry in the center, was soon gathered on the parade ground, a vast field that lay without the camp. It was bounded by the Rhine on one side, on the other by the slopes of a high hill. A wide road was seen at a distance. It wound its way and disappeared behind some woody slopes. The casques, the arms, the banners, all of which were surmounted by the Gallic cock wrought in gilt copper, glistened in the rays of the sun, and presented the bright and cheerful sight that does so much to raise the soldier’s spirits. From the moment that she entered the parade ground Victoria put her horse to a gallop in order to join her son, who, surrounded by a group of chiefs to whom he was issuing orders, was conspicuous in the very center of the field. No sooner had the Mother of the Camps, whose brass helmet, black robe and white steed pointed her out to all eyes, appeared before the front ranks of the army, than one loud, vast, ringing cry from fifty thousand soldiers’ breasts saluted Victoria the Great!
“May that cry be heard of Hesus,” my foster-sister said to the druid bard with deep emotion. “May the gods grant Gaul a new victory! Justice and right are on our side! We are not after conquest; we only defend our own soil, our hearths, our families, and our freedom!”
“Our cause is holy among holy causes!” answered Rolla, the druid bard. “Hesus will render our arms invincible!”
We rode up to Victorin. It seems to me I never saw him handsomer, or of a more martial bearing than on that morning, clad in his brilliant steel armor and with his casque, ornamented, like his mother’s, by the Gallic cock and the expiring lark. Victoria herself, as she approached her son, could not keep from turning towards me and betraying her maternal pride with a look that, perhaps, only I understood. Several officers, the bearers of the young general’s orders to the different army corps, left at a gallop in different directions. I drew near my foster-sister and said to her in a low voice:
