Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  Belli nodded and started walking toward a group of gathered horses. Amalia straightened her back. She took in a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. The time for whining was over. She took a single step forward, as if she were walking onto a judo mat. Both fists clenched tightly, Amalia found her voice again:

  “When the sun goes down, you will have your bridge,” she hollered through the building site, loud and clear, determined and strong. Belli turned, stared at her. She held his gaze. He nodded once more, then turned and walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “O

  ver there, my Legate,” Marius’s scout, a short, ferret-faced man, said as he pointed into the distance at a dark dot. The stone road under their horses’ hooves split the mountain forests in half, giving them a clear view of the path ahead.

  “Scouts?” Quintus said as he tightened his cloak around his shoulders. The morning breeze was crisp and fresh, the sky a light blue.

  “Rebel scouts.” Marius confirmed.

  “They have been following us since late last night,” the ferret-faced soldier explained.

  “That was to be expected. But are you certain they haven’t been following us for longer?”

  “Yes, my Legate.”

  “Good.” Marius nodded. “That means they don’t know about our bridge.” He turned his horse.

  “Should we kill them? Their scouts will warn the other rebels,” Quintus said, his boxy chin shivering a little from the cold.

  “No. I hope they do,” Marius said. “That will focus their attention on the upcoming battle rather than gathering more men for a war in the province. The word of their victory is fresh. If we kill the snake now, its venom will spread no farther.” Marius looked over at Quintus, whose eyebrows were furrowed in thought.

  “Speak, Quintus. Your thoughts are louder than our war horn.”

  Quintus’s gaze wandered to a woodpecker in a nearby tree. The bird’s hammering movements were carefree and innocent. Then he turned his attention back to Marius. “Do you really think the slave woman can build the bridge?” There was a little tremble in his voice.

  Marius took a moment to answer. “I don’t know, but it is in the hands of the gods now . . . and hers. If we can attack the rebels from the flank, then we can turn the tides for Rome once more. It is the only chance we have.”

  “How do you know we can trust her? She is a slave woman. And a savage one on top of that. What if she sabotages the bridge and then runs, laughing over the fate of the legion that enslaved her?”

  “Then good for her.” Marius grinned. “At least one soul will be saved from the slaughter of the war that will follow if we cannot reclaim this mountain.”

  “You think Augustus will punish you for Lucius’s mistakes?”

  “I don’t think it; I know it. Lucius is still his niece’s husband, and we all know how much those nieces remind him of the memory of his dear sister Octavia.”

  Quintus’s grip tightened around his reins. “Your men won’t let that happen. You know your legions are loyal to you. The men love you. One word from you and we will—”

  “No more!” Marius voice echoed through the woods, startling a swarm of birds that took off into the sky. Quintus looked at him like a scolded child. But as much as Marius admired the loyalty of his men, Quintus could be killed for saying such things, and Marius could be labeled a threat to Augustus himself. There were certainly senators who wanted this very thing. Not long ago, Rome was a republic under the senate’s control. But Marius had no taste for power or political intrigue. If it were up to him, he would live a quiet life in the country—alone.

  “My dear friend,” Marius said, his voice soft. “I’m honored to fight by your side. I have been to battle with many men, but few have earned my trust and friendship as you have. But there are paths I must walk alone. And what is to come if we are defeated will be one of them.”

  Quintus’s gaze dropped, a look of sadness replacing his usual frown.

  “Besides,” Marius said with a bemused smile, “even the underworld would be better than being sent back to Germania with Lucius and Gnaeus Ahenobarbus.”

  Quintus snorted. “Please take them with you if we lose, will you?”

  They laughed together, then rode the rest of the way back to the camp in silence.

  Marius had given his men two hours of rest, but the horns of Rome were already blasting, demanding the men march again. The men prepared for the march, but this time, they were gearing up into full battle uniform. And although Marius had seen it many times, it was still quite a sight. Thousands of metal helmets and chest and shoulder plates were shimmering under the rising sun. The sound of the clanging armor was loud and beautiful. The centurions donned their red-crested helmets as the men slowly gathered into line.

  From here on, Marius had no idea what he would find ahead of him. The messengers he had sent out never returned. They were either killed by the rebels or held hostage by Lucius, who would rather see another legion destroyed than hand Marius a victory.

  “My Legate!” Primus, his loyal freedman, shouted as he came running, carrying Marius’s full war attire. The red crest of his helmet looked full again—Primus must have added new horsehair. He also must have polished Marius’s breastplate, because the figures depicting Spartan warriors defeating Persia were a shimmering gold again.

  Marius picked up his round shield. “You hammered the dent out?” he asked Primus.

  “It was rather deep. The German barbarian must have been a giant. But, yes, I was able to straighten it for you.” Marius nodded, deeply satisfied. Unlike the usual Roman military accessories, Marius’s shield was round and made of dark bronze. It was a gift from his father, who had received it from his father, and so on, all the way back to the famous three hundred Spartans. Marius’s family descended from that line.

  Primus lifted Marius’s metal breastplate to help him into it.

  “If we lose this battle,” Marius said, raising his arms, “I want you to find my father and stay with him. Have your wife and daughter join you there. You all will be safe with my father until my brother has restored the name Vincius once more with his victories in Aegyptus.”

  “You won’t lose this battle,” Primus said. “So there is no use talking about this.” The old slave sounded calm and composed, but his hand was trembling as it always did when he helped Marius into his armor before battle.

  “Then you can promise it anyways,” Marius insisted. Primus tied together the leather straps of the breastplate around Marius’s shoulders in silence.

  “Primus . . . it would put me at ease knowing you won’t follow me into the underworld.”

  “Elysium, my Legate, not the underworld. The gods will send you to Elysium.”

  “Call it whatever you want. I don’t want to see you there for another twenty years. Your daughter and wife need you. I have taken too much of your life already.”

  “You have paid for their house and good lives.”

  Marius gripped Primus’s hand, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I ask you once more, my friend. Help my soul rest and promise me to seek my father if we lose. I know the pain of losing family. I cannot do it to yours.”

  Primus held his gaze but remained quiet. Marius knew the old man understood. He’d been around when Marius’s wife and child had died during childbirth. It was a terrible pain, one he had always assumed would take his life before Rome did.

  Primus opened his mouth to say something when loud voices drew their attention. Quintus was urging his horse through the sea of men toward Marius. He, too, was already dressed in his full military armor. Like Marius’s armor and those of the tribunes, his breastplate was made of two pieces, front and back—a sign of his status, despite it being made of leather.

  “The Pannonian scouts are back,” Quintus said, pointing at two riders on horses standing in the middle of the road. Both men were dressed in animal furs and covered in white-and-blue war paint. They were Breucians, no doubt.

&n
bsp; “It seems they came with a message,” Primus said, stepping next to Marius. As if on cue, one of the Breucians let out a battle cry and lifted a spear with the head of one of Marius’s messengers on it. The rebel’s horse reared, lifting the head higher, illuminating it in the rays of the morning sun. Shouts and threats spread through the legion as Marius’s hands clenched to fists. He bolted to his horse and launched on top of it, sinking his heels into the black stallion, which reared and leaped forward.

  “Rome shall answer!” he shouted as he charged his horse to a spear sticking out of the ground. He tore it out and swung its tip forward in a single motion, without slowing his horse. The black stallion thundered down the road past cheering soldiers. The two Breucians turned their horses at the sight of Marius. In tune with the gallop of his horse, Marius homed in on the fleeing rebels, the distance between them growing smaller. The fools’ horses stood no chance against Marius’s stallion. In a last desperate attempt to gain speed, the man holding the messenger’s head tossed the spear into the ditch. Marius raised his own spear, narrowed his eyes, and threw it with all his strength at the rebel. With a whistling sound, the spear pierced through the air and struck the Breucian in his upper back. The man cried out as he launched off his horse and hit the ground hard, sending up a cloud of dust.

  Marius pulled his horse to a halt. It reared into the air with a wild scream.

  “Tell Bato that Rome is coming for him!” he shouted after the other Breucian, who urged his horse on as if Pluto himself were after him.

  Marius looked down at the dying scout on the ground. His arms and legs were twitching as he pissed himself. The cheers of thousands of battle-hungry men echoed through the mountains and deep into the forests surrounding them.

  By the gods, if the cavalry did not make it to the battle before nightfall, he would take as many rebel souls with him as he could. And Jupiter be his witness, Bato the traitor would be among them.

  Bato the Breucian was not tall or strong or handsome, but what he lacked in physical attributes he made up for with wits and ruthlessness. He was in his prime, wealthy, and as feared as he was revered among his tribe and his king.

  He scratched his thick brown beard and leaned over a primitive map drawn into the sand of the dim cave. His dirty white tunic was worn loosely over his leather pants and shirt. It was a peculiar look—part tribal tradition and part Roman influence.

  Several of his tribesmen were analyzing the map of the battlefield with him.

  “Men from the farthest corners of Pannonia join us by the day,” Kimki, one of the tribe’s elders, said. His round white beard moved as one with his lips. “The word of Rome’s defeat is traveling far and fast, awakening the courage of our people to rise again. In a matter of weeks, we will have an army several thousand men strong. King Pinnes will be more than pleased.”

  The other elders mumbled their agreement.

  Bato clenched his jaw. “King Pinnes will never be pleased! Not if we defeat Rome, not if we bow to Rome. He is old and weak, his mind clouded. If not for me, we would still be sitting in our depleted settlements, waiting for the Romans to take everything from us.”

  Some of the men exchanged silent looks. Bato did not care. His brawls with King Pinnes were no secret among the tribe. But they had come to a tipping point, splitting the tribe in half, with men loyal on both sides. Bato had fought King Pinnes day and night for this uprising, but it wasn’t until Marius Vincius left Illyricum that Pinnes agreed—hesitantly.

  Kimki turned to the group. “As long as we can hold Rome back for a while, we can gather an army on the other side of the mountain. Without the bridge, it will take Rome months to march around the pass. By the time they finally make it, an army, tens of thousands strong, will await them.”

  That seemed to satisfy the men. Kimki threw Bato a serious, almost scolding look. Bato grunted and walked over to a wooden table to pour himself a cup of wine. He drank it in one swig, purple liquid running down the corners of his hairy mouth. “We have lost many men,” he said. “Rome will not give up until we force them to. Even with the advantage of this stronghold, we won’t be able to withstand their legions without more warriors.”

  “Do we have enough men to defeat the next legion?” Guban, one of the elders, wondered, his bald head reflecting the low light of the oil lamps. Bato walked back over to the map and pointed to a small opening below the mountain platform they were using as their stronghold.

  “As long as we can keep them down here with our artillery, yes,” Bato said. “But if Rome marches around the mountain before we can gather more men, we will be dead before the winter.”

  “Until the winter, the tribes of Pannonia and Dalmatia will be with us,” Kimki added.

  “Bato! Bato!” One of the scouts came storming into the cave. Sweat pearls were running down his grimacing face, smearing his war paint. “The legion is marching again,” he said, breathing hard. Kimki, Bato, and the others exchanged tense looks.

  Bato stepped forward. “Prepare the front row for combat. And tell the builders to check the artillery for cracks in the wood again. Without the rock slings, Rome will crush us like worms.”

  “And double the mining of the rocks,” Kimki added. “The slings are useless without them.”

  The group of elders and warriors hastened out the cave, shouting commands as they went. Only the scout and Kimki remained beside Bato. Motionless, he was rooted to the ground at the entrance of the cave like a statue.

  “Are you deaf?” Bato barked at him. “I gave my commands.”

  “Th-there is more,” the scout said.

  “Then speak, you idiot. I have to prepare for battle.”

  “I have a message for you.”

  “A message? For me? From whom?”

  The scout’s gaze dropped. “Rome.”

  “Rome? Now how could that be? I told you to stay hidden and far away from the Roman camp.” Bato clenched his fists.

  The scout’s face turned ashen, his lips twitching. “W-we were far away. But Marius Vincius—”

  “Marius Vincius?” Bato launched forward, grabbing the man by his dark fur cloak.

  “Marius Vincius is in Germania?”

  The scout frantically shook his head. “I-I saw him. He killed Gini! He was so fast.”

  Bato pulled the scout close to his face, breathing against his sweaty skin. His dark stare drilled into the wide eyes of the scout. The man trembled.

  “Bato,” Kimki said in a low voice. Bato held the man a moment longer, then dropped him to the ground like a rock.

  “Marius Vincius, huh?” Bato strode back to the wooden table to refill his cup of wine. He drank it again in one gulp, wiping the dripping corners of his mouth with the leathery back of his hand. “So what was his message?” he asked.

  “He said tell Bato that Rome is coming for him.”

  Bato jerked around to face the scout once more. “Marius Vincius said my name?”

  The scout nodded in silence. For a moment, Bato just stood still. Then he swept his arm over the table, wooden cups and ceramic plates smashing against the cave’s walls and floor.

  “Order the men to gather! Now!” His nostrils flared as his nails dug into the meat of his palms. The scout straightened and was about to bolt when Bato added, “And tell no one about this, you hear me? Or I will throw you down this hill into Rome’s legion myself!” The scout nodded and fled. Bato grabbed the table with his rough hands and shook it.

  “If Marius Vincius is leading this legion, then we would be wise to adjust plans,” Kimki said, walking over to Bato. His wrinkled face looked emotionless, yet his voice gave away his concern.

  Bato let go of the table and picked up his cup from the floor. “In the end, Vincius is just a man. What could he possibly do differently from Lucius Ahenobarbus? Unless he can move this mountain, we will destroy his legion just like the one before him.”

  Kimki tilted his head. “He is indeed just a man, but one who restored peace in regions of Illyricum—
and only in a few months’ time. We cannot underestimate him. He is fighting for the worst of causes.”

  “And what is that?” Bato laughed darkly. “Glory? Honor? Money? Rome?”

  Kimki frowned. “Peace,” he said, cutting through Bato’s mockery like a knife through butter.

  Bato’s smirk vanished. “Good for us then that I have already made preparations.”

  “I hope you did, although I have a feeling that I won’t stomach your preparations well,” Kimki said, turning to leave the cave. But then he stopped at its entrance. “The bridge . . . are you certain it was fully destroyed?”

  Bato poured more wine. “Every rock of it. Why else would they march on the road below us?”

  Kimki nodded, rubbing his beard.

  Bato lifted his cup to his lips before lowering it again. “But if it pleases your old nerves, I will send a man to make certain.”

  “Good. Do that. For my old nerves.” These were Kimki’s last words before he left the cave.

  Bato was about to order one of his warriors to send a scout to the destroyed bridge, but then shook his head instead. He had seen the bridge shattered with his own eyes. No builder in the vast lands of Rome could build a bridge over a canyon so quick. If it was indeed Marius Vincius his scout had seen, then he had bigger problems to worry about.

  Bato shook his head once more. “No man can build a bridge that fast,” he said to himself as he drank one more cup of wine.

  The early noon sun was burning high in the blue sky, reflecting off the grey, rocky cliffs surrounding Amalia and the cavalry. Winds howled from the canyon like voices commanding the intruders to stay away.

  Amalia, Arminius, Germanicus, and Belli stood in front of a crowd of silent soldiers, all eyes staring at the gigantic felled tree that the men had dragged, lifted, and pushed over the canyon to create a pass to the other side. Unlike the trunks used for the actual construction of this bridge, this log still had all its branches to provide the soldiers with something to hold onto while crossing to the other side. They needed only a small group of men on the other side of the canyon to pull over materials with ropes and build the second station of the bridge.