Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  “Teach me what?” he said, showing his white perfect teeth.

  A flush crept across her cheeks as her feet shuffled against the muddy bank. “Combat. Without swords,” Amalia said.

  Marius nodded, still smiling. “Ah, yes. Like you taught Arminius?”

  “You know about that?!”

  “Of course. But I am not Arminius. I don’t need to fight without a sword or gain your fondness.”

  “Is that right?” Amalia said, lifting her chin in defiance. “So, you’ve never dropped your sword in combat then?”

  “Never. My life depends on it. I have dropped it many times before and after, but not once in battle.”

  “If the sword is so important in battle, would it not be useful to know how to take another man’s sword?”

  Marius threw his head back in laughter. “Are you saying you think you can teach me in one-on-one combat?”

  Amalia stepped closer. “I don’t think I can. I know it.”

  Marius almost lost it. Never had she seen the legate laugh. Smile yes, grin too, a little cough that, if witnessed from the right angle, could be confused with a chuckle, but laughter? Never. His chest went up and down as he tried to catch his breath. Amalia felt the flame of anger spark inside her.

  “A woman,” Marius laughed, pulling in deep breaths. “A woman teach me how to—”

  He did not get to finish this sentence. Amalia stepped in front of him, inches away from his face.

  “My name is not woman,” she growled, as she used her right foot to step onto the top midsole of his right sandal and leaned into him to disrupt his balance. Instinctively, Marius pulled his left leg back to regain his balance. Exactly what she wanted.

  “It’s Amalia goddamn Weber!” she said, as she stepped into the center of his stance and used her right foot as a hook to sweep him off the ground.

  Marius landed hard on his right side, flat, totally unprepared. His looked up at her and then shot back to his feet.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” he said, dusting off his tunic. But Amalia didn’t waste a second. Doing the exact same move, the ugly but reliable step-on-the-foot sweep, she threw him to the ground again.

  This time, Marius shot back to his feet, his face pinched in outrage. Amalia’s heart raced, and adrenaline rushed through her veins. Would he draw his sword? If he did, she had no doubt he could kill her in one strike. But instead, he launched forward to grab her.

  Amalia used the force of that grasping motion, turned her hip into his stomach, and rolled him right over her hip back onto the ground. This throw was the hardest so far, the impact startling a few birds from nearby branches.

  “I can do this all day,” Amalia said.

  But instead of coming at her with another try, Marius remained motionless on the ground, his face buried in the dirt. Amalia cleared her throat.

  “My Legate?”

  No response.

  “My Legate?” she repeated, and stepped closer.

  Nothing. Marius remained lifeless on the ground.

  Her pulse started racing, and her chest tightened. Did he break his neck? Hit his head on a rock? What was the punishment for a former slave killing a legate? She pictured all those Germans hanging from their crosses.

  “Marius!” she shouted. She fell to her knees and flipped him onto his back.

  He was smiling. Damn him. Then he was laughing.

  Sighing in relief, Amalia fell back onto her butt, her head bent low. Marius paid her no mind. He sat up, still laughing.

  “May Mars have mercy on me.” He slapped his thigh. “I see now why Arminius is so obsessed with you.”

  Amalia shook her head in disbelief, still grateful that he was alive.

  “Germanica,” he said with a smile on his lips. “All right then. You can come to Salona with me. You shall march in the back, with the merchants. You shall have food and a tent.”

  Marius rose and padded the dust off his white tunic and crimson cloak.

  “Really?” Amalia shot back up, brushing the dirt off her ass.

  “No whoring with the men, and you have to keep up.”

  Amalia ignored the whoring comment. “Yes, my Legate!”

  Marius nodded. “We march to Salona tomorrow. I shall send for you if I find the time.”

  “Send for me?”

  “To practice your Germanic throws. And teach me more about your tribe and its ways. It seems very . . . unique.”

  She wanted to tell him that they were Japanese throws, actually, but how the hell would she even begin to explain that? So she simply nodded.

  “Good,” Marius said, and turned to leave.

  Amalia watched him walk down the small forest path until he was out of sight.

  Her luck, she hoped, was finally beginning to change.

  Marius and Arminius stopped the moment they stepped foot into Lucius Ahenobarbus’s tent, which was as festive as Jupiter’s temple during a holy ceremony. Piles of grapes, slaughtered animals, olives, and bread filled wide tables scattered around the tent. Bare-chested women, whose facial tattoos and braided hair identified them as Breucian, were serving the centurions. And at the center of the gathering were Lucius and Gnaeus.

  Both men were sitting in chairs draped with soft furs, their tunics embroidered with golden stitchwork, their cheerful faces flashing in the light of the oil lamps.

  “How does one drag all this shit along to war?” Marius mumbled to Arminius as his gaze settled on a white marble statue of Lucius standing in the corner of the tent.

  Unlike the rest of the party, Marius and Arminius were out of place dressed in their full war armor to honor the fallen. Frowning, they were about to approach Lucius when Marius’s gaze caught the ugly face of none other than Bato the Breucian.

  Marius’s hand shot to his sword. Arminius was right by his side, his hand on his sword as well.

  “Bato!” Marius shouted over the laughing, chattering crowd. The party fell silent as all eyes turned to Marius.

  Bato, who was sitting at the very end of Lucius’s table, rose. He was dressed in clean furs and tunic, the lower half of his toad-shaped face hidden behind a dark unkempt beard. Bato’s panicked eyes found Lucius’s.

  Marius felt anger pooling in his stomach. There was no doubt that Bato was a guest here, not a hostage.

  Lucius rose and opened his arms wide. “Marius. How good of you to join us during this delightful celebration.”

  Hesitantly, Marius removed his hand from his sword. The crowd started slowly engaging with one another again. First a few mumbles, then some laughs followed, until soon they continued as before.

  Marius walked over to Lucius’s table. Lucius grinned and pointed toward an empty chair on his left.

  “Come sit with me and we shall drink and talk.”

  Marius took the seat next to Lucius. His eyes were glued on Bato, who remained standing, almost as if he were ready to flee.

  “Quite a distinctive group of guests you have here,” Marius raised a brow.

  Lucius waved over a woman who was holding a wine jar. Her small breasts bounced as she rushed over. But before she could fill the golden cup in front of Marius, he covered it with his hand.

  “Come now, Marius, we are all friends of Rome here,” Lucius said, as he dismissed the woman with a wave of his hand.

  “Are we now?” Marius said, his gaze still frozen on Bato, whose oily forehead was beaded with sweat.

  Lucius sipped his wine. “My dear Marius. If Bato annoys you so, just kill him.”

  Bato tensed, but before he could even try to run, two of Lucius’s guards grabbed him by his arms and held him in place.

  “We had an agreement!” Bato yelled, all eyes turning to him. Lucius, on the other hand, took another drink of his wine.

  “Don’t hold back for me,” Lucius said. “He has killed a lot of our men, has he not?”

  Marius’s hand grasped the grip of his sword again.

  “How many did those rocks crush?” Lucius shook his head. “
All at the hand of this man right in front of you, a traitor of Rome, a liar.”

  “What are you doing?” Bato shouted, jerking his body left and right.

  Time slowed. Marius’s hand trembled around the grip of his sword. A bead of sweat fell down Bato’s cheek. How easy it would be. A single swing. Marius turned and met Lucius’s eyes as he lowered his hand from his sword and turned to one of the servant girls.

  “Water,” he said, raising his cup. The girl rushed over.

  Lucius sighed as if disappointed. But it was all a farce, Marius knew. This was theater.

  “Very well,” Lucius said, the picture of nonchalance. “In that case, look at the gift the traitor has brought for our Augustus.”

  Lucius waved at one of his guards, who was holding a basket. The man walked over and placed it right in front of Marius. Inside was a white cloth drenched in blood.

  With a grin, Lucius pulled off the cloth to reveal a man’s head. His milky eyes were staring at Marius, his blue tongue hanging out of his open mouth.

  King Pinnes of the Breuci.

  Marius leaned back in his chair and stared at the basket. Rage coursed through his body. It took all his strength to keep from drawing his sword and cutting the smile off Lucius’s face.

  “You know each other, I assume?” Lucius asked.

  “We have met.” It was the truth, but it only scratched the surface. King Pinnes was the most reasonable man Marius had met in all of Illyricum. Marius had been able to negotiate a treaty with him without the shedding a drop of blood.

  “The traitor’s head! For the glory of Rome!” Bato hollered, pounding a fist on the table. Some of the centurions in the tent lifted their cups in agreement.

  Lucius lifted his cup as well. “With this gift, Bato the Breucian has sworn his loyalty to Rome. I will have it sent to Rome, of course. But I wanted you to see with your own eyes how peace can be restored to the mountains once more—with a single head. A gift from me to you, so to speak. You are welcome.”

  Lucius waved the basket away, and his guard moved quickly to comply.

  Marius looked down at the table and saw a red stain where the head had been. On the outside, Marius was as calm as ever. But on the inside, a fire was raging. He hated both of them with all his heart. To let Bato play his games with Rome like this. King Pinnes had most likely kept his promise to Rome, or at least not given in to Bato freely. Marius had no doubt that Bato was behind this rebellion, but that secret would now follow King Pinnes into whatever afterlife the Breucian believed in.

  “Lucius, I thank you for everything you have done for us,” Marius said as he rose.

  “You are leaving us already?” Lucius feigned surprise.

  “I am. We will march early. To Salona.”

  Lucius rose as well. “Yes, of course.”

  Marius turned to leave, but then he stopped to face Lucius once more.

  “We shall miss you here in our sunny, rich Illyricum when you head back to the rainy swamps of Germania.”

  Lucius looked as if he’d been slapped.

  “Make certain you march back rather soon. We would not want to anger our Augustus with another rebellion in Germania and no legions there to crush it. I would hate to have to come to your aid again so soon.”

  Lucius clenched his fists as his eyes darkened. Marius threw him a curt nod and then walked up to Bato. Their eyes met, and if the stare of a man could kill . . . but no, stares don’t kill. Swords do. Marius released Bato from his gaze and strode from the tent. Arminius hastened after him, gulping down his cup of wine.

  “Glory to Rome and his allies!” he heard Lucius shout after him.

  The cool night air hit Marius in the face as he walked to his horse. He grabbed its reins from the soldier who had been waiting outside with the animals.

  Arminius sighed. “If he would just be half as decent on the battlefield as he is insufferable,” he said, leading his own horse next to Marius.

  “If that were the case, Rome would rule the world, the moon, the sun, and the stars.”

  “Will he take glory for our victory?” Arminius asked as they walked their horses out of the camp, soldiers cheering them on from their campfires as they passed by.

  “With a gift like King Pinnes’s head, no doubt. But let him. Maybe that is all he needed to set us free from his games. If I am lucky, Augustus will give him Gaul and set me free from Lucius forever.”

  They mounted their horses. Above them, the moon spread its silver light over an endless sky.

  “Why didn’t you kill Bato?” Arminius asked. “He deserved it more than any of those poor rebel bastards on that field.”

  “Because Lucius wanted me to.”

  “Why did he keep him alive if he wanted him dead?”

  “He does not want him dead. He wants me to kill him. That is a big difference. Bato is popular with his men. His death could start another uprising. Augustus would blame me.”

  Arminius grunted. “Politics.”

  Marius nodded. “Worse than war.”

  They set their horses into motion and rode toward the one thing their bodies and minds craved more than wine, women, or glory: rest.

  Chapter Nineteen

  T he echoes of distant cart wheels bounced off the cobbled streets of Rome.

  Marcus was sitting in his garden again, Decimus next to him, when the sound of banging against the front door startled them. They exchanged worried looks, then rose quickly and rushed to the door.

  Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Marcus lifted the horizontal wooden board out of its latches to open the gate. The doors were large and heavy, so Decimus helped him.

  The smell of baking bread rushed in with the noises of merchants opening their stores. The streets were covered in the grey-blue light of early morning.

  Marcus nodded at the sight of Caesoninus, holding his horse’s reins in his hands. His bright white toga was shining like a lantern in the dark, illuminating his tall, skinny figure and silver hair.

  Marcus opened the gate wider to let him in.

  “Can I offer you anything?” Marcus asked. Caesoninus handed his horse to Decimus and stepped into the first of the many forums of the villa of House Vincius.

  “No. I have to leave soon. I just thought it right to come here first.”

  “Have you not been to Augustus yet?” Marcus asked, his forehead wrinkled high. Caesoninus shook his head.

  The gratitude Marcus felt almost overwhelmed him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, ready to receive whatever message Caesoninus had for him.

  “Are you here to thank me for the sacrifice of a son to Rome, or to congratulate me for his victory?”

  Caesoninus smiled faintly and placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Marius has brought great honor to this house. The rebellion is no more. Your son is alive and well.”

  Marcus let out a sigh of relief. He felt, suddenly, ten years younger.

  “Augustus will be very pleased. Ave House Vincius.”

  “You are too kind,” Marcus said. Then he turned to Decimus. “Prepare my horse. I shall join Caesoninus and see our Augustus.”

  Caesoninus grinned. “I thought you might join me.”

  “Jupiter himself couldn’t stop me from witnessing Julia Ahenobarbus’s face when she learns of this,” Marcus said, smiling for what felt like the first time in months.

  Livia, with Julia standing close behind, waited as one of her guards beat a man with a wooden stick. The man had, after all, almost run into her. The man let out a painful cry and fled into the buzzing crowd of the slave market.

  A group of dancers and prostitutes were being sold, which meant the slave market was filled with perverts and brothel owners. With shouts and raised purses, merchants pushed toward the slaves, who were displayed on raised pedestals. But even in the madness, people noticed Livia’s poorly disguised guards, their black praetorian armor shimmering from underneath brown cloaks. The people hectically pushed against the crowd to make way for them.
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  Livia pulled the hood of her simple brown cloak over her head and stopped in front of a group of Syrian women turning on a pedestal. She always came here in disguise, especially on the day the whores were sold.

  “Why do you always buy him Syrians?” Julia asked, looking over the mingling heads of buyers toward the platform with Gallic women.

  Livia sighed. “He prefers their beauty. But who understands the twisted wants and needs of men?”

  “Does it not bother you that my uncle lays with them?”

  Livia laughed out loud. “Oh dear, not in the least. As long as I can choose his toys.”

  Livia truly didn’t mind the arrangement. Providing women for Augustus only secured her power. He would never leave her for a whore. Something she could not guarantee with the upper-class women in the palace.

  Her eyes scanned the platform and settled on a woman with long, curly hair and big breasts. Like the others, she was chained and had a sign around her neck. But what stood out were her bright blue eyes, something Livia had never seen in a Syrian woman before. She didn’t look dejected either, as most slaves did. Rather, she held herself with confidence, strength still burning in her eyes.

  “Look at that one,” Livia said to Julia, and waved over the slave trader. The fat man came running, sweat dripping off his shiny bald head.

  “How can I be of service?” he said, flashing his yellow teeth.

  “That one.” Livia pointed at the Syrian beauty.

  “At once,” the fat man said and ordered a tall, muscular man to bring her over.

  The woman was dragged to the edge of the platform, her chains scratching against the wood as she inched closer.

  Livia leaned forward to look at what was hanging around the woman’s neck.

  “Syria . . . can read and write . . . blue eyes . . . lactating,” she read to Julia. She clapped her hands together. “Exactly what I was looking for!”

  But Julia was staring at a poster nailed on the platform in front of them. Livia followed her gaze. It was a poster portraying Marius Vincius towering over dead rebels, his body muscular and strong, a sword in one hand, the golden standard in the other. No sight of Lucius Ahenobarbus.