by H. B. Ashman
Streams of water fell down her dress, arms, and legs as she stepped onto the sandy beach, then fell to her knees.
“Don’t think me cold,” the rough voice said in German. “I know your pain.”
Amalia lifted her head to find that woman from the market standing only a few feet away from her. She wore the same cloak and had the same tattooed arms covered in strange symbols.
The woman inched closer as she pulled back the dark hood of her woolen coat. Her hair was silver and wild, and her eyes were light grey. On her forehead, Amalia saw a scar in the shape of the same strange symbol she’d seen on the Germanic scroll—that of an oddly shaped fork.
Slowly raising her trembling arm, Amalia pointed at the woman’s forehead. “That . . . that symbol,” Amalia said. “Who are you?”
The woman shook her head. “Don’t waste time. That doesn’t matter right now. Roman soldiers are coming for you as we speak. So is our prince.”
Amalia’s thoughts and questions were pulling her in opposite directions. And yet her curiosity quickly turned to annoyance.
“What do you want from me?” She rose onto her wobbly legs. “Speak or leave me be.” Amalia was not in the mood for any of this. She had lost her family. She was trapped in a nightmare.
The scream of a bird caught Amalia’s attention. Her gaze followed the noise, and she saw, high above the rocky cliffs, a white bird. She could make out the amber glow of its eyes even from this distance.
Those eyes . . . just like the scroll.
The woman’s gaze followed Amalia’s, then she grimaced in anger. “The storm did not take your husband and son. Who do you think is at fault for you being here in the first place?”
Amalia looked back at the woman. Did she know who Amalia was?
“What do you mean by being here? Where else would I be?” Amalia asked, crossing her arms. The cold wind was freezing against her wet body. The woman remained silent.
Amalia sighed. None of this made sense. She’d had enough. She walked past the old women. She didn’t even care about what she might have to say. What did the secrets of her past matter when her lover and son were gone? Maybe none of this was even real. For all she knew she could be hearing and seeing things, a brief psychosis caused by intense trauma.
Amalia stomped through the sand only a few feet when the women called after her: “You promised to always be with them Amalia Weber, no matter how far Rome would take them. Are you a liar?”
Amalia stopped moving. She turned slowly around. “What?”
The woman shrugged. “Did you not promise such a thing?”
Her hands clenched to fists. “Who are you?”
“That is not important—for now. What matters is that, in a few moments, Arminius will return with two horses.” The woman moved close to Amalia, sand pulling at her cloak. She reached out and grabbed Amalia tightly by her wrist. Amalia wanted to jerk away, free herself, but she couldn’t. It was as if her body were paralyzed.
The woman pulled Amalia closer, her face now only inches away.
“Listen carefully. You will not ride with Arminius. You will wait for the soldiers to take you to Rome. There you will do what needs to be done to free yourself once more. It is what our goddess demands, the first gesture that will repay your debt to her.”
Amalia drew her head back sharply. “What are you talking about? What debt?”
“Your family . . . they are not lost forever.”
Amalia felt a painful jolt burn through her. “They are dead.” Amalia’s eyes welled up.
“They will be if you defy the goddess and deny your destiny.”
Amalia bit her lip. She stared at the sand beneath her feet as a tear rolled down her red cheek. Was this possible? Did this woman really speak the truth? It sounded crazy, but then again she’d traveled back in time, hadn’t she?
“Anything.” Amalia heard herself mutter. “I will do anything.”
The woman nodded, then peeked over Amalia’s shoulder. The sounds of men and horses came from the far distance. Riders were approaching.
The woman poked her sharp black fingernail deep into Amalia’s wrist. Amalia flinched as blood ran down her hand, dripping into the sand.
“Remember,” the old woman said, tightening her grip, her voice hasty and low. “Free yourself. Break your shackles for all of Rome to see.”
“Amalia!” Arminius called out to her. She turned. He was riding up with two horses, ahead of a group of other riders, sand kicking up behind them. Amalia jerked back to face the woman, but she’d vanished. Her eyes shot over to the white bird on the cliff, but it, too, was gone.
“Amalia, are you listening?”
Arminius brought the horses to a stop next to her. “We have to go! Hurry!” He nodded toward the group of soldiers bolting down the beach. “They are coming.”
Amalia shook her head. “But the woman.”
Arminius frowned. “What woman?”
Yes, what woman? Amalia wondered, as her eyes scanned the shore once more but found nothing, not even footsteps. She looked down at her wrist and saw the blood still dripping into the sand. Arminius followed her gaze.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
Then it was real. The strange woman, the promise that she could see her son and Marius again. Sure, it sounded crazy, but what else did she have? If there was even the slightest chance that she could see them again, she’d do anything.
“Over there!” one of the riders, a soldier, shouted in a deep voice. Their horses were fast, bringing them closer and closer.
“Get on!” Arminius yelled, stretching his hand toward her. Instinctively, her hand shot up to grab his, but then she froze. You will not ride with Arminius. You will wait for the soldiers to take you to Rome, the woman’s voice repeated in her head, loud and clear.
Amalia pulled her hand back. Arminius looked outraged but didn’t get another chance to speak. The riders had arrived. They surrounded them. One of them, an older centurion with a skinny face, broke free from the formation and urged his horse next to Amalia. He reached down and grabbed her arm.
“Let her go! I command you!” Arminius shouted at them.
The man holding her arm exchanged confused looks with the other soldiers.
“Are you deaf?” Arminius drew his sword. Hesitantly, the centurion released her and straightened in his saddle.
“My Tribune, please forgive me, but I have orders from Rome.” The man’s voice was pleading.
Arminius dismounted. “And I have given you an ord—”
Amalia stepped in front of him and placed her hand gently on his cheek. His skin felt warm beneath her frozen fingers. His brown eyes met her gaze, confused.
“I will go with them.”
Arminius took a trembling breath. “But—”
Amalia shook her head. “It will be all right,” she promised. “They aren’t here to harm me.” She looked at the riders one by one. “Is that not so?”
The soldiers exchanged quick, embarrassed glances. “No,” one of them finally said.
Arminius looked at the rider who’d spoken. “Of course they won’t. I will come with you to make sure.”
Amalia looked back to Arminius, who was still glaring at the soldiers. She was grateful for him. He’d always been loyal to her. Was it for Marius? Or because he still thought her his omen from the gods?
“Thank you,” she whispered to Arminius, and she pulled back her hand. After holding his gaze a moment longer, she walked over to the group of soldiers.
“Let’s go,” she said, then mounted Arminius’s horse with him.
And as she rode down the beach with Arminius, shivering in her wet dress, Amalia turned around and looked at the spot where the old woman had disappeared. A flash of white caught her eye, and she looked up at the cliff. The white bird was sitting on a rock in the far distance, its amber eyes clearly on Amalia. Those eyes . . . could those be the same eyes?
Amalia turned away, deep in thought. “Free yoursel
f.”
“What was that?” Arminius asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A fter Amalia was taken by boat to the coast of Italia, they traveled the rest of their journey to Rome on horseback. Amalia was strategically placed in the middle of the dozens of soldiers who’d been entrusted to deliver her to the senate. Arminius was always by her side, even now, making certain she was treated with decency.
The paved roads grew bigger and busier the closer they got to Rome, with taverns and inns lined up along the street to the megacity, which, with over a million inhabitants, was exactly what it was.
Right in front of her was a caravan of captured slaves, their shackles playing the music of despair. One of the male slaves looked at her, his dirty face tired and hopeless, his tears dried up long ago.
“We are close,” Arminius said, nodding ahead.
Amalia shielded her eyes from the sun as her gaze settled on the dark contours of a large city on the horizon. Thick trails of smoke rose from the city into the sky, shifting like grass in the wind.
“Cover your nose,” Arminius said, as he pulled his cloak over his face.
Amalia parted her lips to ask why, but then they rode around a curve. She saw an enormous burial pit, filled with decomposing human and animal corpses, garbage, and excrement. Its stench was like a punch in the face. Hectically, Amalia grabbed her cloak and covered her nose, but it didn’t help. She tasted bile in her throat.
Through watering eyes, Amalia saw a young woman dressed in ghostly white rags carrying a baby. She rushed into the pit, stepping on the dead, and laid the infant onto the pile. Then, as the baby began to scream, she turned and fled the scene. Amalia gasped.
“Too poor to feed it,” one of the soldiers explained. Amalia watched in horror.
“We can’t just leave it there,” she said, and was about to ride her horse over to the pit, no matter the consequence, when another woman suddenly appeared. She was older and dressed in a white toga.
“Only senators and whores are dressed in togas,” the soldier said. They watched the woman pick up the screaming infant and climb out of the pit, stepping on human faces as if they were stairs. Amalia threw the soldier a disgusted look and felt a shiver leave goose bumps all over her body.
He shrugged. “At least this one will live. Welcome to Rome.”
The stench had finally weakened when the first major stone buildings appeared. For some reason Amalia had expected Rome to be a colossal fortress, walled in at every corner, but that was not the case. Rome was very similar to entering a twenty-first-century metropolis. Small Mediterranean-looking houses became more and more frequent until temples, bathhouses, markets, and apartment complexes took over. The streets were packed, a chaotic mess. Merchants and shoppers wrestled for space with shouts and shoves. More than once, Amalia saw a brawl break out on the street.
She was taken through the run-down neighborhoods that were filled with gambling taverns and prostitutes. And yet the glory of Rome was visible at every corner. White marble temples and statues brightened up every street, even in the poorest neighborhoods. The public bathhouses and libraries were decorated with enormous marble pillars, their wide entrance halls inviting rich and poor alike. Small wooden theater stages were crammed next to fountains at public places, their plays briefly distracting the crowds from the struggles of life in ancient Rome. But if there was one thing about Rome that impressed Amalia the most, it was the sheer number of ethnicities. Rome was not a city of Italians; it was a melting pot of every country. There were even a few people that Amalia could not place—they looked somehow Asian and African at once.
Her journey came to an end when her caravan reached a two-story limestone building. Arminius had explained that it was a prison for high-profile captives and had some comforts. Apparently, Germanicus and Tiberius had made certain she’d be held here.
She was given a room with a wooden bed and small window. A pile of fresh woolen dresses were neatly folded on a chair. A bowl of cabbage porridge was placed on a wooden desk next to it. Her desk even had papyrus and a wooden pen—most likely to encourage her to confess.
At first, Amalia convinced herself that she wouldn’t be held long, that things would be cleared up quickly. After all, not a soul on this planet had suffered more from Marius’s death than she had. Anybody with a brain could see that. But hours turned to days and days to weeks. With each meeting of the senate, which she was never allowed to attend, she grew more desperate. As she was told by Arminius, it was all thanks to two men—Lucius Ahenobarbus and Publius Varus. Both of them were said to have eyes on Illyricum, and both were known for their hatred for the Family Vincius. Apparently, they were both convinced she’d killed Marius by burning down his ship with witchery.
In Amalia’s defense, the senate had gathered witness statements about a strange man, neither a merchant nor a soldier, who had boarded the ship in Salona. Clearly, at least to Amalia, this man had set fire to the ship. And by the gods, she would find out who had hired the man. Two suspects were already on her and Arminius’s mind: Lucius and Varus.
Amalia was almost thankful for the whole charade. Because of it, her eyes had been opened to what had really happened.
Restless and haunted by nightmares, Amalia rose from her bed and strode over to the window. She grabbed the cold iron bars and looked out onto the dark street. It was late at night, the moon high, the oil streetlamps lit. An oxcart rolled by, carrying a load of amphorae. The wooden wheels creaked loudly along the street.
She saw a man urinating into a large pot in front of a laundry store. By now she knew that he was not a pig but was, in fact, helping the store. She had witnessed firsthand how the store owners would wait until the urine was sterile and dissolved into ammonia to then use it to clean their laundry.
The squealing sounds of the rusty lock on her door caught her attention. It opened and Arminius stepped in, an oil lamp in his hand. He was dressed in a white toga, like every time he’d visited her. His request to leave the legion to fulfill a quaestorship from Rome, a public office of some sort, had been granted. This also meant he was able to be closer to Amalia. He visited almost every day.
“I brought you cheese, meat, fruits, and bread. You need to eat more,” he said firmly. He was constantly fussing over her like this.
He placed a woolen sack on the table and pulled out the food. Then he sat down on the chair next to it. Amalia sat down on the bed—there was only one chair in the room.
“Any word from Germanicus? Has he returned to Rome yet?” she asked.
Arminius shook his head. “He is preparing the legions for the new praetor in Illyricum. Quintus, Gnaeus, and Belli are helping him.”
“The new praetor? It is not Germanicus then?” she asked. Rome had speculated that he would take over the prosperous province with the help of an older commander.
“No. Augustus has still not announced it yet, but rumors have it that Lucius Ahenobarbus will become praetor of Illyricum. And by rumors, I mean Gnaeus touting it in the streets like a brothel wench her skills. Only the gods have the knowledge as to why Lucius would receive such powers after what happened in Germania.” Arminius looked like he had a foul taste in his mouth.
“How certain are you he had a hand in Marius’s death?” Amalia asked.
“Very. I saw myself how he tried to convince Augustus that Marius was an enemy of Rome. I shall kiss a harpy if he is innocent. I don’t have proof yet, but I am working on it.”
Amalia nodded. As a prisoner, there was nothing she could do but follow Arminius’s lead. Marius’s death had shaken him deeply. Like her, he wouldn’t rest until he’d found Marius’s killer. Maybe this was the first step on his path to turn against Rome and unite the tribes in the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest.
“Do you blame Rome for this?” she asked, testing the waters.
Arminius shook his head. “Lucius Ahenobarbus is hardly Rome.”
No battle yet, she s
ighed. Was that her fault? Did she influence Arminius by coming here from the future?
Arminius looked up at her, hopeful. “Tiberius has arrived in Rome this morning.”
Amalia smiled faintly. That was great news indeed. He had written her and promised he would speak on her behalf. With the death of Marius, Tiberius was placed on top of the list of heirs again, although Augustus, unlike his wife Livia, favored Germanicus. For him to openly allow Tiberius back in Rome was a good sign nonetheless.
“A few more senators have also spoken on your behalf again today when they discussed the takeover of Illyricum,” Arminius said. A farce, of course. Augustus would make that decision for the military provinces of Rome.
Amalia scanned Arminius. His toga made him look so . . . important. But he also had dark circles around his eyes; he was exhausted. He had fought for her tirelessly, despite his low influence and rank.
“What did they say? The senators.”
“That this is nonsense. A waste of time.”
Amalia bit her lip as her gaze dropped to the floor. “Among these senators,” she said, “who defended me? Was—”
“No, he was not, so don’t waste your thought on that,” he said.
Marcus Vincius was not defending her. Did he blame her for Marius’s death? Did he despise her?
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Not that it mattered. She looked unkempt, terrible. All she did was live in the memory of her son and Marius. Even doing her hair was too much for her right now.
Arminius watched her, then let out a sigh and grabbed the cheese and some meat from the table. He put it on a metal plate and dragged his chair over the dusty stone floor next to her bed.
“Eat.” He held the plate out in front of her. His voice was soft and low. He was treating her like a frightened animal, but he meant well. Amalia accepted the plate but didn’t eat.
“Fine. You don’t have to eat. But soon you will be released, and then how are we going to get revenge if you have starved yourself?”
