The Druid King

by Norman Spinrad

  Now Caesar was probably marching the remains of his army back across the Alps and already planning to raise an even greater force with which to return. For Vercingetorix knew that to accept his failure to conquer Gaul would doom Caesar’s ambition to rule Rome itself. And Caesar would die before he would accept that.

  The Gauls believed that they had won the war. In truth, all that had been won was a battle. But Vercingetorix could hardly voice such misgivings, least of all to Litivak.

  Litivak had risked all—not just his ambition to succeed Liscos as Eduen vergobret, but the turning of Caesar’s wrath against his own people, and hence his honor—to unite the Edui and the Arverni in the blood rite of victorious battle, creating thereby the beginning of a nation proud to call itself Gaul.

  Vercingetorix knew he must now repay that debt of honor. He must hold this army together and use this victory to enlarge it, to draw in those who had defected, and those who had held back. He must play the man of destiny who knew no doubt.

  Bibracte was somewhat larger than Gergovia and enriched far beyond the wealth of the Arverne capital by the commerce with Rome that Diviacx had brought the Edui before the war began. Now no one dared wear Roman garb, but the marketplace of the main plaza still abounded in Roman goods.

  Some of the original Gallic buildings that had been given Roman facings and decorations had been cleansed thereof, save for the ghosts of men and women and strange gods still showing through where they had been painted over too lightly. But there were large new buildings—temples, markets, a mint, a treasury—built in the Roman style with marble and stone, which stood unchanged, save for the empty niches where Roman gods had been removed. And there were many elaborate dwellings in a new style too—square buildings with smooth tan walls, some with the crowns of trees visible above flat roofs of reddish tile, as if growing within.

  The aqueduct on its narrow bridge of stone arches that the Romans had built had been preserved, and so too the system of piping that distributed the water to clean wells and pleasant fountains, nor had the new sewage drains been abandoned in favor of the old open ditches. The baths that the Romans had built across the plaza from the Assembly Hall likewise remained.

  The Assembly Hall of Bibracte itself retained its entrance portico and the broad stairs leading up to it, apparently added in an attempt at Roman grandeur, but they had been stripped to plain oak.

  The plaza was thronged with Edui when Vercingetorix, Litivak, and Rhia arrived, and Vercingetorix was pleased to see among the crowd quite a few nobles in the colors of other tribes. For, although he had brought his army here to repay Litivak by assuring that Bibracte would not be left defenseless against Caesar’s promised vengeance, this had been done with a leisurely parade through the countryside, and he had dispatched invitations far and wide, hoping to make it a victory celebration not of Arverni and Edui but of Gauls.

  The plaza was far too small for the army to enter it even had it been empty, so Vercingetorix dismissed his men for some well-deserved revelry, and he, Litivak, and Rhia dismounted and began to make their way to the gathering in the Assembly Hall afoot. But they had hardly begun to cross the plaza when Vercingetorix and Litivak were recognized, and hoisted up on shoulders, and then on shields, and then deposited on the portico atop the stairs leading into the Assembly Hall like the main dishes on a banquet table.

  As, in a way, we are, Vercingetorix thought as the crowd banged swords and daggers on shields, feet upon stone, hands upon each other, shouting “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!” And he knew that he could not escape inside the building without speaking. So he held up both arms high above his head, and the din swiftly became an expectant hush.

  “We have defeated the legions of Rome!” Vercingetorix shouted. “Julius Caesar himself has fled before us! We—”

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  On and on and on it went, those who had been calling for him to speak now making it impossible for anything but their own voices to be heard.

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  They were drunk on it, and Vercingetorix would have had to be a man of stone not to feel the seduction himself. At length he raised his hand to quiet both the crowd and the tumultuous clamor of his own heart.

  “Cheer if you would for Vercingetorix of the Arverni!” he cried out, placing his right hand on the shoulder of Litivak. “Cheer if you would for Litivak of the Edui!”

  They did, and Litivak grinned at him as the crowd shouted both their names, drowning out the syllables in a wordless confusion. At last the shouting gave way to another silence, and Vercingetorix decided to fill it with words that came as close as he might dare to what was in his heart.

  “Cheer for the victory of the warriors of Gaul, but cheer not for tribes whose names will soon be forgotten,” he said, perhaps more somberly than he had intended, and certainly more somberly than the crowd wished to hear, for these words were greeted with nothing better than guttural muttering. And so Vercingetorix finished by combining what he knew they wanted to hear with what he wanted them to acclaim:

  “Cheer for what, with this victory, has now been born, and whose spirit shall never die! Cheer for Gaul!”

  And they did.

  “Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!” someone shouted out.

  And the rhythmic banging resumed. But the song the multitude now sang was different:

  “Vercingetorix! King of Gaul! Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!”

  The words that the silver-tongued Vercingetorix had extracted from them. The words from the vision that had brought him to its fulfillment in the here and now. All he had to do was accept them and they would come true.

  And yet, when at length the chanting had died away, he found that he could not.

  “I shall not wear the Crown of Brenn,” he found himself saying, “while there is a victory yet to be won! We have won a great battle, but not the war!”

  No great cheer greeted this. Litivak gave him a lidded sidelong glance and the subtlest shaking of his head. Vercingetorix knew that he could not end it with those words. Yet he could not take them back. And so he must find a way to make them sing.

  He drew his sword and held it high above his head.

  “No king shall rule Gaul while Roman troops remain on our soil!”

  The light drizzle falling on the encampment seemed appropriate to Caesar’s mood as he stood in the entrance to his tent, observing his army. Legionnaires huddled just inside their own tents before fires rendered smoky by the rain, tending to wounded survivors, hammering dents out of armor, resharpening swords, cooking field porridge in blackened pots, tossing dice, arguing, grumbling, drinking.

  There was no joy in this bitter aftermath, but Caesar took a grim satisfaction in commanding such an army, rendered dour by ignominious defeat, but licking its wounded pride and gathering its remaining strength to fight and win another day.

  And win we will, for have I not seen Vercingetorix hand over his sword in a battlefield vision? Caesar told himself sardonically.

  The disaster at Gergovia had taught him three very expensive but useful lessons that he would not forget:

  Never, ever, not even in the most tempting circumstances, trust a force of Gallic auxiliaries or mercenaries.

  Never, ever, allow a Gallic army to attack your rear with cavalry.

  And, finally, do whatever it takes to trap Vercingetorix’s main force in a siege. For Gergovia, even more than Bourges, has proved that this is what he fears the most.

  Caesar turned and strode back into the warmth and comfort of his tent—large enough so a fire could burn within, and cleverly vented to release most of the smoke; equipped with oil lamps, a decent bed, and camp stools. Within, Tulius, Labienus, Gallius, Galba, and Glavius, his new so-called spymaster, sat over hot porridge salted with bits of meat and goblets of rough Gallic beer in lieu of wine, glumly waiting to report.

  Quartermasters had piled up a dozen swords for his selection as replacem
ent for the one he had lost, and Caesar sat down before them, hefting each in turn as they spoke.

  “Well, how bad is it?” he demanded, lifting a sword speculatively.

  “Our cavalry took the worst of it,” said Galba. “Now, if it came to our cavalry against theirs in the open, we wouldn’t have a chance.”

  Caesar merely nodded, trying another sword for weight and balance, having already assumed this and taken it into account.

  “Our infantry was decimated,” said Tulius. “Somewhat worse. The tenth part or so killed, another tenth part rendered useless for combat.”

  Caesar tried out yet another sword.

  “Food could be a problem,” said Galba. “We lost a lot when we retreated. We can probably last until winter with what we have if we are careful, but not through it.”

  “Butcher the dead or useless horses and smoke the meat,” said Caesar.

  The Gauls would never think of doing such a thing. They might have carnal intercourse with their mounts if they were drunk enough, but they’d sooner eat their own feces. They believed their horses had souls like their own.

  “Equipment?” said Caesar, lifting a fourth sword.

  “We lost all the siege towers and catapults, but not what we need to make more,” said Gallius.

  Caesar picked up a fifth sword, shrugged, and slipped it into his empty scabbard. These swords were all similarly crafted; one was as good as another, more or less. Including the one Vercingetorix had captured, though he probably thought its loss was some sort of blow to its former master’s manhood.

  “What do you think the Gauls will do now, Caesar?” asked Labienus.

  “Were I Vercingetorix, I would avoid another battle at all costs. I would declare victory, crown myself king, continue to burn everything before our path and harry our rear and flanks until we finally ran out of food and fodder again and were forced to slink back over the Alps. Where Caesar would spend the winter trying to keep the Senate from recalling him to Rome and probably failing.”

  “A clever strategy,” muttered Tulius. “If they pursue it, we are probably lost.”

  “Indeed,” said Caesar. “But that’s what I would do. What I believe they will do is try to finish us off.”

  “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” said Galba.

  “Finish us off?” scoffed Tulius. “They win one battle thanks to treachery, and they suppose they have defeated Rome?”

  “Vercingetorix is clever,” Caesar told him, “but patience is no Gallic virtue, and he doesn’t command a true army but a horde of warriors, few of whom are likely to obey orders they do not want to hear.”

  “The question is, what do we do now?” said Labienus.

  “Not quite,” said Caesar. “The question is, what do the Gauls expect us to do now?” He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Glavius. The spymaster shrugged. Caesar scowled. What a lame replacement for Gisstus this man was!

  “Where is Vercingetorix’s army now?” Caesar asked, sighing, in the tone of a Socratic teacher addressing a dim student.

  “At Bibracte.”

  “Doing what?”

  Glavius, looking disquieted, shrugged once more. “Celebrating their victory?” he ventured.

  “And what else?”

  “What else?”

  “By the buttocks of the gods, man, why Bibracte?” Caesar shouted in no little exasperation. “Why does Vercingetorix not celebrate the great victory of Gergovia in the place where it happened—which just happens to be the capital of his own tribe?”

  The blank stare that greeted this made Caesar pine for the counsel of Gisstus.

  “Because Litivak betrayed you?” Labienus suggested. “You forced him to fight with us at Gergovia only by vowing to destroy Bibracte if he did not, so when he betrayed you instead of his own people—”

  “You’re right!” cried Caesar. “Vercingetorix brought his army to Bibracte to protect it from my expected wrath!”

  He sprang to his feet and began pacing in small circles. “Well done, Labienus!” he exclaimed. “That’s thinking like a Gaul!”

  “But if we do march on Bibracte in our current state, he’ll bring his cavalry out of the city and slaughter us,” said Tulius. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “Vercingetorix takes me for a fool,” said Caesar. He laughed. “Or at least for a Gaul.”

  The quizzical looks they all gave him were choice, and he found himself wishing once more for the company of Gisstus: his sardonic friend would surely have enjoyed this.

  “Were I a Gaul, I would be honor-bound to seek vengeance on Litivak to fulfill my vow, no matter that it would be an act of military idiocy,” Caesar said. “And therefore a Gaul will be taken in when I pretend to do it.”

  “You have quite lost me, Caesar,” Tulius said.

  “Get me a map of eastern Gaul that goes as far as the Rhine, Glavius,” Caesar ordered, and then, when Glavius brought it, he dropped to his knees and spread it excitedly on the bare earth.

  “Look!” he cried, planting his right forefinger on Bibracte. “Here is Bibracte!” He moved it to the southwest. “And here we are, more or less.”

  He began moving his finger northeast, along a line that would take it somewhat east of Bibracte. “We march north, making it appear that the plan is to pass northeast of the city, and circle round to attack from the northwest—”

  “But Vercingetorix will surely ride out and—”

  “—and chase us down!”

  “Do you really think so?” Caesar purred. “Chase us eastward?”

  “East, west, north, south, it doesn’t matter, he’s got five times the cavalry we have left now, he’ll chase us down wherever we go and slaughter us!”

  “Not if we hire enough mercenary reinforcements to give him a very unpleasant surprise when we allow him to catch us,” said Caesar.

  “Mercenaries!” exclaimed Tulius. “Look what happened with Litivak! Nowhere in this cursed land are there mercenaries we can trust!”

  “But there are, Tulius, there are!”

  The din of talk and laughter in the Assembly Hall redoubled when Vercingetorix and Litivak entered, then guttered away to an expectant moment of silence as Vercingetorix stood there frozen by a bittersweet memory.

  For the scene reminded him of Keltill’s last feast in the Great Hall of Gergovia, when he was but his father’s proud son in the long ago. This place might be larger and it might be lit by brazen oil lamps rather than torchlight, but the walls were also hung with the arms and skulls of defeated enemies, and a boar spitted in a fireplace at one end and an ox in one at the other filled the air with the same savory tang of roasting meat and burning wood. Here too the vergobrets and tribal leaders sat at a big table in the center of the room, and though this feasting table was covered with a cloth of blue, the fare laid out upon it was much the same: boar and mutton, bread and poultry, kegs and tankards of good yeasty beer. Vercingetorix could almost see Keltill seated in the central place of honor with a horn of beer in his hand, and a welcoming smile on his lips.

  But here the seat of honor was to be his, on its right hand an empty place for Litivak, and on its left—

  The center table was surrounded by smaller tables crammed into the hall to accommodate as great a crowd as the place would hold—craftsmen, warriors, traders—and now they were on their feet, banging tankards on the table, chanting his name, and expecting some words as he made his way to his seat of honor. But the sight of who it was who already sat at the left hand thereof rendered Vercingetorix indifferent to all else.

  For it was Marah.

  She wore a plain white linen Gallic shift trimmed with the red and black of the Carnutes, though her long blond hair was elaborately coiffed and held high off her neck by a golden tiara in the Roman style, and her cheeks rendered rosier than natural by artifice, and her eyes dramatically framed by black kohl.

  Once more, the Great Leader of Warriors was transported back to the long ago, when a young boy’s manhood had risen to salute h
is first sight of a budding beauty.

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  But since then, Marah had lain with Caesar, become half a Roman, and scorned him as a barbarian. The “barbarian” who was now the hero of Gergovia and could have himself acclaimed king with a word. And to Marah’s left sat her mother, Epona, who he doubted had brought her here for entirely sentimental purposes.

  No, he was no longer that beardless boy, and she was no longer that young virgin. It was the eyes of a woman into which he gazed now, and behind them he saw neither innocence nor simplicity.

  Nor were they alone.

  Other eyes were watching this tender reunion. The eyes of the Carnutes, via the mother who had arranged it. The eyes of the Edui, who had hosted it. The smiling eyes of Litivak, who would seem to have had his friendly hand in it too. The eyes of Rhia, across the table a few places down, looking upon him with a face of stone.

  And ears were listening. The ears of those at the table, the ears of those in the Assembly Hall, to whom what was said would be swiftly relayed, and unseen ears far beyond who would hear later, through the distorting ripples of word-of-mouth. No, thought Vercingetorix, we are not alone. We can never be that boy and girl again. We have become a tale the bards will tell.

  “You have come to bask in the glory of the hero of Gergovia?” were the first words he spoke.

  “To salute the man who spared Bourges,” said Marah. “For that man would be a worthy king.”

  Well spoken! thought Vercingetorix. From the heart? Or carefully crafted to seem so?

  “And you would be his queen?” he said.

  “I laughed when I was asked by the boy, but I would be honored to be asked by the man.”

  The words seemed to hang in the air. Vercingetorix became even more acutely aware that the words they spoke were being spoken for thousands of ears not present, perhaps for ears yet unborn.

  “I have vowed that there shall be no king in Gaul while a single Roman soldier stands upon our soil,” he said.

  “I can wait,” said Marah, and kissed him lightly on the lips.