The Wald

by Born, Jason

  “Yes, lord, of course,” answered Septimus.

  The commander flipped his leg forward over the horse’s neck and slid down from his leather-covered, wooden saddle. He walked to the monument and stood before it with his eyes and arms wide. Drusus moved his lips while he silently uttered words to the gods, who were more than capable of hearing regardless of the volume he chose to employ. In just a few moments his time was over and he crawled back onto his steed.

  “Do you have more of your own mumbling to do, or will you ride with me?” Drusus asked.

  Septimus had planned on spending more time in quiet, but it was uncommon for one of his rank to get unfettered access to his general, so he agreed on the spot. In no time the pair was idly chatting like old friends as their horses ambled down the road that lay closer to the river than the one Septimus had used for his outbound trip. Drusus asked more about how Septimus grew up and about his father. The centurion shared everything he could remember. None of it was very flattering to one like the general, raised in privilege, but Drusus never once seemed offended by the crude upbringing.

  “Ah, my own father from whose seed I sprang with my older brother Tiberius fought against Augustus, you know. I don’t remember it, of course, since I was only about four when the emperor became my new father,” Drusus said. Septimus did know this bit of information. Most of Rome knew that Augustus had adopted the two sons of a rival in order to be firmly placed in the powerful Claudian family line. It was all politics, the likes of which Septimus could never understand.

  “Perhaps someday, Augustus will see the wisdom of returning Rome to a republic with senators who have real power. Until then, I suppose we’ll just fight for empire,” Drusus continued as if he had not just uttered treasonous thoughts. The general looked at Septimus and saw a flicker of concern, so he added, “Don’t trouble yourself. You haven’t just been let in on a grand conspiracy to overthrow the emperor. I’ve made my thoughts known to him and my brother. They both ignore me like you would a dog that is too foolish to take seriously. They pat me on the head and tell me to go off to Germania and conquer some more peoples.”

  Septimus did breathe easier, but now felt it best to continue the rest of the ride in silence. The centurion had no desire to be killed for treason. Drusus was in the mood to talk. He struck up the conversation again. “You see there, Septimus?” The commander pointed to two small temples sitting by the roadside that began to show more clearly in the red morning light. “In there they worship Isis, an Egyptian goddess of fertility. And in there they worship Mater Magna, the great Asian mother goddess. Rome really can bring disparate peoples together.”

  “Yes, lord,” answered Septimus.

  Drusus laughed, “It’s always yes lord, this, and yes lord that. Someday I’d like people to tell me what they really think.”

  “You might not like what they have to say, lord,” said Septimus.

  “Oh, that won’t bother me. I’ll just have them thrown into prison for the rest of their lives.” Both men laughed.

  “Speaking of fertility, Septimus, do you have a woman?” asked Drusus.

  Septimus thought the man was mocking him. It was expressly forbidden for legionaries to have families, though some officers kept unofficial brides and children near their home bases. Then, if they survived for an entire career in the military, they had a warm bed to which to retire. “No, lord, I don’t. I don’t think I need one. The legions are my wives. Why settle for one when you can have many?”

  “Says the man who has never been married – a wise man knows that just one good wife is enough to keep a man satisfied and eager to please. No, Septimus, it is fitting for a man to find himself a woman. When you finish your marriage to the Roman army, you find yourself a good woman. Make a few babies for that woman to chase after and then spend the last of your days raising sheep as your father. That will be a full life if you do all that.”

  “Yes, lord,” was Septimus’ simple response.

  Drusus chuckled. “It’s good to see that I am so persuasive.”

  “Yes, lord,” said Septimus. Both men gave one last laugh as they parted ways, Drusus toward the new bridge that crossed over the Rhenus, Septimus back to the barracks to shout his men from their slumber.

  . . .

  Drusus led two legions into Cattan that year. The rest of his mighty expeditionary force was spread throughout Germania in forts and along the west bank of the Rhenus River. The poor Cattan farmers, unfortunate enough to live between Mogontiacum and the first fort, had long gotten used to the coming and going of Roman patrols. Yet at the sight of a string of soldiers and wagons marching in smart order out to the east, even they stretched out their crooked backs from their barley fields to gaze upon the legions. Some still wished that the forest gods would send fire onto the whole lot of Romans as they passed. Others, a little more enterprising or more forgiving, already counted the extra brass sestertii that weighed down their purses. The Romans had to buy food from someone, these latter farmers said, might as well profit when the quartermaster came looking.

  After a brief sojourn around the fort that sat in Cattan, the legions struck out again for virgin territory. Their goal was to draw the Cattans out in battle and decimate them so future resistance would be impossible. The Roman army had come to understand that the tribesmen were not fools and would often as not choose not to give battle, preferring to slink around in the woods. Though less satisfying than a cut-and-dried victory, Drusus resolved to continue slashing and burning the landscape if the Cattans refused to fight.

  Septimus walked at the head of his century after marching by day and throwing up camp by night for five days. Each of those days brought small skirmishes from the Cattans, who seemed ready to use the tried and true tactics of the Sugambrians and Cheruscans before them. Their riders would appear from the hills or forests, unannounced even by Roman scouts, to create mayhem. There were not many of them, however, and the centuries held up well, losing only a handful of men. Septimus, being in the center of the column in the cohort nearest Drusus, did not receive any losses from these attacks.

  Each day also brought more burned fields of millet or flax and flaming homes, more rutted countryside, more butchered livestock, and more enslaved women and children.

  The centurion marched, thinking about the high republican ideals expressed by his commander at their chance morning meeting. How did a man with those beliefs justify attacking the tribes, he wondered? How could you bring a people who seemed quite free to elect their leaders today to a life under imperial rule? It had always been easy for Septimus to carry out such orders. He was wedded to the army. He asked no questions. Drusus was more complex than that. In the end Septimus decided that it was all just politics and beyond his station, so he moved on to other thoughts.

  Septimus wondered what his frightening vision of the rising giant serpent biting Jupiter meant to him and the legions. He had not told anyone about it, not even Marcus, since an omen as bad as that would spread through the ranks like a wildfire. If that were to happen the spirits of the men would plummet and nearly guarantee that whatever ill the sign conveyed would come to pass.

  Eventually the Cattans had had enough of the menacing march of Drusus’ army. The scouts said they appeared ready to give battle, with some eight thousand of the tribe’s men forming up for battle in the next valley. Word traveled quickly through the ranks that there was to be a fight that day, but the pace of the army’s march did not change. It was early in the campaign and Drusus meant to demonstrate that he was in charge, deciding the time of engagement.

  The sun was already at its apex by the time Septimus and his cohort emerged from the wald into a sweeping valley that the tribe had cleared over the eons in which to live and cultivate. The Cattans had already spread out over many of the fields and trampled the peasants’ oats under foot, no doubt hoping that this would be where they stopped such activity once and for all. Three humble fence rows were torn up, with the posts and rails piled haphazard
ly behind the tribe’s army. As a result, a group of ten young women and boys shuffled while waving their arms in order to drive a small herd of cattle out of harm’s way.

  The left-most end of Drusus’ line had already begun to draw up into battle order, with their centurions and optii bellowing encouragement. Septimus ordered his men to drop their shovels and packs at the edge of the woods so that they carried only the proper tools of the trade into battle. The rattling carts of the baggage train were soon the only sounds heard as the well-rehearsed dance of the legions played out as it had countless times on parade grounds or on battlefields in Macedonia, Thracia, Carthage, Syria, Gaul, and now Germania since the great city’s founding by Romulus hundreds of years earlier.

  Septimus remembered the first time he had assembled in formation with an entire legion. He recalled his astonishment at just how long it took for an army of thousands of men to methodically walk into place. His wonderment had long since passed, but he looked out across the battlefield to the Cattans who he would soon be killing. Watching Rome’s finest men assemble in such order had to terrify them. Yet they stood firm in their formation which closely resembled that of the legions. Apparently, the Cattan generals had decided to forego the hopeless wedge formation that, more often than not, led to utter destruction for the side that employed it.

  He was close enough now to hear Drusus’ own voice erupt from the silence to call for the advance. Septimus and the other centurions repeated the order until every man was prepared. In a heartbeat, the first line of men moved forward as one. The next five lines began their march simultaneously so that an eerie wave of bristling men slowly swept across the land like wind blew across the fat heads of a ripe barley field. The legions were silent – deathly quiet.

  The Cattans broke into a raucous set of uncontrolled screams. Septimus now understood some of their more base curses and heard them all in rapid-fire succession. When one group of the tribesmen grew tired of shouting there always seemed to be more ready to take up the shouts. They beat their shields with long wooden clubs, spears, and swords. They stomped the ground in order to drown out the frighteningly regular beat of the legions marching to cut them down. At least one hundred of their number broke ranks and ran into the space between the closing armies. These men proceeded to strip themselves completely naked while still clutching their weapon and shield, if they were fortunate enough to have one. A fair amount of these naked warriors then chanted or even chewed on their own arms. It was obviously a show meant to strike terror into their enemies. To a large extent it worked, for if men were this enthralled before the heat of battle bubbled in their breasts, what more would they do then?

  Septimus calmly told his men to ignore the naked warriors and hold their javelins steady for the main Cattan force. He was pleased to see that not even the most junior centurion allowed his men to panic and loose missiles.

  Five of those wild, naked men decided to fall in glory. They rushed Septimus’ century as a more or less cohesive group with spears leveled. The men bypassed Septimus, out in front of the line as he was, and crashed into the shield wall to his right. But the strength of the wall, with its shields knit together like a warm garment made on the loom, did not bend. Instead, the wild men were immediately pierced, only to shrink down harmlessly beneath the marching legionaries’ feet. Septimus was pleased with his men and returned his gaze toward the enemy.

  When the Roman line was close enough to use their javelins to rain down terror onto the tribe, Drusus ordered a halt. Here is when the Cattans would either run or stay. This is what would determine whether the fight was one fought face to face or if Septimus and his century would spend the afternoon slicing into fleeing men’s backs. The centurion raised his empty right hand, ready to relay the signal for javelins to be launched.

  Instead, Drusus called, “Hold javelins!”

  Septimus watched as the general said something to the Gallic brothers and Hostilius, his new camp prefect, before kicking his horse out ahead of the line, in easy range for any angry Cattan to reach with a spear. “Cattans, we come to give you full battle. Caesar Augustus sends us here. I, Drusus, general of these fine men, do challenge any among you to combat.” Septimus checked his immediate gulp of horror. Even though Drusus had proven himself time and again as a capable warrior, why would he expose himself needlessly? If a lucky blow killed him, the morale of the now headless legion would be sapped. He could invite defeat. Then Septimus again remembered his new vision of the Jupiter Column. He mumbled words to Jupiter on the spot, hoping for mercy.

  A proud-looking Cattan stepped forward. He was of Drusus’ height, but broader, with limbs well-hewn. He wore a simple mail shirt with no additional adornment. The challenger carried a sword that was probably taken from a Roman cavalry officer, it was long and broad. He dropped his shield and reached behind him where another man handed him a spear. Drusus abandoned his horse while one of his assistants scrambled out from his place in the line to lead the beast back. The general waited while the Cattan closed in.

  They did not talk or greet one another. The Cattan was angry that this Roman stood on his land. He was bitter for the years of pain Rome’s meddling caused his people. The challenger meant to decapitate the legions once and for all. With his left arm tucked firmly downward he drove the spear forward at Drusus’ muscled cuirass. The general swung his spatha down and around to deflect the jab. The Cattan used the opportunity to give a broad swing with his sword. With agility, the Roman commander reversed the course of his weapon and blocked the blow. The two swords seemed suspended together for a full heartbeat until Drusus kicked the man’s hand that held the spear. Drusus gave a backhand swing of his spatha, rapping the man’s shoulder and sliding down his chest. The mail held and no blood was drawn, but Drusus drove his advantage while both sides looked on, afraid to breathe.

  Drusus jabbed his sword so quickly that Septimus could barely see as it slipped under the man’s mail and into his groin. A resonating gasp echoed down the tribe’s lines, while a simple cheer of hope sprang from the legionaries. The challenger released both of his weapons instinctively. His legs gave out and he curled into a ball, still on his knees. With a mighty two-handed swing the general ended the man’s suffering by racing the blade through the prone neck. The head fell to the ground promptly. The man’s body teetered, its heart pumping two full beats of blood into the air before the entire mess collapsed.

  The general raised his sword where he stood and called, “Legions, close on the enemy!”

  His men leapt forward at the shocked Cattans. Septimus rammed into two men at the same time with his large shield. His century closed around him and eliminated his opponents before he could even offer them one thrust of his sword.

  The battle raged. Septimus had fought for Rome for years. He could sense the mood of his enemy from the way they met his blows or the way they brought their own. From the start, he knew that while these brave tribesmen held their ground, while they stood and fought for their people, they had already lost. Drusus, in killing one man, had removed all of their resolve, surety, and passion. The legions slaughtered the Cattan there in the fields of oats.

  . . .

  After he gave them a crushing defeat, it was as if Drusus completely dismissed the Cattans. Each day following the remarkable victory, he drove his men on a march to the east. The pace he set was rapid, the column rarely rested, and they marched long into the evening when the sun barely hovered over the western horizon. The legions scarcely had enough time to dig a shallow ditch around their camp each night before the land fell into darkness. Drusus was correct, though. The Cattans were no longer a threat. None of their horseman harassed the march by day. No fires of any shadowing army could be seen by night.

  It made sense to the men. Their Imperator had challenged a counterpart to a head-to-head struggle and emerged with the spoils. The legions had been whipped into such a killing frenzy that they drenched the farm fields with Cattan blood, eliminating over half their number in j
ust the first few moments of the confrontation.

  It was as if Rome had moved its boundaries eastward from the Rhenus on that very day. The legions had long felt free to move about as they pleased on the southern peninsula where their great home city sat. Now, that same confidence seemed to extend into Germania. Once again the men had chanted to their commander whenever he came through the camp at night. Morale was high. They could not be defeated that year.

  The men were soldiers, though, and aside from marching and gambling, soldiers grumble. They groused about the long, rapid marches. However, so untouchable was Drusus, that his men never blamed him for any of their suffering. It was poor Hostilius who took all of the accusations from the common legionaries. Septimus heard some of the men openly complaining about the new camp prefect. His initial reaction was to think that Hostilius deserved all manner of gripes he received. That was the life of the camp prefect, after all. Was the bread moldier than usual? It was the camp prefect’s fault. An army-issued boot rubbed your heel raw? Damn the prefect! But then he remembered his position in the ranks as someone who was to maintain order. A centurion had to be feared or revered or both. So Septimus had each of the men stripped to the waist and lashed in the center of camp one morning as the legion prepared to leave. He chose to swing the whip himself, going a little easier on them than another man may have. They still yelped in pain with each stroke. Blood still blistered from their skin. Yet some of the men actually gave their centurion a nod of respect as they delicately laced their way back into their tunics. It would be a difficult few days on the march with heavy packs bouncing on those wounds.

  Eventually Drusus, who always had a set of Germanic guides with him for direction and translation, passed into the Hercynius Saltus, or Hercynian Forest, which was made famous by the writing of Julius Caesar in his journals. The black woods were full of mystery, having served as a boundary between civilization and the barbarous peoples beyond since time began. They had blocked that previous Roman general’s advance into the heart of southern Germania. Not so with Drusus. Though the men mumbled prayers to the gods as they fell into its shadows, allowing their imaginations to conjure all sorts of vivid pictures of what they would find, Drusus remained upbeat with supreme confidence.