The Wald

by Born, Jason

  This was a bold tactic of the tribesmen – attempting to intimidate a legion of Rome. To make a man question his ability and believe his opponents superior is to have the battle half won. Septimus was certain the words these foreign men cried were all sorts of drivel about Roman impotency or their commander’s weakness or even about all the injustices done by Rome to fine peoples everywhere. Septimus didn’t care what they said, but he would not let his men break formation to cut the fools down. To break the formation was to initiate a weakness in the link; it was to invite a collapse in the line. His century would not be the source.

  It was a bold tactic, but it would fail. At some point the legion had seen all sorts of this from local armies. The men of Rome would wait until the blustering horsemen tired and returned to their ranks before they took up the march and chopped the idiots down anyway. Or they would wait for Drusus to tire of the spectacle before them and order a host of spears sent in their direction. In either case, their tactic was bold, but it would fail.

  . . .

  Berengar was making himself hoarse, screaming like he was at the mass of men in front of him. He was not even sure why he did it, but Adalbern had told him to and so he obeyed. “Gallop to that man,” his father had shouted while pointing at the centurion now next to his horse, “and scream at him. March this horse back and forth in front of his line like a cock among hens. Screech at them all!”

  “What will I say?” asked Berengar as he grabbed the beast’s reins from Adalbern’s giant paw.

  “Tell them they look good in their dresses! I don’t care what you say. Squeal, boy. Just squeal! You’ll know when to stop.” With that his father had marched his horse off, clipping orders to anyone who came into his path.

  Berengar loved that man. He was harsh, to be certain, while on these campaigns, but he must. Men did not follow the vulnerable and a coddling father exhibited nothing if not weakness. Adalbern was harsh, but generous to the men who came to war with him. He was also generous to his wife and son when they were back home behind the four walls of their house in the wald. The man had become even more loving toward Berengar when his two younger siblings, twins, died of a fever over the previous winter. They had barely been on the earth for a year. Such was life in the wald in Adalbern’s home. But that was home. This was war. It was no place for sentiment.

  The boy had run out of ideas for shouting within the first several moments. He had started by calling his enemy women, which seemed a fine way denigrate them. Soon, when it was clear they would not react to or did not understand his words, he began shouting nonsense about sheep or horses or even a hive of bees he had come across last year. What he said didn’t seem to matter. The morning sun would crest the horizon shortly and a battle would begin, however he slandered them.

  The moment he finished telling the Romans about a pale Cheruscan boy he had once met and fought, the centurion jolted. The soldier’s movement made Berengar and his horse jump. The soldier began shouting wildly to the others in his lazy tongue. Shouts from all down the line began to answer his call and the centurion spun his head back toward the boy. Their eyes locked for less than a single heartbeat as the soldier raised his spear to cut down Berengar.

  The boy did the only thing he could think of. With lightning speed he drew his blade and jabbed it into the belly of his horse while simultaneously yanking back on its reins. She reared to her back hooves, clawing at the air with the front. The man’s spear smacked into the animal’s chest. And thus, Berengar was protected. When the horse came back down the handle of the spear snapped off.

  It took every bit of strength Berengar had to steer the creature back toward his people as it whinnied while careening on a zigzagging path. Two men jumped aside to let them pass while another snatched him off her back. The two of them crashed to the ground as the horse continued on in a frothy madness.

  . . .

  Clever bastards, thought Septimus as he watched the boy and the man who grabbed him climb up out of the dirt. The bravery or stupidity of the blustering horsemen had so mesmerized the legion in the last dark minutes before dawn that most of the tribal army had fled to the forest behind them, leaving just a single line of unlucky souls who would provide the rear guard for the running men. Even now those who had left first were probably circling around to their homes in the hills so that Drusus could not wheel his army to crush them onto the river. Clever bastards.

  “Advance!” came the order down the line. Septimus’ optio was already prodding the men in the back of his century with his long staff made for just such an occasion. The prodding was not likely to be necessary today, but each man had his duty and was expected to perform it fully whether in the field or on the training grounds. The optio was there to make sure the men at the rear held their courage. He was there to push them into harm’s way. The optio was there to cut down any legionary so inflamed with fear that he might try to flee.

  Septimus brought his gladius out of its sheath, which hung at his waist. He preferred to use his spear to kill the first one or two men when the lines came together. That allowed him to build an arc in which to do his work, his killing work. But his spear’s head was lodged in a dying horse running somewhere in the woods. The short sword would have to do.

  The Sugambrians, hidden behind their mismatched shields began poking their spears out in jabbing motions as Septimus came within two paces. He rushed toward the nearest of the enemy in order to inspire his century. Their shields crashed together. Septimus’ semi-cylindrical shield immediately absorbed two spear blows, one from each side. The centurion ignored the men who tried to kill him from his periphery, focusing all his energy on the man who dug his feet into the earth directly opposite their compressed shields. He was confident that his legionaries, only two steps behind him, would occupy then dispatch the Sugambrians at his side.

  His enemy’s spear was thrusting wildly over top, scraping back and forth on Septimus’ longer shield. Septimus pushed with all his strength to create a hole in the thin German line, but his opponent was strong, butting with his shoulder time and again to knock Septimus back. The centurion peeked downward, hoping to see a stray foot from the man, but he was smart enough to keep them back and well hidden.

  Cries and blood from both sides of the line grew as the superior numbers of the legion met the rear guard of the tribes. The outcome was certain, but even with an obvious conclusion, some of his soldiers would be wounded or even killed. Septimus doubted the Sugambrians would negotiate a truce at this point to save any lives. In truth, he didn’t want them to anyway. From his experience, he knew Drusus would not permit such a thing until the bloodlust of his men had been quenched.

  In battle, as it is in life, happenstance often prevails. The man opposite Septimus began sliding on the slick ground around the river. No amount of elephant-like strength could overcome his predicament. Septimus felt the pressure against him change as the man ran in place to right himself. In just a moment, the German fell face down into the dirt, his shield tipping back over his head. Septimus pounced on the shield, ramming his short sword into the man’s buttock until he felt it grind on bone.

  As the centurion looked up from his wriggling work, withdrawing his blade, a blow glanced off his helmet, deflected by the brow rim. He thanked Mars for giving the smith the idea of the protective edge in the first place. It was the screaming boy who had commandeered the fallen man’s spear. Swinging it down at Septimus in an ax-like manner, he kept a solid four feet of distance between the two. Poor boy, thought Septimus.

  The child raised the spear into a defensive posture as Septimus drove his foot forcefully to the ground. He would make the boy’s ending quick. But as every muscle from the ball of his foot to his thigh tensed, forcing his body up and his foot down, the same quirky earth that caused the Sugambrian to slip gave way under the centurion. His weight shifted precariously to his left and he toppled off the dying soldier onto his own shield. He felt like a fool, like a fat urban dweller who had had too much wine f
or supper as he scrambled to get up.

  Septimus’ own weight pinned his arm into the straps holding his shield. While he tried to free himself, he swung the sword at the boy who advanced onto the dead German. Septimus’ arm could not reach so he kicked the boy’s legs out from under him, driving the heavy iron nails of the sole into the lanky child’s shin. The boy yelped and fell onto Septimus, but kept the presence of mind to grip the spear tightly, aiming it at the centurion’s chest.

  In the end, it was only one of the medallions Septimus wore that protected him from death that day. The sharp spear, propelled by momentum and the boy’s weight, would have slipped between the rings of his chain mail cuirass, ending his military marriage. The medallion slid as the point hammered into it, acting as a fulcrum to pivot the boy off to the side, rolling away from Septimus.

  Horns sounded. They weren’t the cornu trumpets of the legion, but a deeper, more haunting wail. All at once the Germans who still fought broke ranks and fled, breaking for the woods. The boy climbed to his feet and was swallowed in the crowd. Many of them were cut down by legionaries hurling their spears into the men’s unprotected backs.

  One of his principali, Naevius, came and helped Septimus to his feet. The centurion nodded and said, “Pursue them only to the woods. Await orders.” Naevius gathered his contubernium and raced after the would-be invaders.

  . . .

  Berengar and his father had watched the Roman legion ruthlessly pursue them for three days. They burnt everything built by or planted by man along their way. All manner of livestock were taken and slaughtered to feed the legion that ravaged along its wide path. Houses, barns, and entire villages still sent up plumes of dark smoke in the Romans’ angry wake. They were a thorough lot, thought Adalbern.

  “What will we do?” asked the boy, sitting on a spirited horse he had borrowed from another man killed in the initial fight at the river. His father and several other noblemen of the Sugambrians sat likewise, hidden among the trees on a hilltop as they looked out to the approaching Roman army in the valley below.

  For three days Adalbern and his men had been pursued. For three days they had counterattacked in rapid bursts, killing a few dozen men, losing a few of their own, before withdrawing. Harrying the enemy seemed the only thing Adalbern’s army, as Berengar had gone back to thinking of it, could do. With each passing day, more of the men who had accompanied them to the river melted back into the forest, preferring a return to their homes in the deep wald to being impaled on a Roman spear.

  Since no one saw fit to answer him, Berengar asked again, “Father, what will we do?”

  The boy was prepared for an angry response, but the quiet answer unnerved Berengar even more. “We’re doing it, Berengar. We do all we can already.” His voice signaled defeat, something that was nearly unheard of from Adalbern. Scanning the other nobles’ faces, the boy saw the same belief.

  “All we can do at this point, boy, is to slow them. We lead them on a path away from most of our settlements. We slow their pursuit enough to give our people enough time to flee.” Some of them had not had time in the first two days of the chase. Berengar could look down and see a line of Sugambrians, chained at the neck marching, with the Romans. There must have been one hundred of them, each of them, man, woman, and child stripped naked. Their lives were now forever changed. They would leave the freedom of the wald and be sold into a man’s household or field to toil away in the miserable existence of slavery.

  “By Teiwaz!” cursed his father as he was wont to do. The beast of a man shook his head in disgust then spoke his thoughts aloud. “I never should have trusted the Gaul. They sold us out for coin or power to the Romans. Damn! Boy,” he waved his finger at Berengar. “Don’t make this mistake, ever! I didn’t take my own advice. You can only trust your clan, village, and other Sugambrians. Damn! Why did I trust the Gaul?”

  “We all did, Adalbern,” whistled Gundahar. Summer was coming and the leaves on the trees were still pale green and not fully grown. The air was fresh and all these men would have had joyous spirits with the prospect of another fine year, had they not decided to risk the foray across the river.

  Berengar looked again at the men, all of them Sugambrians, all of them leaders of their villages or regions – all of them, Germans? “Father, can we not run ahead and draw up for battle? We outnumber them.”

  “Now you just anger me, boy. Have you not counted the men? This army, such as it is, grows smaller by the moment.”

  “But father, we are in the middle of Sugambria, retreating toward the territory of the Cheruscans.” The boy pointed down at the marching legion, “They are Romans, far from home. In three days time we could have what, twenty thousand, twenty-five thousand men converge and squash the Roman gnat.”

  Adalbern gave a nervous laugh, “And that is why boys do not lead men. It sounds like a fine plan to call out every man, maybe even to ally with the Cheruscans. But I just told you, clan, village, then Sugambrians.” He turned to make sure his remark didn’t offend the other Sugambrian noblemen. Curt nods told him they agreed.

  “Your father is right, boy,” said the nearest man. “I’d like to count on assistance from the neighboring Cheruscans, but they have no reason to enter into league with us.” He, too, pointed down to the approaching army, bristling with its spears, kicking a massive trail of dust behind it. “No. We hit them and flee. It is the only way we may get out of this situation. Maybe the Romans will have a short memory and eventually leave us be.”

  Neither the men nor the boy believed that, but men must hold fast to some beliefs, no matter how unlikely.

  . . .

  Drusus rubbed his temples, feeling far older than his twenty-six years. He sat at his desk inside his leather tent looking at the rough map of the surrounding area his scouts had drawn up after returning at dusk. The general’s head ached so he closed his eyes while sipping a cup of wine, asking the gods to heal him. He could call the medicus, of course, but had learned from his adopted father, Augustus, and his older brother, Tiberius, that a commander should appear invincible to the men he led.

  The night’s temporary camp had finally begun to slip into quiet. The men had finished throwing up the protective earth walls that would mark their passage long after the army moved on from this valley. The crackle of cooking fires and conversations could be heard in the darkness as his soldiers groused about their day. Drusus thought about all the complaining the regular enlisted soldiers did and he pursed a toothless smile with his eyes still closed. There were many days when the undercurrent of whining upset him enough to wish them all lashed. But that night in his tent he thought about how the grumbling was necessary for the men to create a cohesive fighting force. If there was nothing about which to complain, they would invent it.

  “Legate,” one of his servants called as he moved aside the general’s tent flap to duck inside. Even the governor of the Roman province of Gaul could not have a few moments of peace.

  “Yes?” Drusus asked, leaving his tired eyes closed.

  “The camp prefect has arrived, lord,” answered the man with a slight bow. When his master didn’t immediately respond the servant asked, “Shall I send him away, lord?”

  The general blinked open his eyes, trying to drive the headache away. “No, no, thank you, Paterculus. I’ll see him now.” Obediently, the man left and could be heard admonishing the gruff Manilius to treat his master with kindness as it had been a difficult day. So much for appearing invincible to his men, thought Drusus. He had taken to calling the servant Paterculus, which meant little father, years ago when it became obvious the man cared for his master as the son he never had.

  “You wish to speak with me, legate?” asked Manilius in his crisp manner.

  “Yes, Manilius, come here. What do you see when you look at this map?”

  The prefect leaned in to study the drawing in the dim, flickering candle light, leaning with one hand on the table, the other sitting on the pommel of his sword. After a moment, “I
see that we are quickly moving away from the rest of our forces, which lie west of the Rhenus, lord.”

  Drusus muttered while nodding. “That is what I see as well. This Sugambrian general, Adalbern, may be leading us away from support in order to ambush us in these wilds.” The commander had never intended on invading Germania from the river this year. He had no logistical chain prepared, no reserve troops ready to run to his aid. His mind had been on invading from the north via his new canal until the revolt was uncovered.

  “Or, lord, he may be scared shitless.”

  The general was not in a joking mood, but smiled thinly. “Perhaps, Manilius. Whatever the case, the scouts report villages here, here, and over here,” continued Drusus, pointing to squares sketched on the map. “The Germans have steered us wide of them all.”

  The prefect shrugged. “A typical strategy, legate.”

  “Oh, yes. It is completely justifiable. We would have burned those villages. But I feel my opponent has sense. He’s not just one of the wild tribesmen. He hits us at different times each day. His horsemen come from seemingly nowhere and see us killed. They withdraw before we have a chance to mount a suitable counterstrike. They draw just enough blood to keep us coming.”

  “Or, they draw just enough blood to try to stop us, lord – to make us tire of the pursuit.”

  Drusus leaned on the back two legs of his chair, pushing the thin feet into the soft earth. “Yes, Manilius, you may be correct. But I think we may be up against the man who took so many men from the Fifth Legion four years ago when these beasts invaded Gaul. Recall, the wild men took the eagle standard from the Fifth – and that the event reignited my father’s interest in Germania. It was said that there was a boy there that day who cut away the Fifth Legion’s standard. A big man rescued the boy, then. Now there are reports that there was a boy commanding the Sugambrians at the river. That man in Gaul, as is this Adalbern, was smart. His boy certainly has courage. They may lead us to some unnamed valley somewhere and surround us with hordes of Sugambrians and Cheruscans and Suebians.”