The Wald (11 page)

. . .

“And so,” Drusus was saying, “this man believes there to be somewhere between five thousand and ten thousand inhabitants on this long island.”  He pointed to the Frisian gui
de who was still not sure what to make of his new position, yet stood in obedience quietly behind the commander.  “He thinks the main portion of their villages is situated here.”  Drusus indicated the westernmost side of the island with his finger.  “Manilius, I believe if we disembark a single cohort it would be enough to frighten them into allying with us.  I don’t want to waste time unloading the entire fleet.  Send a patrol ahead to the villages with the interpreter and bring their leaders to me.”

The general abruptly stopped speaking so his camp p
refect answered plainly, “Yes, lord,” while bowing.  The tribunes awaited their orders.

“What does that centurion think he is doing?” asked Drusus, pointing behind his officers toward a centurion who had his entire unit assembled on the beach.
  “I don’t recall giving any orders to leave the ships.”

Manilius snapped his head around while craning his neck.  A smile instinctively curled on his face as he thought about what pleasure he would get from publicly humiliating and punishing Septimus for such a wanton disregard for protocol.  The camp prefect was careful to return his expression to its more familiar seriousness when he looked back to his commander. 
“Legate, that is the seventh son of the goat herder.  It seems even men who have earned valor must be reminded of their place.  I’ll see that it is done.”

Drusus shook his head in disgust.  “Yes, do so.  Punish him in front of the officers only, of course.  His men must still respect him.”  The general was clearly not pleased with having to deal with such foolishness while planning for larger events. 
But Drusus managed to bring out his general good nature.  “And remember, Manilius, he’s the son of a sheep herder.  He ate a lot of mutton.”  The commander was about to open his mouth to issue further orders when his camp prefect interrupted.

“Yes, l
ord.  Or you may send him back to the ranks of enlisted men and I will see that he is punished properly in full view of the legion.”

Drusus was not happy that his first centurion allowed the distasteful discussion
to linger, but he had learned to respect the old veteran’s advice.  Manilius had seen more conflict in the name of Rome than the general would ever witness.  As such, the governor began a subtle nod. The prefect saw this favorable twist and reflected on the justice of the gods.  Perhaps he would consult the augurs that Drusus brought with him on the campaign.  This small victory over Septimus might portend even more successes in the days to come.  Perhaps it was time to gamble some of his wages.  Perhaps he should retire when they returned to the frontier towns.  But Manilius slowed his mind and patiently awaited the orders to demote the infuriating centurion to come from his commander’s mouth.

Instead
, the words he heard were, “What is that sound?  I hear screams.”

. . .

Septimus heard them too.  He looked to the dense forest of trees that began abruptly at the edge of the sandy shore where thousands of ragged men burst out.  It was immediately clear none of them had any intention of negotiating with these invaders from the sea.

The beach was broad enough for much of the fleet to line up against it
. It was deep – perhaps forty paces.  Septimus let his military-trained mind take over.  Without thinking, he calculated how long it would take to shift his century down the beach to protect the senior officers’ flagship.  “Left face.  Run to Drusus!” he shouted, all as one command.

Stray
projectiles were already crashing into his century’s right side as his small column ran three abreast to quickly reach their leader.  All of his men’s shields were carried on the left side and did no good against the incoming rain of missiles.  All legionaries were trained to be right handed with their weapons, left handed in shield defense.  Septimus heard several screams from soldiers he knew but did not look back as they clattered to the ground.

“Halt!” he cried when they
reached their goal.  “Javelins.  Let’s kill a few of these animals so they scurry back to their holes.  Loose!”

Nearly e
ighty javelins, straight and menacing, pierced the air before each one of them tore into the flesh and bones of the attackers.  Fifty of the running horde flew backward off their feet, toppling to the sand or into their comrades.  Many of those killed in that first volley had two or even three javelins poking from their bodies.   Thick blood rapidly filled in depressions in the beach.

The center of the marauders
’ advance was checked some ten paces from Septimus at the sight of the easy way the Romans had dispatched so many of their number.  The right and left flanks, however, continued pounding to the water’s edge.  Some of these would successfully wade out into the shallows and some would even find their way aboard ships to cut and kill.  Septimus was intent to make sure such a disgrace did not happen to his general.

“Shields!” he called and all his men interlocked their shields as they’d been trained to do since their first day of becoming legionar
ies.  Splashing behind told him that other centurions had at last been successful in converting their men from seamen into soldiers once again.  The familiar voice of Manilius rang out above the rest, shouting to his unit of the general’s guards to do likewise.

A chief of some sort tried his best to rally the panting Burchani
ans.  He yelled at his men, his one eye glaring directly at the centurion.  It was all Septimus could do to control his own desire to order a charge and slaughter those men.  And his century would slaughter them.  Their opponents were non-trained fishermen.  They would bleed all over the dust, all over his men.  But he knew he mustn’t order such a reckless advance.  He learned his lesson against the wily Sugambrians and would not be cut off once again.  Roman discipline, he thought, would rule the world.

The Burchani
an leader had finally shouted enough inspiring words so that his men broke out in a dead run directly toward Septimus and his century.  In ten quick strides they smashed into the tall Roman shields, dying by the dozens as the legionaries stabbed them with their short swords between cracks or over top their shields.  At least three of the wild men were successful at driving their spears into a legionary’s foot or his eye.  But when those Romans fell, another stepped over him to replace his position in the shield wall.  It took tireless training to get a man to continue on in the face of such terror, and Septimus’ legionaries proved that he had drilled them more than adequately.

Septimus held his position on the beach, slicing and stabbing the island men until their dea
d or dying stacked up four deep.  The time oozed by for what seemed an eternity.  The fighting was gory and frightening.  The tribesmen seemed bent on dying and taking one or two Romans with them.

Soon reinforcements came. 
First the left flank of Septimus’ unit was filled with dripping, clamoring Romans.  Then his right flank was supplied with men.  And then Drusus himself splashed ashore on his magnificent war horse.  The men of Septimus’ century parted as he made his way through them to the front, his long spatha sword drawn. The fighting general shouted encouragement.  Now they would take the battle to these haughty Burchanians.

As soon as his horse darted past the first line of Roman troops Drusus shouted, “Advance, half pace.” 
The men did so, eager to take the fight to the attackers.  They forced and pushed their way forward against the will of the Burchanians.

Drusus cut down man after man while his horse worked in the manner she was trained
, clearing out a path for her master.  Septimus felt like he was a part of the surf behind him during the flood tide, slowly lapping up the shore, dampening more and more of the shoreline.  Only it wasn’t water that soaked the sand, it was Burchanian blood and Burchanian urine.  Bodies of the tribesmen littered the sand from the edge of the sea to the trees.  It was difficult to walk over the uneven terrain they created.

Even above the clatter and horror of battle, Septimus thought he could hear the artillery men standing on the prow of Drusus’ ship as they tightly
wound the gears of the ballista.  The torsion they fed into the diabolical machine would soon send a prominent message to their opponent. It was not wise to fight the empire.

A frightening crack perforated the air above him as several of the machines unleashed their power at once.  Septimus did not see the missiles as they flew through the air, but he saw their effects.  In front of him
, four of the enemy were killed with a single bolt as it sliced through them in order, carrying with it organs and broken bits of bone.  These dead men did not even have the opportunity to scream, but their comrades did.  They cried out in horror from what they had just witnessed.  Many shook their heads in belly-wrenching dread and flew.  In moments all of them had their backs turned toward the Romans and ran away from the battle.

“Advance, double time!” shouted Drusus.  “Cut them down.  Maintain formation.”

Then Septimus ran after his general, proud to serve a brave commander who bloodied his sword along with his men.  The centurion recognized some of the legionaries from Marcus Caelius’ century then heard his friend call out as they ran.  “Septimus, how did you know to prepare for a surprise attack?  How did you know to be on the beach?”

Of course, he had not known anything about an attack.  Septimus had only known he hated the sea and desperately needed terra firma
beneath his feet.  But he was a soldier and soldiers all lied to one another.  They lied about the number of men they killed in battle.  They lied about their conquests of women, slave and free.  They lied most of all to themselves.  “I figured word of our simple defeats of the Batavians and Frisians reached their ears,” shouted Septimus while taking a hunk of flesh from a fleeing Burchanian’s back.  “I thought we should be prepared for a test.  Remember, I know the army.”

“You do.  You really do,” marveled his friend
, neither wondering nor caring if what Septimus had told him was the truth.

. . .

It had only been twelve weeks since they last encountered the Romans, harassing them as they withdrew, but Berengar was eager to fight them again.  He burst into his father’s house with news.  “Their commander Drusus has taken his fleet out to sea.  He’s already cowed the Batavians and Frisians.  I suppose the Chaucians are next.”  Adalbern, who had come inside from stacking fuel for the winter fire in order to eat a midday meal of dried meat and moldy cheese, jumped to his feet when he heard mention of his northern neighbors.

Important news such as this traveled surprisingly fast among the tribes.  Although family and broader clan
s viewed themselves in a fiercely independent light, they knew that they shared a common bond of heritage to the fatherland – those to the north also shared the great sea. The Sugambrians and those to their south shared the dark, mysterious wald.  Connecting all the dispersed tribes and families were the rivers.  For as long as anyone could remember, they had served as vital conduits on which goods and information could flow.  That is, until Rome took the Rhenus, leaving them with the smaller meandering rivers in Germania’s heart.

It was a travelling merchant who carried the news of Drusus
’ successes to the Sugambrians that year.  Berengar was harvesting pea pods with his mother, Dorthe, from a small patch carved out of the dense wood north of his father’s longhouse, when the familiar whistle of the salesman fell upon the boy’s ear.  The tune was immediately recognizable.  Every man who crossed the black wald on his own would hum or whistle or sing the melody to keep the evil lurking in its forest dwellings at bay.  Berengar often wondered if the tune wouldn’t be more apt to call bandits to the traveler’s position, but he, too, always hummed it nervously when in the woods alone.

After exchanging the usual pleasantries with the man, Berengar’s
young mother, Dorthe, began haggling with the roaming vendor.  “What do you bring us today, Erdmann, any iron goods?” she asked, knowing that Adalbern would want to gather as much of the precious metal for weaponry as he could in the event the Romans returned.  “Our holes and furnaces have been running without ceasing since that Drusus brought his legion against us.  But every little bit extra can help.”

With a grunt Erdmann
hefted the great sack from his back with all its dangling goods clattering to the ground as he set the entire lot down, letting out an exhausted breath.  The old horse he led was equally laden with all manners of bags, boxes, and crates strapped seemingly haphazardly over its back, spindly rump, and thin shoulders.  Erdmann immediately set about digging through the bag on the ground.  “Nilsy and I have come a long way quickly,” he muttered before tossing a set of wooden bowls out of his way.  “I can’t remember what I stuffed down in here.”

Adalbern had long ago told Berengar not to let the merchant’s or his bedraggled horse’s appearance
s fool him.  Erdmann was shrewd and likely already negotiating as he rustled around in the bag, making sure the customer felt that just producing sight of the good to trade was a monumental task.

“Why do you move so quickly, then?” asked Berengar.  “We don’t usually see you from your trip north for another month.”