by Born, Jason
“Thank you, Manilius,” said Drusus. “But the man is correct. We want her to speak. If it only takes a few words from me to make her believe she is in control, then so be it. It cannot hurt to make her think me wonderful and you miscreants vile.” Manilius stewed. “Now Batavian, please convey the words that Septimus just recommended.” He did so.
“The only apologies I will accept are those you demonstrate by leaving our lands alone,” she answered defiantly. “Return our husbands and wives and children to their families, you cruel instrument of your wicked emperor.”
Drusus thought of smacking her, but calmed himself. He thought of his beloved Antonia back in Lugdunum. While she would never be as reckless as the woman kneeling before him, her image relaxed the general. “Nonetheless,” answered the commander through his interpreter, “I offer my apologies for your treatment. Manilius, please get this woman a chair.” Septimus gave only the smallest hint of a smile while the camp prefect obediently set a chair next to her and cut the cords that tied her. Despite her rile, she instinctively rubbed her wrists and stretched her joints before climbing into the chair.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to compose herself. Unbeknownst to the woman, her actions proved her to be a woman of some political stature. Drusus had seen enough of the tribeswomen to know the difference between a commoner and a noble.
“You are welcome. When our talk ends, would you mind if I called my personal medicus to tend to your abrasions?” asked the general.
The woman was genuinely surprised by the offer and a tear came to her eye. But she caught herself before letting emotions getting the best of her. “No, thank you for the offer, but I am in fair enough condition. I am not here for Roman charity.”
“Madame, you are certainly stronger than any women I have ever known if you believe that you are in a good state. However, I am not here to argue with you, but rather to talk, so it will be as you wish. I propose we exchange names so that we may address each other appropriately, as those of equal station. What shall I call you?”
“You may use the name Dorthe when you send an envoy out to the Sugambrians to negotiate for my release. What’s your name?”
“I am called Drusus, simply Drusus. It is my pleasure to meet you, Dorthe. I wish it could be under different circumstances. Now I do have to clarify something you just said. We are not in the habit of releasing prisoners back to those with whom we are in conflict – especially women. Like your own people, we typically take captives as slaves. We do make exceptions for family members of nobles. If you tell me that you are somehow related to a man of high standing among your people, that will make me happy because then I may have a greater chance to set you free.”
Dorthe’s chin climbed a little higher. “I am Dorthe, the wife of Adalbern, warlord and the most powerful among all the Sugambrians.”
Septimus watched as his general manipulated the woman into thinking she had any control over her fate. Drusus acted surprised by the news. “I have heard of this man. He is widely respected and, dare I say feared, among many peoples in the region. But where is Adalbern now?”
Dorthe filled with pride at the thought of her husband’s fight. The answer spilled out. “He is the one who inspired me to fight your soldiers. It is he who assembled the vast army against you. He is the man who brought together thousands of Sugambrians. Adalbern assembled a force that contains the Cheruscans and the Suebians. It is my husband who can bend the other tribes to his will.”
Drusus said to Manilius, “So it is the Cheruscans and Suebians who keep up these attacks. Take Caelius and gather Chumstintus and his brother Avectius to plan an incursion directly into their lands. I want your proposals by nightfall. We soon move east for glory.” His eyes flashed.
“Yes, legate,” said Manilius, bowing. The prefect did not like the trajectory of his general’s mind – fighting for glory in measured doses often brought success, fighting only for the sake of glory often brought ruin. Nonetheless, Marcus and he ducked out of the tent to gather the necessary maps and men.
“I’m sorry for the delay; I had to release those men on an errand. But I’m afraid I must still ask you where Adalbern can be found?”
“You’d like me to tell you, I’m certain. But I don’t know where he is from day to day. All I know is that he directs each of the attacks that should be hitting you on a regular basis, shocking and killing your men.”
Drusus shook his head, “Oh, I am sorry to be the one to break this news to you, but Adalbern does not direct any attacks against us. But don’t fear, I don’t mean to imply something terrible has befallen him. No Sugambrian, of which I am aware, fights us. Adalbern marched his army south some weeks ago to meet the Cattans in battle. He is nowhere near us.”
Dorthe looked incredulous. “The Cattans marched to join us in a fight against you. You are lying just to make me second guess my own mind.”
“Dorthe, if only that were the case. But I personally rode to the Cattans this spring. They had just finished meeting with your husband where he offered them some such spoils if they would go to war against Rome. I merely had to offer them all the dark lands of the Sugambrians if they would fight for Rome rather than against her. My messengers tell me that great battles are raging all over the south of Sugambria and the north of Cattan. That is where Adalbern fights. It will be a true shame if these fine people wear themselves down against one another and are, therefore, unable to do battle with Rome. Now, do you have any other information you’d like to share with me?”
The woman furrowed her brow and balled her fists. She said nothing.
Drusus continued, “Septimus, it was correct to approach the woman with gentleness. Now you and this Batavian may take the woman away. See her stripped and shackled in line with the rest of the slaves. We can’t see her Adalbern rewarded with her safety since he remains in open aggression against us.”
. . .
Nearly the entire summer was past and Drusus’ grand army had not fought a single large-scale engagement against the Cheruscans or their Suebian allies despite having long ago crossed from Sugambrian lands. The general had taken his men across the western branch of the Visurgis River, confirming that he yet again made a name for himself by being the first Roman commander to do so on land. Of course, he was the only commander to do so on sea as well with his forays past the Pillars of Hercules last year. If the Cheruscans were too timid to do battle with him then he would accomplish the most amazing feat for a Roman general since Julius sailed to the Britons or since his very distant relative, general Marcus Claudius Marcellus, personally claimed the spoils of war when he slew a Gallic king over two hundred years earlier. He set his mind on fording the east branch of the Visurgis and traveling to the larger, more important Albis River. Such an exploit would earn him more glory than he had already earned in his young life. It would prove to Augustus that Germania was nearly fully subdued. It would give Drusus a more influential voice when talking to his stepfather about returning Rome to its republican roots.
Drusus would achieve all of these glories for his men, for himself, and for Rome if only Manilius and his tribunes would get out of his way. With the summer dwindling to nothing and the prospect of winter descending upon them, his officers began recommending caution. The young Avectius and his brother Chumstintus asked him again and again, after each day’s march, what would become of the grand army if an early snow storm trapped them deep in Germania. The general always thanked them for their counsel before dismissing them. It was easy to ignore them for the most part since they were his junior in rank, age, and experience.
But Manilius was a different matter altogether. The legate had spent much of his time for the past three years dismissing his camp prefect’s vitriol which was always oriented toward the brash Septimus. That task was simple because the commander believed Manilius was wrong about the centurion. Drusus also just plain liked Septimus, though he never ventured to become all that familiar with the man as that would upset the delicate balance
of power and prestige among the ranks of more senior men. But Manilius had, in fact, been fighting Rome’s enemies since Augustus the Caesar was a young man. His words on fighting and now resource logistics could not be ignored without inviting peril.
The supply chain from the heart of Gaul, to Vetera on the Rhenus, along the Lupia, through the new forts’ walls, across the bridge built by the Gallic brothers, over land through the Sugambrian lands, across the west branch of the Visurgis, and over land through Cheruscan territory invited unspeakable danger. The army could supplement some of its needs directly from the land and tiny settlements they came across, but nothing could adequately nourish, clothe, and outfit four legions except the complex web of supply that it created in its wake. Without a more significant presence in the west, Manilius argued, they could not continue to push into the east.
Besides, Manilius went on in each council of war for the past week, news told them that the Sugambrians had defeated the Cattans to the south. What if Adalbern finds he has a desire to risk it all and drive north to cut us off? Manilius did not fear forming up in battle against an army already exhausted from fighting all summer, but he was wise in that the legions may find themselves between the Sugambrians, the Cheruscans, and the Suebians. The army of Drusus, made up of men from the fair climate of Rome, would be with dwindling supplies and cold feet. The latter was always an extremely draining force to morale.
So far, though, the general had seen fit to successfully discount the senior man’s pressure. With each passing day, however, Drusus himself knew that the man was correct. But he longed to stand next to the Albis. The general wanted to dip a cupped hand into its waters and drink –something no Roman had done. Though forcing it was childish, Drusus began to yearn for glory.
And so it was late one evening when the sun had just fallen beyond the horizon yet still cast enough light to see vague images, the general walked past the camp prefect’s tent with no particular destination in mind. He had hoped to walk among the men inconspicuously and listen to their simple arguments about games, women, and officers. Drusus sometimes did this to clear his mind. After such an excursion, he found that he could duck back into his tent and the answer to whatever problem confronted him presented itself with little effort.
A wisp of dark flew past his eyes and he stopped. It was just a fly, he thought, which were always with the marching army because of its latrines and defecating animals. Drusus took a step forward again and heard the buzzing of a bee. He stopped again and looked around in the dusk sky to try to find the tiny creature. For him, and for all Romans, bees were winged messengers sent directly from the gods, so it was worth his time to divine what the little animal had to say.
He caught a glimpse of it when the bee flew up to the sky past the shadow of trees. Its path was swirled and irregular. Why do they do that, he wondered to himself? Why not just travel directly to its goal? And then a funny thought struck him. The general thought about how his own path was more like the path of the bee than he cared to admit. He wanted to return Rome to being governed by the Senate, yet for his part, the general needed to subdue Germania to get there. To subdue the German tribes, Drusus had to cut to its heart. To cut to its physical heart, the general had spent the past three years running his men north, south, east, and west over land and sea. How much like the bee was he? The general smiled in the dark.
His friend the bee took off around the back of the tent and the commander felt compelled to follow. He stepped around after it. The creature’s singular buzzing was joined by an entire colony. At the tip of one of the tent’s poles where the guy rope wrapped around it, hundreds or even thousands of bees swarmed onto one another to form a living breathing ball that seemed to pulsate to a regular beat.
“Manilius!” he shouted.
“Legate?” came a surprised voice from the dark. The prefect was not in his tent, but near enough that Drusus heard his quick footfalls growing closer. “Legate, where are you?”
“Here, Manilius, behind your tent.”
“Yes, legate?” breathed the prefect.
“Find Cornelius at once. Bring him here.”
When Manilius had stepped close enough he heard the intense buzzing of the bees and stood transfixed by them. He, like his general, wondered what such a message could mean. Manilius ran off toward the square of the augurs’ tents like a man half his age. Drusus ignored his bit of disrespect when the prefect didn’t acknowledge the order.
In just moments, Manilius returned with the cocksure Cornelius in tow. Paterculus, the old servant, came with the two men carrying a sputtering torch that he held close enough to the tent so that its light fell on their quarry, but far enough so that its heat did not agitate them to swarming anger. The augur stared at the throbbing mass not in wonder as did the others. Instead, he studied it as one who had prepared for times such as this for his entire life. Cornelius walked first directly beneath it and then around the side. He crouched and leaned to get a better glimpse of whatever he hoped to gather. Twice he swatted Paterculus back when he felt constricted by the old man’s interest.
“What does it . . .” began Drusus. But Cornelius shushed him. Manilius bristled at the slight to the general, but the augur was the only man who could ever hope to get away with such disrespect and so let it go.
“Lord Drusus,” the augur began, “please tell me what matters of importance have weighed on you of late. No, wait. The messengers indicate that you wonder about the army’s next step. Is it forward to the east or should it be back toward the forts? That is your conundrum.”
“Yes,” nodded Drusus.
“I thought so,” said the augur. Cornelius scratched around in a small pack that hung from his shoulder to his waist. He pulled out a large handful of straw, which seemed an odd item for a seer to keep at the ready, but no one questioned him. He smashed it between both of his hands and the held it out. “Paterculus, set this ablaze.”
The old man hesitated as he immediately feared the possible repercussions for burning one in a position of such authority. Cornelius gave a look that frightened Paterculus into action. He gently set the burning end of the torch onto the ball of straw. It took a moment for it to start since the stems and grasses retained some moisture from whatever pasture they had been stolen. Then the collection popped into a fast burning ball in the augur’s bare hands. Drusus and Manilius watched in wonder, each asking themselves how soothsayers like Cornelius learned their crafts. At the tiny blaze’s zenith Cornelius folded his hands together, snuffing the fire out. He carried it beneath the pulsing bees and allowed the lingering smoke to wind up and through them.
He allowed the smoke to penetrate the entire lot of bees for many heartbeats before he reached a bare hand up. The onlookers gasped while he carefully wedged his hand into the swarm. Bees began crawling up his arm, but did not appear to sting him.
“Cornelius?” was all that the commander could utter.
The augur smiled then after his hand, buried as it was in the bees, seized on something. He pried until it eventually made a muffled snapping sound in the mass. Cornelius withdrew his hand holding a small piece of a hive dripping with honey. He waved the last of the smoke under it. Then to the other men’s astonishment, he tasted the honey with bees still lazily walking on his arm. Cornelius smacked his lips before picking the last of the bees from his hand one by one and replacing them with their comrades in the swarming mass. He finished by tossing the hive fragment to the ground and cleaning his hands on a rag from his satchel.
“Well,” asked Manilius, “what does the flavor tell you? What did you learn?”
“Camp prefect, the flavor told me nothing other than the honey was delicious. No doubt made in the vicinity of some type of flowering tree. What would you expect the flavor to tell me?”
“Stop toying with my prefect, Cornelius,” Drusus said. “He’s not as forgiving as am I. He’ll enjoy rapping your head with a club. What have you learned?”
“Yes, legate. We’ve only just p
aused in this marching camp this afternoon and yet the hive and honey seem to indicate that it has been there for a much longer period. Unless Manilius has said that his servants frequently demonstrate stings when they build or tear down his tent, I believe we can be assured that this is a message from the gods. Since it came to you directly, commander, it is meant for you. Since the winged messengers told me it had to do with the future direction of our march, I am comfortable in saying that we now know the will of the gods. It is but up to you if you wish to follow their direction or risk taking a different path.”
“And what do they say?” inquired Drusus.
“The message is thus: if the legions tarry too long in Germania, they will be covered by the tribesmen in one afternoon just as this pole and guy rope have been. The honey made by the warring tribes will taste sweet, but our army will be like the nectar stolen from the flower. We will be spit out by the roving tribes if we travel further east. If, however, we turn toward the Rhenus, we will find success. We will use the tribesmen as the nectar with which we make our own fragrant honey. Success will find you, Lord Drusus.”
Manilius, hearing news that confirmed his position, gave a warily positive look, hoping only that his commander would understand the good sense given to them by the gods through the augur. Paterculus leaned toward the general with a similarly expectant look. The torchlight danced on the men’s faces as the last light of dusk disappeared.
“I know what you all wait for and I’ll not delay. I am but a young commander, but know when to take the advice of seasoned men and of the gods. Manilius, we break camp in the morning to march west. We return to the strength of the Rhenus.”
A genuine smile grew on the normally sullen prefect’s face. “Yes, legate.” Manilius strode off to make the myriad of detailed arrangements for a hasty departure at first light.
Drusus said, “And thank you, Cornelius, for reading the auguries. You may have saved many fine Romans with your skills.”