The Wald (12 page)

“Not this year lad,” Erdmann answered quickly.  “You might not see me for many years.”  His hand seized on something and he jerked it up out from the fiber sack.  “Just what I thought.”  Erdmann held two chunks of iron, one from the axle of a Roman chariot another from a metal strap of some sort.  Regardless of the source, they would be enough to make four or maybe even five spear points.  “I’ll give these to you for a song.  I don’t want to carry them any further than I have to and you need them more than I do.”

“How kind of you,” answered Dorthe
sarcastically.  “What do you want for them, really?”

“You may have them for some of those peas the boy holds there.  That is it.  Do you want anything else?  I am truly trying to lighten my load.”

Dorthe didn’t argue with her good fortune.  Instead, she snatched an old sack, stuffed it full of peas from Berengar’s hand, and made her deal.  The smart woman then went on to get six slick eels that sloshed around in a leaky bucket dangling off Nilsy’s back.  Adalbern loved to feast on eels, but didn’t get them nearly as often as he liked since they lived so far from their haunts on the Mare Germanicum coast.  The slender beasts Dorthe purchased, nearly dead as they had wrapped themselves around the inside of the bucket, cost her only one small brick of goat cheese that Berengar had in his pocket for a snack.

“Do you need lodging for the night?” the woman dutifully asked.

“No thank you.  I’m moving south.  Perhaps I’ll winter with the Marcomannians this year.  Or maybe I’ll move further east into the darkest parts of the forest.  You know, the life of a crazed merchant knows no bounds.”  He already had his heavy pack on his shoulders and was making steps away from them down the nearby path.

“Mother, may I walk with him for a short while?” asked Berengar.  “I’d like to catch up on news for father.”

Dorthe knew that Adalbern would be upset at not prying every bit of information he could from Erdmann.  Normally, the man came and passed in and out of the Sugambrian villages for several weeks, telling all the elders the triumphs or woes of the other tribes and even carrying the gossip usually unspoken among the Sugambrian clans themselves.  “Go on,” said Dorthe.  “Not too far, though.  We have work to finish.  You know we must harvest every vegetable and berry on the hill if we are to survive this winter.  Those Romans you and your father were so quick to fight at the Rhenus burnt half the food supply of the valley.”

“Yes
, mother,” was all Berengar said as he trotted off to catch up to Erdmann, who was uncharacteristically quick of step.  The merchant peeked over his shoulder at the oncoming boy, but kept right on marching back into the shade of the forest.  He began whistling the tune meant to ensure safe passage.

“So, why not this year?  Or, why not any more years?  What does that mean?
  Why are you in such a hurry?” asked Berengar like a well-trained archer unleashing arrow after arrow.

The old man puffed under the weight of his rattling goods, sweat reforming on his brow so that droplets sat perched in his
thick eyebrows.  He nibbled on the peas he had just acquired.  “Lad, you know I can’t just give away all my information.  Usually, I require some of the Roman coins they are now minting over in Lugdunum.  You’d be surprised what those little lumps of metal can get you.”

“Well then
, come back to my father’s house like a proper merchant and he’ll negotiate some coins for some of your words,” said Berengar as he easily kept up with the man.

“I am a proper merchant, boy.  Did I not just give your mother a fine deal
– several fine deals?”  A root in the road nearly tripped him and he spat out the peas and his anger at Berengar.  “Now get back to your mother’s skirts, boy.  I don’t have time for watching a whelp.”

Berengar stepped in Erdmann’s path so that the top heavy businessman almost walked into him.  The man opened his mouth to protest but clamped it fast when the boy’s short sword was held to Erdmann’s eye.  “Now, you have not been a proper merchant.  One who is
polite accepts the hospitality of the chief of the lands and eats with his family in his home when invited.  You did not.  How do you expect to continue to receive safe passage wherever you roam without gaining the favor of the locals?”

The fear in the man’s face ebbed.  “Boy, I told you I don’t have time for . . .”  A quick flick of Berengar’s wrist drew a small sprinkle of blood from Erdmann’s cheek.

“And so after I persuaded him, he told me all the news for free,” said Berengar to his father in the longhouse.

The big man chuckled.  “Persuaded him, huh?
  Well then, what exactly did Erdmann tell you for free?”

“I already told you
, father,” answered Berengar crisply, but changed his tone when his father’s face said it was time to be respectful.  “Erdmann confirms what our spies have told us.  Drusus, the Roman commander, has taken his entire fleet north.  They negotiated a peace treaty with the Batavians last year.”

“Batavians are women,” growled his father.

“Yes, father.  But this year Drusus moved his fleet through a great canal he had dug from the Rhenus all the way to the Mare Germanicum.  The Frisians capitulated at the mere sight of the fleet.  It is supposed to be massive, father – hundreds of ships.”

“Frisians are women, too.”

“Yes, father, they’re women too.”  The boy didn’t want an argument, mostly because the family system was set up so he always lost.  But Berengar felt strongly, “They’ll fight nicely next to the Romans who are supposed to be women with their dresses on.  Yet these women kill or subdue all in their way.  Erdmann wants nothing more than to be far away from them when they invade from the sea.  He says he’ll come back to trade when we have become Roman subjects.”

“Erdmann’s a coward,” groused the angering man.

“Yes, father, he is a coward.  He had to blink away sweat from fear twice while I persuaded him to talk,” smiled Berengar, trying to get his father to focus on facts rather than his feelings.  “But Erdmann’s information is usually correct.  He tells me that he was trading with the Chaucians when word of the invasion came from the Frisians.  Erdmann is old, father. He remembers many revolts and their quashing in Gaul.  He runs because he knows what the Roman dragons are capable of doing.”

Adalbern spat, “And what shall I do about it?  Drusus won’t be so quick to turn tail and run with a force the size of which you speak.”

“I don’t know, father.  I tell you the news so that you may decide.”  Berengar did know what he would do if asked.  He would attack the invading army and see it routed.  It seemed simple to him, no matter what Erdmann thought of Rome.  But Berengar had learned from many quick clips to the side of his head to allow his father to come to the decision himself.

Adalbern
gnawed on a bit of dried meat, chewing much longer than necessary as he tried to control his fury and plan.  “Alright boy, we give our people another two weeks to bring in the harvest, such as it is, then we move north down the Amisia River.  That is the way they’ll come if they mean to invade our heartland again.  But we stop at the edge of our lands. I don’t want to go looking for a fight this late in the season.”

“
Yes, father.  The strategy is sound.”

“Huh, I suppose we’ll see.  Now ride to the villages and clans.  Tell them my
plan.  You may take my horse as a symbol of your message’s truth.”  The boy nearly fell over himself as he scrambled for the door to begin rallying his army once again.

. . .

“Husband,” said Dorthe as she walked up behind Adalbern.  The chieftain had retreated to his favorite quiet spot in the forest to think.  These were his woods, his father’s woods.  The moon shed a small amount of light on the ferns that grew along the forest floor.

Adalbern turned, “Wife.”  He offered a great arm and pulled the woman under it, into his side.  They stood quietly listening to the nighttime sounds in the
wald – something each had done since they were children.

Dorthe pet her husband’s belly.  “Where have you sent our son on your horse?”

“He’s safe.  Not to worry, mother.”  Adalbern was convinced that Dorthe worried about Berengar too much because they had lost the younger siblings.  He was the only child left.

“I don’t doubt that, Adalbern.  He is his father’s son.  He’ll make his way on whatever errand you’ve set for him.” 
Her husband was wrong.  She worried no more than he did for their capable boy, but she let her man believe her overly concerned.  The two found a rock to sit on, Dorthe on Adalbern’s lap.

The bear si
ghed.  “Our boy raises another army.  We march north to prevent Romans coming onto Sugambrian lands.”

The woman studied her man’s face, clearing one of the many wild hairs out of the way.  “
You move to protect our wald.  You’re a good man, husband.”

“The best,” answered Adalbern.  He smiled, but Dorthe was in a serious mood.

“You protect our people from Roman tyranny.  I hope if they ever come to my home, the part of the wald which I run, I have a small bit of your fire.  I hope that I can protect the homestead.”

“Woman, let’s hope it doesn’t get that far.
”  He huffed.  “But if it does, I’ve seen you.  I know that you’ll do all you can to kill Romans – by yourself if you must.  I’d not worry about your courage if I were you.”  He ran a hand up his wife’s back, stroking her.  “Teiwaz blood runs in both sides of our family.  We are good at making war.”

The married couple made love in the secluded forest that night.  Neither knew if his seed would germinate for that decision was up to the gods.  But they knew their passion and love.  They let them both flow freely.

. . .

The Burchanians proved to be very willing to negotiate a
fitting surrender after most were slaughtered on their own island.  The negotiations, from their perspective, more closely resembled accepting unconditional terms Drusus offered by way of his Frisian interpreter.  The matter was concluded with the general sitting at a handsome table that was brought from his flagship by two legionaries.  No one thought to bring a chair for him, so Drusus rested on a driftwood log that had been set aside by the villagers for firewood in the coming year.  There was no treaty signed, for the Burchanians like all the Germanic tribes had no written language and therefore no distinguishing mark to make on the page.  Drusus himself made notes of the terms he offered and then, with a bronze pen dipped in black ink, signed his full name, Nero Claudius Drusus, at the bottom of the vellum page.  He had long ago abandoned his given praenomen, Decimus, in favor of Nero for political reasons.

The terms
were generous when they could have been harsh.  But Drusus proved that he could be forgiving after a successful conflict, believing that it demonstrated the true civilized nature of a Roman citizen.

Despondent-
looking Burchanians gathered around the table as Drusus stood to read from his own page.  He wore a fresh set of clothes and armor, as he preferred to do his diplomatic work without the constant reminder of death that came from the blood splatters across his field uniform.  The Frisian interpreter waited expectantly while counting the specific items off on his fingers to help him remember everything when he repeated them in the Burchanian tongue.  He had learned Latin from his uncle who was originally from Gaul but came to live among the Frisians due to his love of the sea.  The translator’s mind spun while he listened to Drusus’ sophisticated use of Latin while deciding which Burchanian words to use in their place.  In the end, he would only require the fingers of one hand to keep track of the general’s demands.

“The people of Fabaria,” which is what the legionaries had begun calling the island almost immediately due to the prodigious supply of wild beans that seemed to grow on every inch of land.  Drusus thought the moniker was humorous and so kept it
, even in his writings.  The Burchanians would not know what to make of it.

“The people of Fabaria will cease all hostile actions against Rome and her forces immediately.
  You will return to your farms and fishing and become productive subjects of the emperor.  You will be exempt from providing auxiliary military forces for three years due to the unfortunate recent drop in the male population from the uprising on the beach, but you may defend yourselves against invaders.  Rome, however, pledges to defend Fabaria and all its peoples with her blood.  You will not be left alone.  You have the mightiest ally the world has ever known.  You will accept any and all Roman marketplaces or governing bodies established here in the future without conflict.”  When the interpreter finished his words, the participants took the news quite well, even clapping.  The gesture was primarily out of relief because Drusus gave them no harsh punishments other than the thorough loss on the battlefield.  Yet they also quickly learned the importance of conveying the proper respect to their new overlord.

Drusus was eager to keep moving.  He thought of new peoples and more territory to conquer.  He actually preferred to think of his quest as one of liberation, though he admitted in his private thoughts that at best it would be a delayed freedom.  Secretly, he wished that Rome would return to the blissful days of the
grand Republic when the senate and consuls carried the power rather than the emperor.  The city and territory had grown and become prosperous for generations, quite literally hundreds of years in the old Republic.  Augustus, his adopted father, was sensible enough to listen to the counsel of wise men from the prominent families, but Drusus was not confident that his older brother Tiberius or anyone else would show such fortitude against the temptations that came with sole, divine authority.  He hoped and even prayed to the gods that his work for the current emperor would give him a podium secure enough from which to advocate reforms.  Then, if successful, these campaigns against the Germanic tribes and his quelling of Gallic revolts would honestly be for the conquered peoples’ good.