The Germans: Double History Of A Nation. Emil Grimm Ludwig

       PRELUDE BEFORE DAWN

      “The German runs no greater risk than to lift himself up with and at the expense of his neighbor; wherefore it is a good thing for his nation that the outside world took notice of it so belatedly.”

      —GOETHE

       I

      FROM the wide plains a hill rises in the morning sun. Two mounted squadrons approach it from opposite sides at the same time. Their aspect is very different, one from the other.

      Military cloaks, fastened by clasps over leather armor and armless tunics, flutter from the shoulders of one group of horsemen. Strands of long dark hair stray from beneath the bronze helmets fitted with rigid sidepieces. Broad swords of fair length hang from the men’s sides and small bucklers are fastened on their backs but they grip their lances in their right hands, together with the reins. The horsemen of the other group have animal pelts fastened about their bodies, with stag or bison skins drawn over their heads. But beneath these skins long golden-yellow hair, often curly, escapes, seeming to take the place of helmets. The swords of these men are longer and narrower, and many carry a curved dagger besides. Their lances are long and better suited to thrusting than throwing.

      Before each of these hosts rides its leader, dressed in fashion similar to his men, but richer and more colorful. Both are preceded by mounted heralds bearing insignia—the one an artful eagle-shield of bronze with the four large letters SPQR, the other a crudely painted image of an animal, probably a bull’s head. A few hundred paces from the hill they halt; a messenger rides over; commands ring out in two different languages. At last the commanders disengage themselves from their troops, each taking along but ten men. Soon they meet on the crest of the hill, the leaders saluting each other without dismounting.

      They are Caesar, the Roman, and Ariovistus, the Teuton. The scene is close to the river of destiny, a bare mile west of the Rhine, in Gaul, about where Mulhouse lies today. It is the year 58 B.C. For two thousand years to come wars and battles will follow on each other’s heels here in Alsace. But on this particular day a peaceful settlement is still being sought.

      The two men, both between forty and fifty, had heard a great deal about each other. Both were in a strange country. Caesar, the Roman Proconsul, had only just come to Gaul, seeking an agreement with a conqueror who had preceded him and might be disposed to share the spoils. Ariovistus had made the westward crossing of the Rhine from the Elbe and the Oder on the pretext of aiding a distressed Gallic tribe; had then subjugated the supposedly liberated tribe, and later concluded treaties with faraway Rome. The Roman Senate had been eager to win over the unknown barbarian in the North with titles and presents, for the marauding Teutonic tribes had long spread fear and terror in Rome. But now that Caesar had come to Gaul in the name of the world power, he could not close his ears to the complaints of the displaced Aedui against the conquering Teutons.

      What the two men said on that hill that morning has been accurately recorded by Caesar:—

“Remember, Ariovistus,” Caesar began, “all the favors you have received

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