“I wore the red and I wore the blue,
I wore the green and the orange too,
My sister Mary she passed me by,
And the Lord have mercy on the Croppy boy!”
Meromic had been digging all day at a great earthwork across the western
plain, swamp and thicket, corn-land and grazing-land, all trampled into
mud between the two streams. Even in summer there was water within a few
feet of the surface, and every spadeful was heavier than the last;
aching he wondered how long they had been going on, and when he would
get anything to eat. He had never worked so hard as this in Rome, not
for any beating; nor ever nearly as hard when they were building the new
wall at the landward side of Rodec--he didn’t know what work was in
those days. But the legionaries were digging still, and he wasn’t going
to be beaten by them.
Suddenly a shout from the right; the diggers dropped their spades,
seized swords and shields, and crowded behind the parapet on the near
side of the ditch, waiting for the attack from the town. It came with a
rush and a shout and a line of long, hungry swords; but the line broke
at the ditch, and a cohort came up at the double from behind, to help
the diggers. Meromic was not yet very well used to the short Roman
sword; a Gaul got in under his guard and he had a cut across the thigh
that would stop him digging for a day or two--that was something. One of
the legionaries helped him to tie it up and then said, “Look! That’s
fairly yours.” For the body in front was clearly his killing, and it had
a twist of gold round its throat. But Meromic, looking at the tartan,
wouldn’t touch it.
“He’s from the North, from Aremorica: take it yourself.”
“God, I’m not a waster!” said the soldier, and tugged off the gold with
heel and hand.
It had been going on like that for days, and weeks: the Roman army
digging itself in, with one line of ditch and rampart and palisade on
the inside to keep the blockade firm round Vercingetorix, and another
line, just as strong, to the outside, against the time when the
relieving army would try to break through. They had all to dig and fight
and get food and timber for the works; there was never enough of them;
sometimes it seemed impossible that they should succeed, but yet unless
they did Gaul would be lost to the Eagles and their own disgrace and
death would be certain. Working like this, they should have had big
meals of meat and bread to keep their strength up; but food was short
and no one got more than the barest ration. Every day they expected the
army of relief would be on them before they were ready; tempers were
short in those days, and punishments fell heavily. Titus and Meromic
both worked to their very utmost, Titus simply and directly, first
because he was a Roman officer and under orders, and then because his
life depended on it, and then, besides, because of Cæsar and the new
Rome; and Meromic unhappily, not daring to look forward to either
ending, because this was how things were, and he had promised, and
because what he did couldn’t matter in this great business, and most of
all because of Titus.
But if food was scarce in the Roman camp, it was far worse in Alesia
where every grain of corn had been brought to Vercingetorix for safe
keeping. Thirty days he had told the horsemen when he sent them out,
thirty days, or perhaps a little longer if he was very careful: a week
for them to get to their own countries, a week to spread the news and
call the councils--but then how long would they be talking? Three weeks
up, four weeks, the end of the thirty days, but still no sign of the
Gallic army. The corn would not hold out--but it had to. The siege went
on.
About the end of the third week Lucter escaped from the town. There was
nothing to gain by his staying with Vercingetorix when he might be down
in his own country, gathering the rest of his people for the relief. One
man could always get through the lines at night if he was careful.
The gathering of chiefs at Bibracte had called up levies from all the
tribes, not every man who could bear arms, but enough, surely, to
relieve Alesia; thousands and thousands of horse and foot, far
outnumbering Cæsar’s ten legions; and the generals were the best in the
country, only two of them were Hæduans. But it all took time; there had
to be speeches and voting, and banquets with a strict order of
precedence: while in Alesia the corn had come to an end. But at last
they started; what did it matter if they were late, when they were so
certain of victory?
Caltane among the besieged knew this lack of food was weakening him,
making him a worse fighter, and lessening his chance of life; but he
never tried to bribe the distributers to get more than his own ration;
partly, perhaps, that it needed a very big bribe, but mostly that he
would never do anything against the wish of his General. Every day he
went up on to the walls to look out north-west over the bare hills:
surely they must be coming! Sometimes he would think he could see
something, and there would be a rush to the nearest tower to lean out
and point and whisper and wait; but there was never anything but mist on
the hills and Romans in the valley. And soon there was no meat left,
though that lasted longer than the corn, and the picked men of Gaul were
forced to spend their time trying to catch rats and little birds to eat.
At last Caltane was called up to a council of chiefs; they met in the
great hall of the castle, and most of them remembered how they had eaten
there on the first few days of the siege: bread, great crusty loaves,
and huge brown joints, oxen roasted whole, the smell of the gravy! They
had known days when there was meat to waste, beef bones to throw to the
dogs, great slabs of fat.... The speeches were beginning. Some shouted
for an attack at once, on the chance of breaking through; a few would
escape that way, and the rest could never find a better death: only let
them do it now, before the hot blood was all starved out of them! Some
would have had surrender at once, while they could still get terms from
Cæsar; but that would mean the certain end of freedom: sooner anything
else, sooner kill and eat the old and sick and helpless.... And Caltane
thought to himself: if I were hurt and no more good as a fighter, I
would be glad to know I could help the others, even this way. Few of the
chiefs cared to think of it, but yet they would do it sooner than bow to
the Roman peace; only, let everything possible be tried first.
Vercingetorix, who had said little as yet, now rose to speak: they must
drive out the old men and women and children: the Romans would surely
take them as slaves, and, later, if all went well, they would be
recaptured.
So that was settled, and soldiers went through the whole town, dragging
out all who could not bear arms, and barred the gates on them, and bade
them go to the enemy and beg for their lives. And they stumbled down
among the bushes, till they came near the Roman lines, and here some
turned back and lay down like sick beasts in hollows of the hill,
fearing death less than slavery. But many went on, women for the most
part, with children too little to understand, and babies in their arms
that they were bound to feed at any cost to themselves. They stood by
the palisades, weeping and praying to be taken in; mothers had loosed
their hair and bared their breasts, thinking that so the soldiers might
choose them, and save them and their children. They knew that women must
be scarce in the enemy camp, and hoped they might fetch their price in
bread. A few were taken, but very few; for the soldiers were
half-starved themselves; Cæsar forbade them to be soft-hearted, and set
guards all along the lines to see that his orders were carried out. So
for the next few days besiegers and besieged had to bear the wailing of
these outcasts who wandered up and down between the lines till they
dropped and died.
Titus was unhappy about it, but of course he could do nothing. Late one
night he woke to see Meromic come in from his watch with a boy baby in
his arms and: “A woman threw him over right at my feet. Couldn’t we----”
Titus started up: “No, no! How could you, Meromic? It’s against orders,
and I can’t have anything to do with it!”
“But I couldn’t do anything else. Look here----” He unwrapped the child,
who lay still in his arms, too feeble to give more than the thinnest
cry.
Titus held up the lantern to see him, all head and body, with white,
shrunk arms and legs, and a bracelet of fine bronze loose on one wrist.
He met Meromic’s eyes over the flame. “I can’t,” he said, “I can’t. I’m
an officer, so I must obey orders.”
“But what are we to do with him?”
“You took him, you must deal with him. It’s not possible to help these
people--I’d have done it at once if it was. We can’t get food for
another mouth. Take him away, Meromic!”
“I think I could give him enough to keep him alive out of my ration;
only can he stay here?”
“No, he can’t! At least--oh, you’ll never be able, so it’s no use
trying!”
“I’d like to try, all the same. He’s a Gaul, like me.”
“But some one would find out if he stayed here. And I can’t stop my men
doing things and then do them myself. I’m sorry, Meromic, but he’s got
to go.”
“Oh, sir, it wouldn’t take much to keep a child alive, not a tiny child
like this.”
“More than we can spare. It’s no good. There, he’s shivering; cover him
up and take him out.”
“Oh, don’t, sir, let me try! I’ve done something for you, I’m forsworn,
I’m fighting against my own country! And it’s not much to ask in
return--a child’s life. Do it for me.”
“Oh, Meromic, I don’t want to refuse you anything, but can’t you see
what you’re asking?--it’s my duty and I must think of that
first--and--oh, I hate saying no! Don’t ask me again!”
“You won’t then. But what am I to do? I can’t find his mother now. I’d
better leave him outside the tent; you’ll be doing nothing wrong then.
But he may cry.”
Titus looked away for a moment, then suddenly snatched up his cloak; his
next morning’s bread ration was wrapped in it. “Here, give me the
child!” he said, “and be grateful--if you like.”
They fed him with bread soaked in water, and a little meat, and for the
next few days they both went short themselves; but the child died all
the same--he was too bad when they first had him, and of course there
was no milk.
But they could have had no time for him anyhow, after that. Because the
army of relief had come. All through that day the exultant garrison
fought to get out, while from the other side their friends hurled
themselves against the palisades. They had learnt much since the old
days; now they had huts to move up for cover, faggots to fill in the
ditches, and hidden archers among the cavalry. For moments they had the
Romans beaten and driven struggling back behind their defences; but
again the German cavalry swept out and turned the battle against the
Gauls, and after such fair hopes Vercingetorix was forced back into the
town.
The next day was quiet, but at midnight the attack came from both sides.
Titus waited on his tower, watching the plain for hours before they
charged; but at last he heard the yell and the arrows, and saw the grey
masses ever coming fresh against them! He had great pikes ready in his
tower to be slung into the thick of the enemy, and all night it seemed
he was giving the order: ready, let go! and sometimes he must have been
doing it himself, for the next day he found his hands blistered from
pulling at the sling ropes. But he could only remember a tumult of dark
hours and then suddenly the morning, and leaning out and taking a breath
of pure air, and seeing the ground thick with fresh corpses and his own
pikes sticking through them. Many were killed that night on both sides,
but the Roman lines still held.
Another day of quiet, and troubled sleep for men dead-tired in either
camp. But the next day the battle raged again, and desperately,
terribly, when both sides had all to win or all to lose. Time and again
Vercingetorix led his men to the assault; they clung and tore like wild
cats, these grim, starved fighters. If the relieving army had fought as
well they would have broken the legions; Vercassivellaun led his picked
men finely to save his cousin, but in other parts it was a different
matter: the attacks were feebly led and feebly followed up. Perhaps the
Hæduans had seen already that they had chosen wrong, perhaps even in
that day of agony they were thinking of what terms they could make for
themselves with Rome. All day it went on, and once the Gauls were almost
through when Cæsar himself came with help and turned the assault. That
battle centred itself more and more on the two leaders: Cæsar, the
little, cool, darting figure in the crimson cloak, giving his orders
quickly and clearly, and all alive, all thought, all energy, all hope!
And, on the other side, Vercingetorix on the black horse, galloping,
shouting, a flame of colour, mark for all arrows but touched by none,
and here, and there, and leading his men like a young god, freedom and
the heart of Gaul!
Meromic was up on the north-west, fighting for his life and driven back
step by step. He had hardly time to think, but when he had he found
himself hoping his enemies would break through. So long as he was killed
himself. But yet when it came to swords and spears he forgot he had
hoped for death, and fought inch by inch among blood and steel and the
torn spikes of palisades; twice he saw Titus, but only for a moment;
mostly he saw nothing but the man he was trying to kill. His throat was
hoarse with shouting, but he never knew what; he only heard the battle
all round him, a rising clash of sounds. He could not tell what had
happened till evening; then he saw the battle was over for the day, but
did not know yet that this meant the defeat of Vercingetorix.
* * * * *
The night in Alesia, the sleepless night. Walking about the walls: the
moon above the towers with thick clouds sweeping rapidly across it.
Friends in the street, sleepless too: looks, but no word spoken.
Something going to happen, but what? It was all coming to an
end--Alesia, the battles, the councils, comrades and rivals, hunger and
thirst and thinking, things that ought to have happened, Gods that
should have been favourable, swords and lances and the love of men and
women. Gaul to be a Roman province: the Hæduans. And Cæsar, the man
whose friend he had been, long, long ago; he would see him again. And
Rome. And the triumph. His lost kingdom.... But if he could save his
army, his people that should have been? If he could buy their lives with
his death? It was a new thought, he had to get used to it; it was so
different from all he had ever thought before. Cæsar had a name for
mercy; he would spare the army that had faced him. If their leader went
to him: a good sacrifice. The Gods had hated his father; he thought he
had won them over, but now he knew they hated him too; it was well he
had no son to follow him. Dawn over the hills, grey dawn. And the day
waiting him.
The chiefs met together again in the morning: for the last time. He
offered himself for them to do what they chose. They sent their heralds
out to ask Cæsar for his terms, and waited, waited, not looking at one
another, nor speaking much.
The heralds were sent back to Alesia, and the dazed legions heard from
their officers that the end had come at last, victory was theirs,
victory complete and final ... the horror was over ... soon they would
go home ... the men whom Cæsar had always known he could trust ...
fellow soldiers. But first they were to see the last act of the drama;
hastily armour was polished, spears were mended, laurels were found to
hang on the standards, double rations were served out all round--no need
to hoard them now when already the corn wagons were beginning to come in
from the east. Meromic went back wearily to the tent, to find the
scarlet boots and cloak which Titus ought now to wear, hating the Roman
soldiers, hating himself. He passed a group of prisoners, men from
Alesia to judge by their starved faces, their hacked armour; they sat on
the ground, chained together, Arvernians from the colour of their
tunics. One was a noble, still wearing the gold bracelets that no one
had yet had time to rob him of; he lay back with his eyes shut, tired
out. Meromic started at the sight of him: “Caltane!”
At that Caltane sat up, and looked at him hardly, saying, “You here
still! I thought you might show yourself a Gaul yet, but you’ve not even
been man enough to run away!”
Meromic felt too sore to answer, but a legionary who knew him did, with
a hand on his shoulder and praise he would gladly have spared: “Ah, it’s
not run away with you, not after fighting a whole campaign with us!”
“You fought for them, did you!” said Caltane, and he spat on the ground
and turned away.
“Oh, Caltane!” cried Meromic, “Caltane, it was a promise----”
But Caltane did not listen and the rest of the prisoners hissed at him,
“Traitor! Traitor!” and he stumbled away.
He went on to the tent; Titus was there already and met him with both
hands stretched out to take his, and: “Meromic, it’s over, this
nightmare time! We’ve done with it for ever. I tell you, Meromic, I’ve
never felt so purely religious: oh, I could worship Peace now!”
But Meromic’s hands were heavy in his, there was no excitement, no joy
in the voice that answered him: “Yes, it’s finished. You’ve come through
safe. But I wish I was dead.”
“Ah, why? Surely not now?” Meromic faced away, wretchedly, filled with
the bitter memory of Caltane and those Arvernians, prisoners, but yet in
how much more honour than he!
He said low, “My own people.”
“But Southerners----”
“Oh, I can’t think of it like that. They’re my brothers and I’ve
betrayed them: for you. My country--but it’s too late. Gaul has been
free: now--chains!” He tore his hands away from the Roman’s and bent
over the armour.
The legions were drawn up in line; Cæsar sat, bareheaded, wearing the
purple robe and cloak, on his raised seat at the front, with the
Legates standing on each side and the Eagles crowded behind him. He
waited, with nothing but a twitching hand to show how much it all meant
to him. Quintus Velanius was whispering to Titus; they had been in place
now for nearly an hour: what could be happening? Was this some treachery
of the Gauls? The chill south-east wind swept towards them in whirls of
dust; the clouds were tangled into brown wisps across the sky; the torn
flags flapped sharply from the dark towers of Alesia. At last there was
a stir at that far gate, a single high trumpet note. The legions stood
stiffly, their shields locked and solid across their chests. Meromic,
the fighter, with his spear grounded at his side, was in the front rank
of the auxiliaries, next to the Balearic slingers; he stayed very still,
but his teeth chattered and he did not heed when his neighbour whispered
him to look.
Cæsar sat back in his chair, with the faintest catch of his breath,
seeing that little group of horsemen riding down towards him through the
scattered dead on the hillside. They came on along the twisted paths,
sometimes with sunlight flashing on their armour, sometimes dim under a
cloud, but always with that one figure in front, Vercingetorix the
sacrifice on his black horse, Coré. They halted for a moment at the foot
of the hill with every eye upon them; the chiefs behind, edging their
horses close together, held hands and waited while their General went
on. The black horse came slowly, stretching out his bony head; the
harness of gilt and painted leather, with bosses of coral, hung loosely
over sharp ribs and hollow flanks; suddenly he neighed, shaking his
great mane, and reared up at his master’s voice, striking out with his
fore hoofs. All through the army there was a little quiver of
excitement: the King of the Arvernians was coming to Cæsar, not as a
suppliant, not as an enemy conquered, but shining with gold and silver,
with his great winged helmet and coral-hilted sword, the spiked
battle-axe at his saddle bow, the Gallic lance over his shoulder. Titus,
intent on the scene, saw him bend down to speak into the ear of the
horse, which gave a great plunge and started towards them at a gallop,
reins loose on his stretched neck, while Vercingetorix, leaning a little
forward in the saddle, held up the lance high overhead, and gave one
shout that shook the officers’ hands to their swords, making them think
of battles turned against them by the sudden coming of the Arvernian.
Straight for them, nearer and nearer, a drumming of hoofs, that headlong
galloper! The Legates pressed together, and Cæsar’s fingers tightened on
the arm of his chair. Then the horse swerved, almost slipping, and was
away in a circle round the high seat; three times round he went, with
the Legates half turning to stare, and only Cæsar still and looking
straight in front of him. At the end of the third time, Vercingetorix,
checking the horse a little, threw his lance into the ground with all
his force; for a moment it quivered upright, then split all down the
ashen haft, and fell.
Then he leapt clear off the black horse, one arm flung back to save his
balance, and stood in the dust before Cæsar’s feet, who still sat
silent, chin propped in hand and breathing lightly. Along the legions
there was a stir and straight lines wavering, as officers and men
pressed slightly forward, watching the surrender. For a little time, not
more than a heartbeat or two, the Arvernian King stayed like a statue,
like a bound victim. Then, as before an altar, he laid down first his
battle-axe, shield, helmet, dagger and sword; loosing the buckles of his
armour, he dropped that too, a heap of gold and iron; he bowed his head
to take off collars and necklaces, the visible signs of kingship; then
golden bracelets from wrists and ankles, then the gay-coloured tunic.
Coré, the black horse, had come back to him and stood rubbing a soft
nose against his shoulder; he turned and took the bridle; this, too, was
part of the sacrifice.
Titus Barrus, watching, shivered a little at that grey figure of the
Gallic General, not different now from any of his own soldiers,
understanding how he had kept up his courage so far, acting his part,
dedicating himself and everything he had as sacrifice for his people;
yet at the end all that had gone from him, and he was left a beaten man
in the power of his enemies. Vercingetorix knelt at Cæsar’s feet, with
his hands stretched dumbly before him; he was younger than most of the
Legates, young enough to be Cæsar’s son; but his eyes were like an old,
worn man’s and the white hair showed among the brown. What a life it had
been for nine months! He was a boy in winter, taking the burden of all
those lives, the fate of his country, so lightly on his shoulders; it
might have been twenty years ago: Avaricum was between that boy and this
man, and afterwards Gergovia, the assembly of Bibracte, the triumph and
then the defeat, Alesia, the siege, the three days’ battle,
sleeplessness, hunger, infinite responsibility, failure the most ageing
of all.
He waited centuries, seeing the purple edge of the proconsul’s robe
fraying a little against the knotted wood of the platform. The world
stayed silent and absorbed; then Cæsar’s voice fell on him, like cold
water, like a sword; he crouched down under it. “You have been my
friend; you might be my friend still, in peace and prosperity. Instead
you chose to bring ruin on your country, disgrace and bondage on
yourself. You have broken the sworn pact of our alliance, the Gods have
punished you for that, and I shall see to it that the punishment is
carried through to the end! You fool----” But Cæsar paused, thrown out
of his stride, unable to make any of his points against this bowed head,
this utter submission. The army was listening, everywhere would be ears
for all he said, in Gaul, in Italy, in Rome, Pompey and then Cicero--his
name in history! He looked down at the beaten enemy, this incredible
achievement of his; he knew himself at last capable of anything: he had
only to choose, use all of himself, and it was done! But the price?--his
hours of agony and doubt, plans that had miscarried, attacks that had
failed, the crowding ghosts of the dead soldiers, his friends and
comrades: well, this Arvernian should pay, if all the other Gauls went
free! The guards came forward at his crooked finger: “Take him away.”
They pulled the Gallic General up on to his feet, and hammered on the
chains till ankles and wrists were bruised and bleeding: they, too, had
friends to be avenged. Cæsar looked on, and his grim, hard-mouthed
officers; for this was war. And Vercingetorix, seeing the faces of his
conquerors, knew there would be no mercy for him, now or in the future.
They led him away and gave him food and drink, since they had been
bidden to keep him alive; the arms and the black horse stayed behind: he
was to see them again at Cæsar’s triumph, after six years of prison.
After that, no one was much interested in the other surrenders; it was a
different matter: many of the chiefs had been promised their lives--they
might be useful later. Cæsar did not choose to remember the Roman dead
when these were before him; he was conciliatory, he would not show
himself too openly the master, their swords might be given back to them
later, the chains were a necessary formality; they did not dare yet to
ask about their General; besides, they knew, it was their shame.
By evening all was over; food had been sent to the starving garrison as
soon as they had given up their arms; everything was quiet. It was
rumoured that the Arvernian and Hæduan prisoners were being kept apart
from the others, that they would be allowed to go free. Meromic heard it
from two or three soldiers, who grumbled, but knew that Cæsar had made
up his mind and there was nothing to be said. Caltane would be freed
with the others, but where could he go, with Curdun in ruins, and
Ardorix wishing him no good? Well, there was room for a strong sword
still. Titus Barrus was having supper that evening with the rest of the
tribunes of his legion; he would be there till late. Meromic went back
to the tent and sat there in the dark, rubbing his hands up and down the
tent pole, not so much thinking as letting facts present themselves to
him, one by one. Half-way through the evening two of the slingers came,
with lanterns, and called to him to drink with them, but he shook his
head.
Quite suddenly he made up his mind; it was as if he had been waiting for
some final event which had come at last. He lighted a candle, took down
the tablets that hung over his master’s bed and wrote very carefully,
hunching his shoulders up with the effort; he had had no need to write
for more than four years, and not much before that. He found it
difficult to remember how the letters looked; the words were Gallic,
because that was how he was feeling, but he wrote in a funny mixture of
Greek and Latin characters; sometimes he turned them round the wrong way
and had to smooth out the wax with his thumb and try again. It took him
fully half an hour to get his message down; it said: “I have to go. I
have been faithful up to now. Have I paid you for what you did for me?
There is another debt to pay; whatever else I may be I am a Gaul, so
_he_ was my General. I should have gone before; ask Lerrys if I wanted
to. And you have come through safe: may you stay so. I think that Gaul
is conquered for ever and Rome is the conqueror; but still I must go. If
you are for home now, as I hope, we shall never meet. You know I am
sorry. Till Lerrys comes back, take a Hæduan; they never hated Rome so
much as we did. Your things are all put ready. My thanks for everything;
I almost forgot; that was you. Do you understand? My thanks again. I
kiss your feet. Meromic.” And he made a little outline of a wolf’s head
beside his name.
He cleared up the tent and put everything straight. He took his own
sword, knife and axe, and his blanket, which was an old one that had
belonged to Titus, strapped on his back. He picked up the tablets again
and wrote another message at the bottom: “If you forgive me and if you
see an Arvernian prisoner, a chief called Caltane, tell him so; I may
see him some day.”
He left the tablets face up on the bed, blew out the candle, and went.
The sentries knew him and let him pass, thinking he was taking a
message. He slipped easily through the outer lines and into the open
country; he was not sure which way the Gallic armies had dispersed, but
at least he would get clear away by dawn to some place from where he
could see the lie of the land. While there was light enough he climbed
up through the pines, till the curve of the hill hid the Roman
camp-fires, and he was quite alone and safe; then at moonset he lay down
and slept, rolled in his blanket.
Titus Barrus came back from his supper tired and happy; seeing no light
he thought Meromic was asleep, and felt disappointed because he was too
much excited himself to be at all sleepy, and wanted to talk to the
Gaul. He hung the lantern up, meaning to wake him, but he was not there.
Titus called him, once, twice, and a third time, impatiently; and sat
down on the bed, drumming with his fingers on the armour plates of his
kilt. All at once he saw the white of the tablets by his pillow and
picked them up with a casual glance that turned to frowning earnest as
he held them under the light. It took him a few minutes to get the
import, but then it was clear enough. Meromic was gone, there would be
no catching him. He was gone for ever; they had marched and fought and
lived together and shared one another’s thoughts: it was all over as if
it had never been. And what did Meromic think he was going to do? There
could be no war after this amazing victory, no vengeance for
Vercingetorix. Unless the rest of the Gauls felt like this too? But that
was impossible; already the Hæduan chiefs were sending in to try and
make terms for themselves, and the men from Alesia would not fight
again. Titus stood, fingering the tablets: if only he had come back
earlier! He knew he could have stopped Meromic; and if he had kept him
then he would have kept him for always; there could never be such
another critical day. And afterwards he would have brought him back to
Rome, where there would be no more wars to tear him two ways at once,
and they would have lived happily ever after. And now--he looked at the
little drawing of the wolf’s head: that was it, of course, the wolf side
coming up, untamed after all this time, the side that Titus never quite
knew, never quite reckoned with: this was the barbarian boy he had seen
first running with the hound pack over his father’s land....
The next morning he told Quintus Velanius, who hardly believed him at
first, and then offered to share his own servant, and reminded him of
the time Meromic had gone away before on his own business. But Titus
knew this was different. When he had time he thought of sending the
message back; the Arvernians were all more or less together. One of the
prisoners was glad enough to earn what would buy him seed corn when he
got home again, and found Caltane and brought him along to the Roman
officer, who looked him up and down with keen interest, this last link
between himself and Meromic, the thick-set hill-climber with his steady
grey eyes. After a moment he asked him:
“You know a man called Meromic?”
Caltane assented, cautiously.
“I want you to give him a message, if you see him, from me--he’ll know
who I am--to say he has paid me well and I do understand and give him
free dismissal; but tell him this too, that when he has no other hope,
wherever he is, and whatever he may have done, to come back to me and be
welcome. Can you remember?”
“Yes,” said Caltane; “but I’m not likely to come near him. I’m no friend
to him these days.”
“He left a letter saying he might see you: I don’t know where he is.”
Caltane thought for a moment, then suddenly looked up: “He’s run away at
last, has he! But it’s too late.”
“That’s what I think.”
“And you’re the one he wouldn’t run away from. I see. But God knows what
he wants to do now: after the end there’s nothing. And yet I don’t think
it was because he was afraid of fighting that he didn’t come before.”
“No, no, he was never afraid of anything!”
“I don’t think so either. He was a traitor to all I cared for, but yet
he was a brave man. Well, I’ll give the message if I see him.”
Titus hesitated, not knowing whether to offer money or not; finally he
did so; Caltane took the gold pieces in his hand and looked at them,
saying: “Why are you giving me these? I’d tell Meromic your words
anyhow. I’ll take them all the same; there’ll be neither home nor help
left me after this. But I tell you, Roman, there’s only one head fit to
put on to gold and there’ll be none after him!”
And Titus went back to his tent and looked again at a coin he had there
with a galloping horse on one side and on the other that proud young
head, half Greek and half Celt, the hero of a nation, the General who
had so nearly driven them for ever out of Gaul, the prisoner lying in
chains somewhere in the heart of the enemy camp, the man who had moved
those two Gauls, Meromic and Caltane, as if he had been a God, the
sacrificed Vercingetorix!