Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  Marius took in the scene around him once more. The giant rocks. The crushed bodies.

  “How many men dead?” Marius finally asked.

  “Over half of the legion,” Lucius replied. “We retreated before these rocks could take us all.”

  Marius looked up at the rebel stronghold again. It was about several hundred feet high, but the incline to the platform was not that steep. The infantry could storm up and attack the rebels with a frontal formation—if not for the rocks.

  “I have written to Augustus to request three more legions,” Lucius said. “With enough men, we can storm the platform.”

  Marius shook his head. “The legions will take weeks to arrive. By then, Bato will have half of Pannonia by his side. Even more men if Dalmatia joins him.”

  “Bato the Breucian?” Lucius raised his brow.

  “You have not heard? King Pinnes has broken his promise to Rome,” Gnaeus said, lifting his chin as if to mimic his father. Lucius threw him a condescending glare. Gnaeus looked away.

  “Then this will lead to war for all of Illyricum,” Lucius said. “We shall send word to Augustus immediately and—”

  “I need your legion to join mine and prepare for battle,” Marius cut him short, looking up to the sky. It was getting late. Time was running out. If the slave woman was successful with the bridge, then Marius and his infantry had to be ready to storm up that hill without delay. They had to attack simultaneously in order to overwhelm the rebels.

  Lucius let out a chuckle and shook his head. “Prepare for battle? Are you joking? Look at this battlefield.”

  “That is why we must take out their artillery. If we abandon our armor, we will be faster, able to duck the rocks long enough for the cavalry to arrive.”

  Lucius laughed harder, looked left and right, and then back at Marius. “Marius Vincius, the smoke must have clouded your eyesight. The horses cannot make it up the mountain fast enough to take out their artillery. We tried. You are smelling the results of that attempt.”

  “That is because your cavalry was not attacking from the rebels’ flank,” Quintus said.

  Lucius grew serious for a moment. “There is no flank. The bridge to the plateau has been destroyed. The only way up that hill is over that blood-spattered incline.”

  “That is why I am having it rebuilt as we speak,” Marius said as he turned his horse toward his legion waiting behind him.

  “A bridge?” Lucius’s eyes darted from Marius to Gnaeus.

  “Have your men ready and light on their feet. No shields or armor,” Marius said.

  “Did you say you are building a bridge?” Lucius repeated.

  “Indeed. Like Caesar’s miracle bridge over the Rhine,” Quintus said with a grin, turning his horse as well.

  “Absurd! The mighty Caesar had ten days and the best architects from Egypt. And his bridge was only over a river, not a mountain cliff.” Lucius threw a hand into the air. “No man can build a bridge over a canyon in a matter of days. It’s absurd.”

  “It is not built by a man,” Marius mumbled to himself with a smirk. Before Lucius could respond, he set his horse into motion, Quintus following behind him.

  Lucius stomped into his tent in the marching camp his defeated legion had set up in the woods not far from the battle. Gnaeus and the centurions followed but gave him enough space to avoid becoming targets of his rage.

  Fists clenched, Lucius walked over to the table with the map of Pannonia, looked at it for a moment, and then slammed his fist on the table with all the force he had.

  “How dare he demand my legion,” Lucius barked. His hair had fallen onto his forehead. “I hope the rebels’ rocks crush him!”

  Gnaeus hesitantly stepped closer. “Keep your legion, Father. Let Marius Vincius march to his death without your Germania I.”

  Lucius shook his head. “No. If he wins without my legion, Rome will sing the song of Ahenobarbus the coward for eternity. And if he loses without my legion, Augustus will ask me to fall on my sword.”

  “Mother wouldn’t allow it,” Gnaeus objected, chin held high.

  “You fool!” Lucius yelled. “Augustus has banished his only daughter to Pandataria for whoring! Do you really think that a nephew-in-law will be spared after losing to savages?”

  Gnaeus’s gaze dropped to the ground, which was covered in expensive rugs and furs.

  Lucius straightened his back and sighed. “Go with the centurions and make certain the men are ready for battle.”

  Gnaeus nodded. “In what formation?”

  “None. Just send them in chaos. Let Marius pain his head with strategies. He is mad to think he can win. Not even the gods could build a bridge in two days. But let him have the men. At least Rome will say that Lucius Ahenobarbus fought to the last soldier. Hopefully, Augustus will forgive me and send me more legions to crush this rebellion once Marius is dead.”

  Gnaeus nodded but did not leave. He stood there, scratching his head. Why have the gods cursed me with such a useless son? Lucius thought.

  “Are you as deaf as you are simple? I said go!” he yelled as Gnaeus and the other centurions left and shouted commands outside seconds later.

  As Lucius was turning back to his map, he saw the shadow of a man standing just outside the tent.

  “Who is it?” Lucius barked.

  Kinu stepped forward, a beautifully painted amphora in his hands.

  “My Praetor, forgive me, but I found the last of the wines from Iberia.”

  Lucius let out a relieved sigh. “Kinu, my Kinu. If only you were a soldier, this battle would be won already. The piss I have been drinking was worse than the stench of the dead.”

  Kinu nodded and poured his master a cup of the fine purple liquid. “My praetor will remain here in the camp?” He handed the golden cup to him and pulled one of the fine wooden chairs close to the table for Lucius to sit.

  “Of course. I shall not fall in Illyricum like a foot soldier. I won’t even watch the slaughter.”

  “Very wise, my Praetor.”

  “If I drink fast enough, I shall be drunk before the battle is over. It will be a short one, that is for certain.”

  “You do not think Marius Vincius could be victorious?”

  “Do the stars shine during the day?” Lucius answered, without malice. It was remarkable, but Kinu was one of the few people he did not lose his temper with—at least not frequently.

  “The moon does, on rare occasions.”

  Lucius drank from his wine. Then he shook his head. “Let us just hope my impudent son lives. His mother’s cries would give me headaches for years.”

  “I am certain he shall live.”

  “How? His sword is as dull as his wits.” Lucius sighed. “Go and make certain he does not join the attack. Tell him I forbid it.”

  Kinu nodded. “Yes, my Praetor.”

  “And tell him to bring his own wine. This one would be a waste on a coward like him.”

  Kinu nodded once more and left.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “G

  et all men from the woods,” Arminius barked at the centurions, sweat dripping through the dust on his face. “Get them now and send them to the deck!”

  Amalia was kneeling next to him, her dirt-covered hands and face moving frantically over the calculations on her papyrus. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Germanicus and Belli join them.

  “Incredible,” Germanicus mumbled. The bridge stood several meters tall; the ropes and hanging logs had already been attached, and half the deck, which was nailed on top of the hanging logs, was built as well.

  “Hmm?” Amalia muttered, her focus still on her calculations.

  “I said this is truly incredible,” Germanicus repeated.

  “Who has taught you this magic?” Belli asked.

  “It’s not magic. It’s—”

  Amalia’s looked up from her calculations to see a soldier drop to the ground in exhaustion. In front of him was one of the deck boards. Grunting, the solide
r tried to get back up, but he was too tired. Not far from this man another fell to his knees, wiping his forehead with his arm as he sucked in air. Dammit! This could not happen, not now that they were so close!

  She bolted over to the soldier and bent over to grab the heavy board. The wood felt rough under her tired hands. Her arms trembled as she pulled the board a few inches off the dusty ground. Goddamn, this is heavy!

  “We’re . . . so . . . close!” she grunted beneath her grinding teeth as she lifted it up even further.

  Arminius stormed over to her side, and, breathing heavily, he took the board out of her hands. Even the muscular Arminius struggled for a few steps under the weight of this board, tumbling left and right before steadying his feet.

  The soldier on the ground next to Amalia pushed himself back onto his shaking legs. Then he stared at Amalia.

  “Thank you,” he said, before walking over to the bridge to join a group of men nailing the deck boards to the hanging logs.

  Amalia watched him with a faint smile on her lips. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride to finally be acknowledged like this. She strode back to Belli and Germanicus. They were aiding the centurions in dressing the horses in their war armor. Both stopped to look at her. Was that admiration in their eyes?

  “It’s time to send the messenger,” she said to Germanicus. He stared at her a moment longer, then nodded and waved over one of the soldiers passing by. He was short and skinny, his muscular arms and legs covered in sticky sweat and dust like all the others.

  “Go take a horse and ride to our legate. Tell him we shall be there before the sun goes down,” Germanicus ordered him.

  The soldier turned on his heel and ran to one of the saddled horses, pulled himself up, and rode off, little rocks and dust kicking back onto the path he left behind.

  Belli turned to Amalia. “Will the bridge truly be ready?”

  Amalia shrugged. “We’ll find out soon.”

  “I have never met a woman like you,” Germanicus said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve met plenty of slave women before,” she countered.

  Belli placed his hand onto Germanicus’s shoulder. “Stick to your tame Roman women, my Tribune,” he said with a grin on his lips. Then he walked off.

  Germanicus’s eyebrows shot together as he followed after Belli.

  Suddenly, Pollo stepped next to Amalia, his arms crossed. “A barbaric slave woman can read and write, and all the cocks in Rome get hard,” he said.

  Amalia rolled her eyes. “Every soldier here is working for their legate, and yet you still find the time for your horseshit.”

  Pollo lifted his chin. “I came here to tell you that the men ran out of nails.”

  Amalia was too exhausted for another panic attack. And she wasn’t about to let Pollo see her sweat either. Swallowing her emotions, she turned to look for Arminius.

  “Then we will use the men’s daggers,” she said, striding toward Arminius to the sound of Pollo swearing after her.

  Marius and Quintus rode their armored horses in front of the perfectly formed lines of their legions. Thousands of men stood at the edge of the field, unarmored and without their famous red shields, facing the enemy with nothing but their clothes and swords.

  Marius was wearing only a white tunic. His eyes were filled with pride, his hands gripped tightly around his drawn sword and reins. He brought his black stallion to a halt in the middle of the legions. The centurions spread out evenly to his left and right in front of their cohorts. For the last time, he turned toward Lucius Ahenobarbus’s camp, but again the woods did not spit him out.

  “I never thought him brave, but I did think him smart enough to try to redeem himself in the eyes of our First Citizen,” Quintus said, following Marius’s gaze.

  “If we are victorious, he will be redeemed whether or not he fights. Such are the games of Rome.”

  Quintus cursed under his breath as Marius turned his horse to face his legions.

  “Soldiers!” he shouted as the men grew quiet. “Up there sits an enemy of the peace . . . an enemy of Rome.” Several of the men shouted, raising their swords up the hill. Marius lifted a hand to silence them.

  “Today we will fight an enemy like many others, but a battle like none before. Today we shall not fight in testudo or any other of our formations. No shield will protect us; our artillery won’t clear the way. But make no mistake,” he said, raising his voice. “We carry with us what we’ve always had: our Roman hearts, strength, and courage!”

  The men started stomping their feet, shaking the ground beneath them.

  “I know you are tired,” Marius called over the cacophony. “You’ve walked far. I know some of you embrace the journey to the gods, while others might fear it.”

  The soldiers quieted at this.

  Marius set his horse into a slow trot to ride along his legions. “But that is what makes us strong, what makes us men!” he added. “We won’t be defeated by rebels with rocks!”

  Some of the men began to shout in approval.

  “For we are Romans, and there is no army like Rome’s. Let us show our enemy what it means to face the most elite soldiers the world has ever seen!”

  The men broke out into frantic cheers and screams. Their fists and swords swung high above their heads.

  “Meet me on the hill!” Marius roared as he and Quintus swung off their horses and slapped them on their rears to drive them from the field. Both horses barely made it to the edge of the woods when a wave of thousands of legionaries marched onto the battlefield. They were scattered, without formation, just as Marius had instructed, in order to limit the damage of the rocks.

  The ground was horrific to walk on. Corpses and pieces of armor made it almost impossible to cross without stumbling. Marius’s feet were quickly soaked in piss, shit, mud, and rotten body parts. The stench burned Marius’s eyes like onions. Soldiers all around him gagged and vomited. This was by far the worst battlefield Marius had ever led his soldiers onto.

  The first line of soldiers was only a few feet away from the foothill of the mountain when the rebels’ battle cries swept over the legions of Rome like a wave upon the shore. Suddenly, the corpses under Marius’s feet started to vibrate. Heart pounding, he looked up at the platform. An enormous rock was rolling down the hill toward Marius and the legionaries surrounding him. The rock picked up speed. Screaming men threw themselves left and right as the rock hit the field. Some of the soldiers managed to escape, while others were too late.

  The rock skidded left and right along the uneven ground, making its path unpredictable. It launched toward Marius, who jumped to his right to save himself. He landed in a puddle of mud, right next to a fallen soldier. Jumping back onto his feet, he scanned the field to see the damage the rock had done to his legion. Several men lay crushed on the ground. Others scrambled against the scattered bodies, some tripping and falling face down into the pile.

  Marius’s gaze found Quintus on his right. They exchanged curt nods. As crazy as this strategy was, if the cavalry made it in time and attacked their artillery, they could take the hill. There would be losses, but it was the only way.

  The ground shook once more, but this time there were several rocks charging toward them simultaneously, each faster than the next.

  “Rocks ahea—” a soldier’s warning broke off into a high-pitched scream as one of the rocks crushed him. As the rocks tore through the legion, the cries were unbearable. One man was stuck by a rock and rolled down the path with it.

  The closer they made it to the hill, the more rocks rained down on them, each one killing more and more men. Marius had hoped that the rocks would slow as they ran out, but the rebels were well prepared with an endless mountain of rocks at their disposal. To make matters worse, his men were losing their cool, running into each other in their attempts to avoid being crushed.

  Marius saw a Roman solider flee into the woods—one of Lucius’s men.

  “Hold your position!” he shouted.


  “Hold your position!” Quintus and the centurions yelled at the men, as another rock came rushing toward them, trampling more men, including the carrier of the golden eagle standard. Blood and dirt covered the golden bird as a rebel cheer erupted from the mountain. One of the centurions thundered toward the eagle and tore it out of the dead carrier’s hands to raise it again.

  How much longer could his legions last? Where in the name of the gods was the cavalry? They should have been here by now. Marius began to doubt. Was this a mistake? Was this how the House Vincius and thousands of his men would come to an end?

  “Are we to retreat?” one of the centurions shouted to Marius.

  Marius scanned the field of corpses that surrounded them. His gaze froze on a screaming soldier who was squeezing his hands around his crushed leg to stop the fountain of blood.

  “No! Hold the line!” Marius yelled.

  Beside him Quintus grabbed the shield of a dead soldier next to him. “You heard our legate!” he shouted at the men. “Hold the line and be ready!” He started drumming his sword against the shield to encourage the men, to make them believe in the cavalry and the legions of Rome once more.

  The men followed suit and drummed their swords against their metal shin guards. At first there were only a few, but soon the bright clinging of thousands of swords was sent up to the rebels. Marius couldn’t have been prouder. This was Rome’s song of war and a sign to its enemy that this legion was still here and ready to fight.

  The rebels answered with several more rocks, but the banging of swords only grew louder, despite their fading numbers. The soldiers held their line.

  Marius threw back his head and looked up at the smoke-filled twilight sky. He took a single moment to calm his mind and take a deep breath. He was prepared to die. Suddenly, he heard and felt the horn of Rome sound in the distance. Loud and menacing and pure as anything.

  The men’s drumrolls grew silent, and so did the rocks and screaming rebels.

  “The cavalry!” one of the centurions cried as the mighty horn growled down the mountain once more.