by Ken Parejko
The dead warrior wore a necklace of clam-shells nicely cut into shiny little buttons, separated by small droplets of amber, and on his left arm a solid gold ring. I pulled the ring from the man's wrist, cut the necklace loose, and slipped them into my tunic. I remembered Herodotus claiming that the bones of northern people were softer than Roman bones. I had no way of knowing if that was true. Clearly the warrior’s broad face, flat nose and blue eyes were not Roman. I’d remarked other differences, too, in the build of the body, and the gait of these forest people. But did any of that matter? In my experience, limited as it was, people were more alike than they were different.
“A gold ring, flute, the bag, don't you think he was a priest of some kind,” I noted to Lucius. Without knowing, I was right. Vjalkar, a Cheruscan name meaning “Wild Crow,” was both chieftain and priest. His mother had named him when a noisy flock of crows gathered and followed her as she slipped off into the woods to bear him. The birds had kept their distance, watching his birth as though welcoming him into the world. And now, just as the two of us turned away from Vjalkar, the silence of the forested glade was broken by another gathering of crows, come not to celebrate the youth’s birth, but to feast on his death.
Tonight the sun would set in a German village but half a day’s ride to the northeast, and set again tomorrow, and so for many tomorrows, and the handsome, strong Wild Crow, whose flashing blue eyes and ribald humor brought laughter to his friends and family, would not come home. His wives would worry over him, anxiously watching for him to step out of the dark forest’s edge and back into their lives. But when in a few days the only surviving member of Vjalkar’s party dragged himself into the settlement, the wives would cut off their hair and begin days of long unbroken keening.
Lucius and I knew none of this. Nor could we know that Vjalkar's sons, one at this moment yet unborn, would grow up listening over campfires to stories of their father's bravery, stories which were the seed of a deep hatred of the interlopers from the south, a hatred which would finally blossom twenty years later when as young and strong warriors they fought alongside their friends in a mass revolt. Fighting my own battles then, in distant Jerusalem, I would hear of the utter destruction of Vetera’s fort by the Batavians, ignorant of the part two of Vjalkar’s sons played in that massacre.
I sighed a battle-weary sigh. Lucius and I mounted our horses and slowly made our way back to our comrades, gathered in a quiet circle beside Aulus’ body. Morosely we dug four graves, unsure at any moment if another, fiercer attack might spring out of the thick woods. Though the sacred spring had put me in mind of the tranquil shores of Lake Larius and my home, now, working quietly alongside my newly-depleted ragtag corps of cavalry under the towering trees and a scudding, once-again cloud-filled sky, I felt suddenly farther from home than I’d ever felt before.
Our friends buried, I gathered the men round, keeping a close eye over our shoulders. The sun came and went as clouds passed over its face, the little opening alternately bright green, then dark. In the uneven light and through the thick deep woods we felt a quiet force moving, the dark breath of the untamed and unknown, which brought the hair up on the backs of our necks. When it had breathed down our backs before, we’d thrown up a kind of testudo against it, a tight battle-formation of cheerful camaraderie and youthful high-spirits. Only now having lost our friends we felt the testudo incomplete, and were left exposed to our own sagging feelings.
I stood in the small clearing, kicked a few more clods of earth over Aulus’ grave. Now was a critical test of my leadership. My men, though subdued and thoughtful, faced the approaching night bravely. But for all we knew a larger German force was waiting to fall upon us in the darkness of the coming night. We all struggled with the prospect that the sun, now slipping behind the swamp to the west, would not rise for us in the morning.
The bodies of our friends buried we set off cautiously towards the little rise from which we’d watched the scouting party depart. There we set up camp and kept close sentry. There would be no fires tonight. As the others prepared camp I called my three best remaining men together for a council. Aulus, the strongest of all who’d come with us, was dead, our best scout buried beside him. We had no way of knowing if any of the Germans had escaped, or if a bigger party was nearby. The decision we faced was easily one of life or death. Was it time to give up the search for Varus' battlefield and begin the long, dangerous, unknown trip back to Vetera, or coming this far and having paid in blood for our effort, should we press deeper into the dark Teutoberg forest?
The moon shone down through the trees, painting the forest in an eerie light. Now was the time for fairies and wood-nymphs to dance under the high branches: now, too, the time for the enemy to creep upon us, silent as death. I lay on my blanket, fighting off mosquitoes, keeping an eye on the sentries. The rest of the men, scattered around the clearing in their makeshift beds, tossed and turned and, like me, slept little. I wished I could write. There was so much to write about, of all the huge trees and other plants we’d encountered, the young Germans we’d killed, their dress and weapons, and of burying Aulus and the others. But I dare not light an oil-lamp. Lucius, just a few feet away, fell into a fitful snore. The moon had set, the forest grown darker.
Finally I was granted the gift of a few hours’ sleep. But it seemed I’d barely closed my eyes when the first drops of rain landed on my face and brought me back awake. The forest had begun to turn slowly from black to gray, and as I turned on my bed of moss and pulled the blanket over my face, the gray became thinly green. The night, it turned out, had not been our last.
Lucius grunted and complained. The morning had brought another day of slow, cold drizzle, softer than death but harder than dreams.
Chapter 5
On the road to Ara Ubiorum, Lower Germania
50 C.E.
My hand resting on her fine, quivering neck calmed Lightning as the trumpets of reveille shook the predawn darkness while a rooster answered the trumpets and announced his importance to a blushing eastern sky.
Around us a hundred men and a score of horses struggled, half-asleep, to stumble into some sort of order. As the great southern gate creaked open they streamed out into a chill morning fog crouched along the river. I held Lightning’s reins, stroked her neck, waiting for the way to clear. Just past the ides of August, the air already tasted of fall.
Lightning, Lucius and I were accompanying chosen troops to Agua Mattiacae, a ten days’ march upriver to where the Chatti had attacked the garrison at Hofheim and killed fifteen of our men. On the way to Hofheim we’d be spending a night or two at Ara Ubiorum or more properly the just-renamed Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis. We were going there to take part in the ceremonies planned for the colony’s dedication.
Finally the way cleared and Lucius and I mounted and joined the other cavalry heading out into the fog, from which the glowing embers of a new-lit sun struggled to make their way.
Once outside the gate we passed the empire’s most northerly milestone, marked 834, measuring how far we were from the center of the capitol’s forum. The milestoned road along the river was our lifeline to the capitol, bringing us fresh recruits, food and wine and other supplies, couriers with official news and a steady stream of unofficial but always- interesting rumors.
Of course the rumors of highest value originated in the imperial court where once again a dreary comedy was playing itself out. Claudius, it’s true, surprised us by proving himself an adept general and effective administrator. But he’s more a scholar than a general, and time and again has shown how naive he is about people and their motives, especially when choosing a mate: first Plautia, then Aelia Paetina, then, most outrageous of all, Valeria Messalina.
Two years ago I happened to be at Ostia at the same time as Claudius. It was my first visit to Rome’s busy port. Claudius had come down to inspect the dredging of the harbor. A sea creature, something called an orca or killer whale, had grounded itself in the mouth of the Tiber. I watched as
Claudius and his praetorian guards turned the animal’s predicament into a kind of sport, stabbing and hacking at it while it thrashed around in the shallow water.
But while Claudius was playing at being brave, back in Rome Messalina had bribed some lawyers to declare her marriage to him nullified so she and Gaius Silius, one of the city’s best-looking and most ambitious men, could be married. Their lavish, shamefully expensive wedding was followed by a very public orgy. Claudius’ advisers, the freedmen Pallas and Narcissus, hurried to Ostia to tell the emperor of Messalina’s outrages. It was said his fury finally caught fire when they read him the list of the Augustan family heirlooms which had made their way to Silius’ house.
He had them beheaded, Messalina and Silius, then swore he’d never remarry. But of course no one believed it, and money began to move from hand to hand over who would take Messalina’s place. In the end it was Germanicus’ daughter Agrippina, and we all knew how that would turn out. She was beautiful and ambitious and brought with her the political capital left her by her father and her grandfather, the Drusus of my dream. And after all except for Claudius she and her son Domitius Ahenobarbus are the last to carry Augustus’ bloodline.
While her father was across the river fighting the Germans Agrippina was born at the city we’re headed to, Ara Ubiorum. Her life has been no ordinary life. Tiberius picked her brother Gaius Caligula as his successor. It was said she manipulated her brother from the comfort of his bed. When he tired of her he had her exiled and it was only after his assassination, for which we were all thankful, that she was able to return to Rome. Once back in the capitol she again set her sights on the throne, and managed to turn Claudius’ heart, not so well protected as he thought, in her direction. But being Germanicus’ daughter she was also Claudius’ niece. With Claudius’ urging the Senate nullified the law which forbade marriage between uncles and nieces.
If the roads such as the one we were on are the strings weaving the fabric of the empire together our colonial capitols, cities like Carthage, Athens, Antioch and Jerusalem, are the knots which join those strings. Shortly after their marriage Claudius announced that he would establish a colonial capitol at Agrippina’s birthplace, Ara Ubiorum, and rename it after her, Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippensis. We were told Agrippina would be present at the capitol’s dedication.
The cool morning air brought on one of my headaches and aggravated my asthma. I reached into the small leather purse hanging from my belt and lifted to my eyes to find, in the dim morning light, the small ball of resin it held. I broke off a piece and slipped it into my mouth. It tasted bitter, sulfurous and earthy, but it was a taste over the years I’d come to like. Asthma is a malady hard to describe to someone who’s never felt the slow rise of terror as your lungs constrict, each terrifying moment making breathing harder and harder.
I’d lived with the disease from childhood. The first time mother gave me a taste of the laser I was now sucking on, I couldn’t stand it and spat it out. She handed me another sliver and told me not to chew it, just let it dissolve in my mouth. Bad as it tasted, it did help my lungs clear. Used in cooking, the plant from which the laser resin is made is called silphium. It was one of Tiberius’ favorites, cooked with the wild parsnip called skirret. It’s become almost impossible to buy, and among my few personal effects packed into the saddle-bags thrown over Lightning’s haunches, I treasure nothing more than my dwindling supply of laser.
By letting me breathe, and by calming my headaches, laser let me work. I know as a child I took my mother to the limits of her patience, following her around the house with my continual questions. I came to recognize in the tone of her voice when I’d pushed her too far, and would slink off morosely to give her a rest. Over the years it only got worse, and now I was obsessed with knowing as much as I could about everything. There was nothing I enjoyed more than the thrill of learning and weaving together what seem to be otherwise apparently disparate facts. Drusus was right. I was the one to write the History of the German Wars. With laser’s help the book had grown in the past three years to a sizable stack of papyri.
I couldn’t have done it without laser, or without Lucius. My thoughts rush over me faster than I can write. But I can tell them to him and with the shorthand we've invented, he can write them. At the moment I happened to notice local apples growing along the road, coming into fruit, and started describing them to him. He scribbled away on one wax-tablet after another. Then I described all the apple varieties I could remember ever trying, where they could be found, their individual tastes and how best used. Riding alongside me with cold hands in a dim light, and struggling with the jostling of his horse, Lucius somehow managed to keep up with me. Until he sneezed, that is, then questioned the relevance of Tuscan apple varieties to the history of the Germanic wars. I suggested that in my opinion there is no knowledge which doesn’t have some value.
“Think of it this way, Lucius. If you find a coin in the road, just because there’s no place at hand to spend it, do you not pick it up?”
His silence was answer enough.
“So, then, write, will you?”
I allowed myself the luxury of a subtle smile. Over the years the two of us had come to a deep understanding of one another. It was my tutor Pomponius, who’d had Lucius in his service briefly, who recommended him to me. He’d been at my side nearly four years. It's quite amazing how well we get along, considering how different we are. My eyes see the world through my mind. Lucius is down-to-earth, sees instead with his heart and blood, and has a sometimes endearing, sometimes frustrating mischievous side. While I can’t bear wasting a single moment, Lucius isn’t lazy but he certainly isn’t what you would call ambitious. Orphaned as a child he was sent to live in Rome with an uncle, an evil man who abused him, so Lucius learned at an early age to see through people into their deeper motives. Like Claudius, I've never really learned how to handle manipulative people.
My men, riding behind me as we passed through the infantry, were in a good humor. Vetera is a primitive outpost, with few comforts. Ubiorum on the other hand is a large town, where they're sure to find good food, drinkable wine, and most delightfully for them, plenty of women. And since a provincial governor is budgeted his own personal corps, which is paid and treated far better than regulars, and Colonia Agrippinensis is to be the seat of a new governor, they all hoped to find a place in the governor’s guard.
We rode two abreast past the infantry, the mule-carts full of provisions, and around them the many civilians headed in both directions along the road. I came up alongside a legionary walking alone, leading a small deer by a leash. The doe, sleek and gracious, walked with light, delicate steps, glancing this way and that and moving her ears nervously. I slowed alongside them. The deer moved away from Lightning who sniffed curiously at her much-smaller cousin.
“She's a fine animal,” I said. “She’ll bring a good price at the venationes.” Hunting games in the arena were very popular, and when they could our men would augment their meager salary by providing animals for the games.
“Lydia's not for sale,” the soldier answered, reaching down to pet the deer.
“Not at any price?”
“Not at any price.”
“Well then, why've you brought her?”
“I found her when she was just a fawn. One of them,” he nodded ahead, “killed her mother. I found her. She's mine, and nobody can have her.”
I fell back alongside Lucius. “It's a pet,” I said, quietly. Regulations here on the frontier weren’t kept as strictly as in the capitol, but the possession of pets, especially while on the move, was a serious infraction. “It's a good thing my men don’t go in for that sort of thing.”
Lucius smiled. “Yes, it's a good thing,” he agreed. But from the tone of his voice I had the feeling that without much trouble he could find hidden among my auxiliaries a hedgehog perhaps, a snake or fox or maybe one of the cute little salamanders I’d seen carried around camp.
In a few days we'd passed t
hrough the little towns of Calo, Asciburgium and Gelouba. Across the river I noticed where the Lippe entered the Rhine, the same river I’d followed eastward into the German forests three years ago. I fell into a quiet brooding, remembering that trip and the men we’d left behind.
At the mouth of the Erfte was a small outpost dating to Drusus’ time where we watered our animals, had a bite to eat and chance to chat with the men stationed there and rest a little before setting out again.
The Erfte here was shallow and as we crossed it the infantry barely got their knees wet. But the August days were already short, the sun slipping every day further south, and the evening would be cool, and they resented having to wet their feet.
A two-mile hike from the Erfte, the sun already below the westerly trees, a well-kept wood fence and corrals for cattle, mules, oxen, and horses, full of fine-looking animals showed up along the road. Behind the corrals the forests had given way to pastures, orchards, and grain-fields. I remembered meeting the owner of the animals and the nearby villa, a Ubi Gaul and retired auxiliary, on my way north with Corbulo.
His red two-story house hovered over the huts housing his farmhands like a big brooding hen. We were to spend the night here, so I dismounted, tied Lightning to the fence, and told Lucius to keep an eye on our things. I followed a wide path lined with pretty flowers and small fruit trees toward the house, stuccoed in the style of a Roman villa. In the house's atrium were multiple shrines: to the ancestral lares, to the emperor, and at the center of the altar, a statue of Epona, seated on her horse with a basketful of grain and fruit. The mosaic on the atrium's floor was nicely done in black and white tessarae, picturing rural activities over the seasons -- men casting seeds, harvesting cereals, picking grapes.