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Object Orientation Abstraction and Data Structures
Using Scala 2nd Edition Edition Mark C. Lewis Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): Mark C. Lewis; Lisa L. Lacher
ISBN(s): 9781498732161, 149873216X
Edition: 2nd Edition
File Details: PDF, 5.97 MB
Year: 2016
Language: english
OBJECT-ORIENTATION,
ABSTRACTION, AND
DATA STRUCTURES
USING
SCALA
SECOND EDITION
CHAPMAN & HALL/CRC
TEXTBOOKS IN COMPUTING
Series Editors
This series covers traditional areas of computing, as well as related technical areas, such as
software engineering, artificial intelligence, computer engineering, information systems, and
information technology. The series will accommodate textbooks for undergraduate and gradu-
ate students, generally adhering to worldwide curriculum standards from professional societ-
ies. The editors wish to encourage new and imaginative ideas and proposals, and are keen to
help and encourage new authors. The editors welcome proposals that: provide groundbreaking
and imaginative perspectives on aspects of computing; present topics in a new and exciting
context; open up opportunities for emerging areas, such as multi-media, security, and mobile
systems; capture new developments and applications in emerging fields of computing; and
address topics that provide support for computing, such as mathematics, statistics, life and
physical sciences, and business.
Published Titles
OBJECT-ORIENTATION,
ABSTRACTION, AND
DATA STRUCTURES
USING
SCALA
SECOND EDITION
Mark C. Lewis
Lisa L. Lacher
CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300
Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
© 2017 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business
This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. Reasonable efforts have been
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Contents
Preface xxv
vii
viii Contents
11 Networking 369
11.1 TCP and UDP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
11.2 Sockets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
11.2.1 TCP Sockets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
11.2.2 UDP Sockets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
11.2.3 Streams from Sockets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373
xii Contents
14 Refactoring 449
14.1 Smells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 449
14.2 Refactorings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 452
14.2.1 Built-in Refactoring Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 453
14.2.2 Introduce Null Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 454
14.2.3 Add and Remove Parameter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 454
14.2.4 Cures for Switch Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 455
14.2.5 Consolidate Conditional Expression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 456
14.2.6 Convert Procedural Design to Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 457
14.2.7 Encapsulate Collection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 457
14.2.8 Push Down or Pull Up Field or Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 458
14.2.9 Substitute Algorithm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 458
Contents xiii
15 Recursion 461
15.1 Refresher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461
15.2 Project Integration: A Maze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 462
15.2.1 The Recursive Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 462
15.2.2 Graphical Editing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 464
15.2.3 Longest Path . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 471
15.2.4 Optimizing the Maze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 471
15.3 Graph Traversals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 473
15.4 Divide and Conquer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 481
15.4.1 Merge Sort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 482
15.4.2 Quicksort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 484
15.4.3 Formula Parser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 487
15.5 End of Chapter Material . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 488
15.5.1 Summary of Concepts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 488
15.5.2 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 489
15.5.3 Projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 490
16 Trees 493
16.1 General Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 493
16.1.1 Implementations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 494
16.1.2 Traversals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 495
16.2 Project Integration: Formula Parsing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 498
16.2.1 Formula Tree Traversals and In-Order Traversal . . . . . . . . . . 502
16.3 Binary Search Trees: Binary Trees as Maps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 503
16.3.1 Order Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 511
16.3.2 Immutable BSTs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 511
16.4 End of Chapter Material . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 514
16.4.1 Summary of Concepts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 514
16.4.2 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 515
16.4.3 Projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 516
Title: Clio
Language: English
IN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
EDITED BY JAMES LEWIS MAY
AND BERNARD MIALL«
MCMXXII
TO
EMILE ZOLA
CONTENTS
CLIO
PREFACE
NICOLAS FOUCQUET
THE CHÂTEAU DE VAUX
[To this English translation of Clio we added 12 plates by Mucha, who illustrated the French 1900
edition, which is also available at Project Gutenberg.—Transcribers' Note.]
CLIO
THE BARD OF KYME
Along the hill-side he came, following a path which skirted the sea. His
forehead was bare, deeply furrowed and bound by a fillet of red wool. The
sea-breeze blew his white locks over his temples and pressed the fleece of a
snow-white beard against his chin. His tunic and his feet were the colour of
the roads which he had trodden for so many years. A roughly made lyre hung
at his side. He was known as the Aged One, and also as the Bard. Yet another
name was given him by the children to whom he taught poetry and music, and
many called him the Blind One, because his eyes, dim with age, were
overhung by swollen lids, reddened by the smoke of the hearths beside which
he was wont to sit when he sang. But his was no eternal night, and he was
said to see things invisible to other men. For three generations he had been
wandering ceaselessly to and fro. And now, having sung all day to a King of
Ægea, he was returning to his home, the roof of which he could already see
smoking in the distance; for now, after walking all night without a halt for fear
of being overtaken by the heat of the day, in the clear light of the dawn he
could see the white Kyme, his birthplace. With his dog at his side, leaning on
his crooked staff, he walked with slow steps, his body upright, his head held
high because of the steepness of the way leading down into the narrow valley
and because he was still vigorous in his age. The sun, rising over the
mountains of Asia, shed a rosy light over the fleecy clouds and the hill-sides of
the islands that studded the sea. The coast-line glistened. But the hills that
stretched away eastward, crowned with mastic and terebinth, lay still in the
freshness and the shadow of night.
The Aged One measured along the incline the length of twelve times twelve
lances and found, on the left, between the flanks of twin rocks, the narrow
entrance to a sacred wood. There, on the brink of a spring, rose an altar of
unhewn stones.
It was half hidden by an oleander the branches of which were laden with
dazzling blossoms. The well-trodden ground in front of the altar was white
with the bones of victims. All around, the boughs of the olive-trees were hung
with offerings. And farther on, in the awesome shadow of the gorge, rose two
ancient oaks, bearing, nailed to their trunks, the bleached skulls of bulls.
Knowing that this altar was consecrated to Phœbus, the Aged One plunged
into the wood, and, taking by its handle a little earthenware cup which hung
from his belt, he bent over the stream which, flowing over a bed of wild
parsley and water-cress, slowly wound its way down to the meadow. He filled
his cup with the spring-water, and, because he was pious, before drinking he
poured a few drops before the altar. He worshipped the immortal gods, who
know neither pain nor death, while on earth generation follows generation of
suffering men. He was conscious of fear; and he dreaded the arrows of Leto's
sons. Full of sorrows and of years, he loved the light of day and feared death.
For this reason an idea occurred to him. He bent the pliable trunk of a sapling,
and drawing it towards him hung his earthenware cup from the topmost twig
of the young tree, which, springing back, bore the old man's offering up to the
open sky.
White Kyme, wall-encircled, rose from the edge of the sea. A steep highway,
paved with flat stones, led to the gate of the town. This gate had been built in
an age beyond man's memory, and it was said to be the work of the gods.
Carved upon the lintel were signs which no man understood, yet they were
regarded as of good omen. Not far from this gate was the public square,
where the benches of the elders shone beneath the trees. Near this square, on
the landward side, the Aged One stayed his steps. There was his house. It was
low and small, and less beautiful than the neighbouring house, where a
famous seer dwelt with his children. Its entrance was half hidden beneath a
heap of manure, in which a pig was rooting. This dunghill was smaller than
those at the doors of the rich. But behind the house was an orchard, and
stables of unquarried stone, which the Aged One had built with his own hands.
The sun was climbing up the white vault of heaven, the sea wind had fallen.
The invisible fire in the air scorched the lungs of men and beasts. For a
moment the Aged One paused upon the threshold to wipe the sweat from his
brow with the back of his hand. His dog, with watchful eye and hanging
tongue, stood still and panted.
The aged Melantho, emerging from the house, appeared on the threshold and
spoke a few pleasant words. Her coming had been slow, because a god had
sent an evil spirit into her legs which swelled them and made them heavier
than a couple of wine-skins. She was a Carian slave and in her youth the King
had bestowed her on the bard, who was then young and vigorous. And in her
new master's bed she had conceived many children. But not one was left in
the house. Some were dead, others had gone away to practise the art of song
or to steer the plough in distant Achaian cities, for all were richly gifted. And
Melantho was left alone in the house with Areta, her daughter-in-law, and
Areta's two children.
She went with the master into the great hall with its smoky rafters. In the
midst of it, before the domestic altar, lay the hearthstone covered with red
embers and melted fat. Out of the hall opened two stories of small rooms; a
wooden staircase led to the upper chambers, which were the women's
quarters. Against the pillars that supported the roof leant the bronze weapons
which the Aged One had borne in his youth, in the days when he followed the
kings to the cities to which they drove in their chariots to recapture the
daughters of Kyme whom the heroes had carried away. From one of the
beams hung the skin of an ox.
The elders of the city, wishful to honour the bard, had sent it to him on the
previous day. He rejoiced at the sight of it. As he stood drawing a long breath
into a chest which was shrunken with age, he took from beneath his tunic,
with a few cloves of garlic remaining from his alfresco supper, the King of
Ægea's gift; it was a stone fallen from heaven and precious, for it was of iron,
though too small for a lance-tip. He brought with him also a pebble which he
had found on the road. On this pebble, when looked at in a certain light, was
the form of a man's head. And the Aged One, showing it to Melantho, said:
"Woman, see, on this pebble is the likeness of Pakoros, the blacksmith; not
without permission of the gods may a stone thus present the semblance of
Pakoros."
And when the aged Melantho had poured water over his feet and hands in
order to remove the dust that defiled them, he grasped the shin of beef in his
arms, placed it on the altar and began to tear it asunder. Being wise and
prudent, he did not delegate to women or to children the duty of preparing the
repast; and, after the manner of kings, he himself cooked the flesh of beasts.
Meanwhile Melantho coaxed the fire on the hearth into a flame. She blew upon
the dry twigs until a god wrapped them in fire. Though the task was holy, the
Aged One suffered it to be performed by a woman because years and fatigue
had enfeebled him. When the flames leapt up he cast into them pieces of flesh
which he turned over with a fork of bronze. Seated on his heels, he inhaled
the smoke; and as it filled the room his eyes smarted and watered; but he
paid no heed because he was accustomed to it and because the smoke
signified abundance. As the toughness of the meat yielded to the fire's
irresistible power, he put fragments of it into his mouth and, slowly masticating
them with his well-worn teeth, ate in silence. Standing at his side, the aged
Melantho poured the dark wine into an earthenware cup like that which he had
given to the god.
When he had satisfied hunger and thirst, he inquired whether all in house and
stable was well. And he inquired concerning the wool woven in his absence,
the cheese placed in the vat and the ripe olives in the press. And,
remembering that his goods were but few, he said:
"The heroes keep herds of oxen and heifers in the meadows. They have a
goodly number of strong and comely slaves; the doors of their houses are of
ivory and of brass, and their tables are laden with pitchers of gold. The
courage of their hearts assured them of wealth, which they sometimes keep
until old age. In my youth, certes, I was not inferior to them in courage, but I
had neither horses nor chariots, nor servants, nor even armour strong enough
to vie with them in battle and to win tripods of gold and women of great
beauty. He who fights on foot with poor weapons cannot kill many enemies,
because he himself fears death. Wherefore, fighting beneath the town walls, in
the ranks, with the serving men, never did I win rich spoil."
The aged Melantho made answer:
"War giveth wealth to men and robs them of it. My father, Kyphos, had a
palace and countless herds at Mylata. But armed men despoiled him of all and
slew him. I myself was carried away into slavery, but I was never ill-treated
because I was young. The chiefs took me to their bed and never did I lack
food. You were my best master and the poorest."
There was neither joy nor sadness in her voice as she spoke.
The Aged One replied:
"Melantho, you cannot complain of me, for I have always treated you kindly.
Reproach me not with having failed to win great wealth. Armourers are there
and blacksmiths who are rich. Those who are skilled in the construction of
chariots derive no small advantage from their labours. Seers receive great
gifts. But the life of minstrels is hard."
The aged Melantho said:
"The life of many men is hard."
And with heavy step she went out of the house, with her daughter-in-law, to
fetch wood from the cellar. It was the hour when the sun's invincible heat
prostrates men and beasts, and silences even the song of the birds in the
motionless foliage. The Aged One stretched himself upon a mat, and, veiling
his face, fell asleep.
As he slumbered he was visited by a succession of dreams, which were neither
more beautiful nor more unusual than those which he dreamed every day. In
these dreams appeared to him the forms of men and of beasts. And, because
among them he recognized some whom he had known while they lived on the
green earth and who having lost the light of day had lain beneath the funeral
pile, he concluded that the shades of the dead hover in the air, but that,
having lost their vigour, they are nothing but empty shadows. He learned from
dreams that there exist likewise shades of animals and of plants which are
seen in sleep. He was convinced that the dead, wandering in Hades,
themselves form their own image, since none may form it for them, unless it
were one of those gods who love to deceive man's feeble intellect. But, being
no seer, he could not distinguish between false dreams and true; and, weary
of seeking to understand the confused visions of the night, he regarded them
with indifference as they passed beneath his closed eyelids.
On awakening, he beheld, ranged before him in an attitude of respect, the
children of Kyme, whom he instructed in poetry and music, as his father had
instructed him. Among them were his daughter-in-law's two sons. Many of
them were blind, for a bard's life was deemed fitting for those who, bereft of
sight, could neither work in the fields nor follow heroes to war.
In their hands they bore the offerings in payment for the bard's lessons, fruit,
cheese, a honeycomb, a sheep's fleece, and they waited for their master's
approval before placing it on the domestic altar.
The Aged One, having risen and taken his lyre which hung from a beam in the
hall, said kindly:
"Children, it is just that the rich should give much and the poor less. Zeus, our
father, hath unequally apportioned wealth among men. But he will punish the
child who withholds the tribute due to the divine bard."
The vigilant Melantho came and took the gifts from the altar. And the Aged
One, having tuned his lyre, began to teach a song to the children, who with
crossed legs were seated on the ground around him.
"Hearken," he said, "to the combat between Patrocles and Sarpedon. This is a
beautiful song."
And he sang. He skilfully modulated the sounds, applying the same rhythm
and the same measure to each line; and, in order that his voice should not
wander from the key, he supported it at regular intervals by striking a note
upon his three-stringed lyre. And, before making a necessary pause, he
uttered a shrill cry, accompanied by a strident vibration of strings. After he had
sung lines equal in number to double the number of fingers on his two hands,
he made the children repeat them. They cried them out all together in a high
voice, as, following their master's example, they touched the little lyres which
they themselves had carved out of wood and which gave no sound.
Patiently the Aged One sang the lines over and over until the little singers
knew every word. The attentive children he praised, but those who lacked
memory or intelligence he struck with the wooden part of his lyre, and they
went away to lean weeping against a pillar of the hall. He taught by example,
not by precept, because he believed poesy to be of hoary antiquity and
beyond man's judgment. The only counsels which he gave related to manners.
He bade them:
"Honour kings and heroes, who are superior to other men. Call heroes by their
own name and that of their father, so that these names be not forgotten.
When you sit in assemblies gather your tunic about you and let your mien
express grace and modesty."
Again he said to them:
"Do not spit in rivers, because rivers are scared. Make no change, either
through weakness of memory or of your own imagining, in the songs I teach
you, and when a king shall say unto you: 'These songs are beautiful. From
whom did you learn them?' you shall answer: 'I learnt them from the Aged
One of Kyme, who received them from his father, whom doubtless a god had
inspired.'" Of the ox's shin, there yet remained a few succulent morsels.
Having eaten one of them before the hearth and smashed the bone with an
axe of bronze, in order to extract the marrow, of which he alone in the house
was worthy to partake, he divided the rest of the meat into portions which
should nourish the women and children for the space of two days.
Then he realized that soon nothing would be left of this nutritious food, and he
reflected:
"The rich are loved by Zeus and the poor are not. All unwittingly I have
doubtless offended one of those gods who live concealed in the forests or the
mountains, or perhaps the child of an immortal; and it is to expiate my
involuntary crime that I drag out my days in a penurious old age. Sometimes,
without any evil intention, one commits actions which are punishable because
the gods have not clearly revealed unto men that which is permitted and that
which is forbidden. And their will remains obscure." Long did he turn over
those thoughts in his mind, and, fearing the return of cruel hunger, he
resolved not to remain idly in his dwelling that night, but this time to go
towards the country where the Hermos flows between rocks and whence can
be seen Orneia, Smyrna and the beautiful Hissia, lying upon the mountain,
which, like the prow of some Phœnician boat, plunges into the sea.
Wherefore, at the hour when the first stars glimmer in the pale sky, he girded
himself with the cord of his lyre and went forth, along the sea-shore, toward
the dwellings of rich men, who, during their lengthy feasts, love to hearken to
the praise of heroes and the genealogies of the gods.
Having, according to his custom, journeyed all night, in the rosy dawn of
morning he descried a town perched upon a high headland, and he recognized
the opulent Hissia, dove-haunted, which from the summit of her rock looks
down upon the white islands sporting like nymphs in the glistening sea. Not far
from the town, on the margin of a spring, he sat down to rest and to appease
his hunger with the onions which he had brought in a fold of his tunic.
Hardly had he finished his meal when a young girl, bearing a basket on her
head, came to the spring to wash linen. At first she looked at him suspiciously,
but, seeing that he carried a wooden lyre slung over his torn tunic and that he
was old and overcome with fatigue, she approached him fearlessly, and,
suddenly, seized with pity and veneration, she filled the hollows of her hands
with drops of water with which she moistened the minstrel's lips.
Then he called her a king's daughter; he promised her a long life, and said:
"Maiden, desire floats in a cloud about thy girdle. Happy the man who shall
lead thee to his couch. And I, an old man, praise thy beauty like the bird of
night which cries all unheeded upon the nuptial roof. I am a wandering bard.
Daughter, speak unto me pleasant words."
And the maiden answered:
"If, as you say and as it seemeth, you are a musician, then no evil fate brings
you to this town. For the rich Meges to-day receiveth a guest who is dear to
him; and to the great of the town, in honour of his guest, he giveth a
sumptuous feast. Doubtless he would wish them to hear a good minstrel. Go
to him. From this very spot you may see his house. From the seaward side it
cannot be approached, because it is on that high breeze-swept headland,
which juts out into the waves. But if you enter the town on the landward side,
by the steps cut in the rock, which lead up the vine-clad hill, you will easily
distinguish from all the other houses the abode of Meges. It has been recently
whitewashed, and it is more spacious than the rest." And the Aged One, rising
with difficulty on limbs which the years had stiffened, climbed the steps cut in
the rock by the men of old, and, reaching the high table-land whereon is the
town of Hissia, he readily distinguished the house of the rich Meges.
To approach it was pleasant, for the blood of freshly slaughtered bulls gushed
from its doors and the odour of hot fat was perceptible all around. He crossed
the threshold, entered the great banqueting-hall and, having touched the altar
with his hand, approached Meges, who was carving the meat and ordering the
servants. Already the guests were ranged about the hearth, rejoicing in the
prospect of a plenteous repast. Among them were many kings and heroes. But
the guest whom Meges desired to honour by this banquet was a King of Chios,
who, in quest of wealth, had long navigated the seas and endured great
hardship. His name was Oineus. All the guests admired him because, like
Ulysses in earlier days, he had escaped from innumerable shipwrecks, shared
in the islands the couch of enchantresses and brought home great treasure.
He told of his travels and his labours, interspersing them with inventions, for
he had a nimble wit.
Recognizing the bard by the lyre which hung at his side, the rich Meges
addressed the Aged One and said:
"Be welcome. What songs knowest thou?"
The Aged One made answer:
"I know 'The Strife of Kings' which brought such great disaster to the
Achaians, I know 'The Storming of the Wall.' And that song is beautiful. I know
also 'The Deception of Zeus,' 'The Embassy' and 'The Capture of the Dead.'
And these songs are beautiful. I know yet more—six times sixty very beautiful
songs."
Thus did he give it to be understood that he knew many songs; but the exact
number he could not tell.
The rich Meges replied in a mocking tone:
"In the hope of a good meal and a rich gift, wandering minstrels ever say that
they know many songs; but, put to the test, it is soon seen that they
remember but a few lines, with the constant repetition of which they tire the
ears of heroes and of kings."
The Aged One answered wisely:
"Meges," he said, "you are renowned for your wealth. Know that the number
of the songs I know is not less than that of the bulls and heifers which your
herdsmen drive to graze on the mountain." Meges, admiring the Old Man's
intelligence, said to him kindly:
"A small mind would not suffice to contain so great a number of songs. But,
tell me, is what thou knowest about Achilles and Ulysses really true? For many
are the lies in circulation touching those heroes."
And the bard made answer:
"All that I know of the heroes I received from my father, who learned it from
Muses themselves, for in earlier days in cave and forest the immortal Muses
visited divine singers. No inventions will I mingle with the ancient tales."
Thus did he speak, and wisely. Nevertheless to the songs he had known from
his youth upward he was wont to add lines taken from other songs or the fruit
of his own imagination. He himself had composed wellnigh the whole of
certain songs. But, fearing lest man should disapprove of them, he did not
confess them to be his own work. The heroes preferred the ancient tales
which they believed to have been dictated by a god, and they objected to new
songs. Wherefore, when he repeated lines of his own invention, he carefully
concealed their origin. And, as he was a true poet and followed all the ancient
traditions, his lines differed in no way from those of his ancestors; they
resembled them in form and in beauty, and, from the beginning, they were
worthy of immortal glory.
The rich Meges was not unintelligent. Perceiving the Aged One to be a good
singer, he gave him a place of honour by the hearth and said to him:
"Old Man, when we have satisfied our hunger, thou shalt sing to us all thou
knowest of Achilles and Ulysses. Endeavour to charm the ears of Oineus, my
guest, for he is a hero full of wisdom."
And Oineus, who had long wandered over the sea, asked the minstrel whether
he knew "The Voyages of Ulysses." But the return of the heroes who had
fought at Troy was still wrapped in mystery, and no one knew what Ulysses
had suffered in his wanderings over the pathless sea.
The Old Man answered:
"I know that the divine Ulysses shared Circe's couch and deceived the Cyclops
by a crafty wile. Women tell tales about it to one another. But the hero's return
to Ithaca is hidden from the bards. Some say that he returned to possess his
wife and his goods, others that he put away Penelope because she had
admitted her suitors to her bed, and that he himself, punished by the gods,
wandered ceaselessly among the people, an oar upon his shoulder."
Oineus replied:
"In my travels I have heard that Ulysses died at the hands of his son."
Meanwhile Meges distributed the flesh of oxen among his guests. And to each
one he gave a fitting morsel. Oineus praised him loudly.
"Meges," he said, "one can see that you are accustomed to give banquets."
The oxen of Meges were fed upon the sweetsmelling herbs which grow on the
mountain-side. Their flesh was redolent thereof, and the heroes could not
consume enough of it. And, as Meges was constantly refilling a capacious
goblet which he afterwards passed to his guests, the repast was prolonged far
into the day. No man remembered so rich a feast.
The sun was going down into the sea, when the herdsmen who kept the flocks
of Meges upon the mountain came to receive their share of the wine and
victuals. Meges respected them because they grazed the herds not with the
indolence of the herdsmen of the plain, but armed with lances of iron and
girded with armour in order to defend the oxen against the attacks of the
people of Asia. And they were like unto kings and heroes, whom they equalled
in courage. They were led by two chiefs, Peiros and Thoas, whom the master
had chosen as the bravest and the most intelligent. And, indeed, handsomer
men were not to be seen. Meges welcomed them to his hearth as the
illustrious protectors of his wealth. He gave them wine and meat as much as
they desired.
Oineus, admiring them, said to his host:
"In all my travels, I have never seen men with limbs so well formed and
muscular as those of these two master herdsmen."
Then Meges uttered injudicious words. He said: "Peiros is the stronger in
wrestling, but Thoas the swifter in the race."
At these words, the two herdsmen looked angrily at one another, and Thoas
said to Peiros:
"You must have given the master some maddening drink to make him say that
you are the better wrestler."
Then Peiros answered Thoas testily:
"I flatter myself that I can conquer you in wrestling. As for racing, I leave to
you the palm which the master has given. For you who have the heart of a
stag could not fail to possess his feet."
But the wise Oineus checked the herdsmen's quarrel. He artfully told tales
showing the danger of wrangling at feasts. And, as he spoke well, he was
approved. Peace having been restored, Meges said to the Aged One:
"My friend, sing us 'The Wrath of Achilles' and the 'Gathering of the Kings.'"
And the Aged One, having tuned his lyre, poured forth into the thick
atmosphere of the hall great gusts of sound.
He drew deep breaths, and all the guests hearkened in silence to the
measured words which recalled ages worthy to be remembered. And many
marvelled how so old a man, one withered by age like a vine-branch which
beareth neither fruit nor leaves, could emit such powerful notes. For they did
not understand that the power of the wine and the habit of singing imparted
to the musician a strength which otherwise would have been denied him by
enfeebled nerve and muscle.
At intervals a murmur of praise rose from the assembly like a strong gust of
wind in the forest. But suddenly the herdsmen's dispute, appeased for a while,
broke out afresh. Heated with wine, they challenged one another to wrestle
and to race. Their wild cries rose above the musician's voice, and vainly he
endeavoured to make the harmonious sounds which proceeded from his
mouth and his lyre heard by the assembly. The herdsmen who followed Peiros
and Thoas, flushed with wine, struck their hands and grunted like hogs. They
had long formed themselves into rival bands which shared the chiefs' enmity.
"Dog!" cried Thoas.
And he struck Peiros a blow on the face which drew blood from his mouth and
nostrils. Peiros, blinded, butted with his forehead against the chest of Thoas
and threw him backwards, his ribs broken. Straightway the rival herdsmen cast
themselves upon one another, exchanging blows and insults.
In vain did Meges and the Kings endeavour to separate the combatants. Even
the wise Oineus himself was repulsed by the herdsmen whom a god had
bereft of reason. Brass vessels flew through the air on all sides. Great ox-
bones, smoking torches, bronze tripods rose and fell upon the combatants.
The interlaced bodies of men rolled over the hearth on which the fire was
dying, in the midst of the liquor which flowed from the burst wine-skins.
Dense darkness enveloped the hall, a darkness full of groans and
imprecations. Arms, maddened by frenzy, seized glowing logs and hurled them
into the darkness. A blazing twig struck the minstrel as he stood still and
silent.
Then a voice louder than all the noise of combat cursed these impious men
and this profane house. And, pressing his lyre to his breast, he went out of the
dwelling and walked along the high headland by the sea. To his wrath had
given place a great feeling of fatigue and a bitter disgust with men and with
life.
A longing for union with the gods filled his breast. All things lay wrapped in
soft shadows, the friendly silence and the peace of night. Westward, over the
land which men say is haunted by the shades of the dead, the divine moon,
hanging in the clear sky, shed silver blossoms upon the smiling sea. And the
aged Homer advanced over the high headland until the earth, which had
borne him so long, failed beneath his feet.
KOMM OF THE ATREBATES
In a land of mists, near a shore which was beaten by the restless sea and
swept by billowy waves of sand raised by the Ocean winds, the Atrebates had
settled on the shifting banks of a broad stream. There, amid pools of water
and in forests of oak and of birch, they lived protected by their stockades of
felled tree-trunks. There they bred horses excellent for draught-work, large-
headed, short-necked, broad-chested and muscular, and with powerful
haunches. On the outskirts of the forest they kept huge swine, wild as boars.
With their great dogs they hunted wild beasts, the skulls of which they nailed
on to the walls of their wooden houses. They lived on the flesh of these
creatures and on fish, both of the salt-water and the fresh. They grilled their
meat and seasoned it with salt, vinegar and cumin. They drank wine, and, at
their stupendous feasts, seated at their round tables, they grew drunken.
There were among them women who, acquainted with the virtue of herbs,
gathered henbane, vervain and that healing plant called savin, which grows in
the moist hollows of rocks. From the sap of the yew-tree they concocted a
poison. The Atrebates had also priests and poets who knew things hidden
from ordinary men.
These forest-dwellers, these men of the marsh and the beach, were of high
stature. They wore their fair hair long, and they wrapped their great white
bodies in mantles of wool of the colour of the vine-leaf when it grows purple in
the autumn. They were subject to chiefs who held sway over the tribes.
The Atrebates knew that the Romans had come to make war on the peoples of
Gaul, and that whole nations with all their possessions had been sold beneath
their lance. News of happenings on the Rhone and the Loire had reached them
speedily. Words and signs fly like birds. And that which, at sunrise, had been
said in Genabum of the Carnutes was heard in the first watch of the night on
the Ocean strand. But the fate of their brethren did not trouble them, or
rather, being jealous of them, they rejoiced in the sufferings which they
endured at Cæsar's hand. They did not hate the Romans, for they did not
know them. Neither did they fear them, since it seemed to them impossible for
an army to penetrate through the forests and marshes which surrounded their
dwellings. They had no towns, although they gave the name to Nemetacum,[1]
a vast enclosure encircled by a palisade, which, in case of attack, served as a
refuge for warriors, women and herds. As we have said, they had throughout
their country other similar places of refuge, but these were smaller. To them,
also, they gave the name of towns.
It was not upon their enclosures of felled trees that they relied for resistance
to the Romans, whom they knew to be skilled in the capture of cities defended
by stone walls and wooden towers. But they relied rather on their country's
lack of roads. The Roman soldiers, however, themselves constructed the roads
over which they marched. They dug the ground with a strength and rapidity
unknown to the Gauls of the dense forest, among whom iron was rarer than
gold. And one day the Atrebates were astounded to learn that the Roman
road, with its milestones and its fine paved highway, was approaching their
thickets and marshes. Then they made alliance with the people scattered
through the forest which they called the Impenetrable, and numerous tribes
entered into a league against Cæsar. The chiefs of the Atrebates uttered their
war-cry, girded themselves with their baldrics of gold and of coral, donned
their helmets adorned with the antlers of the stag, or the elk, or with buffalo
horns, and drew their daggers, which were not equal to the Roman sword.
They were vanquished, but because they were courageous they had to be
twice conquered.
Now among them was a chief who was very rich. His name was Komm. He
had a great store of torques, bracelets and rings in his coffers. Human heads
he had also, embalmed in oil of cedar. They were the heads of hostile chiefs
slain by himself or by his father or his father's father. Komm enjoyed the life of
a man who is strong, free and powerful.
Followed by his weapons, his horses, his chariots and his Breton bulldogs, by
the multitude of his fighting men and his women, he would wander without let
or hindrance over his boundless dominions, through forest or along river-bank,
until he came to a halt in one of those woodland shelters, one of those
primitive farms of which he possessed a great number. There, at peace,
surrounded by his faithful followers, he would fish, hunt the wild beasts, break
in his horses and recall his adventures in war. And, as soon as the desire
seized him, he would move on. He was a violent, crafty, subtle-minded man
excelling in deed and in word. When the Atrebates shouted their war-cry, he
forbore to don the helmet which was adorned with the horns of an ox. He
remained quietly in one of his wooden houses full of gold, of warriors, or
horses, of women, of wild pigs and smoked fish. After the defeat of his fellow-
countrymen, he went and found Cæsar and placed his brains and his influence
at the service of the Romans. He was well received. Concluding rightly that
this clever, powerful Gaul would be able to pacify the country and hold it in
subjection to Rome, Cæsar bestowed upon him great powers and nominated
him King of the Atrebates. Thus Komm, the chieftain, became Commius Rex.
He wore the purple, and coined money whereon appeared his likeness in
profile, his head encircled by a diadem with sharp points like those of the
Greek and barbarian kings who wore their crowns as tokens of their friendship
with Rome.
He was not execrated by the Atrebates. His sagacious and self-interested
behaviour did not discredit him with a people devoid of Greek and Roman
ideas of patriotism and citizenship. These savage, inglorious Gauls, ignorant of
public life, esteemed cunning, yielded to force and marvelled at royal power,
which seemed to them a magnificent innovation. The majority of these people,
rough woodlanders or fishermen of the misty coast, had a still better reason
for not blaming the conduct and the prosperity of their chieftain; not knowing
that they were Atrebates, nor even that Atrebates existed, the King of the
Atrebates concerned them but little. Wherefore Komm was not unpopular. And
if the favour of Rome meant danger to him, that danger did not come from his
own people.
Now in the fourth year of the war, towards the end of summer, Cæsar armed a
fleet for a descent upon Britain. Desiring to secure allies in the great Island, he
resolved to send Komm as his ambassador to the Celts of the Thames, with
the offer of an alliance with Rome. Sagacious, eloquent and by birth akin to
the Britons—for certain tribes of the Atrebates had settled on both banks of
the Thames—Komm was eminently fitted for this mission.
Komm was proud of his friendship with Cæsar. But he was in no hurry to
discharge this mission, of the dangers of which he was fully aware. To induce
him to undertake it Cæsar was compelled to grant him many favours. From
the tribute paid by other Gallic towns he exempted Nemetacum, which was
already growing into a city and a metropolis, so rapidly did the Romans
develop the countries which they conquered. He somewhat relaxed the
rigorous rule of the conquerors by restoring to it its rights and its own laws.
Further, he gave Komm to rule over the Morini, who were the neighbours of
the Atrebates on the sea-shore.
Komm set sail with Caius Volusenus Quadratus, prefect of cavalry, appointed
by Cæsar to conduct a reconnaissance in Britain. But when the ship
approached the sandy beach at the foot of the bird-haunted white cliffs, the
Roman refused to disembark, fearing unknown danger and certain death.
Komm landed with his horses and his followers and spoke to the British chiefs
who had come to meet him. He counselled them to prefer profitable friendship
with the Romans to their pitiless wrath. But these chiefs, the descendants of
Hu, the Powerful, and of his comrades in arms, were proud and violent. They
listened impatiently to Komm's words. Anger clouded their woad-stained
countenances, and they swore to defend their Island against the Romans.
"Let them land here," they cried, "and they will disappear like the snow on the
sand of the sea-shore when the south wind blows upon it."
Holding Cæsar's counsel to be an insult, they were already drawing their
daggers from their belts and preparing to put to death the herald of shame.
Standing bowed over his shield in the attitude of a suppliant, Komm invoked
the name of brother by which he was entitled to call them. They were sons of
the same fathers.
Wherefore the Britons forbore to slay him. They conducted him in chains to a
great village near the coast. Passing down a road bordered by huts of wattle-
work, he noticed high flat stones, fixed in the ground at irregular intervals, and
covered with signs which he thought to be sacred, for it was not easy to
decipher their meaning. He perceived that the huts of this great village,
though poorer, were not unlike those of the villages of the Atrebates. In front
of the chiefs' dwellings poles were erected from which hung the antlers of
deer, the skulls of boars and the fair-haired heads of men. Komm was taken
into a hut which contained nothing save a hearthstone still covered with ashes,
a bed of dried leaves and the image of a god shapen from the trunk of a lime-
tree. Bound to the pillar which supported the thatched roof, the Atrebate
meditated on his ill luck and sought in his mind for some magic word of power
or some ingenious device which should deliver him from the wrath of the
British chieftains.
And to beguile his wretchedness, after the manner of his ancestors, he
composed a song of menace and complaint, coloured by pictures of his native
woods and mountains, the memory of which filled his heart.
Women with babes at the breast came and looked at him curiously and
questioned him as to his country, his race and his adventures. He answered
them kindly. But his soul was sad and wracked by cruel anxiety.
[1] The modern Arras.—Trans.
Detained until the end of summer on the Morini shore, Cæsar set sail one
night about the third watch, and by the fourth hour of day had sight of the
Island. The Britons awaited him on the beach. But neither their arrows of hard
wood nor their scythed chariots, nor their long-haired horses trained to swim
in the sea among the shoals, nor their countenances made terrible with paint
gave check to the Romans. The Eagle surrounded by legionaries touched the
soil of the barbarians' Island. The Britons fled beneath a shower of stone and
lead hurled from machines which they believed to be monsters. Struck with
terror, they ran like a herd of elks before the spear of the hunter.
When towards evening they had reached the great village near the coast, the
chiefs sat down on stones ranged in a circle by the road-side and took counsel.
All night they continued to deliberate; and when dawn began to gleam on the
horizon, while the larks' song pierced the grey sky, they went into the hut
where Komm of the Atrebates had been enchained for thirty days. They looked
at him respectfully because of the Romans. They unbound him. They offered
him a drink made of the fermented juice of wild cherries. They restored to him
his weapons, his horses, his comrades, and, addressing him with flattering
words, they entreated him to accompany them to the camp of the Romans
and to ask pardon for them from Cæsar the Powerful.
"Thou shalt persuade him to be our friend," they said to him, "for thou art
wise and thy words are nimble and penetrating as arrows. Among all the
ancestors whose memory is enshrined in our songs, there is not one who
surpasses thee in sagacity."
It was with joy Komm of the Atrebates heard these words. But he concealed
his pleasure, and, curling his lips into a bitter smile, he said to the British
chiefs, pointing to the fallen willow leaves that were driven in eddies by the
wind:
"The thoughts of vain men are stirred like these leaves and ceaselessly carried
in every direction. Yesterday they took me for a madman and said I had eaten
of the herb of Erin that maddens the grazing beasts. To-day they perceive in
me the wisdom of their ancestors. Nevertheless I am as good a counsellor one
day as another, for my words depend neither upon the sun nor upon the
moon, but upon my understanding. As the reward of your ill-doing, I ought to
deliver you up to the wrath of Cæsar, who would cut off your hands and put
out your eyes, so that begging bread and beer in the wealthy villages you
would testify to his might and justice throughout the Island of Britain.
Notwithstanding I will forget the wrong you have done me. I will remember
that we are brethren, that the Britons and the Atrebates are the fruit of the
same tree. I will act for the good of my brethren who drink the waters of the
Thames. Cæsar's friendship, which I came to their Island to offer them, I will
restore to them now that they have lost it through their folly. Cæsar, who loves
Komm, and has made him to be King over the Atrebates and the Morini who
wear collars of shells, will love the British chiefs, painted with glowing colours,
and will establish them in their wealth and power, because they are the friends
of Komm, who drinketh the waters of the Somme."
And Komm of the Atrebates spake again and said: "Learn from me that which
Cæsar shall say unto you when you bend over your shields at the foot of his
tribunal and that which it behooveth you in your wisdom to reply unto him. He
will say unto you: 'I grant you peace. Deliver up to me noble children as
hostages.' And you will make answer: 'We will deliver up unto you our noble
children. And we will bring you certain of them this very day. But the greater
number of our noble children are in the distant places of this Island, and to
bring them hither will take many days.'"
The chiefs marvelled at the subtle mind of the Atrebate. One of them said to
him:
"Komm, thou art possessed of a great understanding, and I believe thy heart
to be filled with kindness toward thy British brethren who drink the waters of
the Thames. If Cæsar were a man, we should have courage to fight against
him, but we know him to be a god because his vessels and his engines of war
are living creatures and endowed with understanding. Let us go and ask him
to pardon us for having fought against him and to leave us in possession of
our sovereignty and of our riches."
Having thus spoken, the chiefs of the Island of Fogs leapt upon their horses,
and set forth towards the sea-shore where the Romans were encamped near
the cove where their deep-keeled ships lay at anchor, not far from the beach
up which they had drawn their galleys. Komm rode beside them. When they
beheld the Roman camp, which was surrounded by ditches and palisades,
traversed by wide and regular thoroughfares and covered with tents over
which soared the Roman eagles and floated the wreaths of the standards, they
paused in amazement and inquired by what art the Romans had built in one
day a town more beautiful and greater than any in the Isle of Mists.
"What is that?" cried one of them.
"It is Rome," replied the Atrebate. "The Romans bear Rome with them
everywhere."
Introduced into the camp, they repaired to the foot of the tribunal, where the
Proconsul sat surrounded by the fasces. His eyes were like the eagle's; and he
was pale in his purple.
Komm assumed a suppliant's attitude and entreated Cæsar to pardon the
British chiefs.
"When they fought against you," he said, "these chiefs did not act according to
their own heart, the dictates of which are always noble. When they drove
against you their chariots of war, they obeyed, they commanded not. They
yielded to the will of the poor and humble tribesmen who assembled in great
numbers against you; for they lacked understanding and were incapable of
comprehending your might. You know that in all things the poor are inferior to
the rich. Deny not your friendship to these men, who possess great wealth
and can pay tribute."
Cæsar granted the pardon which the chiefs implored, and said unto them:
"Deliver up to me as hostages the sons of your princes."
The most venerable of the chiefs replied:
"We will deliver up unto you our noble children. And some of them we will
bring to you this very day. But the children of our nobles are most of them in
the distant places of our Isle, and to bring them hither will take many days."
Cæsar inclined his head as a sign of assent. Thus, by the Atrebate's counsel,
the chiefs surrendered but a few young boys and those not of the highest
nobility.
Komm remained in the camp. At night, being unable to sleep, he climbed the
cliff and looked out to sea. The surf was breaking on the rocks. The wind from
the Channel mingled its sinister moaning with the roaring of the waves. The
wild moon, in its stately passage through the clouds, cast a fleeting light on to
the water. The Atrebate, with the keen eye of the savage, piercing through the
shadow and the mist, perceived ships, surprised by the tempest, toiling in the
waves and the wind. Some, helpless and drifting, were being driven by the
billows, the foam of which shone upon their sides like a pale gleam; others
were putting out to sea. Their sails swept the waves like the wings of some
fishing bird. These were the ships that were bringing Cæsar's cavalry, and they
were being scattered by the storm. The Gaul, joyfully breathing the sea air,
paced awhile along the edge of the cliff; and soon he descried the little bay,
where the Roman galleys which had alarmed the Britons lay dry upon the
sand. He saw the tide approach them gradually, then reach them, raise them,
hurl them one against the other and batter them, while the deep-keeled ships
in the cove were tossed to and fro at anchor by a furious wind which carried
away their masts and rigging like so many wisps of straw. Dimly he discerned
the confused movements of the panic-stricken legionaries running along the
beach. Their shouts reached his ear like the noise of a storm. Then he raised
his eyes to the divine moon, worshipped by the Atrebates who dwell on river-
banks and in the deep forests. In the stormy British sky she hung like a shield.
He knew that it was she, the copper moon at the full, that had brought this
spring tide and caused the tempest, which was now destroying the Roman
fleet. And on the cliff, in the majestic night, by the furious sea, there came to
the Atrebate the revelation of a secret, mysterious force, more invincible than
that of Rome.
When they heard of the disaster that had overtaken the fleet the Britons
joyfully realized that Cæsar commanded neither the Ocean nor the moon, the
friend of lonely shores and deep forests. They saw that the Roman galleys
were not invincible dragons, since the tide had shattered them and cast them,
with their sides rent open, on the sand of the beach. Filled once again with the
hope of destroying the Romans, they thought of slaying a great number by the
arrow and the sword, and of throwing those that were left into the sea.
Wherefore every day they appeared more and more assiduous in Cæsar's
camp. They brought the legionaries smoked meats and the skins of the elk.
They assumed a kindly expression; they spoke honeyed words, and admiringly
they felt the muscular arms of the centurions.
In order to appear more submissive still, the chiefs surrendered their
hostages; but they were the sons of enemies on whom they wished to be
revenged, or uncomely children not born of families who were the issue of the
gods. And, when they believed that the little dark men confidently relied upon
their friendliness, they gathered together the warriors of all the villages on the
banks of the Thames, and, uttering loud cries, they hurled themselves against
the camp gates. These gates were defended by wooden towers. The Britons,
unacquainted with the art of carrying fortified positions, could not penetrate
through the outer circle, and many of the chiefs with woad-stained visages fell
at the foot of the towers. Once again the Britons knew that the Romans were
endowed with superhuman strength. Therefore on the morrow they came to
implore Cæsar's pardon and to promise him their friendship.
Cæsar received them with a passive countenance, but that very night he
caused his legions to embark in the hastily repaired ships and made for the
Morini coast. Having lost hope of receiving his support of his cavalry which the
tempest had scattered, he abandoned for the time the conquest of the Isle of
Mists.
Komm of the Atrebates accompanied the army on its return to the Morini
shore. He had embarked on the vessel which bore the Proconsul. Cæsar,
curious concerning the customs of the barbarians, asked him whether the
Gauls did not consider themselves the descendants of Pluto and whether it
were not on that account that they reckoned time by nights instead of by
days. The Atrebate could not give him the true reason for this custom. But he
told Cæsar that in his opinion at the birth of the world night had preceded day.
"I believe," he added, "that the moon is more ancient than the sun. She is a
very powerful divinity and the friend of the Gauls."
"The divinity of the moon," answered Cæsar, "is recognized by Romans and
Greeks. But think not, Commius, that this planet, which shines upon Italy and
upon the whole earth, is especially favourable to the Gauls."
"Take heed, Julius," replied the Atrebate, "and weigh your words. The moon
that you here behold fleeing through the clouds is not the moon which at
Rome shines on your marble temples. Though she be big and bright, this
moon could not be seen in Italy. The distance is too great."
Winter came and covered Gaul with darkness, with ice and with snow. The
hearts of the warriors in their wattle huts were moved as they thought on the
chiefs and their retainers whom Cæsar had slain or sold by auction.
Sometimes to the door of the hut came à man begging bread and showing his
wrists with the hands cut off by a lictor. And the warriors' hearts revolted.
Words of wrath passed from mouth to mouth. They assembled by night in the
depths of the woods and the hollows of the rocks.
Meanwhile King Komm with his faithful followers hunted in the forests, in the
land of the Atrebates. Every day, a messenger in a striped mantle and red
braces came by secret paths to the King, and, slackening the speed of his
horse as he drew near to him, said in a low voice:
"Komm, will you not be a free man in a free country? Komm, will you any
longer submit to be a slave of the Romans?"
Then the messenger disappeared along the narrow path, where the fallen
leaves deadened the sound of his galloping horse.
Komm, King of the Atrebates, remained the Romans' friend. But gradually he
persuaded himself that it behooved the Atrebates and the Morini to be free,
since he was their King. It annoyed him to see Romans, settled at
Nemetacum, sitting in tribunals, where they dispensed justice, and
geometricians from Italy planning roads through the sacred forests. And then
he admired the Romans less since he had seen their ships broken against the
British cliffs and their legionaries weeping by night on the beach. He continued
to exercise sovereignty in Cæsar's name. But to his followers he darkly hinted
at the approach of war.
Three years later the hour had struck: Roman blood had flowed in Genabum.
The chieftains allied against Cæsar assembled their fighting men in the Arverni
Hills. Komm did not love these chiefs. Rather did he hate them, some because
they were richer than he in men, in horses and in lands; others because of the
profusion of the gold and the rubies which they possessed; others, again,
because they said that they were braver than he and of nobler race.
Nevertheless he received their messengers, to whom he gave an oak-leaf and
a hazel twig as a sign of affection. And he corresponded with the chiefs who
were hostile to Cæsar by means of twigs cut and knotted in such a manner as
to be unintelligible save to the Gauls, who knew the language of leaves.
He uttered no war-cry. But he went to and fro among the villages of the
Atrebates, and, visiting the warriors in their huts, to them he said:
"Three things were the first to be born: man, liberty, light."
He made sure that, whenever he should utter the war-cry, five thousand
warriors of the Morini and four thousand warriors of the Atrebates would at his
call buckle on their baldrics of bronze. And, joyfully thinking that in the forest
the fire was smouldering beneath its ashes, he secretly passed over to the
Treviri in order to win them for the Gallic cause.
Now, while he was riding with his followers beneath the willows on the banks
of the Moselle, a messenger wearing a striped mantle brought him an ash
bough bound to a spray of heather, in order to give him to understand that the
Romans had suspected his designs and to enjoin him to be prudent. For such
was the meaning of the heather tied to the ash. But he continued on his way
and entered into the country of the Treviri. Titus Labienus, Cæsar's lieutenant,
was encamped there with ten legions. Having been warned that King Commius
was coming secretly to visit the chiefs of the Treviri, he suspected that his
object was to seduce them from their allegiance to Rome. Having had him
followed by spies, he received information which confirmed his suspicions. He
then resolved to get rid of this man. He was a Roman, a son of the divine City,
an example to the world, and by force of arms he had extended the Roman
peace to the ends of the earth. He was a good general and an expert in
mathematics and mechanics. During the leisure of peace, beneath the
terebinths in the garden of his Campanian villa, he held converse with
magistrates touching the laws, the morals and the customs of peoples. He
praised the virtues of antiquity and liberty. He read the works of Greek
historians and philosophers. His was a rare and polished intellect. And because
Komm was a barbarian, unacquainted with things Roman, it seemed to Titus
Labienus good and fitting that he should have him assassinated.
Being informed of the place where he was, he sent to him his master of horse,
Caius Volusenus Quadratus, who knew the Atrebate, for they had been
commissioned to reconnoitre together the coasts of the isle of Britain before
Cæsar's expedition hither; but Volusenus had not ventured to land. Therefore,
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