The Wald

by Born, Jason

  The commander whispered then, “Keep your voice down, centurion. I can’t have Manilius thinking that I’ll really name one of our discoveries after you.” Drusus chuckled and shook his head, looking like he would say something else, but then stopped short.

  “Your island,” he continued, “is the island you saw from the coast when you nearly drove Manilius mad with your shouting. My captain assures me that we now approach it from the northeast, based upon the positions of the stars early this morning before this fog came in.” They stood in silence for a time until Drusus asked, “What do you think of the Chaucians, Septimus?”

  “I don’t think much on them or of them, lord. They are in our wake as the sailors would say.”

  “Hmm, I suppose they don’t warrant much thought, with their meager existence. But they are already brought into the fold of Rome and so they may very well be citizens one day.” This last assertion brought a surprised start from Septimus to which his commander held up a hand. “It will be many years from now, I am sure, before we can consider offering these people any type of entry into Roman society. But it will certainly foster our alliance and make us as one when we do.”

  “They’re independent, lord. These Germanic peoples are more independent than my sheep herding father ever was. They live here without so much as a visitor for years it would seem, lord.”

  “Septimus, they are that – independent, I mean. The Chaucians live on their terpens or geests, barely able to feed themselves. They make nets from the sedges and rushes of the marsh. I believe I saw them collect rainwater for drinking from holes dug in the edges of their hillsides. Can you believe it? Can you believe people live in such scarcity? And yet now that I have peacefully defeated them, to free them and help them prosper, there are, no doubt, some among them this very day crying about their slavery to the Romans as they meet in the privacy of their hovels. I am sure they proclaim again and again of their loss of freedom at my hands.”

  Septimus thought the people looked fed well enough. They looked content enough to continue in their existence as it was before the fleet arrived. “General, Lord Drusus, all men want the freedom to lay their own course. I suppose in this the Chaucians or the bastard Sugambrians or even the Romans are no different from one another.” He waited for a scolding from the general for comparing his countrymen to the heathen tribes in the same breath.

  To his surprise, one never came. The general himself thought about sharing his desire for returning Rome to its republican roots, but thought that for now such a conversation was best held with his father and brother. Instead, Drusus pointed into the cool mist, “I give you Septimia.” He gave the centurion a bright wink while Septimus looked ahead and saw the form of his island cresting above the horizon.

  . . .

  Drusus was of the mind to tarry on the island after he allowed his partial fleet to slide into the gradual shoreline on the low eastern side of yet another sandy isle. He had already gone further north than any Roman before him, laying his eyes on lands never before seen by civilized men. Why this small lonely island warranted an expedition was questioned by the men in their own minds, not to their officers. In the end most decided that Drusus wanted nothing more than to be able to claim that he set his foot and army on some of those lands. Merely watching endless sandbars slide past brought nowhere near the glory of marching ashore. This speck of sand in the middle of the Mare Germanicum would provide him a safe place to disembark when the other half of his forces remained in and around the Frisian and Chaucian lands.

  Like everything they had seen of late, this land was sandy, not able to sustain much in the way of forests or even weak saplings. And while Septimus welcomed the chance to again stand on solid ground, he was bored with the same endless sea that blended with the same endless dunes. Both seemed to shift and roll to the identical, eternal patterns of wind and the wills of the gods.

  The Frisian guide and interpreter who had been with the general most of the year was uncharacteristically terror stricken and refused to step off the ship onto the island, even going so far as to grab hold of the rudder when one man tried to forcefully drag him. He babbled and wailed about all matter of gods and one in particular he called Fosetes, who the guide said lived there on a place he called the Oberland. Septimus had learned enough of the language to know that the guide had said this Fosetes lived in a place called the Upperland, but when the centurion looked inland through the grey Mare Germanicum clouds, he saw nothing higher than the dune at the beach.

  “Frisian,” said Drusus, who had yet to bother learning the man’s name. It wasn’t out of superiority. The commander preferred to know only what was necessary. “You say that no one inhabits this isolated bit of sand, and yet you are terrified to walk on it. Do you try to send my army into a trap?”

  “No, lord. No. No,” the man stammered. “Only our priests and priestesses are allowed to travel here. The Oberland is where the gods live. I have known other men of my clan come here and never return.”

  “And you know that if I am attacked by even an army of one man, I will have you killed for lying to me?”

  “Yes, lord. I know. No one lives here, but the gods do, lord. If you compel me to step onto the island, I will do the work for you and kill myself so that I do not dishonor my people.” He was becoming more agitated with the passing moments.

  Drusus had had enough. “Leave him under guard. Septimus, return to your century and prepare your men to march out with their cohort. Manilius, leave enough men to protect the ships, but otherwise assemble on the shore for departure across this island.”

  All the officers were eager to exercise their units and so the wide column amassed rapidly. The only beasts unloaded were the chargers used by Drusus and his officers and so much time was saved. Draft animals and their carts were left secure on the “pigs” since their glimpse of the land weeks earlier from the south made it seem quite small. Pack animals and massive gear piled atop the men’s backs for a prolonged march were not necessary for Drusus to successfully make his claim of subduing the heretofore uncharted, wild lands.

  The cornu sounded. Septimus barked his men forward in proper order, struggling up the nearest dune as the sand gave way beneath his feet. When he and his century had crested the hill, in the fog he saw that ahead the land dropped quickly to sea level and then rose to the central geest that was typical on the Mare Germanicum islands.

  “Looks like more of the same,” called his friend Marcus Caelius over the racket of the marching men.

  “I’m afraid so,” answered Septimus. “But the guide says there is an Upperland somewhere.”

  Incredulous, Marcus scoffed, “I suppose the Frisian, so used to his preciously flat Mare Germanicum, may view the dune we just surmounted as an “Upperland.”

  Septimus was ready with a witty comment back, but stopped short when he saw Manilius trotting his horse over. “Whatever you two women gossip about had better cease. I’ll not have officers leading the men astray. Now detach your two centuries here and shadow the northernmost coast. I’ll give you two riders to use to communicate with the central main force because of this fog. Another two centuries will move along the southern shore. We meet at the west.” He did not wait for a response but trotted off to convey more orders.

  Septimus desperately wanted to crack wise about the camp prefect, but chose not to in front of his men. Gradually, his and Marcus’ centuries peeled off from the main force and walked toward the north about one hundred Roman feet in from where the wide beach slipped beneath the salty waves. They were never out of earshot of the rest of the force, but the fog soon thickened to envelop the two centuries within its very bosom, creating a sinister mood to the march. Septimus became wet, not from the sweat of exertion, but from the low hanging clouds that oozed moisture.

  Soon the land curved north before running westward again. The century scared away an enormous flock of gulls that had nestled in the cracked grasses. The birds’ black-tipped wings batted the air, creating
a commotion as they wove their way over the heads of the soldiers. It was here that the prevalent island sand became interspersed with red sandstone rocks.

  “I think we found the Upperland your Frisian described,” said Marcus when then came to a jagged wall of cliffs made of a red that showed dull in the dim light. They seemed miraculously out of place, sprouting from the depths as if they were a millet plant sprung from its small grain seed in the middle of a plowed field.

  “Looks like we’ll climb,” answered Septimus.

  They scouted the area and found a route that required the least exertion while the riders that Manilius gave them were sent back to report. The centuries narrowed their lines and climbed up with Marcus and Septimus leading the way. When they reached the top a strong westerly wind struck their faces and loud waves crashed somewhere just ahead. A short walk across a rock-hard, level field of grass brought them to the other side of the red cliffs that dropped straight into the unforgiving sea below. Spray from the waves as they gave way, collapsing onto the rocks, further soaked the soldiers.

  “This is something,” said Marcus scanning the cliffs below with the grey and white dots of birds that littered the ledges and nooks.

  “It’s finally a bit of scenery after the flat sea, I’ll grant you that. Nothing like back home in the foothills of the Alps where I grew up, but it’s an improvement,” agreed Septimus.

  The two friends allowed their centuries to rest and await further orders for it was clear they could continue on no more. The two junior officers then walked to the northeastern most corner of the Upperland that extended out toward the sea like a narrow finger pointing toward something unseen. The fog was not becoming any thinner, so their visibility remained limited, but some fifty feet from the tall point on which they stood, with its red cliffs dropping precipitously into the sea on the left and to the beach on the right, was another tuft of land. Because the fog obscured its base, this clump of grass and rock appeared to float up and out of the swiftly moving mist.

  “I can see why your Frisian friends believe this to be a sacred place.”

  Septimus became annoyed. “The Frisian is a guide to Drusus. I have befriended none of them.”

  Marcus shrugged off his friend’s temper and answered, “I only mean that if this is the only cliff they’ve ever seen, and it springs forth as it does, why wouldn’t they want to worship their gods here? We have beautiful hills and mountains in Rome and yet we still create massive spaces made of marble in which to worship our gods.”

  . . .

  Drusus had his army camp at the eastern base of the Upperland. So secure was he in their combing of the island for any signs of man that he did not even require them to dig the mound of earth and ditch that usually surrounded a Roman legion’s overnight encampment. The men ate the small rations they had brought with them and stole eggs from the many birds. Cooking the eggs was an interesting feat, but some enterprising men brought in a driftwood log from a far away shore and cut it up into pieces and sold it to others. Soon, as night fell, the simmering pop and fragrance of frying eggs could be heard and smelled in the thick air.

  Septimus posted sentries as was the protocol, but to protect them from what, he did not know. He thought that a man could sleep for a thousand years on the lonely island and not be disturbed. If he could get over the constant racket from the seabirds, that was.

  In the morning, the sky was still dark, but the camp was coming alive as men stoked the coals of their cooking fires, hoping for a little more heat to break the cold that blew in off the sea and had sunk down around their leather tents. The night before, Septimus had ample wine from a ceramic jar that was brought from the general’s stores and given to the officers, so his head was thick and his bladder was full when his eyes sprung open at the sound of the first screeches from seagulls that flapped noisily while landing on the peak of his tent.

  He strapped on his boots and gear and after ducking outside, noticed that the sun would crest behind him and bring about a cloudless beginning to the day. Septimus felt like revisiting the Upperland to get a better look and so held his urine while scaling the red cliffs. Several minutes and a skinned knee brought him to the flat summit. He walked to the flat edge facing the sea to the west and allowed his manhood to slip out below his uniform. The liquid came in a robust stream and he urinated down to the waves with his hands on his hips. His stream cascaded off the backs of some of the birds who curled up a little more tightly wondering if they had been struck by a river of warm rain.

  To the south was the mainland of Germania, just a dark, distant haze. Ahead of him, straight west somewhere, he knew was Julius Caesar’s Britannia. He could not see it, of course, but had seen it on maps. He wondered if those Britons were just as independently minded as the Germans. As his urine stream tapered to a spurt he stretched his back and looked north toward where he had seen the floating tuft of earth in the fog the night before.

  Septimus froze. His eyes widened. His urine stopped.

  Tucking his manhood back into place, he ran to the cliff and scrambled back down to camp. He raced past his century, waved off Marcus, and found Manilius, who had just completed his own morning ritual in the latrine dug the previous evening. “Prefect, I have news for Drusus. May I have a word with him?”

  “No, there is a chain of command. Tell me your news,” barked the old senior centurion as they walked in stride to where the general’s tent was surrounded by those of his officers, staff, servants, and augurs.

  Septimus veered left away from Manilius. Exasperated, the prefect halted. “I said, tell me your news. Where do you go now?”

  Without looking back Septimus trotted off toward the fringes of the central zone of the camp. “My apologies, prefect. You are most correct, there is a chain of command and there is a reason for it. My news is not that important. Thank you for your counsel.” He disappeared behind a mass of tents and so the prefect grumbled and returned to his morning duties.

  “Paterculus,” Septimus said quietly when he found the old man carrying the general’s bucket of steaming stool to the latrine.

  The old white-haired servant kept on his march, “Yes, centurion? I must keep moving this morning if I am to accomplish all the gods have in store for me today.”

  “Of course, I’ll make it brief. There are many augurs in the fleet of Drusus.”

  The servant was tapping the bucket’s opening for a third time on the plank that had been laid across two stones to span the dung pit. Apparently, the general’s shit was as sticky as the next man’s. “Yes, there are many augurs. The general wisely consults them for guidance. You would be wise not to think you will use them as your own personal oracles for finding wealth or women. I have seen the general’s normal overly familiar disposition change to something more becoming of a legate or even emperor when his officers or their stations turn abusive.”

  The old man was surprisingly spry and Septimus had to stretch his gait just to keep up as they headed back to the tents. “I assure you, Paterculus, that my intent is nothing of the sort. I only need to know which augur is the favorite, the most accurate, the man with the most clout. I’ve discovered something and I need him to present it to the general in the most fitting manner.”

  “Ah, gaming for favor.”

  Septimus opened his mouth to protest, but the old man cut him off. “There’s nothing wrong with that so don’t try to deny it or make excuses. You’ll want to find Cornelius. He’d kiss a toad’s ass if the general told him to do so, but he’s decent and accurate at his work. The general respects him and even though he treats me as a mat on the ground, I have to say I do too. You’ll find him talking to the gods at this hour. None of the other augurs wake this early.”

  The centurion sprang off again toward the center of the camp. Paterculus mumbled to himself, “You’re welcome, you little eager . . .” His voice trailed off as he began working on his next task of washing his hands to prepare the general’s breakfast.

  The augurs had th
eir servants group their tents so that the door flaps opened to a central square. Septimus had never counted how many oracles Drusus brought with him, but as he quietly stepped in their midst, he saw that there were eight tents. Snores could be heard coming from seven of them, but one sent forth the sounds of an augur praying.

  Septimus listened at the closed flap for several moments, unsure of what to do next. He was afraid to interrupt one who was so close to the gods that he could divine their meaning and will by reading the signs of nature so freely available for all to see, yet so opaque to most to interpret. All other men saw the same signs – a bird alighting on a branch with an upturned leaf or a mudslide coming down the west as opposed to the south side of a mountain – and could decipher no additional information. Augurs were important because they knew the meanings of the things that mere men only observed.

  The strong voice of a young man broke the relative silence. “Will you come in or not, centurion?”

  Septimus was startled, but said, “If I may.”

  “You may. I’d rather not have someone skulking about at my door all morning. Uncertainty is bad for the digestion, you know.”

  The centurion moved the heavy flap aside and ducked into the tent which was tall enough at the peak to allow him to stand at his full height. The young man in front of him had just risen from a backless chair that sat in front of an altar of sorts. He had thick black hair that curled slightly, hanging just over his ears. His face was neither fat nor thin, but was soft like a man that did not perform manual labor. The man stood with his hands folded in front, observing Septimus.

  Septimus glanced over the augur’s shoulder to the altar. “I am sorry if I interrupted your meditations to the gods. You are Cornelius?”

  “I am,” answered the augur without offering his arm, which was more disconcerting to the centurion than it ought to have been. “But it does not take a prophet to know such things, centurion.”