The Druid King Page 9

  Vercingetorix could only nod meekly.

  “Keltill was not condemned for lack of honor,” Gwyndo said, “for Keltill acted as he did with a pure heart, believing his cause was just. Keltill lived and died a man of honor, let no one mistake that.”

  Then he dampened the warm glow he had built in Vercingetorix’s breast.

  “But Keltill was not a man of knowledge, and so he defied the will of the gods and the way of our people out of pure-hearted and honorable ignorance,” the druid said, “and for that was he condemned.”

  Gwyndo looked directly at Vercingetorix. “You have just demonstrated that it is possible for a man of knowledge to be a man of honor, Vercingetorix,” he said. “But your father demonstrated that it is necessary for a man of honor to be a man of knowledge or heed those who are if he would be a man of destiny. Else he will enter the Land of Legend as your father did—an honorable failure.”

  “Like father, like son,” sneered Viridwx.

  But in that moment Vercingetorix lacked the will to reply.

  Strangely enough, it was Litivak who rebuked his fellow Eduen with a poisonous glance.

  Litivak came up beside Vercingetorix as the troop of students ambled through the forest to the gaming field.

  “Why do you forever goad poor simple Viridwx?” he demanded.

  “It is Viridwx who is forever goading me by dishonoring the memory of my father,” Vercingetorix replied testily, the calm deep-green boughs and cool shadows of the oak groves doing little to slake his ire.

  Litivak gave him a lidded look of gentle scorn. “True enough as far is it goes,” he said, “but why do you use the fool to set tribe against tribe?”

  “I do no such thing!”

  “Oh yes, you do!”

  “I do not!”

  “You bring every lesson and conversation you can around to the subject of Keltill in such a manner that those who do not praise him become your foes,” Litivak told him. “Most men seek to accumulate friends and allies. You seem avid to accumulate enemies.”

  “I am not!”

  “But that is what you are doing all the same, Vercingetorix. Who here among us, other than the Arverni, can you count an ally? And even among them—”

  “Do I really do that?” Vercingetorix found himself asking this Eduen with unaccustomed sincerity.

  “Would you have me believe that you do not know that the honor of Keltill is a subject sure to arouse bitter contention? To many of your tribe, he was a hero; to others and to mine, a usurper—”

  “You call my father a usurper, Litivak?” Vercingetorix demanded angrily.

  Litivak laughed. “You see, you’re doing it again!”

  Vercingetorix could not help laughing at himself, something he did not do often. “But you still haven’t answered my question,” he said, softening it with another laugh.

  Litivak shrugged. “An Arverne crowning himself king of Gaul can hardly fill my Eduen heart with joy,” he said. “But—”

  “No doubt your Eduen heart would prefer an Eduen king!” Vercingetorix snapped.

  “By the balls of the gods, you’re doing it yet again!” Litivak said, and now there was real anger in his voice. “You accuse me of saying something I haven’t said, and you won’t even hear me speak!”

  “Speak then, Eduen!”

  “I was going to say that your father was right about the need for us all to unite to rid ourselves of the Romans before we all find ourselves prancing around in togas, drinking soured grape juice, and worshipping Jove and Venus!”

  “You were…?” said Vercingetorix in a small voice, feeling very much chastened, and no little bit a fool.

  Litivak nodded. “Thus speaks not the Eduen heart but…”

  He shrugged.

  “The Gaul?” Vercingetorix suggested.

  Litivak shrugged again.

  “That was what my father was about, I think,” Vercingetorix told him earnestly. “And why I do what I do, Litivak. Not to set tribe against tribe, but to unite those who feel thus, whatever their tribe.”

  “You’re not exactly doing any better at it than your father did—now, are you, Vercingetorix?”

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded Vercingetorix, his ire once more aroused.

  “You wield words like a sword,” Litivak told him. “Even against yourself.”

  “Against myself?”

  “When you wield words against one whom you might win over, whom do you really wound?”

  “Meaning you, Litivak of the Edui?” said Vercingetorix. It was a novel thought.

  Litivak laughed. “Take it as you will,” he said. “But some advice, Vercingetorix of the Arverni. The best way to win over men to your way is not with words, but with noble deeds that display its virtues.”

  These words both troubled and teased at Vercingetorix’s spirit, but there conversation ended, for they had reached the gaming field, a grassy meadow created by the damming of a stream by beavers in the long ago, then expanded by men clearing the forest at its margins. Young trees, clumps of blackberry brambles, half-buried boulders had, however, been left where they were—obstacles to make the game of war more interesting.

  A large, crudely carved wooden statue of a horse had been set out at one end of the gaming field, and a similar statue of a wild boar at the other, both now so weathered and splintered by rain and wind, and moss-grown with time, that they appeared to be growing out of the earth even as the years slowly absorbed them back into it.

  The rules of the game were simple. The students would be divided into two equal “armies,” the “horses” and the “boars.” They would line up facing each other in the middle of the field in “battle formations” of each army’s choosing. A pig’s bladder stuffed with straw would be tossed between them, and the game would begin as the armies fought to capture the ball and retain it long enough to move it down the meadow to touch it to their sigil animal. The first army to score twelve “touches” won the war. Biting and blows to the head or testicles were not allowed.

  In order for the warriors of each army to recognize each other during the fray, the “horses” retained their shirts while the “boars” played bare-chested. Sides were chosen by the drawing of straws held by Salgax, the youngish, muscular druid who taught the arts of the body and the lore of forest survival—short for the horses, long for the boars. When the lots had been chosen, Vercingetorix became a boar, Litivak became a horse, and so did Viridwx.

  Salgax threw the stuffed pig’s bladder between them, both sides rushed forward—grabbing for the ball, and pushing, pummeling, and punching at each other—and the game of war began.

  A boar seized the ball and ran a short distance toward his statue before a horse slammed into him from behind. But as he fell, he tossed the ball to another boar, who planted an elbow in the ribs of a horse trying to intercept it as he caught it, ran forward a few steps, kept his balance as a horse kicked him in the buttocks, knocked his way past two more horses, only to be tripped by another horse.

  He went down hard, the ball rolled free, and half a dozen young men scrambled on the ground for it, punching and kicking, before a horse grabbed it up, ran toward the other end of the field—

  —and right into a boar, who suddenly stepped out from behind a tree, crouching low, bracing himself, and letting the impact flip the ball-carrying horse over onto his back.

  In the cool forest shade just beyond the edge of the meadow, the Arch Druid Guttuatr stands watching the game of war with Gwyndo.

  “They remain boys on the gaming field,” says Gwyndo, half ruefully, half affectionately.

  On the green field in the bright sunlight, the pig’s bladder has been knocked free again, and a dozen boys rush together after it, tripping each other, kicking, elbowing, crawling beneath each other on the grass, as they fight for the ball.

  “All too often in the world of strife as well,” says Guttuatr. “We may teach them the ways of the man of knowledge here, but even when we succeed, the man of kno
wledge always contains a man of action. Alas, the reverse is seldom true.”

  “You speak of Keltill’s son?”

  “He is filled with anger and a lust for vengeance. And yet…”

  The Arch Druid’s shrug is belied by the intensity with which he regards the game of strife.

  “And yet his wit is quick, if slower than his tongue…and he is still a boy…”

  The ball bounded free in the middle of the field, boars and horses dashing after it, the former outnumbering the latter. But a horse got to the pig’s bladder first, scooped it up, ran a few steps forward, looked over his shoulder.

  Behind him, fellow horses had knocked down some of the pursuing boars, but there remained three more coming up fast. The horse with the ball looked far down the meadow and saw Viridwx run out into the open from behind a stand of blackberry bushes not far from the wooden horse where he had been lurking, waving his arms frantically, and clapping his hands for the ball.

  The horse with the ball reared back and tossed it high and hard with all of his might.

  Vercingetorix had run almost the full length of the field, chasing down a previous horse ball-carrier and knocking the pig’s bladder free, then had been knocked down himself by four other horses, who gave him a good angry pummeling for preventing the touch. Out of breath and sore, he had ducked behind a tree to recover for a few moments, and saw it happen.

  Viridwx ran out from a stand of bushes, waving his arms for the ball. A long, high throw brought it almost to him. The ball hit the ground in front of him; it bounced, once, twice; and Viridwx had it.

  He whirled around, dashed for the horse statue. Vercingetorix saw that he himself was the only defender visible between him and a sure touch, so, out of breath or not, as Viridwx angled toward him he prepared to leap out of cover and bring him down. But before he could—

  —a boar, the Arverne Fragar, slid from behind a nearby boulder as Viridwx ran past him and, instead of tripping him fairly, fetched him a blind-sided kick in the balls.

  Viridwx went down screaming, but managed to hold on to the ball as he rolled on the ground, writhing in pain.

  Without thought, Vercingetorix ran across the field as—

  —Fragar punched Viridwx squarely on the brow and pried the ball from his hands.

  Vercingetorix arrived just as Fragar turned to carry the ball to the other end of the field, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around, punched him in the sternum, kicked him to the ground, and took the ball himself.

  Time seemed to stop as Litivak ran toward the bizarre tableau. He saw Viridwx, clutching at his aching groin, staring up at Vercingetorix in puzzlement and the Arverne boy glaring at him in a fury. Vercingetorix stood there uncertainly, with the strangest look on his face as he clutched the pig’s bladder, as if he too, no less than Fragar, had entirely forgotten the rules of the game.

  But then Keltill’s son, like his father, seemed to have little regard for rules handed down by either gods or men. Litivak’s own father often enough declared that this was typical of the Arverni, which was why the gods frowned upon them and favored the Edui, an opinion generally shared by most Eduen warriors of a mature age.

  Why the gods of Gaul should choose to smile on a tribe who had achieved wealth and strength through craven alliance with the Roman worshippers of Jove and Venus was a question that some of Litivak’s generation might ponder unsuccessfully among themselves, but not one they would dare broach to their fathers.

  Perhaps this was what fascinated Litivak about this callow Arverne. Vercingetorix was free in a way that Litivak both feared and envied, for his rage at those who had rendered him fatherless and disinherited freed him to give the heat of his blood full voice, to challenge all the rules of fathers and tribes and even druids.

  Vercingetorix looks down at the furious Fragar and the dumbfounded Viridwx, a frozen moment that seems both a serious conundrum and quite ridiculous.

  Fragar the Arverne is “on his side.”

  Viridwx the Eduen is “on the other side,” and is his personal enemy too.

  Yet he has thoughtlessly fought his “ally” to avenge an act of injustice against his “enemy.”

  Ally?

  Enemy?

  This is not a war. This is only a game.

  And he is holding not a sword but a pig’s bladder stuffed with straw.

  And he remembers Litivak’s words of not very long ago: Better to win over those who oppose your way with noble deeds that display its virtues.

  “You cheated, Fragar,” he says, and he pulls Viridwx to his feet. And hands him the ball.

  “Which side are you on?” Viridwx mutters in utter befuddlement.

  And Vercingetorix finds the words to fit the deed.

  “The side of honor, Viridwx. Is that not the side of us all?”

  “The boy of action contains the seed of a man of knowledge, Gwyndo,” says the Arch Druid, Guttuatr, smiling at what he has seen.

  “You truly believe we can mold this angry boy into a druid?” Gwyndo asks skeptically.

  “Angry or not—and who is to say he has no cause?—I do believe we have just seen him take the first true step to becoming a man—”

  “—of knowledge?”

  “Let us hope so, Gwyndo,” Guttuatr says more darkly. “We must certainly do our best to make it so. For if not…”

  A tiny shudder passes through the Arch Druid’s body.

  The druid Gwyndo knows the worldly reason for Guttuatr’s presence here yet not the deeper why of it, just as he knows the story of the tribes of Gaul as passed down by generations of tellers thereof like himself, and the laws of the druids, but not that which connects them, that which flows through, the slow, unseen river shaping all things.

  The Arch Druid has come to “observe” his teaching of the story of Brenn, and there he stands behind the circle of nervously squirming students discomforted by his presence, implacable and immobile in the shade of the temple entrance like some marble Roman statue of himself.

  Gwyndo knows that Guttuatr seeks to bend a vengeful boy, whom the heavens may have singled out, away from the path of action and onto the path of knowledge. Gwyndo knows that Guttuatr fears the coming of a king. Gwyndo knows that the law of the druids declares that Gaul must not have a king. But he knows not the why of it.

  For this is knowledge that lies deep within the Inner Way. And he is one of the many, not one of the few. He is a keeper of the annals and the law and a teacher thereof. He is not a druid of the Inner Way. When he was offered that knowledge he refused, for the price was greater than he was willing to pay.

  He is a druid. He is a man of knowledge.

  But not the knowledge of the oak.

  Of all the students seated before Gwyndo and sweating from more than the noonday sun, only Vercingetorix was anything like at ease. The Arch Druid might be a daunting apparition to the rest of them, but he could not cast eyes upon Guttuatr without seeing also the bard Sporos in his threadbare robe.

  Gwyndo was expounding the story of Brenn, and, this being a tale he well knew, Vercingetorix was listening with half an ear when, without warning, Guttuatr strode forward through the gasping semicircle of students, stood beside the squatting Gwyndo, thumped his staff hard on the ground, and looked straight at Vercingetorix.

  “Tell us the true lesson of the story of Brenn, Vercingetorix,” he demanded.

  And this was no Sporos, no blind beggar, no fellow ordure-smeared fugitive playing games of invisibility, this was the Arch Druid in all his solemn grandeur. Vercingetorix felt the pressure of every eye upon him in the rapt silence that followed. He knew that this was a test. Or a trap. Or both. He knew what he was expected to say, for he had used this tale to extol Keltill and what he had died for many times, and he knew all too well that the druids who had condemned his father used the very same tale to condemn also his just cause.

  “Brenn was the last king the Gauls have had,” he said slowly. “After him, we have had no other…”

  “An
d can you tell us why?” asked the Arch Druid.

  “Because since then we have had no need of a king,” Vercingetorix said sullenly, not adding “until now,” but knowing that all would hear those words’ unspoken ghosts.

  “And why have we had no need of a king?” he asked.

  Vercingetorix’s silver tongue failed him utterly.

  “What is the purpose of a king?” said Guttuatr.

  “To lead his people.”

  “To lead them into what?”

  Vercingetorix stared into Guttuatr’s eyes for a long silent moment. Those eyes revealed nothing. And yet…those eyes seemed to be looking out at him from a world of flame, and something seemed to speak through him.

  “Into war!” he said. “King Brenn led the tribes of Gaul against Rome in order to unite them!”

  “Did he?” said Guttuatr. “Or did he unite the tribes of Gaul in order to lead them into war on Rome?”

  “There’s a difference?” Vercingetorix blurted.

  Several of the students choked on titters. Gwyndo laughed openly. Even Guttuatr smiled fleetingly. Vercingetorix’s ears burned, and his teeth ground against each other in chagrin.

  “What did Brenn do after he had led his army of Gauls to Rome and gained his great victory?” Guttuatr demanded.

  “He turned around and led them home,” Vercingetorix admitted reluctantly.

  “Why?” asked Guttuatr.

  “Why?”

  “Why did Brenn not crown himself king of Rome instead?”

  “As Caesar would crown himself king of Gaul and Rome and of the whole world and the heavens beyond if we allowed him!” Vercingetorix interrupted hotly.

  “Exactly,” said the Arch Druid.

  To this, Vercingetorix had no answer, for it seemed to him that Brenn, though a great war leader, had in the end been a fool. He had defeated and humiliated the Romans but refused to conquer them. And for that mistake in the long ago, Gaul was paying dearly now.

  Guttuatr strode to an oak at the margin of the clearing.

  “Here is an oak growing out of the soil of Gaul,” he said, laying a palm on its rough bark. “Would it prosper in the hot lands across the southern ocean? Yet in those lands are other trees that thrive in the broiling heat. Would they flourish here?”