by H. B. Ashman
As he moved through the dark sea of trees, he whistled, mimicking the sharp calls of the night birds. Out of nowhere, a figure dressed all in black appeared, his face hidden by his dark cloak.
Without a word, Kinu handed the man a note. And just as fast as he had appeared, the man was gone again. Kinu heard a snapping noise from behind him just as a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Kinu gasped, almost falling before meeting the gaze of a young legionary.
“What are you doing here?” the soldier growled at Kinu.
“T-toilet,” Kinu stuttered, frantically pulling his tunic up as if he would go right here in front of the soldier. The man pushed Kinu away from him, his face contorted in disgust.
“Not here, you pig. This is my spot.”
Kinu bowed. “Of course. I will go over there.” Almost falling over a root, he slipped behind a big tree. He leaned against the cold, wet bark. Trying to slow his breathing, he inhaled the smell of moss and rain.
Kinu waited a few more minutes, listening to the pop and splat as the soldier emptied his bowels.
It wasn’t until the soldier was long gone that Kinu left the woods to return to the man he had sworn loyalty to—the man he hated with all his heart.
Chapter Seven
A malia watched as Cassius hammered the bolt back into the ground, her chains rattling with each crack of the hammer. She stood calmly, but on the inside she was on fire, waiting for him to leave. How hard could it be to pull that thing out again? Cassius finally stepped back, wiping sweat off his forehead and looking up at her as if waiting to be congratulated for his strength and ingenuity.
“I will be back soon,” he said, dropping a piece of white sheepskin next to her. Was this supposed to be a tiny blanket?! And just like that, left without another word.
Amalia waited a little longer, watching him through the open tent flaps as he walked down the path. She waited until he disappeared from view before she stretched over to the tent’s flap and pulled it free from its leather straps. Now was her chance. She leaped toward the pin in the ground and started tugging and pulling. The chain rattled as the veins in her arms strained with each pull. But that damn thing didn’t budge an inch. Amalia tried again, this time by wrapping her chain around the pin’s head. With her arms and legs shaking, her teeth grinding under the pressure, it almost felt as if the pin was moving. But then the chain slipped from her hands, and she catapulted backward, her skin tearing against the metal shackles at her wrists.
Her eyes filled with tears as she scanned the tent for an object she could use to dig. Fur was laid out on the floor, and several beds with silk sheets and bedding were spread out against the wall. Some of the beds had little wooden stools next to them, beautiful helmets on top. There were also several red shields leaning against the tent’s walls, rectangular in shape, with golden decoration similar to thunderbolts.
But none of that was within reach. An oil lamp was pretty close, but not close enough.
It was of no use. In one last desperate attempt, she started digging with her hands like a dog. But before she’d barely made it an inch deep, one of her fingernails snapped against a rock.
“Dammit!” Amalia fell to the ground again.
Tired and defeated, sucking the dirt from her injured finger, she grabbed the sheepskin Cassius had given her and stretched out onto her side. She tried to use it as a blanket, but it was too short. Even after she crawled up into a fetal position, she was still left with the choice of cold feet or cold shoulders. She decided on cold feet and pulled the skin up all the way to her face. She must have been exhausted, because despite her panic, despite her despair, despite the thoughts of her family back home, somehow sleep found her.
The sound of screeching wood tore Amalia out of the deepest slumber she had ever been in. She jerked up, her panicked gaze scanning her surroundings. Several oil lamps provided dim light that flickered off the furniture and tent walls. Outside, she could hear the snap of burning campfires accompanied by the indecipherable muttering of men’s voices.
“This is impossible.” Her hopes of waking up in her bed, or at least a twenty-first-century hospital, were crushed. She was still in a Roman tent, still enslaved with the cold, heavy shackles around her neck.
“You should get more rest,” a man said. “We march tomorrow with the first morning light.” Startled, she jerked in the direction of the voice and saw Arminius sitting in a chair next to what must be his bed. His cheerful smile was gone, his serious gaze fixed on her. He was out of his uniform, wearing nothing but a white tunic with a narrow purple stripe. She couldn’t help but look at his bare muscular legs. The right one had a long scar below his knee. Seeing all that naked skin made Amalia anxious. Would he try to force himself on her?
Arminius tilted his head and then looked down at his naked legs. He grinned, his white teeth reflecting the glimmer of the oil lamps. “You flatter yourself, but don’t worry. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I would rather die than lie with you.”
Arminius threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe if you get cold at night and beg. In the dark you could almost pass for a Roman woman.”
“I will never beg for you,” she barked at him.
Arminius laughed again before he turned silent once more.
Amalia pulled the fur over her shoulders. She started to turn away to prove she wasn’t afraid of him when Arminius rose and walked over to a map on the table, leaning over it to make out its contents in the dark. He mumbled something to himself.
“What are you doing?” Amalia asked.
“Preparing for the battle tomorrow,” he said.
“Battle?” Amalia sat up slowly.
“You have nothing to worry about. It’s not the sort with swords. It’s a personal one. Between my father and me.”
Amalia thought of her own father and, for a brief moment, felt a flash of empathy.
Arminius looked up from his map, staring at her a moment before he moved to his bed and pulled the neatly made silk sheet from it. He strode toward Amalia and handed her the sheet. Timidly, she accepted it. The smooth texture of the silk felt incredibly soft between her hands, calloused from years of judo.
“Sleep now,” he said in a soft voice. “Amalia.” He added her name as if an afterthought. She lay back down on the floor.
Watching Arminius walk back to the map on the table, she slowly closed her eyes.
Whatever was going on here, one thing was clear, she had to find a way back to the lake. That was where it all began. Maybe that was where it could all end as well. The first chance she got, she would throw Arminius over her shoulder, use an armlock to break his arm, and be out of this nightmare.
As she was drifting off to sleep, she heard a woman’s voice echoing in the farthest corners of her mind. “Drusus,” the voice said.
But Amalia was too far gone to reply or respond.
“Drusus,” the voice repeated. “Drusus.”
In no possible shape or form was this twenty-first-century Germany. They had been marching for days without running into another breathing soul. No matter where you looked—left, right, ahead, or behind—there seemed to be no end to these dark, mystical forests.
With every step Amalia took, and by God there were so many, she was coming to terms with a world she had never seen before, with people who thought they were ancient Romans—and damn well played their parts. Day in and out, Amalia was forced to follow a routine nothing short of insane.
At sunrise, the legion disassembled the camp, burning everything they, or Amalia, couldn’t carry. Then they marched until late afternoon, carrying their heavy armor and equipment. Once they stopped, the legion would rebuild the camp again, from scratch, day after day, again and again. It was hell to someone not used to any of this, even if this someone was a professional athlete. Whoever these people were, they were organized. Even the marching formation of the legion was perfect. They marched in specific formations, each cohort led by a ranking centu
rion officer, with archers and infantry marching ahead of everybody else. Then came the cavalry and commanding officers, including the legion’s legate, Marius Vincius, and Arminius. They were followed by a baggage train, then more infantry soldiers to protect the legions’ belongings from the back flank. Last trailed a civilian group of various craftsmen, as well as a small horde of slaves.
Chained to a mule cart, Amalia marched with Cassius’s cohort. None of the other slaves were in chains. Why didn’t they try to run for it? She would have. With each day, she put more distance between herself and the lake. And she was becoming more and more lost. The woods all looked the same and, according to Cassius, were filled with dangerous tribes. Not exactly the best playground for a woman who didn’t even know how to start a campfire.
Maybe the slaves were right not to run. Where would she go? This wasn’t her town, probably not even her country. God, was it even the same world?
When she wasn’t marching, Amalia was alone most of the time, chained to the mule cart or to the ground in the tribunes’ tent. Nobody spoke to her or gave her tasks to do. For the first few days, it was a blessing, as she barely managed to endure the marching. But as her legs grew used to the constant movement, she started to feel bad watching the other slaves work away while she was sitting around doing nothing.
Then there was the loneliness of isolation. Cassius never spoke to her. Arminius was still out and about when her eyes fell shut at night and already gone again when they opened. If it weren’t for a used washbasin and slaves cleaning plates off his tent’s table, Amalia would’ve assumed he’d been a figment of her imagination. And if it weren’t for the condescending looks she received from the soldiers, she might as well have doubted her own existence too—maybe she was dead. Maybe she’d gone mad.
Cassius gave her the occasional crust of bread, water, and a little olive oil, but he refused to donate a few more minutes of his time to walk her to the woods to relieve herself. Never had Amalia felt more enraged, frustrated, and humiliated than when she was forced to go into a small metal bowl and hand it to one of the slaves to empty.
Amalia had tried to speak to the other slaves. German, English, Latin—you name it. But they never said a single word back to her.
It must have been day five or six. They had been marching for hours through endless forests when Cassius caught Amalia petting the ox pulling the cart she was chained to. No one else would talk to her, so she’d taken to speaking to the animals.
“You’re the only one who understands me,” she said, half smiling at the poor ox.
“Rome is full of pack animals.” Cassius had approached from behind and was pointing to a solider marching in front of them, struggling with a heavy sack and laden with armor. “This land is cursed. Some of the soldiers are frightened of the giants and mystical creatures your people believe live in. Their powers, they say, are what make you barbarians so strong and fearless. Is that true?”
Amalia swallowed a laugh. “I don’t believe in giants.”
Cassius nodded. “What tribe are you from? What do they believe in?”
Amalia was a horrible liar, so she figured it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. “The Weber Tribe. Far, far north. Up there, everybody believes in different gods.” Which was sort of true. Her mother was Christian, her father atheist, and Anni and Amalia somewhat agnostic. God, she missed them. Even her father would have been a welcome sight.
“Strange,” Cassius mumbled.
“How many days until we reach Rome?” She adjusted her shackle, which was rubbing against the sores on her neck. They had just made it into a clearing, a welcome break from the endless trees, fog, and creepy shadows.
“We are not marching back to Rome,” Cassius said.
“We’re not?”
“Of course not. No army marches into Rome, not even a Roman legion. That is forbidden by the senate. We are returning to Salona.”
“Salona? Where is that?”
“A town at the coast. In the Illyrian province. It is sunny there. Not like this dark underworld,” he growled. Amalia ignored the remark.
“How long will it take us?”
“Many nights. We will break camp a few more times before we reach the winter fort, Vetera. From there it is many more nights to Salona.”
Amalia was about to ask about Vetera when she noticed a heavily armored horse break from the legion and ride over the open field toward the edge of the forest.
“Arminius,” Cassius said.
“Where is he going?” Amalia stopped walking—a mistake since the cart she was tied to kept rolling, jerking on the chain attached to her neck. She stumbled, almost falling to her knees.
“Keep walking,” Cassius said.
Amalia bit down on her lip, swallowing her frustration and helplessness.
“Arminius will be back before the morning,” he said.
“The morning? But where will I stay until then?”
“With me. Unless the other tribunes or the legate command otherwise.”
Just then, several riders in the far distance made their way out of the woods toward them.
“Haaaaaaaalt!” a centurion shouted, followed by the sound of a horn echoing down from the very tip of the legion.
“Halt!” the centurion in charge of Cassius’s squad, an older man she didn’t know, repeated the command as they came to a complete stop.
Cassius’s gaze was fixed on the approaching riders. “The other tribunes,” he said.
More tribunes? Amalia thought. More men like Arminius?
Cassius had made it clear that, next to some camp supervisor and Marius himself, the tribunes had a say around here. Who was going to prevent one of these new tribunes from ordering her to pleasure him? Maybe she would have to use that armlock sooner rather than later.
With a gentle pressure from his heels, Marius encouraged his black stallion, Aithon, through a puddle, sloshing globs of brown mud behind him.
“Hey,” Quintus said.
Marius turned to see the other man’s face, speckled with mud.
“I hate this land.” Quintus spat.
Marius was about to apologize when he noticed the return of his tribunes, Germanicus and Gnaeus, along with several soldiers they had taken with them. They were charging out of the woods and into the clearing, adjusting their course as they spotted their legate. For some reason, Gnaeus stayed behind as the others approached.
Waiting for the riders, Marius looked around, recognizing the field they were in. The trampled grass and the ash from old campfires were proof that this was the very spot they had made camp on their march to join Lucius’s legion for battle. It was also not far from here that Segimerus, Arminius’s father and the king of the Cherusci Tribe, had rebuilt his settlement after Drusus had crushed his rebellion and taken Arminius and Flavus, his only sons, to Rome.
Before the other tribunes had approached, Arminius rode his horse beside Marius.
“I will return before morning,” he said, his voice emotionless and flat.
“Are you certain you don’t want to take men with you?” Marius asked.
Arminius shook his head. “That might be perceived as a threat. They won’t harm me.”
Marius nodded, a bit of guilt eating at him over what he had requested of Arminius. It was a tedious task to return to his former people as a Roman officer, face his father, and ask for information.
Without another word, Arminius rode off toward the dense, foggy lines of trees. Marius watched until the forest swallowed him whole.
“Rome comes first . . . always,” Quintus said, as if reading Marius’s mind.
“At times it asks too much of us.” He could only hope Arminius would bring word that there were no more attacks planned by the Germanic tribes along their path back to Illyricum. Marius could not afford to lose another solider now that Pannonia was a threat once more.
Only a few yards away, the group of soldiers now slowed their horses.
“Ave Legat
e,” Germanicus greeted Marius as he reared his horse to a halt in front of him.
“I see Lucius has sent his son back to me.” Marius nodded toward Gnaeus, who sat on his horse just a few feet away from the edge of the forest.
“To all of us, my Legate,” Germanicus replied. “The gods have returned him to all of us.”
“By Jupiter, what is he doing? Why is he not joining us?” Quintus asked, his narrowed eyes targeting Gnaeus.
“He is waiting for—” Germanicus started, when a large group of cavalry soldiers and a wooden wagon made its way out of the woods where Gnaeus was waiting. The soldiers, Lucius’s no doubt, were riding in a circular formation, protecting the precious cargo in the middle. And precious it must be. The carriage’s white oxen, as well as the detailed paintings on its exterior, left no doubt that whoever was traveling inside was of noble birth—and a woman. No man would ride in a carriage in lands like these.
“That.” Germanicus completed his sentence, pointing at the carriage. “He’s waiting for her.”
“Looks like the Gods have sent you another woman, my Legate,” Quintus said with a smirk.
Marius pinched his lips together and shook his head as if to make it all disappear. “Not a woman. They have sent me Lucius Ahenobarbus’s games, Quintus . . . intrigues and games.” Marius scanned the clearing once more. “We will make camp here.”
Quintus nodded, then rode up to one of the centurions to bark a few commands. More shouts and a blown horn later, several thousand men split into groups. One group started drawing a grid in the ground while another followed that pattern and started digging a ditch. Others carried over wooden stakes to form the camp’s defensive walls—all of it organized to perfection.
Marius sighed. “Let’s get this over with,” he said to Germanicus before charging Aithon up to the carriage. Lucius’s cavalry instantly cleared the path for him and opened their lines like a shell revealing a precious pearl. Marius had barely come to a halt when the carriage’s curtains opened wide to reveal Domitia Ahenobarbus. Her smile exposed perfect white teeth.
