The Wald

by Born, Jason

  Even Septimus seemed to have forgotten the omen about which he had so worried weeks earlier. He pushed his men so that they would outmarch other centuries. He volunteered his men to lead patrols to the left or right. He asked for the glory of leading the column. More often than not, his requests were granted. Drusus clearly held the sheep-herder’s son in high regard. And despite his name, Hostilius actually treated Septimus pleasantly. The camp prefect was no longer a stumbling block for Septimus. The centurion felt that his rise to fame in the army was all but certain now.

  The Hercynian Forest was majestic with its old growth beech, spruce, and fir trees climbing like columns out of the earth. It was trackless. Even Drusus’ guides were not aware of anyone who had traversed its entire north-south direction, said to be six days’ worth of constant walking if the maps were to be believed. Certainly no one, the tribesmen said, had ever started at the west end and emerged from the east end. Some of the oldest in their ranks said that such a journey would take nine days. Nine days of marching while a man would never see the sky or see farther than he could throw a heavy stone. Still other men claimed that the mysterious wald never ended at all. They said that it went to the very edge of the world where the god-realm became dominant and man could not hope to live.

  The hunters brought back strange beasts such that no Roman had ever seen. The interpreters were able to name them all, but their knowledge did not make the men any less amazed. They called them names like elk, moose, reindeer, and aurochs. The creatures were enormous, with horns or antlers as wide as a man was tall. On several occasions after bringing the beasts down with spears and arrows, the men hauled the animals up over a stout tree branch using thick rope tied around their hind legs at the level of the dewclaws. Just to get the carcasses to budge took six men. To lift them up so they dangled above the ground required ten men. One of the moose was so long when stretched in this manner that two men could have stacked themselves on one another and still the beast’s hind legs would have extended further into the trees.

  But Drusus wasn’t interested in exploring for very long. His men cut a northeasterly path so that they would shorten their time in the wasteland. If he was going to reach the Albis this year, long his goal, the army would have to drive itself with punishing speed. At last, after five days of climbing and descending tree-blanketed hills, they emerged into more habitable forests.

  The maps then told Drusus that he was directly south of Cheruscan territory, not far from his marvelous victory two years earlier. It was time for his mission of resolute conquest to continue. They crossed one of the twisting branches of the Visurgis and moved north, slashing a broad path as they went. The familiar lightning attacks from Segimer’s Cheruscans did not come. Except for one small battle where a local village sent its men forth to die against the legionaries, it appeared to Drusus and his army that the cost of constant war in the tribal lands had finally taken its toll on the Cheruscans. Segimer and his tribe stayed home.

  The army cut its way eastward, eagerly pushing to reach the Albis before the season became too long and the time came to about face – or when it came time for Hostilius to warn the general of the logistics train. They had already gone further than in either of the previous two campaigns, but Drusus, understanding the power of controlling political thought through news, wanted to reach the mighty river. Drusus meant to get one more honor for his command so that when he spoke in the hallowed halls of Rome, men would feel compelled to listen.

  At last they emerged onto the left bank. The river flowed wide and slow as it had for thousands of years. A small village that sat on the right bank emptied of all its inhabitants after a small child alerted its people to the horde of men pouring out of the trees on the opposite side. The villagers piled into small boats and, while hugging the eastern shore, rapidly paddled down the river to escape the frightening menace. Avectius and Chumstintus both laughed at the terrified locals, seemingly unaware that just a generation or two ago their ancestors in Gaul would have fled in a similar, wide-eyed fashion.

  Drusus joyously called a halt and ordered a celebration that night in the camp, with each man receiving double the typical ration of wine. The sight of the Albis was a peaceful end to his personal, internal struggle. The general felt alive, vigorous, yet rested.

  He and his officers held their silver cups up time and again that night before Drusus hastily penned a letter announcing his army’s triumph. The script was lazy, even containing three errors as his mind and hand wandered from the wine’s warmth that spread from his chest outward. The courier who was summoned came in bowing like a good soldier should, but the general offered him a cup of wine and toasted the man to a safe and swift journey. The mood throughout the camp was jubilant as the courier rode out to tell the world of Drusus’ accomplishment.

  “You’ve made it, lord general,” said Chumstintus. The statement gave them all another excuse to lift their cups for a toast.

  “You set your goal, Lord Drusus, and you’ve made it,” echoed Avectius. Drusus smiled and dropped another mouthful of wine into his gullet.

  “The men did this,” said Drusus. “I drove them, but this army of Romans has conquered Germania. We’ve only to get their tribal leaders’ marks on a page, or better yet we’ll simply give them the terms of their surrender. But that will be next year. We’ve no more time this campaign season to go traipsing around Germania hunting for this or that leader’s hovel.”

  Hostilius raised his glass for another toast. The officers all sighed from drunkenness, but joined him. “To next season’s campaign.”

  Drusus sat quietly with his eyes closed, smiling to himself, proud of his achievements. He was not yet thirty years old and had begun the subjugation of Germania with a successful rout of a tribal plot. He sailed his immense navy past the northern Pillars of Hercules. Drusus had struck bargains with the Batavians, the Frisians, the Chaucians, and the Burchanians. Next year, he thought, while listening to his men sing songs in the raucous camp, he would finally accept the Cattans, the Cheruscans, the Suebians, and even the Sugambrians into the Roman fold. After just a year or perhaps two to condense power in the region, he could launch a campaign east of the Albis to punish Mawrobodwos for fleeing and building his own little empire on Rome’s new easternmost border. Nothing was impossible to Drusus and his legions.

  “So, how long will we tarry here, lord?” asked Avectius.

  Drusus pinched the bridge of his nose and answered. “Tribune, we will stay long enough to accomplish two tasks.” This being news to his officers, they leaned in as they attempted to blink themselves into something resembling consciousness. “We will erect a memorial for this journey on this very bank. I want the land cleared of trees then covered in a mound. The men will then build a stone trophy so that while we are gone over the winter season, the tribes will pass and know that none of their doing could have constructed such a thing. They will remember how large and fearsome of a force we can be. But they will also recall that with our legions we bring knowledge and education. We are here to stay.” He trailed off, still smiling. Drusus appeared to fall asleep.

  “And the second task, lord?” inquired Chumstintus. “You mentioned two.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” said the general. “I’ve had far too much to drink if I can no longer keep track of my words. But you men keep on drinking. You can obviously keep track of words for the both of us.” The men laughed silly drunken laughs. Drusus nodded off to sleep again.

  “Lord?” said Chumstintus. “You still haven’t said what our second task will be.”

  Drusus stood unsteadily while flapping his hands to get rid of his guests. “Go on now. I’ve got a headache already. I need to sleep.” His officers righted themselves on wobbly legs, glad that their tents were only several paces from their general’s. Drusus smacked the last of them on his back as they ducked out the door, calling, “And be prepared in the morning. I mean to cross my army over the Albis.”

  His leather tent flap slapped
shut and he could be heard flopping down onto his cot without bothering to extinguish the light.

  . . .

  Drusus slept fitfully, bathed in sweat. He lay flat on his back, jerking again and again, until at last his sleep was able to paralyze his limbs and the general became perfectly still. The only part of his uniform that did not rest with him was his helmet. Everything else was strapped in place where it was when he had collapsed after his night of drinking.

  The camp around him had at last fallen to sleep after hours of gambling and merriment. Only the scouts and sentries were burdened with consciousness. Even the Gallic brothers, who stayed awake long after they left Drusus’ tent proposing and dismissing ideas for getting the army across the Albis with neither boats nor the time to build a bridge, slept curled under woolen blankets.

  “Drusus,” came the haunting voice of a woman. In his sleepy stupor the general thought it was his wife’s voice and her image came to his hazy mind. On he slept, temporarily content.

  The call came again – quiet, but firm. “Drusus.” The woman’s voice was young and Drusus imagined her to be beautiful. The general fell even more deeply asleep.

  “Drusus, where are you hastening?” Drusus sensed something odd in the Latin the woman used in his dream. It was accented, he thought.

  “Drusus, where are you hastening, insatiable Drusus?” she asked again. The general recognized the accent as that of a German woman speaking in Latin. He forced his mind awake and his eyes soon shot wide.

  Standing in the center of his tent was a young woman dressed in the traditional garb of a Suebian. Her clothes were more richly made than a commoner’s, with pale blue and yellow fabric. Some source of light shone from behind her and illuminated through the sheer fabric, showing the curves of her figure and the sides of her breasts. Drusus became concerned that his men cleaned up a slave woman for him to have in his bed. He did not wish to dishonor Antonia in such a way and tried to shove her away. It was then that the general discovered he was paralyzed, either by sleep or trickery. He tried to call out, but his voice did not come.

  All he could do was watch the woman watching him. She seemed to float, though her feet were planted firmly on the ground. Her dress fluttered, though he could not feel a draft. The Suebian said a third time, “Where are you hastening, insatiable Drusus?” The general scanned up to the woman’s beautiful, but sad face. The smooth skin above her brow was furrowed and nearly quivering as if she prepared to cry. Her auburn hair was curly, falling about her shoulders. The top of her head brushed the very peak of his tent. Drusus realized she was some ten feet tall. He thought she must be an apparition or perhaps even a succubus who meant to lie upon him. Would she smother him or have her way sexually with him?

  “What is it you want?” he asked when he found that his voice had returned.

  “No, insatiable Drusus. What is it you want? It is not fated that you will look upon all of these lands. You must depart, for the very end of your toiling and of your life is already at hand.” One tear welled up in her eye and then rolled down her cheek. It was followed by many more as the woman silently wept before the general. So moved was he, that Drusus openly cried there in his cot, not knowing what else to do, feeling despair in his heart where earlier in the same evening he felt renewed of spirit. His chest felt constricted as if he was suffocating.

  He opened his mouth to ask the Suebian ghost another question when the light behind her grew intensely bright. It overtook her and Drusus yelped in pain from the brightness and heat it generated. Through his eyelids, he saw the light growing more intense until a pop then crackle sounded, followed by darkness. He opened his eyes again but found they were still bleached from the burst of light. They pained him as if someone had pressed thumbs into the sockets. Drusus closed the burning orbs and tried to calm his nerves. Eventually his breathing returned to normal and sleep came – again fitful.

  . . .

  For five days, many of the men labored at the tasks necessary to erect the memorial by the River Albis. Hostilius oversaw its construction. He proved to be an efficient leader, driving the men quickly, but not cruelly. They already had a large section of forest cleared and hauled earth up from the river bank where they mined it in order to build the mound. Basket after basket, wagon after wagon splashed up from the Albis while the legionaries, slaves, and auxiliary members grew filthy.

  The legionaries worked eagerly and in high spirits, happy to not repeat another day of forced marching. There was some rumbling about their beloved commander falling ill. No one, not even his officers, had seen him since their night of drinking. Only Cornelius, the augur, and Paterculus, Drusus’ servant, were permitted in the general’s tent, and when questioned they said nothing of his condition other than he rested. More than one man wondered why the medicus was not mentioned as visiting the legate.

  Without any orders from their general, the Gallic brothers took it upon themselves to draft officers and engineers to ride along the river looking for a suitable ford or place to throw up a narrow bridge. At first, the group trotted northward toward the sea and found that the opposite shore drew farther away, making a bridge seem less likely.

  “How will we cross, then?” asked Avectius.

  The senior engineer shrugged. “I can bridge anything, but this will require more time than throwing a few twigs across the upper Rhenus or the Lupia. Drusus had better plan on camping here in the snow if he wants to start the project now.”

  Avectius frowned. “That won’t do. Can’t we make a pontoon bridge?”

  The engineer rubbed his chin, long ago scarred by an errant swing from a hammer. “That’s an idea, tribune. I just need the winter to build some boats to act as pontoons and then we’ll set our bridge on them.”

  Avectius took the man’s sarcasm well enough. “So what do you suggest?”

  “Find a ford,” said the old man, again shrugging.

  “It doesn’t take an engineer to come up with an idea like that,” snapped Chumstintus.

  “You’re right, tribune,” blustered the engineer. “So would it be alright if I return to the camp to oversee the building of the monument?” He was already walking his horse back to the main camp when he called, “If Drusus wants to set foot across the river, just build the man a raft and float it across.”

  “Just keep riding, old man. Your suggestions are no longer needed. Drusus means to get his entire army across, not just one man,” shouted Chumstintus. The old engineer shrugged one last time and trotted back to the night camp.

  Day after day the two brothers experimented with simple rafts that could be built large and quickly. Day after day the men and animals they used to test the boats slid into the Albis. Had the brothers not been gaming to devise a shrewd invention and gain favor with Drusus, the entire debacle would have been comical. But they shouted and fought, pushing the men to fell more trees and construct a sound ship without taking the time to construct a sound ship. A horse and three men were killed and a wagon sank to the riverbed before they called off their work.

  “We must see the general,” the brothers told Paterculus, who placidly guarded the entrance flap to Drusus’ tent. The old servant mended a tear in one of the general’s garments.

  “I’ll tell him you came by. He’ll send for you if he wishes to see you.” Paterculus had become quite rehearsed at dismissing the many officers who came to the commander’s tent petitioning for action or supplies.

  “Who are you to tell us when we may see our governor?” asked Chumstintus. “We are doing his will at the river and must speak with him.”

  The old man had been whipped enough over the years to know to avoid a terse remark to a pair of tribunes. Drusus, if he were in better condition, would have come to his servant’s aid, but Paterculus felt that he could not take such a risk. “Since you insist, young officer, I’ll inquire of him soon.”

  “Inquire now. How do we even know if the general lives? Perhaps you and the augur have killed him and now try to cover your
tracks,” barked Chumstintus.

  The servant wanted to give a great sigh at having to constantly bend to the will of young, less proven men. With each passing year it seemed that the men he marched with grew younger and less proven, though through gritted teeth he had to admit that the Gallic brothers had fought well for the general. Paterculus straightened himself as best he could, given his age, and set his mending down on his stool. “Very well, please wait here.” He ducked into the tent.

  The brothers heard two distinct voices speaking in hushed tones. One, the creaking notes struck by the servant, who tried to offer his master words in a soothing manner. Two, Drusus’ voice, but altered from his typical confident tenor into a distant whine. The two leaned in with their ears.

  Paterculus slapped open the tent flap and it caught Avectius on the cheek, pleasing the servant. “He’ll see you both, but,” he snatched onto an arm of each of them with his talon-like hands, “you’ll speak softly and kindly. You’ll do as he says without question.”

  The two tribunes were confused by the old man’s commands, but nodded. They jerked free from his grip and bent into the commander’s tent.

  Drusus wore the same uniform he had on the last time they had seen him. But somehow it seemed ill-fitting, almost as if it had been made for an adult and he was a child. The general didn’t look any thinner as he sat up on his cot, feet on the ground. It seemed that the world around him grew and he remained the same.

  “Lord,” whispered Chumstintus. “May we sit?”

  “Of course,” answered their general quietly. He hadn’t yet looked directly at them.