by Born, Jason
Mawrobodwos held up his hands, obviously frustrated. “None. With all the minor, tribeless villages allied with me now, I can field a fighting force of seventy thousand men. But I cannot commit them to this war.”
“Seventy thousand?” shouted Adalbern.
“You won’t fight?” yelled Ermin, his light, fair hair blowing in the spring breeze.
Berengar wouldn’t be left out of the argument, so he cried, “Then why do you even bother us with your presence? We’ve got an alliance to form. You ought to leave us.”
Segimer stepped between the men and boys who had now gotten in each others’ faces. “Let’s let the man talk. Adalbern, he is your guest, I presume. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
“By Teiwaz!” the Sugambrian warlord huffed as he plopped back down on his seat. He could be heard mumbling, “Family, village, tribe,” over and over under his breath while calm returned to the scene.
“Thank you, Segimer,” started the Marcomannian noble. “You can tell by my appearance that I appreciate some of the things Rome has brought to this world. But do not mistake how I cut my hair or how I ride my horse as evidence that I support Roman incursion into tribal lands. I do not.”
“And yet your actions would allow it!” interrupted Berengar. “You’ve got men enough to threaten the city of Rome itself!”
“Let the man speak!” yelled Kolman, hoping he would have another ally in Mawrobodwos.
“My actions are for my people. You would tell me that if I do not join you, Rome will defeat you. And then when they don’t have to worry about your armies any longer, they can invade Marcomannia and chop us up piecemeal.”
“By Teiwaz! You’ve got seventy thousand fighters!” growled Adalbern. “And yes, that’s the argument we’d make.”
“And it would take seven hundred thousand to get rid of the legions! Don’t you see? They cannot be beaten. They beat Carthage, Egypt, Gaul, and a host of others. There’s an island to the north they call Britannia. It will be theirs one day. Syria? Theirs. Do you think we will fare any better?” snapped Mawrobodwos.
“We will if we unite,” answered Segimer and his boy, Ermin, as one. “We nearly had them beaten in the narrow pass!”
“They’re right,” continued Adalbern. “We have heart, passion, and power. With you and the Cattans we can own tactical and numerical superiority. We know the terrain. The Cheruscans and Suebians would have beaten the legions on their own because they knew the land – had it not been for Kolman the dove. What more could we do with you?”
Kolman bristled, “You’ll never understand politics!”
“And you’ll never win anything,” hissed Adalbern.
“Men,” Mawrobodwos put in. “I am in the best position to be judge of that which Rome is capable. I have seen them on my southern border and have lived among their great cities. They mean to rule Germania and they will.”
Adalbern threw up his hands. “My son asked you why you bother us then. Well, why do you bother us?”
“I come to tell you that you are not my enemy. Every breath I breathe is of the wald. No matter where I have been, in Rome or in Gaul, I smell the heather of our hills and I see the noble white flowers of our southern peaks. It is in my heart. It is in my head – all of it. And yet, in nothing I ever do will I bring an imperial power over my people. Drusus sent envoys to me recently, asking me to fight against all of you.” His arm swept over all the chieftains gathered outside Adalbern’s house. “You can be rest assured I answered unequivocally, no. But with that reply, I have guaranteed the wrath of Augustus, Drusus, Tiberius, and the rest of the legions toward the Marcomannians.”
“Mawrobodwos, I join my Sugambrian friends in their just frustration. If you know that Drusus will invade Marcomannia, then why not fight them beforehand with the help of your neighbors?” asked Segimer.
“Because, friend,” answered Mawrobodwos. “I do not intend to lose one-tenth of my women and children into slavery, one-half of my fighters to war, nine-tenths of my crops and livestock to fire, and ten-tenths of my land to Rome. I intend to take my warriors and my villages east of the Albis River and resettle there. My force of seventy thousand fighters will easily dislodge the sparse population with little losses. Or the people in my new lands can simply live among us. Either way, I will avoid devastating hardships while simultaneously slipping off the yoke of Roman rule.”
The sunny clearing grew quiet. The man’s scheme was preposterous on its face. Pick up and move an entire people, perhaps two hundred thousand counting women, children, and the aged, to an entirely new and foreign land? Drag along supplies, livestock, seeds, tools, everything? Leave the land you profess to love behind for good? Absurd! Unbelievable.
But then the idea began to make sense. By scurrying to the east, Mawrobodwos would have the Rhenus River, the Germanic tribes, and the Albis River between his people and the nearest Roman stronghold. In effect, the man would build himself a natural fortress that used Sugambrians and Cheruscans as its walls. Adalbern gritted his teeth in rage as he thought about how Mawrobodwos would allow others to fight his battles. But his simmering anger cooled while he realized the plan’s wonder. Not all of the tribes could enact it, but such was his – and others like him – lot in life. Adalbern was born into a belligerent world and he would not disappoint. His son and that boy, Ermin, would not disappoint. At least, they would fight.
No one spoke for a time. “Well, that is what I came to say,” said Mawrobodwos. “We’ll take our leave so that you may make your plans without my interference. Good bye.” He and his men swung up onto their horses and easily trotted away. Not a voice rose from either party. The silence continued long after the sound of hooves died into the distance and the dust whirling in their wake settled back to the path.
Even Kolman looked sullen at what their prospects would be in the coming year without the addition of a new, well-fed force of soldiers. He stood and began pacing to come up with a suggestion for peace or truce or negotiation. For a moment he appeared ready to speak, but slumped back down, frustrated.
“So where does that leave us?” asked Adalbern.
A nobleman from the contingent of Cattans answered, “My people may not take another attack from Drusus like we had last year. We’re down to our last stores of food. Our army will need to be there to protect what little we can grow this year between battles, carnage, and fire. Each year Drusus has moved further south for his main thrust. He will likely strike out across our southern lands this season. Adalbern, can you send your army down to us to supplement our numbers?”
And that was the exact moment Adalbern understood that the grand alliance was doomed to failure. The Cattan was correct. Drusus would start his campaign in the south. The Cattans could not afford to lose another growing season to the devastation wrought by Drusus’ army. Their people would starve.
Yet Adalbern could not hope to send what remained of his army to aid the Cattans in their plight. His force had been slowly bled away by fighting Drusus – and even the Cattans for a time – for years. His men were thin and hungry. His fields had not produced adequate food for many seasons. Livestock was gone. Women, children, and some men had been taken into slavery. And now those new bases of operation were set directly in the north of his territory. The Romans now patrolled his roads. They set up watchtowers. The garrisons from the forts would strike out to slash and burn his crops again if they watched him assemble an army to drive south. He had to keep his men in reserve in his own territory to protect the lives and livelihood of his own people.
“No, I cannot spare them. Not enough to make a difference, anyway,” was all he said.
The Cattan did not push. He knew all the great warlord’s reasons. The Cattan had all the same reasons for not sending his army north to drive the Romans from Sugambria.
“And you, Segimer? What can you offer us in the way of men?” the Cattan noble asked.
He huffed, “I’m afraid I came here with no inspiration. I hoped that one among you would provide tha
t for me. As near as we know, we lost nearly half of our men in the battle at the narrow pass two years ago – all dead. Our crops were burnt then. Last year, Drusus himself did not enter our lands, but his legions struck out from a new well-supplied fort that sits in a clearing where there used to be nothing but forest. We are hungry. We are surrounded.”
Adalbern stood up and began walking back to his hovel. Berengar called to him, “Where are you going, father?”
Without turning, he called, “Back into my house. We are done. I am getting myself used to being an animal penned by the Romans.”
Ermin jumped to his feet. “We cannot be done! If we don’t unite we are beaten. The priestess said that a union of Sugambrians and Cheruscans would succeed and we have yet to draw together. We must give it a chance.”
Adalbern opened the door to his now-small house, ducked in, and slammed it behind him. Segimer stood and indicated for his men to do the same. “Segimer,” Berengar began. “You came all this way. Don’t you mean to form an alliance? It must work.” Ermin came to stand behind his ally, his Sugambrian brother. The younger boy nodded his head and stared at his father.
Segimer was already shaking his head. “No, boys. We are already beaten. Union or not, we are done. We will fight, of course. We’ll make it harder on the Romans than if we just laid down for them. But, with each passing day, the rope gets tighter. The chance for an alliance was in the first years, and the chance is gone.”
“But what of the priestess?” prodded Berengar. “Ermin is correct. She said our two tribes would be victorious if we fought against the Romans together.”
Segimer turned away. “Climb onto your horse Ermin.” The boy sighed and did as he was told. Segimer gathered up the reins of his mount while the Cattans began to quietly prepare to leave. The Cheruscan thought of something else and walked over to Berengar and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. In hushed tones he said, “I see a fire in you that is like your father. But even your father knows when it is time to fight and when it is time to fall back to gather strength. Do what you must to survive. Pray that our goddess Nerth leaves her island and protects you if you must. In time, our tribes will have the numbers and strength to once again challenge Rome. Next time, however, we will unite as one at the beginning and not the ending. I want you there with us, fighting next to Ermin.” He squeezed the young man’s shoulder and walked to his horse.
Berengar, in frustrated, stunned silence watched the two parties ride out together along the path. They would travel together down and around the shaded hillside until the path diverged, one heading south, the other curving back north and east. Like Ermin before him, he gave a heavy sigh while resolving to persevere for the proper time when the gods would allow him to vanquish Rome. Berengar picked up a piece of stray kindling and threw it against the house and strode off toward the fields to continue in his labors.
. . .
Following the great victory in the narrow pass, Drusus was hailed by his men as the great Imperator, a title that meant simply “commander,” but when shouted in such a way, carried with it overwhelming praise. Whenever he was seen riding through camp, some lowly legionary would start the call. In moments, the men of that man’s contubernium joined in, followed by century after century. Soon the whole encampment could be heard chanting, “Hail Drusus the Imperator!” again and again until his soldiers were hoarse. Each evening for five consecutive nights after the long day’s march, the men repeated their spontaneous cries of honor. Their fighting commander had pulled them from certain defeat and propelled them to an awe-inspiring victory.
After his men returned to their barracks for the winter that year, Drusus rode to Lugdunum, where he gathered up his family and headed to Rome. Once there, he was hailed like no other Roman general had been celebrated in hundreds of years. A holiday that had already been celebrated was repeated just so Drusus could be driven in a parade of triumph.
Since then, the successful young general had added the titles of consul and senator to his rapidly growing list of honors. For hundreds of years during the old Roman Republic, the consul was the highest elected official in the land. He ruled together with a co-consul for a period of one year. Now, in the era of empire, Augustus saw to it that the position was merely honorary. The senate had ostensibly named Drusus consul, but everyone, especially the general, knew that Augustus made the ultimate decision.
The political strings continually wielded by Augustus in these manners weighed on Drusus. With each new mark of distinction or power he gained, he had hoped to lead Rome back to its representative republican roots. In practice, Drusus thought, with each new step he took, the emperor calculated a way to maximize the political benefit to himself, further entrenching the emperor, and his line, in the position of god on earth.
Drusus was glad to be rid of the intrigue of Rome for another military season. He took the admiration of her people with him and dropped his growing family off in Lugdunum once again. His grand military escort then turned eastward to Mogontiacum, the launch point for that year’s invasion of Germania.
Septimus, Marcus, and the Gallic brothers, Avectius and Chumstintus, waited for him there. Like Drusus, each of them saw their share of promotion and honor following the battle at the narrow pass two years before. The brothers received letters from the emperor himself heaping them with deserved praise. It was their brave leadership that had led to the massive slaughter of thousands of fleeing tribesmen, a feat that would do more to preserve the peace in the region than dozens of treaties. The brothers would begin this year as senior officers and advisors to Drusus.
Neither Marcus nor Septimus received the commendations as had the tribunes, but each was promoted up the hierarchy of centurions – such was life in the army as it did battle. Even in victory men were killed which created a natural advancement process. The two men now served in the general’s first cohort, an honor bestowed only to the centurions with the most experience or promise. Both men now had ample amounts of each.
Manilius was missed by the men. They all hated him for the order he demanded and for the whippings he directed. But they all loved him for the success his attention to detail brought to the battlefield. No one, however, ever admitted that they had loved Manilius.
Now the new camp prefect, who was called Hostilius, had to first earn the men’s hatred and respect so that he could one day warrant their love. The first could be had with just a few words which would take away rations or order compulsory labors that served no purpose – something the army seemed quite adept at demanding. It was possible to win the second, respect, over time with diligent work and a consistent product. The last, love, was the most difficult to gain. It was based on the capricious nature of men. And soldiers, among all men, were the most difficult from whom to secure their love or admiration. Keeping the proper balance between a fat baggage train, billowing with blankets and food, and a sharp campaign with stunning victories was the surest way to gain love. Everyone, including Hostilius, knew these facts. Putting them into practice was up to planning, execution, and a fair amount of fortune from the gods.
The morning the army was to leave Mogontiacum, Septimus awoke earlier than usual, when the sun would still sit below the horizon for a long time. He went to Marcus and told him to rouse his troops for him if he was late in returning, then left without an explanation. Marcus swore in hushed tones about being awakened at such an early hour, but eventually faded off back to sleep, organizing and reorganizing his men in his dream’s march.
Septimus gathered a horse from the stables and rode quietly through the growing civilian district of the city. He turned left down a road until he just passed the last home in the city. There he turned right and trotted in the cool moist air that surrounded the mighty river. After a pleasingly silent ride, he arrived at his destination.
Jupiter’s Column sat peacefully in the dark, barely silhouetted against the sky. Septimus climbed down and let his reins drop, confident that his horse would bide its time by
nibbling at the fresh grass that poked up between the paving stones. He prayed to the gods constantly, but always felt more comfortable if he came to a monument before leaving on a long expedition.
Septimus circled the square base, lazily running his fingers over the relief sculptures of Juno, Minerva, Mercury, and Hercules – one on each face of the base. He smiled, pleased with himself that he had been the one to discover the Pillars of Hercules far to the north in the middle of the sea. There was luck in that, he thought. All soldiers, whether they cared to admit it or not, prayed for luck.
He raised his arm and continued walking around the thin tower with his fingers bouncing in and out of the scaled pattern of the column. Septimus closed his eyes and talked with the gods. He told them his plans and directly asked for their favor. At one point he reached his free hand and set it on his chest over his heart to gesture to the gods, who were as real as the rock he touched.
When his time of prayer ended Septimus stepped back and looked up at the detailed sculpture that adorned the very top. In it, Jupiter rode a great horse. Together they trampled a giant that was in the form of a snake set to strike. Septimus had looked at the carving and others like it his entire life, but for the first time it struck his heart with worry.
Before, when he sought strength from a Jupiter Column, he had only seen the king god vanquishing an evil foe. Now he saw the sharp fangs of the wretched beast. What if the snake giant had a chance to inject its venom before the hero stomped out its life? What if the tribes, just at the moment Drusus would raise the hoof that was his army, lashed out and struck? He was terrified. Septimus told himself that there was no good reason to be so frightened from this vision, that this was no way to feel at the moment of embarking on a military campaign. It was a shocking omen.
“Inspiring isn’t it?” came a lone voice.
Septimus spun to see Drusus sitting on his war charger. The centurion looked around him and saw that the commander was alone, which was rare. Drusus saw his confusion and added, “I, too, come here on the eve of battle. It reminds me that I fight for the gods and not mere men or ambition. May I join you, Septimus?”