marital pursuits. “But, as I say, she’d be proud of you ordering men around like you have. That woman’s got a fire all her own.”
“I suppose she would be proud, father.” Berengar pushed his home life out of his mind. They rode on for several heartbeats before the boy asked, “Will the men name you king of the Sugambrians when we beat the Romans?”
Adalbern secretly wished they would , but did not intend to be the one to discard tradition. “No, son. That is not the way of our people. You should know that by now. A village ruler carries just as much authority as our people want over themselves – no more. I have been fortunate to have influence over the other Sugambrians, but cannot kid myself into thinking we can ever speak as one united nation. Such a thought is nearly as outlandish as thinking the Sugambrians and Cheruscans and the Suebians and even the Cattans would ever join together under the control of one leader – preposterous.”
Berengar did understand, somewhat. If his people were half as independent ly minded as he felt, Berengar understood their loathing toward any concept containing anything regal. He could not imagine having a ruler living miles away in another village dictating rules for his existence. The thought of succumbing to rules from a Cheruscan was frightening. The idea of following laws from Rome, hundreds of miles away, was repulsive. “Then why do the Gaul call us all Germans?” the boy asked.
“Germans, huh. I never heard that word until a few years ago. They say that the Caesar called Julius used it to describe those of us east of the Rhenus as if we were a single group. You’ve grown up with the word, so I suppose it makes some sense to you. But listen to me, boy, the only people we can trust are, in order, those from our clan, those from our village, and then those from Sugambrian lands. It is only after the last that we can trust other Germans . Do you understand?”
“Yes , father. The river.” The boy’s eyes pointed to the Rhenus reflecting the twilight rays of the setting sun.
Without missing a beat in the conversation, Adalbern said, “Find Gundahar and work with him to organize the crossing. You two work toward the north of the banks, I’ll work to the south. Can’t have you constantly at my side if this is truly your army, you know.” He cuffed the boy lightly.
“Yes , father.” Berengar trotted off to find the noble harelip, Gundahar.
. . .
The crossing was going as rapidly and smoothly as could be expected. The sun had long since set before they were able to place even the first troops on rafts, but the first group had run across easily and began to form a series of quiet sentries around what would become their camp on the west side of the river for the night. On the east side, despite speaking in hushed tones, the soldiers and beasts that prepared for the trip made an unavoidably loud scene.
Under a waning moon, Gundahar slapped the rump of a pony too stubborn to jump onto a raft. The animal blew flapping bursts from his snout, sending ripples of sound cascading through the air over the river. Its hooves trampled the stones littering the shore beneath, scattering them over the harelip’s boots or splashing them into the water. Gundahar grew impatient with the owner of the horse who was an elder from a nearby village. “If you don’t pull this mule out of line, I’ll slit its throat right here. Adalbern won’t be pleased with our progress,” hissed Gundahar.
“I am not a servant of Adalbern and I won’t be talke d to this way by a nasally idiot,” blustered the man.
Gundahar was about to erupt in anger when Berengar spoke up. “You are Eburwin from the Kuh village, are you not?” the boy guessed.
“I am, though why must I answer to you?”
“You certainly do not answer to me or my father who is called Adalbern. I know of you because my father speaks highly of
“I suppose she would be proud, father.” Berengar pushed his home life out of his mind. They rode on for several heartbeats before the boy asked, “Will the men name you king of the Sugambrians when we beat the Romans?”
Adalbern secretly wished they would , but did not intend to be the one to discard tradition. “No, son. That is not the way of our people. You should know that by now. A village ruler carries just as much authority as our people want over themselves – no more. I have been fortunate to have influence over the other Sugambrians, but cannot kid myself into thinking we can ever speak as one united nation. Such a thought is nearly as outlandish as thinking the Sugambrians and Cheruscans and the Suebians and even the Cattans would ever join together under the control of one leader – preposterous.”
Berengar did understand, somewhat. If his people were half as independent ly minded as he felt, Berengar understood their loathing toward any concept containing anything regal. He could not imagine having a ruler living miles away in another village dictating rules for his existence. The thought of succumbing to rules from a Cheruscan was frightening. The idea of following laws from Rome, hundreds of miles away, was repulsive. “Then why do the Gaul call us all Germans?” the boy asked.
“Germans, huh. I never heard that word until a few years ago. They say that the Caesar called Julius used it to describe those of us east of the Rhenus as if we were a single group. You’ve grown up with the word, so I suppose it makes some sense to you. But listen to me, boy, the only people we can trust are, in order, those from our clan, those from our village, and then those from Sugambrian lands. It is only after the last that we can trust other Germans . Do you understand?”
“Yes , father. The river.” The boy’s eyes pointed to the Rhenus reflecting the twilight rays of the setting sun.
Without missing a beat in the conversation, Adalbern said, “Find Gundahar and work with him to organize the crossing. You two work toward the north of the banks, I’ll work to the south. Can’t have you constantly at my side if this is truly your army, you know.” He cuffed the boy lightly.
“Yes , father.” Berengar trotted off to find the noble harelip, Gundahar.
. . .
The crossing was going as rapidly and smoothly as could be expected. The sun had long since set before they were able to place even the first troops on rafts, but the first group had run across easily and began to form a series of quiet sentries around what would become their camp on the west side of the river for the night. On the east side, despite speaking in hushed tones, the soldiers and beasts that prepared for the trip made an unavoidably loud scene.
Under a waning moon, Gundahar slapped the rump of a pony too stubborn to jump onto a raft. The animal blew flapping bursts from his snout, sending ripples of sound cascading through the air over the river. Its hooves trampled the stones littering the shore beneath, scattering them over the harelip’s boots or splashing them into the water. Gundahar grew impatient with the owner of the horse who was an elder from a nearby village. “If you don’t pull this mule out of line, I’ll slit its throat right here. Adalbern won’t be pleased with our progress,” hissed Gundahar.
“I am not a servant of Adalbern and I won’t be talke d to this way by a nasally idiot,” blustered the man.
Gundahar was about to erupt in anger when Berengar spoke up. “You are Eburwin from the Kuh village, are you not?” the boy guessed.
“I am, though why must I answer to you?”
“You certainly do not answer to me or my father who is called Adalbern. I know of you because my father speaks highly of
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