The Druid King (36 page)

“And even if we are defeated,” he declared, “when the bards tell the tale, they will be proud to say that as Gauls did we die!”

“Given what resources he commands and the time he had to do it, even Gallius could not have done a better job of fortifying the city,” Caesar told Brutus as he gazed admiringly at a fellow general’s well-crafted piece of work.

From the forefront of his army’s position on the plain below the unforested hill upon which Gergovia was built, Caesar could make out warriors on the walls and formations of men on horseback coming and going through the open gates and riding around the city like cavalry on parade.

He could not see the entrenchments dug around the city, but he had the reports of the men he had sent to reconnoiter. The first ditch they had encountered was too wide for them to cross and filled with the sharpened stakes generally employed to impale cavalry, so they were unable to determine how many more such ditches there were, but they had seen at least three more. And the outermost ditch put the walls beyond catapult range.

“See how he has neutralized our catapults, our siege towers, and even our battering ram, Brutus? With nothing more than shovels! We’d have to build heavy mobile bridges and throw them across at least four ditches to bring them into play, so it’s not going to be worth the effort to try. Gallius will be furious.”

“You almost sound
proud
of Vercingetorix,” said Brutus, abashed at the petulance he heard in his own voice.

“I suppose I am, Brutus. I’ve been in this country too long. There are times when I find myself thinking like a Gaul. Mars help me, I’m beginning to weigh
glory.
And there is more of it to be had in defeating a worthy enemy than in overcoming a fool.”

Decimus Junius Brutus had come to Gaul with buoyant high hopes of grand adventure and rapid advance in serving under the wing of a great man.

Caesar—the greatest man he had met and probably the greatest living Roman—was possessed of a pedagogical passion to explain, to instruct, to speak his mind to someone he might consider worthy of hearing it all, a function normally fulfilled by a son. And so, having no son, Caesar adopted substitutes.

Brutus had not understood this until Vercingetorix had for his time replaced him as the object of such attentions. But the jealousy this had called up within him—so like that between brothers for paternal favor—had made it plain. Thus his shameful secret satisfaction when Vercingetorix became the enemy.

If Brutus did not truly love Caesar, he had admired him as would the son of a great and brilliant father, who sought to earn his approval in turn. But the war against this barbarian chieftain, who burned men alive to seal pacts with blood-rite magic and thought nothing of destroying the countryside of his own people to starve his enemies, had changed the man Brutus had so admired.

Perhaps Caesar had been in Gaul too long, for, if he had not truly come to think like a Gallic barbarian, he had come to act like one. Vercingetorix seemed to have drawn him into a duel of ruthless atrocities, culminating in the butchery of Bourges, where Caesar had not only proved himself the harder man but entrapped the hapless Litivak with his display of utter ruthlessness, and apparently sealed Vercingetorix’s doom.

Brutus understood the brilliance of this as strategy and by now had seen enough of war to understand the truth of what Caesar had told him long ago in Rome, that war was but a huge number of individual murders. He had no love for the Gauls, but now, though he still admired the great Caesar’s brilliance of mind and godlike energy, he had seen in him something that made him shudder, that he had no desire to emulate at all.

Caesar often enough had instructed him to shed his innocence. And now he had succeeded. But not in the manner he had intended. Perhaps not even in a manner that Brutus’ great mentor could even comprehend.

“He seems to have left us only two choices,” said Caesar. “Lay siege, or storm the city with our infantry alone, using simple planks to get across the ditches and ladders to scale the walls. Which would
you
choose to do, Brutus?”

“A massive infantry assault would cost us many casualties and might even fail, but a siege would bring sure victory eventually, so I suppose . . .” Brutus shrugged like a diffident student.

A dim answer, Caesar thought irritably. Something seems to have gone out of Brutus of late.

“Think, Brutus, think!” he said. “The winter could be upon us before a siege succeeded. Our supplies would become exhausted again and we might be forced to break it off. And Vercingetorix
knows
this. And knows that I know it. So . . . ?”

The glassy-eyed stare that was Brutus’ only response was dimmer still.

“He only
seems
invite a siege because he wants us to attack!” Caesar told him. “He means for me to see through it.”

“He does?”

“Neither of us can afford a long siege. I because I am operating on hostile soil with a time limit, and Vercingetorix because the one military virtue an army of Gauls has the least of is—”

“—patience!”

Brutus seemed at last to have been shaken out of his trance.

“Very good, my young friend!” Caesar was finally able to tell him. “The virtue most needed to withstand a siege. And therefore a leader of Gauls will avoid a siege at almost any cost. Vercingetorix let us have Bourges without a fight to avoid one.”

“But . . . we . . . committed that . . . massacre at Bourges to
force
him to defend his own city.”

“Oh, he must
defend
Gergovia all right. But not necessarily from inside.”

“But his army
is
up in there! We’ve seen—”

“Warriors on the walls and cavalry on parade. We have no way of knowing how many men are actually inside. Or whether Vercingetorix is in there with them.”

“You think he’s not?”

“
I
would not sit inside the walls if I were him. I would leave enough forces inside to make it appear I was there, and hide somewhere with the one element in which I was superior to the Romans, my cavalry, and wait for Caesar to storm the city, and then, when his infantry is enmeshed in fighting its way across those defensive ditches to the walls—”

“—attack from the rear!”

Caesar nodded. “About the only chance he really has. And it might even work. The only logical battle plan under the circumstances.”

“But he doesn’t really know the true circumstances. . . .”

“No, he does not, the poor bastard,” Caesar said almost wistfully. “And when he finds out, the knowledge itself will be the cruelest blow of all.”

An owl hooted; sparks from a campfire drifted up like fireflies toward a starry night above the overhanging tree boughs. Rhia lay tantalizingly close with her back turned to him, and were it not for the whinnies and nickers of the horses and the snores and sleepy mutters of thousands of men, Vercingetorix could have imagined that he was back in the time when his entire army consisted of himself and his sister of the sword camped out like this in the forest.

But that time seemed like the long ago. Since then, he had killed more men than he could count, laid waste to more countryside than had Brenn or Caesar, commanded the army of Gaul, become a druid, and seen his life entire.

“Rhia . . .” he muttered softly. And then, when there was no answer, in a more normal voice, “Rhia? Are you asleep?”

“No longer,” came her voice, but with a little laugh that softened the reproach.

“Perhaps the battle will come tomorrow, or if not, certainly soon, and so we cannot know whether this will be our last night together. . . .”

“And so . . . ?”

“And so . . .” crooned Vercingetorix, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Rhia pulled away. “This from the man who cannot die on the soil of Gaul?”

“But what if visions are but snares sent by the gods to perplex us?”

“You may have reason to
want
to believe that at this moment, and perhaps so do I, but neither of us really does—now, do we, silver-tongued Vercingetorix?” Rhia said banteringly.

And of course this was so. Nevertheless,Vercingetorix found himself rolling closer to her, so that he could hear her breathing, smell her musky odor mingled with the nighttime forest perfumes.

“Right now, I find it impossible to believe that I will ever be king of Gaul,” he said. “And if
that
vision is false, of what value is—”

“—our vow as brother and sister of the sword?” said Rhia, and she laughed. And Vercingetorix was forced to laugh with her.

“You see through my strategy better than Caesar ever has,” he said. Nevertheless, he inched closer, until their bodies were almost touching.

“It is less than subtle.”

“Well, why not?” said Vercingetorix, laying a hand on the small of her back. She did not roll over to face him, but this time she did not pull away.

“Because our destinies would not have it such,” Rhia told him, her voice now gone somber.

“But if our destiny is to die tomorrow, what matters what we do tonight?”

Rhia did not answer. The silence was long. Vercingetorix feared to move his hand farther, nor would he take it away. At length, Rhia sighed deeply—mournfully, or so to him it seemed.

“What is it, Rhia?”

“I would not speak of this,” Rhia whispered.

“Of what?”

“Of . . . of love and death and destiny . . . yours and mine. Of why we cannot, of why we must not—”

Vercingetorix reached out his other hand to her shoulder and rolled her over to face him. She did not resist. “This may be my last night on earth, and I may die a virgin, and you will not even tell me why?”

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

“But this is not one of them!” Vercingetorix declared vexatiously. Then, pleadingly, “Please, Rhia, at least this much . . .”

“It will not please you,” she said sadly, but now, even in the darkness, Vercingetorix could read in her eyes the softening of her heart. And so he waited patiently, listening to her breathing, listening to the distant song of a night bird.

“I too have seen my death in a vision,” she finally said. “And . . . and . . .”

“And?” Vercingetorix asked with as much gentleness as his vexation would let him muster.

“And I die a warrior’s death,” said Rhia.

“Is that not what you would have wished?”

Vercingetorix could see Rhia’s head nod, but she looked away and would not meet his gaze.

“My death is everything I would wish for,” she said in a strange, tender tone Vercingetorix had never heard her use before. “I die fighting at your side. And you . . . you . . .”

Vercingetorix touched her cheek. “And I?” he whispered.

“And you go on. . . .”

Vercingetorix did not know what to say, or what to feel, and so he put his other hand on her other cheek, and pulled her to him, and kissed her, however inexpertly, long and deep, as a man should kiss a woman.

Rhia returned the kiss in like manner, and took him into her arms, and held him close, gently at first, then fiercely. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips against his, which began to move against hers with a will of their own, and he felt hers respond, joining in the dance, and all thought was gone, and—

—she suddenly pulled away, rolled from his embrace, and turned her back to him. And then this warrior woman began to sob.

“What is it?” Vercingetorix asked tenderly, afraid now even to reach out a comforting hand.

“I should not tell you this. . . .”

“But now you surely must. . . .”

Rhia gave a great sigh. “Must I . . . ?” And she sighed again. And Vercingetorix could sense the vibration of a shudder go through her.

“Like all such visions, mine did not speak plain,” said Rhia. “I saw . . . I saw . . . a night of love with you . . . and on its morrow, my death at your side in battle. A
lost
battle, Vercingetorix.”

And she turned back to him, her eyes shiny with tears, her lower lip trembling. “
Now
do you understand why we
must
not break our vow . . . ?”

Vercingetorix could only nod, and touch a finger to her lips, for, however chastely, he dared not kiss her.

“I would not be the death of you . . .” he whispered.

“Still you do not understand,” said Rhia. “I would gladly die for you. I would almost die for that one night of love with you.”

And this he knew was the woman speaking.

“But the battle for Gergovia
must not be lost
!” she said fiercely. “For if it is Gaul is lost with it!”

And that was the warrior.

In that moment Vercingetorix did not know which he loved more.

Caesar sat on horseback in the midst of a score of signalmen, studying the sky and wishing for a bit more cloud. But the
perfect
night might never come, and the very starlight that would make the maneuver more visible from Gergovia would allow his men to see what they were doing without lighting torches.

Besides, the whole thing—the cover of darkness, no torches, orders given by messengers rather than trumpets—was a charade to match the charade of the Gauls in the city, who Caesar firmly believed would not emerge now if he were marching on the fortifications at high noon with banners flying and trumpets blasting out fanfares.

Still, he thought wryly, they
would
be disappointed if I didn’t play along—now, wouldn’t they?

“Tell them to begin,” he ordered, and three of the signalmen departed to relay the orders.

Trebonius, Tulius, and Galba would now send three narrow spearheads of legionnaires to bridge the first ditch with planking. Then a single cohort of infantry would cross each bridgehead to guard the bridging squads. The second ditch would then be bridged in like manner, and the cohorts would advance, but no more troops would advance until the third ditch was bridged and crossed and the planking across all three ditches widened to accommodate any need for a rapid retreat. Only then would a larger force be sent across the first three ditches, with scaling ladders, axes, light battering rams, and archers. But this would not be the bulk of the army either.