by H. B. Ashman
They both turned to Marius, who was staring at the map, eyes narrowed.
“Keeping our numbers strong is essential,” Marius said. “Quintus.”
“My Legate?”
“Burn the tents and walls of the fort. We will march tonight and not stop until we reach Vetera.”
Quintus’s eyes flashed to Arminius before he nodded at Marius. “Yes, my Legate.”
“And tell the men that wine and meat is waiting for them in Vetera, to keep their spirits high.”
Quintus nodded and left.
“Will we stay in Vetera long?” Arminius asked.
“No, just a day or two for the men to rest. Then we march to Illyricum. Lucius cannot take control there. It would be a disaster for the province.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Arminius said.
“Go,” Marius said, his eyes turning once more to the dead Germanic woman on the ground—her face cold and empty. “Prepare the men.”
Chapter Ten
Rome
M arcus Vincius was lying face down on a stone massage table in the sweating room of the public bathhouse. The fog of hot steam was thick in the air, smelling of salt and wet rocks. On either side of him were Cicero and Aurelius—both senators like Marcus. They were also his long-time friends. Their backs were getting kneaded by several slaves dressed in nothing but white cloths wrapped around their privates. The slaves’ naked bodies were glistening with sweat, their faces emotionless and dull.
“Has Augustus really rejected Tiberius’s plea to return to Rome?” Cicero asked as his old, obese body moved rhythmically left and right under the skillful hands of the slave. He was as ugly as he was wise and fair, but he was often mistrusted in the senate, as he came from a rich plebeian family, not a noble gen of the old aristocracy like most of the other senators. Marcus himself stemmed from a family that had worked its way up the ranks. As such, he found it incredibly ignorant that hundreds of years after the Roman kingdom had become a republic, some senators were still slaves to the old aristocracy.
“That is what I heard,” Aurelius said. He was a short man with more wrinkles than hair. At his prime, he’d been handsome, but those years were long gone.
Cicero sighed. “It would be wise of our Augustus to let him return. With his health failing as often as it does, the more heirs we have to choose from the better.”
Marcus gathered his breath, which was not an easy task with the slaves pushing both hands onto his back to crack it. “Oh, let Tiberius beg a little longer. There are still Gaius and Lucius Caesar ahead of him in line, and Augustus is still far from his deathbed.”
Aurelius rolled his head toward Marcus. “I am at a loss to explain how he has lived this long with all those years of sickness. I am even more astonished by the fact that he is still with us despite his open mistreatment of Tiberius. Everybody knows how protective Livia is of her last son.”
“Aurelius!” Marcus nodded toward the slaves. This was a public bathhouse filled with spies. Had the heat of the steam room melted his wits? To openly criticize Livia—wife of Augustus, the First Citizen—was risky to say the least.
“Oh, by Jupiter, it is the truth. Nobody is more in awe that Augustus has cheated death than Augustus himself. He won’t mind me saying so,” Aurelius said.
“That part is not what I would be afraid of,” Cicero argued.
Aurelius lifted his head, his brows raised high. “She would not dare touch me. I’m too popular in the senate.”
Marcus and Cicero both shook their heads.
“My friend,” Cicero said, “you should cool your head in the ice room. You are only a senator. Have you forgotten when Julia Augusti Filia was exiled for her adultery? You must be a fool to believe it was Augustus who sent his only child away for something as trivial as adultery. Half of Rome has its cock where it does not belong.”
Marcus watched as Aurelius’s calm façade began to crack, his face turning white. Marcus pushed himself up on his elbows, leaning over to Aurelius to whisper loud enough for Cicero to hear. “She might already know of your gossip. These walls have ears.”
Aurelius turned to the walls as if they had come to life. The silence was broken by a man’s voice shouting from the hallway. “Marcus.” Aurelius startled, nearly plummeting off the massage table before his slave caught him. Marcus and Cicero laughed as Aurelius tried to gather himself.
Decimus, Marcus’s loyal freed slave, entered the steam room.
“What is it, Decimus?” Marcus asked, turning to note the troubled look on Decimus’s old face. Marcus knew this man well. He had been in Marcus’s service ever since Marcus had been awarded the position of governor of Gaul.
“I am coming, Decimus,” Marcus said as he rose from the wet massage bench. Wrapping a cloth around his waist, he put on his sandals.
“You are leaving?” Cicero asked.
“Yes, my apologies. I will catch up with you later. The intrigues of Rome never sleep,” he said. His friends nodded. As seasoned senators, they knew the truth of those words all too well.
Decimus led Marcus into a dark room used by the slaves to store wood for the boilers of the bath’s water heaters. A few oil lamps produced barely enough light to reveal the symmetric and soft features of Decimus’s old face. His eyebrows were as silver as his full head of hair.
They were clearly alone, but Decimus still scanned the room carefully, just to make certain. Then he faced Marcus.
“Your son has found himself in trouble with Augustus.”
Marcus’s brows drew together. “Marius? But how? What could he have possibly done to anger Augustus? He has given his life to the legions of Rome.”
“It is not so much what he did but what Lucius Ahenobarbus has done to him.”
Marcus took a deep breath. “What did Lucius do this time?” Marcus kept his face blank, calm.
“Marius will have to change course again from Vetera,” Decimus said. “He will have to march his legion to Lugdunum instead of Illyricum.”
“Lugdunum? The capitol of Gaul? Why? Augustus has granted him permission to leave Germania to crush the rebellion in the mountains of Illyricum.”
“That was the case.”
“Was? Has Augustus ordered him to march to Lugdunum instead?”
Decimus shook his head.
If that were true, then Marius was changing course without Augustus’s permission, a dangerous decision. This would be viewed as a sign of defiance, a challenge to his power. No general was permitted to cross provinces without Augustus explicitly granting it. The threat of powerful generals was a constant one—one that Augustus kept a close and merciless eye on. His very uncle Julius Caesar took power by marching his army to Rome. Augustus would put out this flame before it could turn into a fire, regardless of his friendship to Marcus.
Marcus focused on Decimus again. “Has this news reached the gossip of the streets yet?”
Decimus shook his head again. “No.”
“The markets or newspapers in the forums?”
“No, not yet,” Decimus said.
“Our Augustus?” Marcus held his breath.
“I am not certain about that.”
Marcus nodded. “Hurry then. Tell me everything. There might still be time to save my son.”
They had marched all through the night, morning, noon, and day, with only a few minutes rest to eat some old bread and drink water. Amalia felt like her legs were going to fall off. Arminius had checked in with her a few times to see how she was doing. He kept asking how much bread and water she had left.
The marching was by far the toughest cardio Amalia had ever done, but the thought of another Germanic attack kept her moving despite her wobbly legs. Her feet were blistering, rubbed raw and bleeding on her heels. The soldiers didn’t fare any better—their leather sandals were soaked, their feet white and mushy from the endless rain and mud puddles.
Marius had dismounted his horse a while back to walk with the soldiers in solidarity. This, Amalia thought, w
as probably one of the many reasons why his troops were loyal to him. From day to day, she could see their respect and admiration in the way they spoke to him, listened to him, and jumped at his orders.
Hours into today’s march, Amalia felt how her left sock had completely filled with water again. Every step made that squishy sound, sluicing water out of the fabric of her sneaker. She stepped out of marching formation to sit down on a rock when a rider on a white horse nearly trampled over her. The man on top must have been in his twenties. He was short with a face shaped like a carrot, wide on the top and pointy at the chin. He had bad acne scars and some large purple pimples on his forehead and cheeks. Although his golden armor made him look more like the son of a king, the white tunic with a purple stripe on it suggested he was a tribune like Arminius.
His little dark eyes settled on Amalia as he steered his horse even closer, the animal’s side pushing against her. Amalia fell backward off the rock, her relatively dry pants sinking in the cold mud. She grunted and rose back to her feet. Standing tall, she still felt tiny in front of the enormous warhorse, her reflection shimmering in its metal armor.
“Slave woman,” the man shouted down at her, “you shall warm my bed tonight.”
Amalia bit her lip. This short, arrogant little turd. She was about to reply when Arminius and the tribune she thought was called Germanicus approached, leading their horses by the reins.
“Gnaeus, is something the matter?” Arminius asked.
“I demand this slave woman be brought to me this evening,” the man on the white horse, Gnaeus, said. “I shall show her the strength of my Roman sword.” He smirked. Amalia turned her gaze on Arminius, hoping he was just as outraged as she was. But unlike Amalia, Arminius looked calm. She felt like she was going to be sick.
Amalia turned to Gnaeus. “You show me your sword and I’ll show you how to snap it off at the hilt.”
Gnaeus narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me, whore?”
Amalia opened her mouth, but Arminius shook his head at her. “Gnaeus, my friend,” he said. “I would love to let you have her, but she is not mine to give. Nor is she yours to take.”
“Then why is she here?”
“To fetch a nice coin for the centurions at the slave market. She belongs to the legion.”
“That means she belongs to me.”
“The legion belongs to Marius.”
Gnaeus tilted his head. “So? She is just a slave.”
Arminius shrugged. “You are probably right. Be my guest, my broad-striped tribune.” Gnaeus’s perverted grin resurfaced. Amalia clenched her fists, ready to fight, when Arminius added: “But make certain Marius does not find out about this. He told me the woman is not to be touched. But if you think your right to her outstrips his orders, then by all means.”
“However,” Germanicus, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, said, “ever since our last battle, Marius has been in a horrible mood.”
Gnaeus leaned sideways out of his saddle toward Amalia. “At a closer glance,” he said, “she is too ugly for me. Her hair is short, and she wears pants like a man. Who would want to bed that?” Then Gnaeus straightened in his saddle and rode off.
“As you see fit, my broad-striped tribune,” Arminius shouted after him.
Germanicus smiled wide, then focused his gaze on Amalia. Unlike Gnaeus, Germanicus was tall and attractive in a boyish kind of way. But he was not your average teenage boy. Just like Arminius, he was always ready to die and take another’s life for the glory of Rome.
“He has been in a constant state of rage ever since we left his father’s camp. Lucius was displeased with him,” Germanicus said to Arminius.
“As much as I detest Lucius, how could I blame him?” Arminius watched Gnaeus as he rode away, barking commands at soldiers as went.
“The whole house of Ahenobarbus is insufferable if you ask me. It pains me to think that we are distant relatives.” Germanicus looked up at the grey sky. “It was a bad omen to come here. The people of this land are not like any other people Rome has conquered before. They value their freedom more than their lives. They hate Rome and would rather die than give up their mystical trees and strange gods.”
“How unthinkable to object to being raped, shackled, sold, and treated worse than an animal,” Amalia said, crossing her arms.
Germanicus turned to her. For a moment, he looked shocked. But then he laughed. “You were right about her, my friend.” He slapped Arminius on the back.
Amalia rolled her eyes before stomping back into the endless line of marching soldiers. She’d had enough of this sexist bullshit. “Show her my sword,” she repeated Gnaeus’s words to herself, shaking her head. She knew it wasn’t wise to talk back to the tribunes, but even she had her limits.
As soon as Amalia joined the troops, she caught a whiff of rotten meat. With every step she took toward what looked like the edge of the woods, the smell grew more and more powerful. Her stomach heaved. It had to be the river. Maybe that was where Vetera dumped its human waste.
Amalia saw Cassius at the edge of the forest and decided to catch up with him.
“Cassius!”
He stopped and turned. His nose and mouth were covered with his neck scarf, and his eyes were narrowed to small lines.
“What’s that smell?” Amalia asked, just as she saw a large wooden bridge spanning the river and leading up to a stone fortress. Her blood froze. Amalia gagged, lifting her arm up to bury her mouth and nose in her elbow.
The entire bridge, hundreds of feet, was lined on both side with crucified Germanics, their skin purple, their bodies bloated and deformed. Amalia caught a glimpse of the blue face of a young boy, barely a teenager. His eyes were eaten by birds, and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. Flies and crows formed an enormous black cloud above the bodies. The buzzing and shrill caws were unbearable. This was truly hell.
Amalia felt a hand on her shoulder. She jerked around, her eyes watering from the stench. It was Arminius, still leading his horse. Amalia was raging on the inside, a fire of hatred against Rome and its soldiers burning hot. She was about to step away from Arminius, swat at his hand like a droning fly, when she realized that in his eyes was sadness.
“Is this the doing of the great army of Rome?” she asked. Arminius looked at her with a distant and empty stare. Amalia stepped closer to Arminius, their faces almost touching.
“Is this the doing of the great army of Rome?” she asked again, pointing at the dead body of a woman who had flies swarming around her eyes and mouth.
“No. My father did this,” Gnaeus said from behind her. He nodded in satisfied approval as his eyes filled with something Amalia had never seen before: a manic excitement.
Amalia couldn’t stop herself from inching toward him, her hands clenched into trembling fists. In that moment, she didn’t care what was going to happen to her. She was willing to pay the price for taking down this monster. But just as she was about to reach for him, her gaze caught a tall figure leading a large black stallion toward her. Moments later, she was looking straight into the eyes of Marius Vincius, legate of this legion and, as his men believed, Rome’s greatest breathing general. Amalia stumbled backward. Even his horse was breathtaking. Black as the night, its mane moved with the wind as it followed its master obediently, the reins held loose in Marius’s hands.
Marius was followed by the Spanish-looking auxiliary commander and his second in command, the bear-like man with a short nose—Quintus maybe?
Amalia’s heartbeat picked up. She straightened her sweatshirt with a jerk. Her hands started sweating. Had he heard her criticize Rome?
Arminius stepped in front of her. “My Legate, let me get this slave woman out of your sight.”
Marius ignored him, turning his head to Gnaeus. “Gnaeus,” he said.
“Yes, my Legate?”
“Go to the end of the line and oversee the handling of the mules.”
“The mules?”
“That is what I
said. The mules.”
Gnaeus frowned. Then he turned to Amalia, twisting his frown into a grin. “Enjoy the view, slave woman,” he said, nodding toward the bridge. Then he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The poor animal sped forward, kicking up dirt as it galloped away.
“The Gods have punished us for months to come,” Quintus said, watching Gnaeus go. With that, a loud horn echoed over the buzzing of the flies and cawing of crows. In the distance, the enormous wooden gates of the stone fortress of Vetera began to open. But rather than finding a lively Roman camp with fast-moving markets and thousands of Romans soldiers enjoying the bathhouses and the small amphitheater Cassius had told her about, Vetera was a ghost town.
In shock, Quintus stepped beside Marius. “But that’s impossible. Germania I should be here, thousands of men!” Quintus said.
“Lucius,” Marius said as he swung himself onto his horse in one smooth motion. His officers, including Arminius, followed suit. But instead of charging over the nightmare bridge and into the fortress, Marius rode his horse toward Amalia.
“Rome did not do this,” he said to her, leaning over. Then he straightened in his saddle, his scarlet cloak falling evenly over the back of his horse.
“I said Rome did not do this,” he hollered over the thousands of men who turned their attention to him.
He threw Amalia one last glance, then he charged his horse over the bridge, his officers following him. The hooves of their horses thundered over the wood like an earthquake. Only Arminius was still with her, mounted now.
“Watch her until I return,” he ordered Cassius. “I won’t be long this time,” he promised Amalia, in a softer tone. Then he rode off to join the others.
Cassius grunted. “You better pray to your gods that he will be back before my turn at the bathhouse, or I shall hold a grudge against you forever . . . or at least until Lugdunum.”
“Wait. Lugdunum?” Amalia asked. “I thought you said we’re marching to crush a rebellion in Pannonia and then to the legion’s main camp in Salona?”
Cassius shrugged. “We were, but then Domitia arrived and poisoned my legate and his legion with the intrigues of Rome. I knew the creatures of this barbaric land would curse us.”
