The Wald (16 page)

Marcus shrugged off his friend’s temper and answered, “I only mean that if this is the only cliff they’ve ever seen, and it springs forth as it does, why wouldn’t they want to worship their gods here?  We have beautiful hills and mountains in Rome and yet we still create massive spaces
made of marble in which to worship our gods.”

. . .

Drusus had his army camp at the eastern base of the Upperland.  So secure was he in their combing of the island for any signs of man that he did not even require them to dig the mound of earth and ditch that usually surrounded a Roman legion’s overnight encampment.  The men ate the small rations they had brought with them and stole eggs from the many birds.  Cooking the eggs was an interesting feat, but some enterprising men brought in a driftwood log from a far away shore and cut it up into pieces and sold it to others.  Soon, as night fell, the simmering pop and fragrance of frying eggs could be heard and smelled in the thick air.

Septimus posted sentries as was the protocol, but to protect them from what
, he did not know.  He thought that a man could sleep for a thousand years on the lonely island and not be disturbed.  If he could get over the constant racket from the seabirds, that was.

In the morning, the sky was still dark, but the camp was coming alive
as men stoked the coals of their cooking fires, hoping for a little more heat to break the cold that blew in off the sea and had sunk down around their leather tents.  The night before, Septimus had ample wine from a ceramic jar that was brought from the general’s stores and given to the officers, so his head was thick and his bladder was full when his eyes sprung open at the sound of the first screeches from seagulls that flapped noisily while landing on the peak of his tent.

He strapped on his boots and gear and after ducking outside, noticed that the sun would crest behind him and bring about a cloudless beginning to the day.  Septimus felt like
revisiting the Upperland to get a better look and so held his urine while scaling the red cliffs.  Several minutes and a skinned knee brought him to the flat summit.  He walked to the flat edge facing the sea to the west and allowed his manhood to slip out below his uniform.  The liquid came in a robust stream and he urinated down to the waves with his hands on his hips.  His stream cascaded off the backs of some of the birds who curled up a little more tightly wondering if they had been struck by a river of warm rain.

To the south was the mainland of Germania, just a dark, distant haze.  Ahead of him, straight west somewhere
, he knew was Julius Caesar’s Britannia.  He could not see it, of course, but had seen it on maps.  He wondered if those Britons were just as independently minded as the Germans.  As his urine stream tapered to a spurt he stretched his back and looked north toward where he had seen the floating tuft of earth in the fog the night before.

Septimus froze.  His eyes widened.  His urine stopped.

Tucking his manhood back into place, he ran to the cliff and scrambled back down to camp.  He raced past his century, waved off Marcus, and found Manilius, who had just completed his own morning ritual in the latrine dug the previous evening.  “Prefect, I have news for Drusus.  May I have a word with him?”

“No, there is a chain
of command.  Tell me your news,” barked the old senior centurion as they walked in stride to where the general’s tent was surrounded by those of his officers, staff, servants, and augurs.

Septimus veered left away from Manilius.  Exasperated, the prefect halted.  “I said, tell me your news.  Where do you go now?”

Without looking back Septimus trotted off toward the fringes of the central zone of the camp.  “My apologies, prefect.  You are most correct, there is a chain of command and there is a reason for it.  My news is not that important.  Thank you for your counsel.”  He disappeared behind a mass of tents and so the prefect grumbled and returned to his morning duties.

“Paterculus,” Septimus said quietly when he found the old man carrying the general’
s bucket of steaming stool to the latrine.

The old white-haired servant kept on his march, “Yes, centurion?  I must keep moving this morning if I am to accomplish all the gods have in store for me today.”

“Of course, I’ll make it brief.  There are many augurs in the fleet of Drusus.”

The servant was tapping the bucket’s opening for a third time on the plank that had been laid across two stones to span the dung pit.  Apparently, the general’s shit was as sticky as the next man’s.  “Yes, there are many
augurs.  The general wisely consults them for guidance.  You would be wise not to think you will use them as your own personal oracles for finding wealth or women.  I have seen the general’s normal overly familiar disposition change to something more becoming of a legate or even emperor when his officers or their stations turn abusive.”

The old man was surprisingly spry and Septimus had to stretch his gait just to keep up as they headed back to the tents.  “I assure you, Paterculus, that my intent is nothing of the sort.  I only need to know which
augur is the favorite, the most accurate, the man with the most clout.  I’ve discovered something and I need him to present it to the general in the most fitting manner.”

“Ah, gaming for favor.”

Septimus opened his mouth to protest, but the old man cut him off.  “There’s nothing wrong with that so don’t try to deny it or make excuses.  You’ll want to find Cornelius.  He’d kiss a toad’s ass if the general told him to do so, but he’s decent and accurate at his work.  The general respects him and even though he treats me as a mat on the ground, I have to say I do too.  You’ll find him talking to the gods at this hour.  None of the other augurs wake this early.”

The centurion sprang off again toward the center of the camp.  Paterculus mumbled to himself, “You’re welcome, you little eager . . .”  His voice trailed off as he began working on his next task of washing his hands to prepare the general’s breakfast.

The augurs had their servants group their tents so that the door flaps opened to a central square.  Septimus had never counted how many oracles Drusus brought with him, but as he quietly stepped in their midst, he saw that there were eight tents.  Snores could be heard coming from seven of them, but one sent forth the sounds of an augur praying.

Septimus listened at the closed flap for several moments
, unsure of what to do next.  He was afraid to interrupt one who was so close to the gods that he could divine their meaning and will by reading the signs of nature so freely available for all to see, yet so opaque to most to interpret.  All other men saw the same signs – a bird alighting on a branch with an upturned leaf or a mudslide coming down the west as opposed to the south side of a mountain – and could decipher no additional information.  Augurs were important because they knew the meanings of the things that mere men only observed.

The strong voice of a young man broke the relative silence.  “Will you come in or not, centurion?”

Septimus was startled, but said, “If I may.”

“You may.  I’d rather not have someone skulking about at my door all morning.  Uncertainty is bad for the digestion, you know.”

The centurion moved the heavy flap aside and ducked into the tent which was tall enough at the peak to allow him to stand at his full height.  The young man in front of him had just risen from a backless chair that sat in front of an altar of sorts.  He had thick black hair that curled slightly, hanging just over his ears.  His face was neither fat nor thin, but was soft like a man that did not perform manual labor.  The man stood with his hands folded in front, observing Septimus.

Septimus glanced over the augur’s shoulder to the altar.  “I am sorry if I interrupted your meditations to the gods.  You are Cornelius?”

“I am,” answered the augur without offering his arm, which was more disconcerting to the centurion than it ought to have been.  “But it does not take a prophet to know such things, centurion.”

The man was brash, maddeningly so.  Septimus wanted an ally, but did not do well when it came to kowtowing to those being unreasonable.  He tried to take back the advantage while simultaneously ingratiating himself to the man.  “And just how did you know it was a centurion who stood outside your door?  You must be as good a seer as Paterculus has said.”

“Hmm.  I am better than Paterculus said.”  The augur gestured to a stool.  “Sit,” he said while returning to his own seat.  “But I’m afraid that any man with observational skills would have been able to deduce that you were a centurion.”  When Septimus’ face showed confusion, Cornelius rolled his eyes.  “Every officer, augur, tribune, or servant who works closely with the general knows not to disturb me at this time of day unless there is an emergency from the general himself.  Since you did not scream that a fire had broken out or that war was upon us, I knew you were none of them.  Furthermore, none of the common legionaries would dare set foot in the square of the augur tents at anytime of the day or night for fear that we would incant some spell of the gods upon them, or simply have them lashed which would be much less dramatic, but still satisfactory at getting the point across.  That leaves the other random officers of the legions and most of them are too old or too junior to have the gait I heard from you.  Therefore, you had to be someone between the age of say twenty-eight to forty-three who was fit and an officer.  The only answer in our present camp could be a centurion.  Are you satisfied, Septimus?”

Septimus was speechless.

“And before you get excited that I used my powers to divine your name, you should know I did not.  You have earned several awards rather publicly and have earned a somewhat checkered reputation in the eyes of the camp prefect so that he points you out occasionally with the grumbling that comes with age.  Once you stepped into my tent, I knew who you were.  Not a trick, I’m afraid.  Now what is it that you need?  Help with a woman back home?  Need advice on how to bed down more local girls as we campaign?  Want me to tell you where the lost treasures of the gods lie?  Quickly, quickly – I haven’t got all day.”

Septimus could hardly remember why he came in the first place, but at last uttered simply, “Hercules.”

Cornelius slapped his knees and rose to his feet.  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?  You’ll want to talk with someone else – Manilius, perhaps.  Fighting prowess and strength are not my areas of expertise.”  His hands fluttered like he tried to scare away a stray cat.  “Now go on.  Think better of your actions next time.”

Septimus rose, shaking his head.  “No
, Cornelius.”  Still the man’s hands flapped so Septimus firmly grabbed him by the wrist.  The shock on the augur’s face showed that he was used to having his orders followed.  But his face quickly returned to normal as he tried to again master the situation.

“Centurion, perhaps you come from a harsh background and do not know the accepted way to obey a seer.  You may remove your hand and leave or I will have to call the personal guards of Drusus
. Shouting for assistance in this rather benign matter will only irritate them and the general.  That anger, I’m afraid, will not be directed toward me.”  His face, to Septimus’ dismay showed no smugness.  The seer was as sure in his position in life as any man the centurion had ever seen.

“Cornelius, we have discovered another set of the Pillars of Hercules right here on this island.  That is what I am trying to tell you about.  I need you to come with me to tell Drusus and
gather him for you to triumphantly reveal them.  I cannot believe that you did not discern their existence on your own with your powers.”  Septimus was proud of himself for the last jab.  He let go of the augur’s wrist.

While rubbing his now reddened
skin, Cornelius turned so that Septimus could clearly see his altar in the dim lamplight.  “And, dear Septimus, whoever said that I had not divined their presence?”  A collection of stones sat atop the altar.  On further inspection, Septimus saw that they were arranged to represent the island on which they stood.  Several thin brown and grey stones represented the sandy lowlands of the island.  A pile of red sandstone represented the Upperland cliffs.  And, just as Septimus had seen them in the first moments of dawn, sat two towers, one red, one white – the Pillars of Hercules.

. . .

Septimus led the contingent of officers and augurs along with Drusus around the northwest corner of the island toward the base of the first pillar.  They splashed through the waters that abutted the red cliffs.  The tide was out so only their legs to their shins became soaked.  Drusus had not even taken the time to have his horse saddled after Septimus and Cornelius came in to tell him of his tremendous discovery.

At first Manilius scowled at yet another coup of success by the impetuous young centurion.  Then he saw the red sandstone pillar nearest the cliffs sitting like a spire pointing to the heavens.  Manilius shrugged internally at the sight.  It was impressive but not so meaningful as to be one of the Pillars of Hercules.  Then his commander’s own arm extended out to sea, pointing into the distance.  Drusus gasped and cooed like a priestess of the Gaul.  Manilius
followed with his gaze and saw the morning sunlight reflecting back to them from a majestic peak.

About five thousand Roman feet away, st
anding like a marble column erected by the gods or by the emperor, was a shining white pillar.  It was connected to the nearer red column by a thin track of sand and rock that ran the entire length.  At high tide the causeway would likely be covered by no more than a foot of sea water.