by H. B. Ashman
The first station was already in place. Four columns were drilled one meter into the ground in a square pattern. These pillars had support beams nailed into them in a cross pattern. Thanks to the endless work of the soldiers, they had been able to complete the first anchor station in several hours’ time. Now they had to move the materials for the second station over onto the other side, probably the most dangerous task of all.
“Don’t just stand there like old women!” one of the older centurions shouted at the men. “Get over the damn canyon!” But when nobody moved, he walked up to the first line of gawking soldiers and pulled a few out of the crowd. Hesitantly, the unlucky chosen approached the abyss and stood in front of the log they were supposed to use to cross it.
“Are you soldiers of Rome or little girls?” he yelled. It took a moment longer before two of the soldiers climbed onto the log, grabbing branches to help them stay balanced as their feet moved over the rough bark of the tree. Step by step, they carefully climbed over one creaking branch after the next. The rest of the men, including Amalia, stood and watched in total silence as the winds howled a song of death.
They were about halfway over the canyon when the first of the two stopped his trapeze act to gaze down into the darkness of the abyss. Keep moving, Amalia thought.
“Don’t look down!” Arminius shouted, rushing to the edge, but it was too late. The soldier lost his balance and threw too much of his weight back into the branch he’d been holding. The branch snapped. As he tumbled, he reached out and caught hold of the second soldier’s leg, pulling him off balance as well. They fumbled for branches, but they were too heavy, too slow to catch a solid grip. The soldiers watching from the safety of the cliff gasped as the men tumbled over the log and into open air, screaming as they fell.
As their cries faded, nobody said a word, but Amalia could feel their blame on her shoulders.
Arminius broke free from the group and strode over to the log. “Time is running out,” he barked at the men and climbed onto the tree trunk, not flinching once.
“Arminius, no!” Amalia yelled. But Arminius ignored her and pushed forward. He navigated the countless branches until he reached the very spot where the two men had just plummeted to their deaths. He stopped and turned to face the mumbling crowd.
“Our legate has asked us to build him a bridge,” he shouted to the men. “Not for his own glory, but for Rome. And tonight, he will stand at the edge of the battlefield, looking for us. What will he find? Air and disappointment?” Arminius raised his voice into a battle cry: “Or the cavalry of the seventh riding into battle?”
The men cheered. Arminius threw Amalia one of his smirks and then finished his climb to the other side of the canyon.
With parted lips, Amalia watched as more men stepped onto the trunk and made their way to the other side without any further incident.
“That was a performance worthy of the amphitheater, would you not agree?” Germanicus said to Amalia as he joined a group of soldiers tying ropes around one of the foundation logs. Amalia ignored him and pulled her rolled-up papyrus from her back pocket, which she’d been scribbling numbers on all day. She’d been manically going over her math again and again. She needed to double-check her calculations for the wooden deck. She had already miscalculated these damn boards twice.
As she mumbled and scribbled away once more, a long shadow fell over her. She jerked around to find Belli looking over her shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, curiously scanning her calculations. He shook his head.
“Nobody but our legate believed in a barbaric slave woman,” he said in his usual low voice. “And yet here you are, building this wonder just as he said you would. If this bridge works, I shall be indebted to you.”
That surprised her. Not because the wordless Iberian warrior had come close to giving her a compliment, but more so his love and loyalty to his commander. Amalia had the toughest time even beginning to understand this ancient code of honor that seemed to be lost in her own time.
“Tell me,” Amalia said, scribbling a few last numbers before she forgot them. “What is it about Rome that makes you fight to the death? Fear? Pride? Love?”
Belli smiled. His white teeth were a strong contrast to his unshaven, sun-darkened face. “I couldn’t care less for Rome,” he said.
Amalia stopped her calculations and redirected her attention to Belli. “Then why do it?”
“It is my legate I follow into death, not Rome.”
Amalia wanted to ask why, but for some reason didn’t.
“As I said, I will be indebted to you. The gods are my witnesses.”
Belli scanned her sea of numbers once more, in awe, before he turned to walk over to a group of resting horses to check their feed and water.
Amalia blinked up at the sky, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the blinding sun. It was probably around midday. So far, they had been on the losing side of their race against time. But looking at the first station standing tall and strong, Amalia couldn’t help but let herself believe that this insane project might actually be possible.
“If the gods help us,” she mumbled to herself before she realized what she’d just said. Weeks of living among the Romans had clearly left a mark on her already. Soon I’ll be dressing like them, she thought. She looked down at her dirty clothes. Her shoes were caked in mud, and her jeans were torn at the knees. What would her mother say at the state of her clothes? The thought sent a lump to her throat.
“Amalia!” Pollo yelled. His high-pitched voice was annoying and shrill. “I thought we are supposed to pull only the materials for the second station across the canyon,” he shouted, frantically pointing at a group of soldiers tying ropes to the smaller deck boards.
“We are!” she yelled back at him. Sighing, Amalia bolted over to the soldiers. Much to her relief, the men stopped and listened to what she had to say. They were coming around. She’d never be an equal in their eyes, but they seemed to accept the fact that she was the only person who could not only save their legate but a great number of lives as well—that is, as long as the bridge held.
Chapter Sixteen
Rome
D omitia looked out onto the palace gardens as the countless pools reflected the late-afternoon sun’s soft orange rays and illuminated the reds, yellows, and blues of the flowers. It would have been a peaceful sight if it weren’t for her mother, Julia, crying uncontrollably in the background. It had taken less than a day for the news of her father’s defeat to spread through all of Rome. And yet her thoughts were more occupied with Marius Vincius than her family’s dishonor. On one hand, she wished for Marius a slow and painful death for how he had left her at the gates of Lugdunum. But on the other hand, deep down, she wanted him to return to Rome, victorious and alive.
“How could Lucius be defeated by these savages? Have the gods forsaken us?” Julia burst out into a new storm of tears, burying her face into the chaise longue she was lying on. The sofa was made of wood and purple silk—the finest, like everything else in Livia’s room. Filled with golden lamps and the most colorful frescos and mosaic floors known to man, her room was a symbol of her power and tremendous wealth. “And to take Gnaeus from me as well,” she added. “Is it not enough that you’ve angered Augustus with your unseemly journey to Germania?”
“I have done only as father asked of me!” Domitia snapped.
Livia eyed her from her own chaise longue, then elegantly waved at a little slave girl for a cup of wine. She must have been barely eight, the age Livia preferred them.
“A lesson to listen to your female instincts, Domitia,” Livia said, “not the word of men.”
Julia leaned up to look at Livia. “Wise words indeed.”
Domitia couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her mother’s shameless flattery.
“If only Gnaeus would be half the man we need him to be, he would return victorious, not dead,” Julia whined again.
Livia sat up. “Domitia can always marry well, introduce good blood to y
our lineage . . . and wealth.” Her words were met with silence. Livia noticed and added quickly. “Besides, Gnaeus might return victorious after all. As much as it pains me to admit, Marius Vincius is a very capable commander.”
Julia calmed slightly.
“Do you truly think Marius Vincius can win?” Domitia asked, unable to keep the hope from her voice.
Drinking little sips from her golden cup, Livia sat up. “Nothing is certain, but he is one of Rome’s finest military men. And yet the rebels must be cunning to defeat a legion of Rome.”
The room grew silent again, Julia’s tears returning, softer yet still dramatic. “It is a terrible situation no matter the outcome,” Julia said. “If Marius Vincius loses, Lucius and Gnaeus will be disgraced with him. But if he wins, we will be ridiculed. Rome will praise the name of Vincius. I hate the Vincius! All of them!”
Domitia looked at her mother, feeling a headache coming on.
“Calm yourself,” Livia said, sitting down next to Julia. She placed a gentle hand on Julia’s shoulder. “If Vincius is victorious, it will merely undo his latest disobedience. And I shall make certain Augustus reminds Rome that it was under the House Ahenobarbus that this rebellion was won. After all, his sister’s descendants cannot be shamed like this.”
Julia looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “Are you certain Rome will listen?”
Livia nodded. “Of course. I know that some people say the seed of your father, Mark Antony, is what soils your blood and degrades its worth, but I try to focus on your beloved mother in you. The whole world knows of Augustus’s love for his deceased sister.”
Degrades its worth? Domitia was confused whether to take Livia’s remarks as an insult to her mother or a genuine attempt to comfort her.
“Livia, what would we do without you?” Julia said. “I always told mother and our Augustus that you were sent by the gods to this family.”
Livia smiled. Domitia turned away before her face reflected her disgust. Her mother had always been easily manipulated. Domitia walked back to the tall white pillars in the room’s veranda. A soft summer breeze carried the sweet smell of flowers. The birds were chirping and splashing in the pools and fountains. As horrible as it sounded, she could not care less about her brother’s fate. She was fine with whatever the gods had planned for him; her father, however, would be a great loss to the family, albeit mostly financially. And then there was that tightness in her chest and limbs when she thought of Marius Vincius’s death. Unlike her mother, she did not wish him dead. Many years ago, he had been kind to her when nobody else was, and she’d never forgotten it. She was imagining him returning to Rome, victorious, when her mother’s cries tore her back to reality.
Sighing, she strode out into the gardens, away from the drama behind her.
As the sun splashed the sky with varying shades of red, Marcus sat in his garden, a cup of wine in his hand. The enormous white pillars of the peristyle-covered walkway contrasted the red-and-black paintings on the walls. The courtyard was filled with trees, flowers, statues, and fountains.
Marcus stared at one of the fountains, listening to the water splashing. Many people had offered to sit with him, Augustus included, but he wanted to be alone. The news of his son’s victory or defeat could arrive any day, any moment.
He had sat here, at this very spot, in this very chair, many times with these very thoughts. With a buried wife and two sons serving Rome as soldiers, he was more than familiar with the fear of losing a child. He had lost a son and a daughter to illness before, and with the constant battles fought in Rome’s provinces, both of his sons lived on the edge of the sword. And yet, this time, it felt different. This time, it felt as if Lucius Ahenobarbus himself was driving a dagger into his son’s back.
He let out a loud sigh before seeing Decimus, his former slave, enter the courtyard. He silently sat down across from Marcus, next to a white marble statue of Mars—the god of war and patron of House Vincius.
“Your troubles are written on your face,” Decimus said in a soft voice.
“They are, my friend. They are.”
“Marius will be victorious. He has fought bigger enemies than these rebels.”
Marcus shook his head slowly, half in thought. “It is not the rebels I fear.”
Decimus nodded with a frown. “In time, Lucius will grow tired of his own games. Even the sun has to retire at the end of the day.”
Marcus sat up in his chair. “But it also rises again in the morning. Why does he resent the Family Vincius so?”
“It hurt his pride when our great Augustus asked Lucius to give up his seat next to him for you,” Decimus said.
“That was years ago. And it was only a seat.”
“All of Rome witnessed it. And if you think it was only a seat, you know nothing of the politics of Rome.” Decimus smiled.
Marcus stayed quiet for a moment, then rose and strode over to the tray with wine and cups. He poured himself another round and filled a cup for Decimus as well. “The moment Augustus announced Lucius as praetor of Germania, I feared it would bring trouble. Why could he not make him praetor of Gaul? Or of any other province?”
“Every action has its pleasures and its price,” Decimus said. “Lucius will pay his price before too many pleasures I hope.”
Marcus handed him the wine, and they sank into a companionable silence. As much as his worries consumed him, having a friend to share the quiet of his garden eased his burdens, if only a little. You take what you can get, Marcus thought, sipping of his wine.
Thick clouds of smoke had swallowed Marius and his legion for almost a mile. It was still daytime, but the black clouds that filled the air darkened the sky and the surrounding woods. And yet there was still no sign of the smoke’s source.
Quintus covered his mouth with his cloak, coughing. “We are close,” he said to Marius and Gnaeus as they rode deeper into the darkness.
The forest was deadly still, the birds silent.
The men marching ahead of Marius stopped suddenly. Marius and Quintus exchanged troubled glances before Marius galloped his horse to the tip of his legion, toward a wide field at the foot of a mountain. Quintus and Gnaeus were right behind him. The three men brought their horses to an abrupt halt.
Burning trees lined the edge of the open field, sending thick smoke clouds into the sky. Thousands of dead Roman soldiers were scattered among large round rocks. The shimmer of their armor was dulled by dirt and blood. Some of the bodies were crushed unrecognizably, as if a giant had trampled them. A swarm of crows were circling and feasting on the dead.
Marius’s gaze followed a trail of crushed bodies to one of those round rocks. It was the size of two men. The rocks were everywhere. Some of them were in the middle of the opening, and others had clearly rolled into the woods, leaving behind paths of fallen trees.
The wind blew the unbearable stench of urine, shit, and stale corpses.
“By Jupiter,” Quintus mumbled, his voice catching. Gnaeus turned his horse and covered his mouth to hide his gagging. Despite his own disgust, Marius refused to flinch. These soldiers deserved more than his revulsion.
“Jupiter had nothing to do with this,” Marius muttered back, shaking his head. “It was a rebel army with artillery the likes of which we have never witnessed before.”
“You think the savages rolled these rocks down the hill?” Gnaeus asked.
“I have no doubt. The question is how.” Marius narrowed his eyes and looked up the hill. In the distance, with all the smoke, all he could make out were the dark, blurry contours of tall structures, maybe two to three men high and wide, strategically placed several feet apart along the edge of a rocky plateau.
“Over there.” Quintus pointed at a group of riders carrying the standard of a Roman legion.
The riders raced over quickly. One rider’s golden metal cuirass shimmered brightly at Marius even in the darkness of the smoke—Lucius Ahenobarbus. The riders with him, a few centurions and a tribune, were covered in blo
od and dirt. But not Lucius, whose silver-haired head and golden armor looked as clean as if he had just arrived from the bathhouse.
“Father!” Gnaeus shouted as the group came to a halt a few feet in front of Marius, stirring up dust. Gnaeus urged his horse up to his father’s, smiling, but Lucius gazed straight at Marius. The look of arrogance and pride in Lucius’s eyes filled Marius with anger. Soldiers had died because of this man.
“Marius, how good to see you. I knew you would come,” Lucius said, lifting his square chin.
Marius nodded at the battlefield. “Too late it seems.”
Lucius wrinkled his nose at the sight of the dead men. “The rebels engaged us in battle the moment we marched close to the edge of that hill leading up to their plateau. We were not even able to establish formation before they started pushing rocks down the hill using machines of some sort. As you can see, a rather effective strategy on their part.”
Marius did not respond right away. Both of them knew that Lucius had rushed ahead, ignoring Marius’s plea to wait for him.
“How could they roll down rocks this size?” Quintus shook his head.
One of Lucius’s centurions rode his horse a few steps closer. “As surprising as it might seem for savages, they are using enormous artillery machines to push the rocks down from that platform up there. Our scouts tell us they are similar to catapults, but they push the rocks down the hill instead, at great speed. It makes them harder to dodge and leaves trails of death rather than concentrated areas of impacts like catapults would.”
“How in the name of Pluto did they get these rocks?” Quintus asked.
“They mined them from the mountain. Not far from their platform,” the centurion said.
Marius frowned. “So the supply is endless?”
The centurion sighed. “Pretty much.”