Free The Wald by Jason Born Page B

and cleave them.  Septimus expected the Sugambrians to follow the flight of their courage and turn tail into the wald within ten more of his men’s methodical steps.
    It was for moments like these that Septimus had joined the Roman army.    Yes, at first he volunteered because his family had no way of supporting him any longer.  The life of a common soldier could be cruel, but he could count on being well-fed and even well-cared-for by the competent medica in the barracks.  It did not take long, though, for Septimus to realize it was the camaraderie that drove him.  And then, when his first battle came, all those years ago when he was a boy who could hardly produce whiskers, Septimus knew he lived for battle.  A nervous stream of urine ran down his bare leg before that first encounter.  The veterans had laughed at him, but he saw in their eyes that they too were frightened.  From the moment when the first javelin was thrown to when he withdrew the blade of his gladius from an enemy’s ribcage, Septimus knew he was wedded to the army – his bride.
    It wasn’t the killing per se that drove him.  It was the thrill of it all.  The wooden hilt of his sword, worn smooth from his own sweat and repeated grip, felt like another part of his own body.  The sounds, the stench, the sights all came together in his mind’s eye to create a battle high so far superior to the delight which came from knowing a woman that he thought it impossible that he would ever marry.  All those years ago he had committed himself solely to this life, for the actions he took that night against the tribesmen.
    Septimus saw a bear of a man ride a strong horse up to the shoddy line of tribesmen forming perpendicular to the flowing river water.  The man dragged another horse by the reins behind him.  He shouted in his incomprehensible language at the boy, who nodded while snatching the leather straps and climbing onto the second animal.  The centurion thought that these must be some king or prince of the Germans, readying to make their own escape so they weren’t trampled when the mass of their frightened men scurried to the woods.
    He nodded to himself as the big man trotted down his line of men who stood meekly behind a mixed batch of shields, formed into varying shapes and sizes, painted with different insignias and colors , some made of wood, others of woven wicker.  The big man called to his men.  He probably told them to hold fast, thought Septimus.  All the while the giant on the horse would quietly trot out of harm’s way, back home to his hovel in the woods.
    The Romans, with their matching shields, drew closer.  Septimus, Marcus, and all the others sweat heavily under their chain or plate armor.  The victor of this confrontation was ordained long ago on the training fields of Rome, but it would only be apparent to the tribe in a moment or two.  The legion took another step forward in the slowly waking dawn.
    It was then that the thin boy, the large man, and several other Germans on horseback burst from their line straight toward the cohorts.  Septimus, who stood out two paces from his men, thought he was going to be crushed by the boy’s old horse.  He prepared to lodge the butt of his spear into the ground to impale the animal on its tip, but the boy jerked the beast to a stop two yards shy of his position.
    The boy’s small sword was at his side . Instead of trying to take a wild swing at the legionary in front of him, he just began prancing his horse back and forth, shouting in his idiotic, halting tongue.  Septimus cursed under his breath and halted his advance.  Looking to his left, he saw that an unarmed rider did the same in front of Marcus.  Further left, other riders, including the big man, marched their horses back and forth in front of each century, shouting and waving their hands.  The advance had stopped, the army now looking like a frozen hedgehog with its spears jutting up and out.
    This was a bold