The Druid King by Norman Spinrad Read Free Book Online Page A

them.”
    Gisstus shrugged. “This isn’t one of them, and apparently there was an unusually large one,” he said. “Large enough for some of the ignorant to call it a comet.”
    “I still don’t—”
    “According to our druid friend Diviacx, the Gauls believe that comets are the omen of the passage of kings, some say the death of a king—”
    “But there isn’t any king of—”
    “—and someone seems to be encouraging their bards to say the
coming
of a king.”
    “Oh,” said Caesar. “But why would Diviacx be spreading such stuff around?” As a former pontifex privy to the tricks of the trade, he knew only too well that omens could easily enough be interpreted to mean whatever might serve the purpose of the interpreter.
    “He isn’t.”
    “It’s this Keltill?”
    Gisstus nodded. “So it would seem. It can hardly be a coincidence that he’s convened a meeting of all the tribal leaders—”
    “I thought only the druids had the authority to do such a thing.”
    “That’s why Diviacx is so worried. Keltill can’t command attendance at such a meeting, but he’s famous as a lavish host, and when he invites you to a feast, it’s an invitation that few Gauls are abstemious enough to refuse.”
    “But surely the druids could forbid it.”
    “They could,” said Gisstus, “but although he wouldn’t quite admit it, Diviacx seems to be afraid that, what with Keltill’s popularity among the minor tribes, and their fear of us, and the money he has to toss around, it would be a dangerous move for them politically, especially if
he
did the forbidding. . . .”
    “And he wishes us to weigh in against it somehow . . . ?”
    “Diviacx has unclearly made it clear that he believes it would be to our mutual benefit if Keltill were to . . . retire from public life.”
    “Thus speaks the druid Diviacx,” said Caesar. “But perhaps the Eduen Diviacx fears that the Arverne Keltill might be able to make a favorable alliance with me. After all, a king of Gaul who swore an oath of fealty to Rome would allow me to—”
    “Keltill is no friend of Rome, that much is certain!” Gisstus replied. “Sooner would a lamb swear an oath of fealty to the wolves.”
    Caesar pondered the situation without being able to attain any clear vision through the murk; indeed, perhaps the murk itself, so characteristic of the tribal politics here, was all that there was.
    “You said this Keltill is famed as a host, Gisstus?” he finally said. “Perhaps you might like to enjoy his hospitality?”
    Gisstus eyed him narrowly. “Keltill’s hospitality toward any Roman arriving uninvited would probably consist of roasting me on a spit and serving me up as the main course.”
    Caesar looked Gisstus slowly up and down. He shook his head disparagingly. “You have no color sense, Gisstus,” he said. “A man of your complexion would be a much more pleasing figure garbed in blue.
Eduen
blue.”
    The last flaming sliver of the sun sinks below the horizon, and the sky, deep purple above the treetops surrounding the clearing, is already black at the zenith and toward the east. It is a lightly clouded and moonless night, and the brightest stars are already visible, among them one younger than a child who has not yet learned to crawl.
    Within the dark depths of the forest, glowing orange lights, like enormous fireflies, converge on the clearing from the wind’s four quarters, emerging into it as flaming torches in the hands of a dozen druids. All wear robes of white unmarked by tribal colors. They form a small circle in the middle of the clearing, facing outward. Torchless, bearing only his staff of office, the Arch Druid emerges from the western margin of the clearing, strides toward the circle of druids.
    As he enters the circle, they turn inward, so that when Guttuatr halts and plants his staff upon the earth he is the center of a circle of fire, a circle of inward-turned eyes, expectant, waiting.
    “I have called this convocation of