Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  ECHOES OF

  GERMANIA

  BOOK I

  H. B. ASHMAN

  Dedication

  To my beloved son Taylen.

  Map

  CONTENTS

  A Few Notes

  Structure of the Legion

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thank you!

  Characters List

  Augustus Family Tree

  About the Author

  A Few Notes

  About Folkvangr…

  “The ninth is Folkvangr, where Freyja decrees

  Who shall have seats in the hall;

  The half of the dead each day does she choose,

  And half does Othin have.” Bellows (1923:90–91)

  Modern media assigns all the glorious fallen warriors to Odin in Valhalla, but in truth Norse mythology tells a somewhat different tale. In the collective Poetic Edda, the accepted scripture of the ancient Norse belief system, Odin tells Agnar that the goddess of war and fertility, Freyja, actually got first choice of those who died in battle. Instead of going to the halls of Valhalla, her chosen went to Folkvangr (Old Norse "people-field" or "army-field"). This beautiful meadow held the great hall of Sessrúmnir, which remarkably also allowed women to enter as well.

  Names and Historical Accuracy

  The author recognizes the importance of historical accuracy, but ancient Romans had a very short list of names to draw from; to avoid confusion between similarly named characters, some changes were made for the sake of clarity. For instance, the future emperor Claudius would actually have been called Tiberius by his family, the equivalent of his first name, but we already have another main character called Tiberius. Using Claudius instead differentiates this historical character from others with the same name. Similar changes were made with other characters, such as Germanicus, for clarity's sake.

  Structure of the Legion

  Praetor: Legatus Augusti pro praetore. The commander of two or more legions. The praetor also served as the governor of the province in which the legions he commanded were stationed. Of Senatorial rank, the praetor was appointed by Augustus and usually held command for four years. In the present time, a praetor would be called a general/governor.

  Legate: A legatus was a high-ranking Roman military officer, equivalent to a modern high-ranking general officer. Initially used to delegate power, the term became formalized under Augustus as the officer in command of a legion.

  Broad-Striped Tribune: In the Roman army, the tribunus laticlavius ("broad-striped tribune") was an officer who ranked below the legate and above the camp prefect and centurion. A tribune was usually a young man belonging to a wealthy family.

  Camp Prefect: Praefectus castrorum was third in command of the legion. Generally, he was a long-serving veteran from a lower social status. He was used as a senior officer in charge of training a legion and the tribunes.

  Narrow-Striped Tribune: Tribunus angusticlavius ("narrow-striped tribune”) was an officer in the Roman legion who ranked below the legate, broad-striped tribune, and camp prefect, but above the centurion.

  Centurion: A centurion was a professional officer in the Roman legion. He was ranked below the legate, camp prefect, and the tribunes.

  Cited from Wikipedia, 2020

  Prologue

  Germania, around 9 B.C.

  D rusus was soaked. From his low-cut leather boots to his crimson shoulder cloak. Rainwater dripped down his metal cuirass, which depicted golden figures of past battles. Even the red crest on his helmet was drenched; it hung limp instead of standing tall and strong. His imperious white warhorse stood inches deep in mud, its metal breastplate and faceplate dull. By no means was this a scene worthy of the mighty Nero Claudius Drusus, Rome’s youngest praetor, who was celebrated in all of Rome as its most prominent and fearless general. Despite being only twenty-nine, Augustus himself had made him praetor of the prosperous province of Gaul, an honor that brought the burden of conquering Germania with it like an itching disease from a cheap brothel.

  The darkness of the cold night was brightened once more by a powerful lighting strike. For a brief second, the sacred Germanic rock columns that rose from the surrounding wooded hills and lake flashed with metallic light. This was followed by an ear-numbing roar of thunder that swallowed the screams and cries of slaughter all around the dense forest. Rain continued to descend from the skies like a swarm of arrows.

  Drusus wiped water from his eyes, barely able to see the captured Cherusci king, who was kneeling in front of him at the hands of two Roman soldiers. His large stature and thick dark beard reminded the young general of a bear. Two little boys kneeled beside him, tiny next to the giant king. Their golden hair was covered in filth, their faces almost swallowed by the dark. But Drusus knew they weren’t crying. The barbarians were proud and brave, even the little ones. He had to give them that.

  With a moan, Drusus watched another of his men slip on the wet ground. If the rain didn’t let up, the mud was going to take more lives than the fighting itself. Drusus hated Germania and so did his men. Its barbaric land was without roads or cities and was filled with endless forests. Back home there were no forests left; many of his younger men had never seen so many trees before. It terrified them. Especially with that lingering fog that swallowed the world whole. Being sent here was a punishment.

  But it was here, in this underworld these barbarians called home that Drusus had led his men to attack the Cherusci Tribe, to foil its revolt against the mighty Roman Empire. He’d been in Vetera, planning the construction of another military fortress along the Rhine River, when word from his Germanic spy, Segestes, arrived about an uprising. Personally, Drusus could not stand the opportunistic traitor, but it was rare to find a creature as gold hungry within the tribes.

  Another deafening thunderbolt shook the earth, startling Drusus’s magnificent warhorse, its hooves slapping the wet earth.

  “Steady!” Drusus tightened his grip as his horse jerked against the reins, knocking over an auxiliary who was holding an oil torch. Drusus gave the horse his heels and then pulled on the reins to force it to an abrupt stop. The horse snorted and shook its head, steadying itself with a few stomps.

  The auxiliary who’d held the torch only moments ago lay lifeless in the mud, the fading yellow glow of the torch flickering over his pale skin. Nothing to frown over. He was not even a Roman legionary. Another soldier rushed over to pick up the torch, his face emotionless. Well trained, Drusus thought.

  “Ave Praetor!”

  Ignatius, his most trusted centurion, led a group of soldiers out of the pitch-black woods. They were dragging four women and the spy, Segestes, behind them. Three of the women were warriors, their blue-and-white face paint running in diagonal stripes. The fourth was older and wore
a necklace made of animal bones and rocks around her neck. She had a strange symbol carved into her forehead, very similar to the sea god Neptune’s trident. Ignatius yanked the old woman closer to Drusus by her silver hair, her strange necklace bouncing with every step they took. The woman hissed, a wild animal caught in an iron grip.

  Ignatius stopped in front of Drusus’s horse and raised his sword arm across his chest in greeting. “We captured the seer!” he shouted in an attempt to scream over the storm.

  The captured Cherusci king, still on his knees a few feet away from Drusus, jerked his head up toward the seer. His ice-blue eyes opened in shock the moment his gaze settled on her.

  “Traitor,” he growled at Segestes. “What have you done?”

  Segestes did not answer as he slipped and staggered through the mud toward Drusus.

  “My Praetor, forgive me,” Segestes pleaded, “but the seer is not at fault for this uprising.” His voice trembled; his hands shook.

  Drusus looked down at the fat man who’d betrayed his own for Roman gold. He was annoyed but not surprised that the coward would defend the seer. To these superstitious barbarians, a seer was the highest form of being, even higher than a king. They refused to bow to the mighty Augustus, but every old woman throwing raven bones was hailed as a god.

  Drusus frowned. “Did you not say that this woman has foreseen a great loss for Rome?”

  “Yes, my P-Praetor,” Segestes said, “but—”

  “And did you not say that the men and women of this tribe had considered it an omen to raise their arms in defiance?”

  Segestes lowered his head in silence.

  “Answer the praetor!” A soldier in a crimson cloak and plated armor slapped Segestes across the mouth with the back side of his hand. Segestes fell sideways onto his knees, blood running from the corner of his mouth. And yet his silence held.

  Drusus drew his sword in anger and guided his horse next to the fallen Cherusci king. Even on his knees, this man was taller than most Romans. But instead of raising his sword above the king’s head, he lifted it over the older of the two boys next to him.

  “No! Not him!” the seer cried out as another lightning bolt struck a nearby tree with a deafening crack.

  Drusus’s horse startled again, so did a few of his men. The echo of thunder rippled through the air as the winds and rain continued lashing.

  The seer did not even flinch. “For once the traitor spoke the truth,” she hissed at Drusus. “It was me who foresaw your downfall.”

  Drusus nodded, and then nudged his horse closer to Ignatius and the three warrior women. Their eyes were hateful behind faces streaked with paint. Like all women in these savage lands east of the Rhine, they were dressed like men and fought like them too. It equally disgusted and fascinated Drusus.

  “Are those her daughters?” Drusus nodded at the three women.

  “Yes, Praetor,” Ignatius replied. “They are.”

  “Good. Drown them.”

  The seer lunged forward, but only as far as Ignatius’s grip allowed.

  “Not my children!” She twisted and turned like a stuck rabbit, trying once more to break free.

  “And take the two boys to camp,” Drusus added. “They belong to Rome now.”

  “No!” the Cherusci king yelled and launched back to his feet. Without a second to waste, he rammed his fur-covered shoulder into the soldier to his right, catapulting him to the ground. He hammered his huge fist into the next soldier’s stomach. The Cherusci king kicked and swung, but there were too many Roman soldiers. Before he could get close to Drusus, he was back in the dirt, soldiers pinning him to the ground.

  “Leave him and the seer alive,” Drusus said, “as a warning.” Without another word, Drusus turned his horse back toward camp.

  Despite the constant rain drumming against trees and rocks, he could still hear the howls of the seer, the king, and the children being led away.

  “Drusus!” the seer’s voice thundered after him, but he did not stop.

  “In the name of Yggdrasil, who has spoken to me! In the name of Freya, whose grounds you have dishonored,” the seer wailed, “I curse you! I curse Rome! Your legions’ blood shall soak the mud beneath us like a river! Freya will have her revenge!”

  Drusus stopped his horse and jerked around to face the seer. She looked smaller from the distance, and yet, somehow, more solid, more tangible in her defiance. The winds had freed her hair from her braid, wildly pulling it left and right. Something flickered in her eyes—silver, like a daemon. Was that hate? Magic? He felt a shiver rush through his veins as if his blood had turned to ice. For a moment, he considered sparing the seer’s children. Why risk a curse, even if his gods were stronger?

  But before he could command her children free, he turned and saw that her daughters had already been carried into the lake, their arms and feet bound.

  “Fear not, my children!” the seer wept. “Freya has seen your bravery. Yggdrasil has opened its gate. You are expected in Folkvangr!”

  A blaring lightning strike lit up the skies once more as if the gods themselves had heard the seer’s heartbreaking cries.

  Drusus watched as the surface of the lake frothed. The girls kicked helplessly, but their movements slowly faded. A last twitch here, a last kick there, and they grew still, sinking beneath the cold silver surface.

  “My daughters!” the seer’s cries echoed over the lake once more.

  Drusus waited for a moment longer, his mind filled with doubts. But what was done was done. He signaled his horse to keep moving again, back to camp.

  “Druuuuuuuuuuuuusuuuuuuuuus!”

  Better to hurry and pray to his gods for a long life and glory. A sacrifice perhaps?

  “Druuuuuuuuuuuuusuuuuuuuuus!”

  He could not imagine anything worse than to die in Germania’s endless forests filled with its barbarians and their mystical fairies and giants.

  “Druuuuuuuuuuuuusuuuuuuuuus!”

  Surely his gods would protect him. After all, he was Nero Claudius Drusus, one of the heirs of the mighty Augustus, beloved husband and father, commander of five legions, praetor of all of Gaul and Germania.

  A few months later, the celebrated and glorified Nero Claudius Drusus, loved and admired by the people of Rome and favored by his stepfather, the mighty Augustus himself, was crushed under his horse in Germania and died from an infection of the leg within weeks. It was a pitiful and agonizing death, nothing glorious or admirable about it. He was said to have closed his eyes to the endless howls of an owl—which nobody but Drusus could hear . . .

  Chapter One

  Frankfurt, Germany; Present

  T he giant man in front of Amalia stretched his neck as if he were Bruce Lee himself. He had a smirk on his face. He didn’t even bow to pay Amalia the respect she deserved, that any judoka deserved before a match. His arrogance, however, was not unfounded. He was the best in his dojo and almost twice her size. But despite being only nineteen years old, Amalia wasn’t about to flinch. She had faced opponents like him before. Countless times. She didn’t even have to glance at her trainer, Herbert, or her father to know that they both wore their usual confident grins. She was sure they were the only ones not whispering or pointing at the obvious mismatch in size between her and her opponent.

  Her opponent edged forward and hopped from foot to foot, back and forth like a boxer.

  Amalia analyzed the man in front of her. He was enormous—like, Goliath enormous. But that would also make him slow and tire quickly. Not that she wasn’t tired herself, physically and mentally. It had been only a week since her father and Herbert took her on another statewide tour of judo matches. She wanted to go home to see her sister and study for her upcoming engineering exam.

  “I’ll be gentle, sweetheart.” He threw her a kiss.

  “I won’t.”

  She shot forward and grabbed him by his inner bicep sleeve. At the same time, she stepped forward with her right foot and pivoted, pushing her lower back into his st
omach and placing her left leg between his. And in the most artful motion this dojo had probably ever witnessed, she reached up underneath his arm and pulled the giant man over her shoulder and flattened him onto his back. The dull impact echoed through the room and shook the floor beneath them. The crowd watching went from giggles, whispers, and mutters into deafening silence. Even the referee stood without throwing his arm up to declare ippon, the one point needed to win the match.

  Goliath was the first to gather himself as he rolled onto his hands and knees.

  “You stupid cunt.” He spat on the floor, the veins on his forehead popping as he jumped back to his feet. He launched forward, reaching for her, but Amalia jerked aside. Goliath stumbled into the empty space Amalia had just vacated, lost his balance, and fell onto his knees again.

  “Stop it!” the sensei of the dojo shouted.

  But Amalia wasn’t scared, and neither were her father nor her trainer. They both stood at the edge of the mat, quietly laughing. Goliath wasn’t an opponent for her, and all three of them knew it. Even less so now that his mind was clouded with rage, which would only make his moves clumsy and predictable.

  Goliath pushed himself up once more, fists clenched, ready to strike again, when the sensei grabbed him from behind.

  “Have you lost your mind?” He shook the brute. “Calm down.”

  “Did the little girl hurt you?” Amalia’s father said. Amalia knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted her to show off all the techniques she wasn’t allowed to use in a regular judo match—some of them dangerous. It had taken her years to perfect those skills, and her father was proud to demonstrate them every chance he got.

  Goliath responded with a boisterous roar. He flailed against his sensei’s grip.

  “You should go!” the sensei shouted.