The Carnutes met in groups, always far from Roman ears, to talk insurrection. And the smithies outside Cenabum began to make nothing but mail shirts, a change of activity which Fufius Cita did not notice any more than his fellow foreign residents did.
By mid-February the harvest was completely in. Every silo and granary across the country was full; the hams had been smoked, the pork and venison salted, the eggs and beets and apples stored down under the ground, the chickens, ducks and geese penned in, the cattle and sheep removed from the path of any marching army.
“It’s time to start,” said Gutruatus to his fellow thanes, “and we Carnutes will lead the way. As the leaders of Gallic thought, it behooves us to strike the first blow. And we have to do it while Caesar is on the other side of the Alps. The signs say we’re going to have a hard winter, and Vercingetorix says it is imperative that we keep Caesar from returning to his legions. They won’t venture out of camp without him, especially during the winter. By spring, we will have united.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Cathbad.
“Tomorrow at dawn we raid Cenabum and kill every Roman and Greek it shelters.”
“An unmistakable declaration of war.”
“To the rest of Gaul, Cathbad, not to the Romans. I don’t intend that news of Cenabum should reach Trebonius. If it did, he’d send word to Caesar immediately. Let Caesar linger on the far side of the Alps until the whole of Gaul is in arms.”
“Good strategy if it works,” said Cathbad. “I hope you’re more successful than the Nervii were.”
“We’re Celtae, Cathbad, not Belgae. Besides, the Nervii kept Quintus Cicero from communicating with Caesar for a month. That’s long enough. Another month will see the start of winter.*
Thus did Gaius Fufius Cita and the foreign traders who lived in Cenabum discover the truth of the old Roman adage that revolt in a province always commenced with the murder of Roman civilians. Under the command of Gutruatus, a group of Carnutes swooped on their own capital, entered it, and killed every foreigner there. Fufius Cita suffered the same fate as Acco: he was publicly flogged and beheaded. Though he died under the lash. Urging on the man who wielded the whip, the Carnutes found nothing to criticize in this. Fufius Cita’s head was a trophy carried in celebration to the grove of Esus and there offered up by Cathbad.
News in Gaul traveled very swiftly, though the method of its transmission inevitably meant that the further it spread from its source, the more distorted it became. The Gauls simply shouted information from one person to the next across the fields.
What had commenced as “The Romans inside Cenabum have been massacred!” became “The Carnutes are in open revolt and have killed every Roman in their lands!” by the time it had been shouted from mouth to ear for a distance of one hundred and sixty miles. It flew this far between dawn, when the raid had occurred, and dusk, when it was shouted into the main oppidum of the Arverni, Gergovia, and was heard by Vercingetorix.
At last! At last! Revolt in central Gaul instead of in the lands of the Belgae or the Celtae of the western coast! These were people he knew, people who would yield him his lieutenants when the great Army of All Gaul came together, people sophisticated enough to understand the value of a mail shirt and a helmet, to understand the way the Romans made war. If the Carnutes had rebelled, it wouldn’t be long before the Senones, the Parisii, the Seussiones, the Bituriges and all the other peoples of central Gaul would boil over. And he, Vercingetorix, would be there to forge them into the Army of All Gaul!
Of course he had been working himself, but not, as was now manifest, with anything like the success Gutruatus had. The trouble was that the Arverni had not forgotten the disastrous war they had fought seventy-five years ago against the most prominent Ahenobarbus of that time. They had been defeated so completely that the slave markets of the world had received their first bulk consignment of Gallic women and children; the Arvernian men had mostly died.
“Vercingetorix, it has taken the Arverni these seventy-five years to rise again,” said Gobannitio in council, striving to be patient. “Once we were the greatest of all Gallic peoples. Then in our pride we went to war against Rome. We were reduced to nothing. We yielded supremacy to the Aedui, the Carnutes, the Senones. These peoples still outrank us, but we are steadily overtaking them. So no, we will not fight Rome again.”
“Uncle, Uncle, times have changed!” cried Vercingetorix. “Yes, we fell! Yes, we were crushed, humiliated, sold into slavery! But we were merely one among many peoples! And still today you talk of the Senones or the Aedui! Of Arvernian power contrasted with Aeduan power, with Carnute power! It can’t be like that anymore! What is happening today is different! We are going to combine and become one people under one warcry—free men in a free country! We are not the Arverni or the Aedui or the Carnutes! We are the Gauls! We are a brotherhood! That is the difference! United, we will defeat Rome so decisively that Rome will never again send her armies to our country. And one day Gaul will march into Italia, one day Gaul will rule the world!”
“Dreams, Vercingetorix, silly dreams,” said Gobannitio wearily. “There will never be concord among the peoples of Gaul.”
The upshot of this and many other arguments in the Arvernian council chamber was that Vercingetorix found himself forbidden to enter Gergovia. Not that he moved away from the district. Instead he remained in his house on the outskirts of Gergovia and confined his energies to persuading the younger Arvernian men that he was right. And here he was far more successful. With his cousins Critognarus and Vercassivellaunus following his example, he worked feverishly to make the younger men see where their only salvation lay: in unification.
Nor did he dream. He planned. Fully aware that the hardest struggle would be to convince the leaders of the other peoples of Gaul that he, Vercingetorix, was the one who must lead the great Army of All Gaul.
So when the news of the events at Cenabum was shouted into Gergovia, Vercingetorix took it as the omen he had been waiting for. He sent out the call to arms, then walked into Gergovia, took over the council and murdered Gobannitio.
“I am your king,” he said to the packed chamber of thanes, “and soon I will be King of a united Gaul! I go now to Carnutum to talk to the leaders of the other peoples, and on my way I will call every people to arms.”
The tribes answered. With winter looming, men began to get out their armor, sharpen their swords, see to dispositions on the home front during a long absence. A huge wave of excitement rolled across central Gaul, and kept on rolling northward into the Belgae and westward into the Aremorici, the Celtic tribes of the Atlantic coast. Southwestward too, into Aquitania. Gaul was going to unite. Gaul united was going to drive the Romans out.
*
But it was in the oak grove at Carnutum that Vercingetorix had to fight his most difficult battle; here he had to summon up the power and the persuasiveness to have himself appointed leader. Too early to insist that he be called King—that would come after he had demonstrated the qualities necessary in a king.
“Cathbad is right,” he said to the assembled chieftains, and careful that he kept Cathbad’s name to the forefront rather than the name of Gutruatus. “We must separate Caesar from his legions until the whole of Gaul is in arms.”
Many had come whom he hadn’t expected, including Commius of the Atrebates. All five men with whom he had concluded his original pact were there, Lucterius chafing to be started. But it was Commius who turned the tide in Vercingetorix’s favor.
“I believed in the Romans,” said the King of the Atrebates, lips peeled back from his teeth. “Not because I felt a traitor to my people, but for much the same kind of reasons Vercingetorix gives us here today. Gaul needs to be one people, not many. And I thought the only way to do that was to use Rome. To let Rome, so centralized, so organized, so efficient, do what I thought no Gaul could ever do. Pull us together. Make us think of ourselves as one. But in this Arvernian, this Vercingetorix, I see a man of our own blood with the streng
th and the purpose we need! I am not Celtic, I am Belgic. But I am first and last a Gaul of Gaul! And I tell you, my fellow kings and princes, I will follow Vercingetorix! I will do as he asks. I will bring my Atrebatan people to his congress and tell them that a man of the Arverni is their leader, that I am merely his lieutenant!”
It was Cathbad who took the vote, Cathbad who could say to the warlords that Vercingetorix was elected leader of a united attempt to eject Rome from the homelands.
And Vercingetorix, thin, febrile, glowing, proceeded to show his fellow Gauls that he was a thinker too.
“The cost of this war will be enormous,” he said, “and all our peoples must share it. The more we share, the more united we will feel. Every man is to go to the muster properly armed and outfitted. I want no brave fools stripping naked to demonstrate their valor; I want every man in mail shirt and helmet, every man carrying a full-sized shield, every man well provided with spears, arrows, whatever is his choice. And each people must work out how much food its men will eat, make sure they are not compelled to return home prematurely because they have no food left. The spoils will not be great; we cannot hope to reap enough to pay for this war. Nor are we going to ask for aid from the Germani. To do that is to open the back door for the wolves as we thrust the wild boars out the front door. Nor can we take from our own—unless our own choose to support Rome. For I warn you, any people which does not join us in this war will be deemed a traitor to united Gaul! No Remi or Lingones have come, so let the Remi and the Lingones beware!” He laughed, a breathless little sound. “With Remi horses, we will be better cavalrymen than the Germani!”
“The Bituriges aren’t here either,” said Sedulius of the Lemovices. “I heard a rumor that they prefer Rome.”
“I had noticed their absence,” said Vercingetorix. “Does anyone have more tangible evidence than rumor?”
The absence of the Bituriges was serious; in the lands of the Bituriges lay the iron mines, and iron to turn into steel had to be found in sufficient quantity to make many, many thousands of mail shirts, helmets, swords, spearheads.
“I’ll go to Avaricum myself to find out why,” said Cathbad.
“And what of the Aedui?” asked Litaviccus, who had come with one of the two vergobrets of that year, Cotus. “We’re with you, Vercingetorix.”
“The Aedui have the most important duty of all, Litaviccus. They have to pretend to be Rome’s Friend and Ally.”
“Ah!” Litaviccus exclaimed, smiling.
“Why,” asked Vercingetorix, “should we display all our assets at once? I imagine that as long as Caesar thinks the Aedui are loyal to Rome, he will also think he has a chance to win. He will, as is his habit, royally command that the Aedui give him extra horse troopers, extra infantry, extra grain, extra meat, extra everything he needs. And the Aedui must agree to give him eagerly whatever he commands. Fall over themselves to help. Except that whatever has been promised to Caesar must never arrive.”
“Always with our profuse apologies,” said Cotus.
“Oh, always with those,” said Vercingetorix gravely.
“The Roman Province is a very real danger we ought not to underestimate,” said Lucterius of the Cardurci, frowning. “The Gauls of the Province have been well trained by the Romans—they can fight as auxiliaries in the Roman style, they have warehouses stuffed with armor and armaments, and they can field cavalry. Nor will we ever prise them away from Rome, I fear.”
“It’s far too early to make statements as defeatist as that! However, we should certainly make sure that the Gauls of the Province are in no condition to aid Caesar. Your job will be to make sure of it, Lucterius, since you come from a people close to the Province. Two months from now, while winter is deep, we will assemble under arms here on the plain before Carnutum. And then—war!”
Sedulius picked up the cry. “War! War! War!”
*
Trebonius in Agedincum was aware that something odd was going on, though he had no idea what. He had heard nothing from Fufius Cita in Cenabum, but nor had he heard a whisper of Fufius Cita’s fate. No Roman or Greek anywhere in the vicinity had survived to tell him, nor did one Gaul come forward. The granaries in Agedincum were almost full, but there hadn’t been any wagons in more than two nundinae when Litaviccus of the Aedui popped in to say hello on his way back to Bibracte.
It always fascinated Litaviccus that these Romans so often seemed unwarlike, unmartial; Gaius Trebonius was a perfect example. A rather small, rather grey man with a prominent thyroid cartilage in his throat always bobbing up and down as he swallowed nervously, and a pair of large, sad grey eyes. Yet he was a very good, very intelligent soldier who was greatly trusted by Caesar, and had never let Caesar down. Whatever he was told to do, he did. A Roman senator. In his time, a brilliant tribune of the plebs. Caesar’s man to the death.
“Have you seen or heard anything?” asked Trebonius, looking even more mournful than he usually did.
“Not a thing,” said Litaviccus blithely.
“Have you been anywhere near Cenabum?”
“Actually, no,” said Litaviccus, bearing in mind that his duty was to appear Friend and Ally; no point in telling lies he might be found out in before the true loyalties of the Aedui came to light. “I’ve been to the wedding of my cousin in Metiosedum, so I haven’t been south of the Sequana. Still, everything’s quiet. Didn’t hear any shouting worth listening to.”
“The grain wagons have stopped coming in.”
“Yes, that is odd.” Litaviccus looked thoughtful. “However, it’s common knowledge that the Senones and the Carnutes are very displeased by the execution of Acco. Perhaps they’re refusing to sell any grain. Are you short?”
“No, we have enough. It’s just that I expected more.”
“I doubt you’ll get more now,” said Litaviccus cheerfully. “Winter will be here any day.”
“I wish every Gaul spoke Latin!” said Trebonius, sighing.
“Oh well, the Aedui have been in league with Rome for a long time. I went to school there for two years. Heard from Caesar?”
“Yes, he’s in Ravenna.”
“Ravenna… Where’s that, exactly? Refresh my memory.”
“On the Adriatic not far from Ariminum, if that’s any help.”
“A great help,” said Litaviccus, getting to his feet lazily. “I must go, or I won’t go.”
“A meal, at least?”
“I think not. I didn’t bring my winter shawl or my warmest pair of trousers.”
“You and your trousers! Didn’t you learn anything in Rome?”
“When the air of Italia floats up your skirts, Trebonius, it warms whatever’s up there. Whereas the air of Gaul in winter can freeze ballista boulders.”
*
At the beginning of March well over one hundred thousand Gauls from many tribes converged on Carnutum, where Vercingetorix made his arrangements quickly.
“I don’t want everyone eaten out before I begin,” he said to his council as they gathered with Cathbad inside Cathbad’s warm house. “Caesar is still in Ravenna, apparently more interested in what’s happening in Rome than in what might be happening in Gaul. The alpine passes are blocked with snow already; he won’t get here in a hurry no matter how famous he is for hurrying. And we’ll be between him and his legions no matter when he comes.”
Cathbad, looking tired and a little discouraged, was sitting at Vercingetorix’s right hand, a pile of scrolls on the table. Whenever all eyes were upon Vercingetorix, his own eyes would go to his wife, moving quietly in the background with beer and wine. Why did he feel so cast down, so ineffectual? Like most professional priests of all lands, he had no gift of prognostication, no second sight. Those were dowered upon outcasts and strangers, doomed, as Cassandra had been, never to be believed.
I speak from painfully learned knowledge, and the sacrifices have been favorable. Perhaps what I feel at this moment is simple eclipse, he thought, striving to be fair, to be detached. Vercingetorix has so
me quality in common with Caesar; I sense the similarity. But one is an enormously experienced Roman man approaching fifty, and the other is a thirty-year-old Gaul who has never led an army.
“Cathbad,” said Vercingetorix, interrupting the Chief Druid’s internal misgivings, “I gather that the Bituriges are against us?”
“The word they used was ‘fools,’ ” said Cathbad. “Their Druids have been trying on our behalf, but the tribe is united, and not in our direction. They’re happy to sell us iron, even to steel it for us, but they won’t go to war.”
“Then we’ll go to war against them,” said Vercingetorix, not hesitating. “They have the iron, but we’re not dependent on them for steeling or for smiths.” He smiled, his eyes shining. “It’s good, actually. If they won’t join us, then we don’t have to pay for their iron. We’ll take it. I haven’t heard that any people here today has suffered from lack of iron, but we’re going to need a lot more. Tomorrow we’ll march for the Bituriges.”
“So soon?” gasped Gutruatus.
“The winter will get worse before it gets better, Gutruatus, and we have to use it to bring dissident Celtic peoples into the fold. By summer Gaul must be united against Rome, not divided among itself. By summer we’ll be fighting Caesar, though if things go as I intend, he’ll never be able to use all his legions.”
“I’d like to know more before I march,” said Sedulius of the Lemovices, frowning.
“That’s what today is for, Sedulius!” said Vercingetorix, laughing. “I want to discuss the roll call of the peoples who are here, I want to know who else is coming, I want to send some home again to wait until the spring, I want to levy a fair war tax, I want to organize our first coinage, I want to make sure that the men who stay to march against the Bituriges are properly armed and equipped, I want to call a great muster for the spring, I want to split off a force to go to the Province with Lucterius— and these are just a few of the things we have to talk about before we sleep!”
He was visibly changing, Vercingetorix, filled with purpose and fire, impatient yet patient. If any one of the twenty men in Cathbad’s house had been asked to describe what the first King of Gaul might look like, to the last one they would have painted in words a picture of some giant, bare chest massively muscled, shawl a rainbow of every tribal color, hair bristling, moustache to his shoulders, a Dagda come to earth. And yet the thin, intense man who held their attention today was no disappointment; the great thanes of Celtic Gaul were beginning to understand that what lived inside a man was more important than how he looked.
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