by Born, Jason
Drusus offered simply, “To Caesar.” A rather odd sense of subdued merriment permeated the room.
The crowd of dignitaries filling the hall raised their own cups a little further, repeating his words back to him in one accord, and politely took a sip of the wine. The assembly waited expectantly for Drusus to continue speechmaking, celebrating Rome and her fortunes – past, present, and future. Instead, they were surprised when he quietly sat down and motioned for the hushed revelry to continue. Behavior so unlike the typical politician or general, who usually would not pass up such an opportunity to grandstand, caused the gathering to collectively pause in confusion before resuming sporadic laughter and conversations.
Latharnius and his nephew sat on either side of Drusus. The legate’s other officers and commanders were scattered around the room chatting idly with visitors, yet prepared for anything that might arise. Manilius, in particular, watched his general for the slightest indication that trouble was brewing.
Drusus leaned back so he could see both Gallic men clearly, leaving his food untouched. “The uncivilized are silly creatures, are they not?”
The nephew and Latharnius looked at one another, bewildered by this seemingly disjointed comment. Both men wanted to do nothing but survive the night, having been on edge since receiving their invitations for this celebration one week earlier. Could it have been coincidental that the festivities were scheduled near the exact date when the German tribes were to cross the river and join the Treveri in bringing pain to the Roman foot which stood on the neck of their people? The two Gaul did not think it accidental, but nothing in Drusus’ demeanor indicated otherwise.
“Yes, lord,” Latharnius answered, hoping the conversation ended there.
Yet, it did not. “Perhaps silly isn’t the proper word, though. Oh, you’ll help me find the correct phrase. The uncivilized seem to care only for their family or clan or people. They’re just so . . .” Drusus trailed off.
The nephew had just swallowed a mouthful of bread smothered in garum sauce. Admittedly, he was uncomfortable with his love for the fish flavor of garum because it was another Roman, Julius Caesar, who had introduced it years before during his conquest of Gaul. “Tribal, lord. Do you mean the uncivilized are so tribal?” asked the nephew.
“You’re right. I knew I could count on your help.” Drusus patted the man on the back. “As may all of Rome count on the help of the Gaul, am I right?”
“Yes, of course, lord,” responded Latharnius quickly. He cringed because the answer came too swift.
Drusus chuckled. “Yes, of course.” He leaned in and began eating an assortment of local berries that sat in a mound on his plate. The Gallic nobleman and his nephew returned to their food, hoping to make as little conversation as possible. “Tell me nobleman, why do you think that is so? Why do you think the uncivilized are so very tribal when I, as a Roman, must think of all my citizenry regardless of their ancient tribe?”
The two visitors didn’t immediately answer. Each had a mind that scrambled to find an answer to put Drusus off. Each was exceedingly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
“I ask you both because I believe you originally to be from the Treveri tribe.” Drusus let the words hang. “Now before you protest that you are now civilized and not part of any tribe, only a part of greater Rome, know that I understand this fact. I wonder if since it was not so long ago that the Treveri were involved in an uprising, that some of you may remember the ideas your former tribal leaders held.”
Latharnius let his eyes fall closed while swallowing food that seemed immediately spoiled. It was at that moment that he knew without a doubt that Drusus was aware of his plot. He didn’t know how the information came to the legate, but come it had. Latharnius knew he would die that night. That knowledge was like a weight dropped onto his shoulders. He thought of his wife, their children, and the grandchildren he would never meet. He thought that those he loved may all be killed as well. This last thought was like a spear to the heart.
“Well? Why do think they are so insulated? Why are they so small in their thinking?” Drusus asked, showing no anger, only curiosity.
“Yes, legate, I was thinking of your question.” Latharnius couldn’t look at the governor. He stared down at his plate. He caught no sight of a beard sitting on his chest, for there was none. He had been Romanized in his name, his grooming, and his dress. “Perhaps they believe their actions would benefit their people,” Latharnius offered meekly.
Drusus laughed. “Oh, Latharnius, if that is true then I was right the first time. They are silly.”
“Yes, lord. That is true. The current and former tribes can be silly. In that case, it is always helpful to have a generous and forgiving master.”
“Indeed it is. I am glad you think so because it is good when the governor and his administrators agree. It is good for the people, but especially good for the administrators’ families.” Chatter continued in the hall as if the commander of the army hadn’t just threatened countless lives of the Gallic nobles who populated the lower rungs of Caesar’s rule in Gaul.
A defeated, “Yes, lord,” was all Latharnius could muster. He awaited the point during the feast when Drusus would snap his fingers and guards would fall upon them, killing them on the spot. Latharnius’ nephew knew what was happening as well, but he was young enough to delude himself, so his eyes darted about as he tried to find a solution to their problem.
In the end it was Drusus who gave them the solution – and it was certainly a fine one. The governor leaned in, speaking in hushed tones to the old Gallic nobleman of the Treveri tribe. “I wish desperately to reward you so I hope you can help me at this very moment. I have been made aware of a plot, a rebellion. It seems some of the wild Germans are bent on crossing the river. They want to enlist the support of the Gaul. If you have heard of such things and your information turns out to be accurate, I would be of a mind to grant you a post in a much larger city, perhaps Lugdunum, with more servants and higher wages.”
Latharnius was stunned. He scanned the governor’s face to discover mocking. The two men’s eyes locked, each studying the other. It was clear that Drusus did know of the involvement of the Gaul, but chose to decapitate it with gifts rather than force. Take away the leadership and the rebellion would fail.
Starting slowly, Latharnius answered, “That’s very kind of you, legate. It would be an honor to serve the emperor in the capital of Gaul. I have heard of something across the border, but dismissed it as mere rumor. You know how merchants like to talk.”
“Yes indeed. Merchant rumors. Perhaps you should share, nonetheless.”
Drusus was letting him save face and grow rich at the same time. Latharnius felt his confidence swell as he imagined being one of the beneficiarii of the governor. “I have heard that Adalbern of the Sugambrians builds an army from his people’s villages. It will be at least the size of the one that descended upon us four years ago – perhaps larger.”
“I see. And when does this rumor say this invasion will take place?” asked Drusus.
“It was surprisingly specific, lord. In two nights they are to cross the Rhenus upriver between this very city and the fort at Mogontiacum.”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid your information corresponds with the intelligence I’ve received. I must now take this threat seriously. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I go to prepare my men for departure. I thank you for your conversation. If your rumor proves to be correct, I shall write a letter to the officials in Lugdunum. I know that you’ll enjoy your new post. I do, however, encourage you to bring these things to me sooner.”
The commander abruptly left the festivities behind. Latharnius and his nephew sat still as if dull from drink. They thanked their gods, their new Roman gods, that Drusus had shown mercy. Neither enjoyed the rest of the night’s celebrations, soon preferring to collect their men and begin the trek home. Their revolt was finished before it began. Soon the German invasion would find a similar end.
. . .
There was no bridge for Septimus and the army to cross over the mighty river, so Drusus led the men a few miles south to where the navy and shipyard sat. Scouts had ridden ahead all the way to Mogontiacum and reported that no German warriors had yet crossed into Roman territory, so the general planned to have the newly constructed imperial ships act as glorified ferries to usher his men, horses, and iron to the east side. Septimus, who was thoroughly bored with his engineering experience of the past year, liked the idea of at last invading the dark wilds of Germania with the legions of capable soldiers – even if it was aboard ships rather than firm ground.
The ships themselves, pristine and well-fitted, had just returned from a feigned mission downstream. Drusus assumed that the tribes east of the Rhenus had eyes and ears watching his whereabouts, so the general had his flagship and several other craft laden with men and supplies move off slowly north with the current. While the number of men used for the ruse was high, the commander judged it better to fool the tribesmen into believing the majority of the garrisons were empty in order to draw in the overconfident Sugambrians completely. It would be all the better to decimate their ranks in one master strike.
As simple as the task was to move a few thousand men from one side of the Rhenus to the next, it took the entire day to complete. At first Septimus stewed about being in one of the later units to cross. He never had much fondness for immersing himself in water. He cared even less for using it as a foundation on which to build a ship in place of using the hard earth on which to build a firm, stable structure, but Septimus wanted to get the task over with. So he silently groused. However, he soon thanked the unnamed military deity he believed was with him – in his sword, in his men – for his fortune. At least, Septimus thought, he hadn’t crossed first – only to wait the day away for everyone else.
When Septimus stepped down the gangway he felt uneasy – a first for him. Since his early days as a soldier of Rome, he had been confident in his position and even more confident in his Roman purpose to grind civilization into the barbarous. But as his feet trod the soil, the east side of the river seemed darker, almost wild. Septimus had peered from the western shore to the very clearing where he now stood, and had thought it looked no more exceptional than any meadow surrounded by a wood. But standing there, he knew it was special in a singular way. Even with thousands of his countrymen and their auxiliary recruits surrounding him, a physical shiver rumbled through his torso and arms. He looked up at the sky. Even it appeared darker on this side of the river. Septimus forced himself to chuckle in hopes that he could shake off the ridiculous sense of foreboding.
“What’s the joke?” called a familiar voice from above.
He turned to see Drusus sitting at ease in his saddle atop a fine white horse. The general carried the same confidence Septimus had always had in the past so the centurion used it for his own benefit, thieving additional courage from his leader.
“The joke, lord, is that these German tribesmen believe they will surprise us in Gaul when, in fact, we will humble them in their own lands,” said Septimus, bristling with conviction, if only on the outside.
Drusus cracked a genuine smile. “Ah, they will be surprised, won’t they? But centurion, these are no longer their lands. As of today, these lands are Roman. We merely rid them of a pestilence.”
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, lord general.”
“Oh, and 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?”
Manilius 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, lord,” 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, legate,” 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 across 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, lord, 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.