Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  Amalia walked up to the fountain and ran her hand through the water. It felt cold, grounding. For a moment, her thoughts pulled her back to the endless marches and washing in the ice-cold rivers.

  “What sort of relationship?” she asked, not sure what answer she was hoping for. She looked at her rippled reflection—her woolen dress, the way Anat had braided her hair. She didn’t see Amalia of Germany. She saw Germanica of Rome.

  Arminius cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could teach me about your tribe, and I will teach you about Rome.”

  “Germanicus is already teaching me everything I need to know.” Amalia winced at her own stubbornness. Why was she so harsh with him? He had done nothing to her that was out of the ordinary for these times. And he had kept her safe. She was no better than a little girl being mean to the boy she liked.

  “Germanicus? Teaching you? Oh please.” Arminius rolled his eyes. “All your puppy knows about Rome are gladiator games and the glorious tales of his father, Drusus the Germanicus. And even those are inflated thanks to his grandmother Livia.”

  His words hit home with her. She actually smiled, thinking of the way Germanicus had bragged about his famous father. Amalia forced the smile from her face, crossing her arms. “Why do you want to be friends? What do you get out of it?”

  Arminius’s eyes were focused on her, unblinking. “I am not certain myself.”

  Amalia laughed, turning away.

  “I am not jesting. I know it sounds crazy. But the gods have sent you to me, and I don’t know why. That white owl, I . . .”

  There are no gods, and that owl was only an owl, Amalia almost said, but she stopped herself just in time. “I don’t believe in omens,” she said instead.

  “You sound like Marius.”

  “He is a wise man.”

  Arminius straightened his back and stepped closer to her. “Out of all the places in Germania, I found you at the very same lake that I was taken from as a child.”

  Amalia frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Arminius opened his mouth, but then he closed it again.

  “What do you know about that lake?” she asked.

  “More than any Roman, that is for sure. I was raised there, before they took me.”

  Amalia knew that Arminius was raised in Germania before Rome had taken him, but she didn’t know that it was the exact same place she’d been raised—two-thousand years in the future, that is.

  “Very well,” she said. “What do you know about Germania?” It was an odd question for a so-called Germanic tribeswoman, but she had to risk it.

  “Germania?” He raised his brow.

  “Your tribe, I mean. I assume it’s quite different from mine.”

  Arminius nodded. “The Cherusci are not my tribe any longer. I am Roman now. But they live near the lake and far beyond that. Women are warriors like you, although not quite like you. They believe in many gods, such as Freya and Odin, but none is as powerful as Yggdrasil.”

  Amalia had never heard of that god before. “Yggdrasil?”

  “Your people don’t pray to the holy tree?” Arminius asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I will teach you then. But I am afraid we would bore Germanicus. It has nothing to do with his famous father,” he said, raising his voice and glancing over Amalia’s shoulder. Amalia turned to see Germanicus stepping out from the shadows of one of the white columns surrounding the atrium. Had he been eavesdropping?

  “Primus tired of me quickly,” he said as he strode over.

  “Are we friends then?” Arminius asked Amalia quickly.

  She nodded. “Yes, for now.” She tried to stifle a smile.

  Arminius matched her smile with his own, then turned to Germanicus. “You think Primus would give us Marius’s good wine if you ordered him to?”

  “Why me? Ask him yourself,” he said.

  “I’m merely a humble soldier, not an heir to the Roman throne.”

  Germanicus grimaced. “There are too many ahead of me.”

  “I will give you some of his cheap wine, you children,” Primus’s voice echoed through the garden as he approached carrying an amphora. Anat followed him with a tray and cups.

  “And we shall not refuse it,” Arminius said, slapping Germanicus on his back and making him stumble forward.

  Amalia looked into Primus’s dark eyes and saw the message written there, plain as day: he didn’t trust her. He probably thought she was a spy or something. And who could blame him? Amalia was more than peculiar, even for a Germanic.

  She grabbed a cup and thanked Primus, who nodded and then disappeared back down the hallway.

  Amalia lifted the cup to her lips and took her first sip of Roman wine. The cool liquid ran down her throat. It tasted similar to wines she’d had back home, just a bit sweeter, almost fruity like sangria.

  “Is Marius returning soon?” Amalia asked.

  Germanicus and Arminius exchanged curious looks. She shouldn’t have asked. It was none of a servant’s business what the legate was up to.

  “If he is, you will do well to stay out of his way,” Arminius said. “Quintus might be retiring because of his injury in Pannonia, and our legate is not exactly pleased about it.”

  Germanicus nodded.

  “I’m sorry.” Amalia took another sip of wine.

  “Ah, Quintus deserves it. His woman and children will be glad,” Arminius said, faintly smiling.

  “He has given Rome enough,” Germanicus agreed.

  “Very well then. To Quintus’s retirement.” Amalia lifted her cup.

  “A good reason to drink,” Arminius said, doing the same.

  “May the gods bless him . . . and this horrible wine,” Germanicus said, squinting as he emptied his cup.

  An oil lamp from the hallway cast flickering orange light onto the ceiling in Amalia’s room. Same as most nights, she lay awake haunted by memories of Anni and her mother. She heard footsteps and voices from the hall.

  Amalia got up quietly, so as not to wake Anat, and tiptoed into the atrium behind one of the columns. From here, she could see over the pool and into what she guessed was Marius’s study. The red curtains were open this time. Marius stepped into view. She saw a pair of hands untying his armor, but the rest of the person was hidden behind a wall. Primus no doubt.

  “Is Quintus improving?” Primus’s voice echoed through the atrium, just loud enough for her to hear.

  “Physically, yes. But he thinks his injury is a betrayal to me, and nothing can convince him otherwise.”

  “It will get better once he is united with his wife. She is as wise as he is stubborn. She will find a way.”

  Marius nodded. Even from this distance, Amalia could see his hesitation.

  “You should rest now, my Legate,” Primus said, stepping into view as he folded Marius’s cloak.

  “After I reply to this.”

  Marius handed Primus a letter.

  “Our First Citizen is visiting Salona this spring?” Primus sounded astonished.

  “Yes,” Marius said, slumping into the nearest chair. His face was now clearly visible. He looked exhausted.

  “Does . . . does that mean . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Marius said.

  “He will make you first praetor of Illyricum, an honor like that of Caesar’s Gaul or Drusus’s Germania! Your father must be ecstatic!”

  “I assume so,” Marius said, emotionless.

  Primus took a step toward him. “You are not pleased?”

  Marius stared at the floor a moment, then asked: “Remind me again, what did Socrates say about war?”

  Primus lowered the letter. “That only the dead have seen the end of it.”

  Marius steepled his fingers. “So that is what it will take then.”

  Primus held the letter up to his face again. “There might not be another war. Our Augustus has chosen you because you are good at what you do.”

  “Ah, yes. Killing.” Marius rubbed his forehead.

 
Primus shook his head. “Keeping peace for our Pax Romana,” he corrected.

  “Of course. Forgive me,” Marius said. “I shall stay for a few days, then ride to speak to Bato.”

  “The Breucian?”

  “By Jupiter, no. The only sound the Breucian shall hear from me next time I see him is the ringing of my sword. I was talking about Bato the Daesitiate. If he keeps his promise of peace, my years as praetor might be bearable.”

  Primus nodded. “He is the wiser of the two Batoes, after all.”

  “And the more honorable one.”

  “That too. I shall arrange for your peace and quiet while you are here,” Primus said, disappearing behind the wall again, out of Amalia’s sight.

  As soon as he was gone, Marius lifted his head, looking straight at her.

  Amalia turned and rushed back to her room, closing the curtain behind her. She jumped into her bed and shut her eyes, listening for Marius coming after her. She felt like a child caught sneaking into the kitchen for cookies. What an idiot.

  But Marius never showed.

  The next morning, Amalia rose soon after the sun. Anat was still breathing heavily beneath her sheets. Amalia had made it her main agenda to stay out of everybody’s way, especially Marius’s. She walked quietly through the garden to see if the cook needed her help, when Marius’s voice startled her.

  “Ah, you are awake.”

  She jerked around to find him sitting on a red lounge chair next to a white marble statue of a goddess holding a snake. He looked refreshed, his white tunic bright and free of wrinkles.

  “Yes. Sorry. Did I wake you?” she asked, realizing how stupid the question was. Of course she didn’t wake him.

  “No, I don’t sleep much.”

  “Good,” she said, biting her lip. “I mean, not good. Not good. Yes.” Get it together, Amalia!

  Marius let out something that might have been a laugh, might have been a small cough. “I’ve been wondering about your tribe,” he said, rising from his seat. “Perhaps you could tell me more about them.”

  “Yes, of course . . . now?”

  “If you don’t have anything else to do.”

  “Of course not. Whenever it pleases my legate,” she said. Yes, good. Very politically correct.

  Marius started walking out of the garden and passed his study. Amalia followed him closely.

  “Primus cleared a room for us and has placed layers of cloth on the floor. This way you won’t hurt my back again,” he said as he strode down a short hallway.

  “Did I hurt you at the river?” Amalia asked, her voice rising awkwardly high.

  “No,” he said, opening the curtain to a medium-sized room. It was empty, and the floor was covered makeshift mattresses made of cloth, just as he had mentioned. The two small windows let in enough light to see, and yet it had the feel of a storage room to it. “A tall soldier in Aegyptus hurt me years ago when he hit me in the back with a rock.”

  Amalia nodded and walked into the middle of the room. Marius followed her and stopped a few feet in front of her.

  “So, how do we begin?”

  Amalia looked at him.

  “We start with the postures. No throw will work if you don’t shift your weight correctly.”

  Amalia modeled a basic posture: knees slightly bent, her head centered over her hips, and her feet shoulder width apart.

  “So tell me again,” he asked, as he copied her pose, “where is your tribe located?”

  By now Amalia had answered this question plenty of times, so her lie came naturally. “Far, far north. Farther than any Roman has been.”

  “Ah yes,” he said, as Amalia stepped back and took a closer look at his posture. “That must be very far. Drusus made it all the way to the sea. Where the Cauci live, past the Frisi.”

  Amalia tried to keep her calm. “Yes. My tribe is even farther. May I?” She raised her hands in front of him to ask for permission to touch him.

  “Be my guest.”

  Amalia leaned over and grabbed his left ankle above his sandal.

  “So do you have roads in this tribe of yours?”

  “Roads? No.” She wiped her palms on her tunic. Where was he going with this?

  “I see,” he said. “So how do you learn to build bridges if you don’t have roads?”

  Amalia swallowed. Her back was against the wall now. There was only one thing to do: ignore the question entirely. Amalia focused on his posture and pushed his foot two inches backward. Many judokas might have missed it, but she knew right away that he leaned too heavy on his front foot.

  Marius didn’t say a word. Her gaze still focused on his foot, Amalia straightened her back, pretending that nothing was the matter. But on the inside, she was shivering. Did he notice? Avoiding his eyes, Amalia gave Marius a light push on his left shoulder. He didn’t bend, which meant that his weight was centered well.

  “That is a good pose, my Legate,” she said.

  But Marius didn’t respond, so she looked up at him, her gaze meeting his. His dark brown eyes cut her like a knife. He knew. He knew she was lying. Why else would he trap her like this?

  Amalia stumbled backward and tore her eyes away. Should she run? Lie more?

  “We can talk later.” He nodded as if he’d known everything all along.

  “Whatever pleases my legate,” Amalia said.

  “Of course.” Marius looked down at his feet and then back to her. “Shall we begin?”

  Quintus and Marius were sitting in the atrium of Quintus’s small villa, his wife serving them wine. It was too big to be a simple house and too small to be a real villa, and yet it was more than most had, and more than Quintus and his wife would ever ask for.

  Short and big nosed, she was not a very pretty woman, but she had stood by her husband over the many difficult years of a military marriage, not complained once, and was always there to help mend her husband’s war wounds—mental and physical.

  A swarm of young children, his own as well as the neighbors’, chased one another around the table.

  “By Jupiter, be quiet!” Quintus shouted at the children, shaking his good arm’s fist at them. But the children ignored him, screamed even louder, and then bolted off into the kitchen.

  “Don’t you touch the honey cake!” he yelled after them, but they were already gone.

  “Tullia, please go and keep them away from the cake,” he begged his wife, his voice desperate.

  She laughed and threw Marius a wink. “Yes, husband, I will.”

  Quintus rubbed his stiff left arm as he watched her leave. Marius looked at the enormous wound that started from his neck and ran all the way down to his elbow. By now, it had scarred well, but the wound had cut through muscle. Quintus would never be able to use the arm again.

  “I can still serve. You know that,” Quintus said, his box-shaped face frowning.

  Marius pitied his friend, and if it were up to him, he would let him serve until the underworld swallowed the earth. But Rome would never approve of a one-armed camp superior.

  “Just give it a little more time,” Marius said, his voice soft. “Enjoy your children.”

  “And how about your children?” Quintus asked.

  Marius laughed. “I have sent Gnaeus back to Rome. If the gods do not hate me too much, I will not be asked to take him on for another term. I made Germanicus the broad-striped tribune in his stead.”

  “That was wise. Nobody will challenge a promotion for Livia’s grandson. What about Arminius?”

  “He will take control of the cavalry. With Belli’s help, of course.”

  Quintus nodded. Then he looked toward the kitchen, toward the sound of laughing children. “And the position of camp superior?” he asked. “Have you filled it yet?”

  “No. I hope—”

  “No, not the legate’s cake!” they heard Tullia yell from the kitchen.

  Quintus shook his head. “Those children. The gods have punished me.”

  Marius smiled, but, watching Quintus an
d his family, he could not help but wish it were him who’d been wounded and was returning to a wife and laughing children. But the gods loved their wars. He would die alone on a battlefield—he was sure of it.

  Suddenly, he thought of Amalia. He had watched her many times from the distance during the marches from Pannonia to Salona. She was hiding something—that much was clear. But what? Never had he been more fascinated and confused. He was beginning to understand Arminius’s obsession with her.

  “Marius,” Quintus’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw Tullia standing in front of him with the cake and the swarm of children behind her, eyeballing the honey cake like a starving horde of tigers.

  “Are you all right?” Quintus asked.

  “Yes, yes. Quite so,” he said.

  Tullia narrowed her eyes at Marius, then grinned wide as if she knew Marius had been thinking about a woman.

  “By Jupiter, what is it now, woman?” he asked her.

  Tullia smiled at her husband. “Nothing. Now go get more wine for the legate.”

  Quintus growled, but rose to do as she said—the camp superior to one of Rome’s most famous and powerful legions, hopping away like a cowed puppy. Marius smiled at Tullia. The true power of Rome, he thought.

  It was early morning when the noise of several hooves thundering down the street in front of the villa woke Amalia. The sun was not visible yet, but its rays already lit up parts of the sky from beyond the horizon.

  Anat was sitting on her bed, mending one of her dresses in the dim light of their oil lamp.

  “Our patron is riding out to the south. He will be gone for a few weeks.” Anat nodded at the window without lifting her gaze from her dress. It had barely been a few days since Marius had returned to the villa, and now he was leaving again? They had trained every day, sometimes twice, although it felt like Marius was more interested in interrogating her than he was in martial arts. He asked her all kinds of questions, but she was more careful now, more guarded and cryptic in her responses.

  Amalia rushed to the little square window and stood on her tiptoes to peek outside. The whole street was cramped with riders—Roman cavalry.