by Ray Gleason
Publicola responded, “We saw evidence of the German raids as we came up the Dubis from the Arar. We did not see any evidence of your troops.”
Bran shook his head sadly, “As a soldier, Publicola, you know a defender cannot be strong at every point. I have three primary responsibilities: preserving Vesantio, defending the Gate, and protecting the valley of the Dubis. With the resources I have, I can defend Vesantio for a time; I can screen the Gate to anticipate any German movement in this direction; I have no troops left to protect the farmers.”
Publicola nodded, then asked, “What do you know of Ariovistus’ intentions?”
Bran shrugged, “They’re Germans. I doubt they have a strategy other than to sieze, kill, and burn. Executing any coordinated maneuver with that many—”
“Just tell him, husband!” his wife interrupted.
Bran looked at his wife and just nodded to her, “Please, tell our guests, Rabria.”
Rabria! Why does the wife of a Gallic chief ruling a town within spitting distance of the Rhenus have a Roman name? I wondered.
Rabria began, “We were approached by Ariovistus’ ‘agents.’ They told us that he plans to sweep down the Dubis, down the Arar, and into the Rhonus valley before the wheat turns yellow. He offered us our lives and the lives of our people. We could keep the rule of this city. He and his people have no interest in cities or trade. They just want the land. Our people would be enslaved to work the land for their German overlords. His condition was that we do not resist him or ally ourselves with the Romans.”
Publicola was shocked equally by the news and by the fact that it was delivered by a woman in the council of men. But, he recovered enough to ask, “Is that all?”
“No!” Rabria shook her head. “I got his messenger boys drunk, and one of them shared with me that Ariovistus’ true objective is not the Gauls, but Caesar. Ariovistus’ primary goal is to destroy Caesar and his entire army.”
There was silence around the table as Bran nodded in agreement.
Rabria continued, “It’s a fool’s bargain that Ariovistus is offering. Once he has destroyed Caesar, he will destroy us. What need will he have for Vesantio as a trading center when all trade has been destroyed?”
Troucillus asked, “Have you given Ariovistus your answer? Have these agents returned to Ariovistus?”
“Ariovistus’ agents come and go,” Rabria answered. “They call themselves ‘merchants.’ Some actually are. They’re mostly Greeks and Romanized Gauls from the Roman provincia along the Rhonus. I’m sure a few of them are in the lower town, even as we speak. As far as our answer, we have been prevaricating as best we can. We have sent Ariovistus gifts and messages of friendship, which I’m sure he is not buying. But, we are running out of time. Our choice is to die now or die later. Our only true hope would be that neither comes to pass.”
This woman, whom I mistook for a dowdy matron, is an equal partner in the ruling of Vesantio! If Bran is its virtus, its strong right arm, she could certainly be its mens, its intelligence. The Macedonian was by far the most intelligent and ruthless woman I have ever met in my life. She ruled Egypt as Pharaoh in her own right and was able to offset the ambitions of Rome and Parthia for decades. Her strategy against Octavius came to within weeks of success. Rabria of Vesantio could certainly give her a run for her money.
Rubria’s voice brought me back from my reverie. “So, the elephant in this room, Tertius Gellius Publicola, is what is Caesar’s intention? Does he plan to defend Vesantio with his army? Are you offering us the choice between being either German slaves or Roman slaves?”
The directness of Rabria’s question was beyond what was acceptable under the customs of Gallic hospitality, which was probably another reason why Bran was allowing her to take the lead in this discussion. Publicola was certainly a bit flabbergasted. Not only was he being given a strategic military assessment by a woman, but now she was demanding a response from him!
“I . . . uh,” he started, “Caesar demands that Ariovistus send his German allies back across the Rhenus . . . He must promise to restrict himself to the lands granted him by the Sequani . . . cease raiding friendly territory . . . return the hostages he has take—”
“And that will happen when?” Rabria interrupted, “When pigs fly? What are Caesar’s true intentions for us?”
Troucillus bailed Publicola out. “Matrona! Lady! Caesar’s army is already on the march. We expect that he is no more than a week behind us. He intends to enforce his ultimatum to Ariovistus, which he has tasked me to deliver.”
Rabria’s eyes widened. “You are going to ride into Ariovistus’ camp and deliver that message? You must truly be a brave man, Gai Valeri Troucille, or a complete fool! Ariovistus will cut the meat from your bones and feed it to the camp dogs while you watch!”
Troucillus shrugged, “I certainly hope not, Lady.”
Rabria just shook her head.
Bran asked, “You say Caesar will be here in a week with his army? That is indeed good news! May I tell my people? We have been living under the threat of Ariovistus for weeks!”
Troucillus shrugged his shoulders. “Our arrival, I’m sure, has let the weasel out of the bag, but if Ariovistus’ agents are still in the town, such a proclamation may be, let’s say, too unambiguous. Let’s see if we can keep them guessing about the Roman commitment to Vesantio for a few more days, shall we?”
Bran nodded, “That makes sense . . . but we will feast you and your party this afternoon! With the Helvetii rampaging to the south and the Germans threatening us from the north, our people have had little to celebrate this summer.”
When our consilium ended, Aneirin led Cerialis off on a tour of the town’s defenses. They were followed by one of Cerialis’ slaves doing his best to balance a number of tabulae to notate Cerialis’ assessments.
Later in my career, I read Gellius’ account of the death of the Greek mathematician, Archimedes, during the Second Punic War. When the city of Syracuse fell to the legions of Marcus Claudius Marcellus after a two-year siege, Roman soldiers broke into Archimedes’ house. Without looking up from his work, Archimedes said, “Noli turbare circulos meos . . . Don’t disturb my circles,” just before some muli plunged his gladius into the back of his neck.
I would have considered that account ridiculous had I not met men like Cerialis, who could become totally preoccupied with his work. I could easily imagine Cerialis still taking careful and precise measurements of the thickness of Vesantio’s walls while Ariovistus’ Germans burned the place to the ground.
Publicola was saying to Troucillus, “I want Metius to identify Ariovistus’ agents among the merchants staying in the lower town . . . We don’t want to tip our hands too soon and have the Germans through the Gate before Caesar arrives.”
Metius searching for traitors, I thought. That’s a bit like sending a rat out to track down the other rats.
Troucillus shrugged, “I’m sure Ariovistus is already aware of our presence in this valley. Having Metius arrive independently of us may have at least given him the cover he needs; the other merchants may still confide in him. What do you intend to do if we do identify Ariovistus’ agents? I must caution you; this is not Rome, and Roman ways of dealing with certain situations are not acceptable. We are subject to the Gallic laws of hospitality here. Any acts of violence would reflect badly upon the cadeuhrn. He would be responsible for ten times the head price of anyone murdered while under his protection.”
“I will instruct Metius to be . . . discreet, let’s say,” agreed Publicola. “We will need Bran’s goodwill and cooperation. Vesantio will be critical to us as a supply base and fortress if we plan to operate in the Rhenus valley.”
Publicola walked off to coordinate his operation. I approached Troucillus. “Do you think Metius can be trusted?” I asked in Gah’el.
“Trusted?” Troucillus responded. “Trusted to serve his own purposes like any of the Rhufeiniaid. I wish I had a clearer idea of what Metius is up to. Whatever Caesa
r knows about him . . . he’s holding his dice in a closed hand. As long as Metius holds that brute, Bulla, in check until we get out of Vesantio, I will be satisfied.”
And, that almost happened.
We were called to the cadeuhrn’s feast at the ninth hour. We assembled in the main hall. As is the custom, we surrendered our swords before entering the hall. My Sequani were used to the practice and trusted the law of hospitality to protect them as the cadeuhrn’s guests. The Roman boys were not as confident. I had a time convincing Manius Talus that he and his men would be safe in what they saw as a sea of drunken, blood-thirsty pilosi. He finally submitted when he saw Publicola and Troucillus surrender their swords.
Since it was late summer, no fires were lit in the center of the round hall. The food was prepared in the cooking shacks behind the main building. Bran mab Cahal, his wife, and his comitatus were seated on a raised platform farthest from the main entry doors. To Bran’s immediate right was Publicola and, next to him, Troucillus. Rabria was seated to Bran’s left. Manius Talus and his Romans sat at the tables closest to the main doors. I imagined they wanted to be in position for a quick exit if things got ugly. No one told them that the food was normally served from the front to the rear, so they would be the last served.
Athauhnu and the Sequani were seated at tables directly below the cadeuhrn’s platform, a place of honor. I decided that I would sit with my turma. I took a spot on the bench between Athauhnu and Guithiru, took out my pugio to cut my meat, and took a look around.
Most of the benches near the platform were filled with warriors from the town garrison. Toward the rear, I noticed civilians from the town, noticeable by their dress. I imagined that these were the merchants upon whom the cadeuhrn depended for his revenues. Among these, I caught sight of Metius. I looked around but could not spot his thug, Bulla. I wasn’t sure what was better, seeing Bulla in a crowded place where a sica could be slipped into someone’s back without much notice or not knowing where he was at all.
As is the custom of the Gah’ela, women freely mixed with the men for the feast. Another barbaric custom Publicola has to get used to, I thought.
The cadeuhrn clapped his hands and a dozen servers entered the hall carrying large, ceramic pitchers of beer, mead, and wine. They stopped at the ends of their assigned benches and waited. Then, Rabria stood and walked around to the front of the main table. She took a pitcher from one of the servants, went to where Publicola was seated, and filled his cup. For a few heartbeats, Publicola did nothing, until Troucillus leaned over to him and said something in his ear. Publicola nodded, picked up his cup, offered it first in the direction of Bran, his host, and then to Rabria, his hostess. Then, he drank. It was Gallic beer. Publicola’s face turned as red as a legionary’s tunic as his Roman tastes coped with the bitter Gallic brew, but he managed to get it down and not commit any gross violations of local custom.
After Publicola had choked down his drink, Rabria filled Bran’s cup. Then, she turned to the hall, lifted the pitcher and announced, “Gadeooch i’r ouleda uhn dechrau. . . Let the feasting begin!”
The hall answered her with a cheer. I doubt my Roman friends understood Rabria’s words, but they did understand her meaning. I saw Manius Talus take the pitcher from the server standing near his table and begin filling the cups of his men.
After a few trips back and forth with pitchers of drink, each table had a few filled pitchers to work on. Then, the servers started bringing out the food. We were treated to roasted pork and chicken; stews of river fish and pork with cabbage, kale, leeks, turnips, beets, and broccoli; bowls of raw radishes, carrots, and cucumbers; baskets of apples, pears, berries, and sliced melons. I looked back to see how our Romans were faring, and I noticed that Rabria had even managed to find some garum for them.
Bran allowed us to eat and drink uninterrupted until finally there seemed to be a lull in the babbling, the scraping of knives across plates, and the clunking of ceramic pitchers against earthenware cups. Not a few of the diners were sitting back, away from the table, with sated and content looks on their faces and their hands folded across their bellies. I saw Rabria call over a servant, whom I took to be her master of ceremonies, and say something to him. The man nodded and walked back to where the servers were entering the hall from the kitchens.
Soon, a man, dressed in a long, forest-green robe and holding a triangular, Gallic harp, stepped up onto the front of the platform. The man bowed to Bran and Rabria, then again to Publicola. He turned toward the crowded hall, played a loud chord, which everyone ignored. Then, he shouted, “‘Rando! ‘Rando! ‘Rando! . . . Listen! Listen! Listen!”
In a few heartbeats, the hall quieted down. The man played another chord and began to sing. This, I realized, was Bran’s pruhduhd, his bard. He sang the lineage of Bran and the history of his people, starting with Bran and tracing the history of the people back to when they descended from the high places and conquered the valley in which we now all sat.
Somewhere between the account of when one of Bran’s heroic ancestors conquered the cannibalistic giants, who originally occupied these hills, and the building of the magnificent palace in which we all now sat, somewhere in the journey through blood sacrifices and multiple enchantments, I realized that Manius Talus and the Roman boys in the back were probably not understanding a word of it. I slid off my bench and quietly made my way back to where the Romans were sitting.
I slid in next to Manius, filled my cup up with beer from a pitcher the Romans were doing their best to ignore, and asked in Latin, “You guys getting any of this?”
Most of them just shrugged. One trooper said, “My woman’s been trying to teach me, but my Gallic’s not that good . . . I got lost somewhere after a shining sword got broken and the crops wouldn’t grow.”
By this time, the pruhduhd had finished the history lesson. The warriors in front were banging their fists on the tables in support of Bran’s lineage and the glories of their tribe; they demanded another story. Bran nodded to his bard. The pruhduhd played another chord to quiet the place down. Then, he announced that, in honor of our host, he would sing the tale of Brangouen and the Pen uh Bran, the head of Bran.
I told the Romans what the bard had said, then translated the story for them:
Matolooch, king of the western isle, sails to the middle lands to speak with Bran mab Chlir, the Brenn’uchel. He asks for the hand of his sister, Brangouen, in marriage, to forge an alliance between him and Bran.
Bran grants Matolooch’s request, but the celebrations are interrupted when Efnisien, a son of Bran’s mother, Penardun, angry that Bran did not discuss Brangouen’s marriage with him, steals Matolooch’s horses, which were the swiftest and most valiant in the western isle. Matolooch is enraged and about to start a war with Bran.
In compensation for his loss, Bran offers Matolooch one of the seven sacred treasures of his kingdom, the Coire Na Beata, a cauldron that can restore the dead to life. Matolooch accepts the gift, and he and Brangouen sail back to the western isle.
Brangouen gives birth to a son, Guern, but Matolooch is still angry over Efnisien’s insult. He mistreats Brangouen. She is given the most menial tasks to perform and is beaten every day.
Brangouen tames a raven and sends it across the sea with a message to her brother, Bran. The brenn’uchel, with his brothers, Manawuhdan, Nisien, and Efnisien, and seven times seven thousand warriors sail to the western isle to rescue Brangouen.
Matolooch, upon seeing Bran’s host landing on his shores, offers to make peace. He builds a hall big enough to house Bran and all his warriors. In it, he places seven times seven thousand coffers, supposedly containing gold and treasures, but actually concealing armed warriors who are to kill Bran and his warriors when they sleep. Efnisien, suspecting a trick, enters the hall before Bran and kills the warriors.
The war between Bran and Matolooch is renewed. They fight for seven years; that is when Efnisien discovers that Matolooch is using the Coire Na Beata to revive his dead warrio
rs. After a battle, he hides himself among the dead and destroys the cauldron, but the cauldron sucks out his life force and he dies.
To decide the issue, Bran challenges Matolooch to a single combat. Although Bran kills Matolooch with his sword, Duhrn Wuhn, “White Hilt,” Matolooch wounds Bran in the thigh with his spear, Gae o Boen, “Spear of Pain,” whose wounds fester and never heal.
All the warriors of the western isle are killed. Only seven of Bran’s fintai survive the war, among them his brothers Manawuhdan and Nisien; Bran’s son, Caradoc; and Taliesin Awenuht, Arth mab Uthr, Peredir mab Evraoug, and Pruhderi mab Pouhll. Even Brangouen dies of a broken heart, blaming herself for the war and the slaughter of her people.
Bran tells his surviving warriors that he will never recover from his wound. In order that his gruhm buhwuhd, his life force, not perish with his body, they are to cut off his head, where his life force resides, and return it to his kingdom.
For seven years, the seven survivors stay in the hall that Matolooch built for Bran, which they call Ard Lech because it sits on a high cliff. There, they are entertained by Pen uh Bran, the Head of Bran, which continues to speak to them. While they remain in the hall, the Pen uh Bran magically provides them with lavish feasts, beers, and mead, all of the best quality.
After seven years, they sail away from the western isle at Bran’s command, leaving Bran’s nephew, Guern, to rule the western isle. They land on a fog-enshrouded island, where they live for seventy years without perceiving the passing of time. Eventually, the fog lifts, and they see the coast of Bran’s kingdom across the sea and feel a deep sadness and longing to return to their homeland.