by H. B. Ashman
“Amalia.” His voice was soft but sharpened with fear.
“I know, Arminius. I know exactly what will happen if . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. When she’d heard the soldiers grumbling about the destroyed bridge, her feet had taken her to Arminius as if they belonged to someone else. It wasn’t until she’d said the words out loud that she realized the full extent of her actions and their consequences.
“I will build you a bridge,” she said, in the hopes it would calm Arminius or herself. But it didn’t. They followed Marius down the hill and into the woods at the edge of the mountain path. For a brief second, she wondered if he would kill her now, here in the woods, away from the others to see. But she didn’t think so; deep down, she knew that the legate was going to trust her. For weeks she had watched him every chance she got, which wasn’t much, to be honest. A glimpse here, a few words there. His men talked about him like he was a god. Marius Vincius was an honorable man. A mighty general of Rome. As such, Amalia had no doubt that if she failed, he would do what he had to.
It was a typical mountain forest scene: tall, mossy trees, fall leaves scattered everywhere, and the meditative sound of a stream rushing down the mountain. Amalia was not sure where exactly Pannonia was, but she figured that she was somewhere south of the Austrian Alps.
Marius stopped in front of the stream and dismounted his horse, his long cloak fluttering with his every motion. He squatted next to it and drank some water out of his hands, then used the rest to rub into his face. He sighed as if the freshness of the water had washed away the horrors ahead of him, even if just for a moment.
Amalia watched him carefully. He was tall for a Roman, who were mostly around her height, but shorter than a tall twenty-first-century man. He must have been in his late thirties or early forties. The years of war were written all over him, from a little scar over his right eye to a long, deep one running from his hand all the way up his left arm. Did he enjoy killing?
“Here,” he said, rising to his feet and pointing at the stream. Arminius and Amalia exchanged confused looks. “Build me a bridge,” he added in the same calm tone.
Amalia looked from the stream back to Arminius, who shrugged.
“My Legate . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Amalia said.
Marius threw a curt nod toward the stream. “You said you could build me a bridge over a canyon fifteen men wide. Surely you can build one over a stream the size of my foot.”
Amalia frowned.
“So? Can you do it? With what the forest provides you, that is.”
He wanted a miniature model of the bridge. She’d built models in class before, but she’d always had the right tools on hand. Amalia dropped her gaze to the root-covered and muddy forest floor. That made things harder—a lot harder. She spotted a thick branch that she thought would make excellent pillars for the stations of the bridge. She didn’t know yet what the bridge would look like—she still needed to calculate the resistance and other factors like wind—but dry, straight wood was a great start. She picked it up.
“And please share your thoughts as you go about it.” Marius sat down on a fallen tree trunk, brushing his feet against a cluster of dried leaves.
She stared at the branch, deep in thought. Her chest tightened as the weight of reality settled upon her shoulders. What the hell was she thinking? She had no calculators, no software, and no licensed engineers overlooking her work. How was she going do this? Her head scanned the ground once more, this time anxiously. Of course, there was no steel for the foundation, nor was there cement. No cranes, safety lines, trucks—the list of obstacles was endless. After all it had taken to get here, she was going to die for being a failed engineer!
“Amalia.” Arminius’s voice brought her back.
“Do . . . do we have rope and . . . and . . . ,” she started, but realized that she had forgotten the name for nail in Latin. “Do we have metal that we can drive into the wood to join things together?”
“Nails? Yes,” Arminius said. “But there won’t be enough for a bridge. Our legion’s blacksmith makes them on-site when we build more permanent fortresses. But rope we have plenty.”
Amalia’s heart was racing. She couldn’t do this with rope alone.
“We will provide you as many nails as you need,” Marius said. “You can have the nails from the carts of the supply train. If that is not enough, we will have the blacksmith melt parts of our armor.”
Amalia nodded and walked over to the stream. She glanced at the branch once more before breaking it in half over her leg. “If we dig deep enough, we could use tree stems to anchor them into the ground as foundations.” She drilled one of the branches into the ground and repeated that step with the other branch on the other side of the stream. Under the curious eyes of Marius and Arminius, she walked over to a fern and tore one of the long leaves off, then removed the small green blades until only the twig was left.
“I don’t know yet if we should spike the rope into the pillars or tie it. It depends on the spikes and how long they are.” She walked back to her stick on each side of the stream. “But if the rope is strong enough, we could use it to build a simple bridge. A suspension bridge,” she said, tying the fern around both top ends of the branches. She floated back to the fern and pulled more leaves, detaching the green from the middle stems.
“Suspension?” Marius stepped beside Amalia, looking down at her little forest project. Amalia was kneeling on the ground, attaching the flexible fern stems vertically to the hanging one that connected the two branches—or anchor pillars in this case.
“There is no word for it in Latin,” she said. “But basically we’d hang the ropes like this.” She tied another stem. “If we do this on both sides”—she picked up a leaf and held it up to one of the vertically dangling stems—“then we can tie the ropes around logs and nail a deck on top of the logs.” She heard energy in her voice now. Confidence. This was a world she knew.
Marius straightened and turned to face Arminius.
“Build it . . . now,” he said, and walked back to his horse.
Amalia’s mouth fell open. “But . . . but I’ll need time to make calculations and—”
“You have until tomorrow evening.”
“For the calculations?”
“To build the bridge.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I can leave you five hundred men,” Marius said, leaning forward in his saddle.
“The entire cavalry?” Arminius asked.
“Yes. Quintus and I will march the legion around the mountain base and meet you at the site of the rebellion. Belli, Germanicus, and you will lead the cavalry across the canyon and into the enemy’s lines from their flank. Bato won’t expect an attack from there, not with the bridge destroyed.”
Amalia shook her head, her breathing quick and shallow. “I don’t think I can build this in less than two days.”
“Think or know?” Marius asked.
She threw her hands up. “I’ve never heard of anybody building a bridge this size in two days. Even with five hundred men and horses, we’d have to work day and night like mad men.”
“Then do so. The men are used to hard work. We won’t have time to wait once the legion reaches the foothill of the rebellion. The rebels will attack while they hold the advantage.”
“Then why not wait here?” Amalia asked. “Just until the bridge is done, and then march after that?”
Marius shook his head. “Bato might become suspicious if we camp here for too long. His scouts are no doubt already bringing him the news of our position here. We have to march now. Germania I lies defeated in the mountains of Pannonia. Rome needs to answer without delay.”
What he said made sense, yet what he asked was impossible. Amalia ran her fingers through her sweaty hair and looked back to her little makeshift bridge she’d been so proud of only moments ago.
“Arminius.” Marius’s voice was level.
“Yes, my Tribune.” Arminiu
s took a step toward Marius’s horse.
“As soon as the bridge is finished, you ride like Mars himself is on top of you, you understand?”
Arminius met his legate’s eyes. “Wait for our horn. We will be there.”
Marius nodded slowly. His eyes were dark, but Amalia could see the pride in them. “Tomorrow evening.” He turned his horse and rode off.
Amalia watched him disappear through the trees before she threw her head into her palms. “How am I going to do this?”
Arminius walked over to her and carefully placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t protest. She had two days to construct a bridge. Two days! Even Caesar had ten days to build his bridge over the Rhine. Granted, it was a lot bigger, but he was also goddamn Caesar and had tens of thousands of men at his disposal!
“I am starting to wonder if anything is impossible with you, Amalia the Germanica.” He smiled at her. Amalia’s gaze slowly wandered up to his. Amalia the Germanica. It had a nice ring to it.
“We’ll have to start work immediately,” she said.
“Then we will do so.”
“And I need pen and papyrus to make the most necessary calculations.”
“You shall have it.”
“Can you use the warhorses to pull logs?”
“I will tell Belli to remove their heavy armor and be ready.”
Taking in a deep breath, Amalia nodded. “What will happen if the bridge isn’t ready by tomorrow evening?”
“Then the infantry will be defeated before we get there. Our numbers won’t be enough to win despite coming in through the canyon from their flank, but we shall try to kill as many as we can before war breaks out.”
“So, in short, we all die?”
Arminius grinned. “Pretty much.”
No way in hell was Amalia going to die in this foreign land, two thousand years before she was born.
She met his smile with one of her own. “Let’s go then.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rome
T he Curia Julia was filled with senators. Almost all three hundred seats on its long stone benches were taken. Augustus himself was present. Head held high, he sat on his marble throne at the far end of the room, right next to both of the senate’s consuls, Lentulus and Piso.
As always, Marcus was sitting between Aurelius and Cicero in the first row of the benches next to Augustus’s throne. Marcus always found the room depressing. Not even the First Citizen’s chair was decorated, fitting in perfectly with the rest of the plain white walls and pillars.
Sabinus, an ancient senator whose monotone voice was better than wine for putting men to sleep, was babbling in the background.
“The honey the senators will spit today will stick to our feet all the way back home,” Cicero whispered to Marcus, his big belly moving up and down as he chuckled.
“At least that would distract from the stench of Aurelius,” Marcus said, casting a glance at Aurelius beside him.
“If I had known that Augustus would grace us today,” Aurelius said, “I would not have spent all night drinking.”
“I wish it were the scent of wine you were torturing our noses with, my dear friend, but I am afraid the cheap perfume of Subura’s brothels has swallowed you whole,” Cicero said. Marcus and several other senators broke out into laughter, drawing a glare from the droning Sabinus. Among those seated near Marcus, and probably the one laughing the loudest, was Gaius Caesar, barely out of boyhood but heir of Augustus. As usual, the skinny, tall, and unattractive young senator chose a seat behind Marcus—partially because Augustus wanted his grandson to learn from Marcus, but mostly because he loved Marcus’s humor.
Sabinus kept jabbering as Marcus saw Augustus yawn widely. “And that is why the grass in the outer provinces—”
“Thank you, dear Sabinus,” Augustus said. “That will do for today.”
“But the grass, First Citizen.”
“Yes, the grass. It was very educational indeed, thank you.” Augustus nodded at him.
Sabinus trudged back to his seat as Piso, the consul to Augustus’s right, rose.
“Thank you, Sabinus. We shall never look at grass the same way. Does anybody in here have—”
“My Augustus!”
All three hundred heads jerked toward a messenger who was bolting up the senate’s stairs and past the mumbling senators. It was a soldier, covered in mud and filth, his footsteps leaving traces of dirt on the shiny mosaic floors.
“My Augustus, a message from Pannonia!” the soldier’s voice echoed through the hall. Augustus rose as chatters spun through the senate like a hurricane. Marcus stood as well, eager for news of his son.
The curious mutters of the senators grew to rambling shouts:
“The East is rising to arms as we speak!”
“We can’t afford another war!”
“The senate should rule in the matter!”
Marcus and Augustus exchanged frustrated looks. This was not a matter for the senate. But it was too late.
“You may say it here, in front of Rome,” Augustus announced, quieting the bickering crowd.
The messenger looked horrified. “My First Citizen, it is regarding one of your military provinces, not a senatorial province.”
Augustus flinched. The soldier was correct. Augustus was solely in charge of the unstable military provinces; the senate had no say in the matter. And yet, it would show a lack of confidence in the senate if he sneaked out with a message like this.
“It is a matter of Rome, so speak,” he reiterated with a faint smile.
The solider took a deep breath. “The rebels in Pannonia have defeated a legion of Rome.”
It was like lightning had struck the senate. Outcries mixed with gasps.
“Whose legion?” Marcus called out, but the senators were too loud. “Whose legion?!” Marcus yelled this time.
“Germania I,” the soldier shouted back at him.
Marcus sighed as he fell back to his seat. Cicero put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Not Marius, Marcus thought. My son is safe . . . for now.
“We need to send more legions!” one of the senators shouted from the buzzing crowd.
“Germania I should be dishonored and fall onto their swords!” another demanded.
“The senate should be in charge of the military provinces!”
The last was a direct attack on Augustus. And even though Augustus’s face was blank, Marcus could see the flames in his eyes.
“Quiet!” Piso shouted, but to no avail.
“Quiet!” Lentulus’s frightening growl thundered above all others, the size of his body working in his favor. The senate fell silent.
Augustus stepped forward. “My fellow citizens, let us not be hasty. Germania I has served us well under my niece’s husband, Lucius. Marcus,” he said, turning to his dear friend, “please tell us your son Marius is not far from Pannonia.”
Marcus rose to his feet once more. “No, my First Citizen. He is marching back to Salona as we speak. Over Pannonia.” Marcus stepped into the middle of the hall, all eyes on him. “I have fought in Illyricum with Agrippa. The tribes there are as insidious as they are stubborn. Only the gods know what tricks and magic the rebels must have used to defeat Germania I. But in his endless wisdom, our dear Augustus has already foreseen the troubles in this region and has sent my son back to Salona over the Pannonian Mountains to aid Lucius.”
The anxious chatters turned to controlled whispers. Some of the senators nodded, seemingly relieved.
Piso stepped forward, placing a hand on Marcus’s shoulder before turning to the senate. “How comforting to hear that our Augustus’s endless sapience will maintain the peace of Pax Romana once more.”
Most senators slowly returned to their seats. But not Publius Varus, a short, skinny senator in his senior years. He lifted his arms to quiet the room, his golden rings glittering in the light coming in from the high windows.
“My fellow citizens, calm yourselves.” Varus spoke slowly and ca
refully. “I am certain that with Marius Vincius under his control, Lucius Ahenobarbus will return victorious.” More mumbles and whispers. Varus nodded at his own statement and sat back down, a smug grin on his thin lips, his gaze traveling to Marcus. By Pluto, Marcus hated Varus. A true opportunist, the man was as unscrupulous as he was buried in Lucius Ahenobarbus’s arse.
Marcus smiled back at him as Augustus rose. “That’ll do for today,” he said, then looked straight at Marcus, nodding toward the hallway.
The sunlight blinded Marcus as he rushed down the stairs next to Augustus and through the parting sea of his praetorian guards. Half the street was filled with them, pushing merchants and gawking people along as they encircled both Marcus and Augustus. Wherever he went, so did these men. Too fresh was the memory of Julius Caesar’s murder at the hand of the very senate Augustus ruled.
One of the guards brought a beautiful white horse decorated in golden armor to Augustus. The First Citizen mounted the magnificent creature and signaled one of the guards to get off his horse. Without a second to waste, the soldier complied and handed the horse to Marcus, who pulled himself onto the saddle with ease.
“By Jupiter, why now?” Augustus gave his horse his heels, and they moved down the narrow cobbled street, past temples and terracotta-colored apartment complexes. The sea of his armed guards followed.
“The East is at the brink of war and now I have to worry about Pannonia?” Augustus said. “I can’t have another province in turmoil.”
Marcus steered his horse next to Augustus’s. “Pannonia is merely a rebellion. Marius won’t allow for another war in Illyricum.”
Augustus shook his head in agony. “I pray to the gods you are right. The senate is breathing down my neck, just waiting for their chance to strike. My own daughter is exiled, Tiberius banned to Rhodes, and Julius and Gaius are still boys—all while my health is failing by the day. I am not certain this family would survive a civil war during Gaius’s transition into power.”
“Your health has recovered as quickly before,” Marcus said.
