Late spring, 58 BCE
The full moon hung clear and beautiful over the smooth glassy lake, its bright light competing for prominence with the huge bonfire on shore. The whole clan was here, as many as Gaul could summon within a week's time, decked out in their best attire, jewelry heavy with weight and symbolism clasped around necks and wrists, wound around heads and fingers. Her son was at her side, a miniature mirror of her solemn finery and stern visage, his blond hair swept back from his face and kept there by a circlet of beaten gold. She raised her hand, and the murmuring talk among those assembled died away.
"Word of deed travels faster than the swiftest horse, and unpleasant rumours can spring up like tangled briars in its wake. But such things nonetheless contain a grain of truth. Here it is the same." A pause; she wished it were a happier occasion. Her son glanced up at her slightly, waiting. He already knew.
"The Romans are marching." Instantly people stiffened, hands falling reflexively to the swords that hung at their waists, children old enough to understand shifting closer to their mother's skirts. "The commander Gaius Iulius approaches with five legions at his command, and we are his goal. He has no use for allies, no use for equals—he comes seeking conquest, to glut the purse of Rome with our bloodstained coins, to soak the soil with our tears and to fasten shackles on the wrists of the mighty. But he cannot have us." Nods, murmurs of agreement. "He will not have us. We will meet him with iron and strength, his glory will be found elsewhere or not at all, but he will not have us." A shout of approval.
"We curse them! We cast them down into the abyss, we make crooked their path, we ensnare them in foils and pitfalls, we curse them!" She stepped forward, her people drawing nearer as she began the chant, low and haunting:
"Andedion uediíumi diíiuion risun… Artiu mapon aruerriíatin, mapon aruerriíatin… Lopites sní eððdic sos brixtía andiron…"
Only the cackle of the flames sounded as she evoked the forces of the underworld, that place where the spirits of the dead dwell, ancient and powerful, older than her, older than her mother Celt, called to their aide. Someone started a steady drumbeat, and sharply she shifted tone, naming the Romans, the commanders, the generals, denouncing them, cursing them-
"Lucion floron nigrinon adgarion! Aemilíon paterin claudíon legitumon! Caelion pelign! Claudío pelign, Marcion uictorin asiatícon aððedillí—"
She sang damnation into the night, repeating their names in a chant, and the voices of her people joined her, the drumbeats multiplying and growing stronger, drawing people to move, to dance, her son shifting from her side into the throng, chanting and stomping with the rest—
"Lucion floron nigrinon adgarion! Aemilíon paterin claudíon legitumon! Caelion pelign! Claudío pelign, Marcion uictorin asiatícon aððedillí—"
Gaul moved with the force of curse, the power of her people's focus coursing through her like a living, thrumming thing, driving her chant, her fury—Rome, Rome how dare you threaten me? How dare you move against me? I was a fool to think that you would be satisfied with trading for what could be gained through war, and I will kill you for my mistake. You've decreed your own death!
She froze, a single point of stillness in the moving, shifting group, her people her people, and Rome at the gate— Eyes unseeing, she reached out, felt the pulse of power around her, caught it and twisted it in, the rage, the determination, the urgency and fear and now to aim— Her people heard the words from her mouth overlaid with a power they could not describe, in a voice that was hers but wasn't:
"Etic secoui toncnaman, toncsiíontío meíon toncsesit. Buetid ollon reguccambion, exsops pissíiumítsoccaantí rissuis. Onson bissíet luge, dessummiíis luge—"
Her son heard the signaling phrase and picked it up, calling, "Dessumíis luge!" his fist in the air as he shouted. And the clan followed, fists raised, yelling, chanting, screaming the words that would seal the fate of the Romans- "Dessumíis luge! Dessumíis luge! Dessumíis luge! Dessumíis luge!"
And with a final roar of defiance, all voices came together and peaked "Dessumíis luge!" and Gaul crumpled to the ground in exhaustion, energy spent.
Her son was at her side in an instant, gentle hands on her shoulder, her arm, blue eyes searching hers.
She gave him a tired, reassuring smile. "I'm well, gnath."
He studied her for a moment more, heedless of the still shifting throng around them, before smiling. "Rome'll never beat us now," he said confidently as he helped her sit up.
A fleeting smile flickered over Gaul's face and failed to reach her eyes. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from his impossibly young face, and the look of puzzlement there made her heart ache. She pulled him into a hug, leaning her head against his as she felt his small arms wrap around her.
"He won't," she said softly, stroking his hair. "He can't."
Late summer, 52 BCE
The camp was not in chaos, but it was close. The buzz of tightly wound nerves made the air hard to breath, as warriors donned their armor and painted protective sigils over it,horses whinnying in reflected anxiety. The refugees that traveled with the camp, hoping for protection and food, helped where they could, the women trying to cook for far too many people with not enough supplies. Gaul packed some of those precious supplies away into saddlebags, giving the four men final instructions as they checked their gear.
"Straight north until you reach the shore, my seal will give you safe passage; the Morini will bear you across the sea—"
Small hands tugged on her trousers as she moved to another horse. "I don't want to go!"
Gaul didn't glance down. "You have supplies enough to reach them, if you travel quickly and don't delay—and you won't delay—"
"Mama, I'm not going!"
My dear son. She turned and crouched down, hands resting on his shoulders. He was already bundled up in his grey-green travel cloak, a hint of his sky blue tunic peeking out. It made his eyes even brighter. "You have to go." Her words were soft, but firm.
"No! I don't wanna!"
"Maponos. You are going. Rome is too close now—"
"I wanna fight!"
He was barely taller than a sword was long. "I know you do, gnath. And you will, when you're older—"
"I'm old now!" he shrieked and Gaul shook him sharply, just once. The tantrum stopped almost immediately, Maponos looking at her sullenly, pouting.
"Maponos. You will fight when you're older. But not now."
"But why do I have to go?"
Because I would rather be eaten alive than risk you falling into Rome's hands. "I have to keep you safe. You going to live with my sister, Britannia, you remember your aunt? You've met her before, when I took you trading—long blond hair, all of those little spotty freckles on her cheeks."
She wiggled her fingers at him for emphasis and he giggled slightly, nodding.
She smiled encouragingly. "You see? She'll take care of you. She has four boys herself, they're—"
"But you'll come get me as soon as you beat Rome, right?" he interrupted.
Gaul faltered, and then forced her smile back into place. "Of course."
She didn't mention the odds, and none of her men did either.
Gaul caught him under the arms and swept him up into a hug as she stood, burying her face in his hair, inhaling deeply, she wanted to remember everything. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, felt his small form hugging her with all his tiny might, and burned the moment into her memory.
"I love you, always." Her lips barely moved.
"I love you too, Mama, always."
She hugged him tighter, and would've stayed like that if he hadn't squirmed, trying to get lose. "Too tight—"
Gaul relaxed instantly. "Sorry." A difficult, awkward pause, before she forced. "Okay, time to go." The waver seemed incredibly obvious. She held Maponos out to a mounted warrior, Lugurix, the one she trusted most of those she assembled for this task, and caught his eye as he settled the small child in front of him on the saddle.
"Faster than Epona's favourite steed." Her eyes said what her lips did not: he cannot be captured.
Lugurix nodded gravely.
They saluted, clenched fists over their heart, Maponos with upheld empty palm. Gaul returned the gesture, and they wheeled and rode off through the camp, heading north. She watched until her vision blurred, and still did not look away.
Then she turned back to the immediate things, readying for battle, feeding the refugees, throwing everything she had at Rome. She did not let herself dwell on her son's smile, or the love in his voice, or the sight of him being borne away. Instead she focused on the aching hole left in her heart, and vowed to fill it with Rome's dying breath.
-o-
A new multichapter fic begins, exploring France's early childhood. The Gaulish chant from above is an actual curse used by the Gauls towards Rome, the translation of which is available in a link on my profile. The Swiss pagan folk metal band Eluveitie has a beautiful rendition of the curse as a sung chant, titled "Dessumíis Luge"; a link to the song can also be found in my profile. The song was a major inspiration for this story, in particular the opening scene, so I encourage you to give it a listen.
This fic will be updated on a Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule, so check back Wednesday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.