The Wald (7 page)

“I am not a servant of Adalbern and I won’t be talke
d to this way by a nasally idiot,” blustered the man.

Gundahar was about to erupt in anger when Berengar spoke up.  “You are
Eburwin from the Kuh village, are you not?” the boy guessed.

“I am, though why must I
answer to you?”

“You certainly do not answer to me or my father who is called Adalbern.  I know of you because my father speaks highly of you around our hearth at the evening meal.”  The boy lied about the last bit.  “Why don’t we let some other men go ahead of you so that you may take a raft across with my father?
  I know he would like to listen to your thoughts on the coming moves of the army.”

The man reconsidered and at last tugged his horse’s reins toward the boy
, swayed by Berengar’s play on his vanity.  Gundahar pushed the men who had been in line behind Eburwin toward the craft, which bobbed on the river bank.  Soon they scrambled onto the raft. Her pilot was a man nearly as thin and tall as the pole he used to propel it.  Both he and the long staff bent as the pilot heaved downward, shoving the raft across the lazy current.

Berengar looked upstream in the direction where his father performed the same organizational tasks on which he and Gundahar worked.  The boy hoped his father wouldn’t be too angry
at having to share a raft with a blustering fool, but in the end, he knew his decision was correct.  Better to take a slap sometime in the future than have the whole of the invasion fail at the river due to a dumb mule called Eburwin and his horse.

“So your father speaks of me at home?” the man asked.
  The boy rolled his eyes in the darkness, praying to the forest gods to rid him of this man and this conversation before his entire night was robbed from him.

Calls and shrieks
erupted from across the Rhenus, shattering the stillness that came with the dark.  In his native tongue he heard shouts, “Romans!  The Romans are here!”  But those cries were quickly snuffed out until the only sounds were the clear rings and thuds and indiscernible roars of battle.

Both Berengar and Gundahar felt helpless.  Most of their warriors were still on the east side of the great river, but the glory was on the opposite bank.  Adalbern rode through the mass of men clustered on the shore, knocking more than one to the ground, to reach his son.  When he saw the boy, he shouted, “Forget horses.  When the boats come back, send men.  Stack them on top of one another if you must.  If Rome has sent a legion against those few hundred across the river, we’re lost.  Get them help!”  Before Berengar could answer, Adalbern spun his horse with a harsh jerk of the reins and disappeared into the faint moonlight.

It felt like an eternity.  The battle raged.

At last
, a batch of rafts materialized in the darkness, approaching for more men.  The thin pilot had returned to the spot next to Gundahar and the boy.  He had an arrow jutting from his thigh, but showed no sign of giving up his pole, though he looked pale.  “What’s happening?” snapped Berengar.

“We were ambushed,” the thin pilot answered
, stating the obvious.

“How many?” asked the boy.

“Perhaps two or three hundred Romans.  Some cavalry too.”

“So few?  We must have surprised a patrol.  We can take them if we get more men across,” shouted a hopeful Gundahar as men began piling onto the boat.  Berengar jumped aboard.  He would not miss a victory over the Roman filth.

“No, we didn’t surprise anyone,” said the pilot as he was jostled by the mass of bodies pushing aboard.  “The Romans must have been there the whole time.  They came out of the brush.”  So many men crowded onto the raft that it sank into the mud of the riverbank, sticking fast.  Gundahar, still onshore, shoved.  Other men joined him in pushing to free the craft while the pilot leaned heavily on the pole, wincing in pain from his leg, wet with crimson.

“By all the gods!” exclaimed Berengar
just as the boat budged free.  “If they waited for us, that means they knew we were coming.”  The boy’s mind raced to catch up with the events unfolding around him.  “And if they knew we were coming, why only have a few hundred men lying in wait?”  They were ten feet into the river when he latched onto the reality of their position.  “Stop!” he screamed at the pilot.  “Take us back.”

But it was too late.

The wald around him exploded into chaos.  Near silent death whistled out of the sky.  Eburwin, who had watched the action dumbly from atop his horse, slumped to the ground with a Roman javelin through his neck.  Berengar did not have the presence of mind to thank the gods of the glens and hills for granting his wish to be rid of the pompous fool, because it happened in such a perverted manner, but thankful he was.  Other men all along the shore began falling as they let loose spluttering blood from severed arteries and shrieks from torn mouths.

Berengar and his men jumped into the water, weapons raised, before the boat had returned to shore.  To their left
, they saw the unmistakable glint of Roman helmets in the blue light – thousands of helmets.

. . .

As they had trained to do hundreds of times, the legion had formed up into their battle line one-half mile from the tribesmen.  They then methodically and silently moved toward their prey.  It took much longer than they would have liked because of the forest and hillside leading up from the river, but their scouts had been correct.  The Sugambrians were occupied with hauling their men over the waters and therefore ignored their northern flank entirely.  Well, not entirely – the legion captured Berengar’s scouts and executed them among the roots of an old tree.  As a result, their temporary blindness would cost the Germans.

Septimus couldn’t believe their good fortune.  The surprise attack
across the river further drew the German attention in the wrong direction, allowing the legionaries to get closer than he thought possible.  His century, at the far right end of the far right cohort, had marched to within forty yards of the enemy without a single warning call.  After two more paces, the advance halted and the men of his century and all down the Roman line let loose their javelins as one.  It was at that moment when the terror-struck tribesmen looked his way, discovering that they would be slaughtered by the mightiest army the world had ever seen.

A driving rain of heavy iron fell onto the invaders.  Men crumpled and howled. 
One of the legionaries from Septimus’ century had just launched his javelin with such force that when it hit the man on the shabby horse by the river, it pushed directly through his neck, forcing him from the beast.  The dead man had only been on the ground for a single heartbeat when Septimus smiled with gritted teeth as the horse ran wild through the ranks of terrified tribesman, trampling at least ten that he could see.

Septimus saw a thin boy splash his way out of the river using the flat of his sword to whip the nearest survivors into order.
  The sight caused the centurion to check his battle clarity for just a moment.  He did not like killing children, but if one was foolish enough to take up arms against the emperor, then he would be put down.  The math was simple.

Shouted orders came down from Drusus
, who would be somewhere near the center of the line.  “Spears and shields.  Advance on me,” repeated Septimus to his men.  He heard the rattle of their armor and weapons as they prepared to execute the general’s, and therefore his, will.  The centurion looked to the left to time his order properly.  His friend Marcus Caelius commanded the century immediately adjacent to his own.  He could barely see the man’s eyes widen in the darkness as Marcus gave him a nod.

“Advance!” all the centurions shouted
, more or less in time.  No army that Septimus had ever seen could stand up to the menace of the Roman army as it closed.  The sight was the most terrifyingly beautiful in all the world.  It was more gorgeous than the dangerous curve of a woman’s hips that made him mad with excitement.  At that moment, the courage of the tribesmen would flee as they watched thousands of expertly trained, well-equipped killers marching on them to puncture them and cleave them.  Septimus expected the Sugambrians to follow the flight of their courage and turn tail into the wald within ten more of his men’s methodical steps.

It was for moments like these that Septimus had joined the Roman army.    Yes, at first he volunteered because his family had no way of supporting him any longer.  The life of a common soldier could be cruel, but he could count on being well-fed and even well-cared-for by the competent
medica in the barracks.  It did not take long, though, for Septimus to realize it was the camaraderie that drove him.  And then, when his first battle came, all those years ago when he was a boy who could hardly produce whiskers, Septimus knew he lived for battle.  A nervous stream of urine ran down his bare leg before that first encounter.  The veterans had laughed at him, but he saw in their eyes that they too were frightened.  From the moment when the first javelin was thrown to when he withdrew the blade of his gladius from an enemy’s ribcage, Septimus knew he was wedded to the army – his bride.

It wasn’t the killing per se that drove him.  It was the thrill of it all. 
The wooden hilt of his sword, worn smooth from his own sweat and repeated grip, felt like another part of his own body.  The sounds, the stench, the sights all came together in his mind’s eye to create a battle high so far superior to the delight which came from knowing a woman that he thought it impossible that he would ever marry.  All those years ago he had committed himself solely to this life, for the actions he took that night against the tribesmen.

Septimus saw a bear of a man ride
a strong horse up to the shoddy line of tribesmen forming perpendicular to the flowing river water.  The man dragged another horse by the reins behind him.  He shouted in his incomprehensible language at the boy, who nodded while snatching the leather straps and climbing onto the second animal.  The centurion thought that these must be some king or prince of the Germans, readying to make their own escape so they weren’t trampled when the mass of their frightened men scurried to the woods.

He nodded to himself as the big man trotted down his line of men who stood meekly behind a mixed batch of shields, formed into varying shapes and sizes, painted with different insignias and colors
, some made of wood, others of woven wicker.  The big man called to his men.  He probably told them to hold fast, thought Septimus.  All the while the giant on the horse would quietly trot out of harm’s way, back home to his hovel in the woods.

The Romans, with their matching shields, drew closer.  Septimus, Marcus, and all the others sweat heavily under their chain or plate armor.  The victor of this confrontation was
ordained long ago on the training fields of Rome, but it would only be apparent to the tribe in a moment or two.  The legion took another step forward in the slowly waking dawn.

It was then that the thin boy, the large man, and several other Germans on horseback burst from their line
straight toward the cohorts.  Septimus, who stood out two paces from his men, thought he was going to be crushed by the boy’s old horse.  He prepared to lodge the butt of his spear into the ground to impale the animal on its tip, but the boy jerked the beast to a stop two yards shy of his position.

The boy’s small sword was at his side
. Instead of trying to take a wild swing at the legionary in front of him, he just began prancing his horse back and forth, shouting in his idiotic, halting tongue.  Septimus cursed under his breath and halted his advance.  Looking to his left, he saw that an unarmed rider did the same in front of Marcus.  Further left, other riders, including the big man, marched their horses back and forth in front of each century, shouting and waving their hands.  The advance had stopped, the army now looking like a frozen hedgehog with its spears jutting up and out.

This was a bold tactic of the tribesmen – attempting to intimidate a legion of Rome.  To make a man question his ability and believe his opponents superior is to have the battle half won.  Septimus was certain the words these foreign men cried were all sorts of
drivel about Roman impotency or their commander’s weakness or even about all the injustices done by Rome to fine peoples everywhere.  Septimus didn’t care what they said, but he would not let his men break formation to cut the fools down.  To break the formation was to initiate a weakness in the link; it was to invite a collapse in the line.  His century would not be the source.

It was a bold tactic, but it would fail.  At some point the legion had seen all sorts of this from local armies.  The men of Rome would wait until the blustering horsemen tired and
returned to their ranks before they took up the march and chopped the idiots down anyway.  Or they would wait for Drusus to tire of the spectacle before them and order a host of spears sent in their direction.  In either case, their tactic was bold, but it would fail.

. . .

Berengar was making himself hoarse, screaming like he was at the mass of men in front of him.  He was not even sure why he did it, but Adalbern had told him to and so he obeyed.  “Gallop to that man,” his father had shouted while pointing at the centurion now next to his horse, “and scream at him.  March this horse back and forth in front of his line like a cock among hens.  Screech at them all!”

“What will I say?” asked Berengar as he grabbed the beast’s reins from Adalbern’s giant paw.