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night to move Berengar’s army of five thousand Sugambrians to Gaul.
    His scouts came back to him two days earlier saying that after what looked like a raucous party held in Oppidum Ubiorum to celebrate their emperor, that Drusus, aboard his flagship, had sailed north with most of his fleet, clearing the way for Berengar, Adalbern, and their Gallic allies, the Treveri, to sever Rome’s grip on the region.
    The boy thought anxiously about all that lay before him.  It was to be a night and many days filled with a river crossing, marching to meet Latharnius, and then engaging the Roman soldiers left behind to garrison the frontier forts.  These men would not be Rome’s finest, Berengar knew, for the best would be on those ships headed north to invade the tribes’ lands from the Mare Germanicum.  The men in the garrisons would be older or younger or recovering from sickness or injury.  In other words, they would be the perfect sort to build his army’s confidence.
    Berengar had so often thought of these forces as hi s army that he had let the idea slip out a time or two.  One of those was in front of his father last month as the men spoke together about their plans.  As soon as Berengar let the words “my army,” slip out, Adalbern used his mountain-sized paw to cuff the boy’s head.  The force was so great he fell from his mount, splashing into a leaf-clogged puddle beside the path.  “Slow down, boy,” was all that his father said before returning to his scheming.
    Berengar gave the matter no more thought as his father rode up beside him the night of the invasion.  The boy had grown so much since his first foray into Gaul four years earlier.  He had matured to know that men needed to be put in line by a firm leader.  His father was that leader today.  Someday Berengar would be the leader who would have to strike a man for insubordination or other offense.  It was best that he learned how to do it now or else he’d never protect his fatherland from the ruthless Romans.
    “Any reports?” asked Adalbern.
    “I sent scouts toward the north and south some time ago.  No word, yet, father.”
    “That’ll be good enough, I suppose.  We’re almost to the river.  That’s when we’ll be most exposed to attack if the Romans have patrols out.  We best do our crossing tonight.”
    “Yes, father.  I don’t think a patrol will stop our horde, though.”
    Adalbern’s temper flared for a brief instant before he settled himself, knowing they drew nearer enemy territory.  A series of expletive-filled shouts would not serve his purpose.  “No, but I’d rather be safe across with all my men before a patrol goes and fetches a legion carrying more of their javelins and spears.”
    “Yes , father,” Berengar replied.  The old man reached his muscled arm out and tousled the boy’s hair.
    “Your mother would be proud to see you out here with the men.”  The mere mention of his mother , Dorthe, nearly brought a tear to the boy’s eyes.  As mature as he thought he was, he admitted to himself he still liked it when his mother gave him a hug after a day out hunting or herding their few cattle.
    In a rare public demonstration of his father’s devotion to his wife, Adalbern said, “I see your fondness for her and hers for you.  I miss the woman, too, but we’ve work to do.  The gods know that at my age I should spend every moment I have left furrowing a woman as young and fair as she.”
    Berengar knew his father loved his mother.  He had seen the two embrace like newlywed pups still drunk on the honey mead from their wedding celebration before they left for this war.  The boy couldn’t be certain, but he swore he saw his father, the great bear of a man, wipe away a tear back there in the wald when he mounted his horse to leave the village.
    Adalbern looked again at the boy who had quickly been lost in the reflections of home. He thought it best to return the conversation to more martial rather than