by Born, Jason
Drusus shook his head in disgust. “Yes, do so. Punish him in front of the officers only, of course. His men must still respect him.” The general was clearly not pleased with having to deal with such foolishness while planning for larger events. But Drusus managed to bring out his general good nature. “And remember, Manilius, he’s the son of a sheep herder. He ate a lot of mutton.” The commander was about to open his mouth to issue further orders when his camp prefect interrupted.
“Yes, lord. Or you may send him back to the ranks of enlisted men and I will see that he is punished properly in full view of the legion.”
Drusus was not happy that his first centurion allowed the distasteful discussion to linger, but he had learned to respect the old veteran’s advice. Manilius had seen more conflict in the name of Rome than the general would ever witness. As such, the governor began a subtle nod. The prefect saw this favorable twist and reflected on the justice of the gods. Perhaps he would consult the augurs that Drusus brought with him on the campaign. This small victory over Septimus might portend even more successes in the days to come. Perhaps it was time to gamble some of his wages. Perhaps he should retire when they returned to the frontier towns. But Manilius slowed his mind and patiently awaited the orders to demote the infuriating centurion to come from his commander’s mouth.
Instead, the words he heard were, “What is that sound? I hear screams.”
. . .
Septimus heard them too. He looked to the dense forest of trees that began abruptly at the edge of the sandy shore where thousands of ragged men burst out. It was immediately clear none of them had any intention of negotiating with these invaders from the sea.
The beach was broad enough for much of the fleet to line up against it. It was deep – perhaps forty paces. Septimus let his military-trained mind take over. Without thinking, he calculated how long it would take to shift his century down the beach to protect the senior officers’ flagship. “Left face. Run to Drusus!” he shouted, all as one command.
Stray projectiles were already crashing into his century’s right side as his small column ran three abreast to quickly reach their leader. All of his men’s shields were carried on the left side and did no good against the incoming rain of missiles. All legionaries were trained to be right handed with their weapons, left handed in shield defense. Septimus heard several screams from soldiers he knew but did not look back as they clattered to the ground.
“Halt!” he cried when they reached their goal. “Javelins. Let’s kill a few of these animals so they scurry back to their holes. Loose!”
Nearly eighty javelins, straight and menacing, pierced the air before each one of them tore into the flesh and bones of the attackers. Fifty of the running horde flew backward off their feet, toppling to the sand or into their comrades. Many of those killed in that first volley had two or even three javelins poking from their bodies. Thick blood rapidly filled in depressions in the beach.
The center of the marauders’ advance was checked some ten paces from Septimus at the sight of the easy way the Romans had dispatched so many of their number. The right and left flanks, however, continued pounding to the water’s edge. Some of these would successfully wade out into the shallows and some would even find their way aboard ships to cut and kill. Septimus was intent to make sure such a disgrace did not happen to his general.
“Shields!” he called and all his men interlocked their shields as they’d been trained to do since their first day of becoming legionaries. Splashing behind told him that other centurions had at last been successful in converting their men from seamen into soldiers once again. The familiar voice of Manilius rang out above the rest, shouting to his unit of the general’s guards to do likewise.
A chief of some sort tried his best to rally the panting Burchanians. He yelled at his men, his one eye glaring directly at the centurion. It was all Septimus could do to control his own desire to order a charge and slaughter those men. And his century would slaughter them. Their opponents were non-trained fishermen. They would bleed all over the dust, all over his men. But he knew he mustn’t order such a reckless advance. He learned his lesson against the wily Sugambrians and would not be cut off once again. Roman discipline, he thought, would rule the world.
The Burchanian leader had finally shouted enough inspiring words so that his men broke out in a dead run directly toward Septimus and his century. In ten quick strides they smashed into the tall Roman shields, dying by the dozens as the legionaries stabbed them with their short swords between cracks or over top their shields. At least three of the wild men were successful at driving their spears into a legionary’s foot or his eye. But when those Romans fell, another stepped over him to replace his position in the shield wall. It took tireless training to get a man to continue on in the face of such terror, and Septimus’ legionaries proved that he had drilled them more than adequately.
Septimus held his position on the beach, slicing and stabbing the island men until their dead or dying stacked up four deep. The time oozed by for what seemed an eternity. The fighting was gory and frightening. The tribesmen seemed bent on dying and taking one or two Romans with them.
Soon reinforcements came. First the left flank of Septimus’ unit was filled with dripping, clamoring Romans. Then his right flank was supplied with men. And then Drusus himself splashed ashore on his magnificent war horse. The men of Septimus’ century parted as he made his way through them to the front, his long spatha sword drawn. The fighting general shouted encouragement. Now they would take the battle to these haughty Burchanians.
As soon as his horse darted past the first line of Roman troops Drusus shouted, “Advance, half pace.” The men did so, eager to take the fight to the attackers. They forced and pushed their way forward against the will of the Burchanians.
Drusus cut down man after man while his horse worked in the manner she was trained, clearing out a path for her master. Septimus felt like he was a part of the surf behind him during the flood tide, slowly lapping up the shore, dampening more and more of the shoreline. Only it wasn’t water that soaked the sand, it was Burchanian blood and Burchanian urine. Bodies of the tribesmen littered the sand from the edge of the sea to the trees. It was difficult to walk over the uneven terrain they created.
Even above the clatter and horror of battle, Septimus thought he could hear the artillery men standing on the prow of Drusus’ ship as they tightly wound the gears of the ballista. The torsion they fed into the diabolical machine would soon send a prominent message to their opponent. It was not wise to fight the empire.
A frightening crack perforated the air above him as several of the machines unleashed their power at once. Septimus did not see the missiles as they flew through the air, but he saw their effects. In front of him, four of the enemy were killed with a single bolt as it sliced through them in order, carrying with it organs and broken bits of bone. These dead men did not even have the opportunity to scream, but their comrades did. They cried out in horror from what they had just witnessed. Many shook their heads in belly-wrenching dread and flew. In moments all of them had their backs turned toward the Romans and ran away from the battle.
“Advance, double time!” shouted Drusus. “Cut them down. Maintain formation.”
Then Septimus ran after his general, proud to serve a brave commander who bloodied his sword along with his men. The centurion recognized some of the legionaries from Marcus Caelius’ century then heard his friend call out as they ran. “Septimus, how did you know to prepare for a surprise attack? How did you know to be on the beach?”
Of course, he had not known anything about an attack. Septimus had only known he hated the sea and desperately needed terra firma beneath his feet. But he was a soldier and soldiers all lied to one another. They lied about the number of men they killed in battle. They lied about their conquests of women, slave and free. They lied most of all to themselves. “I figured word of our simple defeats of the Batavians and Frisians reached their ears,” shouted Se
ptimus while taking a hunk of flesh from a fleeing Burchanian’s back. “I thought we should be prepared for a test. Remember, I know the army.”
“You do. You really do,” marveled his friend, neither wondering nor caring if what Septimus had told him was the truth.
. . .
It had only been twelve weeks since they last encountered the Romans, harassing them as they withdrew, but Berengar was eager to fight them again. He burst into his father’s house with news. “Their commander Drusus has taken his fleet out to sea. He’s already cowed the Batavians and Frisians. I suppose the Chaucians are next.” Adalbern, who had come inside from stacking fuel for the winter fire in order to eat a midday meal of dried meat and moldy cheese, jumped to his feet when he heard mention of his northern neighbors.
Important news such as this traveled surprisingly fast among the tribes. Although family and broader clans viewed themselves in a fiercely independent light, they knew that they shared a common bond of heritage to the fatherland – those to the north also shared the great sea. The Sugambrians and those to their south shared the dark, mysterious wald. Connecting all the dispersed tribes and families were the rivers. For as long as anyone could remember, they had served as vital conduits on which goods and information could flow. That is, until Rome took the Rhenus, leaving them with the smaller meandering rivers in Germania’s heart.
It was a travelling merchant who carried the news of Drusus’ successes to the Sugambrians that year. Berengar was harvesting pea pods with his mother, Dorthe, from a small patch carved out of the dense wood north of his father’s longhouse, when the familiar whistle of the salesman fell upon the boy’s ear. The tune was immediately recognizable. Every man who crossed the black wald on his own would hum or whistle or sing the melody to keep the evil lurking in its forest dwellings at bay. Berengar often wondered if the tune wouldn’t be more apt to call bandits to the traveler’s position, but he, too, always hummed it nervously when in the woods alone.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries with the man, Berengar’s young mother, Dorthe, began haggling with the roaming vendor. “What do you bring us today, Erdmann, any iron goods?” she asked, knowing that Adalbern would want to gather as much of the precious metal for weaponry as he could in the event the Romans returned. “Our holes and furnaces have been running without ceasing since that Drusus brought his legion against us. But every little bit extra can help.”
With a grunt Erdmann hefted the great sack from his back with all its dangling goods clattering to the ground as he set the entire lot down, letting out an exhausted breath. The old horse he led was equally laden with all manners of bags, boxes, and crates strapped seemingly haphazardly over its back, spindly rump, and thin shoulders. Erdmann immediately set about digging through the bag on the ground. “Nilsy and I have come a long way quickly,” he muttered before tossing a set of wooden bowls out of his way. “I can’t remember what I stuffed down in here.”
Adalbern had long ago told Berengar not to let the merchant’s or his bedraggled horse’s appearances fool him. Erdmann was shrewd and likely already negotiating as he rustled around in the bag, making sure the customer felt that just producing sight of the good to trade was a monumental task.
“Why do you move so quickly, then?” asked Berengar. “We don’t usually see you from your trip north for another month.”
“Not this year lad,” Erdmann answered quickly. “You might not see me for many years.” His hand seized on something and he jerked it up out from the fiber sack. “Just what I thought.” Erdmann held two chunks of iron, one from the axle of a Roman chariot another from a metal strap of some sort. Regardless of the source, they would be enough to make four or maybe even five spear points. “I’ll give these to you for a song. I don’t want to carry them any further than I have to and you need them more than I do.”
“How kind of you,” answered Dorthe sarcastically. “What do you want for them, really?”
“You may have them for some of those peas the boy holds there. That is it. Do you want anything else? I am truly trying to lighten my load.”
Dorthe didn’t argue with her good fortune. Instead, she snatched an old sack, stuffed it full of peas from Berengar’s hand, and made her deal. The smart woman then went on to get six slick eels that sloshed around in a leaky bucket dangling off Nilsy’s back. Adalbern loved to feast on eels, but didn’t get them nearly as often as he liked since they lived so far from their haunts on the Mare Germanicum coast. The slender beasts Dorthe purchased, nearly dead as they had wrapped themselves around the inside of the bucket, cost her only one small brick of goat cheese that Berengar had in his pocket for a snack.
“Do you need lodging for the night?” the woman dutifully asked.
“No thank you. I’m moving south. Perhaps I’ll winter with the Marcomannians this year. Or maybe I’ll move further east into the darkest parts of the forest. You know, the life of a crazed merchant knows no bounds.” He already had his heavy pack on his shoulders and was making steps away from them down the nearby path.
“Mother, may I walk with him for a short while?” asked Berengar. “I’d like to catch up on news for father.”
Dorthe knew that Adalbern would be upset at not prying every bit of information he could from Erdmann. Normally, the man came and passed in and out of the Sugambrian villages for several weeks, telling all the elders the triumphs or woes of the other tribes and even carrying the gossip usually unspoken among the Sugambrian clans themselves. “Go on,” said Dorthe. “Not too far, though. We have work to finish. You know we must harvest every vegetable and berry on the hill if we are to survive this winter. Those Romans you and your father were so quick to fight at the Rhenus burnt half the food supply of the valley.”
“Yes, mother,” was all Berengar said as he trotted off to catch up to Erdmann, who was uncharacteristically quick of step. The merchant peeked over his shoulder at the oncoming boy, but kept right on marching back into the shade of the forest. He began whistling the tune meant to ensure safe passage.
“So, why not this year? Or, why not any more years? What does that mean? Why are you in such a hurry?” asked Berengar like a well-trained archer unleashing arrow after arrow.
The old man puffed under the weight of his rattling goods, sweat reforming on his brow so that droplets sat perched in his thick eyebrows. He nibbled on the peas he had just acquired. “Lad, you know I can’t just give away all my information. Usually, I require some of the Roman coins they are now minting over in Lugdunum. You’d be surprised what those little lumps of metal can get you.”
“Well then, come back to my father’s house like a proper merchant and he’ll negotiate some coins for some of your words,” said Berengar as he easily kept up with the man.
“I am a proper merchant, boy. Did I not just give your mother a fine deal – several fine deals?” A root in the road nearly tripped him and he spat out the peas and his anger at Berengar. “Now get back to your mother’s skirts, boy. I don’t have time for watching a whelp.”
Berengar stepped in Erdmann’s path so that the top heavy businessman almost walked into him. The man opened his mouth to protest but clamped it fast when the boy’s short sword was held to Erdmann’s eye. “Now, you have not been a proper merchant. One who is polite accepts the hospitality of the chief of the lands and eats with his family in his home when invited. You did not. How do you expect to continue to receive safe passage wherever you roam without gaining the favor of the locals?”
The fear in the man’s face ebbed. “Boy, I told you I don’t have time for . . .” A quick flick of Berengar’s wrist drew a small sprinkle of blood from Erdmann’s cheek.
“And so after I persuaded him, he told me all the news for free,” said Berengar to his father in the longhouse.
The big man chuckled. “Persuaded him, huh? Well then, what exactly did Erdmann tell you for free?”
“I already told you, father,” answered Berengar crisply, but changed his tone when his fath
er’s face said it was time to be respectful. “Erdmann confirms what our spies have told us. Drusus, the Roman commander, has taken his entire fleet north. They negotiated a peace treaty with the Batavians last year.”
“Batavians are women,” growled his father.
“Yes, father. But this year Drusus moved his fleet through a great canal he had dug from the Rhenus all the way to the Mare Germanicum. The Frisians capitulated at the mere sight of the fleet. It is supposed to be massive, father – hundreds of ships.”
“Frisians are women, too.”
“Yes, father, they’re women too.” The boy didn’t want an argument, mostly because the family system was set up so he always lost. But Berengar felt strongly, “They’ll fight nicely next to the Romans who are supposed to be women with their dresses on. Yet these women kill or subdue all in their way. Erdmann wants nothing more than to be far away from them when they invade from the sea. He says he’ll come back to trade when we have become Roman subjects.”
“Erdmann’s a coward,” groused the angering man.
“Yes, father, he is a coward. He had to blink away sweat from fear twice while I persuaded him to talk,” smiled Berengar, trying to get his father to focus on facts rather than his feelings. “But Erdmann’s information is usually correct. He tells me that he was trading with the Chaucians when word of the invasion came from the Frisians. Erdmann is old, father. He remembers many revolts and their quashing in Gaul. He runs because he knows what the Roman dragons are capable of doing.”
Adalbern spat, “And what shall I do about it? Drusus won’t be so quick to turn tail and run with a force the size of which you speak.”