by H. B. Ashman
“Have you visited your father?” Marius asked, sounding as casual as he could.
Arminius stayed quiet for a moment. “No, my Legate,” he finally said.
Marius nodded. “It would be beneficial to us if you would.”
Arminius stood still.
“To keep the peace with the Cherusci and to find out whether the Suebi will truly retreat or strike again,” Marius added.
“Yes, my Legate,” Arminius said with a slight frown. Was Marius asking too much of him? No. Arminius was Roman now. A junior officer in the Seventh Legion. He would have a bright career ahead of him. For a man as talented with the sword as with his mind, everything was possible in Rome. As long as his heart belonged to the empire, the Gods would be with him.
Marius threw his head back and closed his weary eyes. “Go now. The men haven’t been around a slave woman in months, especially not a Germanic one. I don’t know if she will make it in Rome, but she definitely won’t make it to nightfall if left with the men for too long.”
Arminius nodded. “Ave Legate,” he said before hurrying out of the tent.
Chapter Six
A rminius strode through the camp with long and confident strides back to Cassius’s tent, which was several rows behind the tribune tent he shared with the other tribunes, including, unfortunately, Gnaeus.
Marius was not mistaken about the girl. The men had not felt the touch of a woman in a long time, and Germanic slave women were exceptionally rare in Rome.
Rushing around the last rows of tents, nodding at soldiers as they greeted him, Arminius was preparing himself for a brawl of some sort. But what he found instead was nothing short of astonishing. A loud, surprised sigh slipped his lips as his gaze settled on the slave woman, who was shackled to the ground in front of a tent, yet standing proud and tall, ordering around a group of soldiers, Cassius included. She was pointing at different piles of boots, instructing this and that. The soldiers were carefully listening to her words, picking up boots from one pile, and placing them in another.
Arminius grinned. “Could you not have put up more of a fight, Cassius, before becoming this slave woman’s whipping boy?”
Cassius turned to him, an excited look on his face. “The woman is improving the process of boot repairs,” Cassius said. “It will save us many hours of work.”
“Is that so?” Arminius turned to the slave woman. Like most Germanic women, she was tall, fit, and had hair as golden as the sun, which she kept short and bound on the top of her head—this was nothing unusual for Germanics, but frowned upon by women in Rome. Her eyes were an icy blue, her nose slim and elegant, her lips rosy and full. Her clothes, on the other hand . . . Arminius had never seen anything like them. The long-sleeved shirt had a hood on it like a cape, but it ended at her hips. Blue pants were of a fabric unknown to him, and the shoes she was wearing looked to be of a light fabric, with ropes holding them together on their tops. Truly odd. Was she from one as those mystic northern tribes ruled by women that his people knew little about? He couldn’t explain it, but there was something about her, something more valuable—he could feel it.
The woman lifted her gaze from the piles of boots and looked at him. Then she stepped toward him, as close as her shackles would allow.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked in a calm tone. Arminius and Cassius exchanged glances. The whole world knew what Romans did to their captives. Was she the first of her tribe to come across a Roman? There were hundreds of tribes here in Magna Germania, most of them aware of the power of Rome, but some of them were still hidden in the dark forest like the giants and elves they believed in. But then, if she truly knew nothing of Rome, how could she speak Latin so well?
“You will be my slave,” Arminius said. “It is a great honor to serve this legion.”
“Absolutely not!” She tried to take another steps toward him, but the shackles around her neck jerked taught, and she almost fell backward. Some of the soldiers laughed, which made something boil in Arminius’s stomach. He took a step closer, placing himself into her reach.
“I defied my legate to save your life. It could have brought me great shame to do so. It might not seem like it, but I am not your enemy. You should thank the Gods that I found you before somebody else did.” He was surprised by how weary his voice sounded, how cowed he seemed beneath the woman’s eyes, burning with hatred. She took a deep breath and looked up to the grey sky, her body shivering in her strange wet clothes.
“Am I to be kept out here on this chain like an animal? Even at night?”
“No,” Arminius said, and then turned to Cassius. “Not at night. Bring her into the tribunes’ tent and stay with her. I have to assist Quintus in arranging tomorrow’s march, but I will join you after that.”
“Yes, Tribune.” Cassius waved a few soldiers over to help him remove the bolt from the ground. The woman watched them dig out the bolt as Arminius watched her. He would pay a gold denarius to know what she was plotting. There was something about her. Only a fool would believe her weak, to be the sort who would give up so easily. But her wild spirit would be a good thing. The journey to Rome was long.
“Come, slave woman,” Cassius ordered, leading her by the chain to the tribunes’ tent.
“My name is not slave woman,” she said, pulling back on her chains. Cassius stopped as she turned her blue eyes onto Arminius. Something about her glare went straight to his bones.
“Slaves don’t have names,” Arminius said.
“This one does,” she said.
Arminius smiled; he couldn’t help it. “What do your tribe’s people call you?”
“Amalia,” she answered, crossing her arms.
“Amalia,” he repeated. “I’m Arminius,” he said before nodding at Cassius.
“Come then, Amalia,” Cassius said, this time without pulling her chain. She followed him, fists clenched, her steps determined as if, somehow, she had been the one to choose the direction of the tent.
Arminius watched her go.
Lucius Ahenobarbus was leaning over a map of Gaul and Germania in a tent that reminded him more of the inside of a villa than a marching tent. And so it should be for one of his status. Beautiful drapes and animal furs decorated floors and walls alike. The wooden furniture was crafted by the most talented carpenters of Rome, the upholstery of the finest fabrics. His silver cup fit perfectly into his fingers, which were staged with luxurious rings with priceless gems. Much to his displeasure, however, he was squeezed into his majestic chest armor—decorated with pure gold, of course—to look the part. His scarlet cloak was fastened at one shoulder, another sign of his rank and power.
Domitia, his daughter, was comfortably lying on her side on a sofa, eating grapes—a rarity in Germania. Her dark hair was done in highly sophisticated braids and knots, decorated with pearls and jeweled hairpins. She was wearing a new dress again. Sky blue, Asian silk. He would not ask how much it had added to their debts. Gaul was within a day’s ride, and the province was rich in gold, silver, wood, and farmable land. He couldn’t wait to be rid of this underworld of savages and mud.
Frowning, Lucius let his gaze wander to the map once more. When Augustus had promised him the position of praetor with endless bounty, he had already seen himself in Gaul, in the great villa of Lugdunum, the very house Drusus the Germanicus had made history in as the undefeated praetor of the three Gaulish provinces and Lower Germania. And all of it under one governor, Drusus, who had gained an unimaginable amount of power for the glory of Augustus and all of Rome.
But then Augustus shattered Lucius’s dreams and announced him praetor of Germania and Germania alone. He might as well have put poison in his wine. To Romans, this land was the underworld.
Lucius looked through the open tent flaps at the endless rain that was beating against the canvas—the sound occasionally interrupted by sudden thunderclaps and the voices of men outside. He groaned.
“In time, Father, in time,” Domitia said in a reassuring voice
, sitting up.
“Not even Pluto wants to rule this land,” Lucius replied.
“But Augustus does, so we have no choice.”
Lucius turned his attention back to the map of Germania, his eyes weary. “That might be a problem now that Marius has rejected my plea to push north together.”
“He is leaving?” Domitia dropped her grapes. One of her servant girls fell onto her knees to pick them up.
“He wants to march back to his precious Salona to crush a rebellion in the Pannonian Mountains.”
“But he can’t. He has barely arrived, and Augustus has not ordered it. He must remain here, with us.”
Lucius looked at his daughter. When Lucius had ordered her here, he knew she had hoped for a match with Marius Vincius, enemy or not. Marius was a prized possession among the maids and lonely housewives in Rome—the successful commander, who had not remarried after the death of his wife in childbirth many years ago. And if Lucius was honest, it was a thought that had crossed his own mind, at least as a last resort. Vincius was rich—very rich—and Lucius’s debts grew daily.
“Marius is not mine to command,” Lucius said. “I was planning to send one of my own legions to crush the rebellion in Pannonia while he was stuck in Germania. The riches there are said to be beyond belief. Augustus himself has spoken about the province favorably.” Lucius drew his belt knife and stabbed the tip of it over the Germanic forests on his map, twisting the blade as he did. “But yet again, House Vincius seeks to steal my glory. May the Gods curse their name!”
Domitia rose from her chair, her golden hairpins glittering like little stars. “Then we will write Augustus to make him stay.”
“No. That will only make us look weak. Too long has House Vincius played the hero. We have to stop Marius from marching on this rebellion. I will send my own legion and prove what House Ahenobarbus is capable of.”
Lucius’s knife had bored through the map and was now splintering the table with each twist of the blade.
“Father,” Domitia said, stepping to the edge of the table, “the day House Vincius outshines your glory is the day I shall burn down its house.”
Lucius met her gaze. Not once had she complained about her journey here, filled with dangers and lacking comforts. And now, she might be the very key to his success.
“If only the Gods had blessed Gnaeus with half your strength and honor.”
“They have blessed him with half my size.”
They both laughed. It was true. Gnaeus was as short as he was ugly.
“He is also lacking your humor.” Lucius lifted his empty cup of wine toward Kinu, one of his trusted slaves. The skinny old man rushed over, pouring wine from a big amphora.
A loud horn sounded through the camp as men shouted in the far distance. An older centurion appeared at the entrance of Lucius’s tent, metal studs and golden ornaments jingling on the leather harness he wore over his chest.
“My Praetor, your son has arrived.”
“Is Marius Vincius with him?” Lucius asked.
“No, my Praetor. But Germanicus Caesar is.” Lucius turned to see the sour look on his daughter’s face. No matter how loyal to me, she is still only a woman, Lucius thought. Germanicus, Marius Vincius’s tribune, was Augustus’s grandson, fifth in line to the throne and, more importantly, still unspoken for. When Lucius had heard that Germanicus would be here, he had sent for Domitia right away. And yet she had eyes only for Marius.
“Bring them here,” Lucius ordered.
The centurion turned just as Gnaeus appeared behind him. “Father.” Gnaeus entered the tent, shortly followed by Germanicus. Gnaeus was wearing a purple cloak, the imperial color, while Germanicus, who was far closer related to the First Family, wore a soldier’s simple red. Germanicus, standing a head taller than Gnaeus, was covered in mud from battle, while Gnaeus looked as if he’d just stepped out of the bathhouse.
Damn him, Lucius thought.
“Ah, Germanicus.” Lucius walked straight past his son to shake Germanicus’s hand and kiss him on the cheek. He was barely fifteen, but already tall and muscular with strong and sharp facial features. His tunic bore the narrow purple stripe, one rank below Gnaeus, who wore the broad purple stripe. An incredible achievement on Germanicus’s part, especially at his age.
“My Praetor.” Germanicus returned Lucius’s strong handshake with a smile.
“You look well, my boy. How is your family?”
“Well, I hope. I have been away with my legion for quite some time, but my mother writes me regularly,” Germanicus replied.
“That is good to hear. What about your grandmother? She was unwell I heard?”
“She is well again, probably meddling in political affairs as we speak.” Germanicus accepted a cup of wine from one of Lucius’s servants.
Lucius nodded with a thin smile. All of Rome knew about his grandmother Livia’s power. Augustus loved her dearly and treated her nearly as an equal.
“Well how could she not?” Domitia said. “As the First Citizen’s wife, it is her duty to keep the lazy senators on their toes.”
“Domitia,” Germanicus nodded at her. “It has been years.”
“It has.” She smiled.
“How beautiful you have become, a true daughter of Rome.”
“Beauty will fade, but not the stories we hear about your victories,” she countered.
“Wisely spoken, my daughter,” Lucius said. “Why don’t you escort Germanicus to his tent while I speak to your brother?”
“Of course, Father.” Domitia grabbed Germanicus by his arm. “Come.” She led the way out of the tent. A tall servant followed them, holding a leather hide over her head to protect her from the rain. Lucius watched them a moment before turning to his son, who was smiling like an idiot waiting for his father’s approval. Lucius walked past him, back to the map of Germania, looking down on it in deep thought.
“Is it true what they say?” Lucius growled without looking at his son. “Did you disobey Marius Vincius in front of his legion?”
“Yes, Father.” Gnaeus stepped forward. “He had told your messenger that he had fulfilled Augustus’s wish and will return to Salona. He had refused your request to push north.”
Lucius nodded and then waved his son to step closer. Gnaeus moved to the edge of the table. Lucius smacked his son right across his face. The sharp slap of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the tent.
“Is there no end to your idiocy?”
Gnaeus tumbled back a step, lifting his hand to cover his bleeding mouth. “But, Father, Marius—”
“Is now in the position to demand a favor from us thanks to you! He could have had you flogged publicly, making a laughing stock of the Ahenobarbus name. But he didn’t, and now I owe him.” Lucius hammered a fist on the table. “I wish he had flogged you. Maybe that would have made you smarter, braver, stronger . . . anything!”
Gnaeus stared at the floor, his hand trembling as he waved at Kinu. “Bring me water and a cloth.”
“No.” Lucius yelled to Kinu. “My son can dry his childish tears somewhere else.”
Gnaeus glared at his father in anger. Or was it hatred? Lucius didn’t care.
“You will go back to Marius and inform him of my deepest gratitude. Fall on your knees and beg if need be, but he must keep you in his legion.” Lucius looked down at his hand, setting his rings back into place. “I need you to report to me of his plans and every move he makes, you hear me?”
Gnaeus stayed silent for a moment before speaking again. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.
Lucius let out an annoyed, audible breath. “I will send my own legion to Pannonia to crush the rebellion. I have already sent a messenger to your mother to speak to Augustus and ask for permission for riding my Germania I to Pannonia. She will plead that I was left with no other choice as Marius is marching to Lugdunum, leaving Pannonia in turmoil and Illyricum in danger. Augustus will not be pleased to hear that Marius has changed course twice without permission. It
will make him look as if he is abandoning the province.”
Gnaeus’s brows drew together. “Twice? He already wrote to Augustus to inform him of this march to Pannonia. That is only one march.”
Lucius shook his head at his son. “It would be only one march, successful no doubt, if I was left with you as my only child. But thank the Gods for your sister. That is all you need to know.”
Gnaeus pursed his lips. “How wise of you, Father.”
Lucius nodded, his weariness draining the anger from his eyes. “Good. Go now, eat and rest, then return to your legion.”
“Yes, Father.” Gnaeus turned toward the entrance, his purple cloak flapping behind him.
Lucius shook his head. “One more thing,” he said to his son, who stopped and turned to face him. “For the love of the Gods, stop wearing the First Citizen’s purple cloak as if you were his last remaining heir. Everybody knows not to draw Livia’s attention when it comes to her son’s line in the succession.”
Gnaeus bit his swollen lip, fighting down whatever it was he’d been about to say. Nodding, he disappeared into the rain.
Lucius stared after him long enough to notice his daughter return with Germanicus. She was smiling and speaking softly as Germanicus stared at her like a dog stares at its master.
“If only she had been born with a cock,” Lucius said.
Kinu slipped silently out of the back of his master’s tent, the rain hitting his wrinkly old face as he looked left and right to make sure he hadn’t caught anybody’s attention. He wiped off his wet brows and blinked as he rushed from tent to tent, making his way to the wooden spikes that surrounded the camp. From there, he slipped by the guards of the watchtower. Before he was free, one of the guards noticed him.
“Toilet,” Kinu shouted. The guard nodded then looked away. The rain was starting to slow down as he made his way to the edge of the deep, dark forests. They scared him. Before his master had brought him here, he had never seen forests like these. But he ventured into them nonetheless. He owed it to the man who had saved his children’s lives.
