The Wald (15 page)

Manilius himself offered a hand down to pull Septimus onto the flagship.  The centurion latched onto the camp prefect’s bare forearm and used the countless heavy nail heads
jutting from the soles of his boots to gain traction up the hull.  The prefect gripped onto his arm as well.

“Our commander favors you, boy,” whispered Manilius, still clutching Septimus’ forearm.  “But know that I’ll not let my career and life be washed away by allowing him to follow your foolhardy advice to our collective deaths.
  You’ve got a place in the ranks, but I’d not listen to one thing you say.”

Septimus had not been blind to the anger he brought from his superior officers over the years.  At first he attributed their focused anger to his brash confidence.  But after a few whippings from a particularly cruel centurion who commanded him when he was still wet behind his ears, he began to realize that his self-assurance was only part of the equation.  It was also that he was usually
successful
even after his proclaimed certainty of purpose or task.  Achievement without the proper level of humility drove his officers mad.

Most principali who had led
Septimus in his contubernia and the centurions who led him in his centuries over the years had worked in the army for their entire careers. They were jaded by the sight of sometimes seeing lesser men promoted due to family or position.  Septimus often wondered why these men didn’t cheer for or even encourage other common men in their own personal quest for greatness.  In the end he attributed their reactions to jealousy.  When they finally earned a position from their toils after years of trials and failures, they became even more frustrated at seeing a man of low station with the dual character traits of conviction and triumph.  In their hearts, Septimus decided, they also feared losing their hard fought position to a young upstart.  Such was the case with Manilius, thought the centurion.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,
prefect,” answered Septimus in an offhand manner to set Manilius at ease.  “Your position is secure.  Drusus values your experience far more than my
distinctive
style.”

The prefect’s eyes flashed and
, just as Drusus approached looking energetic, Manilius growled, “I will never fear you.”

Septimus would have liked to better explain himself, but such was the fate of men on campaign.  He and
the camp prefect were not to be friends.  “Ah, I see you two men have taken one another by the arm like brothers,” said Drusus, hopeful that he could stop officiating at least one spat between his men.  “Hoist our sail,” he called to the captain of his vessel.  Then to Septimus, “Come to the prow, I want you to be among the first to lay eyes upon your island.”

“My island
, legate?” asked Septimus as he scanned the southern horizon, obscured by mist.

The commander whispered then, “Keep your voice down, centurion.  I can’t have Manilius thinking that I’ll really name one of our discoveries after you.”  Drusus chuckled and shook his head, looking like he would say something else, but then stopped short.

“Your island,” he continued, “is the island you saw from the coast when you nearly drove Manilius mad with your shouting.  My captain assures me that we now approach it from the northeast, based upon the positions of the stars early this morning before this fog came in.”  They stood in silence for a time until Drusus asked, “What do you think of the Chaucians, Septimus?”

“I don’t think much on them or of them,
lord.  They are in our wake as the sailors would say.”

“Hmm, I suppose they don’t warrant much thought, with their meager existence.  But they are already brought into the fold of Rome and so they may very well be citizens one day.”  This last assertion brought a surprised start from Septimus to which his commander held up a hand.  “It will be many years from now, I am sure, before we can consider offering these people any type of entry into Roman society.  But it will certainly foster our alliance and make us
as one when we do.”

“They’re independent, l
ord.  These Germanic peoples are more independent than my sheep herding father ever was.  They live here without so much as a visitor for years it would seem, lord.”

“Septimus, they are that – independent, I mean.  The Chaucians live on their terpens or geest
s, barely able to feed themselves.  They make nets from the sedges and rushes of the marsh.  I believe I saw them collect rainwater for drinking from holes dug in the edges of their hillsides.  Can you believe it?  Can you believe people live in such scarcity?  And yet now that I have peacefully defeated them, to free them and help them prosper, there are, no doubt, some among them this very day crying about their slavery to the Romans as they meet in the privacy of their hovels.  I am sure they proclaim again and again of their loss of freedom at my hands.”

Septimus thought the people looked fed well enough.  They looked content enough to continue in their existence as it was before the fleet arrived.  “General, Lord Drusus, all men want the freedom to lay their own course.  I suppose in this the Chaucians or the bastard
Sugambrians or even the Romans are no different from one another.”  He waited for a scolding from the general for comparing his countrymen to the heathen tribes in the same breath.

To his surprise, one never came.  The general himself thought about sharing his desire for returning Rome to its republican roots, but thought that
for now such a conversation was best held with his father and brother.  Instead, Drusus pointed into the cool mist, “I give you Septimia.”  He gave the centurion a bright wink while Septimus looked ahead and saw the form of his island cresting above the horizon.

. . .

Drusus was of the mind to tarry on the island after he allowed his partial fleet to slide into the gradual shoreline on the low eastern side of yet another sandy isle.  He had already gone further north than any Roman before him, laying his eyes on lands never before seen by civilized men.  Why this small lonely island warranted an expedition was questioned by the men in their own minds, not to their officers.  In the end most decided that Drusus wanted nothing more than to be able to claim that he set his foot and army on some of those lands.  Merely watching endless sandbars slide past brought nowhere near the glory of marching ashore.  This speck of sand in the middle of the Mare Germanicum would provide him a safe place to disembark when the other half of his forces remained in and around the Frisian and Chaucian lands.

Like everything they had seen of late
, this land was sandy, not able to sustain much in the way of forests or even weak saplings.  And while Septimus welcomed the chance to again stand on solid ground, he was bored with the same endless sea that blended with the same endless dunes.  Both seemed to shift and roll to the identical, eternal patterns of wind and the wills of the gods.

The Fr
isian guide and interpreter who had been with the general most of the year was uncharacteristically terror stricken and refused to step off the ship onto the island, even going so far as to grab hold of the rudder when one man tried to forcefully drag him.  He babbled and wailed about all matter of gods and one in particular he called Fosetes, who the guide said lived there on a place he called the Oberland.  Septimus had learned enough of the language to know that the guide had said this Fosetes lived in a place called the Upperland, but when the centurion looked inland through the grey Mare Germanicum clouds, he saw nothing higher than the dune at the beach.

“Frisian,” said Drusus, who had yet to bother learning the man’s name.  It wasn’t out of superiority.  The commander preferred to know only what was necessary.  “You say that no one inhabits this isolated bit of sand, and yet you are terrified to walk on it.  Do you try to send my army into a trap?”

“No, lord.  No.  No,” the man stammered.  “Only our priests and priestesses are allowed to travel here.  The Oberland is where the gods live.  I have known other men of my clan come here and never return.”

“And you know that if I am attacked by even an army of one man, I will have you killed for lying to me?”

“Yes, lord.  I know.  No one lives here, but the gods do, lord.  If you compel me to step onto the island, I will do the work for you and kill myself so that I do not dishonor my people.”  He was becoming more agitated with the passing moments.

Drusus had had enough.  “Leave him under guard.  Septimus, return to your century and prepare your men to march out with their cohort.  Manilius,
leave enough men to protect the ships, but otherwise assemble on the shore for departure across this island.”

All the officers were eager to exercise their units and so the wide column amassed
rapidly.  The only beasts unloaded were the chargers used by Drusus and his officers and so much time was saved.  Draft animals and their carts were left secure on the “pigs” since their glimpse of the land weeks earlier from the south made it seem quite small.  Pack animals and massive gear piled atop the men’s backs for a prolonged march were not necessary for Drusus to successfully make his claim of subduing the heretofore uncharted, wild lands.

The cornu sounded
. Septimus barked his men forward in proper order, struggling up the nearest dune as the sand gave way beneath his feet.  When he and his century had crested the hill, in the fog he saw that ahead the land dropped quickly to sea level and then rose to the central geest that was typical on the Mare Germanicum islands.

“Looks like more of the same,” called his friend Marcus Caelius over the racket of the marching men.

“I’m afraid so,” answered Septimus.  “But the guide says there is an Upperland somewhere.”

Incredulous, Marcus
scoffed, “I suppose the Frisian, so used to his preciously flat Mare Germanicum, may view the dune we just surmounted as an “Upperland.”

Septimus was ready with a witty comment back, but stopped short when he saw Manilius trotting his horse over.  “Whatever you two women gossip about had better cease.  I’ll not have officers leading the men astray.  Now detach your two centuries here and shadow the northernmost coast.  I’ll give you two riders to
use to communicate with the central main force because of this fog.  Another two centuries will move along the southern shore.  We meet at the west.”  He did not wait for a response but trotted off to convey more orders.

Septimus desperately wanted to crack wise about the camp prefect, but chose not to in front of his men.  Gradually, his and Marcus’ centuries peeled off from the main force and walked toward the north about one hundred Roman feet in from
where the wide beach slipped beneath the salty waves.  They were never out of earshot of the rest of the force, but the fog soon thickened to envelop the two centuries within its very bosom, creating a sinister mood to the march.  Septimus became wet, not from the sweat of exertion, but from the low hanging clouds that oozed moisture.

Soon the
land curved north before running westward again.  The century scared away an enormous flock of gulls that had nestled in the cracked grasses.  The birds’ black-tipped wings batted the air, creating a commotion as they wove their way over the heads of the soldiers.  It was here that the prevalent island sand became interspersed with red sandstone rocks.

“I think we found the Upperland your Frisian described,” said Marcus when then came to a jagged wall of cliffs
made of a red that showed dull in the dim light.  They seemed miraculously out of place, sprouting from the depths as if they were a millet plant sprung from its small grain seed in the middle of a plowed field.

“Looks like we’ll climb,” answered Septimus.

They scouted the area and found a route that required the least exertion while the riders that Manilius gave them were sent back to report.  The centuries narrowed their lines and climbed up with Marcus and Septimus leading the way.  When they reached the top a strong westerly wind struck their faces and loud waves crashed somewhere just ahead.  A short walk across a rock-hard, level field of grass brought them to the other side of the red cliffs that dropped straight into the unforgiving sea below.  Spray from the waves as they gave way, collapsing onto the rocks, further soaked the soldiers.

“This is something,” said Marcus scanning the cliffs below with the gr
ey and white dots of birds that littered the ledges and nooks.

“It’s finally a bit of scenery after the flat sea, I’ll grant you that.  Nothing like back home in the foothills of the Alps where I grew up, but it’s an improvement,” agreed Septimus.

The two friends allowed their centuries to rest and await further orders for it was clear they could continue on no more.  The two junior officers then walked to the northeastern most corner of the Upperland that extended out toward the sea like a narrow finger pointing toward something unseen.  The fog was not becoming any thinner, so their visibility remained limited, but some fifty feet from the tall point on which they stood, with its red cliffs dropping precipitously into the sea on the left and to the beach on the right, was another tuft of land.  Because the fog obscured its base, this clump of grass and rock appeared to float up and out of the swiftly moving mist.

“I can see why your Frisian friends believe this to be a sacred place.”

Septimus became annoyed.  “The Frisian is a guide to Drusus.  I have befriended none of them.”