by Ray Gleason
“I should have guessed that a Soucanai king would attach himself to a Roman’s arse, oh Horse Chief of Madog!” Cuhnetha shot back. “But, unless we’re going to fight, the law of our ancestors demands I offer you hospitality, and all this talking has given me a terrible thirst. So, come down out of those woods and join me!”
Cuhnetha pulled off his helmet and walked away back into the clearing. “Rhonwen!” he shouted. “Some bragawt! The good stuff! Medd coch . . . the red mead! We have guests!”
I looked over at Athauhnu. Despite all the insults hurled back and forth, he was laughing. When he saw me looking, he gestured toward the clearing.
“Come, Arth Bek!” he invited. “The King of Blowhards has offered us hospitality and is now honor bound for our safety. And he’s right! Insulting him has given me a terrible thirst and a few cups of his bragawt sounds like just the thing to slake it!”
We followed Cuhnetha down into the clearing. For the Gah’el, hospitality is sacred. The host is responsible to the king for the comfort and safety of his guests. If a guest should die, through no fault of the host or his people, the host would have to pay his head price to the king. If a guest were killed or murdered through no fault of the host, three times the head price. Should the host himself harm a guest in any way, the host’s rank and honors would be stripped and he would be exiled.
Near the center of the clearing, Cuhnetha had a pavilion set up, a lean-to of leather sheets, not unlike those of a legionary tent. There were some rickety-looking wooden stools. Cuhnetha gestured for us to sit.
“The women will take your horses,” he told us as he struggled out of his lorica. “They’ll also serve your men. Your nags look as relieved as you do to get out of those woods. We don’t have much . . . some bragawt, cheese, and yesterday’s bread.”
Athauhnu got the men situated and came back to the pavilion, where a tall, lissome red-haired girl of no more than seventeen winters was pouring a reddish-orange liquid into clay cups.
“We call this medd coch,” Cuhnetha said, grabbing one of the cups. “Our bees produce the richest honey in all the lands of the Aineduai. Drink!” Cuhnetha took a long, noisy draught from his cup.
We drank. I was cautious, and that proved a good thing. Cuhnetha’s medd coch didn’t have quite the bite of the dur my father distilled out behind our storage sheds, where Mama wouldn’t see, but it was hard to taste the difference. The fumes rose up into my head, making my eyes water, and the liquid burned like fire going down my throat.
“Dur uh buhwuhd,” Cuhnetha said as if he were reading my mind. “The water of life.” He smacked his lips and held up his now empty cup to the red-haired girl.
The red-haired girl was obviously accustomed to Cuhnetha’s act. She filled his cup, placed the pitcher on the ground next to his stool, and walked out of the lean-to.
Cuhnetha caught me watching her as she walked away.
“Fuh nith,” he said. “My sister’s daughter!” That was Gah’el guest-talk for, “Don’t think about it; she’s family.”
“So,” Cuhnetha started after another long pull from his cup, “you never explained what a Roman and a band of Soucanai pig-thieves are doing in my woods.”
“Your king promised us food if we fought the Helv . . . I mean . . . the River People for him,” I said. “We’ve come to collect.”
Cuhnetha laughed at that. “Well, you’ve come a day too late, Little Roman! All the food’s gone!”
“Gone?” I said. “You mean the raiders took it all?”
“Raiders?” Cuhnetha snorted. “There were no raiders here . . . You and your Soucanai friends excepted, of course.”
“No, raiders?” I questioned. “Then who burned your barn?”
“Barn?” Cuhnetha shot back. “That was no bloody barn! That was my hall! And, it was the men of that gob-shite of a dunorix who burned it. They took the food!”
“The dunorix?” I stammered. “The commander of the king’s fortress? Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno? The king’s brother? Your own people burned your bar—I mean, your hall?”
“Right and wrong, Little Roman,” Cuhnetha shot back, taking another long drink. “The fintai of the dunorix set the blaze alright! But, Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno is not ‘my own people’! He’s the snot-nosed, treacherous, piece of shit of his usurping, twice-bastard father, Clethguuhno mab Grefhuhtha. May he rot in the latrines of Annuhfn while worthy men piss on his head for all eternity!”
While Cuhnetha was refilling his cup, I asked, “‘Usurping, twice-bastard’? Are you saying he’s not of the royal clan? Who is the legitimate king of the Aiduai, then?”
“I am!” Cuhnetha almost shouted. “I am the pobl’rix of Wuhr Tuurch! The high kingship of the Aiduai has always been founded in the Wuhr Tuurch! Since we descended from the Lands in the Sky, the descendants of Tuurch have always ruled the tribe! That was until Clethguuhno poisoned my grandfather. My da was only a boy, then, not yet of the age. Clethguuhno convinced the Council of the Three Generations that the gods had killed my grandfather—not the concoction of Greek weeds he put in his beer. And, with hordes of Almaenwuhrai rampaging through our lands, the Aineduai needed a strong man . . . a warrior . . . ruling the tribe. My grandfather’s death was a sign that Clethguuhno should rule. Then, when the Germans left us to go south and kill Romans, Clethguuhno’s breeding bitch gave him two strong sons . . . heirs. He convinced the Council to recognize his oldest, Duuhruhda, as his heir.”
Ranting was thirsty work. Cuhnetha held up the now-empty pitcher and bellowed to Rhonwen for more. From somewhere out among the milling Aineduai and our Soucanai troopers in the clearing, I heard a woman’s voice yell back, “Wait your turn, old man!”
“No respect, I get!” Cuhnetha complained. “From my own blood!” Then, he looked at me, “Don’t ever marry a red-haired woman, boy! She’ll be the death of you!”
I didn’t take his advice, and after thirty-some years, I’m still alive—bruised somewhat, but still alive.
“So, now the Wuhr Blath rule the tribe,” he started.
“The Wolf People?” I questioned.
“That’s Duuhruhda’s clan,” Cunetha said, while glaring out into the clearing as if that would bring Rhonwen faster. “The shaggin’ descendants of the shaggin’ wolf. It was they who came here yesterday with their carts, demanding all our stored food. It’s for the king’s dun, Bibracte, they said. I asked them how we were going to eat until the crops were in. Eat your seeds, they laughed. They’re already in the ground, I said. They just laughed. Then, they burned my hall. It was a message from their bloody dunorix, that gob-shite brother of that gob-shite usurper . . . Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno.”
Rhonwen finally arrived with a fresh pitcher of the bragawt.
“It’s about time!” Cuhnetha grumbled. “A man could die of thirst waitin’ on the likes of you, girl!”
“Shut ya gob, old man!” she shot back. “And just be thankful I pay ya any mind!”
As she turned to leave, Rhonwen gave me a smile and a wink. I felt both in my heart.
“Where is your fintai, pobl’rix?” I heard Athauhnu ask as he leaned forward for Cuhnetha to fill his cup. “Why did your warriors allow this?”
Cuhnetha snorted, “My son led our sixteen warriors and five boys to Bibracte weeks ago, when that usurping, pretending king—may he wipe backsides in Annuhfn for all the ages—summoned them. Now they’re all cowering behind those nice, thick walls up on top of those high hills, while the River People and Krauts do whatever they want to the rest of us. When those worthless followers of the dunorix set the fire, my people fled to the woods. When it’s safe, I have to bring them back . . . start rebuilding . . . decide how I’m going to feed them until the harvest. A king’s responsibility is to his people . . . to the land! When the land burns, the king burns. That’s how we did it in the old days . . . Kill the king; choose another!”
Cuhnetha drained his cup to that sentiment.
Remembering Caecina and his foraging detail, I stood. At
hauhnu did also.
“Diolch i chi am eich cletuhgaruuch, A Argluuhth,” I pronounced the ritual of thanks.
“Riduhch chi bab amser uhn cael eu croesauu uhn fi, A Argluuhth,” Cuhnetha rose unsteadily and completed the ritual. “You are always welcome at my hearth, Lord . . . at least, as soon as I rebuild the shaggin’ thing,” he added.
X.
Scaena Caesaris
CAESAR’S DRAMA
Diviciacus multis cum lacrimis Caesarem complexus obsecrare coepit ne quid gravius in fratrem statueret quod si quid ei a Caesare gravius accidisset cum ipse eum locum amicitiae apud eum teneret neminem existimaturum non sua voluntate factum qua ex re futurum uti totius Galliae animi a se averterentur haec cum pluribus verbis flens a Caesare peteret.
“In tears Diviciacus embraced Caesar and began to implore him not to condemn his brother further. If Dumnorix were severely dealt with by Caesar, no one would believe that it had been done without Diviciacus’concurrence since Caesar held him in such regard. All Gaul would turn its favor away from him if such a thing were to happen. Weeping profusely, Diviciacus begged these things of Caesar.”
(from Gaius Marius Insubrecus’ notebook of Caesar’s journal)
He found Caesar and the army by the eleventh hour. They had moved less than ten thousand passus to the west, still following the lumbering mass of the Helvetii.
Caecina was not a happy man. His wagons were empty; he felt that he had failed in his mission. When Athauhnu and I descended to the village from Cuhnetha’s encampment, Agrippa and the other two alae of Madog’s Sequani cavalry had already returned from their screening mission in the west. Caecina’s foraging detail had also arrived from the south; his wagons were assembled in the center of the village, while Sanga’s infantry had secured the perimeter.
Obviously, there was no food, and no Aedui, to be found.
I briefed the tribunes and Sanga on what Athauhnu and I had found and on what Cuhnetha had told us.
Caecina wasn’t satisfied, “I suggest we send Sanga and his centuria back up the hill and squeeze that cow king’s balls. He must have some grain hidden away! And what about cattle? Did you see any sign of livestock?”
Agrippa shook his head. “Even if we do, I don’t imagine we’ll get enough food to make a difference. The Aedui have had more than enough time to hide any remaining supplies not stolen by their own people. I’m more concerned with what this dunorix bastard’s up to. It seems as if he’s stripping the countryside to starve us, when he’s supposed to be gathering food to feed us.”
“Caesar will not be pleased if we return with empty wagons,” Caecina insisted.
“You can’t squeeze wine out of raisins,” Agrippa countered. “We will at least be able to offer Caesar information that he may find useful. If the Aedui, or some faction within the royal household, are plotting against us, Caesar will need to be informed. I recommend that we rest the men and animals until the eighth hour. Then, we return to the army.”
The men were sullen on the way back. Not only did they think that their mission had failed, but they were also not looking forward to the expected food shortages and reduced rations.
When we reached the legionary camps, we discovered that we were not the only foraging party to return empty-handed. All the foragers who had marched north and northeast found empty barns. The ones coming in from the south and southeast had had better luck because the Helvetii and our army had screened these settlements from being stripped by their own people in Bibracte.
We again found Caesar’s praetorium in the camp of the Tenth Legion. Labienus was outside the tent with his tabulae, taking reports from the returning foraging parties and instructing them how to distribute their takings.
When he saw us, he said, “Agrippa . . . Caecina . . . you marched due north . . . Let me guess . . . Our Aeduan allies beat you to the food.”
“Recte, Legate,” Agrippa responded. “We came back empty.”
Labienus grunted and scratched something into his tabula. Then, he seemed to notice me, “Ah . . . Insubrecus . . . Caesar wants you. He needs you to make sense out of those daily journals he’s collecting. The rest of you are dismissed. You did a good job today . . . Not your fault it didn’t work as planned . . . not your fault at all.”
I asked Athauhnu if he would have someone look after Clamriu, my horse. He nodded. “I’ll have Emlun look after her for you. He’ll bring her back to Valgus after she’s groomed and had a chance to cool down.”
When I entered Caesar’s cubiculum, I saw the imperator standing over by his operation maps in a heated discussion with four officers. They wore chainmail loricae and had their swords hanging on the left—centurions. Each wore a broad, red sash, designating their status as primi pili, the de facto commanders of Caesar’s four veteran legions—despite any legatus Caesar might assign to tag along.
Caesar was stripped down to his subarmalis jacket; his plate armor lorica and helmet were tossed in a corner. His hair was plastered down on the top of his head by the weight of his helmet and the sweat of the day.
When Caesar spotted me, he called over, “Bene, Insubrecus . . . the tabulae are there by my field desk. I’ll be finished here soon.”
I did my best not to eavesdrop on Caesar’s conversation: rations needed to be distributed to the men soon; break off contact with the enemy; march south into the provincia; resupply from Massalia—or attack now and finish the enemy.
Then, I heard Caesar say, “Satis! Me Taedet! I command here! I will decide what this army will do!”
I couldn’t help but look over. The four centurions stood stiffly, braced at attention before their commander.
Caesar recovered his composure. His jaw relaxed, and the Caesarian mask was back in place. “Excuse me . . . gentlemen . . . It’s been a long, frustrating few days. I will consider everything you’ve said. I know you are motivated only by what’s good for the Roman people and for this army. Please . . . leave me now . . . I have much to consider.”
The centurions’ positions of attention seemed to loosen around the shoulders, just slightly; their chins seemed a bit less braced. They muttered, “A’mperi’tu’,” and they began moving away from their commander.
One of them noticed me. It was Malleus, “The Hammer,” primus pilus of the Tenth Legion. He came over to where I was sitting. Since Caesar was the ranking officer in the tent, I did not rise, but I sat up stiffly.
“Insubrecus,” Malleus said, noticing my decurion sash, “or, should I say, Insubrecus Decurio. Moving ahead in the world, I see. Congratulations on your promotion! If your career continues at this pace, I’ll be working for you by the end of this campaign.”
I knew Malleus was pulling my leg, but I wasn’t quite sure of his point. I decided to play it safe. “Gratias ti’, Centurio!”
Malleus nodded in reply. “Your old centurion, Strabo, is back on his feet and still with the Tenth Cohort. I may be moving him up to the acies secunda soon. You should pay a visit. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”
“Gratias ti’, Centurio,” I repeated.
Malleus nodded again. He had a slight smirk on his face. “Don’t let too much of that tabula wax rub off on you . . . It’s not good for soldiering. I may want to get you back in the Tenth to do some real soldier’s work.”
With that, Malleus left the tent.
After a short while, Caesar wandered over from the maps. “Another day . . . another ten thousand passus . . . day after day. I don’t know how exciting you can make that sound in your report, Insubrecus.”
Caesar seemed to be prattling a bit. With him, that meant he was talking about one thing while his mind was processing something else. “When senior centurions think they must give advice to their commander, things are not good.
The men must be getting restless . . . worried about their rations . . . tired of avoiding an enemy they think they can beat . . . Ten thousand passus a day and then build another marching camp. That doesn’t tire them out enough. They have too mu
ch extra energy to stew and fuss . . . too much time to be anxious about getting this thing over with . . . Uneasy about rumors . . . running out of food . . . wondering what the purple-striped chump in the command tent is doing . . . No good for discipline.”
Suddenly, he came out of his ruminations. “Scriba!” he yelled.
“Imperator!” answered the voice of his clerk from the outer cubiculum of the tent.
“Get me Labienus!” Caesar ordered. “Stat’!”
“A’mperi’tu’!” the voice responded.
“Insubrecus,” he said to me, “hand me those reports . . . No . . . not those . . . Today’s . . . the dailies . . . yes.”
I handed Caesar a stack of tabulae. He had just started trying to examine them when Labienus entered.
“Ah! Bene! Labienus,” Caesar started. “What’s our battle-line strength? How many infantry can we deploy against the enemy?”
“Just legionaries?” Labienus responded without missing a beat.
“Yes . . . yes,” Caesar said, still trying to balance the tabulae in his arms while looking through them.
Labienus reached over and plucked one of the tabulae from Caesar. He opened it and began to read, “Seventh Legion . . . they had a strength of 4,327 . . . seven on leave . . . twenty-seven detached for detail . . . forty-two on sick call.”
“Just bottom-line it for me, Labienus!” Caesar interrupted.
“Yes . . . yes,” Labienus muttered, reviewing the daily strength report. “The four veteran legions, the Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth, 15,552 effectives, give or take a dozen or so. The new legions, Eleventh and Twelfth, 8,736. If we put everyone in the battle line, 24,288.”
“24,288,” Caesar repeated. “What are our intelligence estimates of enemy strength?”
Labienus placed the current tabula on the desk and reached over and removed another tabula from Caesar’s tenuous grasp. “Bottom-line it again?” he asked.
“Yes . . . yes,” Caesar said.