The Wald (6 page)

As his century filed behind him up to their place in the column, Septimus
answered his commander, “Yes, lord, and my century will happily kill the rats for you.”

“Splendid,” Drusus replied as he watched Manilius trot over with two riders
in tow who were obviously scouts.  “I’ll watch you and your men, centurion.  Caesar is always looking for eager young officers to expand the frontiers.”  Manilius and his small company halted their rides, obediently waiting for Drusus to acknowledge them.  “What is your name, centurion?”

“I am Septimus, l
ord general.”

“Oh, a
nd tell me you’re not a seventh son.”

Septimus said that he was indeed the seventh of ten sons.  He also had three sisters.

Drusus looked astonished.  “And you’ve had to work for your position, yes?  Not a family of privilege?”

Man
ilius was impatient, but worked, although poorly, at not showing it.  He glared at Septimus as if he were the sole cause of the delay.  It was clear the camp prefect did not share most of the men’s like of the good-humored centurion.

“I’ve had to work, yes, legate
.  I enlisted in the army when I was sixteen and have risen through the ranks.  My father raised sheep until he died.  My oldest brother now raises sheep.”

“My Jupiter!  Feeding
more than seven sons by raising sheep.  I’ll never understand how people even survive.”

“We ate a lot of tough mutton, l
ord,” was Septimus’ honest response.

This brought a howl of laughter from the young general.  “I imagine you did.  I imagine you did.”  Then Drusus turned and acted as if he just noticed his camp prefect.  “Oh Manilius, you have word from our scouts?”

The prefect bore his eyes down on Septimus who took the hint and began stepping away.  Drusus called, “You’ll wait, Septimus.  He is one of our officers, Manilius.  He may hear what you have to say.”

“Yes, l
egate,” the prefect said with a slight bow to his head.  “Scouts report that perhaps five thousand tribesmen move toward the river ten miles south of here.  They carry rafts with them and will be able to begin crossing during the night.”

“Damn,” said Drusus.  “Even with a fast march they’ll have much of their army across by the time we arrive.  It would be best if we ferried the men back acro
ss here and then pin the Sugambrians against the west side after they’ve already crossed.”

Septimus wouldn’t hear of it.  He wouldn’t
waste the entire night crossing back over the Rhenus on boats he considered less than perfectly stable, then marching his men south, only to finally meet the Germans in battle when his century was completely hungry and exhausted.  “Legate, sir,” risked Septimus, thinking of almost any other plan on the spot.

“You’ll hold your tongue,” lashed Manilius.  “No one has addressed you.”

He was right, but Drusus was in a forgiving mood, “What is it, centurion?  Do you have a different opinion?”

“Yes, l
ord, I do.”

“Well, don’t make me wait all day for it.  I may yet grow tired of you.”

“Yes, lord, certainly the camp prefect already has grown weary of me.”  Septimus waited for a bit of laughter that did not come.  He continued, “On the west side of the Rhenus there are four centuries and a small Gallic auxiliary force of cavalry that have yet to cross over to us.  Send them south immediately in order to hide among the brush.  When the Sugambrian invaders have successfully sent five hundred men across, our four centuries and cavalry may attack them.  Those Germans will be pissing themselves so much trying to get more people across, they’ll never see our entire army coming upon them with superior numbers from their rear.”

Silence
reigned, except for the small metallic clatter of the general’s white horse’s bridle as the beast shook a fly away from his snout.  “Centurion, do you think a Roman army must rely on tricks to defeat a band of dirty miscreants from the woods?” shouted Drusus.  Manilius beamed – the first time he had seen the prefect smile.

Septimus would not be brow-
beaten.  “No, lord.  I just know the men are eager to fight sooner than later.  Better to sate them rather than have them stand in line to cross the river all night.”

“And you think I command my army for the good of the men only and not the good of Rome?”
prodded Drusus.

Septimus didn’t like where this was going.  He had been whipped
several times in his service of the army, each time for minor offences.  He had never seen a junior officer argue with a general and was beginning to imagine the resulting punishments would be much worse.  Yet he stood firm, believing his direction was correct.  “Lord, no.  You command for the good of Augustus.  You are his very eyes and arms in the field.  You tend to the men only as you would care for your armor – important, but replaceable.  Staying on this side of the river tonight allows us to defeat the Sugambrians, then instantly move to strike the hamlets from where these invaders hail.  We may send an immediate message that Rome will not tolerate insurrection from either side of this river.  We may burn them.  If you say it, lord, we may burn them.”

“Manilius!” shouted Drusus much too loudly.  “Cross the river on this ship.  Convey to those remaining on the western shore the orders of this centurion then come back to me.  You’ll have to catch up, of course, as we’ll be marching to battle through the night.”

Septimus breathed a sigh of relief.  It would do his military career much good, he thought, to be friends with the general.  But it would do no good, he knew, to be an enemy of the camp prefect.

. . .

Berengar’s tired horse pulled a cart laden with rafts.  Wagons had been commandeered from every settlement that produced men for the war and even from some that had not so that the carts numbered nearly one hundred.  Each teetering craft carried one, two, or three simple rafts that had been assembled and lashed together at a meeting point twenty miles east of the river, deep in their dark wald.  Even with so many ferries taking men and beasts across, it would take all night to move Berengar’s army of five thousand Sugambrians to Gaul.

His scouts came back to him two days earlier saying that after what looked like a raucous party held in
Oppidum Ubiorum to celebrate their emperor, that Drusus, aboard his flagship, had sailed north with most of his fleet, clearing the way for Berengar, Adalbern, and their Gallic allies, the Treveri, to sever Rome’s grip on the region.

The boy thought anxiously about all that lay before him.  It was to be a night
and many days filled with a river crossing, marching to meet Latharnius, and then engaging the Roman soldiers left behind to garrison the frontier forts.  These men would not be Rome’s finest, Berengar knew, for the best would be on those ships headed north to invade the tribes’ lands from the Mare Germanicum.  The men in the garrisons would be older or younger or recovering from sickness or injury.  In other words, they would be the perfect sort to build his army’s confidence.

Berengar had so often thought of these forces as hi
s army that he had let the idea slip out a time or two.  One of those was in front of his father last month as the men spoke together about their plans.  As soon as Berengar let the words “my army,” slip out, Adalbern used his mountain-sized paw to cuff the boy’s head.  The force was so great he fell from his mount, splashing into a leaf-clogged puddle beside the path.  “Slow down, boy,” was all that his father said before returning to his scheming.

Berengar gave the matter no more thought as his father rode up beside him
the night of the invasion.  The boy had grown so much since his first foray into Gaul four years earlier.  He had matured to know that men needed to be put in line by a firm leader.  His father was that leader today.  Someday Berengar would be the leader who would have to strike a man for insubordination or other offense.  It was best that he learned how to do it now or else he’d never protect his fatherland from the ruthless Romans.

“Any reports?” asked Adalbern.

“I sent scouts toward the north and south some time ago.  No word, yet, father.”

“That’ll be good enough, I suppose.  We’re almost to the river.  That’s when we’ll be most exposed to attack if the Romans have patrols out.  We best do our crossing tonight.”

“Yes, father.  I don’t think a patrol will stop our horde, though.”

Adalbern’s temper flared for a brief instant
before he settled himself, knowing they drew nearer enemy territory.  A series of expletive-filled shouts would not serve his purpose.  “No, but I’d rather be safe across with all my men before a patrol goes and fetches a legion carrying more of their javelins and spears.”

“Yes
, father,” Berengar replied.  The old man reached his muscled arm out and tousled the boy’s hair.

“Your mother would be proud to see you out here with the men.”  The mere mention of his mother
, Dorthe, nearly brought a tear to the boy’s eyes.  As mature as he thought he was, he admitted to himself he still liked it when his mother gave him a hug after a day out hunting or herding their few cattle.

In a rare
public demonstration of his father’s devotion to his wife, Adalbern said, “I see your fondness for her and hers for you.  I miss the woman, too, but we’ve work to do.  The gods know that at my age I should spend every moment I have left furrowing a woman as young and fair as she.”

Berengar knew his father loved his mother.  He had seen the two embrace like newlywed pups still drunk on the honey mead from their wedding celebration before they left for this war.  The boy couldn’t be certain, but he swore he saw his father, the great bear of a man, wipe away a tear back there in the wald when he mounted his horse to leave the village.

Adalbern looked again at the boy who had quickly been lost in the reflections of home. He thought it best to return the conversation to more martial rather than marital pursuits.  “But, as I say, she’d be proud of you ordering men around like you have.  That woman’s got a fire all her own.”

“I suppose she would
be proud, father.”  Berengar pushed his home life out of his mind.  They rode on for several heartbeats before the boy asked, “Will the men name you king of the Sugambrians when we beat the Romans?”

Adalbern secretly wished they would
, but did not intend to be the one to discard tradition.  “No, son.  That is not the way of our people.  You should know that by now.  A village ruler carries just as much authority as our people want over themselves – no more.  I have been fortunate to have influence over the other Sugambrians, but cannot kid myself into thinking we can ever speak as one united nation.  Such a thought is nearly as outlandish as thinking the Sugambrians and Cheruscans and the Suebians and even the Cattans would ever join together under the control of one leader – preposterous.”

Berengar did understand, somewhat.  If his people were half as independent
ly minded as he felt, Berengar understood their loathing toward any concept containing anything regal.  He could not imagine having a ruler living miles away in another village dictating rules for his existence.  The thought of succumbing to rules from a Cheruscan was frightening.  The idea of following laws from Rome, hundreds of miles away, was repulsive.  “Then why do the Gaul call us all Germans?” the boy asked.

“Germans, huh.  I never heard that word until a few years ago.  They say that the Caesar called Julius used it to describe those of us east of the
Rhenus as if we were a single group.  You’ve grown up with the word, so I suppose it makes some sense to you.  But listen to me, boy, the only people we can trust are, in order, those from our clan, those from our village, and then those from Sugambrian lands.  It is only after the last that we can trust other
Germans
.  Do you understand?”

“Yes
, father.  The river.”  The boy’s eyes pointed to the Rhenus reflecting the twilight rays of the setting sun.

Without missing a beat in the conversation, Adalbern said, “Find Gundahar and work with him to organize the crossing.  You two work toward the north of the banks, I’ll work to the south.  Can’t have you constantly at my side
if this is truly your army, you know.”  He cuffed the boy lightly.

“Yes
, father.”  Berengar trotted off to find the noble harelip, Gundahar.

. . .

The crossing was going as rapidly and smoothly as could be expected.  The sun had long since set before they were able to place even the first troops on rafts, but the first group had run across easily and began to form a series of quiet sentries around what would become their camp on the west side of the river for the night.  On the east side, despite speaking in hushed tones, the soldiers and beasts that prepared for the trip made an unavoidably loud scene.

Under a waning moon, Gundahar slapped the rump of a pony too stubborn to jump onto a raft.  The animal blew
flapping bursts from his snout, sending ripples of sound cascading through the air over the river.  Its hooves trampled the stones littering the shore beneath, scattering them over the harelip’s boots or splashing them into the water.  Gundahar grew impatient with the owner of the horse who was an elder from a nearby village.  “If you don’t pull this mule out of line, I’ll slit its throat right here.  Adalbern won’t be pleased with our progress,” hissed Gundahar.