The Druid King Read online

  “I…I don’t understand…”

  “I will teach you,” said Rhia.

  And she stepped back to release him.

  “You promised that if I drew a drop of your blood I could have you! You lied!”

  Rhia shook her head. “I spoke truth,” she said. “For, if you take a drop of my blood, you shall take all of it.”

  “I would never do that!”

  “My virginity is my magic. He who takes it takes also my life. And so I must defend it with my sword, must I not?”

  And she raised her sword in challenge again.

  “Every magic has its price…” whispered Vercingetorix. “The greater the magic, the greater the price to be paid…”

  Rhia nodded. “But the greater the price you are willing to pay, the greater the magic you will be able to make. And now I will show you how to break your hot blood to harness, turn foe into partner, and make his struggle your dance.”

  And she did, or at least she began to; until the autumn sun had reached its zenith, he and Rhia danced with their swords.

  First she would show him a move very slowly, then invite him to find a counter in like manner. Then she would invite him to try his own attacks and offer her own counter. With the same exaggerated slowness, the moves were strung together.

  Vercingetorix found himself indeed moving from figure to figure without plan, without thought, as Rhia had bidden; letting her moves call forth his own, his moves lead into hers, until the thrust and parry, the leaps and dodges, became a slow, fluid dance, the touches of sword on sword caresses.

  And finally, without Vercingetorix’s realizing when or how it had begun, the rhythm of the dance became faster and faster without losing its fluid grace, until they were performing it at full fighting speed.

  It was exhilarating, it was arousing, it heated the blood, it warmed the heart, and when at length it became quite exhausting, they stood there leaning toward each other, covered in sweat and panting for breath like spent lovers.

  Vercingetorix leaned almost imperceptibly closer.

  Rhia stepped back, shook her head, gave him a sad, knowing look, and disappeared back into her cave.

  “You seemed to have…enjoyed your lesson,” Guttuatr said as he led Vercingetorix back through the forest toward the druid school. “More dangerous than any lion, now, isn’t she?”

  “You seemed to have enjoyed watching,” Vercingetorix replied sourly. “Just who is she?” he demanded.

  “Our sorceress of the sword,” said the Arch Druid.

  “That is not an answer!”

  “The right questions are the tools you need to pry the answers you seek out of their shells.”

  Tired, sweaty, his body taut with frustrated desire, Vercingetorix was in no mood for lessons or riddles.

  “There are no other women like her in Gaul,” he said.

  “That is not a question,” said Guttuatr. “Still, it is true.”

  “So—from whence did she come?”

  “From somewhere across the northern waters,” Guttuatr said. “She landed on the beach in a boat with the corpse of a woman dressed as a warrior and bearing a sword. She was perhaps ten years old. She could not speak. When fisherfolk approached, she took up the sword, terrified them with a fierce attack, and fled.”

  Guttuatr shrugged. “Of her next years, there are only tales and legends of a girl child with a sword wandering in the forest like a wild beast, driving off those who sought to succor her, slaying those who sought to violate her or take her as a slave.”

  “A small girl!” exclaimed Vercingetorix. “What sorcery is this?”

  “The sorcery into which you have just been initiated,” Guttuatr said dryly.

  “But where did she learn this magic? From whom?”

  “She remembers nothing of her life before she arrived on this shore, and of her years in the forest, only…visions.”

  “Visions?”

  “She now remembers only sights, sounds, smells from that time, for she knew no human tongue to bind their meaning to memory with words.”

  “Bind their meaning with words?”

  “The animals of this forest see, hear, smell, but without words they cannot think as we do, and so cannot remember the meaning of what they have seen, heard, and smelled. Words are the first and greatest magic. They made men and women from beasts.”

  “Then she was like an animal?”

  Guttuatr nodded. “When at last she was taken as she slept by fearful farmers and given to the druids, we had to teach her to speak. To become human again.”

  “What could have done such a thing to her, Guttuatr?”

  Guttuatr shrugged once more. “Perhaps the girl’s spirit saw more than it could contain, and so died while her flesh yet lived. Or…or the gods emptied her out so that they might fill her with…”

  The Arch Druid stopped in mid-sentence.

  “With what?” Vercingetorix demanded.

  “There are matters that cannot be spoken of to those without the knowledge of the oak,” said the Arch Druid.

  Vercingetorix stopped dead in his tracks. Had it been anyone other than the Arch Druid, he would have grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

  Guttuatr continued to walk at the same pace, forcing Vercingetorix to trot to catch up.

  “With visions!” Vercingetorix cried.

  Guttuatr stopped suddenly, rounded on him. “How did you know that?” he said sharply.

  “What else could make a strong woman in her prime torture herself with a vow of virginity?” Vercingetorix told him.

  Guttuatr laughed. “You mean what else could make her spurn the ardor of a fine young stallion like yourself?” he said.

  Vercingetorix felt his face flush red. “Tell me what they were!” he said.

  “There are matters that cannot be understood by those without knowledge of the oak.”

  Gaius Julius Caesar had gone to Rome at the beginning of winter, but though he enjoyed his reunion with Calpurnia and the luxury and sophistication of true civilization, enemies, rivals, and creditors had swarmed all over him like flies, the Senate had asked too many pointed questions, and he finally arranged to be “summoned” back to his provincial capital at Aix to deal with the nonexistent threat of pirate raiders.

  There he had lolled about his villa, dealing with the tasks of proconsulship, recruiting yet another legion, and taking a hand in arranging the curriculum of the “hostage school.”

  As Gallic custom allowed and Roman practice mandated, he had taken children of potential adversaries as hostages to good behavior, and it had occurred to him that styling the captivity of these young Gauls as an “educational opportunity” could serve two useful purposes. Assuring their parents that they would be attending a Roman grammaticus made their captivity go down a lot smoother. And in the long run, giving the young hostages a real Roman education would be an excellent means of creating a Romanized elite which would make Gaul a lot easier to administer.

  So Caesar took care to see to it that their introduction to Roman civilization was seductive rather than coercive, establishing pleasant quarters, laying on true Roman cuisine, decent wine, and good teachers, and doing his fair share of the seducing himself by providing a sophisticated Roman erotic education to the comelier and more promising students.

  Still, all this was merely passing the time until spring came and he could return northward to finish the conquest of Gaul once and for all. But now that the time to prepare to move his legions back over the mountains had finally come, he found that his impatience had become anxiety.

  “The problem is, the Gauls’ weakness turns out to be their strength,” he complained to Gisstus as they sat alone in the courtyard of his villa on a balmy night after he had dismissed his servants.

  Gisstus, not being a commander of troops, was the only man to whom he could voice his misgivings without risking the poisoning of morale. Gisstus was the closest thing he had here to a mirror of his own mind.

 
; “Is that one of your riddles, Caesar?” Gisstus asked dryly, sipping at the local wine, which, though rough and of lesser quality than that of Italy, had the virtue of not being tainted by a sea voyage sealed in amphorae.

  “A true conundrum, Gisstus,” Caesar said, pausing to sip at the stuff himself. It relieved his thirst, but it also reminded him of where he was, and where he did not belong, here in the provinces far from the finer vintages of Rome.

  “If the Gauls united, they could raise an army that would outnumber us, and their cavalry is fearsome,” he said. “I say this to no one else, but I fear that if they did we would be hard-pressed to hold our ground.”

  “You worry too much, Caesar. There are more tribes than anyone can count, and they shift alliances more often than they bathe.”

  “That is the weakness that prevents them from defeating us,” Caesar told him, “but also the strength that prevents us from truly conquering Gaul.”

  Gisstus gave him a quizzical look, cocking his head to one side.

  “How can you conquer something that doesn’t really exist?” Caesar said, hearing the tone of exasperation in his own voice. “How can you conquer a country without a ruler? How can you conquer Gaul when the Gauls don’t even have anyone with the power to surrender it? It’s like trying to pick up water in a sieve!”

  Caesar felt his blood pounding, his ire rising. Take care, he told himself. Exercise control. Breathe deeply. The stars above do not yet sparkle with gauzy auras, the moon does not waver, my vision remains clear. The falling sickness does not yet approach, but do not tempt it with rage.

  He took a long, slow sip of wine, and when he spoke again it was more calmly. “Easy enough to make any alliance with some greedy noble in each of the tribes, like Gobanit or Diviacx, but as soon as you do, four other factions use it to plot against him. And the cozier we get with the Edui, the more restive the Arverni become…”

  “The ideal situation for an army of occupation. Divide and conquer.”

  “No, Gisstus,” Caesar snapped angrily, “divide and don’t conquer!”

  Gisstus shrugged. “Well, we could always try my plan…”

  “What plan?”

  “Sack the cities, slay the vergobrets, enslave the nobles, and declare Gaul conquered,” Gisstus said dryly.

  “You’re serious?”

  Gisstus shrugged. “If we acted quickly and ruthlessly, we could get it done before they could organize to stop us,” he said. “If they ever could.”

  “And then what? It would be a Pyrrhic victory, Gisstus. Every hand in Gaul would be turned against us forever, and we’d need an army half again as large as what we have now just to collect tribute at sword point. Gaul would never be pacified enough to become a Roman province, and the Senate would reward me for creating such a quagmire by allowing me to preside over it until I was old and gray or decided to fall on my own sword, whichever came first.”

  “You have a better idea, Caesar?”

  Caesar shrugged and drank deeply of his wine.

  “Maybe we were too hard on the Teutons,” said Gisstus. “It would certainly have been convenient to have someone else rid us of all of the troublemaking bastards.”

  “Why not?” Caesar exclaimed. It was as if a fog had lifted. Suddenly Caesar’s mind was clear, and his spirit filled with an energy that owed nothing to the mediocre wine. “It’s perfect!” he cried.

  “What is?”

  “What do all these vergobrets and would-be vergobrets have in common, Gisstus?”

  “A thirst for gory glory and a greed for gold?”

  “Exactly,” said Caesar. “So we give it to them!” And he found himself laughing in delight at the beauty of it all.

  “You must be feeling your old self,” said Gisstus, “since I can no longer see where you’re going.”

  “Britain,” said Caesar, and he laughed again.

  “Britain?” said Gisstus. “As I remember, your foray there was less than an edifying experience. ‘Inhabited by savages beside whom the Gauls appear as the populace of Athens in the Golden Age of Pericles,’ I believe was how you put it.”

  “But Britain is also rich in metals and a good source of prime slaves.”

  “Conquer Britain? Not worth the cost of conquest in men, or money even, I believe was your final judgment.”

  Caesar found himself laughing yet again. “We don’t really try to conquer Britain, we just invade, win a quick series of easy victories, and depart with the loot.”

  “I don’t understand…” said Gisstus.

  “Perfect!” cried Caesar “If you don’t, neither will the Gauls!”

  He got up, began pacing as he spoke, brimming with self-confidence. It was like welcoming himself back as an old friend.

  “We bring along an army of Gallic auxiliaries led by the chieftains and major nobles of all the tribes and let them do most of the fighting,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you were a magician too,” Gisstus said dubiously.

  “They’ll be falling all over themselves to take part when we offer them half the booty we take,” Caesar told him. “Even those who deem themselves enemies of Rome will be forced to come along or be scorned as cowards for the rest of their lives!”

  “Nice,” said Gisstus, “but don’t let your natural generosity carry you away, Caesar. A quarter of the take will surely do.”

  Caesar laughed. “Fear not, Gisstus, we can afford to be generous with the fortunate few.”

  “The fortunate few?”

  “Our good friends the survivors. For only our good friends will survive,” Caesar said. “Mars is a fickle and unpredictable god, after all. Such an invasion could prove to be a lot more costly in lives than planned. It wouldn’t surprise me if most of the leaders who are not friends of Rome met glorious deaths in battle.”

  Caesar could not keep from laughing once more. “And can you guess what the most amusing part is?” he asked slyly.

  He saw the full light of comprehension dawn in his spymaster’s eyes. Gisstus smiled; he even gave out a short barking laugh.

  “The Gauls will finance the whole thing?” he said.

  The snows of winter had begun to melt, the oaks had put out their buds, and Vercingetorix too felt the sap of approaching spring rising through him as the latest round in his dance of the swords with Rhia ended with both of them panting and sweaty, close enough to feel each other’s heat, faces inches apart.

  He leaned closer still, seeking her lips with his own—

  Rhia backed away, hooking his left ankle with her foot in the same deft motion, sending him sprawling.

  “You still have much to learn,” she said without laughing.

  “I have already learned more than I care to,” Vercingetorix said sourly as he scrambled to his feet.

  He had learned the annals of the tribes of Gaul. He had learned the laws of the druids. He had learned to read the heavens. He had learned the uses of the herbs and roots of the meadows and woodlands. He had learned secrets of the human body.

  And he had learned the way of the sword from Rhia. He had learned moves and figures foreign to the fighting style of Gaul. He had learned to make his sword one with his body, to stop the thought that slowed the mind and give himself over to the dance. He was confident that he had learned enough to best any warrior in Gaul save his teacher.

  But Rhia he could never best, and he doubted he ever would take his precious drop of her blood. And so his nights were filled with lustful dreams of the body he could see but not touch, and these warriors’ dances became a tantalization so painful it became sweet, so sweet that it became agony to his flesh.

  “Why do we not end this foolish game?” he demanded.

  “This is not a game,” Rhia said coldly, even though he could see the passion in her eyes, all but smell the desire on her breath.

  “This is torture for both of us!”

  “This is power for both of us.”

  “You burn for me as I burn for you. Can you deny it?”
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  Rhia would not answer with words, but her averted gaze made its meaning plain.

  “There is a great magic in such a fire as long as it burns unconsumed, a weapon greater than any sword,” said Rhia. “And this you have still not learned.”

  “This I would not learn!” said Vercingetorix, and he turned his back on her and stalked away.

  Peering through the open tent flap, Caesar saw that all was in order. Despite the drizzle oozing down from the low, leaden, overcast sky, the legionnaires stood firm and still in their orderly ranks, even with the moisture dribbling down from their helmets onto their foreheads and noses. Their standard was planted before the formation in the sodden turf of the plain; his own eagle, a careful two heads higher, had been erected before the tent; and the trumpeters were ready. It was an impressive martial show, but it made Caesar feel as if he were part of some troop of gladiators touring run-down arenas in minor cities in Italy, attempting to impress the locals with pomp and polish.

  “Really, Labienus, why don’t you finally give the speech this time?” Caesar said only half jestingly. “You’ve certainly heard me regurgitate it often enough to know it by heart.”

  Gisstus suppressed a laugh. Titus Labienus, not noted for a finely honed sense of irony, regarded Caesar uneasily.

  “I’m a soldier, not an…orator like you, Caesar,” he said.

  Caesar had more than a suspicion that “politician” was the word he had thought and masked. Labienus did not so much abhor politicians as regard them as a different species of creature, much as many poets could not comprehend why anyone would be interested in the arcana of engineering.

  Which was just as well. Tall, built like Apollo with a luxurious mane of black hair that the balding Caesar could only gaze on with envy, Labienus was a charismatic leader and a brilliant general on a tactical level. He would have been a dangerous rival if he had had any political ambitions. Even the Gauls admired this perfect warrior.

  That was why Caesar had chosen to tour with Labienus and five cohorts from his legion. It had made the task of winning the Gauls over to his scheme easier. He had also hoped that Labienus would relieve him of some of the drudgery of delivering the same speech over and over again. But no, the fearless soldier, who would face a pride of lions single-handedly before lunch and take on a herd of elephants afterward, turned craven at the prospect of delivering an oration.