“Numbers are irrelevant,” said Caesar, who appeared to be enjoying himself. “Rome possesses three things neither the Celtae nor the Belgae own—organization, technology and the ability to tap her resources with complete efficiency.”
“Oh, yes, your much-vaunted technology! What of it? Did the walls you built to dam out Ocean enable you to take any of the Veneti strongholds? Did they? No! We too are a technological people! Ask your legate Quintus Tullius Cicero! We brought siege towers to bear on him, we learned to use Roman artillery! We are not tame, we are not stupid, we are not cowards! Since you came into Gallia Comata, Caesar, we have learned! And as long as you remain here, we will go on learning! Nor are all Roman generals your equal! Sooner or later you will return to Rome, and Rome will send a fool to Gallia Comata! Another like Cassius at Burdigala! Others like Mallius and Caepio at Arausio!”
“Or another like Ahenobarbus when he reduced the Arverni to nothing seventy-five years ago,” said Caesar, smiling.
“The Arverni are more powerful now than they were before Ahenobarbus came!”
“Vercingetorix of the Arverni, listen to me,” said Caesar strongly. “I have called for reinforcements. Four more legions. That is a total of twenty-four thousand men. I will have them in the field and ready to fight four months from the commencement of the enlistment process. They will all wear chain mail shirts, have superbly made daggers and swords on their belts, helmets on their heads, and pila in their hands. They will know the drills and routines so well they could do them in their sleep. They will have artillery. They will know how to build siege equipment, how to fortify. They will be able to march a minimum of thirty miles a day for days on end. They will be officered by brilliant centurions. They will come wanting to hate you and every other Gaul— and if you push them to fight, they will hate you.
“I will have a Fifth—a Sixth—a Seventh—an Eighth—a Ninth—a Tenth—an Eleventh—a Twelfth—a Thirteenth—a Fourteenth—and a Fifteenth Legion! All up to strength! Fifty-four thousand foot soldiers! And add to them four thousand cavalry drawn from the Aedui and the Remi!”
Vercingetorix crowed, capered. “What a fool you are, Caesar! You’ve just told all of us your strength in the field this year!”
“Indeed I have, though not foolishly. As a warning. I say to you, be sensible and prudent. You cannot win! Why try? Why kill the flower of your manhood in a hopeless cause? Why leave your women so destitute and your lands so vacant that I will have to settle my Roman veterans on them to marry your women and sire Roman children?”
Suddenly Caesar’s iron control snapped; he grew, towered. Not realizing that he did so, Vercingetorix stepped backward.
“This year will be a year of total attrition if you try me!” Caesar roared. “Oppose me in the field and you will go down and keep on going down! I cannot be beaten! Rome cannot be beaten! Our resources in Italia— and the efficiency with which I can marshal them!—are so vast that I can make good any losses I sustain in the twinkling of an eye! If I so wish, I can double those fifty-four thousand men! And equip them! Be warned and take heed! I have made you privy to all of this not for today, but for the future! Roman organization, Roman technology and Roman resources alone will see you go down! And don’t pin your hopes on the day when Rome sends a less competent governor to Gallia Comata! Because by the time that day comes, you won’t exist! Caesar will have reduced you and yours to ruins!”
He swept from the dais and from the hall, leaving the Gauls and his legates stunned.
“Oh, that temper!” said Trebonius to Hirtius.
“They needed straight speaking,” said Hirtius.
“Well, my turn,” said Trebonius, getting to his feet. “How can I follow an act like that?”
“With diplomatic words,” said Quintus Cicero, grinning.
“It doesn’t matter a fig what Trebonius prattles on about,” said Sextius. “They’ve got the fear of Caesar in them.”
“The one named Vercingetorix is spoiling for a fight” from Sulpicius Rufus.
“He’s young” from Hirtius. “Nor is he popular among the rest of the Arvernian delegates. They were sitting with their teeth on edge and dying to kill him, not Caesar.”
*
While the meeting went on in the great hall, Rhiannon sat in Caesar’s stone house with the Aeduan scribe.
“Read it,” she said to him.
He broke the seal (which had already been broken; it had been re-sealed with the imprint of Quintus Cicero’s ring, since Rhiannon had no idea what Servilia’s seal looked like), spread the little roll, and pored over it, mumbling, for a long time.
“Read it!” Rhiannon said, shifting impatiently.
“As soon as I understand it, I will,” he answered.
“Caesar doesn’t do that.”
He looked up, sighed. “Caesar is Caesar. No one else can read at a glance. And the more you talk, the longer I’ll be.”
Rhiannon subsided, picking at the gold threads woven through her long gown of brownish crimson, dying to know what Servilia said.
Finally the scribe spoke. “I can start,” he said.
“Then do so!”
“Well, I can’t say I ever expected to get a letter writ in rather peculiar Latin from Caesar’s Gallic mistress, but it’s amusing, I must admit. So you have Caesar’s son. How amazing. I have Caesar’s daughter. Like your son, she does not bear Caesar’s name. That is because I was married to Marcus Junius Silanus at the time. His distant relative, another Marcus Junius Silanus, is one of Caesar’s legates this year. My daughter’s name is therefore Junia, and as she is the third Junia, I call her Tertulla.
“You say you are a princess. Barbarians do have them, I know. You produce this fact as if it could matter. It cannot. To a Roman, the only blood which matters is Roman blood. Roman blood is better. The meanest thief in some back alley is better than you, because he has Roman blood. No son whose mother was not Roman could matter to Caesar, whose blood is the highest in Rome. Never tainted with other blood than Roman. If Rome had a king, Caesar would be that king. His ancestors were kings. But Rome does not have a king, nor would Caesar allow Rome to have a king. Romans bend the knee to no one.
“I have nothing to teach you, barbarian princess. It is not necessary for a Roman to have a son of his body to inherit his position and carry on the name of his family because a Roman can adopt a son. He does this very carefully. Whoever he adopts will have the necessary blood to carry on his line, and as part of the adoption the new son assumes his name. My son was adopted. His name was Marcus Junius Brutus, but when his uncle, my brother, was killed without an heir, he adopted Brutus in his will. Brutus became Quintus Servilius Caepio, of my own family. That he has preferred of late years to return to the name Marcus Junius Brutus is due to his pride in a Junian ancestor, Lucius Junius Brutus, who banished the last King of Rome and established the Roman res publica.
“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, broke
n, 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 know 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.
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 477
