The Wald

by Born, Jason

  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 the 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 new 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 ahead, 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, horses 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 c
ould 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.

  Beneath his helm, Septimus silently scoffed when he saw the grime which seemed to exude from every inch of the enemy. Although he had grown up in similar squalor, the years in the service of the emperor had taught him many lessons. Spend a mere day among the harsh discipline of the legions and anyone would understand that an army did not enter the field looking like this bedraggled bunch. Mud splotches covered the shoulders of the horses even though it hadn’t rained in the area for over a week. The fabric of the men’s clothing was mostly coarse, but one of the eldest on horseback wore what looked like a jerkin made of soft linen. All of the clothing was soiled from the travails of their daily lives since these people would not have slaves to perform the drudgery of survival. In fact, it was these people and their cousins across the Rhenus to whom the Romans turned to gather their slaves. Such was the model of the world, the powerful enslaving the weak.

  “What is it you want?” asked the oldest tribesman, not taking any time for formalities.

  Drusus set his hands which still lightly held the reins onto the twin saddle horns in front of his thighs and chuckled. The tribesman was not impressed or cowed.

  “I said what is it that you want?” The man spoke in very passable, accented Latin.

  From ten paces away Septimus was certain he could smell the nobleman.

  “I suppose you’re correct, that we should get right to the point, shouldn’t we? I am Drusus, the governor of Gaul, legate of the legions. I serve Caesar Augustus, son of the divine, who resides in Rome, is master of all the earth, and whose ancestors created the very language you now speak. We require passage across these lands to crush the tribes east of this mighty river. We seek an alliance with you.”

  Only the old man and one other reacted to the words of Drusus. None of the others understood the language. The nobleman answered, “I am Lamprecht. I speak for these people.”

  “And who are these people?” Drusus interrupted. “What is your tribe?”

  The old man’s chin rose as he said, “We are Batavians. And though you outnumber us at the moment, word has already spread to the other Batavian villages. Their men will come and we will have superiority and we will crush you if you decide to engage us.”

  Septimus knew what each of the Roman soldiers in earshot were thinking. Their three cohorts could sweep aside this small band of defenders and happily slaughter reinforcements as they arrived in piecemeal fashion.

  Drusus didn’t immediately respond which provoked Lamprecht. “Reconsidering your army’s next move aren’t you! Not so easy as you thought is it?”

  The legate nodded, which surprised Septimus. “Lamprecht you are perceptive. I thank you for your candor.” Then Drusus continued in mock consideration, “I initially hoped we could make an alliance with the Batavians I saw on my map. It is that reason that I only brought one thousand five hundred men with me today – a sign of peace and harmony toward your people. I now see that you do not desire a mutually beneficial outcome, but would rather go to war. If you wish it, I suppose we must, for we are Rome’s professional soldiers who fight her enemies, subduing them. Manilius!” Drusus ended with a shout to his camp prefect.

  “Legate.”

  “Form the men for battle. Do not wait to meet them in the fields. Rather move them through the village with all haste, raze it, take the woman and children as slaves, and see that all the men over ten years of age are killed. Then form a camp on the hillside behind us. We will await the other twelve thousand men from the legions to the south. We will then systematically wipe the Batavians from existence.”

  “Yes, legate,” answered Manilius as the prefect kneed his horse and touched the reins.

  Lamprecht was ashen as he realized Drusus was deadly serious. His eyes and those of the other man who understood what was going to happen were wide with terror. They did not move as shock rooted them in place atop their dirty horses.

  Manilius had just begun snapping orders at Septimus and the other centurions, when Drusus shouted again, “Manilius stand fast!”

  “What was that, Lamprecht of the Batavians? I thought I heard you say something.”

  He hadn’t said a word, but the man wisely took the opportunity offered by the general. “I think we’d like to discuss an alliance against our mutual enemies to the east. That is what I was saying.”

  “What a fortunate turn of events,” answered Drusus. “Manilius, return to the line. Belay those orders. Now what terms do you seek in our alliance?”

  Lamprecht thought quickly of all the implications that allying with Rome would mean. “We seek imperial protection from the eastern tribes.”

  “Done,” said Drusus cheerfully.

  “And we won’t have our villages burnt.”

  “Of course not. Unless, someone starts trouble, why would we do such a thing to an ally? Any other terms? Your list is getting quite long, at this point.”

  Lamprecht sighed while scanning the mounted officers and the line of silent, standing centurions across from him. “I suppose as a sign of goodwill you could offer a purse of coin and several of the smart helmets of the men standing behind you.”

  Drusus smiled genuinely then, “Well Lamprecht of the Batavians, you are a hard man with which to negotiate. You’ve done your people proud this day. One of my tribunes will see you receive a purse bulging with coins stamped with the likeness of Augustus. And of course, you may select any seven of the helmets behind me for your mounted nobles as a sign of good faith.”

  Drusus began turning his horse to leave, a sure indication that he was finished with the discussion, when Lamprecht asked, “And what of your terms for our alliance. It is hard to agree when you’ve named nothing.”

  The steel returned to Drusus’ voice as he stopped his ride in mid-stride. “What of your terms, legate or lord, whatever you prefer, is how I shall be addressed going forward.”

  The breeze tugged at Lamprecht’s hair knot as the man swallowed his pride and wondered what he had just gotten himself and his people into. “I am sorry for my loose tongue. What terms do you offer, lord?”

  Drusus smiled again, “Ah, for the most part they are simple – taxes, labor, and lawful citizenry. My immediate need is for labor. Manilius here will convey my wishes.”

  With that, Drusus and his tribunes cantered off to where his personal guard had already erected his large tent at the center of what would become the marching camp. Leather tents would soon blossom around it after the men dug a dirt wall that would serve as a fortification against anyone foolish enough to attack. Septimus and the rest of the officers were left to follow whatever orders Manilius had in store for the legionaries and their new allies.

  . . .

  Septimus groused for three reasons. First, he and his century were prevented from demonstrating their training by slaughtering the Batavians. An alliance was, he admitted, better than losing his comrades on the battlefield, but what glory came from his current task? Second, the current task itself brought on much griping. As late spring rolled into summer, he led his foot soldiers and some fifty Batavians in digging a long, wide canal between the Rhenus and a salt water bay which was called Lac
us Flevo on his map. No marches, no maneuvers, only mud every moment of every day.

  And of course the third reason he moaned to his fellow centurions – never to the men – was that Septimus was forced to give up his new helmet to the odorous chief of the local Batavians. Septimus was a soldier of Rome, so he had obediently handed it over when Manilius, the camp prefect, ordered it, but inside he grumbled. Lamprecht ruled only the nearby village, not even the entire people. The bearded nobleman hadn’t spent years of training and battle or endured flogging to earn the transverse crest that splayed across the top of the helmet as Septimus had.

  And so, he and his fellow centurions led their men along with scores of the indigenous men each day in cutting a channel in the seeping, sucking mud and occasional sand of the lowland soil. All their toiling was for the navy Drusus was having built southward. Septimus hadn’t heard the official plan directly, but it was quite clear that the legate intended to sail his fleet down the Rhenus then enter this new canal to traverse the grounds of his new allies, the Batavians, rather than take the ships out through the lawless areas of the Rhenus delta.

  Below him in the quickly growing trench, the men toiled away with pickaxes and shovels. Their mail and other armor were left back in the tents of the large encampment. They worked side-by-side with the new auxiliary troops of Batavians. These new men, Septimus understood, would one day find themselves in battle for Rome against some of their own relatives. Better to start them in the mud, thought Septimus. The blood would come soon enough.

  “How long until we’re all the way through?” asked Marcus Caelius who was walking over from his own century of soldiers and auxiliary performing the same tasks as those of Septimus. The two young centurions had become friends since coming north, even gambling in the evening hours. Septimus usually won.