The Wald (33 page)

But Drusus wasn’t interested in exploring for very long.  His men cut a northeasterly path so that they would shorten their time in the wasteland.  If he was going to reach the
Albis this year, long his goal, the army would have to drive itself with punishing speed.  At last, after five days of climbing and descending tree-blanketed hills, they emerged into more habitable forests.

The maps then told Drusus that he was directly south of Cheruscan territory
, not far from his marvelous victory two years earlier.  It was time for his mission of resolute conquest to continue.  They crossed one of the twisting branches of the Visurgis and moved north, slashing a broad path as they went.  The familiar lightning attacks from Segimer’s Cheruscans did not come.  Except for one small battle where a local village sent its men forth to die against the legionaries, it appeared to Drusus and his army that the cost of constant war in the tribal lands had finally taken its toll on the Cheruscans.  Segimer and his tribe stayed home.

The army cut its way
eastward, eagerly pushing to reach the Albis before the season became too long and the time came to about face – or when it came time for Hostilius to warn the general of the logistics train.  They had already gone further than in either of the previous two campaigns, but Drusus, understanding the power of controlling political thought through news, wanted to reach the mighty river.  Drusus meant to get one more honor for his command so that when he spoke in the hallowed halls of Rome, men would feel compelled to listen.

At last they emerged onto the left bank.  The river flowed wide and slow as it had for thousands of years.  A small village that sat on the right bank emptied of all its inhabitants after a small child alerted its people to the hord
e of men pouring out of the trees on the opposite side.  The villagers piled into small boats and, while hugging the eastern shore, rapidly paddled down the river to escape the frightening menace.  Avectius and Chumstintus both laughed at the terrified locals, seemingly unaware that just a generation or two ago their ancestors in Gaul would have fled in a similar, wide-eyed fashion.

Drusus joyously
called a halt and ordered a celebration that night in the camp, with each man receiving double the typical ration of wine.  The sight of the Albis was a peaceful end to his personal, internal struggle.  The general felt alive, vigorous, yet rested.

He and his officers held their silver cups up time and again that night before Drusus hastily penned a letter announcing his army’s triumph.  The script was
lazy, even containing three errors as his mind and hand wandered from the wine’s warmth that spread from his chest outward.  The courier who was summoned came in bowing like a good soldier should, but the general offered him a cup of wine and toasted the man to a safe and swift journey.  The mood throughout the camp was jubilant as the courier rode out to tell the world of Drusus’ accomplishment.

“You’ve made it, lord general,” said Chumstintus.  The statement gave them all another excuse to lift their cups for a toast.

“You set your goal, Lord Drusus, and you’ve made it,” echoed Avectius.  Drusus smiled and dropped another mouthful of wine into his gullet.

“The men did this,” said Drusus.  “I drove them, but this army of Romans
has conquered Germania.  We’ve only to get their tribal leaders’ marks on a page, or better yet we’ll simply give them the terms of their surrender.  But that will be next year. We’ve no more time this campaign season to go traipsing around Germania hunting for this or that leader’s hovel.”

Hostilius raised his glass for another toast.  The officers all sighed from drunkenness, but joined him.  “To next season’s campaign.”

Drusus sat quietly with his eyes closed, smiling to himself, proud of his achievements.  He was not yet thirty years old and had begun the subjugation of Germania with a successful rout of a tribal plot.  He sailed his immense navy past the northern Pillars of Hercules.  Drusus had struck bargains with the Batavians, the Frisians, the Chaucians, and the Burchanians.  Next year, he thought, while listening to his men sing songs in the raucous camp, he would finally accept the Cattans, the Cheruscans, the Suebians, and even the Sugambrians into the Roman fold.  After just a year or perhaps two to condense power in the region, he could launch a campaign east of the Albis to punish Mawrobodwos for fleeing and building his own little empire on Rome’s new easternmost border.  Nothing was impossible to Drusus and his legions.

“So
, how long will we tarry here, lord?” asked Avectius.

Drusus pinched the bridge of his nose and answered.  “Tribune, we will stay long enough to accomplish two tasks.”  This being news to his officers, they leaned in as they attempted to blink themselves into
something resembling consciousness.  “We will erect a memorial for this journey on this very bank.  I want the land cleared of trees then covered in a mound.  The men will then build a stone trophy so that while we are gone over the winter season, the tribes will pass and know that none of their doing could have constructed such a thing.  They will remember how large and fearsome of a force we can be.  But they will also recall that with our legions we bring knowledge and education.  We are here to stay.”  He trailed off, still smiling.  Drusus appeared to fall asleep.

“And the second task, lord?” inquired Chumstintus.  “You mentioned two.”

“I did, didn’t I?” said the general.  “I’ve had far too much to drink if I can no longer keep track of my words. But you men keep on drinking.  You can obviously keep track of words for the both of us.”  The men laughed silly drunken laughs.  Drusus nodded off to sleep again.

“Lord?” said Chumstintus.  “You still haven’t sa
id what our second task will be.”

Drusus stood unsteadily while flapping his hands to get rid of his guests.  “Go on now.  I’ve got a headache already.  I need to sleep.”  His officers righted themselves on wobbly legs, glad that their tents were only several paces from their general’s.  Drusus smacked the last of them on his back as they ducked out the door, calling,
“And be prepared in the morning. I mean to cross my army over the Albis.”

His leather tent flap slapped shut and he could be heard flopping down onto his cot without bothering to extinguish the light.

. . .

Drusus slept fitfully
, bathed in sweat.  He lay flat on his back, jerking again and again, until at last his sleep was able to paralyze his limbs and the general became perfectly still.  The only part of his uniform that did not rest with him was his helmet.  Everything else was strapped in place where it was when he had collapsed after his night of drinking.

The camp around him had at last fallen to sleep after hours of gambling and merriment.  Only the scouts and sentries were burdened with consciousness.  Even the Gallic brothers
, who stayed awake long after they left Drusus’ tent proposing and dismissing ideas for getting the army across the Albis with neither boats nor the time to build a bridge, slept curled under woolen blankets.

“Drusus,” came the haunting voice of a woman.  In his sleepy stupor the general thought it was his wife’s voice and her image came to his hazy mind.
  On he slept, temporarily content.

The call came again – quiet, but firm.  “Drusus.”  The woman’s voice was young and Drusus imagined her to be beautiful.  The general fell even more deeply asleep.

“Drusus, where are you hastening?” Drusus sensed something odd in the Latin the woman used in his dream.  It was accented, he thought.

“Drusus, where are you hastening, insatiable Drusus?” she asked again.  The general recognized the accent as that of a German woman speaking in Latin.  He forced his mind awake
and his eyes soon shot wide.

Standing in the center of his tent was a young woman dressed in the traditional garb of a Suebian.  Her clothes were more richly made than a commoner’s
, with pale blue and yellow fabric.  Some source of light shone from behind her and illuminated through the sheer fabric, showing the curves of her figure and the sides of her breasts.  Drusus became concerned that his men cleaned up a slave woman for him to have in his bed.  He did not wish to dishonor Antonia in such a way and tried to shove her away.  It was then that the general discovered he was paralyzed, either by sleep or trickery.  He tried to call out, but his voice did not come.

All he could do was watch the woman watching him.  She seemed to float, though her feet were planted firmly on the ground.  Her dress fluttered
, though he could not feel a draft.  The Suebian said a third time, “Where are you hastening, insatiable Drusus?”  The general scanned up to the woman’s beautiful, but sad face.  The smooth skin above her brow was furrowed and nearly quivering as if she prepared to cry.  Her auburn hair was curly, falling about her shoulders.  The top of her head brushed the very peak of his tent. Drusus realized she was some ten feet tall.  He thought she must be an apparition or perhaps even a succubus who meant to lie upon him.  Would she smother him or have her way sexually with him?

“What is it you want?” he asked when
he found that his voice had returned.

“No
, insatiable Drusus.  What is it you want?  It is not fated that you will look upon all of these lands.  You must depart, for the very end of your toiling and of your life is already at hand.”  One tear welled up in her eye and then rolled down her cheek.  It was followed by many more as the woman silently wept before the general.  So moved was he, that Drusus openly cried there in his cot, not knowing what else to do, feeling despair in his heart where earlier in the same evening he felt renewed of spirit.  His chest felt constricted as if he was suffocating.

He opened his mouth to ask the Suebian
ghost another question when the light behind her grew intensely bright.  It overtook her and Drusus yelped in pain from the brightness and heat it generated.  Through his eyelids, he saw the light growing more intense until a pop then crackle sounded, followed by darkness.  He opened his eyes again but found they were still bleached from the burst of light.  They pained him as if someone had pressed thumbs into the sockets.  Drusus closed the burning orbs and tried to calm his nerves.  Eventually his breathing returned to normal and sleep came – again fitful.

. . .

For five days, many of the men labored at the tasks necessary to erect the memorial by the River Albis.  Hostilius oversaw its construction.  He proved to be an efficient leader, driving the men quickly, but not cruelly.  They already had a large section of forest cleared and hauled earth up from the river bank where they mined it in order to build the mound.  Basket after basket, wagon after wagon splashed up from the Albis while the legionaries, slaves, and auxiliary members grew filthy.

The legionaries
worked eagerly and in high spirits, happy to not repeat another day of forced marching.  There was some rumbling about their beloved commander falling ill.  No one, not even his officers, had seen him since their night of drinking.  Only Cornelius, the augur, and Paterculus, Drusus’ servant, were permitted in the general’s tent, and when questioned they said nothing of his condition other than he rested.  More than one man wondered why the medicus was not mentioned as visiting the legate.

Without any orders from their general, the Gallic brothers took it upon themselves to draft officers and engineers to ride along the river looking for a suitable ford or place to throw up
a narrow bridge.  At first, the group trotted northward toward the sea and found that the opposite shore drew farther away, making a bridge seem less likely.

“How will we cross
, then?” asked Avectius.

The senior engineer shrugged.  “I can bridge anything, but this will require more time than throwing a few twigs across the upper
Rhenus or the Lupia.  Drusus had better plan on camping here in the snow if he wants to start the project now.”

Avectius frowned.
“That won’t do.  Can’t we make a pontoon bridge?”

The engineer rubbed his chin, long ago scarred by an errant swing from a hammer.  “That’s an idea, tribune.  I just need the winter to build some boats to act as pontoons and then we’ll set our bridge on them.”

Avectius took the man’s sarcasm well enough.  “So what do you suggest?”

“Find a ford,” said the old man, again shrugging.

“It doesn’t take an engineer to come up with an idea like that,” snapped Chumstintus.

“You’re right, tribune,” blustered the engineer.  “So would it be alright if I return to the camp to oversee
the building of the monument?”  He was already walking his horse back to the main camp when he called, “If Drusus wants to set foot across the river, just build the man a raft and float it across.”

“Just keep riding
, old man.  Your suggestions are no longer needed.  Drusus means to get his entire army across, not just one man,” shouted Chumstintus.  The old engineer shrugged one last time and trotted back to the night camp.

Day after day the two brothers experimented with simple rafts that could be built large and quickly.  Day after day the men and animals they used to
test the boats slid into the Albis.  Had the brothers not been gaming to devise a shrewd invention and gain favor with Drusus, the entire debacle would have been comical.  But they shouted and fought, pushing the men to fell more trees and construct a sound ship without taking the time to construct a sound ship.  A horse and three men were killed and a wagon sank to the riverbed before they called off their work.