by Born, Jason
The group had already set the rules that no one would speak as they descended. The women seemed willing to obey, still frightened from the sight of the dead sentry. Septimus allowed his senses to see a little further, to hear a little more than they otherwise would to prepare for anything that might go awry. He pushed the bit of fear for his life that crept into his heart out of his body as best he could.
When they reached the bottom, the ground turned from stone to silty soil at first, then to the same soil covered in a soft carpet of lush moss. Two more sentries slept at the side of the path. Septimus was already next to them before the two parties noticed each other. The men’s heads perked up when one of the horses huffed. All Septimus did was hold a single finger to his lips saying, “Shhh.” To his surprise the shocked men did as they were told. They watched the small group ride past.
Stigr, at the back, said some hushed words to the sentries. They remained just as quiet as he was in their replies.
“What did you tell them?” whispered Septimus when they had moved some feet past the guards.
“I told them to announce us as friends when we moved on. We don’t want some eager Sugambrian to cut us down. The warlord’s boy, Berengar, might be in a mind to do that. And it will prevent Adalbern from executing the guards for not warning of our approach.”
Septimus worried for a heartbeat, but thought there was logic in the man’s words. Either way, they were committed to whatever played out in the gorge – be it death, be it life.
The guards’ voices shouted out behind them just as the first rays of light began filtering through the canopy of leaves over their heads. At once, the forest around them sprang to life with blankets covered in leaves shoved aside to reveal men, who moments ago had lain sleeping, grasping for weapons. The sentries continued their assuring call. The mob of tribesmen relaxed. A few even pointed and spoke to one another in wide-eyed amazement. Septimus assumed it was because a lone Roman soldier had been mad enough to ride into their hostile camp.
. . .
Ermin and Berengar had fallen asleep in an ale-induced haze the night before, so neither could decide whether it was the hangover talking or a real man when they were awakened to shouts that a friendly Roman came in peace. Both decided that it was a dream when the calls also said that the man brought a pair of Sugambrian women and Stigr. Stigr, they asked themselves? He left years ago. Each of them grabbed his respective covering and rolled over, trying to lie as close to the smoldering fire as they could without catching ablaze.
Then other men’s voices rang out in their hidden gorge saying the same thing. Ermin poked a single eye open and saw over a root that sprung from the mossy forest floor and through the winding smoke of the fire that Berengar crinkled his face in an attempt to wake. Ermin frowned while smacking his lips together doing all he could to coax some saliva into his dry mouth. “I just dreamt we had a Roman visitor in our hidden camp,” said Ermin.
Berengar shot up, already drawing Roman sword. “Me too,” he said. They scanned the dim forest and saw that other men were stirring. Some walked, others ran toward the central meeting place with its logs placed for sitting. “We’d better go.”
The young men shoved their way through the throng. Berengar was swearing to the gods, taking after his father in that regard. He was already taller than most grown men and he saw something ahead he did not like. But Ermin’s friend wasn’t panicking, only cursing. Ermin, still not into his teens, only came to most men’s shoulders. He did not see anything, so all he could do was stay in the big Sugambrian’s wake.
“Move,” said Berengar as he jostled into a Cattan guard, deeply scarred from years of battling the Romans. “Ermin and Berengar coming through.”
The hardened Cattan gave them a wicked stare with his one good eye. “You’d do better by saying you’re the sons of Segimer and Adalbern – real men who’ve made names for themselves. No one knows little Ermin and his tall playmate, Berengar.”
Berengar rapped the man on his good eye with the heel of his palm. He struck the Cattan so hard that he felt the eyeball pop. The man went down like a rock. Ermin shouted to him, “You will know our names after we defeat Rome in the coming battle.” Ermin finished by spitting on him. “That will teach you to respect Ermin the Cheruscan and his tribal brother, not playmate, Berengar the Sugambrian.”
Ermin made a step after Berengar toward the meeting place, but ran into his friend’s back. Berengar said, “Ermin, our names will be lost to history. There will be no songs about us.”
The Cheruscan pushed beside Berengar. “What are you talking about?” He looked up at his friend’s face, which had whitened.
“Because there will be no battle with Rome.” Berengar slapped Ermin in the chest and pointed to the center of the meeting area.
Ermin saw a brown and white horse, upon which sat a simply dressed Roman. The man had neither a saddle nor a uniform so he must be a commoner, thought Ermin. He looked at the man’s face and recognized it. Stigr? What happened to him? Where was his beard? Where was his hair?
To the right of Stigr was another horse with one black ear and one grey. On its back sat two Sugambrian women. He could tell they were of Berengar’s tribe because of their dress. He thought he recognized them from Berengar’s own tiny hamlet in the wald. They appeared to be in fine condition with no bruises. They were unbound and sitting on a coarse brown blanket.
The reins of their horse were held by a Roman centurion. He could tell it was a centurion from the transverse crest on his helmet that seemed to shine even in the dark of the valley. He sat in a four-cornered saddle made of wood and leather in the traditional Roman way. Strapped at his side were his gladius and knife. He made no move toward them. If he had, one hundred javelins would have pierced his armor simultaneously. The centurion had many medallions hanging over top of his chainmail cuirass, proving that his commanders or the emperor thought he was courageous.
Ermin was about to ask why one traitor, two Sugambrian women, and one crazed centurion bent on an ignoble death accidentally falling into their secret meeting place meant that there would be no battle with Tiberius. Then the tail whip of the centurion’s horse caught his eye. The tail slapped around and hit the centurion’s leg. Several strands of the hair caught there for a moment. The strands were a bright white. The entire tail was white. The dock was white. He blinked in astonishment as he examined the rear leg – the hock, even the back hooves – white. Ermin found himself muttering, “By Teiwaz,” as he had heard Adalbern do a thousand times before. The flank, barrel, foreleg, pastern, withers, mane, poll, forelock, cheek, and muzzle – all of it, the entire beast – were white. Somehow, the gods saw fit to send them a pure white horse as a sign to sue for peace with the Romans.
. . .
Septimus had immediately handed control of the horse the female captives rode to the Sugambrian boy they called Berengar who he had fought so much over the years. Now the boy was turning into a man. The centurion slid out of his saddle and tossed his horse’s reins to Stigr. “Tie our horses off nearby and return. My German is only so good.” Stigr bowed at the neck and turned through the crowd.
When everyone was situated in the meeting place, Adalbern was hard for Septimus to miss. Even after years of living at barely a subsistence level, the man was a mountain. “The women tell me that they were beaten over the head,” barked Adalbern as he sat on a rotting, wet log across from the centurion. “They are from my own village. I’ll not tolerate it!”
Through Stigr, Septimus surprised the tribesmen by answering, “Yes, they were. I have been sent to find you, Lord Adalbern, and I thought information from them would be my greatest opportunity.”
“Of course they were!” spewed Adalbern. “They are silly women who had their heads cracked. They probably thought that by talking they’d avoid a rape.” Then he shook his head, adding, “I’d have done the same if I meant to find someone. Now what do you want, centurion? It had better be good. Our best hiding place is now ruined.”
“I was sent to find only you, Adalbern, but it seems that there are other tribes here as well. I ought to know to whom I speak. I am Septimus, centurion in a legion of Tiberius, general and commander of the forces of the Rhenus and beyond, son of the Emperor Augustus.”
Greetings and introductions went on around the ashes from one of the last night’s fires. A servant, captured by the Cheruscans from a wandering tribe originally from the plains far to the west, went about rekindling it. He was ignored by everyone.
“And so you come to sue for peace,” said Kolman.
“I do, though I do not have authority to accept or dictate terms,” said Septimus.
“You don’t have authority to dictate anything,” interrupted Ermin.
Septimus recognized him as the boy on the horse from the near disaster at the narrow pass. He wanted to break the boy’s nose and much worse for killing Manilius but he held his emotions in check. “A fair assessment, Ermin. I merely meant that I am more of a messenger and guard. I bring you news that Tiberius wishes to start this season off with peace within Germania. I am to serve as your guard as we travel to the general’s summer camp. I came for Adalbern, but I know the general will be pleased if I am able to bring a delegation from all the tribes represented here today.”
“Of course he would,” snapped Berengar. “By bringing us all in he can have us executed. Then he’s removed the head of the serpent.”
Septimus thought the image was appropriate, given his vision at the Jupiter Column the previous year. “No, Berengar son of Adalbern, you are mistaken. I have assurances from Tiberius that your safety is guaranteed. I have fought under both Drusus and Tiberius. And though I had the opportunity to know Drusus better, if his brother carries even a portion of the honor of Drusus, you can have my word as well that whoever rides away with me will be safe.”
Kolman spoke. “Stigr, tell the man we talk amongst ourselves for a moment. Now then, we must take this chance at peace. The omen came as Segimer suggested it would. We will have an opportunity to raise crops and feed our families again.”
“At least raise crops for the Romans,” said Segimer sadly.
“It was your idea, Segimer. The horse was your idea,” reminded Kolman.
“And it’s a powerful sign,” agreed Segimer, seemingly resigned to riding away with Septimus for the grand meeting.
Soon the Cattans voiced their support for at least listening to Tiberius. They were tired of an endless war where they seemed to be eternally on the losing side. The young nobles, Ermin and Berengar, spoke as one in opposition, but they were without the respect won by years of service and loss like their elders. They also argued against the sign of the white horse to which they agreed only the night before. They were young. Their fires could not be quenched.
“And what do you say, Stigr?” asked Adalbern, when the agreement to sue for peace was already certain. “Why do you serve this man? Should we take the offer?”
Stigr told them his story of capture. He told them how he had been in the bowels and temples of Rome. They scoffed openly when he told them of columns formed by men’s hands that were white and extended into the sky. He conveyed story after story of the wonders he had seen and experienced firsthand. Stigr even told them that he had seen hundreds of men and women with dark skin, not like the skin on a man after a summer of work, but true walnut-colored skin. Men from all the tribes marveled at the thought. He ended by saying, “So, yes, you should take the offer the centurion gives. I serve him today, but I’ve served the commander Tiberius for the past year. I intend to return to that role when we return to camp.”
“Why not stay here? Why not kill the centurion and stay amongst friends, or return home to your Chaucian women?” asked Ermin.
“Because, young Ermin,” gravely answered Stigr, “I’ve seen where they train and how they kill. This man’s army cannot be eradicated. Better to be a slave and with them, than in the wald against them.”
“And what of freedom?” asked Ermin.
Stigr thought for a moment. “I am not free, but nor are you, trapped as you are in the wald.”
“I will always be free. Alive or dead, I’ll be free,” said Ermin proudly raising his chin.
Despite the passions of Berengar and Ermin, the tribesmen put it to a voice vote. Each noble had a chance to speak his mind. Each common man had a vote, but in the end, the villages had already selected who would be their leaders in times of war: Segimer for the numerous Cheruscan clans and their Suebian allies, Adalbern for the Sugambrians, and a young Cattan noble for his people.
“Peace,” said Segimer, simply. Kolman tapped his friend’s shoulder to reassure him in the decision. Ermin stormed off deeper into the gorge, hacking moss off trees with Kolman’s sword in anger.
“Peace,” said the Cattan.
Everyone now looked to the old warlord of the Sugambrians. Adalbern hadn’t moved from his seat on the log even though his rear had long been soaked. At long last he answered. “I’ll not pick a fight with Rome on my own, especially now that my people are hungry.” Stigr and the others nodded their approval. “But,” Adalbern held up a giant hand, “I’ll not sue for peace with you. Tell the centurion that he may take these other leaders with him, but I’ll simply take my men and ride home. Tiberius may come to me another time so that I’ll give him my terms of peace.”
Berengar smiled at his father’s strength in the face of pressure. Kolman looked at the Sugambrian delegation with distaste. Adalbern returned his look with a crazed stare punctuated with hatred. Stigr just looked at them all with uncertainty. “Go on; tell the man what we’ve said.”
Stigr interpreted their decisions. Septimus nodded respectfully around the circle as Stigr told him. When the centurion faced Adalbern, he said, “Lord Adalbern, you and your son are a peculiar force in battle. I have faced you both, though you may not recall. I pray to my gods that I’ll not face either of you again. In my home we sometimes drink wine to celebrate an agreement. Though I wish yours was different, if you have a similar custom, I propose that we do that now.”
Adalbern smiled at the thought of ale in the morning. Soon the supply was tapped and the men all lifted their simple wooden mugs into the sky. Each of the three sides – Septimus for Rome, Segimer for those actively pursuing peace, and Adalbern for the Sugambrians – drank with a hearty smile, though as the bitter piss ran down their throats, none knew exactly what would come from the talks with Tiberius in the days to come.
. . .
The envoys had long since left the cool valley behind them. So, too, had they left the summer camp of the invading legions behind.
Tiberius chose not to speak with them when they arrived at the camp after just a two day ride. It was worrisome at first, but they were not bound or restrained in anyway, even being led through the camp on a tour by the centurion, Septimus. Ermin had come with his father and Kolman to represent the interests of his Cheruscan people and even he had to admit that he liked the Roman officer who seemed to take them on as part of his corps. He vacated his tent to allow the Cheruscan leaders a place to sleep. They agreed, though when they slept away from home on the hunt or at war in the wald they never had such luxuries.
Three days they meandered around fully armed. Some legionaries were visibly offended at their presence. But the famous system of Roman discipline played itself out perfectly, and never once were they molested.
On the third day Stigr came to them from his master Tiberius to inform them that news came they would have an audience with Emperor Augustus himself. He spoke the words in breathless wonder that such an honor could ever be bestowed upon simple tribesmen from the forest. To Segimer and his son, Ermin, it only made sense that since they were the leaders of their people, they should negotiate with the leader of their opponent’s people.
The meeting was to take place on the left side of the Rhenus in Oppidum Ubiorum. Stigr, along with a slew of conquered slaves from all over the empire, brought the tribesmen’s beasts from
the marching fort’s stables. The tribesmen gathered up their gear and scurried up their horses’ backs. Ermin and the others then waited unattended at the exit from the camp until long past midday when the general finally emerged with his own troop of horse.
One hundred Roman and auxiliary cavalry rode to the fore of Tiberius. One hundred rode to his rear. The tribesmen were instructed by some functionary to follow after the second guard. It was Tiberius’ way to send a message so they would know their place in the order of the empire. Then another one hundred horse pulled into the column behind them, effectively trapping the envoys.
Looking worriedly over his shoulder, Ermin asked, “Will they take us out to kill us, father?”
Segimer kept his gaze on the road ahead. “It seems like an awfully complicated ruse to me. If they want us dead, they’ve had many opportunities to kill us at their camp before now.” He rode on while Ermin looked again over his shoulder. “Besides if they do mean to kill us out here, we can do nothing about it. Now ride on with your chin high, my son. Stop looking behind you.”
The boy did as he was instructed. Eventually, the party crossed the Rhenus over a large new bridge that carried them directly into the heart of Oppidum Ubiorum. Ermin had seen the town only once in his short life, before Drusus brought the war to them. Then it had been but an impressive village with sprawling houses and smoke stacks extending for as many as five blocks. Then it was merely amazing. But the new Oppidum Ubiorum was astonishing. The heavy influence of Rome could be seen in every structure.
The barracks were walled off from the city with bricks painted a brilliant white. Though he couldn’t see behind the walls, Ermin could tell from their extent that they would house more people in one place than he had ever seen, except when the tribes came together for counsel or war. Columned temples with steps – he didn’t recall ever seeing steps before – sat behind long paved squares some distance off the main road leading from the bridge. It was at that moment that Ermin realized that his horse’s hooves still echoed almost as they had while crossing the bridge. He looked down. The main road had been paved with tightly fitted stones all the way from the bridge and off into the distance. He immediately forgave Stigr for all the horrible thoughts he carried against the man for his supposed traitorous behavior. If an outpost of Rome that was still in the process of being settled looked thus, how much more amazing must be their capital city?