Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

“It is bad luck to ride inside the camp. Have I never told you?” Arminius smiled.

  Amalia shook her head and dismounted.

  The camp was filled with wounded and exhausted soldiers. The legionaries with serious injuries were gathered in tents in the middle of the camp. Men in brown tunics were frantically moving the injured. Amalia watched in awe as one of the medical field surgeons pulled a scalpel out of a pot of boiling water and rushed back to use it on a screaming soldier.

  “He’s sterilizing a scalpel,” Amalia mumbled to herself. If Romans knew about sterilization, how the hell was this knowledge lost for thousands of years to come?

  They walked to Marius’s tent and joined the crowd of men who were healthy enough to stand. It was less than half the legion that Amelia had marched with, but it was still thousands of men, all waiting on word from their legate.

  The crowd split to make way for Arminius and Germanicus. Amalia decided against following them all the way to their legate and stopped next to a group of soldiers in the front of the gathering.

  She saw Marius standing at the entrance of his tent; he looked exhausted, his arms covered in blood and mud. Next to him were a handful of centurions and Belli, their gazes fixed on the ground.

  “Where is Quintus?” she heard Arminius ask Marius as he joined the centurions.

  “With the wounded,” Marius said, his voice steady and calm. “He will live.”

  Suddenly, a hand gripped her arm. She jerked around to find Cassius smiling at her. He was covered in blood like all the rest. Amalia was surprised at how relieved she was to see him alive.

  “It is good to see you still with us, Germanica,” Cassius said. A few of the men who’d been watching her nodded their agreement.

  Amalia couldn’t help but smile.

  “That is true strength,” Cassius said, nodding at Marius.

  “What is?” Amalia asked, her smile fading.

  “Our legate. He is as tired as any of us, and yet he is already planning our next steps. It is his spirit that makes our legion survive.”

  Amalia turned to look at Marius once more. Twice her age, he was handsome in his own way. His dark hair matched the color of his dark eyes, the little scar over his right eye a testament to his years of war. There was a confident elegance about him. He was constantly placing his own wants and needs aside for the sake of his duty.

  Amalia watched as he stepped out of his tent and faced the gathered crowd.

  “You have fought well,” Marius declared, his voice loud and clear. “You shall sleep tonight knowing that you have brought honor to Rome. Because of you, we have prevented a war in Illyricum. Thousands of lives will be saved thanks to your bravery.” His voice broke off as he turned to a soldier with tears running down his cheeks, revealing pink skin underneath layers of dirt.

  “For those of you were afraid,” Marius continued, “don’t be ashamed. A wise man remembers what he has to lose.” Marius smiled faintly. “And for those of you who looked the enemy in the eyes without hesitation, fearless and ready to meet the gods . . . you are as admirable as you are foolish.”

  A soft laughter echoed through the men.

  Marius straightened his back and stood tall. “You have made me proud. When we get back to Salona, there will be drink and wine. And an extra coin for each of you, for it’s not just glory and honor that warms a man’s bed at night.”

  The men laughed again, cheering and saluting their commander.

  “Ave Legate!” the men shouted. “Glory to the seventh!”

  “One more thing,” Marius said, interrupting the cheers and chants. “The slave woman,” he said, nodding at Amalia. Amalia felt thousands of eyes turn toward her, but it was Marius’s gaze that she met.

  “She has built the bridge to our victory,” he continued. “Rome does not forget the deeds of its friends, no matter who they are. She shall be a slave to this legion no more, nor shall she be a slave to anybody else in the vast lands of Rome. She has earned her freedom.”

  The men tapped their swords against their shin guards, their steel ringing their approval. Marius’s face grew serious.

  “Anyone that does her harm from this day forward will answer to me.”

  Amalia’s mouth opened wide. The sound of swords against armor rang in response. A few of the men nearest her slapped her shoulders.

  And that was it. Just like that, Marius disappeared back into his tent with Belli, Germanicus, and the centurions following him. The crowd slowly dispersed. Cassius put his hand on her shoulder with a smile before he left.

  Only Arminius and Amalia remained, still as statues.

  A wave of emotions flooded her: happiness, exhaustion, fear, panic, joy. She was free, a slave no more. But now what? Where would she go? What would she do? How would she ever get home?

  “So . . . so what now?” she asked Arminius. But Arminius didn’t answer. His eyes were intense, the muscles of his jaw flexing. He stormed off after Marius.

  Amalia watched him disappear—still frozen. Then her attention fell on a soldier walking by. She had seen him before. He was one of the men whom she had helped with the shoes when she was first captured.

  “Excuse me,” she said, taking a few steps toward him.

  He stopped, looking at her blankly.

  “What should I do now?” she asked.

  The soldier shrugged. “Wash, Germanica. Then come and eat with us,” he said, and left.

  “Wash?” Amalia muttered. She looked down at herself. She was covered in dirt and a splash of blood, though she didn’t know if it was hers or from the rebel she’d killed. Her fingernails were black and chipped.

  “What a mess,” Amalia mumbled to herself. She clenched her hands as she tongued the wound on her lip where she’d bitten herself. All she’d wanted was her freedom so she could find a way home. But now it seemed like being a slave might’ve been easier. At least then she knew what she was supposed to do. Now she was lost, unmoored, and Arminius had left her.

  Amalia stared at the large leather tent Arminius had just disappeared into. Then she turned to find the nearest body of water, where she planned to submerge herself until every last speck of war was cleansed from her skin.

  Arminius was furious. Not that he didn’t want Amalia freed—of course he did. He cared for her, but that was exactly the problem. He cared for her more than he wanted to. When he saw her slumped against that tree and thought her dead, he had felt a despair he’d never felt before.

  He couldn’t lose her, not like this, and not before the gods had revealed her true purpose to him.

  Arminius strode into Marius’s tent, but nobody paid him any mind. Marius was washing his hands and face with a cloth and a bowl of water while Primus cleaned Marius’s armor. Germanicus and Belli were sitting on wooden chairs, both staring at the fur-covered floor. All of them were silent as the grave.

  Arminius cleared his throat.

  It was Marius who was the first to speak. “Has Bato the Breucian been found among the dead?” he asked, without looking at Arminius.

  “No, my Legate,” he answered.

  Marius froze, his wet cloth dripping over the bowl. “Then what is it?” He sounded tired. Arminius knew all too well that his legate preferred silence and rest for a few hours after a battle. Everybody in the tent knew that their presence was only tolerated as long as they left him in peace. Arminius would have loved nothing more than to sit in silence for hours, enjoying the quiet company of the others. But not today. Arminius’s heart was as heavy as his shield.

  “You freed her,” Arminius said.

  Marius looked up, his expression weary. “Was she not the legion’s slave? To fetch a coin for the centurions at the market? Were those not your words?”

  Arminius bit his lip.

  Marius nodded. “Yes. I have freed her from her duty to this legion.”

  Arminius’s took a small step forward. The game he had played with his legate was dangerous, and he knew it, but he still did not think he would lo
se her like this.

  “The gods have sent her to me. My destiny is twined with hers. I know it. I just do not know how.” His voice sounded discouraged, even to his own ears.

  Marius let out a tired sigh, then walked up to Arminius, setting a hand on his shoulder like an exhausted father dealing with a troubled child.

  “Arminius, you know I do not believe in omens. She has done Rome well. Maybe that was her destiny.”

  Arminius had wondered that himself, but something told him that this wasn’t the case.

  Marius’s eyes searched Arminius. “But if she means so much to you, why don’t you ask her to stay? She could travel with the merchants at the tail of the legion. Who knows what other gifts she is hiding.”

  “Only the gods know,” Belli added. “I watched her work as she built the bridge. Her numbers made no sense. It was like magic.”

  Arminius ignored him and turned to Marius. “As a freed woman? Why would she follow the legion with the merchants? She is from north of the Rhine, a Germanic warrior.”

  Marius lifted his hand from Arminius’s shoulder. “Use those oily lips of yours. Mars knows how often they have saved you from my whip.” He smiled, then returned to the bowl of water and started washing again. “And don’t forget the meeting with Lucius tonight. You are to accompany me in Quintus’s place.”

  Arminius folded his arms across his chest. “Why me? Germanicus is of noble blood. I am sure Lucius would prefer the First Citizen’s great-nephew over a turned barbarian prince.”

  “I am not in the mood for intrigues and politics,” Germanicus barked, without looking up.

  “Oh, we have a choice now?” Arminius countered. Without another word, Germanicus rose, his face twisted in anger, and stormed out.

  Belli shook his head. “Children,” he muttered, barely loud enough for anybody to hear.

  “Quintus was injured when he came to Germanicus’s aid.” Marius’s harsh voice pierced through the tent. “Now do as I say.”

  End of the road. He would only anger Marius if he pushed any further.

  “Yes, my Legate.”

  Arminius stepped out of the tent. He needed to think. If Marius wasn’t going to help him, he would have to find another way to keep Amalia from leaving him forever.

  Marius was about to walk over to his bed and get the rest his tired and aching bones were begging for, but his mind was still spinning with what Arminius had said about the former slave girl.

  Why did he even care? He needed rest. But nothing made sense when it came to this woman from north of the Rhine River. Not only did she speak Latin fluently, but she also understood architecture. Some rumors even circled among his soldiers that she could fight men and beasts alike. The Germanica, the men called her.

  “The Germanic woman,” Marius said to Primus, “what do you make of her?”

  “Of her individually or her kind?” Primus asked.

  “Both. You have spent time with the Germanics at the markets, have you not? What do you know of their women?”

  Primus let down the entrance flaps of the tent. The space inside darkened but was still bright from the daylight outside. “I know that Romans think them barbaric beasts, but to tell the truth they are rather remarkable. They have a kind and honest nature. They care for their wounded. Nobody is left behind. Nowhere have I witnessed women more honored. To Germanics, they are sacred. The women are free to choose whom to love and marry and in return promise their shield and sword to their husbands until death.”

  Marius stood with his hands on his hips, head bowed. “Are many Germanic women like her?”

  Primus pinched his lips in thought. “The looks, yes. But other than that . . . she is like no woman I have ever met, Germanic or otherwise. In all fairness, I have not met women from her Weber Tribe before. And yet, there is something about her I cannot grasp.”

  Marius touched the edge of the bowl on the table, still filled with water. “The Germanics are a mystery,” he said. “They can speak in tongues but cannot write. They fight like gods but live like animals. They are loyal to their own but not to the tribe next to them. They would rather die than lose their freedom to their foes. Does any of this fit her?”

  Primus scratched his head. “It doesn’t. Do you think her a spy?”

  “Hard to say. But if she were an enemy of Rome, she would not have built that bridge.”

  Primus walked over to Marius and handed him a fresh cloth. “And yet here she is with all her clever skills and charms,” Primus said. “What Arminius thinks an omen might be a clever plot. The savages are getting more cunning. The pile of dead on this field is proof. We should find out who she is. You should take her with us to Salona.”

  Marius grabbed the clean cloth and swung it over his shoulder. “I could not agree more, my friend. Gods willing, she is nothing but a woman after all—a most peculiar one.”

  Primus wrinkled his forehead. “How are you going to make her come with us?”

  “I won’t have to make her do anything—even the thorniest flower still opens to the sun.”

  The freezing cold water of the river turned Amalia’s hands and arms corpse white and purplish blue. She had taken off her sweater and was kneeling with her top and jeans on over the mountain spring. It was cloudy and still early, the trees and rocks covered in a moving fog.

  She never took all her clothes off to wash. Not with thousands of sex-deprived men close by, constantly coming for water and to wash themselves. No thanks.

  Looking at her own reflection, she leaned closer to get a better picture of herself. Even in the rippling image she saw against the river’s current. She looked awful. Her hair was falling out of her bun in oily strands, she had deep circles around her eyes, and half her cheek was scratched open from last night—a future scar for certain.

  Amalia sighed and fell backward onto her butt. What was she supposed to do now? Suddenly, the image of the red bulging eyes of the dying rebel flashed in front of her.

  Amalia threw her head into her hands and shook it wildly as if to shake the image off.

  The crackling of a snapping branch pulled her back to the river, to reality, and to her reflection rippling over the water. But before she could even turn to see who it was, she heard his voice.

  “You have never killed before?” Marius asked.

  Amalia reached for her sweater and quickly put it on. Then she rose to her feet and faced the legate. He was wearing a fresh tunic, white as snow, beneath a crimson cloak and a sword belted to his waist. His face and arms were also clean, his brown hair still wet and shiny. Only the dark circles under his eyes gave away the horrors he had been a part of last night.

  Amalia looked away. All she could do was nod.

  “It gets easier,” he said, walking next to the river.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mumbled, still staring at the steady current. There was something about this man that made her nervous.

  “Your tribe,” Marius said, “are they looking for you?”

  Amalia shook her head.

  “Will they take you back at least?”

  Amalia shook her head again, like a child. Speak, goddamn it! She glanced at Marius and caught that eagle-eyed stare of his. He was analyzing her.

  “What will you do then? You are free to go wherever pleases you,” he said, releasing her from his gaze as he squatted over the river to wet his face with the icy water.

  “I don’t know,” Amalia answered honestly. “Are there any towns close by?”

  Marius wiped water from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Arupinium is the closest from here. But I do not know who is in charge of the city right now.”

  “Right now? Who was in charge before?”

  “I was. Before I left for Germania, that is. Before all of this happened.” He opened his arms, gesturing at the woods and mountains.

  Amalia looked up at the mountain chain rising above the tree line. If these were the Alps, maybe they weren’t too far from Rome. Maybe she co
uld find work there and make use of the city’s countless libraries and scholars to get some answers about what happened to her.

  “What about Rome?” she asked.

  “Rome?” Marius lifted his eyebrows.

  “Yes, Rome. Don’t all roads lead to Rome?”

  Marius smiled. “They do. The ones from here will take several weeks by foot. Days by horse. Less if you sail from Illyricum’s coast to Italia’s. But you will need a ship for that. Or coin to pay a merchant. You would fare better traveling to Salona.”

  Amalia’s shoulders dropped. Traveling weeks on foot through hostile terrain as an enemy of the tribes was no option. She also had no horse, no money, and obviously no ship.

  “Can I come with you? To Salona?” Her own question surprised her. Was that really what she wanted?

  “With me?” Marius gave a bemused smile. “Or the legion?”

  “The legion.”

  He nodded. “Of course. What is your trade?”

  “My trade?”

  “Your use to the legion. You are free now and won’t serve the legion as a slave. I can’t just drag women along to feed and slow us down out of goodwill.”

  I worked myself close to death and built a bridge for you! she wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut. “All right,” she said. “My trade is construction. I’m a builder.” She crossed her arms.

  Marius shook his head. “I have no need of a builder.”

  “A worker then.”

  “Each of my men is twice as strong as you are.” Marius stood and turned to face her.

  Amalia looked at him. He was closer to her than ever before. Her gaze briefly settled on the scar above his right eyebrow. From some far-away, exotic battle she was certain.

  Marius turned toward the path in the woods he’d come from. Was he about to leave and close the door to her chance to travel safely with his legion? Do something, Amalia! Anything!

  “I could train you,” she blurted, catching his attention again.

  “Train me?” Marius turned, an amused smirk playing on his lips. Rightly so. It sounded bizarre, even to her: a woman from the barbaric north teaching the mighty Marius Vincius, legendary commander of Rome.