The Wald (3 page)

He began to cry, but kept running.  His eyesight was cloudy from sweat and tears.  With one hand he wiped them clear and was horrified.  The field before him was empty.  His people, his army had fled, leaving him on his own.

After running just ten more steps, Berengar padded to a halt and turned again – this time to face his enemy.  They came.  They marched in tight discipline, bearing down closer and closer with each of his pounding heartbeats.  But it wasn’t his heart that thundered in his chest.  It was the sound of nearly five thousand men with their ten thousand feet hammering the earth.  But then Berengar realized there was another thumping that was even closer than the Roman killing machine.  He spun
to see his father reaching a giant paw down to grab him.  Like a wolf carries her pups, Adalbern seized the scruff of the boy’s neck and hauled him up in front of his lap.

Their horse ran with such force, they pulverized the ground.  All of the Sugambrians churned and bruised the grasses
of Gaul that day as they fled ahead to the fatherland.  The Roman Fifth was obedient to their regulations and was not out for a fight that day.  They did not pursue which was fortunate for Adalbern and Berengar.

By the end of their time in Gaul, the Sugambrian raiding force that had crossed the
Rhenus heading west with two horses and a mess of hungry men, returned over the river toward their densely forested fatherland with over one hundred horses and enough provisions to feed their people through two winters.  Upon their return home, all the villages celebrated a set of clear victories.  They thanked the gods for bringing them badly needed supplies.  The people lauded Adalbern for his leadership and wisdom.  They cheered Berengar again and again as the heavy eagle of the mighty Roman Empire was passed around the evening fires.  He was a hero.  He symbolized their freedom from foreign rule.

And this
great victory of sustenance for the Sugambrians, for Adalbern and Berengar, was the beginning of their end.

CHAPTER 1

13 B.C.

Septimus was impatient.
  He had already been in Oppidum Ubiorum for a month, travelling from Augusta Vindelicorum garrison to join his new legion.  Since arriving, he’d trained his men every day to drive away boredom, theirs and his.  But word traveled that a massive campaign was in the making and he couldn’t wait to be a part of it.

S
ixteen years earlier, just as Caesar Augustus brushed aside his last rival to the empire, Septimus had volunteered for the army.  He was a citizen of Rome and was gladly welcomed to fill the ranks of one of the regular twenty-eight legions the emperor sent into the field.  Over the years Septimus had proven to be capable in leadership, bravery, and even administration and so after several campaigns was promoted to principalis, commanding the eight men in his contubernium.

But one month ago he’
d been promoted again, to centurion.  He had taken the news quietly as it was read to him from the papyrus page by one of the completely uninterested tribunes of his last legion, but after returning to the leather tent he shared with the other men, Septimus laughed aloud, slapping his knee.  After surviving the life of a basic foot soldier in the army of Augustus with its sometimes rancid food supplies and the occasional lashes ordered at the whim of a camp prefect, not to mention the missiles of Rome’s enemies, he’d achieved his dream.

Now, however,
he waited in near despair along with another one hundred twenty other centurions to hear Drusus speak his orders.  They stood in columns on a broad, level training ground that had been cleared to hold all the officers of two of Caesar’s legions.  The sun had risen hours ago and his fellow leaders assembled as instructed, standing in complete silence since then.  To make a noise would be to draw the ire of more senior men and perhaps a cane or leather thong whipped across the shoulders.  Septimus had to keep reminding himself that his recent promotion had brought him rank among the more senior officers.  It would not do to have one newly minted centurion to be flogged like a common legionary.

Eventually, his belly told him that he needed a midday ration, but his discipline allowed him to stand without wavering.  Septimus was buried in the center of all the centurions
, and so the day’s breeze never touched him. Sweat formed under his chain mail cuirass.  He waited for the commander of Rome’s northern legions to speak.

Drusus must have been delayed in his meeting with Augustus.  Whatever the two men had planned it was of immense proportions to bring
the emperor into the frontier filth of his realm from the comforts of Rome and her paved streets.  Of course, Augustus the Caesar had been a soldier in the field, but Septimus imagined that it was hard to remain sharp after so many years spent in the drudgery of administration.

Not that Oppidum Ubiorum was all bad.  Since the Germanic uprising and invasion of Gaul three years earlier, what was once a stinking outpost for a few soldiers and their Germanic allies, the Ubians, was swiftly growing into a hub of Roman culture, with the massive architecture to prove it.
  Septimus watched as distant artisans, imported from Rome, worked on the finishing touches of one of what would become many temples to the gods that would cluster around the city’s geometric center.  The centurion thought that one day this city, without any further military expeditions, may be enough for Drusus to turn the wild tribes from enemies into proper subjects.  Its mere presence, mere influence, mere commerce of breads, gold, pottery, steel, slaves, and women would be enough to tame the wretched Germanic beasts.  The thought made Septimus visibly cringe as forgoing conflict would mean weeks or years of tedium in the barracks.

Septimus had fought under Drusus before
, even seeing him ride past once while Septimus was supervising the digging of a new latrine.  He was there two years earlier when Drusus and his famously-silent older brother, Tiberius, founded Vindelicorum to secure the Alpine passes south of the Danuvius for the emperor.  Drusus had a solid reputation among the men despite everyone knowing that his position was not earned from valor, but rather patronage.  He was the adopted son of Caesar Augustus.  So was Tiberius for that matter.

That day
as he stood under the clear sky was to be Septimus’ first time to hear Drusus, the new governor of Gaul and commander-in-chief of its military forces, speak.  It would have been a lie to say he wasn’t nervous, but Septimus made certain to show no anxiety.

A flash of movement returned his attention to the raised platform from which the governor would address the men.  A young man, perhaps twenty-five,
strode to the center of the dais with all the confidence that comes with station.  Even if Septimus had never seen him before, he would have known his commander by his carriage, head held high, not a single wrinkle in his deep red cape, and muscled armor that had the sheen that comes from the toil of a slave’s scrubbing.

The officers spontaneously cheered.  It was heartfelt, the kind that a leader earns from his decisions
and actions, not the sort that comes from mere position.  Septimus joined in the clapping, genuinely glad that the orders given that afternoon would be divided and sliced until the century he commanded received its task list for some grand campaign, hopefully across the Rhenus to the heart of Germania and its tribes, the Sugambrians, the Cheruscans, the Suebians.  Why they were even called Germanic, implying they held some type of unifying belief or heritage, confused Septimus.  He had never heard of nor seen them exhibit anything other than tribalism, unified only occasionally when convenient.  Mostly, they fought and killed one another over the scraps of food their small cattle or foraging hogs provided.

“
Legionaries of Rome!” Drusus cried.  His voice was strong – a good sign thought Septimus – but cracked as the general tried to reach for volume in the wide expanse.  “I have just come from a meeting with our Caesar, our god on this very earth.  He is pleased with our progress on this city and wishes it to become the center of Rome’s influence here in the north.  We will make his wishes true as we serve him!”  The men cheered.

“You are the key to achieving our emperor’s goals.  You, fine officers of Rome, will see that the influence of this city extends into the dark forests beyond the
Rhenus like a signal fire serves as a beacon to the lost.  Like Julius Caesar conquered Gaul – to the very ground on which we stand – Augustus compels us to do the same with Germania and beyond!”

“We have spent the
last three years preparing for these defining moments when we avenge the deaths suffered by Lollius and his Fifth Legion, when we demonstrate that stealing an eagle standard from its bearer is an act of thievery against each one of us.  We’ve built fortifications here on the frontier – from Vetera in the north, to Ubiorum here in the center, to Mogontiacum in the south.  Even now we build a navy like these northern waters have never seen.  We will slowly pull down the bleak curtain that covers Germania.  You will be the javelin of Augustus, loosed from the peaceful tranquility of Rome into the very heart of darkness.”

In one voice, the men called out Caesar!  Caesar!  Caesar!  Septimus joined them, eager to please the gods and live a life of glory on the battlefield.  Roman wealth and culture was the way.  It was inevitable that it would cover the world, but men resisted change.  Even if the change was for the good, men dug their feet into the earth and pushed back against it.  Septimus’
own people had done so before he was born when Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon River.  But now his generation knew and those after him would know the wisdom and wealth of the empire.  The wild tribes across yet another river, this time the Rhenus, would dig in their heels.  They would fight. They would lash out and kill.  Yet, they, like Septimus’ Cisalpine ancestors, would eventually yield.  He grinned like a young fool while chanting with the rest.

. . .

Septimus led his century of men along the newly cleared road.  It was a path that more or less followed the snake-like walk of the great river to his east.  This was as far north as he had ever been in his life – they had passed the fortress at Vetera the day before – and he was surprised at just how hot it was under the warm spring sun and his polished helmet.  He had heard that the weather was not as oppressive as the south, but doubted such whispers that day on the march.

The centurion had used th
e recent increase in pay that came with leadership to purchase a new helmet in the more modern style.  Septimus had even given the blacksmith a tip after he tried it on – the leather padding inside fit his head perfectly – feeling like he was wealthy with the extra silver denarii jingling in his purse.   The neck guard on the helmet was broader than that of the old by at least the width of two fingers.  The cheek guards covered more of his face and fit snugly, yet more comfortably, when cinched with the leather straps below his chin.  It even had a small outcropping of metal that wrapped around the brow.  This bead of iron was to help deflect a downward sword thrust away from his face.  Septimus was not certain it would help, but having seen countless battles, decided that one more bit of protection couldn’t hurt, especially one so noninvasive as the brow band.

It was the transverse crest he admired the most about his n
ew acquisition.  Only the centurions wore the decorative horse-hair plumes that sat atop their helms in a shoulder-to-shoulder orientation.  Septimus felt the mane dance on his head with each step, acting as an immediately recognizable mark of rank for the men to see, and respect.

Septimus was at the front of his century, which was one of the
six centuries that made up the cohort.  A mere three cohorts, about one thousand five hundred men, were dispatched north to deal with the heathen tribes of the river lowlands.  The rest were left behind to protect Oppidum Ubiorum from the more restless and warmongering tribes of the Sugambrians and Cheruscans should they decide to cross the Rhenus.

Far a
head, Septimus could see Drusus sitting high atop his horse in the middle of the long column of soldiers.  It did not bother Septimus that he was the lowest ranked centurion on the march.  He had been far worse for most of his military career thus far.  In fact, he now felt a kinship with his fellow officers, even Drusus, for he was a leader as were they – all of them responsible for the survival of a century, cohort, legion, and even Rome.  Should he survive, he thought, as a distant Germanic village grew steadily closer, he would one day be made camp prefect, the most senior centurion in the legion.

The train of men and horses and carts rattled their way forward.  No one had ordered a battle formation so each man followed the man in front of him in the
disciplined manner in which he was trained.  Septimus lived for military life.  The sounds of the march were a blessing to his ears.  He believed there to be a deity among military men whose entire purpose was to invigorate soldiers during a march.  The methodical beat of footfalls mixed with the creak of axles and clatter of silver, iron, and bronze made him ready for battle despite any heat or fatigue.  Septimus hoped the German village would send out a force of poorly armed and feebly trained men so that he could sweep the eighty men of his century across them like wind through a field of barley.

That’s when he saw women and children begin to scurry about in the small town.  They fled in the opposite direction, north toward the river which had just abruptly turned to flow westward. 
The northeastern reaches of Gaul were well known to the Romans by now.  Reliable maps were easy for military officers to come by and Septimus had seen one spread across a newly hewn table before they left the city.  He knew that the Rhenus ran almost directly west into the Mare Germanicum from here.

Down in the town, h
orses without saddles were being led so that the tribe’s richest men could mount and be cut down by Septimus.  A halt to the Roman march was called.  Septimus took the opportunity to look back to his century, flashing a smile to steel their resolve.

But he was interrupted.  Calls came from the front. 
Septimus and the other centurions were immediately beckoned forward to assemble with the officers.  This was strange.  Why didn’t Drusus order the cohorts to form up to meet the tribesmen?  Then, as Septimus jogged ahead, he saw them.

Seven men
, with wild beards and long hair which was tightly wrapped like a cloth around their heads and tied into a knot at the side, rode toward the Roman army.  They ambled their horses so that the motley assembly of foot soldiers with similarly fashioned hair behind them could keep up.  The rest of the village warriors, perhaps one hundred fifty men, stood at the ready in the main road down among the houses awaiting orders.  It would be a short battle.

Septimus
caught up to another junior centurion, Marcus Caelius.  The two moved quickly toward the meeting with Drusus and this village’s noblemen.  “Will they fight?” asked Septimus quietly so as not to draw out anger from more senior men.

Marcus answered efficiently without looking away from the meadow ahead.  “They always do.  You’re not worried about a few filthy men with spears, are you?”

“No,” was all Septimus could reply as they reached the line of centurions that stood menacingly behind the general and his officers, all mounted on horses trimmed with freshly polished leather and iron, the steeds and men looking as anything Roman ought – quite the opposite of the approaching nobles and their beasts.