elsewhere, of elsewhen, of a time yet unborn.
“For no man of an Age that is passing can ever see clearly into an Age that is being born. And so we must seek out he who can. He who destiny will choose to lead the people of Gaul into it.”
IV
WHO ELSE would be generous enough to put on a feast to celebrate the
end
of his year as vergobret?” Vercingetorix burbled gaily as father and son rode toward Gergovia.
“This is less than a celebration, and more,” Keltill told him. “If the gods will it,
much
more.”
The words revealed the existence of secrets without more than hinting at what they might be.
A year as vergobret had wrought changes in his father. He had spent less and less time in the pleasures of the hunt, with his horses, out-of-doors like a natural man, and indeed less time with Vercingetorix, and more and more time within the house huddled with nobles, military craftsmen, collectors of taxes and tributes.
At first Vercingetorix put this down to the natural order of things, for, after all, Keltill was not just
his
father but the father of his people. After his term was over, things would return to what they had been.
But in the last three or four cycles of the moon, the changes in Keltill had become stronger, had changed in kind. Keltill, whom everyone loved, had found enemies.
Namely the Romans, whom nobody loved, but who, according to Keltill, were seen as benefactors and sources of riches by all too many Gauls who should know better, rather than as the treacherous and cunning invaders they were.
This had turned Keltill, the most hale and open of men, secretive. Moreover, he had taken to spending hours listening to the tribal lays, ofttimes alone with the bard.
Vercingetorix found this atmosphere of mystery exciting, but it was frustrating for a boy so close to manhood to be kept outside the swirling mists of that secret purpose.
The road from Keltill’s homestead to Gergovia was far older than any living man, wide enough for two carts to pass, beaten smooth by lifetimes of passage, and free of mud in this fair weather. It embraced the land as it wound around grassy hillocks and skirted the margins of the great forest. It lay rooted in the earth and made of it, a living thing.
The closer the road got to Gergovia, the more traffic there was on it, almost all headed toward the city: carts bearing kegs of beer, heaps of fruits and vegetables, grains and loaves, butchered deer and wild boar, dun chickens and more brightly feathered wildfowl; drovers herding sheep and pigs; bards, harlots, musicians; purveyors of jewelry, cloth, even Roman wines; Arverne nobles and warriors, and those of other tribes; the occasional druid.
As was his custom, Keltill tossed coins here and there from the leather sack tied to the saddle of his horse, taking care not to insult nobles or druids or warriors or any folk of tribes other than the Arverni by flinging money in their direction, but favoring all with his great winning smile.
But Vercingetorix sensed that there was something deliberate about it, more like a rite than an expression of pleasure.
“Everyone seems to be in a mood to celebrate,” Vercingetorix ventured.
“And why should they not?” Keltill exclaimed. “They are to be guests at the greatest feast in the history of Gaul!”
“Why, then, do you say that this is less than a celebration and more?”
“The
more
is what I’m paying for it, and the less is what
they
are not!” Keltill told him, with a great laugh that went straight to Vercingetorix’s heart.
“And this
much
more that it will be, if the gods will it?” Vercingetorix presumed to ask.
Keltill reined his horse into a slow walk, leaned closer to Vercingetorix. “Can you keep a secret?” he said in a voice so soft as almost to be a whisper.
“Certainly not,” Vercingetorix told him archly. “Whatever you tell me, I will shout at the top of my lungs in the marketplace of Gergovia when the sun is at its zenith and I may be
“For no man of an Age that is passing can ever see clearly into an Age that is being born. And so we must seek out he who can. He who destiny will choose to lead the people of Gaul into it.”
IV
WHO ELSE would be generous enough to put on a feast to celebrate the
end
of his year as vergobret?” Vercingetorix burbled gaily as father and son rode toward Gergovia.
“This is less than a celebration, and more,” Keltill told him. “If the gods will it,
much
more.”
The words revealed the existence of secrets without more than hinting at what they might be.
A year as vergobret had wrought changes in his father. He had spent less and less time in the pleasures of the hunt, with his horses, out-of-doors like a natural man, and indeed less time with Vercingetorix, and more and more time within the house huddled with nobles, military craftsmen, collectors of taxes and tributes.
At first Vercingetorix put this down to the natural order of things, for, after all, Keltill was not just
his
father but the father of his people. After his term was over, things would return to what they had been.
But in the last three or four cycles of the moon, the changes in Keltill had become stronger, had changed in kind. Keltill, whom everyone loved, had found enemies.
Namely the Romans, whom nobody loved, but who, according to Keltill, were seen as benefactors and sources of riches by all too many Gauls who should know better, rather than as the treacherous and cunning invaders they were.
This had turned Keltill, the most hale and open of men, secretive. Moreover, he had taken to spending hours listening to the tribal lays, ofttimes alone with the bard.
Vercingetorix found this atmosphere of mystery exciting, but it was frustrating for a boy so close to manhood to be kept outside the swirling mists of that secret purpose.
The road from Keltill’s homestead to Gergovia was far older than any living man, wide enough for two carts to pass, beaten smooth by lifetimes of passage, and free of mud in this fair weather. It embraced the land as it wound around grassy hillocks and skirted the margins of the great forest. It lay rooted in the earth and made of it, a living thing.
The closer the road got to Gergovia, the more traffic there was on it, almost all headed toward the city: carts bearing kegs of beer, heaps of fruits and vegetables, grains and loaves, butchered deer and wild boar, dun chickens and more brightly feathered wildfowl; drovers herding sheep and pigs; bards, harlots, musicians; purveyors of jewelry, cloth, even Roman wines; Arverne nobles and warriors, and those of other tribes; the occasional druid.
As was his custom, Keltill tossed coins here and there from the leather sack tied to the saddle of his horse, taking care not to insult nobles or druids or warriors or any folk of tribes other than the Arverni by flinging money in their direction, but favoring all with his great winning smile.
But Vercingetorix sensed that there was something deliberate about it, more like a rite than an expression of pleasure.
“Everyone seems to be in a mood to celebrate,” Vercingetorix ventured.
“And why should they not?” Keltill exclaimed. “They are to be guests at the greatest feast in the history of Gaul!”
“Why, then, do you say that this is less than a celebration and more?”
“The
more
is what I’m paying for it, and the less is what
they
are not!” Keltill told him, with a great laugh that went straight to Vercingetorix’s heart.
“And this
much
more that it will be, if the gods will it?” Vercingetorix presumed to ask.
Keltill reined his horse into a slow walk, leaned closer to Vercingetorix. “Can you keep a secret?” he said in a voice so soft as almost to be a whisper.
“Certainly not,” Vercingetorix told him archly. “Whatever you tell me, I will shout at the top of my lungs in the marketplace of Gergovia when the sun is at its zenith and I may be
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