The Wald by Jason Born Page B

protective edge in the first place.  It was the screaming boy who had commandeered the fallen man’s spear. Swinging it down at Septimus in an ax-like manner, he kept a solid four feet of distance between the two.  Poor boy, thought Septimus.
    The child raised the spear into a defensive posture as Septimus drove his foot forcefully to the ground.  He would make the boy’s ending quick.  But as every muscle from the ball of his foot to his thigh tensed, forcing his body up and his foot down, the same qui rky earth that caused the Sugambrian to slip gave way under the centurion.  His weight shifted precariously to his left and he toppled off the dying soldier onto his own shield.  He felt like a fool, like a fat urban dweller who had had too much wine for supper as he scrambled to get up.
    Septimus’ own weight pinned his arm into the straps holding his shield.  While he tried to free himself, he swung the sword at the boy who advanced onto the dead German.  Septimus’ arm could not reach so he kicked the boy’s legs out from under him, driving the heavy iron nails of the sole into the lanky child’s shin.  The boy yelped and fell onto Septimus, but kept the presence of mind to grip the spear tightly, aiming it at the centurion’s chest.
    In the end , it was only one of the medallions Septimus wore that protected him from death that day.  The sharp spear, propelled by momentum and the boy’s weight, would have slipped between the rings of his chain mail cuirass, ending his military marriage.  The medallion slid as the point hammered into it, acting as a fulcrum to pivot the boy off to the side, rolling away from Septimus.
    Horns sounded.  They weren’t the cornu trumpets of the legion, but a deeper, more haunting wail.  All at once the Germans who still fought broke ranks and fled, breaking for the woods.  The boy climbed to his feet and was swallowed in the crowd.  Many of them were cut down by legionaries hurling their spears into the men’s unprotected backs.
    One of his principali, Naevius, came and helped Septimus to his feet.  The centurion nodded and said, “Pursue them only to the woods.  Await orders.”  Naevius gathered his contubernium and raced after the would-be invaders.
    . . .
    Berengar and his father had watched the Roman legion ruthlessly pursue them for three days.  They burnt everything built by or planted by man along their way.  All manner of livestock were taken and slaughtered to feed the legion that ravaged along its wide path.  Houses, barns, and entire villages still sent up plumes of dark smoke in the Romans’ angry wake.  They were a thorough lot, thought Adalbern.
    “What will we do?” asked the boy, sitting on a spirited horse h e had borrowed from another man killed in the initial fight at the river.  His father and several other noblemen of the Sugambrians sat likewise, hidden among the trees on a hilltop as they looked out to the approaching Roman army in the valley below.
    For three days Adalbern and his men had been pursued.  For three days they had counterattacked in rapid bursts, killing a few dozen men, losing a few of their own, before withdrawing.  Harrying the enemy seemed the only thing Adalbern’s army, as Berengar had gone back to thinking of it, could do.  With each passing day, more of the men who had accompanied them to the river melted back into the forest, preferring a return to their homes in the deep wald to being impaled on a Roman spear.
    Since no one saw fit to answer him, Berengar asked again, “Father, what will we do?”
    The boy was prepared for an angry response, but the quiet answer unnerved Berengar even more.  “We’re doing it, Berengar.  We do all we can already.”  His voice signaled defeat, something that was nearly unheard of from Adalbern.  Scanning the other nobles’ faces, the boy saw the same belief.
    “All we can do at this point, boy, is to slow them.  We lead them on a p ath away from most of our