by Born, Jason
The brothers settled onto two small stools pulled from a corner and waited for the general to speak. When he didn’t, Avectius said, “Lord, we’ve tried to cross the river several times. We will need a little more time to do so.”
“Oh, the river?” asked Drusus. “But what of the memorial? How does it fare?”
The brothers looked at each other, both thinking that the general seemed to have retained his wits despite whatever illness befell him. “The memorial will be completed in the coming week – I would guess anyway. But we’ll be able to put a matching memorial on the right bank of the Albis this year or next. Together, they will prove your successes here in the wilderness.”
“No, this memorial will be enough for me. It is as far as I will ever come.” The general looked up at them with heavy, sunken eyes. He looked sick, but nothing a few days in the sun and several hearty meals could not repair. “I must get the men westward to the forts before my end comes. We move as soon as the marker is complete. I leave it to you both to see that it is finished in the coming days. Abandon all attempts at crossing the river.”
. . .
A pall was cast over the expedition as it returned to the more fortified west, leaving the earthen and stone memorial in its wake. Men are wont to gossip, and it did not take long for news of the general’s mortal illness to spread to every man in the army, from the tribunes and centurions down to the servants and slaves who performed the most menial of duties. No one knew for certain what this malady was that would end his life, but men speculated. Some said he had breathed in an evil spirit during their trek in the Hercynian Forest. Others said they had heard he mated with a succubus who leached his life from him as well as his seed. Another group insisted that some of the Germanic scouts had hatched a plot and poisoned the man who had zealously conquered them. There was no end to the theories.
Drusus had righted himself enough to ride at the army’s head. He spoke to no one unless they asked him a direct question. Otherwise, the general rode on quietly. The pace he set was sluggish so that even the men marching on foot grumbled about how the legions moved painstakingly slowly.
After several days of reclaiming their steps back toward civilization, Drusus began to forget about his terrifying encounter. The tribunes were correct, he thought, he had just needed some sun and exercise to right his mind. After all, the Suebian vision was not an apparition at all. She was merely a vivid part of a drink-induced dream that his mind was too willing to contort into a nightmare. The “mare” part of the word, Drusus knew, was part of one of the Germanic words that meant, most broadly, evil female spirit. But it was not a spirit. She was a dream, encouraged by wine, and he was a consul of Rome. Drusus was a senator of Rome. His men called him Imperator. He should know better than to think he was susceptible to some forest ghost. Perhaps some of the common soldiers or the tribesmen and women themselves could fall under such a spell, but not him. His positions, his Roman gods, could easily protect him.
He reflected on these things while they marched back westward, growing stronger by the day. But the die had been cast. The shadow had fallen across the men. Their minds focused not on their triumph over the Cattans earlier in the campaign. Nor did they focus on the new lands they had touched or the great eastern river they had seen. The men concentrated on their inability to cross the Albis. They worried that the Cheruscans would launch another sneak attack, since they had done so two years earlier. The legionaries began to focus on all manners of miniscule daily occurrences as signs of worse things to come.
Once ignited, the hysteria in the ranks grew. By day, countless men reported seeing wolves prowling around the long train as if they circled wounded prey, preparing to latch their jaws about its neck. By night, the soldiers and even Septimus heard the howling of a great pack or packs of wolves. On multiple occasions, two young boys were seen riding horses through the night’s camp. This frightened the men since the youngest man on the march was fifteen and no officer had brought along a family. And wailing women full of mourning were heard, even though everyone among them was a man. Within the earthen walls of the night’s camp, talking ceased. Men did not laugh or drink or gamble. Instead, they sat staring into their cooking fires hoping to divine safety from the gods from whatever events these signs foretold.
But duty forced the men to act. Each day, even though worried, Septimus drove his men as they stomped their way out of the dark mysteries of the forest. He encouraged them with blustering talk while marching in order with them. Yet his confidence was lacking as evidenced by the fact that he did not volunteer his century for scouting, flanking, or any razing missions. Though it may have helped morale had they gone and returned successfully, there is no way to overstate the terror that strikes an army once fear seizes its very heart.
These signs occurred and reoccurred for several weeks until one evening Drusus had called a halt on a hillside relatively clear of obstruction. The Hercynian Forest sat dark to their southeast. The lands once controlled by Mawrobodwos, the Roman educated traitor as he was called among the troops, sat unoccupied to the west.
It had been a relatively peaceful march that day, with only two reports of the lurking wolves, though once again, hunting parties sent to bring them down found no signs, no tracks. The men eagerly dug the protective moat of the night’s camp, throwing shovelfuls of dirt inward to build a low protective wall on which the evening sentries could pace.
Servants struggled to strike fires for their masters inside the walls that sprang up around them. Not a servant here or there, but every servant. The fires wouldn’t start. Sparks shot from their stones, but the tinder, though dry, would not ignite – a new sign.
Cornelius, the famous augur of Drusus, was called again and again. Instead of gaping in wide-eyed abandon like everyone else, he chastised the servants, “You bother me for damp kindling?” As the darkness settled and it was clear there would be no fires, he stomped away in a huff to gather his own kindling from the nearby forest to prove to the men that they searched for omens where none existed. “It is my life to find and interpret signs. Leave it to me. Servants ought to serve!”
Yet all the camp knew the lack of light and heat was just more in the long line of warnings. The worrisome signs had at last become routine. When the walls were finished, the legionaries shrugged as if to say, ‘It’s what we would expect at this point,’ when told of the news. They plodded on their weary legs to set up their leather tents. They had performed the same tasks thousands of times and so the heavy coverings were quick to be set upon their wooden frames. The men gnawed on some old bread.
Septimus sat with his friend Marcus Caelius that night. They both ate cold beans brought in from Gaul along the baggage route. It was the tenth night in a row that they ate them so their enthusiasm had waned. Each had to swallow hard to get the sustenance into their stomachs. But the ration of wine used to wash it down tasted good.
It was eerily dark without any light from fires. No moon shone in the sky. Only the stars were there to illuminate the earth. “What do you make of the latest omen?” asked Marcus.
“I don’t know,” answered Septimus. “I thought they all meant ill, but Drusus seems well enough. I think I saw him smile once today.”
“Aye, and we’re out of Cheruscan territory. The only possible menace could come from the Cattans and they are shattered. The Marcomannians are gone with their chief,” said Marcus, only partly to encourage his own mind. “I’ve prayed to Jupiter each night since we departed from the Albis River. It seems that he means to protect us. He favors Drusus, you know.”
Marcus’ mention reminded Septimus of his vision at the Jupiter Column in Mogontiacum where he stood with Drusus. Were these signs in the wilderness all confirmations that the giant serpent in the statue would rise up and fatally strike Jupiter? Would the defeated Cattans mount an attack?
Marcus’ servant returned with new kindling and set it out, again striking his stones. He did this a dozen or more times, took a break, and cur
sed before starting the procedure over. Marcus told him that they would be fine without a fire, but the servant respectfully insisted. He sat down on his rear and struck at the straw and sticks between his outstretched legs.
“Perhaps the Sugambrians mean to drive south out of their territory and kill us. Maybe that is what the signs tell us,” speculated Septimus. A lone shooting star shone in the sky. Both men turned to face its light as it swept downward until it was extinguished.
“Another good omen,” said Drusus, who was mounted on his horse behind them. The centurions spun at his voice, rising to their feet. “The star, I mean. It’s another good sign from the gods.”
“Yes, lord. We hope so,” answered Septimus.
“Sheep-herder’s son, I feel better than I have since I fell ill at the Albis. I know the men think. . . Oh, another shooting star! The signs are in our favor tonight,” said Drusus. He casually rested his hands on both front pommels of his saddle. Drusus eased his horse between the centurions and the seated servant using only his feet to steer the beast.
“As I was saying, the men should take heart. Cornelius and Paterculus have taken fine care of me since then. I feel strong and confident. The men should feel likewise since they are the finest of Rome’s legionaries.”
“Yes, lord. What do you make of the signs that are reported each day and night? They have the men frightened,” asked Septimus.
“Damn the signs!” he said with a smile, the second of the day. He was returning to normal, thought Septimus. “Centurions, I believe we have another shooting star. Look there. I should think that three would be a wonderful sign of victory and prosperity to our men. Shall we spread that rumor? It would do good to get our minds on that rather than the rest of it.”
Both Marcus and Septimus nodded in the light given off by yet another shooting star. The men in the camp had all noticed the shooting stars that night and turned their eyes to the dark heavens. Only the diligent servant of Marcus continued mumbling and striking his jasper stones.
Drusus chuckled at the man. “Another sign of wonder. Had our fires blazed tonight, perhaps we would not have seen the wondrous cascade of stars Jupiter had in mind for us. Positive signs abound!”
The camp was silent except for the occasional gasp from someone struck with awe from the constant shower of shooting stars. The conversation between the commander and his men faded while they, too, watched in wonder. Many moments went by, the general and centurions at peace with the markers falling through the heavens.
“Tap, tap, tap, SPARK!” said the jasper stones in the servant’s hands. The tinder between his legs at last burst into a mountain of flame, consuming the twigs and his eyebrows at once. The servant shouted, rolling back, howling with excitement produced by his success and the pain given him by the eruption.
Drusus’ war charger, normally prepared for any surprise, was lulled into sleep as it rested on one of its back legs. The bright flame and shouts down at its front hooves caused the beast to rear. General Drusus, who had let go of the reins entirely, toppled off the back, cracking his head onto the earth. He remained conscious, though, and turned over to scramble up. The servant rolled under the horse that stamped its back legs while its front pawed the sky. He was killed when one of the rear hooves crashed down onto his temple.
The mighty horse lost his balance and rolled its rump down onto Drusus’ extended leg. Septimus and Marcus, by now on their feet attempting to lend help in the rapidly moving situation, heard distinct pops that could only come from the commander’s leg breaking. The general howled. The horse gave a terrified whinny.
All around the camp, fires sprang to life where conscientious men had stayed with the task. The heavenly show ceased, or at least men forgot it. Those closest to the center of the camp and the site of Drusus’ accident came running and formed a circle around Marcus, who held the charger’s reins tightly, and Septimus, who cradled the general. The general was yet conscious, but gritted his teeth and clenched his fists until the knuckles on both hands grew white.
Cornelius, casting his kindling aside, and a medicus came immediately and saw to it that the general was laid in a blanket and carried to his tent. Septimus was among the men who had so transported him and after setting Drusus on his cot, finally studied the leg.
It was broken in at least two places that the centurion could see. The large bone above the knee was twisted at such an angle that it appeared as if the general had another joint where his straight thigh should be. The bones beneath the knee were shattered. They protruded through the bloody skin. The ends of these bones were capped with mud and bloodied horse hair.
The medicus and Cornelius worked together to tear away at his boot. They hiked up his military toga to expose the entire leg. Cornelius used his index finger to probe into various places on the general’s leg. The medicus did likewise. With every one of their touches, Drusus winced in pain, squinting his eyes tightly.
After several shouts from the medicus, a worried Paterculus brought in a bowl of water warmed by the very fire that had started the abysmally wicked chain reaction. Septimus dragged the general’s desk over for a working table and the old servant set the bowl on top. The medicus dampened a rag and cleaned the lower wound to get a better look. Drusus moaned and at last passed out from pain. Septimus gave thanks to the gods for that trace of mercy.
Avectius and Chumstintus burst in at that moment. “We came as soon as we heard. The general; is he injured?” breathed Avectius. Other officers followed after them so that the tent was rapidly filling.
“Everyone out of this tent now!” screamed Cornelius. “The tribunes may stay. Paterculus may stay to aid the medicus and me. Centurions and common soldiers out now.”
The infantrymen who had carried Drusus into his tent snapped to the order, nearly running over themselves to exit. Septimus and three other centurions lingered behind for a moment. Cornelius gave them a heated stare. “Augur,” asked Septimus. “May we, his men, say words to the gods on his behalf?”
The seer and medicus exchanged a silent glance and agreed without speaking. “Yes, but quickly. We’ve got bleeding to stop and bones to set. He’s unconscious now and it will be best to do the work when he’s asleep.”
Septimus and the others moved to the general’s head while the two men in charge backed away. They each laid a single hand on Drusus’ forehead, which would have been completely unacceptable in any other circumstance. No one said anything out loud, but each chose to which god he would appeal. For his part, Septimus appealed to Aesculapius, the god of medicine. He didn’t know what the other centurions asked, or of whom, though he assumed they would try to speak to Dea Tacita to persuade her not to take Drusus just yet.
“Now out,” chastised Cornelius as he slapped their hands away.
. . .
Drusus died on that very hilltop one month to the day after his fall from the horse. It was an ending filled with sweat, tears, labored breathing, and hallucinations. While he could still eat and drink, he stank of his own urine and feces, though Paterculus cleaned his master several times each day. Later, when his body began to whither, the stench of human waste was replaced by the reek of rotting flesh. The smell, no matter the source, was death’s way of preparing everyone for the inevitable.
At first, the medicus was optimistic. He and Cornelius had worked all night and past the dawn to repair the leg. When they emerged, exhausted, they cautiously espoused hope. The general slept.
He slept for one full day before regaining consciousness. While he admitted great pain, among his first words were, “Food and wine.” When he ate and was able to keep them down the medicus grew more hopeful and said as much to the men.
“My study of the Greek, Hippocrates, has proven useful. Many times his writings talk of open or closed fractures. I know my work,” bragged the medicus.
But the omens on the trail home would not be betrayed. The Suebian apparition would not be proved wrong. Two weeks after the accident Drusus collapsed back on
to his cot with a burning fever. When Cornelius carefully unwrapped the bandages and removed the splint from the general’s lower leg, his nose told him that the wound was infected. The heat he felt pouring from the leg with his hands confirmed that the gods were warring inside the wound. At last when Cornelius gently pulled away vinegar and oil-soaked wool from the injury, he saw that it had swollen into a red-black mountain that oozed deep green pus.
Riders were immediately dispatched to Gaul and to Rome to let leaders know that one of their number would soon pass. They rode northwest, west, and southwest across rivers and hills, and even directly south over the great Alps. After pounding his way over military roads, exhausting one horse after another, one messenger came to Ticinum, where Tiberius visited his parents after his successful military campaign season in another part of the empire.
Augustus and Livia paled at the news. Drusus and Tiberius’ mother wept. Augustus slumped in a lounge, saddened by the loss of one so young, but also recalculating his grand imperial strategy of passing the empire to Drusus at his own death. Tiberius, nearly shaking in grim silence, thought of nothing but his brother.
He immediately set off with the drained messenger and his personal Chaucian servant. They galloped north along Rome’s military highways. Night and day, without rest, their horses’ hooves pounded the ground. At every fort, depot, or town they exchanged horses for fresh mounts, needing no explanation or money to make the trade. The sight of the bleak face of the great General Tiberius was enough justification. Tiberius and his companions rode through the Alps just as winter was beginning to settle in with vigor at higher elevations. Neither snow nor wind would stop them. Tiberius chose not to speak for the entire duration of the trip.
They crossed the Rhenus on the bridge at Mogontiacum where Drusus’ campaign had begun that year. They raced past the new forts Drusus had seen built in Germania. The group hammered through the lands of the Cattans, paying no attention to whether three men might prove to be a tempting target for bandits or a stray tribesman bent on exacting revenge onto any Roman. No one bothered them.