The Wald (30 page)

But he wasn’t, Berengar remembered.  The southern leader wore German trousers and a German tunic.  He had complained mightily about the abuses of Rome, while simultaneously marveling about their advances.  On which side of the stone fence would Mawrobodwos fall after today’s dis
cussion, the young man wondered?

“Welcome to my home, Mawrobodwos,” called Adalbern as he stood in greeting.

“It looks like Drusus has been hard on your people,” said Mawrobodwos, the Marcomannian, as he looked around at the toppled, burnt buildings.  He was genuinely saddened by what he had seen riding to the meeting.  He turned to Adalbern, “And it looks like he’s been hard on you too, Adalbern.  Since I last saw you, you’ve come to resemble a shriveled turd.”

“I get that a lot,” the big man answered dismissively.  “Now will we talk or will you spend your day judging me by the tyranny of Rome?”

Mawrobodwos didn’t bother answering the question.  He slid out of the saddle and was introduced to the other leaders around the woodpile.  He knew each by name and reputation, but had never set his eyes upon them.

“And so,” called Berengar, “now that we have all made nice, what do you say, Mawrobodwos, will you join us or Rome?
  I’d like an answer before I’m a grandfather.”

“Yes, Mawrobodwos,” echoed Ermin.  “The Sugambrians have faced the brunt of Roman aggression simply because of where their territory sits.  We are willing to join them.  The Cattans have seen the importance of the matter.  Adding your warriors could very well be the last piece we need to drive Drusus away for good.”

“Segimer, Adalbern, you let your boys do your negotiating?” asked a wary Mawrobodwos.

Adalbern shrugged, “They speak out of turn, but when they speak the truth, I try not to beat them too badly.  So
, how many men will you bring to us?”

Mawrobodwos held up his hands, obviously frustrated. 
“None.  With all the minor, tribeless villages allied with me now, I can field a fighting force of seventy thousand men.  But I cannot commit them to this war.”

“Seventy
thousand?” shouted Adalbern.

“You won’t fight?” yelled Ermin, his light
, fair hair blowing in the spring breeze.

Berengar w
ouldn’t be left out of the argument, so he cried, “Then why do you even bother us with your presence?  We’ve got an alliance to form.  You ought to leave us.”

Segimer stepped between the men and boys who had now gotten in each others’ faces.  “Let’s let the man talk.  Adalbern, he is your guest, I presume.  Let’s hear what he has to say.”

“By Teiwaz!” the Sugambrian warlord huffed as he plopped back down on his seat.  He could be heard mumbling, “Family, village, tribe,” over and over under his breath while calm returned to the scene.

“Thank you
, Segimer,” started the Marcomannian noble.  “You can tell by my appearance that I appreciate some of the things Rome has brought to this world.  But do not mistake how I cut my hair or how I ride my horse as evidence that I support Roman incursion into tribal lands.  I do not.”

“And yet your actions would allow it!” interrupted Berengar.
  “You’ve got men enough to threaten the city of Rome itself!”

“Let the man speak!” yelled Kolman
, hoping he would have another ally in Mawrobodwos.

“My actions are for my people.  You would tell me that if I do not join you, Rome will defeat you.  And then when they don’t have to worry about your armies any longer, they can invade Marcomannia and chop us up piecemeal.”

“By Teiwaz!  You’ve got seventy thousand fighters!” growled Adalbern.  “And yes, that’s the argument we’d make.”

“And it would take seven hundred thousand to get rid of the legions!  Don’t you see?  They cannot be beaten.  They beat Carthage, Egypt, Gaul, and a host of others. 
There’s an island to the north they call Britannia.  It will be theirs one day.  Syria?  Theirs.  Do you think we will fare any better?” snapped Mawrobodwos.

“We will if we unite,” answered Segimer and
his boy, Ermin, as one.  “We nearly had them beaten in the narrow pass!”

“They’re right,” continued Adalbern.
“We have heart, passion, and power. With you and the Cattans we can own tactical and numerical superiority.  We know the terrain.  The Cheruscans and Suebians would have beaten the legions on their own because they knew the land – had it not been for Kolman the dove.  What more could we do with you?”

Kolman bristled, “You’ll never understand politics!”

“And you’ll never win anything,” hissed Adalbern.

“Men,” Mawrobodwos put in.  “I am in the best position to
be judge of that which Rome is capable.  I have seen them on my southern border and have lived among their great cities.  They mean to rule Germania and they will.”

Adalbern threw up his hands.  “My son asked you why you bother us then.  Well, why do you bother us?”

“I come to tell you that you are not my enemy.  Every breath I breathe is of the wald.  No matter where I have been, in Rome or in Gaul, I smell the heather of our hills and I see the noble white flowers of our southern peaks.  It is in my heart.  It is in my head – all of it.  And yet, in nothing I ever do will I bring an imperial power over my people.  Drusus sent envoys to me recently, asking me to fight against all of you.”  His arm swept over all the chieftains gathered outside Adalbern’s house.  “You can be rest assured I answered unequivocally, no.  But with that reply, I have guaranteed the wrath of Augustus, Drusus, Tiberius, and the rest of the legions toward the Marcomannians.”

“Mawrobodwos,
I join my Sugambrian friends in their just frustration.  If you know that Drusus will invade Marcomannia, then why not fight them beforehand with the help of your neighbors?” asked Segimer.

“Because, friend,” answered Mawrobodwos.  “I do not intend to lose
one-tenth of my women and children into slavery, one-half of my fighters to war, nine-tenths of my crops and livestock to fire, and ten-tenths of my land to Rome.  I intend to take my warriors and my villages east of the Albis River and resettle there.  My force of seventy thousand fighters will easily dislodge the sparse population with little losses.  Or the people in my new lands can simply live among us.  Either way, I will avoid devastating hardships while simultaneously slipping off the yoke of Roman rule.”

The sunny clearing grew quiet.
  The man’s scheme was preposterous on its face.  Pick up and move an entire people, perhaps two hundred thousand counting women, children, and the aged, to an entirely new and foreign land?  Drag along supplies, livestock, seeds, tools, everything?  Leave the land you profess to love behind for good?  Absurd!  Unbelievable.

But then the idea began to make sense.  By scurrying to the east, Mawrobodwos would have the
Rhenus River, the Germanic tribes, and the Albis River between his people and the nearest Roman stronghold.  In effect, the man would build himself a natural fortress that used Sugambrians and Cheruscans as its walls.  Adalbern gritted his teeth in rage as he thought about how Mawrobodwos would allow others to fight his battles.  But his simmering anger cooled while he realized the plan’s wonder.  Not all of the tribes could enact it, but such was his – and others like him – lot in life.  Adalbern was born into a belligerent world and he would not disappoint.  His son and that boy, Ermin, would not disappoint.  At least, they would fight.

No one spoke for a time.  “Well
, that is what I came to say,” said Mawrobodwos.  “We’ll take our leave so that you may make your plans without my interference.  Good bye.”  He and his men swung up onto their horses and easily trotted away.  Not a voice rose from either party.  The silence continued long after the sound of hooves died into the distance and the dust whirling in their wake settled back to the path.

Even Kolman looked sullen at what their prospects would
be in the coming year without the addition of a new, well-fed force of soldiers.  He stood and began pacing to come up with a suggestion for peace or truce or negotiation.  For a moment he appeared ready to speak, but slumped back down, frustrated.

“So where does that leave us?” asked Adalbern.

A nobleman from the contingent of Cattans answered, “My people may not take another attack from Drusus like we had last year.  We’re down to our last stores of food.  Our army will need to be there to protect what little we can grow this year between battles, carnage, and fire.  Each year Drusus has moved further south for his main thrust.  He will likely strike out across our southern lands this season.  Adalbern, can you send your army down to us to supplement our numbers?”

And that wa
s the exact moment Adalbern understood that the grand alliance was doomed to failure.  The Cattan was correct.  Drusus would start his campaign in the south.  The Cattans could not afford to lose another growing season to the devastation wrought by Drusus’ army.  Their people would starve.

Yet Adalbern could not hope to send what remained of his army to aid the Cattans in their plight.  His force had been slowly bled away by fighting Drusus
– and even the Cattans for a time – for years.  His men were thin and hungry.  His fields had not produced adequate food for many seasons.  Livestock was gone.  Women, children, and some men had been taken into slavery.  And now those new bases of operation were set directly in the north of his territory.  The Romans now patrolled his roads.  They set up watchtowers.  The garrisons from the forts would strike out to slash and burn his crops again if they watched him assemble an army to drive south.  He had to keep his men in reserve in his own territory to protect the lives and livelihood of his own people.

“No, I cannot spare them.  Not enough to make a difference, anyway,” was all he said.

The Cattan did not push.  He knew all the great warlord’s reasons.  The Cattan had all the same reasons for not sending his army north to drive the Romans from Sugambria.

“And you, Segimer?  What can you offer us in the way of men?” the Cattan noble asked.

He huffed, “I’m afraid I came here with no inspiration.  I hoped that one among you would provide that for me.  As near as we know, we lost nearly half of our men in the battle at the narrow pass two years ago – all dead.  Our crops were burnt then.  Last year, Drusus himself did not enter our lands, but his legions struck out from a new well-supplied fort that sits in a clearing where there used to be nothing but forest.  We are hungry.  We are surrounded.”

Adalbern stood up and began walking back to his hovel.  Berengar called to him, “Where are you going, father?”

Without turning, he called, “Back into my house.  We are done.  I am getting myself used to being an animal penned by the Romans.”

Ermin jumped to his feet.  “We cannot be done!  If we don’t unite we are beaten.  The priestess said that a union of Sugambrians and Cheruscans would succeed and we have yet to draw together.  We must give it a chance.”

Adalbern opened the door to his now-small house, ducked in, and slammed it behind him.  Segimer stood and indicated for his men to do the same.  “Segimer,” Berengar began.  “You came all this way.  Don’t you mean to form an alliance?  It must work.”  Ermin came to stand behind his ally, his Sugambrian brother.  The younger boy nodded his head and stared at his father.

Segimer was already shaking his head.  “No, boys.  We are already beaten.  Union or not, we are done.  We will fight, of course.  We’ll make it harder on the Romans than if we just laid down for them.  But
, with each passing day, the rope gets tighter.  The chance for an alliance was in the first years, and the chance is gone.”

“But what of the priestess?” prodded Berengar.  “Ermin is correct.  She said our two tribes would be victorious if we fought against the Romans together.”

Segimer turned away.  “Climb onto your horse Ermin.”  The boy sighed and did as he was told.  Segimer gathered up the reins of his mount while the Cattans began to quietly prepare to leave.  The Cheruscan thought of something else and walked over to Berengar and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.  In hushed tones he said, “I see a fire in you that is like your father.  But even your father knows when it is time to fight and when it is time to fall back to gather strength.  Do what you must to survive.  Pray that our goddess Nerth leaves her island and protects you if you must.  In time, our tribes will have the numbers and strength to once again challenge Rome.  Next time, however, we will unite as one at the beginning and not the ending.  I want you there with us, fighting next to Ermin.”  He squeezed the young man’s shoulder and walked to his horse.

Berengar, in frustrated, stunned silence watch
ed the two parties ride out together along the path.  They would travel together down and around the shaded hillside until the path diverged, one heading south, the other curving back north and east.  Like Ermin before him, he gave a heavy sigh while resolving to persevere for the proper time when the gods would allow him to vanquish Rome.  Berengar picked up a piece of stray kindling and threw it against the house and strode off toward the fields to continue in his labors.

. . .

Following the great victory in the narrow pass, Drusus was hailed by his men as the great Imperator, a title that meant simply “commander,” but when shouted in such a way, carried with it overwhelming praise.  Whenever he was seen riding through camp, some lowly legionary would start the call.  In moments, the men of that man’s contubernium joined in, followed by century after century.  Soon the whole encampment could be heard chanting, “Hail Drusus the Imperator!” again and again until his soldiers were hoarse.  Each evening for five consecutive nights after the long day’s march, the men repeated their spontaneous cries of honor.  Their fighting commander had pulled them from certain defeat and propelled them to an awe-inspiring victory.