The Wald

by Born, Jason

  Septimus smiled at seeing his friend whose sandals were equally as filthy as his own. Each night the officers would have their boots cleaned and polished by servants only to drive them back into the muck again the next day. “Oh, each man moves only so much per day.”

  “Yes, but we’ve got a lot of them digging,” said Marcus.

  “True, but we’ve already had two walls collapse and kill twenty men. It takes days to clean up those messes and dig the same mud a second time.”

  “And so I asked you when you think it will be finished,” protested Marcus.

  “You sound like you’re in the mood for a wager. Do you think I’m foolish enough to gamble away my new wages with the likes of you?”

  “I do,” answered Marcus with a smile.

  Septimus smiled, looking down at the men as they dumped basket after basket of mud into a cart. When full, the mules pulling the cart would slosh their way up and out of the channel and carry the load away. More of the army, situated nearly a mile away, spent the entire day unloading cart after cart filled with dirt, creating a new hill that would one day blend into the landscape.

  “You’re right. I am foolish and will happily make a bet with you. What do you propose as the stakes?” asked Septimus.

  “Helmets,” answered Marcus who had also lost his helmet in the negotiations with the old Batavian.

  “Good, the loser pays for each of our new helmets – sparing no expense,” said Septimus, wagging a finger at his friend.

  Marcus nodded his approval of the stakes. “So what do you say? When will all the work groups meet and the two bodies of water be tied together?”

  “You first. This is your idea.”

  “You’re cunning for a seventh son,” said Marcus to Septimus. “Usually those born so far back in the pack are worthless. But I’ll give in to you.” Marcus feigned calculating all the possibilities in his head as if he hadn’t already had an idea from the start. After a few moments he said, “I believe I’ll take your money from you in the seventh month, September, in honor of your name and birth order.”

  “I thank you for the distinction,” said Septimus, giving a slight bow to his friend.

  “And your bet?” asked Marcus.

  “Let’s ask the prefect.” Before Marcus could protest, Septimus called over to Manilius who was talking with two of the camp tribunes. “Manilius, when does Rome go to battle, in the summer or winter?”

  Manilius was engrossed in the conversation so tried to answer the aggravating question as quickly as possible, “You know the answer centurion – summer. Don’t bother me with idiotic questions. I’ll have you lashed, officer or not.”

  “Thank you for the answer and warning. Yes, I did know the answer, but our friend, Marcus Caelius did not. One more thing – will this channel be dug by mid-summer?”

  “Of course not! We’ve only just begun. Now leave me alone or I can find more work to occupy your time, centurion!” shouted Manilius.

  “There’s your answer, Marcus,” said Septimus, turning away from and ignoring the glares from the camp prefect. “Rome does battle in summer. This canal will not be completed in time for this season’s warring. Therefore, Drusus expects it to be finished by next spring so that he may campaign along and from it next summer. Finally, since Drusus will be pleased if it is done next spring, his prefect will be pleased. And if the prefect will be pleased if the channel is dug by then, the centurions will be delighted. And if the centurions are satisfied with completion by the spring, the men who now toil in the mud will be more than happy to oblige all their leaders and work at the correct pace to finish by the spring – with enough time to pause for winter, I might add.”

  Marcus was speechless. Septimus gave him a wink saying, “As a matter of fact, I think it is time I gave my men a break.”

  CHAPTER 2

  12 B.C.

  Latharnius was sick of living two lives. His own name was proof that he existed in two worlds, one of the Celtic Gaul and the other Roman. Latharnius was a made-up, bastardized name from Latharn in his native tongue which meant fox. The Latin suffix was added when he was born so that the boy could attend provincial meetings with the Roman overlords and be accepted into a leadership position in the empire someday. His father had chosen the duality for his own life, but that decision had effectively clasped his son in the same iron manacles without any freedom to choose his own destiny.

  Until now.

  The young man rode his horse slowly, the beast carefully picking his feet over the occasional log rotting on the forest floor. It was two days since they crossed the Rhenus out of Gaul into the land of the tribes. As the messenger had instructed, Latharnius and the ten men who rode with him left the narrow, well-trodden road at the base of a steep incline. That was shortly after the morning meal and now nightfall was approaching.

  Latharnius briefly wondered if he walked into a trap, but calmed his nerves, reminding himself that he always became jittery in what the tribesmen called the wald. It was spring and the people he went to meet would soon have ample food from their gardens and livestock. They had no reason to attack the Gaul – at this time anyway.

  “Here we are,” came a voice from the dim recesses of the forest, nearby and distant all at once.

  Latharnius instinctively drew his sword from the fleece-lined scabbard which he had hung from his Roman saddle. His men did likewise.

  “By Teiwaz! Put your weapons away. If we wanted you dead we would have done it in the morning so we could already be back home. I’ve got a young wife to lie with, you know. But we had to make certain you didn’t lead a group of Romans to us.”

  The Gaul looked around, still not seeing from where the voice came. The higher-pitched voice of a boy came next, “We’ll not come out until the weapons are sheathed. You called the meeting, it’s your choice.” Latharnius breathed out loudly from his nostrils before giving a cautious nod to his men. They slid their blades back into their resting places.

  Twenty men and one lanky boy soon emerged from the trees, having Latharnius surrounded. The Sugambrians were not armed, however, and the Gaul breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Now quit pissing yourselves and climb down. We’ve got a glen over the hill where we can talk and feast.” Adalbern began marching away without waiting for any approval. The lanky boy, Berengar, now eleven, gave an impatient wave of his hands to get the Gaul moving.

  After a short walk, the group of men stared at one another in the light of a swiftly building fire. Drinks were soon passed around and Latharnius quickly realized that he had gotten used to Roman wine. He showed what grace he could to his hosts and forced down their stale ale. It would do no good to offend them if he had any hope of achieving his objective.

  “Why the secret meeting?” Adalbern asked after they had shared several drinks and each man had eaten a bowl of gruel.

  Latharnius didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he cast sideways glances at Adalbern’s men, especially the ugly one with the cleft palate.

  “Oh, so that’s how it is? You call a secret meeting and then wonder about my men and their ability to keep tight lips. I wouldn’t worry about my man Gundahar or any of my men. If what you have to say is so grave, I worry more about the clean-shaven pretties you’ve brought with you. Maybe you have something to tell me about the Romans and maybe these handsome fellows are just a little too close to their Roman masters to keep a secret.”

  The Gaul nobleman considered Adalbern a moment. “I trust my men. What makes you think I come with regard to the Romans?”

  “You just told me,” answered Adalbern. His men all laughed with him. Berengar watched the Gaul intently.

  “It doesn’t take a priestess to figure that you meet with an enemy in order to discuss the downfall of a different, common enemy. Now out with it!” Adalbern was still feeling strong from his tremendous victory of pillaging the Gaul four years earlier. The stores and booty brought back to the fatherland helped the Sugambrians thrive. Adalbern himself was able to
put more weight on and carry the belly for which he was famous. It had been peaceful there in the east.

  “It’s the tax,” was how Latharnius began.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Latharnius ignored the interruption. “My father supported the Caesar called Julius many years ago because it meant more wealth for his family and certainly less blood lost of the Gaul. The Romans would have won anyway, so why not make it less painful for everyone.”

  “Sounds like what I would expect from the women of Gaul,” said Adalbern.

  “But the taxes,” Latharnius went on, again ignoring the jab. “The taxes they levy get stiffer and stiffer. And since your raids on us four years ago, they’ve gotten worse. I think they use some of our wealth to put up forts along the Rhenus. They prepare to invade your lands – for good.”

  “Let them come,” said Adalbern coldly. “We’ll use them as fertilizer for our fields.

  “If they come, you will not survive. I have heard they place an army of some three hundred thousand troops in the field – half Roman, half auxiliary.” One of Adalbern’s men whistled at the incomprehensively large number. Latharnius asked, “And if every single tribesman of fighting age came with his spear or axe, how many could you field against their professional force?”

  “Enough,” snorted Gundahar.

  “No, you couldn’t. Neither could we and we outnumber you,” said Latharnius.

  “That’s a fine story, you Gallic pet, but after this Caesar who was called Julius was done wiping his ass with you, he crossed the great river and came to us. His army came with him and the lot of them was sent home with its tail tucked under its legs like the village mutt. My father led us then. I do not intend to allow my tribe to turn into the Gaul. My son will not allow it after me. Now, what is it you want?” snapped the great bear, Adalbern.

  Again Latharnius glanced around as if he could sense the forest or the roaring cooking fire may be spying. At last satisfied, he answered, “Last year, Drusus went with three cohorts of his soldiers to the Batavians in the north. That branch of your people is now in alliance with him. I have heard they worked on a great engineering dig for his navy. Merchants who’ve seen the Roman navy being built on the Rhenus say that it is ready to launch to the north. While the general, his army, and his navy are occupied, we must join together and attack those left in east-central Gaul if we have any hope of ever ridding ourselves of them. A generation ago we, then known as the Treveri tribe, bound ourselves with your people and nearly succeeded in becoming free from Rome. This is our last chance.”

  “And why would I stick my hand into that hornet’s nest? Why would I inflame this Drusus?” asked Adalbern.

  “You know why – to kill your enemy before they build bases here in your own precious wald. And because when we are victorious my people will give you ample wheat from our harvest for ten years. It will be the same as the current tax, but your share will be the price of freedom rather than servitude.”

  The fire crackled and popped so that several red-hot coals landed at Berengar’s feet. The boy had grown more confident in the years since his triumphs in Gaul. He was the son of a nobleman. He was bold. “We’ll gladly fight the Romans with you, but it will be twenty years of harvest to us,” answered Berengar before Adalbern had a chance.

  “This pup speaks for you now?” asked an incredulous Latharnius.

  Adalbern shrugged. “He does when he’s right. And this time the pup is right.”

  Latharnius nodded. “Then we are in agreement if the number is fifteen years.”

  “Agreed. Fifteen years of wheat rations.”

  His objective achieved, Latharnius finished, “In two months time, bring your army across the great river. We will meet and throw off the Roman yoke together.”

  . . .

  Latharnius awoke late the next morning with a pounding headache from drinking late into the night with his new allies while plotting out the details of their coming military campaign. The sun was high into the spring sky, but its light had not directly fallen on him as he lie clutching a blanket, curled up under a great tree. By the time he blinked himself to consciousness, he saw the tribesmen were gone, having melted back into the dark wald.

  The Gaul was eager to get moving but found that he had to kick his men and relatives to get them to stir. Frustrated at their immobility, he sat down to calm his sour stomach with a morning meal of hard bread. Latharnius paid no attention to the blue-green mold that had begun to cover the underside of the loaf.

  He had much to think about and prepare. His negotiations went as well as he could expect. In truth, he would have agreed to any number of years of wheat taxation from Adalbern or his snotty boy. It would be up to the Germanic tribes to enforce the agreement by banding together to build an army – an unlikely event without the specter of the Roman invasion. So, after two or three years, Latharnius had every intention of ceasing all payments.

  But first they had to defeat the Romans. And before that, he had to rally his men to arms against the very army that had killed their fathers and now paid many of their annual salaries. Latharnius looked around at his men, finally beginning to right themselves. There were no finer men. These would be his leaders. These men would rally their families and the men of their villages. He would not be alone.

  . . .

  One day after crossing the Rhenus back into Gaul, Latharnius bid his farewells to his men, sending them off to rally their peoples. Two went south, others went southwest. Latharnius trotted his horse along with his nephew straight to the west, while the last group rode northwest to gather men for the war that would come in less than two months.

  The two men who set their course for the northwest were distant cousins of Latharnius. Their names are irrelevant to the story, but their actions, like those of even the most insignificant of men, had lasting consequences. After moving in a more-or-less straight line for over an hour, they easily guided the heads of their sturdy horses to the right, angling north by northeast – straight toward Drusus and his army.

  . . .

  “Yes, you won the bet and yes, I’ll pay for your damned helmet. Though it all chafes me with the feet of your century dragging through the entire project,” said Marcus with more than a little disgust.

  “I worked my men hard, Marcus. They moved as much earth as the next unit, if not more. I just know the army and how it works,” Septimus replied. The two men walked alongside one another. Marcus muttered under his breath.

  All the centurions had been summoned to the tent of Manilius early one morning. There was a lot of activity around the tents of Drusus, his tribunes, and the camp prefect. Something was afoot.

  “What do you think all this is about?” asked Septimus as they passed a band of the tribunes’ servants taking down their tents.

  “I suppose since we completed the canal last week, we will wait for the ships to come downstream to pick us up. Then we sail north to the sea and attack the head of the Germans.”

  “Why the hurry, though?” Septimus wondered.

  “I don’t know. Why do you care so much?”

  “If we move north right away, I’ll be forced to accept a helmet that you buy me from one of the camp blacksmiths. I had a fellow with proper skills from Oppidum Ubiorum all picked out.” Marcus mumbled again. Septimus flashed a smile, knowing that he aggravated his friend.

  As the centurions assembled outside Manilius’ leather tent, the chatter died. The scarred prefect, who had seen countless battles in his day, ducked out the flapped door. He was dressed in his full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. Manilius nodded to his servants who immediately began breaking down his tent behind him.

  “We move immediately. Have your units in the column before the sun is one-fourth of the way through the sky.”

  “In column, sir?” asked Septimus. “We don’t wait to board the ships coming north?”

  “The ships are not coming at this time. We move south to Ubiorum. Word from well-paid, reliable sources ha
s come that a rebellion is about to begin, but we’ll not tell the men. We are officers of the son of the divine and such worries are for us, not them. Other questions?”

  There were none. “Then go about your work.”

  The centurions broke ranks and began hustling to their favorite principalis to get the men moving. Soon, the sounds of a camp being struck leapt from the nearest group of men, their leaders already barking commands. Marcus noticed that Septimus moved with vigor. “You must be pleased that you’ll get a helmet from your favorite smith.”

  “Absolutely. And I’ll make sure you pay him handsomely. But even better than a bright helmet with a horsehair crest is that this will be my first battle where I command my century. I hope the uprising is worthwhile with some good opponents and solid numbers on the field – all the more glory, that way.”

  “Glory for Rome and Augustus, of course,” said Marcus, sarcastically.

  “Of course,” answered Septimus with a sparkle in his eye as he ran to his men.

  . . .

  The mind of Drusus was difficult to decipher with regard to the coming revolt. First, he received word that his Gallic subjects were fomenting rebellion and so he took his troops south, which seemed an appropriate step. Upon his and the army’s arrival in Oppidum Ubiorum, he immediately decided to hold a feast to honor the emperor, inviting Roman administrators, Gallic aristocrats, and even a few of his new Germanic allies to the event. In fact, the very Gallic nobles who plotted against Rome were deemed privileged guests, so that six weeks after the cohorts had left the Batavian lands, the would-be rebels were seated at the head table with Drusus and his entourage.

  As the official military and administrative leader in all of Gaul, Drusus stood while holding aloft a silver cup filled with wine to offer a toast, initiating the evening’s festivities. His guests each held their cups, which had been topped off with the same wine. The drink was fine, having been carted all the way up from Rome in several large ceramic jars specifically for such occasions. The wine was of such value that it was sent with an illiterate coachman, just so that he could not know how to alter the detailed numbers and descriptions scratched on the bill of lading. In the past, more than one man had been severally punished for setting aside a jar of wine for his own use or profit.