by H. B. Ashman
They made their way down the dock and into the buzzing harbor market. It smelled of spices and fish and was busier than usual. Amalia noticed several new merchant stands with items from the farthest corners of the empire. Marius always told her that trade was a sign of a stable province.
A stand selling little oriental puppets caught her attention. It had several rows of different animals lined up. A crowd of dirty street children were looking at them and giggling.
“I think Marcus would like one of these. You go ahead. I will see you later at the villa,” Amalia said to Anat.
“I will get some of the vegetables for the cook. I will see you after,” Anat said, and walked over to the vegetable stands.
Amalia walked up to the puppets and picked up an elephant made of white leather. The merchant, a well-fed old man with a dark suntan, smiled at her. He was missing a front tooth, but his smile was friendly.
“One of our best, most popular toys,” he said. “Hannibal the Great was said to have made his way on an elephant like this over the Alps.”
Amalia wasn’t sure who Hannibal was, but she smiled nonetheless.
“It is my son’s favorite animal.” Amalia pulled out a few coins and handed them to the merchant, who turned to look for change in a small chest behind him.
An older woman wearing a dark cape and a hood pulled over her face stopped at the stand next to Amalia. She reached out to pick up a grey leather wolf. She held the wolf in a hand that was covered in dark tattoos, strange symbols that left only a few spots of white skin bare.
“This one would be better,” she said to Amalia in a rough, low voice—in twenty-first-century, crystal-clear German.
“He does like wolves too,” Amalia said back in German, taking the toy from her to look at it more closely before realizing the language she’d just spoken. A language she hadn’t used in years!
An icy shockwave ran through her veins. The elephant slipped through her fingers and fell onto the grey stone of the market street.
Amalia looked down at the fallen puppet before jerking her head up to face the woman, but she had vanished. Amalia turned around, scanning the crowd, but she saw no sign of her.
Scratching her face, Amalia turned back and faced the merchant. “The woman, where did she go?” she asked. The man looked at her, his eyebrows raised high.
“What woman?” he asked, confused.
Amalia smiled in embarrassment. “Nothing . . . I’m sorry. I’ll take this wolf too. And let the children over there choose what they want as well,” she said, nodding at the gathered kids as she handed him more coins. The man smiled wide and waved the kids over, who came bouncing and hopping with high-pitched squeals.
Amalia watched them with a smile, then lifted her eyes to scan the streets one more time, her mind running wild.
The ship was rocking peacefully under the watchful eyes of the silver moon. It was late, but they would reach Rome in the morning. Only the winds and a few sailors were awake on deck, using the moonlight and a few oil lamps to navigate the smooth journey over the Adriatic Sea.
Staying in the safety of the shadows, a man in a dark robe with a beak-like nose pulled out two stone figures of his gods, mumbling prayers into the winds, then whispering a message to carry to his family—a final goodbye.
For a moment, he looked up to the heavens. Not far from the boat, the crystal-clear sky had produced thick black storm clouds, lit up periodically by untamed lightning bolts.
He turned his attention back to the ship, distracted by the hectic voices of more and more men rushing on deck. He frowned, his heart racing. How did a storm like this appear from out of nowhere? It was almost as if the gods were coming for him.
He rose to his feet, determined, and walked over to the knee-high clay amphora he had brought with him. With trembling hands, he lifted it up from the ground and tipped it sideways. The oil spilled beside him as he walked across the wooden deck. He repeated the act with the second amphora he had prepared and drenched the other side of the ship in the highly flammable liquid as well. Then, before he could have second thoughts, he walked to one of the burning oil lamps next to the navigator’s station and grabbed it.
A soldier talking to the navigator, who was anxiously pointing at the storm, noticed the man.
“You!” he shouted. “What are you doing there! Only crew and soldiers are allowed on deck at night!”
But right when the soldier drew his sword, the bird-nosed man in the dark robe smashed the burning oil lamp onto the deck.
In seconds, a raging wave of fire soared over the entire deck. The dark-robed man was swallowed first, tumbling onto his knees with a scream as the flames swallowed him alive.
“Fire!” the soldier yelled.
“Fire!” the screams of the others followed.
The shouts and thundering feet from the deck woke Marius and Marcus at the same time. Thick smoke was crawling into the room from underneath the wooden cabin door. Marius jumped out of bed right before the door was kicked in by one of his soldiers. A wave of smoke and heat invaded the room through the wide-open door.
“Fire, my Legate! You have to come quickly!” the man shouted. Instinctively, Marius grabbed the woolen bedsheet and bolted over to a table with a washbasin on it. He drenched the bedsheet in its water.
“Father,” Marcus voice cried out, his face grimaced in fear.
“You have to be brave now,” Marius said calmly. He strode back to the bed and wrapped Marcus in the wet sheet. “Can you do that?”
Marcus nodded, despite the terror written across his eyes and shaking jaw.
“Let’s go,” Marius said to the solider. He picked up Marcus and rushed out onto the lower deck, where the cabins were located. The smoke instantly invaded their lungs and eyes; it smelled of burned wood and oil. Marcus and Marius coughed uncontrollably and gasped for air.
“Hold your breath!” Marius shouted.
Cabin doors opened and people stormed out, coughing and yelling. It was hard to see through the dark clouds of smoke. Little fires were starting to form all around them.
Marius followed the fleeing soldiers and merchants to the steep stairs that led up to the main deck. With every step, the heat became more and more unbearable.
The moment they made it onto the deck, Marius was filled with panic. The whole deck was bright red, flames reaching several feet into the air, flickering wildly as they devoured whatever they could find.
Marius was paralyzed, anxiously looking for a way to save his son. Suddenly, the boat was blasted to one side by a powerful white-and-grey fist of water. It shook the ship so violently that it felt as though it was about to explode.
Tightening his grip around his son to form a protective cocoon, Marius was propelled backward, hitting the ship’s side railing with his back. Growling in pain, Marcus looked up to the sky. Only now did he notice the pitch-black storm clouds and raging waters that accompanied the fire like deadly lovers. How were they so unlucky? Had the gods forsaken him? And where was the rain in a storm like this?
He grasped onto the railing of the boat and pushed himself and Marcus forward. Never had he felt more lost and desperate. His eyes burned with anger and fear for his son—and Amalia. Would they ever see her again?
Marius took a steadying breath and placed Marcus on his feet in front of him. He could feel his little body trembling under his tight grip, his eyes big and glassy, and yet he did not cry or scream.
A loud snarl of thunder roared above the helpless ship. Then rain finally came in a sudden explosion from above. But Marius knew it was too late. Even without the flames, the damage to the ship was done.
A colossal grey-and-white wave in the far distance caught Marius’s attention. He watched as it grew larger and larger; it reminded him of the mighty Alps he had marched his legions through.
Marcus followed his father’s gaze, but Marius kneeled in front of his son and turned his chin to face him. Time was running out. He knew this wave would take them all, so
he did what his heart told him to do. He looked his son deep into his eyes. “Your mother will always find us, no matter where we go,” Marius promised, doing his best to smile. And as crazy as it sounded, he truly believed it.
Marcus nodded and threw himself into his father’s arms. They held each other for another few seconds. The gods would give them that, at least, before the massive wave swallowed the boat whole.
It was twilight. The calm sky above the sea was showing off its early-morning colors—light blues mixing with pink and red pastel tones. A few birds made their rounds, screeching in the far distance.
Augustus, Marcus, and a caravan of the highest-ranking senators with accompanying soldiers were standing at the shore as more and more wooden pieces from the shipwreck washed up to their feet. The mood was unbearable, the air too thick to breathe.
Fists tightly clenched, Augustus stepped into the sea, his feet covered in sand and water, his gaze set on the horizon.
Marcus inched closer as well, stopping right before the water could reach him. He dropped his empty gaze onto a piece of crimson cloth, a cloak perhaps. In silence, he leaned over and picked it up. A tear ran down his trembling face as the feeling of the cold, soaked cloth in his hands reminded him that this was not a nightmare. It was real.
It was dead silent. Nobody dared to speak, nor wanted to. The next heir to Rome, the best commander since Drusus Germanicus had fallen all those years ago in Germania, was dead. People would whisper of Augustus’s curse in all of Rome. Maybe they already did.
The sun was high when Augustus finally turned, his eyes searching the grieving faces for Marcus.
When he found him, he placed a hand on his shoulder. Marcus did not move, his gaze frozen on the horizon as if hoping to see his son’s ship magically appear.
“My dearest friend,” Augustus said, his face filled with pain, “I beg you to forgive me. My curse has eaten its way into your family.”
His words were sincere, but no comfort. What words could ever be a comfort for someone who had lost a child?
Augustus remained another moment before he turned to face the people desperately waiting for his guidance. His voice trembled, but his words carried loud and clear as he said: “Prepare for a funeral worthy of my own kin, for Rome has lost another heir—perhaps its greatest yet.”
Amalia was in the atrium, looking at scrolls she had purchased from all over the empire, including the strange Germanic one from the library. They were spread out on couches and on the floor. One was even hanging off the white marble sword arm of a statue of Mars, the god of war. Most of the scrolls were lectures on foreign linguistics. She was set on finding a way to translate those strange symbols no matter how long it took. It had taken some time, but with the help of Arminius and the occasional traveling Germanic merchant, Amalia had been able to figure out some of those strange bubbles surrounding Yggdrasil, the holy Germanic tree in the middle of the scroll.
Those eight bubbles were worlds, and Yggdrasil connected those worlds like a gate. The bubble on the very top was Asgard. This bubble had two warriors in it. One was Odin, who was portrayed as a bearded older man holding a black lightning bolt. Next to him was a stunningly beautiful woman with white hair, despite her youth, dressed in golden armor head to toe and a falcon-feather cloak—Freya, the goddess of war.
The second bubble was under the tree’s roots. It had a black background that showed two icy-blue eyes with tiny pupils that were so intense that they looked as if they were about to jump off the papyrus. According to Arminius, this was Helheim, which was ruled by the goddess Hel. The dead who didn’t fall in battle were sent there. To the left of Helheim, also under the tree, was Nidavellir, home to the dwarfs. Then there was Niflheim, a realm of ice and snow, depicted with snowflakes. And Muspelheim, the world of fire, pictured with red flames. Next was Jotunheim, home of the giants, which was portrayed by a giant eating the head of a man; Alfheim, home of the elves; and finally, Vanaheim, home to the Vanir, a different race of gods that lived in a world lush and fertile, which was reflected in the drawing of green plants and colorful flowers surrounding a young woman and man.
Amalia could have put this scroll out of her mind if it weren’t for the fact that these were only eight worlds, which confused Arminius and the German merchants alike. According to them, there should be nine worlds, not eight, with the ninth world being Midgard, the world of the humans. But it was nowhere on the scroll. And the owl and warrior woman had also stirred debate because no one was able to place them.
In Germania, owls were seen as all-knowing messengers, according to Arminius, but why the owl would sit on Yggdrasil was a riddle. Arminius still insisted that he had seen this very white owl before, but the Germanic forests were full of owls. And yet she could not deny that those very amber eyes looked exactly like the ones she stared into right before she passed out and woke up two thousand years in the past.
Amalia was leaning over a different Germanic scroll, translating a few simple words from Latin into Frisian, a northern Germanic dialect. Its symbols looked somewhat similar to the symbols on the scroll.
A loud hammering against the front gate startled her. Primus went running, but before he could open the door, Arminius’s voice entered the villa.
“Amalia!” he shouted as he hammered against the wood once more. Primus tore the gate open and barked something at him, but Arminius strode straight past him and toward Amalia like an arrow seeking its target. The urgency in his walk, the way he grimaced in torment, it turned her blood ice cold. Her heart pounded uncontrollably as if it were trying to break through her chest. She knew. From the moment his eyes caught hers, she knew.
Arminius stopped right in front of her, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His silence sank into her like a knife.
“No,” she whispered. Hot tears started burning their path down her cheeks. Her shaking hands shot to her mouth as her legs gave out. Arminius launched forward, grabbing her just in time. The sudden pain in her chest was unbearable. She wondered whether she were dying, right here and now. She hoped so. She truly did.
“No!” a scream escaped her lungs. “No! No! No!” Her fists hammered against Arminius’s chest again and again, harder each time.
Arminius held her as she screamed and cried—for how long, she couldn’t tell. An eternity perhaps. What did it matter? Time stood still.
Arminius watched as the soft waves on the abandoned shore of Salona unraveled at Amalia’s feet. She stared into the far distance. She had begged and bargained, offered her own life and soul to her god and the ancient ones, but of course nothing had come of it.
The sun was slowly going down, the sky turning from gold to dark blue.
It hurt to see her like this. Amalia’s eyes and nose were swollen and red. Snot ran over her mouth. There was nothing pretty about grief, Arminius thought; it was simply heartbreaking.
Arminius put his hand softly onto her shoulder. “We have to go,” he said.
Her eyes still set on the horizon, Amalia nodded numbly, but didn’t move away.
“Amalia.” He walked around her to block her view, his hand still on her shoulder. “Are you listening? We have to leave.”
Amalia stared right through him. Arminius let out a long, agonizing sigh. His suffering was real, just like hers, but he had not lost a child in addition to Marius. His military training helped him bury his suffering deep down so he could focus on the problem at hand.
He stepped closer, using his other hand to lift her chin until her eyes met his.
“Amalia, the senate is sending men to arrest you. A misunderstanding. We can clear everything up, but we have to leave now. Please.”
Amalia nodded again, but still didn’t move.
Frustrated, Arminius scanned his surroundings. Time was running out. Soon soldiers would come for her. The shipwreck that had been washed onto the shore in Italia was burned like an oil-infused campfire. No natural storm could do such a thing. Questions were raised, answers demanded, and he
ads were turned to the Germanic witch who had apparently conjured a bridge from nothing in two days’ time. There were enough people to testify on Amalia’s behalf, amongst them powerful people like Germanicus, but they needed time to gather their evidence and witnesses, to sway more senators to their side.
“I will be right back,” Arminius said. “I will get us two horses. Stay here, you hear me?”
Amalia nodded.
After one last stare into her empty eyes, Arminius hurried off as fast as he could. If he took the backstreets back to the barracks stables, he could get two horses without attracting too much attention and ride to Rome along the coast to force the senate to see reason. It would add several days to the journey, but it was safer, more private. They could camp in the woods or buy an innkeeper’s silence with extra coin. They could make it work. He would make it work.
Never had Amalia felt more misplaced and alone. It was the most agonizing pain she had ever suffered. It felt surreal yet true. Forever gone were the innocent smiles and giggles of her son, the feeling of Marius’s warmth and protection. How does one recover from this? How does one find the strength to go on?
Amalia stood on the beach, listening to the rising and falling waves. Without taking her gaze off the horizon, Amalia took a step forward, the cold water of the sea swallowing her foot.
What else is here for you?
Like a machine, she took another step, both of her ankles and the bottom of her white dress now in the water.
See? It’s not that hard. It already feels better, doesn’t it?
A few moments later, the waves splashed against Amalia’s belly. Her dress stuck to her skin like glue.
Maybe they are waiting for you somewhere out there. In the darkness of the sea. Just a few more steps and the pain will be gone.
“Don’t be stupid now,” came a rough woman’s voice, speaking in twenty-first-century German. Amalia snapped out of her thoughts. Life weakly flickered in her eyes once more as she realized she was shoulder deep in the sea. She turned quickly and used her arms to push against the water to reach the shore.
