sure all the world is there to hear.”
“Like father, like son!” Keltill cried, clapping Vercingetorix on the shoulder, roaring with laughter. When his mirth had subsided, he leaned close again. “I can tell you that the true purpose of this fête is to gather together the leaders of the tribes of Gaul, something that would be impossible otherwise, and not to a
celebration.
What is there to celebrate? The raids of the Teutons? The plague of Romans invited up from the south by the Edui to save us from them? The loss of our freedom? Of our honor itself?”
“Our honor?”
“Where is the honor in summoning the mercenary army of this Caesar to do our fighting for us? Where will our freedom be when he finishes with the Teutons?”
“But we are few and the Teutons are many.”
“No, Vercingetorix, alone each tribe is few, but we
Gauls
are many! Fighting together, we could throw the Teutons back across the Rhine, and the legions of Rome into the sea!”
“But that hasn’t happened since the time of Brenn, since we last had a . . . king.”
“Did I say that?” Keltill said sharply. Then, with a wink, “Don’t you say it either!”
He brought his horse up into a trot. “At least not before the fact!” he called back over his shoulder as Vercingetorix urged his mount to catch up.
“And now I will offer you the strangest advice ever to escape my mouth,” he said when they were riding abreast again. “Stay sober tonight!”
Vercingetorix stared at his father in amazement.
“Take care to stay sober enough to remember this night, Vercingetorix, so that you will be properly able to boast to
your
son that you were there at a moment the bards will sing of forever!”
Gergovia was built on a hilltop, the better to defend, and if the hill had in the dim past been wooded, now it was grassy and stood above a wide meadow, with a stream shaded by flanking copses meandering through it. The broadness of the meadow and the treelessness of the hill were the works of men, for forest had been felled not only to provide logs for the palisade and buildings of the city, but to render potential attackers plainly visible from afar.
The city was enclosed by a wall four men high built of stones set in a framework of sturdy timbers and strengthened at intervals by low towers constructed in the same manner. The gates, now invitingly open, were flanked by taller parapeted towers, from which invaders attempting to batter their way in with a ram would be subject to a rain of arrows, lances, stones, boiling pitch, and scalding water.
Today Gergovia was surrounded by the most marvelous sight that Vercingetorix had ever seen, a second city almost as large, extending halfway down the hillside—the encampments of the nobles of the visiting tribes and their entourages, surely the greatest gathering of the peoples of Gaul in the lifetime of even the oldest of living men.
The leather tents of vergobrets were pitched beneath tribal standards—bear, hawk, boar, wolf, horse, and more—carved in wood or cast in bronze or, in the case of the Eduen boar, even silver, and held high on wooden poles. The tents of their nobles and warriors pitched around them flew pennants in their tribal colors.
The spaces between tribal encampments were clogged with the hustle and bustle of servants, grooms, bards, musicians, artisans, and tradesmen. All around them were stalls selling beer, bread, meats fresh and cooked, even jugs and amphorae of Roman wine.
Vercingetorix’s heart nearly burst with pride as he rode up the hill and into this joyous pandemonium at the side of the man who had called it all into being.
Keltill’s sack of coins was soon empty, and he could only wave and toss smiles to his admirers as they rode past the tribal encampments, displaying his knowledge by reading off the identities of each from the standards and pennants as they passed.
“The stag, the Cadurques . . . Brown, the Sequani . . . The owl, Bituriges . . . Green and
“Like father, like son!” Keltill cried, clapping Vercingetorix on the shoulder, roaring with laughter. When his mirth had subsided, he leaned close again. “I can tell you that the true purpose of this fête is to gather together the leaders of the tribes of Gaul, something that would be impossible otherwise, and not to a
celebration.
What is there to celebrate? The raids of the Teutons? The plague of Romans invited up from the south by the Edui to save us from them? The loss of our freedom? Of our honor itself?”
“Our honor?”
“Where is the honor in summoning the mercenary army of this Caesar to do our fighting for us? Where will our freedom be when he finishes with the Teutons?”
“But we are few and the Teutons are many.”
“No, Vercingetorix, alone each tribe is few, but we
Gauls
are many! Fighting together, we could throw the Teutons back across the Rhine, and the legions of Rome into the sea!”
“But that hasn’t happened since the time of Brenn, since we last had a . . . king.”
“Did I say that?” Keltill said sharply. Then, with a wink, “Don’t you say it either!”
He brought his horse up into a trot. “At least not before the fact!” he called back over his shoulder as Vercingetorix urged his mount to catch up.
“And now I will offer you the strangest advice ever to escape my mouth,” he said when they were riding abreast again. “Stay sober tonight!”
Vercingetorix stared at his father in amazement.
“Take care to stay sober enough to remember this night, Vercingetorix, so that you will be properly able to boast to
your
son that you were there at a moment the bards will sing of forever!”
Gergovia was built on a hilltop, the better to defend, and if the hill had in the dim past been wooded, now it was grassy and stood above a wide meadow, with a stream shaded by flanking copses meandering through it. The broadness of the meadow and the treelessness of the hill were the works of men, for forest had been felled not only to provide logs for the palisade and buildings of the city, but to render potential attackers plainly visible from afar.
The city was enclosed by a wall four men high built of stones set in a framework of sturdy timbers and strengthened at intervals by low towers constructed in the same manner. The gates, now invitingly open, were flanked by taller parapeted towers, from which invaders attempting to batter their way in with a ram would be subject to a rain of arrows, lances, stones, boiling pitch, and scalding water.
Today Gergovia was surrounded by the most marvelous sight that Vercingetorix had ever seen, a second city almost as large, extending halfway down the hillside—the encampments of the nobles of the visiting tribes and their entourages, surely the greatest gathering of the peoples of Gaul in the lifetime of even the oldest of living men.
The leather tents of vergobrets were pitched beneath tribal standards—bear, hawk, boar, wolf, horse, and more—carved in wood or cast in bronze or, in the case of the Eduen boar, even silver, and held high on wooden poles. The tents of their nobles and warriors pitched around them flew pennants in their tribal colors.
The spaces between tribal encampments were clogged with the hustle and bustle of servants, grooms, bards, musicians, artisans, and tradesmen. All around them were stalls selling beer, bread, meats fresh and cooked, even jugs and amphorae of Roman wine.
Vercingetorix’s heart nearly burst with pride as he rode up the hill and into this joyous pandemonium at the side of the man who had called it all into being.
Keltill’s sack of coins was soon empty, and he could only wave and toss smiles to his admirers as they rode past the tribal encampments, displaying his knowledge by reading off the identities of each from the standards and pennants as they passed.
“The stag, the Cadurques . . . Brown, the Sequani . . . The owl, Bituriges . . . Green and
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