by H. B. Ashman
“Are you Hel?” He spun around once more. He picked up his torch from the ground. Somehow, it had remained lit, the flickering light illuminating the pale skin of trees and the path ahead of him. No woman, no owl—only endless dark shadows.
Arminius felt a cold shiver run through his body, rooting him to the ground. “Hel . . . the goddess of the underworld,” he said out loud to himself. She was here, in this forest. He was sure of it. Arminius sheathed his sword and bolted across the muddy path—he had to warn the army.
This land was cursed.
Chapter Nine
“I
t’s better for you to be useful,” Cassius said, watching as Amalia tried for the second time to set up a tent. She stretched the leather canvas onto its wooden poles—this time it worked. She stood up excitedly, looking around at the men in Cassius’s squad, who nodded in approval. Even Cassius’s centurion, an older man who looked as if he’d never smiled in his whole life, stopped briefly to monitor her tent. Then he grunted and left without saying a word.
“He approves,” Cassius said. Amalia threw him a curt nod. It made sense that she would be less hated if she was useful to the soldiers, even if it was just putting up their tents.
“Is Arminius coming back soon?” Amalia wondered out loud as her glaze wandered off to the tribunes’ tent. He had been gone for hours.
Cassius shrugged. He didn’t care. Why would he? It was her who had to sleep in a tiny tent that Cassius shared with the other soldiers in his squad.
Amalia let out a sigh as she looked around at the marching camp. Like every evening, the entire camp was completely erected in three hours, including trenches and spiked walls. Cosplay lunatics or not, these men were undoubtedly the hardest-working group of people this world had ever seen.
“Come,” Cassius said to her, without pulling on her chain this time. He’d stopped that habit not too long ago, thank God.
“It is getting late. We shall make your nest.”
Amalia frowned. “Nest?”
As it turned out, a nest was a pile of fur next to his bed in the tent he shared with the other soldiers of his cohort. At the sight of her, some of the other men in the tent stood, staring at her as if she were free game.
“This is the tribune’s woman,” Cassius told them. “He will punish us severely if she is harmed.” The men mumbled in disappointment, one of them even spitting onto the floor, but they either left the tent or lay down to rest.
Amalia settled down on her furs, her wrists chained to the ground by the bolt—her nemesis. Like most nights, she lay awake, unable to sleep. First, she was constantly on alert, always listening to suspicious sounds or any movement from the men around her. But the thoughts of her mother and Anni kept her up even longer. Were they still looking for her? Did they think she was dead? Maybe they were holding her hand, whispering to her to come back to them while she lay in a coma, dreaming all of this in a hospital bed. At this point, it didn’t even matter how she got here. As unbelievable and irrational as it all was, nothing could change the situation. All that was important now was to find a way back home. Forward in time or out of her coma. But how? Each day she was taken farther from the lake, and she still hadn’t found out who Drusus or the woman who called out his name was.
She felt a lump building in her chest and throat again. Amalia bit her lip. Each night, she’d cry alone in the dark. But not today. Today, she would move on to the next stage: action. And by the gods of these stupid Romans, she would not stop until she was back home.
“Just a little longer,” she whispered to herself as she drifted off to sleep. “Just a little longer.”
At first, Amalia thought she was dreaming when she heard Arminius’s voice thundering in the distance.
“Germanics,” he shouted.
“Germanics!” she heard him yell once more, closer this time. Amalia opened her eyes as a war horn shook the camp like the growl of thunder. Amalia bolted upright, adrenaline exploding in her veins. Only feet away, she saw several dark silhouettes. Silver moonlight spilled through the tent opening and reflected against their metal swords, some of which were buried in the sleeping Roman bodies around her. The attackers wore no armor, no Roman crests. These were the Germanic tribes. The tallest tribesman turned toward Amalia. He pulled his sword out of a legionary’s motionless body, his blade making a wet sucking sound as it exited flesh. She felt nauseous.
Amalia turned to see Cassius next to her, still asleep—and alive. The tribesmen drew closer.
“Cassius!” she yelled.
Cassius and the two surviving Roman soldiers next to him woke suddenly and were on their feet in seconds. Cassius threw himself against one of the attackers, tumbling against the wall of the tent, which tore out of its bolts and collapsed sideways onto Cassius and his attacker, exposing Amalia to the darkness of the night.
Gasping for breath, Amalia scanned her surroundings. Thousands of dark figures ran back and forth in the darkness of the night—fighting, running, killing, or being killed. The ground trembled under the drumming of the soldiers’ feet as screams echoed through the camp.
A cracking sound caught Amalia’s attention. One of the tribesmen, a giant with long wild hair, had rammed his ax into the head of a Roman soldier. The soldier’s lifeless body sank to the muddy ground, blood sprinkling out of his head like a fountain. Amalia tasted bile on her tongue and gagged. The tall monster tore his ax out of his victim as if it were nothing. Blood and bits of flesh dripped off the hard blade and onto the floor. The man turned toward Amalia. His loose hair was flying wildly in the wind, the whites of his eyes bright like little stars.
Instinctively, Amalia launched to her feet and ran toward the woods, but her shackles tightened around her neck and propelled her backward onto the ground. All the air launched from her lungs as she pushed back onto her knees, struggling to breathe. Burning tears shot from her eyes as she raised both arms to protect herself.
“No! Please!” she begged in German. But the giant moved toward her, his eyes emotionless.
“Traitor,” he growled.
Seconds away from getting axed to pieces, Amalia jumped to her feet, putting herself into the judo stance she had practiced her entire life. With her foot, she quickly pushed her chain behind herself, out of the way.
The ancient battle shouts around her faded as her mind cleared and her training kicked in. She tensed her muscles. But just as she was about to launch toward him, the giant in front of her jerked to the side, his shield swinging up to block a sword. The thud was loud—steel against the giant’s hard wooden shield.
“Arminius!” Amalia shouted in relief.
The giant swung his ax at him, but Arminius brought his shield up to block the blow. The impact of the giant’s ax was so powerful that it forced Arminius to his knees, knocking his sword out of his grip. But the ax was now stuck in Arminius’s shield. The Germanic warrior began to push forward, forcing Arminius toward the ground in an attempt to crush him under his own shield. In the quickest, most fluid motion Amalia had ever seen, Arminius drew his dagger and rammed it into the giant’s side. But instead of falling to the ground, the giant grinned as if the dagger had barely tickled him. He simply pulled the dagger out of his chest and dropped it into the mud. Then he changed course, grabbing Arminius’s shield with both hands. He yanked the shield out of Arminius’s grip and tossed it out of reach. Arminius tried to punch him, but the giant’s enormous hands shot around his neck. The giant’s jaw clenched and trembled as he lifted Arminius up into the air by his neck. Arminius was tall, but this guy . . . he was freaking enormous! Like a fish out of water, Arminius wiggled uncontrollably, his legs and feet kicking in the air, his hands tearing at the giant’s grip to loosen it, but to no avail. Amalia had to do something. Without thinking, she jumped behind the giant just as far as her chains allowed and extended her right leg behind his calves. There was no judo jacket she could grab the giant by, so she pulled the warrior backward by his hair while pushing her shoulder
into his back. She screamed louder than she had ever screamed before as she gave it all she had, every muscle of her body tense and shaking. The giant let go of Arminius, lost his balance, and rolled over her hip and shoulder before dropping like a mountain onto her chain.
Arminius collapsed next to him, coughing and gagging, rolling onto his side. Amalia wrapped herself around the giant’s arm like a snake and pinned him down with one leg over his chest and the other under his shoulder. Before he got the chance to fight back or get out of her armlock, she pulled and overextended his elbow and shoulder—hard. Using all her strength, without holding back like in civilized judo, her opponent’s elbow and shoulder joints popped out. He let out an agonizing scream as Amalia rolled away from him.
The Germanic warrior used his good arm to lift himself back onto his knees, howling in pain, his other arm flopping to the side like a rope.
The giant began to crawl toward her, refusing defeat. Amalia shifted away, but she’d reached the length of her chains. Just as the giant grabbed ahold of the chain and began to pull, Arminius stepped behind the Germanic warrior and sliced the man’s throat with his dagger. The man dropped forward, the whites of his eyes bulging out as his blood spilled into a puddle on the ground. Amalia gagged and then threw up. Never had she hurt anybody like this before. And never had she stared into the horrified face of a dead man, covered in blood. But she wasn’t the only one who was in shock. Arminius narrowed his eyes at her as if she were an exotic animal he’d never seen before.
The cries of the battle surrounding them grew quieter. A few more shouts here, one last clang of swords there, until finally the cheers of Roman soldiers took over, followed by several blares of a horn.
The Germanics were defeated once more. But Arminius did not celebrate like the rest of the camp. He stood emotionless, looking at the dead Germanic warrior in front of him. He bent over slowly and then reached out to gently close the giant’s eyes.
“Go with Freya. You have fought well,” he said in the Germanic tongue. He remained like this a moment longer, and then he turned to Amalia. “Where did you learn to fight like this?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say.
Arminius let out a loud sigh, then strode over to his shield. Pressing one foot against it, he pulled out the dead Germanic’s axe. Without saying a single word, he approached Amalia and swung the ax up high above his head.
“Arminius!” Amalia cried out, covering her head. But too late—the ax descended. CLANG.
Slowly opening one eye and then the other, Amalia realized that it wasn’t her the ax was aiming at but her chain. Feeling stupid for thinking Arminius would just split her in half like that, Amalia grabbed the end of her chain and examined it. A clear cut.
“Don’t wander off too far,” Arminius said. “You are now like me . . . an enemy of the tribes.”
Amalia looked up at him. “So I’m free now?”
“No. Your freedom is not mine to give. You belong to the legion. But you are free of your chains.”
Amalia bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the muddy ground. “What about these?” She pulled at the shackle around her neck.
“Cassius will take them off. I have to go to my legate now. You are free to move around the camp, but don’t provoke the men. Be quiet and stick to yourself.” Arminius gave her a look as if he wanted to say something else, then turned and walked off. Amalia rose to her feet, crossed her arms.
“You’re welcome,” she yelled after him. “For saving your life!”
But Arminius ignored her.
Amalia turned at the sound of boots approaching to see Cassius making his way over to her, a sword in one hand, a blood-soaked cloth in the other. He wiped his face with it, then held it up to her. She shook her head as her stomach turned.
Cassius nodded. “We should make a fire.” He moved toward the pile of wood that had been stacked next to the tent before the attack but was now spilled all over the place. Amalia helped him gather the logs.
“How does Arminius know the legate is still alive?” Amalia asked.
Cassius chuckled. “Because he is Marius Vincius, son of Marcus Vincius. Rome’s greatest general, if you ask me. If Marius Vincius ever falls in battle, it will be by the hand of the Gods, not a cowardly attack like this.” Cassius threw another log onto the pile, then pressed his blood-soaked cloth against his arm.
“Sit down, I’ll clean your wound,” she said, pointing to a big log.
“Can you heal wounds as good as you can fight?” Cassius wondered.
“No, but what choice do you have right now?” And for the first time since he had found her by the lake with Arminius, she heard Cassius laugh out loud. With a grin, she walked over to where their tent had stood not too long ago and dug around for the amphora, which was tipped over, but still had fresh water inside. She ripped a piece of the T-shirt she was wearing under her sweater and drenched it in the water, then made her way back to Cassius—making a big circle around the dead guy.
Cassius watched her as she cleaned his wound, not flinching once. His eyes seemed to soften, almost looking kind as they followed her. This was a good thing for Amalia. Gaining his trust was the first key to escape.
“The gods or a woman,” Cassius said, his eyes still fixated on her.
“What?” Amalia asked.
“The downfall of a great man. The gods or a woman,” he said.
Amalia laughed. “The downfall of a great man is most of the time the great man himself.”
Cassius grinned. “Maybe so . . . maybe not.”
“More so than not,” Amalia replied with a smile.
With Gnaeus and Domitia breathing down their necks, Marius, Quintus, Germanicus, and several of the centurions were leaning over a map that was spread out on the floor of the legate’s tent. It had blood and mud smears all over, something the soldiers and the map had in common. Surrounding them were the corpses of Germanic warriors and Roman soldiers scattered throughout his tent, their empty eyes staring into nothingness as their mouths hung wide open. Closest to Marius was the body of a tall woman, her fist still clenched around her sword’s handle as if she would return from the dead any moment to finish what she came here to do.
Marius glanced over to her. She fought bravely, he thought, his eyes filled with pity. Even after all these years of war, Marius had not turned stone cold on the inside—unlike many other commanders of Rome.
“My Legate,” Arminius called out as he entered the tent. A sigh of relief almost slipped Marius’s lips when he saw Arminius alive and unharmed.
“Arminius,” Domitia said with a smile as fake as it was beautiful, “it joys me to see you still fighting on the right side.” She looked as if she’d been torn out of bed—her long dark hair unkempt, running down a thick woolen cloak—but her makeup was immaculate as ever.
“My Legate, would you like me to accompany Domitia back to her tent?” Germanicus offered.
“That would be best,” Marius said.
Facing Marius, Domitia lifted her chin high. “It would be safer here by your side, Marius. There are dangers everywhere,” she protested, softly kicking the dead Germanic body in front of her with the tip of her elegant silken boot.
“You are right,” Marius agreed. “Gnaeus, go with them and stay with your sister.”
“Me?” Gnaeus said. Marius threw a dagger-sharp look at him. Gnaeus bit his lower lip and nodded.
“Very well,” Domitia said. “But I will see you in the morning before we march?”
“If time permits.”
That seemed to mollify her. Her head held high, she swaggered around the dead bodies and out of the tent, Germanicus and Gnaeus following closely at her tail.
Marius straightened his back and strode over to one of his dead soldiers, gently closing his dull, empty eyes. “How many dead?” he asked Quintus.
“Five hundred so far, my Legate.”
“Not theirs, ours,” Marius said.
Quintus dropped his
gaze. “Ours, my Legate.”
“By Jupiter.” Marius shook his head.
“Their evil forest spirits must have told them we would camp here,” Felix, one of the centurions, said. Some of the other centurions agreed with grunts and muttering.
“Nonsense!” Marius barked at them. It was rare for him to yell at his loyal men, but he could not have such rumors spread. He needed them alert, not spooked by Germanic fairy tales. “Logic told them we would camp here. There aren’t many fields for an army this size, and we camped here on our way north.”
The centurions stayed quiet, some nodding, others looking away in embarrassment.
“How did they sneak past our watch?” Marius asked.
“Tunnels, my Legate,” Quintus replied.
“Tunnels?”
Quintus nodded. “They had tunnels, dozens of them, that opened from the ground into the clearing.”
Marius rubbed a dirt-caked hand through his hair. “Have every rock turned within the camp and find the tunnels. Close them. Every single one of them.”
“How would you like us to close them, my Legate?” Quintus asked.
“Mud, rocks, their dead if it pleases you. Just close them, in Jupiter’s name!” Marius snapped.
“My Legate, we should march now,” Arminius said.
“Tonight?” Quintus asked in surprise.
“Yes. Vetera is not far. If we march through the night, we can get there by tomorrow evening. We can’t afford losing more men. Not with Pannonia at arms.”
Marius bit the inside of his lip. “Take away the opportunity for the Germanics to gather more of their warriors for another attack.”
Arminius nodded.
“But the mules won’t last so long,” Quintus said, “and the men will be marching into total exhaustion.”
“This is a cold climate with plenty of streams,” Arminius replied. “The mules can make it. We can also leave the tents and wooden fortifications behind. Vetera’s trade market is stable. We can restock there.”
