Vae Victis

by Francis Mulhern

  “We will follow the convention and allow them to speak first, putting their demands to us before I refute them in law and claim that they have no rights. We” his mouth split into a grin as he continued “will then inform them that we are part of the Latin league, an alliance of twenty tribes who will throw them off our land if they do not leave within the day” he finished with a cold stare at the Roman brothers.

  Quintus returned the cold stare and nodded slowly. “They will, of course, refuse this and declare war immediately” he said, holding a hand up to stop Etrucio from speaking. “You have less than three thousand men in this city and will hold out for maybe two days before they scale your walls. How do you believe we will hold out for the eight days it will take any troops to arrive and support you?” he added noticing the sudden fearful frown on the face of the king who had turned to look quizzically at Etrucio.

  Etrucio smiled back at Quintus. “You underestimate the strength of our walls Roman” he said. “We have enough men to hold them back for a month against our walls. They come with bare feet and bare chests and have no arrows that we have seen, even you suggested this to me yesterday” Etrucio said with a sneer. “They cannot cross the ditch or climb our walls without losing half their men to our defences. We have all the elders, women and children trained to launch missiles at them before they reach our spears.” He smiled as if he was talking to a child. “Within that time, we will ask you to return to Rome and gather a force which will destroy these barbarians.” The king and the elders smiled and nodded at the plan set out by Etrucio and Quintus looked to Caeso and Numerius who were both staring at Etrucio as if he had spoken a language they did not understand. Quintus felt anger beginning to grow in his mind, but also knew that he must remain calm and composed in his role of ambassador. The Clusians had played them well and had clearly planned this rebuff of the Gauls long before he and his brothers had arrived. He would have to be careful how he proceeded but he knew that the Gauls were more of a threat than Etrucio believed. The walls would hold for at worst a day, three at the most against such a force. He smiled and made a quick bow before speaking.

  “Then we are your servants” he said as he looked into the eyes of King Porsenna “and we will do your bidding.”

  “Excellent” the king said quickly as he stood and began to leave the room. “Etrucio will sort the details, I must change to greet these barbarians.” With that he swept from the room as the elders stood and bowed at the retreating figure and his various slaves and servants.

  ************

  The trumpet blared again, the sound grating and deep, not like any music Quintus had ever heard before. It sounded like a bull bellowing before it was sacrificed. More an assault on the ears than a tune, he thought. The town square was awash with people, many dressed in their most colourful tunics, some with braided hair and carrying their children on their shoulders as they watched the Gauls stride down the wide cobbled street. He shook his head as he looked at the crowds who had turned out to watch the meeting with the Gauls. As the Gallic ambassadors walked towards the king Quintus looked over each man in turn. There were several Gauls, but the leaders were easily identifiable by the thick golden bands they hung around their necks, some fastened to long cloaks of deep green or rusty red, others simply hung around the necks of the bare-chested leaders. Each man wore the long leggings of the Gauls and only two of the seven was clothed on his torso, one clearly some sort of priest if his green cloak was any guide.

  The man leading the group was as tall as any man Quintus had ever seen, his flaxen hair tightly packed on his head and held in place by a thick concoction of limewater and mud, something he had seen before in men from across the mountains. The man carried no weapons and bore himself with pride, his thick chest and strongly muscled arms held a confidence that Quintus knew came from a man who had tested himself in combat many times and won. His forearms were covered in thin leather bracelets of various colours and his leggings were of a thick cloth which seemed heavy but were cut to just above his ankles so that they did not drape onto his feet. The man’s face was broad, his eyes almost too wide apart in his face, with his large nose and light-coloured eyes the only distinguishable features in a mass of brown and yellow beard. The beard had two thin gold bands half way down its length, another sign of his wealth. His eyes roved the scene around him, flicking from the two-story houses to the lines of women and children who watched silently as he padded forwards on thin sandals. He was speaking to a man next to him, the one that Quintus had seen from the walls, his red hair and enormous frame making him stand out amongst the Gauls. He still wore no sandals and his chest was bare to the sun, the flecks of hair glinting as if they were golden strands as he pointed to a tall building, a look of wonder in his eyes. The silver and gold torc hung around his neck but he bore no other symbols of his stature in the Gallic army. His red beard wasn’t as thick as the other Gaul, and the length came just below his chin. Quintus wondered if the two men were brothers, they were certainly similar in size.

  Behind them came a thin man in a long green cloak and beside him a proud man, his eyes flashing with joy, almost as if he was enjoying the situation more than he should. He shared a joke with the red-haired giant and all the Gauls laughed in unison, their deep voices coming like a growl from a pack of wolves. The man who had made the joke was dressed in fine clothes, a thin pair of leggings decorated with green leaf patterns with splashes of red. Quintus wondered if it was blood, but as the man neared he noticed they were berries sewn into the cloth and the green were patterns depicting leaves and branches, as if the man were dressed as a tree, the rich colours appearing at odds with the bare chests and drab colours of the other Gauls. His hair was long but tidy and not washed with lime like the others, his eyes deep brown and his beard neatly trimmed and shaved clean across his throat, almost Roman. Quintus stared hard at him and wondered if he was the leader of the group. The thin man with the green cloak walked at his side every step of the way as they approached, his eyes downcast and his hands hidden inside the long cloak he wore. On his head he wore a single black feather, short and almost lost in his thick hair, but nevertheless it stood there proudly.

  The rest of the Gauls were arrayed in a variety of brown cloths, none finely cut or well dressed. Each of the men were taller than any of the Etruscans or Romans in the square and each man walked as if he owned the town, the thick gold torcs and swagger of each man bringing a curl to Quintus’ lip as they came to a halt ten yards in front of the Clusian king and his elders. The crowd, who had been whispering as the Gauls strode across the square fell silent and the king stood, his throne standing on a wooden plinth that had been erected that morning so that he could stand eye to eye with the Gauls.

  “Men of Gallia” he said in good Greek, the common language between the two tribes, with a curt nod as his eyes flashed across the Gauls in front of him. “You are not welcome in my city, but we must do as we must to resolve this situation” he said as every Gaul looked to the red-haired giant and then back to the king. Quintus noted this and realised the red-head was the leader as the man smiled at the words of Porsenna.

  “I am Porsenna, King of Clusium” he continued. “Let the sacrifices and rituals start” he added with a wave of his arm and two men stepped from behind his throne with a goat and a caged chicken. The Gauls smiled at this and relaxed as if they were watching a show, the Etruscans placing a table in front of the king and adding several bottles of oil to it as the goat was offered to the gods and its throat sliced. Quintus noticed the green robed Gaul whispering to the red-haired leader as both men watched the sacrifice intently. The chicken was also quickly sacrificed, and entrails read in a thick silver bowl with deep grooves in the side where the soothsayer could grip the bowl and swirl the entrails in the oil he had poured into the mixture. Quintus was getting bored as the ceremony dragged on and noticed that the Gauls too were getting restless, all except the thin man in the green cloak and the red-haired giant. They were transfixed int
o whispered conversation as each step of the Disciplina Etrusca ceremony was followed. It reminded Quintus of such ceremonies used by Camillus before many of their battles and he smiled at the memory of how unsettling it had seemed to many of their enemies.

  As the ceremonies were concluded Quintus licked his dry lips. Standing in the sun was getting hot, he almost smiled at the thought that baring your chest to the heat would actually be far more agreeable than standing in a thick toga, the heavy cloth already sending a stream of sweat down the back of his neck. The soothsayer proclaimed that the day was good for a discussion, but also added a barbed, double-edged, phrase which stated that one side would go away unhappy from the meeting. It was almost laughable, Quintus thought. There was always one side unhappy at the outcome of any negotiations.

  The king stood and motioned to the Gauls before sitting again, clearly a sign that it was now their turn to complete their rituals. The red-headed man stood forward and turned his head slowly around at the crowd before fixing his eyes on the king with a look that suggested that the king and his people were of total insignificance to the Gauls.

  “I am Brennus” he said with a boom, his voice almost a shout as his chest thrust forwards and his eyes bored deeper into the king’s face, almost taunting him. His Greek was passable but clearly not as good as the kings. “These are our leaders. This is my brother, Belinus, leader and champion among the men of the Senones” he nodded to the giant next to him. “The druid Aengus will lead the ceremony” he commanded with a turn to the smaller, green cloaked, man as he stepped back and sneered at the faces of the Clusian elders.

  Aengus took the cloak from his shoulders and underneath was a lithe torso, thin yet strong, the sinews of well used muscles visible across his arms and shoulders. But what took everybody’s breath away with a gasp was the criss-cross of scars and bright red burn marks which covered the man’s body. Deep gashes had healed into long ridges of untidy flesh along his forearms and onto his shoulders. Burn marks covered his torso, some angry from recent inflictions and others old and healed like brown patches of leather had been sewn into his skin. The crowd closest to the man stepped back in horror as he whirled the cloak and threw it to the floor as if about to start some intricate dance, before he produced a thin sword, long and raking. Quintus, as many of the Clusians did, took a small step forward at the sudden, almost magical appearance of the sword, but Brennus held up his hands.

  “This is our ritual” he shouted, demanding silence as he stared down his nose at the fearful and quizzical looks of the people that were watching Aengus as he continued to whirl and twist in the space in front of the king.

  Aengus continued as if nothing had happened, calling upon a god called Dis Pater, whom Quintus knew was a god of the dead and then pulling the lone black feather from his hair and holding it to the sky. Quintus smiled as the movement drew most of the eyes of the elders to the sky as Aengus narrowed his eyes watching the sky above his hand.

  “Esus” yelled Aengus and fell to the floor, the sword was in one hand, but suddenly a length of twig or a small branch was held out in his other, as if the god he had called had sent it to him. Some of the crowd gasped loudly at the sudden appearance. He’s good, thought Quintus as he watched the druid, knowing many travelling shows with men who could use sleight of hand and twisting body movements to trick the audience. The thin branch must have been concealed in those leggings or somewhere behind the sword. Clever, he thought.

  “Esus” he called again and to everyone’s surprise the man dressed in the highly decorated clothes stepped forwards, his eyes beaming with joy as his arms rose slowly to the sky.

  “I am here” called the man, his eyes looking around the scene as if he had not been standing there for the last half an hour. “I am ready” he whispered in a voice which sounded as if it was coming from above him. The crowd were whispering now, and Quintus looked to Caeso with a frown which begged the question of what this was all about.

  One of the Gauls stepped forward with a pitcher of liquid and handed it to Aengus, who was still kneeling on the floor, his sword hand now holding the feather, the thin branch and the sword together as he gripped the pitcher which was offered to him. He stood and placed the feather into the hands of the man. The man put the feather in his hair and smiled as if in ecstasy, his eyes closing as a broad smile crept slowly across his face.

  “Esus we beg you to use the voice of Batarius” Aengus said. “Tell us of the flight of the crows, your sacred birds who follow the divine spirit of the trees” he said loudly as the crowd seemed to close in at the spectacle, all wanting to hear what this man Batarius had to say.

  Batarius stood tall, his eyes roved towards the main gate and he smiled. “My people the Senones have been led to this place by my sacred crows. They have found their home” he added as some of the crowd began to grumble lowly. “This land belongs to the strong, not the weak. You, my people, will take it in the name of my brothers Taranis and Teutates. It will become strong and grow as a child grows, healthy and strong. It will please me that these people accept thy will, but you will be strong in valour if they do not.” The veiled threat did not escape Quintus’ ears as he glanced at Etrucio, who seemed consumed with the show in front of him.

  “Brennus be my hand, be my arms and be my body. You, my kin, will take my blood as my offering and will take my wisdom. Wisdom given by Esus, god of the land and its strong trees with the branches of life. God of the Senones and brother to Taranis and Teutates. Brennus” Batarius said as his eyes gleamed and he turned to the leader of the Gauls. “I submit my will” he added finally as a series of questioning looks went around the Clusian elders and townsfolk.

  Brennus stepped forwards and took the pitcher from Aengus. “I accept the sacrifice you make” he said, pouring the contents of the pitcher onto the head of Batarius as he held his arms out. The pitcher contained a milky liquid which dripped slowly down his head onto his shoulders and ran down his ornately stitched clothes to the floor. “I accept your wisdom as does my brother, your cousin, Belinus” he said as the flaxen haired giant standing behind Brennus stepped forwards. “We will honour your name with every crop we sow in our new lands. We will sing your praise as we sing to Esus.”

  Quintus had a sudden appalling feeling. Surely not, he thought. No, surely not. He swallowed hard as he glanced to Caeso who frowned at his sudden movement, his questioning face asking what he couldn’t speak. Quintus turned swiftly to the scene in front of him as Aengus did exactly as he was thinking and quickly stepped up next to Batarius and with a deft hand movement opened his throat, the man gasping momentarily before the sucking noise of his opened windpipe took away the sound. His eyes rolled twice as his arms tried to stay outstretched and his legs swayed. Aengus danced around him as if watching which way he was moving, babbling strange words to the two Gallic brothers as they too seemed intent on watching the dying man. Women screamed, and babies began to cry as the crowds moved swiftly backwards. The sudden noise was totally ignored by the Gauls as they all moved closer to the form of Batarius as he crumpled to his knees, his head lolling to the right and the feather dropping away in the same direction. The movement of the feather caused a great deal of noise from the Gauls, they all watched as the feather slipped to the floor, some actually cheering as the dying man started to topple forwards and to his right. Aengus called more loudly, the word Esus coming into the speech several times as the body of Batarius fell lifelessly at the feet of his cousin, Brennus.

  King Porsenna had stood, fear coming to his eyes at the barbarity of the act. The Gauls continued to gabble in their fast tongue, words spilling out as each man seemed intent on discussing which way the body had fallen, how the hands had been placed and where the head had moved. Aengus led the discussions for more than a minute as the Gauls seemed to have forgotten where they were. As Aengus finished speaking, he pulled a wicked looking knife from his leggings, the curved blade clearly some sort of ceremonial knife with a notched edge. More quickly than
anyone could imagine he sliced the head from the body and was handed a thick wooden vessel by another Gaul. As Quintus started to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach Aengus lifted the headless form and started to fill the wooden vessel with the dead man’s blood, almost shaking the head as he filled the cup to half way.

  “What is this?” called Etrucio, almost gagging at the scene in front of him, his hand covering his mouth as his eyes showed the horror of what he had witnessed. As one, each of the Gauls turned their faces to the Etruscans with a look of surprise, Brennus turning his scowling face back to Aengus as the man lifted the cup and handed it to him.

  “I demand...” Etrucio started before Aengus rounded on him and pointed the blood-soaked blade at the Etruscan elder.

  “We allowed your ceremony by your druid to be completed” he spat venomously in a deep growling voice. “Do not interrupt ours or the gods, yours as well, will look with displeasure on your words” he added before he turned back to the grinning Brennus.

  “Esus we thank you for your signs” bellowed the leader of the Gauls as he up-ended the wooden cup and took a deep draught of the blood, a small red line falling through his beard as some of the crowd fell to their knees and began to wail, the rear Gauls calling for silence as the women and children were dragged away by their menfolk. Brennus handed the cup to his brother, who drank slowly as if savouring the taste before handing the vessel to Aengus who whispered some words before finishing the blood.

  “Esus” cried the Gauls as they beat their chests like mad-men, the thrashing causing the guards close to the king to step even closer to their leader with a look of fear in their faces and swords half-drawn.

  Aengus wiped his mouth with his discarded cloak, handing the garment to the two leaders before turning back to face the king.

  “King Porsenna” he said, his deep voice accentuating the ‘a’ of the king’s name as if it offended him. “Our sacrifice is complete. Batarius gave his life for his cousin and for our future, as is our way. He has chosen to dwell with the divine Esus and will be our flame in the night to guide our way. By drinking his blood, we gain the wisdom Esus gave to him in the moments of his death.” At this he turned to Brennus and Belinus and slipped quickly to one knee. “Leader” he called as he looked at the tall red-haired Gaul. “Our cousin has told us that the strong will survive, the weak will perish. This land is ours by divine right. Woe to those who try to stop what the gods have ordained” he said with a bow before standing and moving away to the back of the group of Gauls with his cloak in his hands.