by H. B. Ashman
Amalia held his gaze the whole time, a soft smile on her lips, not flinching once.
“I will return to you. I swear it,” he promised before leaning over to kiss Marcus on his head.
“You are the man of House Vincius now. Take care of your mother,” he said. Marcus cried, burying his face into Amalia’s dress as he nodded.
Tiberius stepped forward, exchanging a strong, short nod with Marius. With that, Marius turned and grabbed the reins of Aithon, his black beast. For a moment, he hesitated, as if he might turn once more and say something, but Marius mounted. The crowd of riders, including Arminius, reacted by straightening their backs on their horses. But Marius made them wait a little longer, spinning his horse around to face Amalia.
“I promise,” he said with a smile.
Without another word, Marius gave his horse his heels and charged it through the parting group of riders. They closed the gap behind him.
All but one: Arminius.
He sat on his armored horse, his gaze focused on Amalia. She took a step forward, about to wish him well, but almost as if she had scared him off, Arminius slammed his heels into his horse, and its hooves thundered over the cobbled road to disappear in the distance with the others.
A terrible thought crossed her mind. This battle in Armenia could take Arminius as well as Marius, both of them gone.
Amalia felt light-headed, nauseous. But just when she thought her worry would make her ill, her son’s small hand gripped hers. Its warmth grounded her. Amalia’s motherly instincts kicked in, and she found the strength she needed.
“Don’t be sad,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Can I come too?” he asked.
“What?” Amalia looked down into his red, puffy-eyed face.
“You and father always say that you will find each other. Can I come too?”
Amalia kneeled down and took Marcus into her arms.
“Of course you can. What would I ever do without you, huh?”
Marcus sniffled and nodded.
“I would never leave you . . . never,” she promised as she squeezed him as tight as she could.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Armenia
T he strong desert winds had covered the cruel sun and all that was beneath it in a cloud of wispy sand for weeks. Salty sweat rolled off Marius’s forehead and into his eyes. His tunic and armor were hot and sticky. They looked dull, just like his hair, which was stiff from salt.
Quintus, Germanicus, and Arminius were to his left and right, Gnaeus thankfully gone. Marius had sent him back to Rome to begin his position in the senate. His time as a tribune had come to an end, and, to be honest, Marius didn’t care if he offended Lucius by refusing to take Gnaeus to Armenia if it meant he was finally rid of the monstrous brat. Belli was also not among them. Marius had left him in Illyricum to speak for him in his absence. The province was stable but still young, and Belli’s non-Roman persona did not seem to agitate the tribes like that of a Roman representative.
Coughing up sand and rubbing their blurry eyes, Quintus, Arminius, and Germanicus watched the besieged fort of Abaddon the Short from a safe distance. Its tall stone walls were on top of a steep hill, blending in perfectly with the colors of the desert and the rocky hills surrounding it. It was the last stop on their military conquest in Armenia, and the most important one as it harbored the very man who was responsible for the death of Gaius Caesar, Augustus’s heir.
With five legions and six auxiliary troops—roughly thirty thousand men—waiting in their nearby marching camps, Marius had considered a frontal attack. But then he analyzed the steep, rocky hills and the narrow dirt path leading to the fort’s only gate, which did not allow for their most powerful formations. Repeated frontal attacks would lead to victory sooner rather than later, and yet the cost of lives would be too great for Marius’s taste. After weighing all options, he had settled on siege warfare. Rome was not known for it, but they were efficient at it nonetheless.
Covering his face with his cloak to protect it from the wind, Marius pulled out a golden strand of hair tied with a leather ribbon and held it under his nose. His nostrils were too dry to smell her scent, but feeling its soft texture under his rough, cracked hand still gave him comfort. He missed them. At times, when he wanted to turn around and march straight back into their arms, he reminded himself that this was all for them. If he could win this last battle for Augustus, Marius would be allowed to retire.
“Look!” Germanicus shouted as he pointed at the fort. His voice barely made it to the others before the winds and red sand swallowed it. The group narrowed their eyes and leaned forward in their saddles. In the far distance, they saw figures moving on the high rock walls of the mighty fort. Unlike Germania or other provinces, Armenia had mastered the art of constructing permanent structures with rock and clay, and the stronghold of Abaddon the Short was one of the strongest in the province. Mighty metal gates kept unwelcome visitors out, and so did its harsh surroundings.
The dark figures rushed back and forth between the mighty towers, dumping large sacks over the walls. The bags bounced down the stone scarps and piled up in the sand.
“Bodies of the starving townspeople,” Arminius said. “Germanicus and I made our way up to the cliff to the edge of their walls last night. They are feeding the soldiers first and are putting the dead into sacks to hide their dire state. The sand will cover the bodies overnight, but there are hundreds of them, if not more.”
Quintus grunted. “That explains the horrendous smell. At least our siege is starting to work. It was just a question of time until they dropped like flies without their food supply.”
Germanicus nodded. “Let them all die for what Abaddon the Coward has done to Gaius Caesar, heir of Rome.”
Marius looked over at him. Rarely had he seen such hatred in Germanicus’s face. And it was understandable. Abaddon the Short had invited Gaius into his fort only to attempt an assassination. Gaius was wounded in the confrontation and died of an infection several months later. But as much as Marius understood Germanicus’s anger—after all, he had been raised with Gaius—he could not let Germanicus’s heart turn to stone.
“What of the women and children? Are they to perish too?” Marius asked.
Germanicus bit his lip. “No, my Praetor,” he said in a softer voice.
“It is a very messy line that separates the enemies of Rome and the innocent in its path,” Marius said. Germanicus nodded, but his face was still twisted in anger.
“In other words,” Arminius added, “something needs to be left to rule, and right now this won’t be the case with this fort’s town.”
They watched as one of the sacks tore open in the hands of an Armenian soldier. The lifeless body of a small girl rolled over the dusty scarp, dropping into the sand like a rock.
Marius shook his head in disgust. “All of this because of a coward.” His looked down at the red sand surrounding Aithon’s hooves.
“I feel pity for these people,” Arminius said. “Abaddon is not even their rightful king. Why would they want to give their lives for a man who is not their own by birth?”
A crushing silence lingered. Marius shook his head and said: “Is it not enough? All this bloodshed, and pain . . .”
“What?” Quintus asked, his lips cracked and dry.
“I asked if it is not enough. The corpses, the horror . . . war,” Marius repeated, his voice determined and clear.
“That is something you will have to ask the people who protect the coward.” Quintus nodded toward the fortress as more and more bodies were thrown into the hungry sand dunes.
For a moment Marius tilted his head in thought, then narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you are right.”
“Who . . . me?” Quintus raised his brow and pointed at himself.
“Yes.”
“Good . . . um . . . about what exactly?”
Marius straightened in his saddle. “That I should ask them.”
Germanicus, Arminius, and Qu
intus exchanged confused glances, but Marius had already brought his horse into motion.
“Ask them what?” Quintus yelled after him, urging his horse next to Marius’s. Moments later, Arminius and Germanicus rode forward as well.
“To end this,” Marius shouted over the sound of the wind and their horses’ hooves.
“By Pluto’s dick, you cannot be serious!” Quintus yelled.
“My Praetor, I don’t think that is a good idea,” Germanicus said.
“They will kill you on the spot! An arrow will find your chest before you get a word out,” Arminius insisted. “Let me get the men,” he added, and was about to turn his horse around.
“Stop!” Marius said. “If that archer can hit me in this poor sight and strong winds, then he deserves to gain that glory. No. I will ride without the men. If they march with me, it will start a battle.”
“So you are just going to ride to the fort and shout up their walls?” Quintus said.
“Pretty much.” Marius was unfazed and determined. “You can remain here if you prefer.”
All three officers kept their horses in pace with Marius’s.
Arminius and Quintus reached to grab the grips of their swords, but Marius shook his head. “Don’t. It will only make their archers more nervous.”
The wind picked up, bouncing off the cliffs and walls of the fort. Aithon stepped sideways and threw his head up in protest over the miserable conditions. The majestic black horse was painted with dirt and dust, turning his coat red and brown.
Shading his eyes, Marius could barely see, but Aithon and the other horses seemed to know the way to the fort’s rusty metal gate.
As they closed in on the fort, the wind was blocked by the rising walls, revealing the fort’s entrance gate.
Arminius dusted off his metal cuirass. “Without wind, the archers don’t need to be so talented to find their targets,” he said.
Marius ignored him and stretched out both of his arms in supplication.
“I am here to talk,” he shouted as Aithon came to a halt, scraping his hooves over the sandy ground.
Several round metal helmets poked up from behind the towering walls to get a better look at the strange scene unfolding in front of the gate. Their green shirts looked unwashed, their chainmail dull and rusty.
There weren’t many soldiers; Marius counted several dozen. If this were a true reflection of their numbers, he could take the fort by storm within a few days.
His gaze fell to the dirty woolen sacks along the scarps, a hand or foot sticking out here and there.
“Where is your legion?” an older soldier hollered down from the walls.
“I am here to talk. I don’t need my legions for that.”
“Though they would set a nice tone,” Quintus mumbled, holding his shield up high over his head, a long, deep scar running across his entire arm—a gift from the battle at Pannonia.
The soldiers on the wall scanned the road and surrounding hills, their faces tense.
“If this is a trick, our king is not here. He can’t hear you and won’t come out,” another soldier announced, his dark beard and thick eyebrows making it hard to see the tip of his nose and eyes.
“I am not here to talk to Abaddon. He is not your king,” Marius declared. “Your king is dead and fell honorably, unlike Abaddon the Short, who hides like a child behind his mother’s dress.”
The Armenian soldiers exchanged puzzled looks, speaking hectically. Then, from behind the soldiers, an old man in a red robe appeared.
The robe of a priest, Marius thought.
“What is your message for us?” the old man asked Marius. His small eyes under his bushy white brows narrowed to slits.
“Look around you with those watery eyes from the stench of death,” Marius said. “Look at your wives and children. Your brothers and sisters. Your parents and friends, or whoever else is still amongst you. Then ask yourself: Is it not enough?”
The soldiers started muttering again. But the older man stood still, staring down at Marius.
Marius edged Aithon closer to the gates. “I said look at them!”
A few of the men on the wall started to turn slowly, peeking over their shoulders into the town. The religious leader held Marius’s gaze a moment longer, eyebrows drawn tightly, but then he too turned, his small eyes settling on something or someone on the other side of the wall, out of Marius’s sight.
“Now I ask you again—and I will ask you only once more before I ride my horse back to my legions and take this city by force . . .”
Marius looked over to the piles of bodies, then jerked his head up to the men on the wall.
“Is it not enough?” His voice echoed over their heads, carried by the winds. After the last echo died, there was only silence. No answer. Nothing.
Marius exchanged a last glance with the priest, then nodded and turned his horse. Quintus, Arminius, and Germanicus followed suit.
Marius sighed. His heart felt heavy, but he would stand by his word and take the fort and city by force.
Their horses had barely made it a few feet down the sandy road when the squeaking of opening metal gates sounded behind them.
Marius, Quintus, Arminius, and Germanicus shot around in their saddles. Slowly but surely, a small group of soldiers opened the gates, revealing a scene of horror that had been hidden from the legions’ eyes for weeks.
A gigantic pile of corpses was gathered behind the gate. Filthy-looking men and women wearing cloth around their noses were dragging bodies out of the pile to put them into sacks. Starving people were sitting motionless in the middle of the street, some of them half-dressed, flies harassing them. The carcasses of dogs and horses littered what seemed to have been a market once. A little boy was chewing on what looked like horse droppings, his unwashed mother next to him, staring with unblinking eyes at the pebbled ground.
“By Jupiter,” Germanicus whispered, shaking his head.
Arminius looked away with a frown while Quintus covered his mouth and nose. Marius clenched his jaw.
“Quintus, go get the men. Tell them to carry water and bread instead of their shields.” Quintus nodded and rode off instantly, as if he wanted to flee the horror of the scene. Marius turned Aithon to face the small group of soldiers who had opened the gate and the older priest in the red robe, who had joined them.
“Abaddon, is he hiding in the palace’s cellar with a group of his best soldiers?”
The older man nodded. “Around twenty. They have a lot of food, so they are strong and ready for a fight.”
It had been a while since Marius had felt the kind of rage exploding inside him now. Abaddon was not a coward; he was an animal. No, not an animal. No animal would treat its kind like this. He was a beast from the underworld.
“Good,” Marius said, drawing his sword.
“I could not agree more,” Germanicus said, also drawing his sword.
“Just give the word,” Arminius added, his sword already in hand.
“Let’s go get that cunt,” Marius said, his voice trembling as he charged Aithon into the city that he had taken not by force, but by mercy.
Augustus and Marcus were at a hearing when the senate floor erupted in wild mutters. A cold shiver took a hold of Augustus. Had Marius lost the war? Were his legions defeated?
“Ave Vincius!” a young man’s voice boomed into the senate building from outside, followed by another man yelling the same.
Augustus rose, as did Marcus and the hundreds of senators.
A soldier of Rome, a messenger, bolted into the building. His feet hammered against the mosaic floors. He stopped in front of Augustus and handed him a note.
Augustus opened it anxiously, a rare state for him, then let out a sigh of relief. He looked up at his senators, his eyes proud and serious. “Armenia is at peace once more. Abaddon the Coward is dead, and his body is on its way to Rome for display!”
With the shouts and cheers came fists and hands in the air. Hundreds of senators stompe
d their feet as Augustus strode over to Marcus and placed his hand firmly on his shoulder.
“It is time,” he said with a small smile on his face. “Let us bring your son’s triumph to the senate for a vote.”
Marcus opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.
Augustus turned to face the senate. “My friends.” He lifted both his arms, spreading them wide. The senate floor calmed. “What is Rome,” he asked, his eyes glistening, “but its people? I say listen to their voices, listen to their demands.” He pointed outside as the cheers and chants of the people of Rome echoed through the hall of the Curia Julia. “I say listen. I say Rome has spoken. I say Marius Vincius shall be welcomed back with a triumph for what he has done for us!”
At first, a wave of shocked mumbles hit the rows of the senate. But as quickly as the mutters had appeared, they turned to loud claps and roars of agreement.
With a satisfied smile, Augustus listened to the hollers of the people of Rome and the senate. He knew there would be no better First Citizen than Marius Vincius, a man who did not want such powers but ultimately would accept them—for the future of Rome. The great and powerful Rome, he thought, with just a hint of melancholy.
His palms started to hurt, but Marcus kept clapping along with the other senators. His heart pounded hard against his chest. The news had come almost like a physical blow. Not in this lifetime or beyond would he have ever dared to dream that his son would rule Rome. It was intoxicating, a feeling like none other.
Marcus looked over to the seats of Varus and Lucius, just in time to catch a glimpse of them shoving their way out the buzzing senate.
Marcus’s exhilaration quickly faded.
“Marcus!” Cicero hollered as he made his way to him. “May the gods bless that glorious son of yours!” He was grinning wide.
“Thank you,” Marcus said, staring at the place where Varus and Lucius had just vanished. “He will need it.”
