The Druid King (15 page)

Contemplating the unbidden image, Caesar decided that he really did not want to know. He was beginning to regret burdening himself with this druid. Like so much else in Gaul that had later turned out to be vexatious, dragging Diviacx along on this expedition had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Warriors of many tribes would be sequestered together in the camp he was going to set up at Portus Itius, on the channel coast, so having a druid at hand to adjudicate disputes would, he hoped, keep them from killing each other before the real slaughter had properly begun. Diviacx, being the only druid who would allow himself even to be caught within sight of a Roman, had been the only possible choice.

And perhaps that, as much as his complaints about the food, and the dust, and the horses, and the long hours of the march, is why I am coming to detest the man, Caesar thought sourly. Diviacx has been and will be a useful instrument, one who has enriched himself thereby and grown spoiled and querulous; a greedy fool at best, and, not to mince words, a traitor from a certain Gallic perspective. A man, in short, lacking in wit, and even more so in honor. How is one to like such a man even if he is one’s own creature?

One cannot, Caesar decided. Enduring his company is bad enough. And, cruelly, he brought his horse up into an easy loping gallop.

Vercingetorix heard distant clatterings that must be the movements of animals. Then, as his way eastward took him ever closer to the source, these unwelcome noises became louder than the song of the forest, and finally they became the rumble of cart and wagon wheels, the babble of human voices, and then there it was. He emerged from the trees to confront a Roman road.

He had never seen one before, but he knew that was what it had to be, for no Gaul would build a road like this. It was as wide as eight horses riding abreast, raised an arm’s length above the natural level of the earth on a platform of rocks and cement, and flanked by two muddy ditches dug into the ground. Its surface was paved with flat stones set in cement and was as flat as that of a well-used wooden table. And rather than embracing the landscape and becoming one with it, like a proper Gallic road, it was arrow-straight from horizon to horizon, thrust through hill and valley and forest like a sword of stone.

Upon it moved the carts of peasants heaped with grain, the wagon of a Roman trader bearing amphorae of what was probably wine, a herder of swine with his animals, peasants afoot, and—

—horsemen approaching at a gallop from the west, sending the road traffic scattering to the sides to get clear of their passage.

Without thought, Vercingetorix found himself mounting the side of the road as the riders approached, but when they drew close enough for him truly to make them out, he gasped.

There were seven of them riding abreast. Four were blue-cloaked Eduen warriors. One was a man in the bronzed armor and helmet of a Roman warrior whom Vercingetorix seemed to remember having seen before.

But the other two!

Flanked on either side by two Eduen warriors rode Diviacx, the druid who had presided over the burning of his father.

In the center position, mounted on a fine roan stallion draped with a reddish saddle blanket trimmed in yellow braid, wearing Roman armor but bareheaded, a cape of a brilliant crimson flowing behind him, was a man whom Vercingetorix had never in this world seen. But he knew he had met him in the Land of Legend. This was the Roman who would offer him first the crown of laurel and then the Crown of Brenn. This was the Roman general upon whose gilded chariot he would ride in triumph. This was the man who was destined to acclaim him king of Gaul in Rome itself.

This could only be Gaius Julius Caesar.

Vercingetorix drew his sword, held it above his head, and stepped out into the middle of the roadway.

What mad apparition is this? wondered Caesar.

Up ahead, a man in orange tunic and pantaloons had stepped out into the middle of the road and raised a sword as if to impede the passage of six armed horsemen, and the five cohorts of Roman legionnaires behind them.

Caesar’s curiosity got the best of him, and, rather than ride down this ridiculous would-be bandit, he reined in his horse, raised his hand for his companions to do likewise, and halted before the man. Or boy.

For that was what he was, a boy on the cusp of manhood: man-tall and attempting a mustache to match his long, unkempt blond hair, perhaps in an attempt to appear older; he was well muscled and had the upright stance of a schooled soldier, but he could not have been more than eighteen.

Except for those strange blue pools of eyes, which, though mounted in the unwrinkled visage of youth, seemed to have depths that went back to the beginning of time.

As Vercingetorix felt the force of Caesar’s gaze upon him, he knew that he would have recognized this as no ordinary man even had he not met him already in the Land of Legend.

Caesar was not tall, but his build was robust, and his dark hair, worn short, receded up his crown. This somehow made his head appear larger than it really was, as if the contents thereof far exceeded those of ordinary skulls. Perhaps his eyes enhanced this effect, for through them gazed a spirit whose confidence seemed utter. A man who commanded legions. And a man who believed he would somehow manage to prevail
against
legions, armed only with his sword and his destiny.

But it was not Caesar to whom Vercingetorix first spoke.

“Greetings, Diviacx,” he said instead, brandishing his sword, and with as much threat in his voice as he could muster.

“You know me, Arverne?” said the druid.

“You’d be a hard man to forget . . . for the son of Keltill.”

At this, Diviacx blanched, and his guards drew their swords.

“What have we here, Diviacx?” said Caesar in a voice both contemptuous and commanding. “Another of your petty feuds?”

“This is Vercingetorix, Caesar, the lost son of Keltill of the Averni, presumed by some to be dead,” he said, motioning his men forward.

“And soon to fulfill the prophecy, if you have your way?” Caesar said sneeringly, to mask his pleasant surprise at this unexpected turn of events.

Gisstus and his spies had been searching for some pliant yet popular Arverne with whom to replace Gobanit. Now the gods had dropped none other than the son of Keltill into his palm!

“We’ll have none of that, Diviacx,” Caesar said. “This is a Roman road, and this young man, like all those who travel upon it, is under my protection.”

He shot the druid a scornful sideways glance, then found his eyes drawn back to this Vercingetorix, who had not moved, who had not flinched, who looked back at him fearlessly and unwaveringly.

“Though, from the look of him, it may be
you
who need my protection, Diviacx,” he said. “And you look at me as if you know me,” he told Vercingetorix.

“Who does not know of Gaius Julius Caesar?” Vercingetorix said in an ironic tone that made it impossible for Caesar to continue to think of him as a boy.

“Have we met?”

“Only in the Land of Legend.”

This is getting stranger and stranger, Caesar thought. But also more and more promising. This boy—no, this
man
—has . . . something. And he
is
the son of Keltill.

“Where have you been hiding?” Caesar said.

Vercingetorix pointed toward the surrounding forest with his sword. “In plain sight.”

“And where are you going?”

“To Gergovia, to claim my father’s legacy.”

If the politician’s trade did not require skill in the actor’s art, Caesar would have been hard put to conceal his elation. This was almost too good to be true. Certainly too good not to be used.

“Your father’s legacy?” he managed to say ingenuously. “But Gobanit is vergobret again this year, is he not, and that does not pass from father to son. . . .”

“My father’s lands, his horses, his cattle, his gold, and his . . . honor. Such things do not pass from hand to hand from year to year.”

“Well, then, our paths converge for a while, for I am riding to the channel coast to begin a great adventure,” said Caesar. “So put up your sword, and we’ll travel together for a time.”

“For a time, Caesar,” said Vercingetorix, sheathing his sword. Caesar gave the Eduen warriors a scowl, commanding them to do likewise. Diviacx looked as if he had bitten into a turd. Better and better!

“But you are without horse,” Caesar said. “Allow me to lend you one.”

“Allow me to purchase one from you, Caesar. It strikes me that you are not a man in whose debt it is wise to be.”

“You don’t seem to be carrying much money.”

“In truth, I have none. But my father was a rich man, and I can pay you as soon as I reclaim my legacy,” said Vercingetorix. “Or . . .”

“Or?”

Vercingetorix gave Caesar a strange crooked smile. “Or we can follow the old Gallic custom, and I will pay you back ten times what I owe in the Land of Legend, after both of us are dead,” he said.

“What a marvelous custom!” exclaimed Caesar. “If only I could persuade my creditors in Rome to adopt it!” He burst out laughing.

Vercingetorix did not.

“Get him one of my own horses,” Caesar said, turning to Gisstus. “The white stallion, I think.”

Gisstus bent over to whisper in Caesar’s ear before riding back to the approaching troops and supply train.

“Should I see if I can find a glue pot and an antelope’s horn as well?” he said.

Caesar brought his horse up to a full exuberant gallop, and Vercingetorix followed. Only when they had put the Roman infantry, Diviacx and his bodyguards, and the rest of the entourage well behind did Caesar slow his mount to a walk suitable for conversation.

They rode side by side like two comrades along a road to Gergovia thronged with peasants and their produce, merchants and their wares. Or, Vercingetorix realized with a shock that was sad and sweet and bitter and strange, as he had ridden to Gergovia with his father when he was a boy in the long ago. Yet now his companion was the very man whose cunning and stealthy conquest Keltill had died opposing.

“What keeps you here all these years, so far from your own land?” Vercingetorix asked Caesar. What he truly wanted to ask was why he had given him this fine white horse decorated with the red and gold of a Roman general to ride, why he was being so kind and generous to the son of a man who had been his enemy.

“The same thing that sets you on the road to Gergovia,” said Caesar. “Destiny.”

“Destiny . . . ?”Vercingetorix said as blandly as he could to mask his shock. For this man seemed either to be hearing his thoughts or had somehow shared his vision in the Land of Legend.

“You can’t fool me, my young friend, you know just what I mean,” said Caesar. “Most men live lives with no more meaning than those of the beasts in the field. A few live lives that become legend. Not because they choose to, but because destiny chooses them.”

To his bemusement and horror, Vercingetorix found himself drawn to Caesar. No man had ever acknowledged such thoughts to him so boldly, so frankly, and, moreover, granted him the assumed equality of sharing them. Not his druid teachers. Not Guttuatr. Not even his father. Once more, Vercingetorix had the uncanny feeling that Caesar had shared his vision. This was the man destined to acclaim him king of Gaul in Rome. How was this possible? But Caesar spoke as if he knew.

Dare I ask? Vercingetorix wondered. But it seemed like a question far ahead of its proper time. “Spoken like a druid . . .” he said cautiously instead.

“Oh, I was indeed once a pontifex, a performer of priestly rites—a druid of sorts, you might say,” Caesar replied blithely. “But I found a higher cause to serve than our pantheon of petty godlings.”

“A cause higher than the gods?” Vercingetorix exclaimed. “What can that possibly be?”

“In a word,
Rome.
”

“You hold the cause of Rome above that of the gods!”

“Indeed I do!” Caesar avowed. “For the cause of the gods is merely the past, but the cause of Rome is the future, the cause of civilization itself. And far more profitable for those who serve it too. Roads like this one, bridges, aqueducts, cities with baths and sewers and arenas. Art and commerce and engineering. A rule of law and a secure public order that will one day encompass the world!”

“So the selfless Caesar comes to Gaul to bring civilization to us poor barbarians!”

Caesar laughed, but only briefly, as if to draw out the sting, then grew quite earnest. “Ah, but the genius of the Republic of Rome, that which sets it above and apart from all other nations and which is destined to make it the master of the world, is that you may be born a Greek or a Scythian or a Gaul and
earn
the right to be a citizen of Rome!”

“You don’t have to be born a Roman . . . ?”

Caesar laughed again. “I’ll not deny that it’s an advantage!” he admitted. “Winning Roman citizenship, like winning any great prize, may not be easy to accomplish, but it is within the grasp of any man of ability and courage. Men of many peoples and all standings have achieved it. Scholars. Statesmen. Soldiers. Even gladiators and slaves! Nor must you forswear the people of your birth to accept it.”

“How is this possible?” asked Vercingetorix, unable to quite wrap his mind around this strange concept.

“One emblem of Rome is the fasces,” Caesar told him. “This is simply a bundle of sticks strapped together. Each stick is a people of the provinces of Rome, still possessed of its own individuality, but bound with all the others in the fasces that is Rome. The individual sticks may be snapped over a weak man’s knee. But, bonded together, the collectivity is invincible. So you see, one may be a Gaul and a Roman at the same time as easily as an Arverne and a Gaul. Indeed, from what I’ve seen here, much more easily!Your father, in his way, understood. He saw that Arverni could remain Arverni and Edui Edui, yet at the same time be bound together in the fasces of Gaul. In this, he thought like a Roman, though he knew it not. His tragedy was that the tribes of Gaul were not civilized enough to comprehend this, and so they slew him for it.”

“You mourn the death of a man who proclaimed you his enemy?”