The Wald (26 page)

Besides, Manilius went on in each council of war for the
past week, news told them that the Sugambrians had defeated the Cattans to the south.  What if Adalbern finds he has a desire to risk it all and drive north to cut us off?  Manilius did not fear forming up in battle against an army already exhausted from fighting all summer, but he was wise in that the legions may find themselves between the Sugambrians, the Cheruscans, and the Suebians.  The army of Drusus, made up of men from the fair climate of Rome, would be with dwindling supplies and cold feet.  The latter was always an extremely draining force to morale.

So far, though, the general had seen fit to successfully discount the senior man’s pressure.  With each passing day, however, Drusus himself knew that the man was correct.
  But he longed to stand next to the Albis.  The general wanted to dip a cupped hand into its waters and drink –something no Roman had done.  Though forcing it was childish, Drusus began to yearn for glory.

And so it was late one evening when the sun had
just fallen beyond the horizon yet still cast enough light to see vague images, the general walked past the camp prefect’s tent with no particular destination in mind.  He had hoped to walk among the men inconspicuously and listen to their simple arguments about games, women, and officers.  Drusus sometimes did this to clear his mind.  After such an excursion, he found that he could duck back into his tent and the answer to whatever problem confronted him presented itself with little effort.

A wisp of dark flew past his eyes and he stopped.  It was just a fly, he thought, which were always with the marching army because of its latrines and defecating animals.  Drusus took a step forward again and heard the buzzing of a bee.  He stopped again and looked around in the dusk sky to try to find the tiny creature.  For him
, and for all Romans, bees were winged messengers sent directly from the gods, so it was worth his time to divine what the little animal had to say.

He caught a glimpse of it when the bee flew up to the sky past the shadow of trees.  Its path was swirled and irregular.  Why do they do that, he wondered to himself
?  Why not just travel directly to its goal?  And then a funny thought struck him.  The general thought about how his own path was more like the path of the bee than he cared to admit.  He wanted to return Rome to being governed by the Senate, yet for his part, the general needed to subdue Germania to get there.  To subdue the German tribes, Drusus had to cut to its heart.  To cut to its physical heart, the general had spent the past three years running his men north, south, east, and west over land and sea.  How much like the bee was he?  The general smiled in the dark.

His friend
the bee took off around the back of the tent and the commander felt compelled to follow.  He stepped around after it.  The creature’s singular buzzing was joined by an entire colony.  At the tip of one of the tent’s poles where the guy rope wrapped around it, hundreds or even thousands of bees swarmed onto one another to form a living breathing ball that seemed to pulsate to a regular beat.

“Manilius!” he shouted.

“Legate?” came a surprised voice from the dark.  The prefect was not in his tent, but near enough that Drusus heard his quick footfalls growing closer.  “Legate, where are you?”

“Here
, Manilius, behind your tent.”

“Yes, legate?
” breathed the prefect.

“Find Cornelius at once.  Bring him here.”

When Manilius had stepped close enough he heard the intense buzzing of the bees and stood transfixed by them.  He, like his general, wondered what such a message could mean.  Manilius ran off toward the square of the augurs’ tents like a man half his age.  Drusus ignored his bit of disrespect when the prefect didn’t acknowledge the order.

In just moments, Manilius returned with the cocksure Cornelius in tow.  Paterculus
, the old servant, came with the two men carrying a sputtering torch that he held close enough to the tent so that its light fell on their quarry, but far enough so that its heat did not agitate them to swarming anger.  The augur stared at the throbbing mass not in wonder as did the others.  Instead, he studied it as one who had prepared for times such as this for his entire life.  Cornelius walked first directly beneath it and then around the side.  He crouched and leaned to get a better glimpse of whatever he hoped to gather.  Twice he swatted Paterculus back when he felt constricted by the old man’s interest.

“What does it . . .” began Drusus.  But Cornelius shushed him.  Manilius bristled at the slight
to the general, but the augur was the only man who could ever hope to get away with such disrespect and so let it go.

“Lord Drusus,” the augur began, “please tell me what matters of importance have weighed on you of late.  No, wait.  The messengers indicate that you wonder about
the army’s next step.  Is it forward to the east or should it be back toward the forts?  That is your conundrum.”

“Yes,” nodded Drusus.

“I thought so,” said the augur.  Cornelius scratched around in a small pack that hung from his shoulder to his waist.  He pulled out a large handful of straw, which seemed an odd item for a seer to keep at the ready, but no one questioned him.  He smashed it between both of his hands and the held it out.  “Paterculus, set this ablaze.”

The old man hesitated as he immediately feared the possible repercussions for burning one in a position of such authority.  Cornelius gave a look that frightened Paterculus into action
. He gently set the burning end of the torch onto the ball of straw.  It took a moment for it to start since the stems and grasses retained some moisture from whatever pasture they had been stolen.  Then the collection popped into a fast burning ball in the augur’s bare hands.  Drusus and Manilius watched in wonder, each asking themselves how soothsayers like Cornelius learned their crafts.  At the tiny blaze’s zenith Cornelius folded his hands together, snuffing the fire out.  He carried it beneath the pulsing bees and allowed the lingering smoke to wind up and through them.

He allowed the smoke to penetrate the entire lot of bees for many heartbeats before he reached a bare hand up
.  The onlookers gasped while he carefully wedged his hand into the swarm.  Bees began crawling up his arm, but did not appear to sting him.

“Cornelius?” was all that the commander could utter.

The augur smiled then after his hand, buried as it was in the bees, seized on something.  He pried until it eventually made a muffled snapping sound in the mass.  Cornelius withdrew his hand holding a small piece of a hive dripping with honey.  He waved the last of the smoke under it.  Then to the other men’s astonishment, he tasted the honey with bees still lazily walking on his arm.  Cornelius smacked his lips before picking the last of the bees from his hand one by one and replacing them with their comrades in the swarming mass.  He finished by tossing the hive fragment to the ground and cleaning his hands on a rag from his satchel.

“Well,” asked Manilius, “what does the flavor tell you?  What did you learn?”

“Camp prefect, the flavor told me nothing other than the honey was delicious.  No doubt made in the vicinity of some type of flowering tree.  What would you expect the flavor to tell me?”

“Stop toying with my prefect, Cornelius,” Drusus said.  “
He’s not as forgiving as am I.  He’ll enjoy rapping your head with a club.  What have you learned?”

“Yes, legate.  We’ve only just paused in this marching camp this afternoon and yet the hive and honey seem to indicate that it has been there for a much longer period.  Unless Manilius has said that his servants frequently
demonstrate stings when they build or tear down his tent, I believe we can be assured that this is a message from the gods.  Since it came to you directly, commander, it is meant for you.  Since the winged messengers told me it had to do with the future direction of our march, I am comfortable in saying that we now know the will of the gods.  It is but up to you if you wish to follow their direction or risk taking a different path.”

“And what do they say?”
inquired Drusus.

“The message is thus: if the legions tarry too long in Germania, they will be covered by the tribesmen in one afternoon just as this pole and guy rope have been.  The honey made by the warring tribes will taste sweet, but our army will be like the nectar stolen from the flower.  We will be spit out by the roving tribes if we travel further e
ast.  If, however, we turn toward the Rhenus, we will find success.  We will use the tribesmen as the nectar with which we make our own fragrant honey.  Success will find you, Lord Drusus.”

Manilius, hearing news that confirmed his position, gave a warily positive look, hoping only that his commander would understand the good sense given to them by the gods through the augur.  Paterculus leaned toward the general with a similarly expectant look.
  The torchlight danced on the men’s faces as the last light of dusk disappeared.

“I know what you all wait for and I’ll not delay.  I am but a young commander, but know when to take the advice of seasoned men and of the gods.  Manilius, we break camp in the morning
to march west.  We return to the strength of the Rhenus.”

A genuine smile grew on the
normally sullen prefect’s face.  “Yes, legate.”  Manilius strode off to make the myriad of detailed arrangements for a hasty departure at first light.

Drusus said, “And thank you, Cornelius, for reading the auguries.  You may have saved many fine Romans with your skills.”

With a short burst of humility the augur answered, “I am just a vessel through whom the gods speak.  Any skills I have are not my own, but rather a gift.  If I deserve any credit at all it is for sharing them with others.”

The general clasped his hands behind his back, intent on returning to the walk he had planned.  Only now he had no reason to toil over making a decision
, for it was already made.  Paterculus and Cornelius stood in the torchlight watching him go until his ambling form disappeared into the chattering campfires of the camp.

The augur held out a single hand, palm up.  “You do know your master.”

Paterculus fished into a small pouch and produced three denarii.  He wistfully studied them in his hand, then set the pouch into that of the augur.  The three remaining coins were stuffed into a pocket.

“Ah, an
unexpected gratuity – it was a pleasure, Paterculus.”  The pouch quickly disappeared into the seer’s satchel.  “And how will you get rid of the hive without paying the price the bees command?”

The old servant chuckled.  “You play your part, augur.  I play mine.  Drusus was becoming drunk with prospects of glory and together we righted him.  I brought the bees with only twenty stings on my arm.  You properly
read
the swarm’s meaning.  Let me worry about getting rid of the little beasts.”

. . .

It was time to make their Cheruscan ancestors proud.  Ermin was giddy with the prospects suddenly offered by the gods of the forests as the heat from summer turned to the crisp breezes of autumn.  Riders had pounded north from their Sugambrian friends proclaiming a victory over the Cattans.  At first, the Cheruscan leadership hoped that would mean that Adalbern would march his army north to join in the fight against the Romans.  They would not, of course, having lost many fine men and crops to the destruction wrought by the Cattan army.  It would be no matter, however.

The Roman general had turned his army inexplicably northwestward five days earlier.
  The time had come, his father had said, to repay the Romans a double or triple the pain they had set onto the tribes.

Ermin
marveled at the patience his father had shown all during the campaign.  Partially due to the careful counsel of Kolman, but also because of a wise military mind, Segimer had not once overcommitted his men.  He never once lashed out with a force to take revenge for all the families and fields taken away from the wald forever.  Segimer hit and retreated, helping bring Drusus ever deeper into their homeland.

The Roman soldiers would be proud of their successful march but frustrated by the continued activity of the tribes.  Each week brought another
set of attacks to sap at their manpower and will.  Then, just as the legionaries would begin to think about an easy winter spent west of the Rhenus, wasting their wages on women and wine, the Cheruscans would step up their attacks.  They would hit them hard and at a sustained pace.  The Roman general, though smart, would bite and bite big.  He would pursue the Cheruscans and Suebians to a terrain of their choosing.  The gods of the glens demanded it and therefore it would happen.  Rike, the old shriveled priestess, would be correct in her foretelling of a victory born from the Sugambrian and Cheruscan union even though it was torn asunder by the contemptible Cattans.

For each of the past five days Segimer
had sent more cavalry slamming into the Roman ranks.  Each time, they withdrew but tarried long enough to bloody more soldiers.  Common infantry and officers of the legions found themselves killed by spears or workhorse hooves.  The killing of both sides amounted to a wretched mess of crying men and bleeding stumps scattered over the ground.  As Segimer predicted, it had been enough to anger Drusus into following the retreat from the last attack in a rapid pursuit, a double-time march.