The Wald

by Born, Jason

  The Roman line was already spread thin. The men did not have to bunch so tightly to make paths for the charge through which to sieve. This time, however, the boy pulled his horse to a halt between two batches of legionaries and prepared to do battle. He made a wild swing with the sword, which danced off the helmet of one soldier. The same man set himself to thrust his spear into the boy’s ribs, when the child’s horse spun so that its hind quarters faced the man. With a single word the horse heaved both feet back, snapping the man’s shield and fracturing a host of ribs into his lungs.

  All along the skirmish line the same events were playing out. The Sugambrians used their beasts more effectively than they used their iron. Men were trampled and kicked. While Septimus was confident that they had killed scores of the tribesmen, his own men were falling at an alarming rate.

  “Kill the horses,” shouted Marcus.

  “Do you not think we try?” answered Septimus as he pulled his spear from another beast as another legionary killed its master. The small band of legionaries was being overrun. If they stayed much longer the resurgent bravery of the tribesmen would see the two centuries eliminated. “We were foolish to separate ourselves from the rest of the cohort. Withdraw to the column!” he shouted. Never in his life did he think he would order a retreat from such an ill-trained force. Marcus echoed his command.

  Quickly the legionaries ran together and formed a line that was able to backtrack to the path, protecting itself from attack. For a moment, as he stood in the tight, safe ranks of men, Septimus toyed with the idea of ordering an immediate, better-organized counterattack. But the thought would have been, at best, only a second foolish idea added to the last, and so he dismissed it entirely. His men and those of Marcus inched away, eyes fixed on the Sugambrians who sat atop their panting horses watching them go, seemingly not interested in pursuit or the risk of running onto the greater number of spears of the massed cohort.

  Septimus watched the Sugambrian boy ride his horse over to the man who was obviously his father and slide down to help the giant up. The big man stood up favoring his side and patted the boy’s head like they had just played a game of sport. It was as if they did not stand with dying comrades and enemy all around. The two climbed onto the boy’s horse and quietly led the horsemen away, leaving the father’s horse behind to die in its unsightly death throes.

  The cohort stood there on the road for a long while, ready for an attack that they didn’t believe would come, but ready nonetheless. Later, when the clouds blew away from the light of the moon, Septimus counted the men left in his century. Sixty-four marched back to the river with him that night. Seven of those were wounded badly enough to require attention from the medicus upon their return to Oppidum Ubiorum. Sixteen of his men had died in that campaign, half of them in that last charge.

  Foolish. That is the only word Septimus could think about as he marched under the light of the moon. It was foolish for Drusus to pursue the Sugambrians without giving proper consideration to supplies or support. It was foolish to invite their cavalry attacks without a full cavalry of their own. All along it was clear that Drusus intended to invade Germania from the sea. Once they had repelled the revolt at the river, Drusus should have been happy and moved on with his plans. The general should never have allowed the tribesmen to dictate the manner in which he would give battle.

  It was foolish for Septimus himself to provoke a battle with the skirmish line when the last eight men – his eight men – would have likely lived through the night had they waited with discipline on the path. Discipline. Roman discipline was forgotten for fleeting heartbeats. Was it for glory? Was it to teach the tribes a lesson? Foolish.

  CHAPTER 3

  12 B.C.

  Drusus and all the senior men, commanders, and administrators, asserted victory over the Sugambrians that year. It was a legitimate claim since the legion had successfully halted the German invasion of Gaul, killed several hundred of their men, razed fields and towns – the effects of which would be felt by every person still inhabiting the forest – and enslaved a good number of the inhabitants of the wald. Total losses for the legion amounted to one hundred twenty-three dead, one hundred sixty-seven wounded.

  But the Sugambrians were quick to declare victory among their people as well. They had been surprised in their own land on “their” side of the Rhenus by a Roman army. After an initial loss, the fleeing men had successfully navigated the legion away from the choicest of their lands and then ended in final triumph by driving the soldiers back across the river. Most of the Sugambrians who met the most fearsome army the world had ever seen found that they actually survived. Despite their losses in food and men, they claimed victory. The tribesmen made a sound argument.

  Septimus didn’t care about the Sugambrian’s point of view. He cared about his men. His personal view of the last night of action in Germania was of his failed execution of an idea that was flawed at the start – rash and irresponsible. Such poor judgment caused his century and that commanded by Marcus Caelius to have the dubious honor of being the units that received the most fatalities over those fateful days. Rome’s leadership disagreed with the centurion’s assessment and gave him an accommodation, adding to the medallions he wore on his chest. Little consolation to the men who lay as carrion bird fodder and whose small amount of possessions had likely already been looted by some enterprising child poking his nose out of his Sugambrian hovel.

  The decoration was bestowed upon him by a scowling Manilius at a ceremony where he and several other men were recognized for their actions. The camp prefect read aloud from a pronouncement written by the general himself, who could not be there for the function as he visited his wife, young son, and senior government functionaries in Lugdunum. The message praised all of the men for their courage and bravery, but singled out Septimus for his exceptional cunning, for his ability to hold the right side of the line during the river attack, and for fighting a successful withdrawal. The word retreat was not to be used in these official communications – ever.

  Since their return to Oppidum Ubiorum, Septimus had trained what was left of his men – hard. Each day they awoke for general fitness work and games to keep the soldiers interested. Those activities gave way late each morning to practicing maneuvers singly, as a unit, and oftentimes with an entire cohort or legion. Repetition bred a familiarity into the men’s muscles and minds which was necessary for survival when the infrequent battle came.

  And the battles were infrequent. Most of a soldier’s life was spent training for a task which took up a very short amount of time. Even when Septimus had been on campaign as a common foot soldier with Drusus and Tiberius between the Alps and the Danuvius River, the number of days of actual combat was low. The number of moments during those days when he actually swung his gladius or flung his spear with the intent to kill another was even lower. The majority of a day of battle was filled with organizing, marching, and maneuvering. But the importance of the actual fight was not in the amount of time spent, it was in the outcome, as everyone knew. And that outcome could only be assured with training, exhaustive training. The Romans spent more time and exercise at equipping and instructing their forces than any empire or kingdom in the world. It had been thus since Romulus founded the great city on the hills surrounding the Tiber River seven hundred fifty years earlier. It would be thus seven hundred fifty years later, for the legions were the heart of Rome. Of these facts, Septimus was certain.

  After a typical morning of difficult weapons training, called armatura, Septimus often set himself to the drudgery of administration. He fell in love with commanding men in the fields, but that glory brought with it dreadful responsibilities more common to a low-grade city official such as a quaestor. It was Septimus’ job to build and see that the duty roster was carried out for his century. Assigning men to the latrines? His undertaking. Assigning guard duty, road patrol, bath cleaning, market duty, street cleaning, tower patrol, granary watch, gate guards, dignitary escorts, all of it, an
d more? Each his task, each tedious.

  But thankfully their time in the growing frontier city of Ubiorum ended when Drusus returned from his Gallic capital city. Word of his arrival preceded him and as these dispatches began coming in, the activity of the legion blossomed. The men prepared to leave at last on the naval expedition to the north. They would slice through the Canal of Drusus, as the trench dug by the army and their Batavian allies had become known. They would enter the salty Lacus Flevo and the Mare Germanicum beyond with the twin goals of exploration and subjugation.

  As Septimus stood on the rocking deck of one of Drusus’ warships he tried to count all the ropes which stood taut or snaked their way throughout the ship. Some wrapped around pulleys, others were tied with some obscure sailor’s knot to a cleat. Every ship was always filled ropes – hundreds upon hundreds of Roman feet of rope. They were the glue that held the beasts together and made them operate.

  When he lost track of his counting, Septimus switched to watching his century help man the oars of the nearest two vessels, he wished he was back on terra firma. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, not even his best friend, Marcus, Septimus never felt at ease in the water. As a boy he splashed with his brothers in the shallow creek that snaked its way near his father’s home whenever the rains caused it to swell, but somehow that was very different. He could plant his feet firmly on the ground in the glorified ditch and still breathe the clean air above the water. He could be certain that one step in either direction would return him to dry land, and that knowledge brought comfort. Now as a soldier, heavy laden with armor, steadying himself upon slippery planks next to the gubernator who handled the steering oar, Septimus feared that he would fall into the dark sea and plunge to the bottom, taking huge gasps of water into his lungs. Or worse yet, he feared one of the mammoth leviathans that inhabited the depths would smash their ship to pieces. He swallowed hard to get rid of the lump that was quickly lodging in his throat as his mind repeated these thoughts over and again.

  His century had been partially replenished with new recruits from Rome before they left Ubiorum. It was still not back to full strength, but was only shy by five men. The legion had been further strengthened by an auxiliary force of Batavians, several of whom rowed the oars of the supply transport ships. Long ago the legionaries affectionately dubbed those supply ships “pigs” since the boats seemed to be overflowing with mules and horses like hogs that had gorged themselves on the rich contents of a farmer’s field. The Batavians, having not been a vast seafaring race, vomited the contents of their rapidly emptying bellies onto their chests. The seas pitched while they worked the long oars that lay overtop the short gunwale of the flat ships. Watching them, Septimus thanked Neptune that his nervous stomach was not susceptible to at least that one torture.

  Off to his right on Germania’s northern shore, a new band of allies had become the Roman navy’s shadow, marching along in the same direction of Drusus’ fleet. The Frisians, a tribe that lived on the windswept shores of the Mare Germanicum, had capitulated in much the same way as the Batavians. There was no fight left in them at all once the elders saw Rome’s massive navy of two hundred ships per legion – nearly five hundred crafts in this case – floating off their banks. And these were simple frontier vessels. They weren’t even close in size to the immense ships of Rome’s navy that patrolled the Mediterranean. Had the Frisian rulers seen those behemoths, they may have just killed themselves outside their muddy hovels.

  Drusus went ashore with his closest officers to negotiate the terms of the Frisian subjugation. It had taken little more than the length of a quick midday meal for Drusus to offer his protection of the Frisian people from their old enemies, the Chaucians, to the east. In return, the chieftains offered an auxiliary army and an annual tribute of three hundred cow hides for use by the Roman army. The terrifying Germanic tribes with their nomadic, warlike culture about which Julius Caesar had written were proving to be more lamblike than the lions so often feared.

  After waiting just two days for the Frisians to call together their force of fishermen armed with poles, rods, clubs, gaffs, and other hooks, Drusus and the fleet departed to conquer more peoples. Septimus laughed silently, thinking their new allies would be more suited to subduing a large school of fish than men.

  Early in the third day of travel, one ship had sunk and two of its men were killed when it struck one of the many great trees that floated in the rapidly shifting waters around Lacus Flevo. The Frisians told their new masters that it was common for the mighty blasts of wind and storm that struck their shores to uproot oak trees growing along the sea. In batches of twos or threes at a time, the mighty beasts would be uprooted, toppling into the surf. The massive net of intertwined roots acted as a balance so that the trees floated upright together in the deep waters, acting as a furtive naval attack from the beneath the surface.

  Septimus had watched it happen off the starboard of his ship. All at once the prow of the poor vessel rose from the surface with sharp branches jutting from the hull. Attached to the branches were two massive trunks that looked like the pale fangs of a monster escaped from Neptune’s prison. The brave centurion gripped the gunwale helplessly in a fit of quivering panic until his mind finally regained control over his passions and he ordered his men to drop the sail and row toward the sinking vessel to salvage its crew.

  Once all the excitement died, as a precautionary measure Drusus ordered the flotilla to travel under the power of men’s backs rather than the by the spirit of the wind, in order to slow the armada’s pace. In this way, the captains could guide and the gubernators more safely steer their ships around the flotsam and jetsam bobbing in the murky depths. The men frowned but knew better than to complain in the close quarters on the ships or risk the wrath of their commanders. Drusus’ direction was wise; however, as countless more of the giant, barkless beasts were seen over the coming days. Only one other ship received appreciable damage, but it was able to hobble to shore so that its crew could march with the Frisians, abandoning their ship to the wild whims of wind, sea, and storm.

  At last Septimus saw that ahead a string of islands sprang from the sea to the north or port side of the fleet. They were low, looking more like vast collections of sand to him, with no central mountains like the islands in the Mediterranean.

  Septimus squinted, trying his best to decipher what Drusus and his Frisian guide animatedly discussed aboard the legate’s flagship. He would not wonder for long because in a matter of moments the signal flags changed and cornu rang out new instructions. Then, like the contents of a bucket dumped over a rocky, stair-stepped ledge, the orders cascaded and trickled down through the ranks of men. Those legionaries rowing on the port side held fast while those working the oars on the starboard worked all the more so that each craft in the fleet turned toward the first island.

  Septimus hurriedly pulled out his map, unrolling it between his hands to see what Drusus must be considering. His was a crude copy of the chart used by the general, but most of the basic details were there. Septimus saw that most of those islands were thought to be uninhabited, but the westernmost and largest of the string held a people called Burchanians. It looked as if the legate meant to negotiate another set of allies, thereby leaving no enemies at his back as he continued on his mission.

  As soon as Septimus’ ship was in water just under waist deep, he ordered the vessel anchored and oars stowed. Hundreds of other centurions or captains repeated the same commands while their men pinched back their sore shoulder blades, stretching to relieve their tired muscles.

  If this was to be identical to the Frisian negotiations long in their wake, Drusus would assemble the interpreters and his most trusted guards to march into whatever hovels in which these people lived. He would tell the natives about his battlefield success. He would explain the power of the Roman legion. Eventually, a truce, or more accurately surrender, would be negotiated and then the fleet would continue on. Septimus could not stand for that. His feet had be
en on the slippery deck for too long. He needed to feel the earth beneath his heavy service-issued sandals more rightly called open boots.

  “Shields and weapons!” he called to his century. “Leave your kit; we only march up the beach.” Without delay or question, his men snapped at his bark.

  Septimus affixed his helmet, snatched up his shield and spear. He was the first man over the gunwale, sinking down until his feet pressed hard against the wonderful earth. He splashed his way up the gentle slope of sand, feeling more and more secure with every step. His breathing even felt lighter. His men began splashing in behind him and followed him up to the shore.

  . . .

  “And so,” Drusus was saying, “this man believes there to be somewhere between five thousand and ten thousand inhabitants on this long island.” He pointed to the Frisian guide who was still not sure what to make of his new position, yet stood in obedience quietly behind the commander. “He thinks the main portion of their villages is situated here.” Drusus indicated the westernmost side of the island with his finger. “Manilius, I believe if we disembark a single cohort it would be enough to frighten them into allying with us. I don’t want to waste time unloading the entire fleet. Send a patrol ahead to the villages with the interpreter and bring their leaders to me.”

  The general abruptly stopped speaking so his camp prefect answered plainly, “Yes, lord,” while bowing. The tribunes awaited their orders.

  “What does that centurion think he is doing?” asked Drusus, pointing behind his officers toward a centurion who had his entire unit assembled on the beach. “I don’t recall giving any orders to leave the ships.”

  Manilius snapped his head around while craning his neck. A smile instinctively curled on his face as he thought about what pleasure he would get from publicly humiliating and punishing Septimus for such a wanton disregard for protocol. The camp prefect was careful to return his expression to its more familiar seriousness when he looked back to his commander. “Legate, that is the seventh son of the goat herder. It seems even men who have earned valor must be reminded of their place. I’ll see that it is done.”