The Druid King

by Norman Spinrad

  Which brought a cheer of acclaim from those at the table.

  All save Rhia.

  And Vercingetorix himself.

  With all the guests at the table straining their ears to overhear whatever he might say to Marah, Vercingetorix pretended to give his full attention to food and drink, forcing himself to gobble down great chunks of meat for which he felt no real appetite, and appearing to quaff more beer than he was really drinking, observing with sidelong glances that she seemed to be doing the same.

  Only when he saw that their tablemates had consumed enough beer so that even Litivak and Epona allowed their attention to drift elsewhere did Vercingetorix seek to converse with Marah, and then softly and without meeting her eyes, still pretending to be concentrating on his meat and beer.

  “Why did you really come here?”

  “I spoke the truth.”

  “Did you?”

  “Sparing the granaries of Bourges was a noble act. The man who risked all to do it proved he had a noble heart.”

  “But the consequences for the city were disastrous.”

  “But not for Gaul. Had you destroyed Bourges, Litivak would not have returned to your side, the battle of Gergovia would have been lost, and—”

  “And you would now be sidling up to Caesar?” Vercingetorix blurted, and immediately wished he had bitten his treacherous tongue off instead.

  But Marah took no umbrage. “I deserved to hear that,” she said in a gentle voice, “and it is only just that I hear it from you.” And Vercingetorix felt his heart soften toward her at that forthright admission. But was it crafted to achieve such an effect?

  “Then you no longer deem me a petulant barbarian?” he said, and softened his own words by adding jestingly: “Or at least I have become one with a silver tongue?”

  “The man who burned people alive was a barbarian who made me ashamed to be born a Gaul. But the man who spared Bourges and accepted the consequences made me ashamed to have been seduced by the allure of Rome.”

  “And by Caesar?”

  “I would be lying if I told you I regretted…knowing such a great man,” said Marah.

  “You can call the man who butchered Bourges ‘great’?”

  “Great as Rome is great, Vercingetorix. A great man determined to rule the greatest civilization the world has known.”

  “The greatest civilization the world has known!” Vercingetorix hissed, so that his anger would be heard by Marah alone. “Which seeks to conquer and despoil and enslave every people it encounters! Including your own!”

  “To conquer, yes, but not to despoil. You have seen this city and you have seen Bourges. Can you truly say that either was left poorer by its commerce with Rome? Less rich in worldly goods or learning or the arts? Provided with a less abundant supply of water? Less…civilized?”

  “But at what cost?” demanded Vercingetorix. “And if you find the civilization of Rome so admirable, why are you here among such rough Gallic barbarians?”

  “Because,” said Marah, “though Rome, like Caesar, is great in all the things of the world and therefore to be emulated and admired, it is not great at heart, and therefore, like Caesar, not to be loved. But Gaul is great at heart. As is the man who taught me this lesson, not with silver-tongued words or a mighty victory, but with a foul deed nobly left undone.”

  Vercingetorix’s heart begged him to trust these honeyed words, but he could not be sure they weren’t just silver-tongued words of a woman who would be queen.

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  Bellies had been filled to the point of torpor, beer had been drunk to the point of red-eyed intoxication, and there was nothing left but to hear the words of the victor of Gergovia and the conqueror of Caesar, the silver-tongued Vercingetorix.

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  Tankards slammed on tables, spilling beer. Feet stomped on the floor, scattering the dogs who were gorging on scraps. Dagger and sword pommels banged on shields as if they were Roman heads.

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  “Listen to that!” exulted Litivak, his bloodshot eyes shining with battle lust. “Speak to them of glory and they’ll be ready to follow you off the edge of the world!”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Vercingetorix, having dreaded the coming of this moment all through the feasting. For he knew what he should say, and glory had no part in it.

  He was rescued from having to answer Litivak’s befuddlement by Liscos. His blond hair half gray, his heavy face weighed down by more than fatigue, the Eduen vergobret had tried to play the overjoyed host of the feast, to pretend that he had commanded Litivak and his warriors to the rescue of Gergovia. No one really believed it, but no one had yet found it useful to deny this unifying falsehood. Now Liscos leapt up onto the big table unsteadily, knocking several platters of meaty remains onto the floor. No one seemed to notice save the dogs that commenced squabbling for them under the table as he began to speak.

  “Are you enjoying our feast?” he shouted in a voice a good deal less than sober. “Are you enjoying the magnificent hospitality of Liscos, vergobret of the Edui?”

  The chanting and rhythmic pounding only became more insistent.

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  Liscos made a rather vain attempt to mask his envious scowl. “Are you enjoying the greatest victory since the time of Brenn?” he bellowed at the top of his voice.

  At this, Critognat leapt to his feet down at the end of the table and roared even louder: “The greatest victory in the history of the world! We have done what no one has ever done before! We have defeated the greatest army of the greatest general of the greatest army of the greatest—”

  At this, the hall burst into good-natured laughter, rescuing Critognat from his drunken befuddlement.

  “Six legions of them!” someone shouted.

  “Ten!”

  “A hundred!”

  This was a boast ridiculous enough to draw laughter even from well-beered Gauls. But also enough to allow Liscos a graceful exit.

  “A thousand legions and we would still have sent them fleeing before us!” Liscos declaimed grandly. “Our women could slaughter a hundred legions, our children a hundred, and our dogs could take care of the rest!”

  At this there was more raucous laughter.

  “We have defeated the despoiler of our land and the scourge of our people—Julius Caesar himself!”

  Jeers, hissings, feigned fartings.

  “Defeated by a greater general still—”

  “Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix! Vercingetorix!”

  The chanting began again, and Liscos, frowning, surrendered at last to the inevitable and shouted: “Vercingetorix! Who has brought us this greatest of victories! Vercingetorix! In whose honor I, Liscos, vergobret of the Edui, will now treat you all to three full days of the greatest feast in the history of Gaul!”

  This was enough to earn him such a loud cheer that he could return to his seat with his hostly dignity more or less intact. But it was not quite enough to bring order.

  “After which we’ll ride out of here and smash the Romans once and for all!” Critognat shouted.

  “Death to Caesar!”

  “Why wait? Let’s do it now!”

  Many men were rising woozily from their seats, drawing swords, waving them wildly, drunk enough on beer and glory to ride out right now and try.

  “Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!” some shouted.

  “Vercingetorix! King of Gaul!”

  “No!” shouted Vercingetorix as loudly as he was able, leaping up onto the table. The tumult died down into confused mutterings, and he decided to at least try to say what he must.

  “I have sworn not to wear the Crown of Brenn while Roman legions still shame the soil of Gaul, and though we have won a great victory, we have not yet won the war.”

  “Well spoken!” shouted Critognat. “Let’s ride after t
hem and finish them off!”

  “Well spoken yourself, Critognat!” said Vercingetorix, seeking to bend Critognat’s words back to his own purpose. “Critognat is right—we must finish what we have begun. But our victory at Gergovia must be the last battle of the war.”

  “You speak in riddles!” shouted Critognat. “The war is not won, but there must be no more battles? How can this be?”

  “We cannot win this war in Gaul,” said Vercingetorix. “We must win it in Rome.”

  Once more, Critognat deflected his words from their intended purpose. “Now you’re speaking like a real Gaul! Let’s march on Rome! Burn it to the ground!”

  Vercingetorix saw nothing for it but to press on as if these words had not been spoken.

  “Caesar is desperate for a victory that he can take triumphantly back to Rome. We would be fools to give him such a second chance. All we need do to win the war is deny him both battle and supplies until winter approaches once more. Then will he be forced to retreat over the mountains with a starving army as the humiliated victim of a famous defeat. After which it will be a long time if ever before any Roman general thinks to make his reputation as conqueror of Gaul!”

  “Now you’re speaking like a cowardly Roman!” Critognat bellowed.

  “When you’ve speared a wild boar through the lungs, do you give it a chance to charge at you with its tusks, or do you stand back and watch it die?”

  “Stand back and watch your enemy die? Where is the glory in that?” said Critognat. “I would give any enemy the chance to die fighting! Even Caesar! The same chance I would want him to give me!”

  This was met with a roar of approval, such as no words of Vercingetorix had drawn forth, for he had tried to speak to their minds the worldly wisdom they needed to hear, but Critognat had spoken what they wanted to hear to their spirits and so touched their warriors’ hearts.

  “You must choose,” said Vercingetorix, making one last foredoomed try, but treading carefully this time. “Do we fight the Romans for victory or for glory?”

  When the people will not follow where you would lead, you must go with them or walk alone.

  It was Litivak who answered. “They are one and the same! We fight for the glorious victory of Gaul!”

  The cheering that went up fairly shook the walls.

  “So be it,” Vercingetorix whispered softly to himself.

  “So be it!” he cried aloud when the clamor finally subsided. “You have chosen to fight not for victory without glory, but for the glory of Gaul, and so I will lead you into the jaws of death with a battle song in my heart!”

  He drew his sword, and sliced his left forearm lightly. “I pledge my life to the last drop of blood to lead Gaul and its cause no matter what sacrifice destiny may call upon me to make!”

  Swords were drawn, arms were blooded and held aloft, and the chanting of his name rang out yet again.

  But when Vercingetorix stole a sidelong glance at Marah and saw what was written in her eyes, he knew that she alone understood the hollowness of his words. She alone knew that there was no joyous battle song singing in his heart.

  The silver-tongued Vercingetorix had only given them what he knew they wanted to hear.

  XVIII

  IT WAS AN OVERCAST NIGHT, and the only light from the sky was the wan, pearly smear of the moon, but the streets below glittered with bonfires, with cookfires, with torches dancing in the dark. From the walkway atop Bibracte’s wall, Vercingetorix could hear the distant strains of music, talk, and laughter, merging into a song of revelry. But he was in no mood for celebration.

  “You spoke well today.”

  Rhia had come up beside him.

  “I lied,” he said. “I have become practiced at it. I will lead them into the jaws of death because I must, but there is no battle song in my heart. I fear that the winning of one battle will bring the losing of the war.”

  Rhia shook her head in chastisement. “Now, there is a thought that should be stopped before it slows your mind.”

  “Tell me how!” Vercingetorix demanded. “I gave them the choice of fighting for victory or fighting for glory, and you saw what they chose.”

  “But Litivak declared that we fight for the glorious victory of Gaul,” Rhia protested, though Vercingetorix detected no conviction in it.

  “Beer talking, and, worse, the stronger drink of glory,” he said. “I can but love Litivak for what he did, but were I Caesar, I would be calling it treachery. Our victory was won not by superior force of arms but by an act of betrayal.”

  Rhia regarded him as if he were some strange beast. “You fault your friend for a courageous act of loyalty to you because it betrayed your enemy?”

  If there were any humor in him this night, Vercingetorix might have laughed at that. “Of course not,” he said instead. “But had Litivak played his part as Caesar expected, you and I would probably be dead, and Gaul would now be a province of Rome.”

  “Is that not a clear sign that destiny smiles on our cause? And Caesar’s losses were heavy. Perhaps we can defeat what he has left in open battle.”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Vercingetorix admitted, “nor do I fear heavy odds against me—”

  “Then what weighs so heavily upon you that you cannot bear a feast?”

  Vercingetorix nodded back toward the lights and sound of the celebration below.

  “The knowledge that, because of those greathearted fools down there, I must throw away a sure victory so that we can chase after honor and glory!” Vercingetorix said, giving vent to the anger he had not dared to display in the Assembly Hall.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Marah had come up onto the walkway, wrapped in a woolen cloak of Carnute red and black, but somehow contriving to drape it around herself like a silken Roman toga.

  “Nothing not better interrupted,” said Rhia.

  “You were subtle as any Roman today, Vercingetorix,” said Marah. “Caesar could not have spoken better.”

  “Am I supposed to take that as praise?” Vercingetorix asked petulantly.

  “Caesar studied rhetoric under a master,” Marah told him. “And logic as well.”

  “But they were swayed by neither my subtle rhetoric nor…Roman logic.”

  “Perhaps because you were wrong,” said Marah.

  “Oh, was I?” Vercingetorix snapped testily.

  “Even if you did harry Caesar out of Gaul in disgrace, even if you killed him, Rome would never accept unavenged defeat. When the Carthaginian Hannibal defeated them, it took them a hundred years, but they destroyed even the memory of Carthage and plowed salt into the soil so nothing would grow there again. And this I was told by Caesar himself. He was very proud of it.”

  “You have learned much from Caesar,” said Vercingetorix.

  “And so have you,” said Marah. “Enough to battle him as an equal. Enough to have the people you lead proclaim you king if you let them. More than Caesar has ever done.”

  And then, in a strange wistful tone: “Or sought to.”

  This sent a pang of jealousy through Vercingetorix’s heart, and when he looked into Marah’s eyes there was no denial to be seen there of the esteem in which she still held the great Caesar. Did she seek to arouse his jealousy? Or did she wish to see in his eyes acknowledgment that he too harbored admiration for his mortal enemy?

  Vercingetorix found that this he could not quite deny. But he was determined not to let it show, and it was Marah who turned away, and spoke to Rhia in a bantering tone:

  “Once, he promised to make me his queen, you know,” she said. “Has he promised the same to you?”

  “I will not live to see a king in Gaul,” Rhia said somberly.

  “And I fear I will never rule as one,” muttered Vercingetorix.

  Marah looked at him, back at Rhia, shook her head.

  “What a sorry pair of lovers!”

  Vercingetorix felt heat at the back of his neck and below his cheek-bones, a blush of emotions—longin
g, embarrassment, somehow even shame.

  “We are not lovers!” he blurted.

  Marah eyed him narrowly. “She bears your standard, she rides by your side into every battle, I have heard it told that she has been seen sleeping by your side in the forest, and you expect me to believe—”

  “Brother and sister of the sword,” Rhia told her with a passion that belied her truthful words, “that is what we are, and all we will ever be.”

  And Marah laughed.

  “Oh, come now, you have no need to hide it from me,” she said good-naturedly. “I saw no reason to hide my dalliance with Caesar from him, so I cannot fault him for his dalliance with you, for the truth of it is that we have never yet been lovers, and I could hardly expect him to—”

  “Nor have we!” Rhia insisted.

  “You think what you feel for him doesn’t show?”

  This was becoming more than Vercingetorix could bear.

  “I think I will return to the feast after all,” he said. “Perhaps some beer will cheer my mood.”

  Marah laughed. “If it does, I should have no trouble finding you, O Great Leader of Warriors.”

  It was late morning after the second night of feasting, and the bright sunlight cut through the shadows like knives, cruelly revealing the remains of human revelry on the tables, and the gnawed bones left by the dogs on the floor.

  Litivak, Liscos, Cottos, Kassiv, Epirod, Netod, Comm, and Velaun were already slumped around the central table when Vercingetorix brought Oranix into the Assembly Hall. The air was stale with the smell of old beer and roasting grease, and they were red-eyed, puffy-faced, and in an ill temper at being summoned before noon.

  But Oranix had awakened Vercingetorix even earlier with news they must all hear. Caesar’s army was not retreating south, toward the Alps. It was apparently marching north, toward Bibracte. But in a strange manner.

  “Where is Critognat?” demanded Vercingetorix.

  “Still sleeping it off, no doubt,” grumbled Comm. “And why aren’t we?”

  “Caesar is moving north,” Vercingetorix told the bleary assembly.

  “North?”

  That was enough to rouse their attention.

  “Marching on Bibracte as he vowed to do?” Litivak said nervously, glancing furtively at Liscos.