“I’d be delighted to help,” said Gutruatus.
“I’m sure you would,” said Cathbad. “Thank you, Gutruatus.”
“Are you going to read the signs?”
“Twice. Once for the muster, but once just for me. Today is for me, but you can come,” said Cathbad, his voice dwindling.
The two Aeduans remained behind the oak for some time, eyes locked; then Litaviccus nodded and they moved forward, but not on the path. Between the oaks, inching along until the grove of Dagda opened before them, an enchanting place. The back of it was formed by a pile of boulders cushioned with lush moss, the source of a spring which gushed out from among them and fell into a deep pool endlessly rippling. Taranis like fire. Esus liked air. Dagda liked water. Earth belonged to the Great Mother, Dann. Fire and air could not commingle with earth, so Dann had married water, Dagda.
Today’s offering was not for drowning, however; Cathbad was auspicating, not sacrificing. The naked victim, an enslaved German purchased specifically for this purpose, was lying face down and unbound on the altar, a simple stone slab. Beautiful in Cathbad’s clear tenor voice, the prayers were sung according to the ancient ritual. They evoked no response from the victim, who was heavily drugged; his movements when they came had to leap out of the act, not out of fear or pain. Gutruatus moved a little distance away to kneel down while Cathbad picked up a very long, two-edged sword. That he found it awkward to lift was obvious, but he braced his feet apart, then with a huge effort carefully raised the sword in both hands until its blade was slightly above his head. It came down perfectly into the victim’s back below the shoulder blades and severed the spine so cleanly that the blade was out and the sword on the ground a moment later.
The victim almost convulsed; Cathbad, his white robe unmarred, stood to watch every wriggle and writhe and jerk, the direction each took, the part of the body involved, clonus of head or arms or shoulders or legs, twitches in the fingers or toes, dying tics in the buttocks. It took a long time, but he stood without moving save for his lips, which formed voiceless words each time there was a short cessation in the victim’s movements. When it was over he sighed, blinked, looked wearily toward Gutruatus. The Carnute lumbered to his feet as two acolytes came out of the trees and approached the altar to clear it and clean it.
“Well?” asked Gutruatus eagerly.
“I couldn’t see…. The movements were bizarre, the pattern was alien.”
“Didn’t you learn anything?”
“A little. When I asked if Vercingetorix would die, there were six identical jerks of the head. I interpret that as six years. Yet when I asked if Caesar would be defeated, nothing moved at all—how am I to interpret that? I asked if Litaviccus would be king, and the answer was no. That was clear, very clear. I asked if you would be king, and the answer was no. His feet danced; you will die very soon. For the rest, I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t see….”
Cathbad fell against Gutruatus, who stared at him white-faced and trembling.
The two Aeduans stole away.
Litaviccus wiped the sweat from his brow, his world in ruins. “I am not to be King of Gaul,” he whispered.
Hands shaking, Surus passed them across his eyes. “Nor is Gutruatus. He’s to die soon, but Cathbad didn’t say you would.”
“I can interpret the question about Caesar’s defeat, Surus. Nothing moved at all. That means Caesar will win, that nothing in Gaul will change. Cathbad knows it, but he couldn’t bear to tell Gutruatus. If he did, how would he explain the muster?”
“And the six years for Vercingetorix?”
“I don’t know!” cried Litaviccus. “If Caesar wins, he can’t go free. He’ll walk in the triumphal parade and be throttled.” A sob welled up, was swallowed. “I don’t want to believe it, yet I do. Caesar will win, and I will never be King of Gaul.”
They walked beside the little brook which ran out of Dagda’s pool, picking their way between the wooden godheads planted on its bank. Golden shafts of light from the dying sun played with motes of pollen and drifting crystal seeds, pierced the spaces between the aged tree trunks to green the green and gild the brown.
“What will you do?” asked Surus when they emerged from the forest to find the muster swelling still, the camps of men and horses scattered as far as the eye could see.
“Get away from here,” said Litaviccus, wiping his tears.
“I’ll go with you.”
“I don’t ask that, Surus. Save what you can. Caesar will need the Aedui to bind up Gaul’s wounds; we won’t suffer the way the Belgae have, or the Celtic Armorici of the west.”
“No, let that fate be reserved for Convictolavus! I think I’ll head for the Treveri.”
“As good a direction as any, if you’d like company.”
*
The Treveri were beleaguered but unbowed.
“The abominable Labienus has killed so many of our warriors that we couldn’t marshal a force to go to the relief of Alesia,” said Cingetorix, still ruling.
“The Alesia rescue won’t prosper,” said Surus.
“I never thought it would. All this talk of a united Gaul! As if we were the same people. We’re not the same people. Who does Vercingetorix think he is? Does he honestly believe that an Arvernian can call himself King of the Belgae? That we Belgae would defer to a Celt? We Treveri would vote for Ambiorix.”
“Not Commius?”
“He sold himself to the Romans. A personal injury brought him over to our side, not the plight of our Belgic peoples,” said Cingetorix contemptuously.
If Treves was indicative of conditions among this great and numerous group of peoples, Labienus had indeed wrought havoc. Though the oppidum itself was not designed to be lived in, there had once—and not too long ago—been a thriving small town around it. But few were left to populate it. What forces Cingetorix could scrape together were north of Treves, defending the precious horses from the depredations of the Ubii, just across the Rhenus.
Since Caesar had begun mounting the Germans on good horses, the Ubian appetite for them had become insatiable; Arminius of the Ubii suddenly saw a whole new vista opening up for his people, that of providing Rome with all her mounted auxiliaries. When Caesar had fired the Aedui he created a wonderful space for the Germans to move in and occupy. Arminius had not been slow to send those sixteen hundred extra men, and he intended to send more. The acquisition of true wealth was difficult for a pastoral people devoid of resources, but war on horseback was an industry Arminius understood perfectly. If he had anything to do with it, Roman generals would soon despise Gallic cavalry. Nothing but Germans would do.
Thus the grey, often stunted, dreary vastness of the Arduenna forest, suited for little save grazing and growing in the river valleys, rang to the sounds of Treveri and Ubii striving for mastery.
“I hate this place,” said Litaviccus after a few days.
“Whereas I don’t mind it,” said Surus.
“I wish you well.”
“And I you. Where will you go?”
“To Galatia.”
Surus gaped. “Galatia? It’s at the other end of the world!”
“Exactly. But the Galatians are Gauls, and they ride good horses. Deiotarus is bound to be looking for competent commanders.”
“He’s a Roman client king, Litaviccus.”
“Yes. But I won’t be Litaviccus. I’ll be Cabachius of the Volcae Tectosages. Journeying to see my relatives in Galatia. I’ll fall in love with the place and apply to stay.”
“Where will you find the right shawl?”
“They gave up wearing the shawl around Tolosa a very long time ago, Surus. I’ll dress like a Gaul of the Province.”
*
First it was necessary to visit his lands and manor outside Matisco. All Gallic lands were communal, held in the name of the people, but in actual fact, of course, the great nobles of each tribe “caretook” great tracts of them. Including Litaviccus.
He rode down the Mosell
a and into the lands of the Sequani, who had gone to the muster at Carnutum. Because those Sequani who had not gone to Carnutum were massed closer to the Rhenus in case the Suebic Germans tried to cross, he was not challenged or opposed, nor asked any questions by some thane suspicious as to why a stray Aeduan should be riding through the lands of recent enemies with a pack horse for his only company.
Yet someone was there to shout the news. As he skirted the Sequani oppidum of Vesontio, Litaviccus heard it shouted across a field that Caesar had been victorious at Alesia and Vercingetorix had surrendered.
If I hadn’t overheard Cathbad and Gutruatus, I’d be there in command of the Aedui. I too would be a Roman prisoner. I too would be sent to Rome to await Caesar’s triumph. How then is the King of Gaul going to survive for another six years? He’ll die during Caesar’s triumph, no matter who else is spared. Does that mean Caesar will take a third five-year governorship of Gaul, and thus be unable to triumph for six more years? But it’s over! A third period isn’t necessary. He will finish us next year. Those who got away will crumble; nothing can avert total victory for Caesar. Yet I believe Cathbad saw true. Six more years. Why?
Because his lands lay to the east and south of Matisco, Litaviccus avoided that oppidum too, even though it belonged to the Aedui—and, more importantly still, even though his wife and children were living there for the duration of the war. Best not to see them. They would survive. His own survival was his first priority.
Though made of wood with a slate shingle roof, his large and comfortable house was built in the Roman manner, around a huge peristyle courtyard and owning two storeys. His serfs and slaves were overjoyed to see him, and swore an oath to breathe no word of his presence. At first he had intended to remain only long enough to empty his strong room, but summer on the sleek and sluggish Arar River was delicious, and Caesar was far away. No need for him to make one of those lightning marches in this direction. What had Caesar said? That the Arar flowed so slowly it actually flowed backward? But it was home, and suddenly Litaviccus was in no hurry to leave it. His people were completely loyal, nor had anyone seen him. How delightful to while away one last summer in his own land! They said Galatia was lovely—high, wide, wonderful country for horses. But it wasn’t home. The Galatians spoke Greek, Pontic and a kind of Gallic not heard in any part of Gaul for two hundred years. Well, at least he had Greek, though he would have to polish it.
Then at the beginning of autumn, just as he was thinking of moving on and while his serfs and slaves were bringing in a good harvest, his brother Valetiacus arrived at the head of a hundred horse troopers who were his own adherents.
The brothers met with great affection, couldn’t take their eyes off each other.
“I can’t stay,” said Valetiacus. “How amazing to find you here! All I came for was to make sure your people were bringing in the harvest.”
“What happened against the Allobroges?” asked Litaviccus, pouring wine.
“Not very much.” Valetiacus grimaced. “They fought, and I quote Caesar, ‘a careful and efficient war.’ ”
“Caesar?”
“He’s at Bibracte.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“No one knows where you are.”
“What does Caesar intend to do with the Aedui?”
“Like the Arverni, we’re to escape relatively lightly. We are to form the nucleus of a new, thoroughly Roman Gaul. Nor are we to lose our Friend and Ally status. Provided, that is, that we sign an enormously long treaty with Rome, and admit a great many of Caesar’s creatures to our senate. Viridomarus is forgiven, but you are not. In fact, there’s a price on your head, which leads me to assume that if you’re captured and walk in Caesar’s triumph, you’ll suffer the same fate as Vercingetorix and Cotus. Biturgo and Eporedorix will walk, but then be sent home.”
“What about you, Valetiacus?”
“I’ve been allowed to keep my lands, but I’m never to be a senior in the council, nor a vergobret,” said Valetiacus bitterly.
Both the brothers were big and fine-looking men in the true Gallic way, golden-haired, blue-eyed. The muscles in Litaviccus’s bare brown forearms tensed until the golden bracelets upon them bit into the flesh.
“By Dagda and Dann, I wish there was a way to be avenged!” said Litaviccus, grinding his teeth.
“Perhaps there is,” said Valetiacus, smiling faintly.
“How? How?”
“Not far from here I encountered a party of travelers going to join Caesar in Bibracte. He intends to winter there. Three wagons, a comfortable carriage, and a lady on a prancing white horse. Very Roman looking, the group. Except for the lady, who rode astride. In the carriage with his nurse was a little boy who has a look of Caesar about him. Do you need more hints?”
Litaviccus shook his head slowly from side to side. “No,” he said, and exhaled on a hiss. “Caesar’s woman! Who used to belong to Dumnorix.”
“What does he call her?” asked Valetiacus.
“Rhiannon.”
“That’s right. Vercingetorix’s first cousin. Rhiannon, the wronged wife. Infamous! Dumnorix was a wronged husband.”
“What did you do, Valetiacus?”
“I captured her.” Valetiacus shrugged. “Why not? I’ll never occupy my rightful place among our people, so what do I have to lose?”
“Everything,” said Litaviccus crisply, got to his feet and put an arm about his brother’s shoulders. “I can’t stay, I’m a wanted man. But you must stay! There is my family to care for. Bide your time, be patient. Caesar will go, other governors will come. You’ll resume your place in the senate and the councils. Leave Caesar’s woman here with me. She will be my vengeance.”
“And the child?”
Litaviccus clenched his hands, shook them in glee. “He’s the only one who will leave here alive, because you’ll leave now and take him with you. Find one of our serfs in a remote croft and give him the boy. If he talks of his mother and father, who will believe him? Let Caesar’s son be raised as an Aeduan serf, doomed to be a bonded servant all his life.”
They walked to the door, and there kissed. Outside in the courtyard the captives huddled, watching with round and frightened eyes. Except for Rhiannon, hands bound behind her back, feet hobbled, standing proudly. The little boy, now over five years old, stood in the shelter of his nurse’s skirt, the marks of tears upon his face, his nose still running. When Valetiacus was in his saddle, Litaviccus picked the child up and handed him to his brother, who sat him across the horse’s neck. He was too tired to protest, too bewildered; his head flopped back against Valetiacus and he closed his eyes wearily.
Rhiannon tried to run and fell full length. “Orgetorix! Orgetorix!” she screamed.
But Valetiacus and his hundred men were gone, Caesar’s son with them.
Litaviccus brought his sword from the house and killed the Roman servants, including the nurse, while Rhiannon curled herself into a ball and cried out her son’s name.
When the slaughter was over he crossed to her, put his hand in the midst of that fiery river of hair, and hauled her to her feet. “Come, my dear,” he said, smiling, “I have a special treat in store for you.”
He bundled her into the house and into the big room wherein the master dined and sat around his table. There he tipped her off her feet and stood for a moment looking up at the wooden beams which straddled the low ceiling. Then he nodded to himself and left the room.
When he came back he had two of his male slaves with him, terrified by the slaughter in the yard, but anxious to obey.
“Do this for me and you’re both free men,” said Litaviccus. He clapped his hands; a female slave came in, shrinking. “Find me a comb, woman,” he said.
One of the slaves had a hook in his hand of the kind used to hang a boar for disemboweling, while the other set to work with an auger in one of the beams.
The comb was brought.
“Sit, my dear,” said Litaviccus, lifting Rhiannon and pushing he
r into a chair. His hands pulled at her tresses until they lay down her back and pooled on the floor; he began to comb them. Slowly, carefully, yet yanking at the knots ruthlessly. Rhiannon seemed to feel no pain. She neither winced nor flinched, and all that passion and strength Caesar had so admired in her had vanished.
“Orgetorix, Orgetorix,” she said from time to time.
“How beautifully clean your hair is, my dear, and how truly magnificent,” said Litaviccus, still combing. “Did you plan to surprise Caesar in Bibracte, that you traveled without an escort of Roman troops? Of course you did! But he wouldn’t be pleased.”
Eventually he was finished. So were the two slaves. The boar hook hung from the beam, its bottom seven feet above the flags.
“Help me, woman,” he said curtly to the female slave. “I want to braid her hair. Show me how.”
But it took the two of them. Once Litaviccus understood the over-under-over weaving of the three separate tresses, he became quite efficient; it was the woman’s job to keep the three tresses separate below Litaviccus’s working fingers. Then it was done. At the base of her long white neck Rhiannon’s braid was as thick as Litaviccus’s arm, though it dwindled, five feet further, to a rat’s tail which promptly began to unravel.
“Stand up,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Help me,” to the two male slaves. Like a craftsman in a sculptor’s yard he positioned Rhiannon beneath the hook, then took the braid and looped it twice about her neck. “And we still have plenty!” cried Litaviccus, stepping onto a chair. “Pick her up.”
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