The Wald (35 page)

“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 mig
hty 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 onto 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.

The three men r
ode up the hillside past gloomy-looking sentries.  Despair showed in every dirty wrinkle on their faces.  They didn’t even stop Tiberius to inquire who he was or what his business would be.  His cloak and muscled cuirass were enough for them to know he was someone of importance.  Snaking their way up further they saw that someone had erected a sign along the path that read, “Castra Scelerata,” which meant the Accursed Fort.

“It’s Tiberius
, the commander-in-chief!” shouted Paterculus as the general galloped into the hilltop camp where his brother lay dying.  Drusus, even on his deathbed, had commanded his men to give Tiberius the respect he deserved and ordered that they address him thus.  It seemed only his faithful old servant remembered with the rest of the men lost in pitiful sorrow.

Paterculus bowe
d to meet the man who was in line to be the next Caesar, but Tiberius shoved him out of the way.  “My brother.  Where is he?”

He was led into the large leather tent at the center of the camp.  It smelled of infection and death. 
The air was stagnant.  Inside, Tiberius heard the shallow breathing more closely associated with an old man dying in winter.  Drusus’ eyes were closed and he was covered by a heavy woolen blanket.  Tiberius kneeled at the cot and peaked at his brother’s leg while lifting the cover.  He winced and set it down.  The leg was entirely black, with just a few streaks of yellow-white pus snaking around it.  Even the general’s groin showed signs of infection as it looked red and painfully swollen.  The monster of death was consuming his brother one bite at a time.

Cornelius was sitting in the far corner on a chair.  “Lord Tiberius, your brother has spent much of the past days sleeping.  He has not had to endure the pain for very long.”

Without turning, Tiberius answered, “Thank you, augur.  The messenger tells me you have been most kind.  Leave us now, that I might have a word in private if he wakes.”

The soothsayer stood.  “Yes, lord.”

Drusus stirred then, “Brother?” he asked.  “Brother, allow Cornelius to stay.  I want him to write down some of our words.”

Tiberius nodded to the augur who then found a piece of parchment from the general’s stores and fished a bronze pen from the desk.  “You’ve done well
, little brother.  You’ve conquered more land in a shorter time than Julius.  Augustus boasts constantly.”  Tiberius never brought himself to calling the emperor his father.

Weakly
, Drusus smiled.  “I would not worry about our father and his boasting.  My accomplishments will fade.  Time will forget.  But you are meant to live on.  Cornelius, will you write that I wish Tiberius to continue my task here?”

Tiberius set his hand on his brother’s burning forehead.  “If I come here in your stead, I will pale in comparison.”

In a flash of his old self, Drusus said, “You will indeed.”  The two brothers shared a chuckle.  “And how is my sister-in-law, Vipsania?” asked Drusus.

Cornelius cringed.  Tiberius looked down
at the dirt.  “Brother, you remember, I am now married to Julia.  Augustus saw that I divorced Vipsania to suit his political ambitions.”

“Yes, of course, I remember.  Vipsania was a lovely woman.”

Sadly, Tiberius answered, “She is still lovely – though I doubt I’ll ever see her again.”

“Indeed, but if I think of women, my mind will turn to my own wife and my soon-to-be orphaned children.  I’ll weep and will not tell you what I mean to say.  Cornelius, write these names:  Avectius, Chumstintus, Hostilius, Cornelius – yes
, that’s you, augur – Septimus, and Marcus Caelius.  Those are the names of men who will serve you best in Germania.  They fight for Rome.  They may appreciate fighting for someone who is not so republican in their ideals.”

Tiberius smiled through tears.  “Augustus loved you so.  He even tolerated your talk of returning power to the senate.
  If it were me, I would have had you accidentally fall on your sword years ago.”  He swallowed hard.  “But the emperor was right to keep you alive.  You haven’t been in the city much these past few years.  Aside from Augustus, you are the most famous man in all of Rome.”

“Ah, but you’ll be emperor one day.  I’ll only be dead,” whispered Drusus.

Tiberius gave a low scoff.  “The sons of Julia and Agrippa are in line before me.  You know that.”

The dying general tried to shrug, but found he couldn’t move his body. 
A worried look crossed his face before he again resigned himself to the inevitable.  “The future holds many mysteries, brother, many mysteries, indeed.”  Drusus then remembered something else.  “Cornelius, write these names down for Tiberius:  Adalbern, the Sugambrian; Segimer, the Cheruscan; and Mawrobodwos, the Marcomannian.  They are the only men capable of fighting us on even terms.  See them sufficiently bribed or defeated and your time in Germania will be victorious.”

His eyes closed again and his breathing grew shallower.  Tiberius held his brother’s nearest hand, which felt cold.
  Drusus took in a deep, long breath and held it for a full heartbeat.  He exhaled it through his mouth and his chest stopped moving.

Drusus was dead.  He was twenty-nine.

CHAPTER 7

8 B.C.

“By Teiwaz!” exclaimed Adalbern.  He was even thinner than the previous year.  All of Sugambria seemed lean due to another
set of seasons passing with Roman soldiers burning them out.  Even though Drusus never once set foot on his lands last year, the forts that sat in Adalbern’s very own territory spewed out legion after legion to do the young general’s bidding.  The young,
dead
general’s bidding, Adalbern corrected his thoughts.  So, even though the warlord was old and nearly defeated, the death of his Roman rival spurred him on to high activity.

“You’re telling me that the bastard, Drusus, has a brother who has taken over command of the army of the
Rhenus?” shouted the Sugambrian noble.

“Yes, they call him Tiberius,” meekly answered the messenger
, who couldn’t tell if Adalbern thought the replacement was a good or bad one.  His cursing of the gods did not usually serve as a guide to his mood, since he used it so prevalently.

The messenger was forced to turn his horse around and trot after Adalbern and Berengar at the head of a group of lanky warriors.  No more than fifty rode with them.  They decided it was best to move in smaller numbers to make it easier to avoid Roman patrols when they moved – usually at night.
  Skulking on his own land chafed Adalbern worse than if he were to scoot his bare backside along a deeply-barked log.  Yet, he assuaged his anger with the hope that one day soon they would be rid of the Roman intruders forever.

“What other news do you bring from the
Rhenus valley?” asked Berengar.  The young man was now as tall his father.  His whiskers now covered his face in a fine covering that reminded Adalbern of the soft hair that covered the boy’s body when he was born, then dipped into the frigid river waters for protection from the spirits.  Berengar wore a spatha at his waist that he had stolen from a dead Roman cavalryman.  It was the finest weapon he had ever owned, certainly of better quality than the implements made by the farmer-blacksmiths of the wald.

“Augustus came with Tiberius to plan this year’s campaign. 
When they were done, the father stayed in Gaul.  The son came here.  They’ve brought another great army across the Rhenus.  It looks like it will be another difficult year.”

Adalbern
backhanded the messenger, surprising him so that he tumbled from his startled horse.  “Don’t even pretend to know that this year will be difficult for us!”  The old man snapped.  “I intend to make it difficult on this Tiberius.”

Gundahar and Berengar easily turned their horses
and picked over and around the fallen messenger.  The man was angry, but held his tongue for the fear of a terrible beating from one so old.  Even though Adalbern was still as strong as someone half his age, it would be hard to live down the disgrace of getting thoroughly thrashed by a man who had seen at least sixty summers.  He jumped back onto his horse.  “Anything else, Adalbern?  Should I return to the river?”

“Yes.  Go.  Excellent work,” answered Adalbern, already forgetting his anger.  “Keep us informed.”  The man trotted off.

. . .

Septimus had yet to talk with the new commander.  Nothing about that was odd since he was just another centurion out of
the sixty in every legion.  Yet somehow, after having the occasion to talk with Drusus many times, Septimus had himself convinced that he had earned a special reputation and would be sought after for advice or wisdom or conversation.  He would have to start all over with the new general.

He had seen him many times riding across camp.  Tiberius always seemed to ride alone and when he did have companions riding next to him, they did not seem to talk to one another.  At least Tiberius never seemed to talk.  The others could often be seen chatting, sometimes adding gestures or laughter.  Septimus didn’t know what to make of these observations or whether or not he should make anything out of them.

All he knew now was that for the sixth year in a row he lived east of what used to mark the very edge of the Roman frontier, the mighty Rhenus.  He recollected fondly how in the first year, everything on the river’s right bank seemed so wild and foreign.  It was still mostly wild, but he felt that he knew it as well as any man – at least as well as any of the other veterans of the campaigns of Drusus.  The Rhenus, behind him, no longer marked the end of Roman lands.  Drusus had seen to that.  They had made it all the way to the Albis, but were that river and the memorial the army left on its banks the new frontier?  Or were there still enough tribesmen clinging to their old ways to make the boundary some wavy line through the bogs and wald of Germania?

T
hat spring, however, they didn’t drive deep into Germania’s heart.  They marched for just two days before Tiberius called a halt and had them dig a summer camp.  This temporary fort was not much different than the legions’ typical night camps, but had a deeper ditch, a higher wall, and was spread over a wider area. It seemed they’d spend more time there.  No one knew what the plans of the new commander were since he was proving to be shy, if you could call a Roman governor shy, and withdrawn.

The army had already settled into a daily routine
after being in the summer camp for over a week.  Septimus, in some ways, felt that he was back to the drudgery of barracks life.  Setting latrine duty and morning exercises became especially important when thousands of men occupied the confined space of the encampment.  The reason that latrine duty took a principal role is obvious.  The rationale for training and exercise was as much to tire the men out as it was to keep them sharp.  Otherwise, they would go into the night with pent-up energy and look for fights over the slightest offenses.  It was common for some of the men to come from less than stellar moral backgrounds.  Some had been petty thieves, a few of them even killers, who joined the ranks to escape prosecution.  If such men were ever discovered they would be promptly drummed out of service.  But in the meantime, something always had to be done to occupy them.  Training, it was long ago determined, aided in discipline by day as well as night, in battle and in the barracks.

Hostilius walked over to where Septimus scolded a young legionary for digging his section of the dung pit too shallow.  The camp prefect stood quietly while the centurion finished.  “So now that
the hole is already half filled with muck after just one day, you may climb into it and spoon out the dung into the other pits.  Then I want the pit to which you were assigned twice as deep as normal.  I’ll check on it at dusk.”

“Yes
, Septimus,” said the young man who looked terribly frightened.  He certainly wasn’t one of the convicts about whom Septimus had to worry, but an army must demand discipline or it would most certainly fail.

Septimus noticed
the prefect. The two walked away from the latrines.  “Twice as deep?” asked Hostilius.

Septimus smiled.  “Twice as deep.
  It’s what all my centurions would have required of me.  Or they would have just lashed me.”

“You’ll make a good camp prefect one day, keeping the men in line,” said the current prefect.

“I will.  But you’re not as old as the last one, so I can’t count on you retiring or keeling over dead anytime soon.  There’s always an errant spear in battle, I suppose,” Septimus joked.

Hostilius
took the barb much better than Manilius ever would have taken the same.  “Oh, you’ve got time, lad.  By the way, when you speak to Tiberius, it will serve you well to speak to him differently than you ever would have his brother.”

“I always addressed Drusus as lord.  Besides, when will I ever get a chance to talk to the general?  The word is that he speaks to almost no one.”

“I’m sure you did always address Drusus properly.  You ought to know that Tiberius does not share the same good nature as his brother.  Your propensity for humor will result in flogging, demotion, or punishment for your entire century, I’m afraid.  Hold your tongue as best you can when you meet him today,” cautioned Hostilius.

“Is that why you came to me, then?”

“Of course. Otherwise I try to avoid you the best I can,” said Hostilius, giving Septimus a smile.  “Tiberius wants to send you and your men out on some mission.  He even asked for you by name.”

“I suppose he’s heard of my stellar reputation,” boasted Septimus.

“Ah, yes, you’re known throughout the legion as having the best dung pit.  No doubt he wants you to dig his personal latrine,” Hostilius shot back.

The two men walked a
longside one another as they wound deeper into the camp where the general’s tent sat.  Activity hummed even though there was no march planned anytime soon.  Such was life in the legions.

“So what explains the new general’s mood?  I would think that people in his class think nothing but grand thoughts when a potential rival for power has found an early death, brother or not,” asked Septimus.
  “He should be glad.”

“I doubt he’s that cold, centurion.  Let’s remember our place.  But the rumors of the politics of Rome say that he has always been far down on Augustus’ list for promotion, even though all of Tiberius’ military campaigns have proven nothing but successful.  It was only after the death of Augustus
’ son-in-law a few years ago and now with the death of Drusus that Tiberius is even considered as perhaps the next Caesar.  Even now, he may trail Augustus’ grandsons as possible heirs to the emperor’s seat.  How would you feel if you’d been faithful, successful, and yet, always passed up?”

“I’d feel like the dangling nuts of an old bull, nearly worthless,” answered Septimus.

“Well, there you have it,” said Hostilius.  “Now go in and use your wits.”

They had arrived at the general’s tent.  Outside was Tiberius’ servant.  It was not old Paterculus.  Septimus did not know where the old man had been sent when his master died.  This man was called
Stigr.  He was a conquered German tribesman, of what tribe Septimus did not know because Stigr was forced to groom and dress in the Roman way.  He carried great scars on his arms from some battle.  “How can I help you, lord?” asked Stigr in heavily accented Latin.

“You can start by not calling m
e lord, for I am not.  I am Septimus.  Lord Tiberius has sent for me.”

Stigr
bowed and ducked into the tent.  Septimus could hear him introduce the centurion and then wait for a response from Tiberius.  It was quiet in the tent.  Straining his ears, Septimus could hear that Tiberius must have been in the middle of penning a letter.  The shuffling, dipping, and scratching sounds went on for many moments until at last they stopped.  He heard the flapping of a page as if Tiberius held it aloft to admire his work.  No words were spoken.

The servant sheepishly came out of the tent.  “The general will see you now.”

The inside of the large leather tent was as immaculate as if it had been built of marble and had an army of slaves scrubbing its walls, ceilings, and floors.  Everything seemed to have its place.  The only other commander’s tent he had ever seen was that of Drusus.  His was clean to be sure, but it had the feel of a man in motion.  Maps always littered his desk, held open with a rock or knife.  His scabbard and sword usually laid across his cot where the young general had tossed them when he entered.  Not so with Tiberius’ tent.  Every item was stacked neatly with like goods.  No stray thread hung from his cot.  Even the wild grasses upon which the tent had been set appeared to have been trimmed and the clippings carefully swept away.

Septimus bowed respectfully to Tiberius.  The commander studied the centurion.

“You sent for me, Lord Tiberius.  I am Septimus.”

With his left hand, his general reached to ply a sheet of parchment off a tidy pile at the corner of his desk.  Tiberius dipped a bronze pen into an inkwell that looked like it was that of Drusus.  Perhaps he is a sentimental sort, thought Septimus. 
The new governor of Gaul and commander of the Rhenus began scratching letters across the page in a sharp hand.

“Your pen, lord, looks as if it were General Drusus’ pen.  It reminds me of him.  He was a fine general and even finer man,” offered Septimus.

“The finest,” said Tiberius without looking up from the parchment.

So he did speak.  “Lord Drusus has the tribes on the run.  I served under you both in Raetia and know without a doubt that you’ll prosecute the war to a fitting end,” said Septimus in a not-so-subtle attempt to ingratiate himself to the new commander.  Why wait, thought the centurion.

Tiberius continued cutting letters and words across and down the sheet, seemingly intent on ignoring a conversation with the centurion.  Septimus wondered if he had pushed too far, too fast and then thought about the warning from Hostilius. He chose to play the game cautiously going forward.  He hadn’t been lashed with a leather thong since being promoted to centurion, a tradition he didn’t feel like breaking.  At last, Tiberius tapped the pen to the page and gently set the instrument to the side.  The general picked up the parchment and read it to himself silently.

After a terse nod, he spun the document so that Septimus could take it.  Septimus began reading what appeared to be his orders.  When he reached the bottom of the page he asked, “Will you have me leave at once then, lord?”

“I will,” said Tiberius.