Mr Wicker Page 15

  Neither convinced nor dissuaded, Drunos agreed to the journey because he wanted to do anything rather than settle squabbles and tell stories under the eye of Litu. Suros probably surmised as much.

  A young man not much older than Lucos had packed Drunos’ white mare with provisions and some spare comforts demanded by nobility. Drunos recognized him as Bratu, one of Lucos’ friends. Bratu explained that he had chosen to become a servant to pay off a debt of protection.

  The druid felt better about his travel with Bratu. He’d be almost as loyal as kin and his family had always cared well for the warhorses.

  Fed and washed by his slaves, Drunos saw the sleeping camp from the height of his steed and was stung by the sheer number of people in the miles-long caravan. Tens of thousands marched toward Genava. His responsibility weighed heavily upon him.

  At once, the riders struck out across the budding valley between the Alpina passes that guarded Genava, the richest and most pivotal city in Gaul. The Allobroges alone controlled the Alpina passes, allowing travelers through for a toll. They were commerce savvy, if not military minded. Drunos let the two ambassadors lead the flight down the narrow trade route into the southernmost reaches of the Helvetian basin until the Genava lake raised a glittering blue shoulder just over the horizon. The Alpina mountains eclipsed the west like a monstrous battlefront of blackened, petrous warriors, crushed by cloaks and helmets of solid ice. The dramatic falls and swift currents of her many rivers reminded Drunos that the goddess of the mountains had the power to eradicate them every moment of their lives. Knowing the full forces of the earth were at her command, the Helvetii might try to conquer other men but never her.

  The four camped in a grove by the lake off the route, protected from the spring winds that slit through their cloaks like the haft of a newly whetted falcata. No doubt the Romani saw the smoke from their fire; they rested three hours from the city. But no one molested them. They ate and drank in good spirits. Numeios was more conversational, lacking in the hubris that characterized the Helvetii, which allowed him to elicit ideas from other Gauls. Verudoctios was more charismatic, with strong features and a confidence that radiated the profound courage of his people. Quiet Bratu turned out to be ailing from a sore tooth. Drunos made him some tea from medicinal herbs brought from the Isle. But that treatment aside, the three cared for Drunos as if he were king, cooking and serving his food, pouring his libations, preparing his tent before their own. The attention still made Drunos uneasy. His family had always had slaves, but never had freemen of his own kin shown him this kind of obeisance.

  Wolves bayed with the winds of the lake for hours. Drunos fell into terrible dreams. He stood on the lakeshore in the crippling cold as an abandoned war boat drifted toward him on the still black waters. A man’s head rose from the water before the war boat, his white shaggy locks heavy with dampness and debris clinging to his face. He held a rope over one shoulder as he dragged the boat to shore. As he emerged, he wore a druid’s robe that dripped from the large sleeves, clinging to his emaciated frame to bring every rib and ripple of flesh into stark relief.

  Drunos backed away from the drowned druid as he staggered onto the shore. With a groan from its hull, the boat crawled over the edge of the land and lodged in the sand. A flock of ravens descended on the boat, ripping and tearing at the floorboards. Drunos’ gaze traveled up the sails. Blood sprayed the sallow leather. The large black birds shrieked, viciously pecking at one another as they fought over the grisly contents of the boat, claws and beaks glistening with gore.

  The old druid continued toward the woods and dropped the rope on the grasses. His robe sloshed with each step.

  “Where are you going?” Drunos asked. “Why have you brought this to me?”

  Breathing hard, the old druid halted unsteadily as if he still treaded through waves. He coughed, water gushing from his mouth and nose in filthy sluices that spilled onto his bare feet. He threw back his head and opened his mouth, a thousand voices keening in despair. Drunos heard Rosmerta wailing, Medudorix cursing, and Lucos shouting the war chant.

  “Arctosa?” Drunos asked as his hope crashed, pierced and struggling, from the storm-addled sky. “Arctosa!”

  The old druid turned to him, mouth open to expose the stump of a cut tongue that wagged furiously to utter cries not his own. The voices crescendoed into an otherworldly squall that forced Drunos to his knees, palms pressed against his ears. His bones, guts and gristle resonated with the terrible god sound. Drunos screamed as it threatened to unthread his spirit from flesh.

  Drunos awoke with the burden of god visions. As dreadful as the night had been, the bleak awe of the divine fortified him. But as to what he should do, he could not decide. Teutates demanded human sacrifice by drowning, and he sometimes required a druid. But they were not at war; the god would not call for such a sacrifice to avoid one, nor would he to start one. The ambassadors packed for the last three hours of travel while Bratu prepared the horses and asked timidly for more “tooth tea.” Drunos gave him some of the herbs and showed him how to prepare them himself.

  As noon approached, the halcyon surface of the Genava blinded them as they moved away from the Alpina. A large flock of swans descended to the lake surface, but Drunos lost sight of them when the trade route veered into the rich groves of beech and holy oak that thickened the basin floor. Pines bristled over the slopes of the Alpina. Wooly herbs dusted the bosky ground, with clusters of golden, lavender, and lapis pansies. Wandering streams sloshed under hoof. Bratu called for a stop to water the horses and themselves. The sky had cleared to a bluish brilliance, lightning crowning the white heads of the Alpina.

  The ancient buildings of Genava jutted from the earthen promontories of the Alpina like broken teeth as they rounded the mighty southward bend in the lake. Beyond, the Rhône swayed and slithered as traders’ ships rode its reckless back to the southern ocean. However, much of the city was tucked between the shore of the Rhône and the edge of the lake, surrounding a sprawling plaza where traders from various countries set up shop. Wine. Oil. Weapons. Ceramics. Linen. Jewelry. Drunos detected at least three different languages as they approached: two dialects of Gaulish, Latin, and Greek. What startled him was not the heavy commerce, for the Allobroges were prosperous in trade and husbandry, but the queer sight of four towering celtae in blue bracae striding toward them with spears and wearing the bronze breastplate of the Romani.

  Numeios hailed them and explained that they were returning to negotiate terms of passage over the Genava bridge with Caesar. As Numeios spoke, the four watched Drunos with obvious distress. Before the celtae could respond, a Roman soldier approached with a statesman not much older than Drunos. The ambassadors hailed the statesman as Quintus Metellus and thanked him for his intercession. Quintus introduced himself to Drunos in unbroken Gaulish and explained he was an administrator for Caesar. His dark hair was cut close to his head, his face shaven, and his skin oiled with a faint perfume. He looked close to Drunos in age, maybe twenty-three years. He wore a wool tunic with red stripes, over which he elaborately wound an off-white fabric with a stunning purple border. Drunos noted how the Roman kept his left arm close to his body; the druid could not decide if the Roman was guarding himself or holding the pleats of his robe in place where they met in a complex interweaving at his waist. His wore an intricately carved gold ring, but no other jewelry. This lack of adornment rendered him stark yet regal at once.

  As Quintus ordered the celtae soldiers to stable the horses, the ambassadors assured Drunos that they would be brought with haste before the Roman king.

  “My friends, Caesar is not a king,” Quintus explained, leading Drunos’ company from the plaza into a long thatched building built from the white stones gathered on the promontories. Three Roman soldiers stood guard at each side of the doorway. “He is our proconsul, merely a governor of the land. In some ways like your vergobret.”

  Quintus entered what appeared to have once been an Allobrogian vergobret house, but th
e entrance had been converted to a floral room with a hole built into the ceiling over a stone well. Some of the more vibrant flowers grew indoors in a striking mosaic of delicate mouths yawning with violet, white, and blue lips from trellises and wooden boxes. Allobrogian slaves removed the visitors’ shoes and washed their feet, and then ushered the four into a smaller room filled with skins and pillows, wherein Quintus urged them to rest. More Allobrogian slaves brought in large basins and urged them to bathe their hands and faces in the cool, scented waters. Drunos gingerly dipped his fingers into the basin. He disliked the effeminate smell and let the water roll off his skin. Bratu sat against the far wall, sweating as he scanned the room. When the slaves brought food, the boy sniffed like a hare in the grass and waited until Drunos invited him to eat from the tray. Numeios and Verudoctios ate and engaged in terse conversation, reclining among the skins like favored guests in a dining hall. Pork, spelt grits, and some leafy vegetables Drunos didn’t recognize made a very satisfying meal, which they washed down with honey-sweetened wine. It was unlike anything he had eaten the last five years and he thoroughly enjoyed it.

  The Allobrogian slaves returned with more basins of scented water. By then, Drunos had relaxed somewhat and washed despite the way the blooming smells tickled his nose. No one came for them and the room warmed as the stone house soaked up the afternoon sun.

  When Quintus returned that afternoon, he seemed in good spirits, clasping his hands together as if about to lead a song. “Proconsul Caesar wishes to see you now,” he said. “Come along.”

  Leaving Bratu in the room to sleep, the two Helvetian ambassadors immediately followed Quintus out of the room and into a large dining hall, somewhat bigger than Vercetillos’ tent but not as large as a Helvetian stable. A tile mosaic depicting a battle between mortals under a watchful god lay underfoot in a labyrinth of pigments in glossy stones. That was when Drunos realized that they had been dining in Caesar’s home.

  After passing through a lengthy hallway, Quintus entered a room where statues greeted the occupants with upraised arms and cups. A complex mosaic pebbled the back wall, depicting an old god bearing a young woman from his head. The gods overwhelmed the mortal man who sat on one of the couches surrounding a low table in the midst of the room. Drunos glanced back to find two Roman guards standing at attention on either side of the doorway. He and the ambassadors stood over a full head taller than the rest of the men. The guards watched him with curiosity and hardly noticed the ambassadors. Drunos pushed a dour look their way that turned the delicate stems of their legs as rubbery as rotting blossoms. In soured unison, they leaned on their spears and threw their gaze to the man on the couch.

  Drunos watched the man whom Quintus addressed as Gaius Julius Caesar. Self-assurance lighted his eyes as they examined his newest guest, a great sloping forehead suggesting an avalanche of thoughts. The Romani were shaven from neck to ears, Caesar even more so with neither scratch nor scar. He held a slender iron stick with one sharp end while the other was circular and flat. The instrument was not large enough to be an effective weapon, Drunos decided. At some suggestion of Quintus, Caesar stood as he addressed the Helvetii in quite passable Helvetian Gaulish. “Salutations, my honored guests. Sit with me please?”

  The three Helvetian men took seats around the low table and that is when Drunos saw it:

  Wooden tabulae—tablets—lay open before Caesar, each with a shallow recess covered in a thin layer of black wax. The tablets seemed to be fastened together in pairs; a set of five tablets sat together at one table corner. Lettering was etched into the wax of the tablets, scratched by the stylus in Caesar’s hand. Drunos had seen some Greek lettering from the transaction records carved on wood between Greek traders and the Helvetii, but never had he seen such a profuse use of letters in one place. He wondered what this Caesar could be inscribing at such length. That was when he noticed in the far corner of the room a bundle of parchment stored in an ivory cabinet with one door standing open; tiny amphorae on bronze tripods perched atop the cabinet beside a cedar box about the length of the stylus Caesar held. At least one of the parchment bundles had been stained with strong black strokes.

  Writing.

  Caesar spoke to Quintus, who translated the discussion. The Roman proconsul’s voice reminded Drunos of a wind striking the thickest string in a war harp.

  “Caesar understands you wish to bring the entire Helvetii tribe over the bridge. Are you prepared to negotiate terms?”

  “We are,” Numeios responded. “Let us discuss your terms and what we are willing to offer.”

  Quintus relayed this to Caesar, who spoke readily. “He says he requests three conditions to your crossing.”

  “Speak them,” Numeios said.

  “The first,” Quintus explained, “is that the Helvetii pay a tribute to the Romans as insurance against mischief wrought against our people by wayward citizens of your tribe as you enter our territory.”

  “How much?” Verudoctios asked, squinting suspiciously at the Romans.

  “Five hundred amphorae of wine,” Quintus answered.

  Verudoctios looked with uncertainty to Numeios, who continued. “We can pay three hundred.”

  Caesar nodded. Quintus smiled. “Three hundred,” the translator offered.

  Numeios conferred with Verudoctios, who said, “Three hundred is fair. What is your second term?”

  This time when Caesar spoke, Quintus paused before translating. “Caesar would like ten hostages.”

  “Ten hostages?” Verudoctios asked. “That, too, is fair. What is your third condition?”

  “That one of the hostages be your druid,” Quintus said.

  Caesar looked to Drunos and the druid’s throat tightened. A dire connection sprung between the two men that the druid had not guessed possible.

  “Drûis,” Caesar said, enunciating the Gallic syllables. Somewhere he had learned the Gallic word for druid and used it as a title.

  Verudoctios stood, his face flushing with rage. “I will not on my soul permit such a thing!”

  “Verudoctios,” Numeios said. “Sit. Please?”

  “I will not!” the brasher Gaul cried. “This is not a point of negotiation! You are not just demanding royalty!”

  Numeios turned to Drunos, faint with his own outrage. “Do not agree to this, Drunos. This is negotiation. There must be another way.” He turned to Quintus as Verudoctios silently fumed. “Is there no one at Vienne to whom we may appeal?” Numeios asked the statesman. “Have our cousins no longer any say in matters of state?”

  Verudoctios exploded. “We demand one of royal state in return!”

  “There is no negotiation on this point, I’m afraid,” Quintus inserted calmly. “The druid was decided upon as you ate. If you do not accept our terms, you must seek another route over the Rhône. Possibly,” he added, “you might not find one at all.”

  Be taken as a hostage and save thousands of lives? Or refuse, knowing that the Helvetii will engage in mutual slaughter with the Romani? Drunos held up his hand, never looking away from Caesar’s inscrutable eyes. “I will go,” Drunos offered. “But take me alone. I am worth ten thousand of my kindred.”

  Quintus leaned forward. “We have not forgotten what happened to Lucius Cassius.”

  “Neither have we,” Drunos replied, his lip curling derisively. “The deal is struck.” He held out his hands to the ambassadors who reluctantly clasped them.

  “I do not like this deal,” Verudoctios lamented, as if it needed repeating. “But I understand. I will take care of your kin, Drunos. You have my oath.”

  Numeios withered, clasping the druid’s hand. “As will I.” For him, the negotiation was a failure and he clearly feared the fallout from Suros. Vercetillos would be all too happy, however, as would Litu. Especially Litu.

  Quintus and the Roman guards escorted the ambassadors from the meeting room, leaving Drunos alone with Caesar. The proconsul paced around Drunos as if inspecting a bear for the games. Drunos’ attention was
divided between the intriguing man and the tabulae scattered on the table. Caesar noticed Drunos’ interest in the tabulae and offered him the stylus.

  Drunos shook his head. “I am forbidden.”

  “Forbidden?” Caesar repeated, letting the Gallic word slide around his mouth like a sliver of ice. He stood at least a head shorter than Drunos and wore a different tunic than Quintus. His off-white toga with purple trim was wrapped loosely about his body. “So, it is true.” Regarding the druid with pure astonishment, Caesar sat back down on the couch and placed his hands on his knees. He spoke again, but this time to himself in Latin. Then, he gave some order to the Roman soldiers at the doorway and they cautiously surrounded Drunos. Caesar watched with undisguised amusement. Drunos did not resist, not even when the soldiers led him by the elbows toward the door. He stumbled as he tried to match his longer strides to their shorter ones.

  The march back through the house was not nearly as pleasant as the one into it with Quintus. Once they stood in the plaza, an open cart drawn by an ass came to them in the company of several soldiers on horseback. They seated Drunos in the cart and locked the low gate. The soldiers surrounded the cart, chattering in hushed Latin as they drove it out of the plaza and to the outskirts of Genava. The winds lashed their faces as the cart rumbled down the main road over one of the Alpina passes that led to the Allobrogian capital, Vienne. Drunos tried not to think of his painful circumstances, but instead compared them favorably to the difficult ride from the Isle to his beloved Jura valley.

  The Jura valley, which he would never see again. He spent those years training to be a druid, and now he’d be a Roman citizen. He could hardly believe it.

  The Genava lake spilled to the North in a great silvery sheet, the mighty Rhône writhing westward along the pass. Drunos positioned himself so that he could greet the sway of the waters as the convoy ambled forward. The coveted bridge lay just beyond the short bend.