Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  Creaking loudly, the gates to the villa opened, and Marius strode out dressed in full war armor with a long crimson cloak draped over his cuirass. A soldier ran toward him, leading his black stallion. Marius mounted the horse in silence, his face blank, when Arminius appeared from the crowd of riders to take his place next to him.

  As if he’d known she were watching, Arminius looked up to her window. He smiled his usual charismatic grin. She returned the smile, silently wishing him good luck wherever Rome was taking him now. Marius followed Arminius’s gaze, his eagle eyes finding hers. Her blood froze as she jumped away from the window. Why was she so shy around him? Fear? Maybe. For some reason, a single look from Marius made her want to disappear into a hole in the ground. Leaning the back of her head against the wall, she closed her eyes.

  “Move out!” Marius’s voice echoed through the streets. Hundreds of hooves set into motion, thundering down the cobblestones before fading into the distance.

  Carefully, Amalia peeked out the window once more. Except for a stray cat, the street was empty again, as if she’d dreamed it.

  “Our patron is handsome,” Anat said, a mischievous smile on her lips.

  Amalia looked away from the window. “What are you saying?” she asked. Her Vulgar Latin had improved dramatically.

  “Me? Nothing,” Anat said. “I am just observing.” Her smile grew.

  Amalia snorted a fake laugh. “I’m going to see if there’s work to be done in the kitchen.” As she stormed out of the room, she could practically feel Anat’s smile following after her.

  Arminius was riding behind Marius, right in the center of the small cavalry they had brought along to meet with Bato the Daesitiate, king of his tribe. The journey into the heart of Illyricum had been without incident. It was a cloudy day but, much to the soldiers’ relief, without rain. The rolling hills and plowed fields of the Daesitiate’s land were a welcoming sight.

  These parts of Illyricum were rich in precious metals and produce, and Rome knew this as well as the Daesitiate did. For a province tribe, the Daesitiate was incredibly organized. Its leaders were cunning and wise beyond their years, and Bato the Daesitiate was the perfect example of that.

  Like most of the journey, Arminius was thinking about Amalia. He couldn’t seem to help himself. He was brought back from his thoughts as Marius slowed his horse to ride next to him.

  “You are awfully quiet these days,” Marius said.

  “I am just tired, my Legate.”

  Marius nodded. “Tell me, what do you know of the Germanic woman’s tribe? You spent a lot of time with her on the marches to Illyricum.”

  Arminius frowned. “Not much. She did not speak of her home a lot.”

  “But she seems to ask a lot of questions about ours,” Marius said.

  “Meaningless questions, my Legate. Mostly about the Germanic tribes.”

  “She asks about the tribes?” Marius asked.

  Arminius nodded. “Her tribe is very different from the Cherusci. I have never come across any Germanic like the Germanica.”

  “She is very unusual indeed.”

  “Do you think her a spy?” Arminius looked at Marius.

  Marius kept his gaze locked on the road. “I don’t know what to think of her, but she has saved my legion, and for that I am in her debt. As for the rest . . . time will tell.”

  There was a commotion ahead. Soldiers parted for one of the scouts, who galloped toward Marius. “My Legate,” he shouted, bringing his horse to a halt. “Bato’s fort is right behind this hill.” He pointed at a green rise not a mile away.

  “Good,” Marius said. “Let us pick up the pace and make an impression.” He gave his horse his heels. It neighed before launching into a gallop.

  The cavalry, some fifty soldiers strong, followed their legate, their horses’ thundering hooves pounding against hard earth.

  As they crested the hill, they saw farmhouses along the side of the road. A boy stormed out of one of them, clapping his hands at the cavalry, before his mother pulled him back inside by his ear.

  It was not much farther until the high stone walls of Bato’s fort appeared. It was no match for a full Roman legion, but it could hold a few thousand souls.

  Marius brought his horse to a halt right in front of the fort’s closed wooden gates, and looked up its walls at the guards, who looked nothing short of terrified. The cloud of dust created by the sheer force of the horses swirled up the walls of the fort and beyond.

  They waited not long before a man in his forties, dressed in a blue silken tunic, emerged on the wall next to the guards. He leaned over, his bearded face looking down onto the soldiers of Rome.

  “Is that all you brought, Vincius?” he said, waving his hand in front of his face to help with the dust cloud.

  “It is, Bato.”

  Bato frowned. “Does that mean you are not here to kill us for the sins of Bato the Idiot?”

  “Is that what they call him now?” Marius asked.

  “It’s what I call him.”

  Marius leaned forward in his saddle. “I am not here to kill you. Now tell your guards to open the gates. We rode all day. My men are hungry and need a drink.”

  Bato waited a moment longer, as if to show he did not blindly jump when ordered, then gestured for his men to open the gates.

  Creaking, the colossal doors opened from the inside, revealing a buzzing town.

  The small village within the fort was prospering. Farmers were selling their goods on wooden stands, and tribal soldiers shared drinks on benches outside of taverns.

  Marius and Arminius dismounted as Bato silently led them to his house in the middle of the fort. The earth-tone building was larger than the other homes, but nothing compared to a Roman villa. Bato was a rich man, but he was not foolish enough to parade his wealth in front of his village—or Rome.

  They entered through its wooden gate and strode through a small atrium with a shallow pool, past guards and servants, and into a dining hall. It was a stuffy and depressing room compared to the Roman atriums and buildings, with columns reaching for the sky. A large fire was flickering in a simple mantle of grey stone, and the walls were bare but for a few hunting trophies.

  “Congratulations on your praetorship,” Bato said, as he motioned Marius and Arminius toward a large wooden table in the middle of the hall.

  “Thank you, although I am not quite praetor yet,” Marius said. “But your spies keep you well informed.”

  “Not well enough, or I would have known you were coming before my guards alarmed me of riders.”

  Arminius examined Bato. He looked well. His short brown curls did not show a strand of silver, and the years of peace had fattened him.

  Marius smirked. “You say this as if you are surprised to see me. I am certain you figured I would come.”

  An older woman walked into the hall holding a wooden tray with a wine amphora and silver cups on it.

  Bato picked up one of the cups. “You are now the king of all of Illyricum. From the north of Pannonia to the south of Dalmatia. From the high mountains to the shiny sea. How does that feel?”

  The woman filled their cups with wine, then bowed and left.

  “Hardly a king,” Marius said, drinking from his wine. “It feels more like another chain around my foot.”

  Arminius took several large gulps of his wine; he’d need as much to get through this conversation.

  “A golden chain then,” Bato said. “Your Augustus was wise to make you praetor. Some of the tribes trust you more than your precious Rome.”

  “Yes . . . some.” Marius turned his cup in his hands as if examining the design.

  Bato set his own cup on the table with a thump. “In that case, your trip was a waste. My name is not Bato the Idiot, nor is it Bato the Liar. I gave you my word. As long as you keep yours, I shall keep mine.” He looked up at the ceiling, his hands raised as if in prayer. “With the gods as my witness.”

  Marius’s stared at Bato in silence, then
nodded. “I am glad to hear it. I have a request to add to our agreement.”

  “A request or an order?”

  “That is up to you. I want you to exile Bato the Breucian from your lands. Make him an outcast to demonstrate your loyalty to Rome.”

  “I see.” Bato leaned back in his chair. “You mean you want me to ban him from the Roman province you let me pretend is my land?”

  Marius drank another sip of his wine.

  Bato leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his long beard. “Be at ease. The Breucian is not welcome here. None of my men joined his rebellion. And what he did to his king is beyond disgusting. The next time I see him, he shall taste the metal of my sword.”

  Marius rose. This was all he needed to hear. “I am glad to hear it.”

  Arminius threw back the rest of his wine, then got up to his feet.

  Bato did the same and walked with them to the hall’s wooden doors, which opened from the other side to reveal two guards.

  “I assume taxes will double to compensate for the damage the rebellion has inflicted?” Bato asked.

  “No,” Marius said. “At least not yet.”

  Bato gave a small bow. “If I were the praetor of Illyricum, I would revisit the leaders of the tribes. Just to reassure them that Rome is watching.”

  Arminius could practically feel Marius’s frown.

  “Is watching over them, that is . . . not watching them.” Bato grinned.

  “Rome is always watching,” Marius said, turning to leave.

  Back on the streets, Marius’s beautiful stallion threw its head back when Marius mounted, its long black mane bouncing.

  Arminius grabbed the reins of his own horse. “Are we retuning to Salona so soon? I thought we would rest for the day, my Legate?”

  “You are returning. I have to meet with an old friend.”

  Arminius felt the tension building in his neck. “I hope you are not going where I think you are. It might anger our Augustus.”

  “That is why he will not learn of this.” Marius gave him a pointed look.

  Arminius crossed his arms and sighed. “When will you return?”

  “As soon as I can. Lead the men back to Salona. I shall meet you there in a few days.”

  Without another word, Marius turned his horse and rode down the street, past the merchants and drinking soldiers, and through the tall gate.

  Arminius shook his head, in frustration as much as in respect. Marius Vincius was a man of many faces: fearless, honorable, loyal, and, in this case, melancholic as much as unwise.

  A silver beam of moonlight illuminated the small fishing boat Marius was stepping out of. The harbor was as silent as a grave, the dark shadows of trees and houses in its background as motionless as a fresco.

  A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the inky blackness of the night. Marius smiled and strode down the dock with arms wide open.

  Tiberius, the only surviving son of Livia, pulled back his hood as he leaned into Marius’s embrace with a smile. He was about Marius’s age, with a hooked nose that stood out even in the darkness of the night.

  “Not even my own mother comes to see me, but you, my friend, you do,” Tiberius said.

  Marius gave him a strong pat on the back before releasing him from his embrace. “How could I miss it?” Though it was no joyous occasion, today was an important day for his friend.

  Tiberius leaned back to look at Marius. “My stepfather has forbidden it—that is how.”

  Marius shrugged. “He did not forbid me to come. Not word for word, at least.”

  “Do you bring word from Vipsania?” Tiberius asked.

  Marius pulled out a piece of papyrus and held it up to Tiberius.

  But instead of jerking it out of his hands, Tiberius shook his head. “Keep it. I shall read it after we visit the temple.”

  Marius slipped it back into his cloak pocket. “Let us go before somebody sees us.”

  Marius hated the fact that he and his friend had to sneak through the night like thieves, but after Tiberius had exiled himself to this island years ago to heal, Augustus had cast him off as a weakling and prohibited him from ever returning to Rome.

  It was a tragedy brought upon by Tiberius’s domineering mother, Livia. With her desire to see her only remaining son sit upon the throne, Livia had convinced Augustus to force Tiberius to divorce his true love, Vipsania, and marry Augustus’s daughter, Julia, the adulteress. It was nothing short of a theater drama. Their marriage was full of sadness and hate. Soon after their only child died, Tiberius and Julia found themselves in exile, which put an end to this play. But unlike Julia, who was forced to do so by her father, Tiberius had been exiled voluntarily, at least at first. Now, all of Rome avoided Julia and Tiberius like the plague, but not Marius. Tiberius was his friend since military school. A genius commander, he was as clever as his heart was pure, two attributes Marius admired. Every year, Marius would visit his friend to pray to the gods on the day of Tiberius’s son’s death. He understood Tiberius’s pain. He too had lost a wife and child. Besides, this was one of the few times Marius was able to convince himself that he was more than an instrument of death.

  So he made his way to the island of Rhodes once a year to stand with his friend when nobody else would.

  Marius had already walked all the way down the dock when Tiberius grasped his arm. Marius turned. “What is it?” he asked.

  Tiberius sighed, then shook his head. “I don’t know what I would do without you. You are all I have left from Rome, and that is worth more to me than all its glory and gold.”

  Marius smiled. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? You know as well as I do that Rome’s chests are depleted from its wars.”

  They two men laughed, carefree, both aware at how fleeting these moments of light were in a world filled with darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  W eeks had passed since Amalia had last trained with Marius. Most days, she had nothing to do—and yet she got paid a few copper coins for it. If it wasn’t for Arminius and Germanicus, who both paid her regular visits, she would have gone crazy.

  By now, Amalia had gotten used to wearing leather sandals and woolen dresses. They were simple but comfortable. She still put her hair up into a ponytail or bun, but other than that, she had been Rome-ified. She’d even gotten used to the maze of the market streets. She had befriended a local family near the fish market, knew which streets to avoid, and had even watched a play in the amphitheater from high up on the hill. Even more importantly, she had become a regular at the town’s library, the only structure in all of Salona that might have useful information about her predicament.

  It would have been just another sunny day in Salona if it wasn’t for the biggest event of the year taking place. The whole town was in a frenzy. The almighty Augustus himself was expected in the late afternoon.

  People had been lining up on the side of the road for hours—shuffling, pushing, shoulders rubbing together, and toes being trampled. It reminded Amalia of Black Friday.

  Amalia dodged another flower merchant’s basket. She should have skipped her trip to the library today, but she was too excited about the philosopher who was supposed to be in the library today. He returned one of the few scrolls she was interested in—an ancient piece of writing about Germanic gods and old rituals.

  Dodging another basket attack, she fought her way up the enormous white steps of the temple-like library. Breathing hard, she finally pulled herself out of the suffocating crowd to stumble into the round hall of the building. The library had grand columns out front and ancient letters over the entrance. Inside, high ceilings were held up by walls painted with scenes from different mythologies.

  “Amalia!” Asinius hollered over to her. The old man was holding several scrolls in his hands, most likely sorting them. His white tunic looked fluorescent against the brown papyrus rolls staggered in the wooden shelves all around him. He was one of the most educated scholars in town. Amalia had
befriended him during her many trips to the library. He told her the same stories over and over again, some of them interesting, others not.

  “Is the scholar here?” Amalia asked.

  “No. You just missed her.”

  Amalia deflated. How could this happen? She’d arrived hours earlier than necessary. Her first chance at learning more about Germanic rituals and she’d blown it. In all fairness, it was incredibly hard to make appointments here. Except for the months, which were very similar, times and dates were nothing like what she was used to. It was a complicated mess.

  “Now, now,” Asinius said, “don’t distress yourself. She has returned the scroll you were looking for. The one about the heathen gods.”

  He handed her the rolled-up brown scroll.

  She beamed, accepting the scroll as if it were a newborn baby. She really wanted to meet this scholar, who was apparently the leading expert on the topic, but this was better than nothing.

  “The only problem is,” Asinius said, “it is written in—”

  “What is this?” she blurted out in shock, holding the opened scroll in front of her face. Several of the men who were sitting on stone benches and studying scrolls jerked their heads to raise their eyebrows at her. She was barely tolerated here: Freed, but not a citizen. Educated, but still a woman. If it were not for the fact that she was working for House Vincius, she would probably not even be allowed in.

  “I am as confused as you are. I have never seen writing like this,” Asinius said, shaking his head.

  “Have you never opened the scroll before?”

  “I was not even aware of its existence until the scholar promised to return it.”

  Amalia tapped her fingertip against her lower lip as she took a closer look at some of the strange drawings that were squeezed between oddly shaped letters.

  At its center, the scroll depicted a large black tree with long roots and thick branches reaching down toward the end of the paper. Surrounding the tree were what seemed to be several bubbles, eight of them, each holding figures inside. Some of these figures were people, but others looked too peculiar in size and features to be human. There was also a young woman that looked like a Germanic warrior. She was wearing brown leather pants and metal armor with fur on her shoulders. She held a bloody sword in her hand and had war paint covering her face. She was standing freely next to the tree, without any bubble confining her. Right above her was a black branch with a white owl sitting on top, its amber eyes glowing like gemstones, just like the ones she saw that fateful night.