The Wald (17 page)

The entire group of harden
ed soldiers and prominent Roman officers stood in awestruck silence until Cornelius ventured to speak.  “Lord, I had seen this discovery, as your young centurion will tell you.  He was the first to lay eyes upon its beauty, but you, legate, are the son of the living god, Augustus, himself.  Shall we worship here and now?”

Drusus nodded and the augur took a position between the men and the sea, ignoring the fact that he stood knee deep in the rocking waves.  Drusus bowed to one knee and his men did likewise.  Cornelius began, “Neptune,
brother of Jupiter, you’ve shown us your favor by leading us to this marvelous discovery – to the very Pillars of Hercules!”  Cornelius, though young, bold, and successful was not above being genuinely moved by the sight.  He continued, “This can be read as nothing but an omen of the highest and best order.  Hercules, the very son of Jupiter, king of the gods, has been a leader of men for time eternal.  We beckon his continued favor on Drusus and his line, on Drusus and his legions, on Drusus and his father, your favored son, Augustus.”

The worship continued for some time after that, ending when Cornelius brought out something from his satchel that popped and smoked in his hand.  He threw whatever it was into the water, which hissed and bubbled for a moment until the dark object disappeared.  To Septimus
, speaking to the gods in such a manner was strange.  He and the soldiers he knew normally talked to them alone, leaving gifts or trinkets for them in the many temples that Rome had seen erected throughout the empire.  When he was on march, Septimus often found himself quietly asking for their continued favor, tapping his left shoulder with his right hand to signify his respect of them.  But as he knelt in the wet sand with a single pebble poking his bare knee, Septimus was moved more than he had ever been.  He was supremely confident in his place in the world and in Rome’s position as its matchless ruler.  Drusus would find nothing but success and so Septimus would remain with him as long as he was permitted.

After Drusus rose, the men joined him in the upright position.  “Cornelius, I mean to walk to the white column, will we be safe?”

Cornelius, who had a nearly perfect memory, thought for just a moment on the position of the moon and sun and the tides.  “Yes, lord.”

“Fine.  Manilius, Cornelius, and Septimus will walk with me.  Tribune,” Drusus said to one of his most senior men, the son of a prominent
senator back in Rome, “take the others and break camp.  Return to the ships and prepare to depart.  We will rendezvous with the rest of our fleet and strike one more blow into the heart of Germania before the weather turns cold.  We cannot fail with such a sign supporting us.”  He pointed again toward the pillars.

Drusus then began picking his way across the long jetty.  He ambled with his hands clasped behind his back.  The stiff breeze whipped and snapped his red cloak so that his small entourage had to keep several steps back to prevent from being
cracked with it.

“Cornelius,” the general said, “are these really the very twins of those at the mouth of the Mediterranean?”  He referred to the great cliff and far away mountain that guarded the narrow, western inlet to the sea that lapped most of the empire.

“There can be no doubt, legate.”

The general stopped and faced northeast.  “Then there can be no doubt that we’ve discovered the very gateway to the
Mare Caspium.  Somewhere, I don’t know how far, if we travel in that direction we will have found that we have nearly circumscribed the empire and instead of being north of Rome, we would be east.”  Septimus hadn’t even thought of that possibility, but he knew from the maps he had seen of the world drawn by the best cartographers in Rome that the general was correct.  “Septimus, you’ve done fine work and you have my favor.”  Then, for a heartbeat, the general thought about smoothing over the jealous feelings of Manilius, adding, “But do not think for a moment that I will ever place you in higher esteem than my camp prefect.  He has been holding and expanding the frontier since before you and I ceased wetting ourselves.”  Drusus ended his remark with a smile so that it was hard to take it as any type of threat.

Manilius smiled with pride at the acknowledgment of his commander, but did not gloat at Septimus.  The mood of the men was simply to
o buoyant to be brought down by petty disagreements.  Those would all resurface soon enough.  They knew that at the moment they had discovered a sign left by the gods for them alone.

They approached the white column and
, apprehensively at first, put their hands against its walls.  Small bits of it flaked off as they rubbed or picked at it.  “Chalk!” said Manilius.

“Chalk that grows from the seabed like a beacon to us,” said Cornelius.  “Look how there is no other sign of white or chalk anywhere else.”  The men all scanned the path and the shallow waters around the pillar.  No other white chalk was found.  It was a marvel
– set into the sea by Hercules.

Septimus bent down to collect some small stones and began stuffing them in his bag.  He had dozens of the small pebbles filling the sack before Drusus noticed.  “What are you doing?” he asked, now worried.

The centurion could tell that Drusus was somehow displeased and so he froze with one hand still reaching for another rock.  “Lord, I merely collect stones to use in our battle slings.  I figured that such a good omen may be able to travel with us.  I can give these to some of my legionaries when we truly need the beneficence of the gods, when things look dark in a fight as they sometimes do.”

Drusus thoughtfully considered the idea, but still turned toward his augur, Cornelius, “Can this be considered theft from the gods?”

With confidence seer answered, “No, lord.  These wonders were left for you to do as you please at this very moment.  In fact, the man has a good idea.  I recommend chipping some of the pillar for him to place into his bag – not as a souvenir, but as proof of our belief in the sustaining power of the gods.  He may give them to his slingers when he sees fit.”

Drusus looked back to Septimus and nodded his ascent.  The centurion greedily scooped more of the rocks up and then pulled out his gladius to chip small bits of the pillar down into the waiting mouth of the bag.  He was surprised
when Manilius even reached to help him hold the sack open to collect all of the falling flakes.

The group walked around the massive pillar, peering up at the birds that circled its top.  They tarried again for several moments
before they splashed their way back to the jetty, each lost in his own thoughts.

Drusus soon led them back down the path toward the red pillar and the island.  This time he didn’t stroll.  He advanced with purpose, secure in the knowledge th
at his plans and his success were part of the will of the gods.  The commander looked straight ahead to his goal, thinking only about his fleet and subjugating more Germans under Roman rule.

. . .

Berengar couldn’t believe his good luck.  Stigr and his Sugambrian guards had returned from the mouth of the Amisia confirming that much of the navy had moved on.  Many of the legionaries lounged on their vessels lolling on the waves.  Apparently, they had been given no objective, no orders, no tasks other than to wait for Drusus to return.

It was getting late in the year.  No one, certainly not the Romans, fought large battles in winter.  It was cold for everyone, but the Romans were just too large a force to have men in the field and properly supplied for a winter campaign.  Berengar surmised – after overhearing his father talking with the other nobles – that Drusus would probably return to the
Amisia and move his entire fleet en masse back to their heavily fortified winter bases west of the Rhenus in the land of the Celtic Gaul.

Drusus would not be of the mind or in the position to pursue the Sugambrians deep into the heart of their territory.  He would have to accept the battle as dictated by the tribesman.  The Roman would have to
endure a rapid blow and chew on the unsatisfactory fact that he was unable to follow up all winter.

Adalbern’s plan was to take advantage of all these factors.  He marched his army north along the
Amisia River.  Stigr and the Sugambrian scouts had said that several units of Roman soldiers and their Frisian auxiliary force rested on the shore so Adalbern would crush them against the waters.  His force would remain whole during the march until the last moment when he would relinquish command of smaller clan units to the village chiefs.  They would surround and converge upon the small force of Romans.  Stigr and the Sugambrians who accompanied him estimated the enemy strength on the shingle to be a mere one thousand men.  One swift strike with his army would kill most of them.  His people could then withdraw before the navy even had time to react.  Drusus would have to think twice before invading the lands of the tribes again.

. . .

“Septimus,” asked one of his favorite principali, called Naevius, “why do we continue our campaign into the late months of the year?”

Naevius was a good young man, a solid soldier who reminded Septimus of a younger version of himself. 
He had been with Septimus since the older man was made centurion.  Septimus knew the younger man asked, not out of fear, but a desire for understanding the objective his small contubernium of men would be asked to achieve.

Septimus leaned out onto the gunwale of his ship
to look at the dark wald that grew right up to the Amisia River edge.  The boughs of ancient trees jutted out over the waters.  Below the slow, shadowed surface may lurk one of the eels that the natives found so delicious, and Septimus found so repulsive.  He wondered the same thing as Naevius.  The centurion’s confidence was at its apogee immediately following their discovery of the great pillars.  But the drudgery of another week of command and life in general had done much to erode that faith.  He still held a wholehearted belief in the favorable opinion the gods obviously had of Drusus, but Septimus remembered that there were rules of warfare for a reason.  An army that went against them did so at their own potential peril.  A single snowflake landed on his hand, white from gripping the smooth wood and from the cold air that swept along the river.

“Precisely because the tribesmen won’t expect it,” he said to encourage Naevius and himself.  “Drusus will see these men humbled for their attacks against us.  He wants to show the Germans and Rome that he can move about freely on the waters into the heart of the tribes.
”

“And will we disembark to campaign on foot?” asked Naevius.

“No, I have heard nothing of the sort, though you should know by now that the general makes his own decisions.  I would guess that we meet no resistance.  After all, the Frisians live to our right and the Chaucians live to our left as we paddle up the Amisia.”

The answer satisfied Naevius and so he fell silent while the other men worked the slow rhythm of the oars.  The centurion finished, “I’d expect that we’ll row up the river until it becomes unnavigable to our ships or until Manilius’ ball sack becomes too cold and crawls back into his belly.”  Naevius gave a chuckle, clearly appreciating being invited into the clandestine world of insulting a superior officer with another superior officer.  “We’ll turn then and head to our winter bases along the
Rhenus.  Fear not, Naevius, for you’ll be back in plenty of time to celebrate the Februalia festival. You’ll be able to release your purified fertility and find yourself an Ubian whore on whom to practice during these cold northern months.  Until then, keep vigilant.”

. . .

“What do you mean that Drusus’ flagship travels up the Amisia toward us?  I thought he was away,” Adalbern shouted to the scout who had just brought him the news.

“Do we know their numbers?” asked Stigr
, who sat atop his horse next to the Sugambrian warlord.

“You’ll close your mouth
, Chaucian!” snapped Adalbern.  “I never should have trusted a Chaucian!”  He then ticked off on his fingers, “It goes family, clan, village, tribe, and then other so-called Germans.  By Teiwaz!  Why can’t I ever take my own advice?”

“Father, I don’t think this proves anything.  It simply means that Drusus has returned, not that Stigr lies,” retorted Berengar.  Adalbern swung to cuff him, but Gundahar caught his arm.

“The boy is right, Adalbern,” the lisping man said.  “I saw the anchored fleet with my own eyes.”

“Then you’re as foolish as the boy,”
said an increasingly agitated Adalbern.  “A simple signal could have alerted the Romans that we had taken the bait and they were now free to trap us.  Even as we speak they probably march around us.”

“Then perhaps we ought not speak any longer, father.  Perhaps we ought to plan and fight instead.”

Adalbern strung out a string of curses about the Romans and all manner of inanimate objects before finally cooling down.  “How many ships did you see?”

The scout answered meagerly, “I did not stay to count as I thought you’d want the news immediately.  I only know that there was a long line of them.  I could not see its tail end.  I am sorry, Adalbern.”

“Well you did what you thought I’d want,” deflected the bear of a man, surprising everyone.  “Gundahar, get more scouts out on each bank of the river.  Send some back downstream to get a count of their force.  I don’t care if you need fifty men, but get them out and back to me in a hurry!”