by Eugène Sue
“What a brute of a Gaul!” exclaimed the “horse-dealer,” shrugging his shoulders, and keeping well out of reach. “There he is, roaring and jumping and grinding at his chain like a staked wolf, and all because he has been told that his children, if they are pretty, are to live in the midst of wealth, ease and pleasure! What would it have been, then, fool that you are, if they were ugly or deformed? Do you know to whom they would have been sold? They would have been sold to those rich lords, who are so curious to read the future in the palpitating entrails of children freshly slaughtered for divination.”
“Oh, Hesus!” I cried, filled with hope at the thought, “let it be so with mine, despite their beauty! Oh, death for them! Only let them enter the other world in their innocence, and live near their chaste mother.” I could no longer hold back my tears.
“Friend Bull,” began the “horse-dealer” in a dissatisfied tone, “I was not a bit mistaken in putting you down in my tablet as violent and hot-headed. But I fear lest you have a fault worse than these — I mean a tendency towards tears. I have seen sullen slaves melt away like the snows of winter under a spring sun, dry up like parchment, and cause great loss to their owners by their pitiful appearance. So, look out for yourself. There remain but fifteen days before the auction at which you are to be sold. It is a short while to restore you to your natural fleshiness, to give you a fresh and rested complexion, a sleek and supple skin, in short, all those signs of vigor and health which allure the experts, jealous of possessing a sound and robust slave. To obtain this result, I wish to spare nothing, neither good food, nor care, nor any of those little artifices known to us to make our merchandise show off to advantage. On your part you must second my efforts. But if, on the contrary, you do not get over your fits of anger, if you begin to weep, if you begin to make yourself miserable, to waste away, so to speak, vainly dreaming of your children, instead of affording me honor and profit by your good figure, as a good slave should who is jealous of his master’s interests, — beware, friend Bull, beware! I am not a novice in my business. I have carried it on for many years and in many lands. I have subdued more intractable fellows than you. I have made Sardinians docile, and Sarmatians as gentle as lambs, so you can judge of my skill. Therefore, believe me, do not expect yourself to cause me harm by pining away. I am very mild, very gentle. I am not at all fond of chastisements; often they leave marks which lower a slave’s value. Nevertheless, if you oblige me to, you will make the acquaintance of the jail for recalcitrants. Consider that, friend Bull. It will soon be meal-time; the physician says that you can now be put upon a substantial diet. You will be brought boiled chicken, oatmeal wet with gravy of roast sheep, good bread, and some good wine and water. I shall know whether you have eaten with a good appetite and in a manner to recuperate your strength, instead of losing it in weeping. So then, eat; it is the only way of gaining my favor. Eat plenty, eat often — I’ll see that you have it. You will never eat too much to please me, for you are far from being well-fed, and that’s what you must be, well-fed, before fifteen days, the time of the auction. I leave you to these reflections; pray the gods that they improve you. If not — oh, if not, I weep for you, friend Bull.”
So saying the “horse-dealer” shut the heavy door of the room behind him, leaving me chained within.
CHAPTER X.
THE LAST CALL TO ARMS.
BUT FOR MY uncertainty concerning the fate of my children, immediately upon the “horse-dealer’s” departure I would have killed myself by butting my head against the wall of my prison, or by refusing all nourishment. Many Gauls had thus escaped the doom of slavery. But I felt that I should not die before doing what I could to snatch them from the destiny which menaced them.
I examined my room to see whether, my strength once restored, there was any chance for escape. Three sides of the room were solid wall, the other was a thick partition re-enforced with beams, between two of which opened the door which was always carefully bolted without. A bar of iron crossed the window, leaving an opening too narrow to give me passage. I examined my chain, and the rings, one of which was riveted to my leg, the other to one of the cross-bars of the bed. It was impossible for me to unchain myself, even at my greatest strength. I then thought of a plan, a trick, to put myself in the good graces of the “horse-dealer,” so as to obtain from him information of my little Sylvest and Syomara. With that end in view, it would not do to repine, to appear sad or afraid of the lot reserved for the children. I feared I might not be able to carry out the role, for I came of a race unaccustomed to deceit and lying. The Gauls either triumphed or died.
On the evening of that same day when, regaining consciousness, I had become aware of my slavery, I witnessed a spectacle of terrible grandeur. It raised my courage. I could no longer despair for the safety and liberty of Gaul. The night was about to fall, when I heard the tramping of several troops of cavalry arriving at a walk in the great public square of Vannes, which I could see from the narrow window of my prison. I looked out, and beheld the following scene.
Two cohorts of Roman infantry, and one of cavalry, both in battle array, surrounded a vacant space, in the middle of which rose a large scaffold of timber. On the platform was a heavy block, such as is used for chopping meat on. Beside the block stood a Moor of gigantic stature and bronzed of color. His arms and legs were bare, his hair was bound with a scarlet band; he wore a coat and a pair of short trousers of tanned skin, splashed here and there with dark red; in his hand was an axe.
In the distance sounded the long clarions of the Romans, playing a funeral march. The sound drew nearer. One of the cohorts that were drawn up on the square opened its ranks, forming a double row. Through this lane the clarioneers entered. They preceded a troop of steel-clad legionaries. After the troop came the prisoners taken in the Gallic army, tied two and two. Then came the women and children, also in bonds. More than two stone’s throws separated me from these captives. At such a distance I could not distinguish their features, try as I might. Nevertheless, my little son and daughter might be among them. The prisoners, of all ages and sexes, closed in by the two rows of soldiers, were stationed at the foot of the platform. Still more troops marched into the square; after them, five and twenty captives were led in, in single file, but not chained. I recognized them by their free and haughty pace. They were the chiefs and elders of the town and tribe of Vannes, all white-haired fathers. Among them, marching last, I distinguished two druids and a bard of the college of the forest of Karnak, marked, the first by their long white robes, the second by his tunic striped with purple. Then appeared more Roman infantry; finally, between two escorts of white-robed Numidian cavalry, Caesar, on horse-back, in the midst of his officers. I recognized the scourge of Gaul by his armor, which was the same he wore when, aided by my brother Mikael the armorer, I was carrying him off in full panoply on my horse. Oh, how at the sight of the man I cursed anew my stupid astonishment, that so unfortunately proved the safety of my country’s butcher.
Caesar drew rein a short distance from the platform, and made a sign with his hand. Immediately the twenty-five prisoners, the bard and druids passing last, mounted with calm tread the steps of the scaffold. One by one they placed their white heads on the block, and each one of the venerable heads, stricken off by the axe of the Moor, rolled at the feet of the bound captives.
The bard and the two druids were the only ones left. The three rushed together in a final embrace, they raised their faces and their hands towards heaven, and intoned in a loud voice the song of Hena, the virgin of the isle of Sen, uttered at the hour of her voluntary sacrifice on the rocks of Karnak, that song which had been the signal for the rising of Brittany against the Romans:
“Hesus, Hesus! By the blood which is about to flow, clemency for Gaul!”
“Gauls, by the blood which is about to flow, victory to our arms!”
And the bard added:
“The Chief of the Hundred Valleys is safe. There is hope for our arms!”
Thereupon all the Gallic capti
ves, men, women, and children present at the execution, all together repeated the last words of the druids, acclaiming them with so powerful a voice that the air shook even in my prison. After that supreme chant, the three placed their sacred heads in turn upon the block, and went the same way as the elders of Vannes. As the bard’s and the druids’ heads rolled upon the scaffold, all the captives took up the war-cry of the druids— “Strike the Roman! Strike at the head!” — in a voice so fierce and menacing that the legionaries, lowering their lances, hurriedly surrounded the unarmed and chained prisoners in a circle of iron, bristling with lance heads. But that mighty voice of their brothers and sisters had reached the wounded men shut up in the slave-shed, and all, myself included, answered the refrain:
“Strike the Roman! Strike! Strike at the head! Strike the Roman hard!”
Thus ended the war in Brittany. Thus ended the call to arms made by the druids from the heights of the sacred rocks of the forest of Karnak, after the sacrifice of Hena — the call to arms that led to the battle of Vannes. But in my lonely cell I did not yet lose hope. Our native Gaul, although invaded on all sides, would still resist. The Chief of the Hundred Valleys, forced to leave Brittany, had gone to arouse the regions still unvanquished.
CHAPTER XI.
THE SLAVES’ TOILET.
NIGHT FELL, AND with it my spirits, in my lonely prison.
Hesus! Hesus! I was left to the torture, not alone of my thoughts about my sacred and beloved country, but also of my reflections concerning the misfortunes of my family. Alas, at every wound inflicted upon our country our families bleed.
Forcibly resigned to my lot, I little by little regained my natural strength, encouraged each day by the hope of obtaining from the “horse-dealer” some intelligence of my children. I described them to him as accurately as possible. Every day his report was that among the captives seen there were none answering to my description, but that several merchants made a practice of hiding their choice slaves from all eyes until the day of the public sale. The dealer also informed me that the patrician Trymalcion, whose very name now made me shudder with horror, had arrived at Vannes in his galley.
The evening before the sale, the dealer entered my room. It was, almost dark. He brought in the meal himself, and waited on me. He brought as an extra a flagon of old Gallic wine.
“Friend Bull,” said he, with his habitual joviality, “I am satisfied with you. Your skin is almost filled up. You have no more crazy spells of anger, and if you don’t appear exceedingly joyous, at least I no longer find you sad and tearful. We will drink this flagon together, to your happy placing with a good master, and to the gain which I shall get by you.”
“No,” I answered, “I shall not drink.”
“And why not?”
“Servitude sours wine, especially the wine of the country where one was born.”
“You respond ill to my kindness. You do not wish to drink? Suit yourself. I would have liked to empty one cup to your happy placing, and a second to your reunion with your children. I have my reasons for the latter.”
“What say you!” I cried aloud, filled with hope and anguish. “You know something about them?”
“I know nothing about them,” he answered curtly, rising to go out. “You refuse my friendly advance. You have supped well — now sleep well.”
“But what do you know of my children? Speak, I beg you, speak!”
“Wine alone loosens my tongue, friend Bull, and I am not one of those men who loves to drink by himself. You are too proud to empty a cup with your master. Sleep well till to-morrow, the day of the auction.”
He took another step toward the door. I feared that by refusing to yield to the man’s fancy I would anger him, and above all lose the chance of obtaining news of my beloved children.
“Do you really wish it?” I said. “Then I shall drink, and especially shall I drink to the hope of soon meeting my son and daughter.”
“You pray well,” answered the “horse-dealer” approaching his chattel, but keeping the chain’s length away; then he poured me a full cup of wine, and another for himself. I later recollected that the man had held the cup a long time to his lips, but without my being able to see whether he drank or not. “Come,” he added. “Come, let us drink to the good gain I shall make on you!”
“Yes, let us drink to the hope of meeting my children.”
I emptied my cup. The wine seemed excellent.
“I made you a promise,” began the dealer, “I shall keep my promise. You told me that the chariot which held your family on the day of the battle of Vannes was harnessed to four black oxen?”
“Yes.”
“Four black oxen, with a little white mark in the middle of their foreheads?”
“Yes, all four were brothers, and alike,” I answered, unable to repress a sigh at the thought of that fine yoke, raised on our own meadows, which my father and mother had always admired.
“Those oxen carried on their necks leathern collars trimmed with little brass bells like this one?” continued the “horse-dealer,” fumbling in his pocket, out of which he drew a little brass bell that he held up before me.
I recognized it. It had been made by my brother Mikael, the armorer, and bore the mark with which he stamped all the articles of his fashioning.
“This bell comes from our oxen,” I answered. “Will you give it to me? It has no value.”
“What,” asked the dealer, laughing, “do you want to hang bells at your neck too, friend Bull? It is your right. Here, take it. I brought it only to know from you if the yoke it came from was of your family’s chariot.”
“Yes,” I replied, putting the bell into my breeches pocket, as, perhaps, the only reminder of the past which might be left to me. “Yes, that yoke was ours. But it seems to me that I saw two of the oxen fall wounded in the fight.”
“You are not mistaken. Two of the oxen were killed in the battle. The other two, though slightly wounded, are alive, and were bought by one of my companions, who also bought three children left in the chariot. Two of them, a little boy and a little girl of about eight or nine, still had the cord around their necks. But my companion who found them was luckily able to bring them back to life.”
“Where is that merchant?” I asked, in a tremble.
“Here, at Vannes. You will see him to-morrow. We drew lots for our places at the auction, our stands are opposite to each other. If the children he is to sell are yours, you will be near them.”
“Shall I be really close?”
“You will be as close to them as twice the length of your room. But why do you press your hands to your forehead?”
“I don’t know. It is a long time since I have drunk wine. The glow of what you poured out to me has gone to my head — a few seconds ago — I feel giddy.”
“That proves, friend Bull, that my wine is generous,” answered the “horse-dealer” with a strange smile, and stepping out, he called to one of the keepers. Presently he returned with a chest under his arm. He carefully shut the door, and hung a piece of curtain before the window, to prevent anyone looking from without into the room, which was now lighted by a lamp. That done, he again passed his eyes very attentively over me, without saying a word, all the while opening his chest, from which he took several flasks, sponges, a little silver vase with a long curved tube, and also several instruments, one of which seemed very keen. I watched my master closely, feeling an inexplicable numbness gradually creeping over me. My heavy eye-lids fell once or twice in spite of myself. I had been seated on my bed of straw, to which I was still chained; but now I was compelled to lean my head against the wall, so heavy had it grown. Noticing the effect of the wine upon me, the “horse-dealer” said:
“Friend Bull, do not be disturbed at what is happening to you.”
“What—” I answered, trying to shake off my stupor, “What is happening to me?”
“You feel a sort of half-drowse creeping over you in spite of your resistance.”
“Tr
ue.”
“You hear me, you see me, but as if your ears and eyes were covered with a veil.”
“It is true,” I murmured, for my voice also was growing weak, and without experiencing any pain, my whole life seemed to be little by little ebbing out. Nevertheless, I made an effort, and said to the man:
“Why am I in this condition!”
“Because I have prepared you for the slaves’ toilet.”
“A toilet?”
“I possess, friend Bull, certain magic philters to increase the attractiveness of my merchandise. Although you are now quite well filled out, the deprivation of exercise and the open air, the fever which your wounds caused, the sadness which captivity always occasions, and many other things, have dried and dulled your skin, and turned you yellow. But thanks to my philters, to-morrow morning you will have a skin as fresh and sleek, and a color as ruddy as if you were coming in from the fields some lovely spring morning, my fine rustic. That appearance will last barely a day or two, but I expect, by Jupiter, to have you sold by to-morrow evening, free to turn yellow and waste away under your new master. So I am going to commence by stripping you, and anointing you with this preparation of oil.” The “horse-dealer” unlocked one of his flasks.
The performance affected me as so deep a disgrace put upon my dignity, that in spite of the numbness which was more and more depressing me, I sprang to my feet, and shaking my hands and arms, then unshackled, cried out:
“To-day I have no manacles on. If you come near I will strangle you!”
“I foresaw all that, friend Bull,” chuckled the “horse-dealer,” calmly pouring the oil of his flask into a vase and soaking a sponge in it. “I knew you would get hot and resist. I might have had you bound by the keepers, but in your violence you would have bruised your limbs, a detestable sign for the sale. These bruises always denote a stubborn slave. And all the time, what cries you would have let out! What a rebellion, when your head had to be shaved, in token of your slavery!”