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By midmorning the watchers in the citadel of Alesia knew that the relief army was massing for another attack. Vercingetorix smiled in quiet satisfaction, for he had seen the flash of mail shirts and helmets among the trees on the northwestern mount above the vulnerable infantry camp. The Romans would not have from their much lower position, even including, he thought, those in the towers atop the southern mount, for the sun was behind Alesia. For a while he fretted that the watchtowers on the northern mount might have seen the telltale glitters, but the horses tethered to the feet of the towers in readiness remained tethered, drowsing with heads down. The sun was coming up over Alesia, directly opposite; yes, Alesia was definitely the only place able to see the glitters. "This time we're going to be absolutely prepared," he said to his three colleagues. "They'll move at noon, I'd think. So we will move at noon. And we concentrate exclusively on the area around that infantry camp. If we can breach the Roman ring on our side, the Romans won't be able to hold on to both sides at once." "Far harder for us," said Biturgo. "We're on the uphill side. Whoever is in that tongue of land is on the downhill side." "Does that discourage you?" demanded Vercingetorix. "No. I simply made an observation." "There's a great deal of movement inside the Roman ring," said Daderax. "Caesar knows there's trouble coming." "We've never thought him a fool, Daderax. But he doesn't know about our men inside the gap above his infantry camp." At noon the relief army, horse massed to the north side of the plain and foot south of them, let out the huge bellow heralding attack and commenced to run the gauntlet of the goads, the lilies and the tombstones. A fact which registered on Vercingetorix only vaguely; his men were already halfway down the hill, converging on the inner side of the ring at the infantry camp held by Antistius and Rebilus. This time they had mantlets with them, equipped with clumsy wheels, some shelter from the scorpion bolts and grape-sized pebbles being fired from the tops of the Roman towers, and those warriors unable to squeeze beneath the mantlets locked their shields above their heads to form tortoises. The goads, the lilies and the tombstones by now had well-worn paths through them, packed with bodies or earth or hurdles; Vercingetorix reached the water-filled ditch even as the sixty thousand men belonging to Vercassivellaunus were throwing earth into the ditches on the other side, working much faster because the slope was downward. From time to time the King of the Gauls became aware of Gallic successes elsewhere, for the infantry camp was well up the slope and enabled him to see down into the Roman ring across the end of the plain of the two rivers. Columns of smoke arose around several of the Roman towers on the outside perimeter; the Gallic foot there had reached the wall and were busy demolishing it. But he couldn't quite sustain a feeling that victory was imminent there, for out of the corner of his eye he could see the figure in the scarlet cloak, and that figure was here, there, everywhere, while cohorts held back as reserves were poured in wherever the smoke rose. There came a huge scream of joy: Vercassivellaunus and his sixty thousand were up and over the Roman wall, there was fighting on the Roman battle platform, and the disciplined ranks of Roman foot were fending them off by using their pila as siege spears. At the same time the prisoners of Alesia managed to bridge the two ditches; grappling hooks were flung upward, ladders everywhere. Now it would happen! The Romans couldn't fight on two fronts at once. But from somewhere came an immense inrush of Roman reserves, and there on a dappled grey Italian horse was Labienus, coming down the hill to the north of the oblivious sixty thousand; he had brought two thousand Germans out of the cavalry camp beyond, and he was going to fall on Vercassivellaunus's rear. Vercingetorix shrieked a warning, drowned in another noise; even as the tower to either side of him came crashing and his men scrambled onto the Roman wall, there came a deafening roar from further away. Dashing the sweat from his eyes, Vercingetorix turned to look down inside the Roman ring on the edge of the plain. And there, riding at a headlong gallop, the brilliant scarlet cloak billowing behind him, came Caesar with his high command and tribunes streaming behind him, and thousands of foot soldiers at a run. All along the Roman fighting platforms the Roman soldiers were cheering, cheering, cheering. Not at a victory this colossal struggle wasn't over. They were cheering him. Caesar. So erect, so much a part of the horse he rode the lucky horse with the toes? Was there really a horse with toes? The beleaguered Roman troops defending the outside walls of the infantry camp heard the cheering even if they didn't see the figure of Caesar; they threw their pila into the enemy faces, drew their swords and attacked. So did the troops defending the inside wall against Vercingetorix. His men began to falter, were steadily pushed down from the wall; the squealing of horses and the howling of Gauls filled Vercingetorix's ears. Labienus had fallen on the Gallic rear while Caesar's soldiers went up and over the outside wall, crushing the sixty thousand warriors between them. Many of the Arverni, Mandubii and Bituriges stayed to fight to the death, but Vercingetorix didn't want that. He managed to rally those near him, got Biturgo and Daderax doing the same oh, where was Critognatus? and returned up the mount to Alesia. Once inside the citadel, Vercingetorix would speak to no one. He stood on the walls and watched for the rest of the day as the victorious Romans how could they have won? tidied up. That they were exhausted was evident, for they couldn't organize a pursuit of those who had fought along the plain, and it was almost dark when Labienus led a great host of cavalry out across the southwestern mount where the Gallic camp had been. He was going to harass the retreat, cut down as many laggards as he could. Vercingetorix's eyes always sought Caesar, still mounted, still in that scarlet cloak, trotting about busily. What a superb craftsman! Victory his, yet the breaches in the Roman perimeter were being repaired, everything was being made ready in case of another attack. His legions had cheered him. In the midst of their great travail, beset on all sides, they had cheered him. As if they truly believed that while he bestrode his lucky horse and they could see his scarlet cloak, they couldn't lose. Did they deem him a god? Well, why should they not? Even the Tuatha loved him. If the Tuatha did not love him, Gaul would have won. A foreign darling for the Gods of the Celtae. But then, the Gods of every land most prized excellence. In his room, lit by lamps, Vercingetorix took his golden crown from under its chaste white cover, still bearing the little sprig of mistletoe. He put it on the table and sat before it, but did not touch it as the hours dripped by and the sounds and smells came stealing through his window. A huge shout of laughter from the Roman ring. Faint mews which told him Daderax had brought his innocents into the citadel and was feeding them broth from the last of the cattle poor Daderax! The smell of broth was nauseating. So was the stench of impaled bodies just beginning to rot among the lilies. And over everything, the brooding of the Tuatha like unspoken thunder, the lightless dawn coming, coming, coming. Gaul was finished, and so was he. In the morning he spoke to those who still lived, with Daderax and Biturgo beside him. Of Critognarus no one had heard; he was somewhere on the field, dead or dying or captured. "It is over," he said in the marketplace, his voice strong and even, easily understood. "There will be no united Gaul. We will have no independence. The Romans will be our masters, though I do not think an enemy as generous as Caesar will force us to pass beneath the yoke. I believe that Caesar wants to make peace with us, rather than exterminate those of us who are left. A fat and healthy Gaul is more useful to the Romans than a wilderness." No flicker of emotion crossed his skull-like face; he went on dispassionately. "The Tuatha admire death on a battlefield, none is more honorable. But it is not a part of our Druidic tradition to put an end to our own lives. In other places, I have learned, the people of a beaten citadel like Alesia will kill themselves sooner than go into captivity. The Cilicians did it when Alexander the Great came. The Greeks of Asia have done it. And the Italians. But we do not. This life is a trial we must suffer until it comes to a natural end, no matter what shape that end might take. "What I ask of all of you, and ask you to pass on to those who are not here, is that you turn your minds and your energies toward making a great c
ountry out of Gaul in a way the Romans will not despise. You must multiply and grow rich again. For one day someday! Gaul will rise again! The dream is not just a dream! Gaul will rise again! Gaul must endure, for Gaul is great! Through all the generations of subservience which must come, hug the idea, cherish the dream, perpetuate the reality of Gaul! I will pass, but remember me for always! One day Gaul, my Gaul, will exist! One day Gaul will be free!" The listeners made no sound. Vercingetorix turned and went inside, Daderax and Biturgo following. The Gallic warriors slowly drifted away, holding the words their king had spoken within their minds to repeat to their children. "The rest of what I have to say is for your ears only," Vercingetorix said in the empty, echoing council chamber. "Sit," said Biturgo gently. "No. No. It may be, Biturgo, that Caesar will take you prisoner, as the King of a great and numerous people. But I think you will go free, Daderax. I want you to go to Cathbad and tell him what I said here this morning to our men. Tell him too that I didn't embark upon this campaign for self-glory. I did it to free my country from foreign domination. Always for the general good, never for my own advancement." "I'll tell him," said Daderax. "And now the two of you have a decision to make. If you require my death, I will go to execution here inside Alesia, with our men witnessing it. Or I will send envoys to Caesar and offer to give myself up." "Send envoys to Caesar," said Biturgo.
"Tell Vercingetorix," said Caesar, "that all the warriors inside Alesia must give up their weapons and their shirts of mail. This will be done tomorrow just after dawn, before I accept King Vercingetorix's surrender. They will precede him by long enough to have thrown every sword, spear, bow, arrow, axe, dagger and mace into our trench. They will divest themselves of their mail shirts and toss them in on top of the weapons. Only then may the King and his colleagues Biturgo and Daderax come down. I will be waiting there," he said, pointing to a place below the citadel just outside the Roman inner fortifications. "At dawn." He had a little dais built, two feet higher than the ground, and on it placed the ivory curule chair of his high estate. Rome accepted this surrender, therefore the proconsul would not wear armor. He would don his purple-bordered toga, the maroon shoes with the crescent buckle of the consular, and his oak leaf chaplet, the corona civica, awarded for personal bravery in the field and the only distinction Pompey the Great had never won. The plain ivory cylinder of his imperium just fitted the length of his forearm, one end tucked into his cupped palm, the other nestling in the crook of his elbow. Only Hirtius shared the dais with him. He seated himself in the classical pose, right foot forward, left foot back, spine absolutely straight, shoulders back, chin up. His marshals stood on the ground to the right of the dais, Labienus in a gold-worked silver cuirass with the scarlet sash of his imperium ritually knotted and looped. Trebonius, Fabius, Sextius, Quintus Cicero, Sulpicius, Antistius and Rebilus were clad in their best armor, Attic helmets under their left arms. The more junior men stood on the ground to the left of the dais Decimus Brutus, Mark Antony, Minucius Basilus, Munatius Plancus, Volcatius Tullus and Sempronius Rutilus. Every single vantage place on the walls and up the towers was taken as the legions crowded to watch, while the cavalry stood horsed on either side of a long corridor from the trench to the dais; the goads and lilies were gone. The remnants of Vercingetorix's eighty thousand warriors who had lived for over a month inside Alesia appeared first, as instructed. One by one they threw their weapons and mail shirts into the trench, then were herded by several squadrons of cavalry to a waiting place. Down the hill from the citadel came Vercingetorix, Biturgo and Daderax behind him. The King of Gaul rode his fawn horse, immaculately groomed, harness glittering, feet stepping high. Every piece of gold and sapphire Vercingetorix owned was set upon his arms, neck, chest, shawl. Baldric and belt flashed. On his head he wore the golden helmet with the golden wings. He rode sedately through the ranks of cavalry almost to the dais upon which Caesar sat. Then he dismounted, removed the baldric holding his sword, unhooked the dagger from his belt, walked forward and deposited them on the edge of the dais. He stepped back a little, folded his feet and sat cross-legged upon the ground. Off came the crown; Vercingetorix bowed his bare head in submission. Biturgo and Daderax, already deprived of their weapons, followed their king's example. All this happened in the midst of a huge silence; hardly a breath was drawn. Then someone in a tower let out a shriek of joy and the ovation began, went on and on. Caesar sat without moving a muscle, his face serious and intent, his eyes upon Vercingetorix. When the cheering died down he nodded to Aulus Hirtius, also togate; Hirtius, a scroll in his hand, stepped down from the dais. A scribe hidden behind the marshals hurried forward with pen, ink and a foot-high wooden table. From which Vercingetorix deduced that had he not sat upon the ground, the Romans would have compelled him to kneel to sign this submission. As it was he simply reached out, dipped the pen in the ink, wiped its nib on the side of the well to indicate that he was properly schooled, and signed his submission where Hirtius indicated. The scribe sprinkled sand, shook it off, rolled up the single piece of paper and handed it to Hirtius, who then returned to his place on the dais. Only then did Caesar rise to his feet. He jumped off the little dais easily and walked to Vercingetorix, right hand extended to help him up. Vercingetorix took it and uncoiled. Daderax and Biturgo got up without assistance. "A noble struggle with a good battle at its end," said Caesar, drawing the King of Gaul toward the place where a gap had been hewn in the Roman fortifications. "Is my cousin Critognatus a prisoner?" asked Vercingetorix. "No, he's dead. We found him on the field." "Who else is dead?" "Sedulius of the Lemovices." "Who has been taken prisoner?" "Your cousin Vercassivellaunus. Eporedorix and Cotus of the Aedui. Most of the relief army got away; my men were too spent to pursue them. Gutruatus, Viridomarus, Drappes, Teutomarus, others." "What will you do to them?" "Titus Labienus informs me that all the tribes fled in the direction of their own lands. The army broke up into tribes the moment it was over the hill. I don't intend to punish any tribe which goes home and settles down peacefully," said Caesar. "Of course Gutruatus will have to answer for Cenabum, and Drappes for the Senones. I will take Biturgo into custody." He stopped and looked at the other two Gauls, who approached. "Daderax, you may return to your citadel and keep those among the warriors who are Mandubii. A treaty will be drawn up before I leave, and you will be required to sign it. Provided you adhere to its letter, no further reprisals will be exacted. You may take some of your men and see what you can find in the camp of the relief army to feed your people. I've taken the booty and what food I need already, but there's food left there. Those men who belong to the Arverni or the Bituriges can depart for their homelands. Biturgo, you are my prisoner." Daderax walked forward and went down on his left knee to Vercingetorix; he embraced Biturgo, kissed him on the lips in the Gallic manner, then turned and walked back to the men gathered beyond the trench. "What happens to Biturgo and me?" asked Vercingetorix. "Tomorrow you'll start the journey to Italia," said Caesar. "You'll wait there until I hold my triumph." "During which we will all die." "No, that's not our custom. You will die, Vercingetorix. Biturgo won't. Vercassivellaunus won't, nor Eporedorix. Cotus may. Gutruatus will; he massacred Roman citizens, as did Cotus. Litaviccus certainly will." "If you capture Gutruatus or Litaviccus." "True. You'll all walk in my triumph, but only the kings and the butchers will die. The rest will be sent home." Vercingetorix smiled, his face white, dark blue eyes huge and very sad. "I hope it won't be long before you triumph. My bones don't like dungeons." "Dungeons?" Caesar stopped walking to look at him. "Rome has no dungeons, Vercingetorix. There's a fallen-down old jail in an abandoned quarry, the Lautumiae, where we put people for a day or two, but there's nothing to prevent their walking out unless we chain them, which is extremely rare." He frowned. "The last time we chained a man he was murdered in the night." "Vettius the informer, while you were consul," said the captured King instantly. "Very good! No, you will be housed in extreme comfort in a fortress town like Corfinium, Asculum Picentum, Praenestae, Norba. There are many of them. No t
wo of you will be in the same town, nor will any of you know where the others are. You'll have the run of a good garden and will be permitted to go riding under escort." "So you treat us like honored guests, then strangle us." "The whole idea of the triumphal parade," said Caesar, "is to show the citizens of Rome how mighty is her army and the men who command her army. How appalling, to display some half-starved, beaten, dirty and unimpressive prisoner stumbling along in chains! That would defeat the purpose of the triumph. You'll walk clad in all your best regalia, looking every inch a king and the leader of a great people who almost defeated us. Your health and your well-being, Vercingetorix, are of paramount importance to me. The Treasury will inventory your jewels including your crown and take them from you, but they will be returned to you before you walk in my triumph. At the foot of the Forum Romanum you will be led aside and conducted to the only true dungeon Rome possesses, the Tullianum. Which is a tiny structure used for the ritual of execution, not to house a prisoner. I'll send to Gergovia for all your clothes and any belongings you'd like to take with you." "Including my wife?" "Of course, if you wish it. There will be women aplenty, but if you want your wife, you shall have her." "I would like my wife. And my youngest child." "Of course. A boy or a girl?" "A boy. Celtillus." "He will be educated in Italia, you realize that." "Yes." Vercingetorix wet his lips. "I go tomorrow? Isn't that very soon?" "Soon, but wiser. No one will have time to organize a rescue. Once you reach Italia, rescue is out of the question. So is escape. It isn't necessary to imprison you, Vercingetorix. Your alien appearance and your language difficulties will keep you safe." "I might learn Latin and escape in disguise." Caesar laughed. "You might. But don't count on it. What we will do is weld that exquisite golden torc around your neck. Not a prisoner's collar of the kind they use in the East, but it will brand you more surely than any prisoner's collar could." Trebonius, Decimus Brutus and Mark Antony walked some paces behind; the campaign had drawn them together, despite the manifest differences in their characters. Antony and Decimus Brutus knew each other from the Clodius Club, but Trebonius was somewhat older, very much less wellborn. To Trebonius they were a breath of fresh air, for he had been in the field with Caesar for so long, it seemed, that the older legates had all the vivacity and appeal of grandfathers. Antony and Decimus Brutus were like very attractive, naughty little boys. "What a day for Caesar," said Decimus Brutus. "Monumental," said Trebonius dryly. "I mean that literally. He's bound to put the whole scene on a float at his triumph." "Oh, but he's unique!" laughed Antony. "Did you ever see anyone who could be so royal? It's in his bones, I suppose. The Julii Caesares make the Ptolemies of Egypt look like parvenus." "I would wish," said Decimus Brutus thoughtfully, "that a day like today could happen to me, but it won't, you know. It won't happen to any of us." "I don't see why not," said Antony indignantly; he disliked anyone's puncturing his dreams of coming glory. "Antonius, you're a wonder to behold, you have been for years! But you're a gladiator, not the October Horse," said Decimus Brutus. "Thank, man, think! There's no one like him. There never has been and there never will be." "I wouldn't call Marius or Sulla sluggards," said Antony. "Marius was a New Man; he didn't have the blood. Sulla had the blood, but he wasn't natural. I mean that in every way. He drank, he liked little boys, he had to learn to general troops because it wasn't in his veins. Whereas Caesar has no flaws. No weaknesses you can slip a thin dagger into and work the plates apart, so to speak. He doesn't drink wine, so his tongue never runs away with him. When he says some outrageous thing he intends to do, you know in his case it's not impossible. You called him unique, Antonius, and you were right. Don't recant because you dream of outstripping him it's not realistic. None of us will. So why exhaust ourselves trying? Leave aside the genius, and you still have to contend with a phenomenon I for one have never plumbed the love affair between him and his soldiers. We'll never match that in a thousand years. No, not you either, Antonius, so shut your mouth. You have a bit of it, but nowhere near all of it. He does, and today is the proof!" said Decimus Brutus fiercely. "It won't go down well in Rome," said Trebonius. "He's just eclipsed Pompeius Magnus. I predict that our consul without a colleague will detest that." "Eclipsed Pompeius?" asked Antony. "Today? I don't see how, Trebonius. Gaul's a big job, but Pompeius conquered the East. He has kings in his clientele." "True. But think, Antonius, think! At least half of Rome believes that it was Lucullus did all the hard work in the East, that Pompeius simply strolled in when the hard work was over and took all the credit. No one can say that about Caesar in Gaul. And which story will Rome believe, that Tigranes prostrated himself before Pompeius, or that Vercingetorix hunkered down in the dust at Caesar's feet? Quintus Cicero will be writing that scene to his big brother this moment Pompeius rests on more specious evidence. Who walked in Pompeius's triumphs? Certainly not a Vercingetorix!" "You're right, Trebonius," said Decimus Brutus. "Today will ensure that Caesar becomes the First Man in Rome." "The boni won't let that happen," said Antony jealously. "I hope they have the sense to let it," said Trebonius. He looked at Decimus Brutus. "Haven't you noticed the change, Decimus? He's not more royal, but he is more autocratic. And dignitas is an obsession! He cares more about his personal share of public worth and standing than anyone I've ever read about in the history books. More than Scipio Africanus or even Scipio Aemilianus. I don't think there are any lengths to which Caesar wouldn't go to defend his dignitas. I dread the boni's trying! They're such complacent couch generals they read his dispatches and they sniff with contempt, sure he's embroidered them. Well, in some ways he does. But not in the only way which matters his record of victories. You and I have been with the man through thick and thin, Decimus. The boni don't know what we know. Once Caesar's got the bit between his teeth, nothing will stop him. The will in the man is incredible. And if the boni try to cast him down, he'll pile Pelion on top of Ossa to stop them." "A worry," said Decimus Brutus, frowning. "Do you think," asked Antony plaintively, "that tonight the Old Man will let us have a jug or two of wine?"
5. Caesar Page 37
