by H. B. Ashman
“By size. Then you won’t have to measure it next to your foot every time you need a certain size.”
Cassius gaze was locked on her.
Amalia inched closer. “It will save you time. Not now, but later.”
The soldiers exchanged looks and said a few words to each other in what sounded like a more Vulgar Latin.
Mumbling, the soldiers peeked over their shoulders at her, eyes narrowing before turning back to their boots. Amalia dropped her gaze, deflated. But then Cassius drew a dagger from his belt and engraved something into the boot he had just sized against his foot. The others watched quietly before pulling out knives of their own to copy him.
“Germania,” Cassius said, repeating the process with another boot. “You are in Germania. Not far from the Cherusci and Suebi Tribes.”
Amalia nodded. Okay, she was still in Germany, but what did he mean about the tribes? The Cherusci and Suebi lived thousands of years ago. Something dark and unsettling began to churn in her stomach—an impossible idea taking root.
“What year?” she asked.
“Year?” he repeated.
“I mean reign. Leader. Um . . . consul?”
Cassius nodded. “This is the reign of our great first citizen, Imperātor Caesar Dīvī Fīlius Augustus.”
“Augustus?” Amalia eyes shot wide open. That was two thousand years ago! Amalia looked around the camp, once again waiting for a camera team to jump out of the tents and shout, “Hidden camera!” But that didn’t happen. The soldiers’ faces were blank as they grabbed one boot after the next.
Amalia shook her head. These assholes really believed they were ancient Romans.
“Where did you learn the language of the higher citizens and the legions?” Cassius asked.
“The higher class and legions?”
Cassius stared at her as if she were the crazy one. “You speak the language of the senate and the legions. Many soldiers practice it for years and still don’t speak it that well. Why does your tribe teach you my language?”
Amalia thought about this for a second. This man believed her to be part of some ancient Germanic tribe. It might be wise to leave it be for now.
“Yes, my tribe taught me,” she said. “We learned it from traders . . . to trade.”
Cassius nodded. “The barbarians I met thus far can barely speak.”
“Rome soon win,” one of the soldiers with a boot in hand added in broken Latin. As if on cue, a loud horn thundered through the camp.
“Glory to Rome!” the soldiers on the watchtowers shouted from high above the sea of tents. “Ave Legate!” And just like that, the calm, organized structure of the camp turned into a disturbed ant pile. The horn sounded again as Cassius and the other soldiers dropped their boots and helped each other into their metal armor. Then they joined the flock of legionaries storming to the side of the main path through the entire camp. They lined up next to it, cheering and chanting, as a man leading a heavily armored pitch-black horse rode into camp ahead of an endless trail of marching soldiers. The man’s circular bronze shield glittered between patches of mud and blood as his scarlet cloak flickered left and right in the wind. He was wearing a metal helmet with a majestic red horsehair crest. His chest and shins were protected by intricately engraved metal armor. Behind him were several men, also walking next to their horses. Only their elegant armor and white or scarlet cloaks differentiated them from the rest of the marching soldiers, who bore no crests on their helmets and wore short red cloaks.
The men with the horses were closely followed by a line of five men wearing dead animal heads on their helmets, from wolves to bears. Four of them carried long flagpoles, and the fifth held a large round horn that almost looked like a deformed tuba. The tallest of the poles had a small square piece of red cloth attached to its tip, with the Roman numeral VII embroidered in golden letters. The next pole held a three-dimensional portrait of a man, while another carried a combination of metal disks and half-moons stacked along its shaft, topped with a golden hand frozen in greeting. The last of the flagpoles was carried by a gigantic solider wearing the head of an enormous bear on his helmet. On his pole, Amalia recognized the symbol of the Roman legion—the golden eagle. Amalia had seen the golden eagle standard in pretty much every Roman movie she had ever watched. Behind the pole bearers marched a line of what had to be thousands of soldiers. Their stomping rattled the tent canvases all around them, and the jingling of their belts was somehow imposing and beautiful at the same time. Moving at the exact same pace, their reticular red shields depicting golden thunderbolts lined up perfectly next to each other.
Amalia had never seen anything more impressive and frightening than these blood- and mud-covered legionnaires. But her eyes were drawn to the man in the front leading the black stallion. As the general of whatever this was, he’d have the answers she needed to figure out what kind of cult she’d stumbled into. Obviously, she thought, it was the kind that could rally thousands under a false banner and make them march in perfect unison as if they’d been training their entire lives for this very thing. Totally normal.
Well, shit, she thought.
Chapter Five
M arius Vincius, son of Marcus Vincius, stopped in front of his tent and gave his stallion a gentle pet on its neck. Just like Marius, it was covered in mud and blood.
“You did well, my friend. Rest now,” he whispered to the horse before walking it over to Belli, his Iberian cavalry prefect, who was patiently waiting for the horse. There was no man in the vast lands of the Roman provinces who spoke fewer words and knew more about horses than his auxiliary troop’s cavalry commander. In his late fifties, Belli had seen a thing or two in the military but was never arrogant enough to tout it.
“Clean and feed him,” Marius said as he placed the horse’s reins into Belli’s suntanned hands. Belli nodded silently as he guided the horse to the cavalry quarters behind Marius’s tent, trudging side by side with the majestic animal, sloshing wet mud with each step. Marius watched them for a moment and then turned to face his officers and the sea of soldiers, who proudly called themselves his men. The chanting and cheers grew quiet.
“You have fought like true Romans. Fearless, proud, and strong,” Marius said. “Those of you who have faced the enemy, go wash, eat, and rest for the day.” The men grunted in excited approval. Marius pursed his lips. “And hurry, before I start boring you to death with a long speech,” he added. Laughter swept through the lines of soldiers as they started spreading and mingling with the rest of the camp.
Marius strode into his tent, which was strategically placed in the middle of the camp—an epicenter of activity and guards. It was rather comfortable for what it was. Fur covered the floor for warmth, and light furnishings, such as a table, oil lamps, chairs, and a bed, provided him a taste of home. As he stepped inside, he let out a weary sigh at the sight of his praetorian guardsmen, who were already waiting for him, neatly lined up like loyal dogs. There was also Quintus, the camp superior; Arminius, one of his junior officers, whom he’d left in charge of the camp during his absence; and several of the legion’s centurions scattered about the tent.
“Get out,” Marius ordered the guardsmen. Without the slightest protest, tails between their legs, the guards instantly rushed out of the tent.
“You do know they are here to protect you,” Arminius said, grinning. The man towered over most of the centurions by a foot, almost the same height of bullish Quintus. Both men stood out everywhere they went. Except for here, Marius thought. Germania, where everyone was freakishly tall—even the women.
“The day I need protection from my own men is the day this world should rid itself of me,” Marius countered.
Arminius responded with his quintessential cheeky grin. His handsome, carefree features stood out even more next to poor ugly Quintus, whose scarred middle-aged face and crooked nose were covered in mud and blood. Both of them were dear to him, but the boy, Arminius, had a special place in his heart. Barely nineteen, A
rminius was a Germanic prince who had been taken from his father, the Cherusci king, by the mighty Drusus himself. He’d been raised and educated in Rome. And what a Roman he had become. A soldier with body, heart, and soul, he was an invaluable member of this legion, his loyalty to Marius unquestioned.
A group of slaves hurried into the tent, stopping on either side of Marius, staring at the floor in silence. He raised both arms, and the slaves started removing his cloak and muddy armor, stripping him down to his white tunic, which was similarly soiled.
“Has Germanicus fallen?” Arminius asked with a hint of worry in his voice. His hazel-brown eyes scanned the group of centurions, then settled back on Marius.
“No. He is accompanying Gnaeus to Lucius Ahenobarbus’s marching camp. Making good use of his time as a tribune, he always listens to his legate’s orders—unlike my other tribunes, who seem to feel comfortable inviting a woman, and the enemy, into camp, despite clear orders to the contrary.”
Arminius nodded, understanding flashing across his eyes. His smile, however, was unaffected.
A blind man could have spotted that Germanic woman. Her golden hair shimmered bright in a sea of Italian brown like a lantern in the dark. Marius had spotted her the moment they marched past the watchtowers.
Quintus grunted and turned to Arminius. “No whores in the camp, you know that.”
But Arminius ignored him, inching closer to Marius. “I found her near the lake. She is most peculiar, might have value to us.”
Marius shook his head. “Value? It is more likely that she will slit your throat the moment your back is turned. These Germanics would rather die than be slaves. Especially their women.”
“I know I can tame her,” Arminius said.
Quintus opened his mouth to say something when Primus, Marius’s freed African slave, stepped into the tent, a bowl of hot water in his hands. Its steam flickered like flames. His dark eyes scanned the men in the tent and then narrowed as if disapproving of their intrusion upon his legate. As one of Marius’s most trusted and closest advisers and friends, Primus had the power to send everybody out if it pleased him—and nobody would have dared protest.
They all watched as Primus took his place next to Marius.
“The legate said no women in the camp,” Quintus repeated, this time with an angered growl.
“There are already women in the camp,” Arminius countered.
Marius raised a brow as he let himself fall into a chair. Why was Arminius so stubborn about this? He knew very well that the women in the camp were either the wives of the traders and workers who followed the legion or unofficial wives of soldiers who still had to complete their years of service to Rome before they could marry.
“Arminius, do not test my patience,” Marius said in a serious tone. “Gnaeus Ahenobarbus has already sucked it dry.”
The tent grew silent. Too well did the men in this legion know of the pains of Gnaeus Ahenobarbus, son of Lucius Ahenobarbus. He was placed into this legion by Augustus as the broad-striped tribune, outranking the centurions, the camp superior, and even a narrow-striped tribune like Arminius. Officially, he was the second in command, so to speak, and, by the gods, he’d not let you forget it. Spoiled, arrogant, and cruel, he was as ugly inside as his pimpled, carrot-shaped face was on the outside.
Marius grabbed the wet, steaming cloth from Primus’s hands and wiped the blood and mud off his face. A loud sigh of relief escaped his lips, almost as if he had successfully washed away the memory of Gnaeus with it.
Arminius stepped closer and took the bowl from Primus so he could hold it up to Marius in his stead. But Marius knew the gesture for what it was: an act of supplication for the girl Arminius had brought.
“This woman, she speaks our language,” Arminius said. “Successfully so.”
Marius let the cloth fall back into the bowl. “Vulgar Latin?”
Arminius shook his head. “High Latin.”
Marius looked to Quintus, who rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd,” Quintus said. “These savages live with their animals under one roof. How would any of them speak the language of Rome?”
“Are you certain?” Marius asked, letting his eyes narrow in disbelief.
Arminius nodded. “She spoke to me in Latin, as clear as you and I speak it now.”
Marius noticed the puzzled looks on his men’s faces. He had to end this. They had bigger issues to worry about. This woman had no use to him.
“Curious indeed, but how is that of interest?” Marius asked.
“We could use her as a translator for our campaign in the north with Lucius,” Arminius said.
Marius shook his head, his body begging for rest. “We have no need of her. We march this land no farther. We will return to Salona first thing in the morning.”
Arminius exchanged glances with Quintus, whose muddy, scarred forehead wrinkled in worry.
“We will leave Germania?” Arminius asked.
Primus reached out and grabbed the bowl of water from Arminius. “The legate has received news of a great uprising in the Pannonian Mountains. The Illyrian Province is in need of this legion,” he explained to Arminius.
Arminius turned from the slave back to Marius. “Has Lucius released us from Germania?”
“I do not need Lucius Ahenobarbus’s permission to return to Illyricum,” Marius said. “I brought my legion here because Augustus has commanded me to aid Lucius in quelling the Suebi Tribe revolt. Well, now the Suebi Tribe is destroyed. Tomorrow we leave this cursed land for Illyricum. I have spent a year calming the province. I shall not watch from Germania as a rebellion in Pannonia throws Illyricum into chaos once more.” And I will certainly not witness Lucius Ahenobarbus rejoice over the destruction of my remaining legio XX there while I wipe his arse in Germania, Marius thought.
“Won’t that also prevent Lucius from sending his own legions to Pannonia to save the province that is so dear to our First Citizen?” Arminius said, acting innocent. Marius threw him a sharp glance, half admiration over his wits, half annoyance over his free tongue. But the boy was right. What he was really saying is that unlike Germania, Illyricum had a special place in Augustus’s heart. He had watched his beloved uncle, Julius Caesar, claim the region for Rome. Augustus had fought there for many years as a young commander himself. If Lucius managed to crush the revolt and maintain the peace that Marius had fought so hard for, Augustus would greatly reward his achievements, maybe even honor him with the position of praetor of the region.
“I have already written to Augustus and asked for his permission to return to Illyricum to crush the revolt. I should hear back from him before we reach the Illyrian mountain range.”
Arminius pursed his lips. “He does not know yet that we are marching back?”
“There is no time to ask his permission first. He has not forbidden it, nor has he commanded me to station the legion in Germania permanently. I am hopeful our First Citizen will be pleased to hear that we are marching back to secure the area for him once more.” Marius rubbed his forehead, tired of the conversation.
Arminius nodded with a thin smile. “I am certain he will be.”
“But we just came from there,” Quintus said, scratching his head. Marius looked at the muscular giant. He was one of Marius’s strongest and most devoted soldiers, but he had the brains of a goat.
“Let me explain,” Arminius offered, but Marius lifted a hand. He would rather be dead on that muddy Germanic field he had just left behind than listen to Arminius’s attempt to explain complex politics to a man who could barely read.
“Out!” he demanded, rubbing his face once more with a fresh cloth. The tent instantly cleared, except for Arminius.
“The centurions deserve an extra coin for their efforts in crushing a revolt that yielded no booty.”
Marius sighed. “The chests in Rome are empty, begging for such extra coin. And you know as well as I do that these barbarians are too proud to let us Romans capture them and bring them back to Rome as slaves.
Only the most cunning or weak willed of them are making the journey back home without a fight.” Marius regretted his words instantly; he had spoken too fast and insulted Arminius. Sometimes he forgot that Arminius was brought from this unforgiving land to Rome. A child, not in chains, but taken nonetheless.
But Arminius did not seem to mind. “The woman from the lake will make the journey; I am certain of it. She will fetch a nice price at the slave auctions. Bring in some coin for the centurions.”
Marius let out a sarcastic laugh that instantly gave way to his exhaustion. He knew Arminius from the time he was still a boy, and he was well aware of what he was trying to achieve here—allow him to keep that Germanic woman. But he was also too tired to debate it further. The battle against the Suebi Tribe had been hard on him and his men; he’d left more dead than he should have. It was merely a revolt, and yet those barbarians were as fearless as they were wild. But it wasn’t the men that had robbed him of his breath. It was the women. Dressed in pants like male warriors, they fought in battle alongside their husbands, sons, brothers, and fathers. He had heard of these tall Germanic women who fastened their hair to their heads and swung swords twice as long as the Roman gladius. But when he actually saw them in flesh and blood, lunging at his men, screaming from behind war-painted faces, Marius had frozen. Not in fear but awe, like a child seeing snow for the first time.
“Very well.” Marius let out an audible breath and waved at a servant for a cup of wine. “The Gods have truly blessed you, Arminius. Not with obedience but with wits and those oily lips of yours. Have it your way, but by Mars, if you do not leave now, I shall remove you myself.”
With a victorious grin, Arminius turned to leave, but Marius’s stopped him. “Wait.”
Arminius looked over his shoulder.
