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“Arminius,” you breathe, your voice creating frost in the already-chilling night air. The stars dance above in little syncopated rhythms, but many of the tree branches around block them out and you glance back at the main camp corridor for light. You see shadows, but only a few men are roaming around because it’s so late and truthfully, you ought to be asleep as well in a large, sheltered tent, but the prospects of battle are too much. You can’t sleep. Sneaking about has its risks too. Any of the guards would take you to your father - the captain, Publius Varus - if they caught you wandering about so you have to be careful. Peering from behind a corner, you trace the outline of a soldier who is ladling water from a drinking barrel. While taller than you, he’s no match for Arminius and you creep from behind the tent when he walks away. “Brother,” you hiss into the dark space between the tent rows. “Arminius.”
Still no reply. Pursing your lips in exasperation, you quietly sneak down the row, careful to avoid the neat litterings of scrolls, packs, and cooking apparatus the soldiers bring along with them. There are dried leaves on the ground as well since the Summer is turning into Fall, but the dampness of the forest and recent rain has made most of them unnoticeable and they act like grass, softly whispering underfoot. With care, you eliminate that sound as well and in the darkness with your dark cloak you imagine yourself invisible.
Once you near the end of the camp row where the guards are standing watch, you hesitate. Arminius could be anywhere in the large camp. Where would you even begin to find him? The answer seems impossible (especially as the guard nearby huffs and unlatches his helmet, straying from his post a moment to stomp on the ground and appear angry at his thoughts) until you remember how much Arminius adores his horses. He could always be found near the stables at home and it’d only be right that you find him there here as well. Without a second thought, you hurry back the way you came and slip in between the tents to the back of the camp. A horsey odor pervades the air here from two rows down and you cover your genteel nose with linen tunic as you slip closer.
The rough stables don’t allow much to be seen because the captains won't allow oil to be wasted on the horses, but you can hear the quiet nicker and huff of horses finishing their evening meal. Their shuffling whispers against the damp leaves and you can hear large furry bodies tugging at their tethers. “Arminius,” you hiss into the darkness. “Armin-”
You gasp as a shrouded figure appears briefly from behind one of the horses. It’s a tall man with long blond hair and a braided strand on the side wearing a rough tunic and leggings rather than the usual Roman gear. Undoubtedly a Germanic spy. For the briefest of seconds, he catches your eye and holds it there with his blue irises. There's no fear in them or the knowledge that he knows what he’s doing is deadly, and if your father catches him he’ll be crucified, then probably taken down after a few hours and tortured alive. And that would be a low price for spying on the Roman Imperial army. The man is fearless. You crouch down in the shadows, still staring after him and wondering why you're suddenly so afraid.
Then the man turns away. Without making a sound, he continues moving soundlessly through the back of the stables, mostly hidden in the shrouded moonlight. You just crouch there, watching him and wondering if you ought to wake the nearest soldiers and raise an alarm. That’s the right thing to do, and you glance inside the nearest tent at the unaware soldiers within. However, they might ask questions too, and you weren’t supposed to be here. You swallow, wrinkling up your nose a little. It could be you hanging on the cross tomorrow.
You purse your lips and glance after the man who has long disappeared into the darkness of the stables. Oh well, you eventually decide. Even if he is a spy, the might of the Roman army is too great, even if there are just three legions. Let them come.
Withdrawing back into the alleyways of tents, you peer around for Arminius again. Just as you’re about to call for him a hand claps itself over your mouth and drags you backwards. You instinctively bite down like you were taught and the man behind you hisses, but struggling does nothing. You’re captor is too strong and lack of oxygen begins to blind your brain. When you barely on the edge of passing out, the man releases you and you collapse to the grass and damp leaves, gasping for breath. “Are you mad?” he hisses. “What are you doing out at this hour unprotected?”
“Ar-minius,” you squeeze out, glancing up at his shrouded face as he hauls you to your feet. While the two of you grew up together, he isn’t your brother despite how many times you call him that and it’s at times like these you feel slightly nervous with his strength and German features. His light-colored eyes remind you that he was not born Roman.
As he steadies you and you weave through the tents together. After a minute he nods back at the stables. “I heard a commotion.”
The man, you immediately think, but you don’t say a word. “Arminius,” you whisper, resting a hand his arm which he reluctantly acquiesces. “Do you think we’ll win this battle? Don’t talk in politics or armies. Just yes or no... between you and I.”
“Milady Varus,” he pauses and there is a rough smile in the corners of his mouth and he pauses in between the tents to take a low bow and kiss your hand. A rare moment of repeal from his usual sternness. You giggle. “I have no doubt that we will be victorious.” He straightens up and you continue walking. “Does that ease your mind?”
“It does.” You smile up at him and he complacently nods back, already returned to his usual impenetrable moods. “Thank you.”
Around you, the camp is still silent though the leaves rustle louder now that Arminius is here beside you. It's a tranquil moment of peace before the looming war. While you’ve gone to some minor battles alongside your father, it’s only now that Saturninus, the previous general, has been sent back to Rome to receive awards Varus received the chance to shine and he persuaded you to come with him. To be honest, you almost anticipate the battle, though you’ll be watching from a safe place - perhaps half a mile away at best. However, that’s tomorrow or the next day after you take a few shortcuts through the wood. Now is now, and it’s quiet.
Clouds sift themselves over the remainder of the shining stars and like fog, tiny droplets start to drizzle down. You glance at Arminius as he begins to walk faster, leading you to your tent. “Will you be fighting?” you huff, lifting your tunic as it starts to rain harder.
“Perhaps.” (He isn’t even breathing hard.) “If not, I shall make an attempt to stay behind at your wish.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“_______ia,” he suddenly calls you by your first name, giving you a sharp look as you arrive in front of your personal tent. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
You let go of his arm and wave him off. “You just said that we’ll win.”
He gives you another exasperated look. “_______ia.”
“Yes,” you roll your eyes and offer your hand, which he concisely kisses. “I shall try to be. Thank you for escorting me. And you-” you send him a sly smile as you let the tent flap drop. “-be careful yourself.”
-=-(*)-=-
The morning dawns frigid and cold, raining heavily with fat drops. The storm is stronger than before with gusts of wind as well as rain and promises of even more in the afternoon. The roads - if the barbarians can even call them that, you huff - aren’t paved, so they’re thick with soggy mud. The horses can barely pull the carriages through the muck and the men slowly thin their lines with eased commands to march in formation. It’s the first time you’ve seen soldiers so lax, though they’re working hard to get the carts and carriages through the muck. Reconnaissance officers and cavalry get pulled back to help as well which definitely lowers defenses, but the enemy hasn’t been sighted either so you can’t see why it isn't a good idea to get out of the mud as quick as possible.
Yet after hours of the same struggling progress, Varus receives a messenger at the carriage that claims the front lines are miles ahead. The legions are too spread out, inviting grumblings within the men if not routed quickly. With a quick oath of goodwill, your father bids you farewell and mounts the nearest horse. You watch him as he disappears ahead into a curtain of rain and farther than that, you see a deeper forest loom overhead. You approach it slowly in the carriage, even with the horses pulling as hard as they can, and a sense of disheartenment creeps over you like the branches above. Thick leaves, tough bark, tangled branches. The forest seems like something out of a nightmare.
You shiver and make a face at it before turning to the nearest man. “Soldier,” you wave at him. “That forest over there. What’s it’s name?”
“Osning, lady Varus,” he pulls his mount closer to the carriage window and nods at the now-twisting narrow path through the forest lands. “There may be a few days ride through it, especially if the storm doesn’t let up.”
You dismiss that thought with a wave of your hand. “I’m not afraid of the storm.” You hesitate for a few seconds before calling again. “Soldier?”
“Yes, lady.”
“Do you know where Arminius is?”
The man nods briefly and points his soaking shield in a northerly direction (while the main army was headed west). “Granted permission to rally support from neighboring tribes. Because some are near Inferior Roman Germania he suggested they help the cause.” The soldier studies you for a second, shifting his armor around and making little rivulets trickle to the ground - waterlogged, you note, making the usually powerful shield he’s carrying virtually worthless. “Do you request that I send a messenger after him to bring him back, Lady Varus? Is the matter pressing?”
“Oh-” you breathe. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. But thank you. At ease.”
“Lady.” He bows his head and returns to his previous post a few paces away from the carriage.
You return inside to contemplate that as the hours tick by. It is uncomfortable riding in the slowly jilting carriage much of the time, even with the pillows, furs, and other cushions designed to make the ride comfortable for you. At times you doze off, wondering when your father and Arminius would be back and if they would return to your side for the main battle, but each time you are crudely awakened again and they haven't returned. Finally, about an hour past noon you give up and wave to the nearest soldier. “Bring me my horse.”
Bowing his head without a reply, he spurs his mount and rides off into the dense wood where he’s immediately swallowed in the darkness. It’s nearly another hour before you see him again. He comes at a gallop, leading your bay horse saddled and ready to ride. Glad to be free of the carriage, you hurry out wearing your stronger pair of sandals. They get muddy, but the soldier has dismounted to help you up and before you know it you’re sitting in the saddle as he remounts.
“Lady Varus,” he immediate adds before you can spur your horse into a trot to get out of the whole muggy mess with the forest mud and carts. “If you will, allow me to accompany you on your ride. The barbarians may be around any corner; we cannot be sure.”
You frown a little. You expected to be alone, though one soldier wouldn’t hurt. “Doesn’t my father have sentries guarding?”
“The available men are mostly here,” the soldier admits. He gestures downwards at the soldiers guiding the horses through the mire-like ‘road’. “Time is of the essence.”
“Very well.” You wave a hand and turn your horse to follow the path of soldiers snaking through the forest. “Follow me at a good distance.”
“Lady.”
With Roman precision, he falls back and follows you from twenty-odd feet. Since you don’t feel you’re being uncomfortably stalked like some past experiences, you don’t mind. That done, you urge your horse into a quick canter and start up the line.
As you travel, the disorganization of the troops surprises you. When you’ve seen them, the Roman legions have always kept in line, if not formation; but now the foot soldiers as well as the cavalry have mostly fallen silent and scattered. They carry their helmets by their sides as well as their shields, all of them dripping water and soaked through. (You're wearing a cloak, which protects a little from the water.) You continue riding through the chaos what seems like hours, tracing thousands of men through the longest stretch of wood you’ve ever been in. At times, you scowl at the trees, ready for them to just quit.
They don’t though. Somehow they get thicker and the ground gets moister until you need to slow your horse to a walk. His hooves make sucking noises each time he plods on and you begin to feel frustrated with the weather, the forest, the soil, and the Germans for living here. You wish Arminius were here to distract you with some odd thoughts or you were back home in the fields and the usually sunny weather of the family villa. Who would ever choose to live here? It's such a vile place.
Just as you finish that thought, a loud trumpet blast echoes through the forest, an entirely different tone from Roman tools that sends a chill through your blood. You see the announcing barbarian on the southern ridge to your left, dressed in layers of furs and grotesque leather. Just the sight of him reeks of uncouthness, but behind him appear rows of men. Waves, like a never-ending sea of them. You scream. To your right - you were riding closer to the ridge because there was less mud - the forest melts into the chaos of unprepared war. Soldiers are stripping off their packs and readying their wet shields while some charge forward unprotected. There seem to be no officers; no colonels. Even you, a girl untrained in the arts of battle know this is a serious disadvantage.
This knowledge however, is gleaned in a second. While you whirl around in the saddle, your horse prancing around in confused and frightened circles, the soldier accompanying you gallops over and steals the reigns from your hands. You lean over the horse's neck, plowing through the men to the northern side of the fray and clinging tightly to the horse’s mane. When the soldier stops, you are at the edge of a misty bog with haunting stream-clouds pooling around your mount’s legs. “Stay here,” the soldier orders, bowing his head which you take to mean as no disrespect. He hands you back the reigns. “If you deem necessary, continue following the lines to the front; you’ll be safer there.”
You barely have time to nod before he disappears between the trees where the roar of a terrible and bloodthirsty battle is just beginning. It sounds like the chant of a madman with more screaming. After a moment, you realize you’re trembling with fear and you sink against the neck of your horse to hold back a bitter stream of tears. It was just- all so sudden, and for some reason you find yourself frightened for the soldier who offered to keep you safe - frightened for all of them really.
He was right though, it’s safer at the front. Perhaps they’re attacking from the middle-out, hoping to separate the three legions through the middle. In that case the battle wouldn’t affect the top of either side. Still shaking with fear, you cling to that ray of hope and straighten up with a sob. Tightening the reigns, you settle your horse down and force him into a determined gallop. You must find your father and warn the others, even if the news races down the line faster than you can run.
-=-(*)-=-
An hour or so later, dusk begins to fall and you slowly concede your plan is failing.
The forest is getting darker by the second, your horse is weak from the mud and weather, and worst of all, the sounds of battle have never faded. If anything, they’ve intensified. You can almost see the figures of battling men through the fog at times while the occasional carcasses of Roman soldiers lay littered through the trees. It is frightening. Your main plan of action was to make yourself as small as possible on your horse and push through to the front lines no matter what, but now you aren’t quite sure what to do. With night falling it’s almost certain you'll be found; you don’t know the way in an unfamiliar forest and you have no way to survive. Help looks dim.
Wiping away the tears on your cheeks, you urge your horse forward again. He bobs his head while he walks, unwilling; but you know you have to keep moving. By the time dusk ends and the whole forest begins to turn black, you’re freezing as well, rubbing your arms frantically to keep warm. You dropped off your cloak long ago when it got too waterlogged to be useful. Weather doesn't make up for direction though. The sounds of battle have dimmed, (Friend might mistake friend in the dark.) but every so often there’s a scream and the thump of a body. You wonder sometimes if they are friend or foe and who they were. Your horse begins to stumble. You probably shouldn’t be riding him, but he’s still moving faster than if you were walking alone and if anyone looks, he can pass him off as a stray horse, unlike a stray girl who might make a prize trophy slave.
Just when you begin to despair that you’ll ever reach the front camp in the bog, either because you’re off track or you’ll pass it in the blackness, a beam of light breaks through the gloom. The horse immediately stumbles toward it and you lean forward, urging him on and forgetting that Germans as well as Romans can carry lanterns. Please, you think, please help-
“Siste!” A Latin voice huffs in the gloom. You hear the hiss of metal that indicates a drawn sword. “What is it?”
You collapse with relief against the back of your horse at his voice. “Numonius,” you manage. Your voice is dry after hours of no water and cracks. You slide off the horse and you splash into a pool of water that comes up to your calves. There is a hiss among the soldiers and the shifting of horse bodies; they want silence, and you gingerly come closer, careful not to make any more noise. “Numonius,” you whisper.
The calvary officer, second only to your father, comes closer and shines the light down on your face. You must look different, because an expression of surprise morphs on it and he quickly extends a hand. “Lady Varus. To what do we owe to have this pleasure at such an unfavorable time?”
You take his hand and gratefully swing upon his fresh horse. It huffs at the extra weight and shuffles around while you adjust a comfortable length from the man. “I was riding up to my father when they attacked. I’ve been trying to get front ever since.”
Vala Numonius chuckles low in his throat and it sounds like rumbling gravel. You hate that habit of his, but are so grateful at the moment you can’t chide him. “You’re miles off mark. But well-off for it.”
“I just kept to the sounds of battle.”
He kicked his horse and you begin to head forward, followed by the small brace of cavalry. He grunts. “Women. The battlefield is wherever there are two men and a sword. But the bog probably didn’t help either,” he added as an afterthought.
With that rebuke, you fall quiet, too tired to snap back and have him fired like you usually would. Eventually the clinking of armor and the soft breaths of horses and men lulls you to sleep. You don’t even think to ask why Numonius is riding this far from the battle.
-=-(*)-=-
“... help me get her down.”
The sound of armor clinking; footsteps and horse plods. You hear voices in the distance, muffled and faint, but still there. A twist of warmth; probably from a fire. You feel a blanket under you and the world fades away from you as vaguely as it came.
-=-(*)-=-
“_______ia... Lady Varus.”
You roll over slowly, opening your eyes to see an unfamiliar soldier peering over you. You frown and straighten up, rubbing your eyes. “What is it?”
“We’re breaking camp, Lady,” the soldier nodded his head in respect as you stand up and glance around. There are blankets scattered about on the grass along with men strapping on their still-damp armor. None of the familiar tents you’re used to or the order you’ve come to expect from the Roman battlefield. Now you look too, the forest is off in the distance; the soldiers made camp in a sort of meadow area with hills protecting their back from the woods. There was no fort and no defensive posts. It appeared that there had been a fire in the middle of the sleeping men, but it was long cold so the smoke wouldn’t be seen in the air.
You aren’t sure how you feel about this. It’s odd... strange. It makes you feel Un-Roman and you dislike it. However, there are none of the common Roman features anywhere near on the horizon. Nothing is to be done about comfort unless you reach an outpost which is undoubtedly where Numonius is riding as fast as the horses can take. You finally nod and look back at the soldier. “I am ready.”
“Good.” You jump at the deep voice behind you as well as Numonius’ hand on your shoulder. “We need every hand. Collect five of the nearest horses and bring them to me.”
You flinch away from his touch with a sneer as Numonius turns towards you. “You have no right to order me.”
“Pardon,” he bows his head but there is no submission in the action. Instead, you sense a bit of sarcasm and it ruffles your feathers. “If you will bring the horses please.”
You haven’t been known for a favorable temper and you feel it starting to rise, but now is not the occasion to refuse - and you don’t have your father’s guards beside you which is undoubtedly why he is so lax. You settle for shooting him a bland glance and heading toward the horses a few paces away.
After a moment of tugging with a stubborn mare, the horses follow you back to camp and are met with ready soldiers. They mount along with the other men who gathered up the rest. You count them as they stand at attention; about three dozen soldiers, some older men - probably paid warriors - and some younger recruits for a season. All look worn down, even in the morning light with their rest the night before.
You’re so busy wondering about this that you barely notice when Numonius rides up behind you - again - and offers his hand. “Lady Varus.”
“Thank you.”
You mount behind him, settle yourself, and the Roman cavalry sets off at a brisk trot, leaving the forest and camp behind.
The main difference between riding at night and day is the ability to see where you’re going and the layout of the landscape. It’s not terribly different from Rome, but enough to make you look around in wonder. Everything is so dark; a thick green that shines like an emerald. The clouds from yesterday are still hanging heavy over the valley and rises of forests sit like parallel lines to guide you northwest - according to the sun. Minutes of riding take you close enough to catch the glint of sun on water and you quietly point this out to Numonius, who agrees and shifts the direction of travel a bit north so you can circumvent the river’s bulge.
He seems eager to escape though and as you ride you begin to question his motives. There was his secrecy in the forest, an odd encampment, and out of the enormous cavalry you know the legions had: here was only a fraction. You aren't a genius, but it doesn't take a mastermind to try and put the pieces together once you can examine them in broad daylight. When you finally arrive nearer to the bulge in the river and begin to round it, you straighten away from Numonius to grab his attention. “Vala?”
He glances over his shoulder at you, not quite frowning, but bothered about something. “What?”
“You're deserting, aren’t you?”
He turns away from you and shoves his heels into the horse’s sides, nearly throwing you off balance when the horse gallops. (Behind, you hear the soldiers goading their horses as well.) “Lady Varus,” He finally said. You have to lean against his back to hear him. “I am rescuing men from a disaster.”
You jerk back at that. “A disaster?! But-”
“A disaster.” He barks back, ignoring you. “A woman wandering in the back lines knows nothing of the massacre on the front.”
The words click after a minute and you feel your heart clench in your chest. “My father may be dead!” You scream, clutching onto his plated armor as the horse’s speed increases. “You left him to die!”
“Varus was an idiot,” he growls. You dig your nails into his tunic, (futilely protected with armor) try to yank his hair and scream to avenge your father, but it’s difficult to do on a horse and Numonius doesn’t seem to feel a thing. “Swords!” He suddenly screams, and you shriek as he unsheathes his sword from his side, nearly slicing you. The men behind you unsheathe their swords as well.
“Numonius!”
And then you see the Germans over the next rise: armed with lances and swords, wearing simple tunics and leggings. Whether they’re leather or cloth, you can’t tell. And all you can bear to see at the moment is that they’re blocking the north valley against the river, snarling like wolves before an attack. Your immediate venom against the man disappears and you bury your head against Numonius’ armor to wait. Seconds feel like minutes then and you swallow hard, following the feeling of a tear trickling down your cheek.
“CHARGE.”
You have to look up as the German army gallops across the plain, watching them come closer and closer like forbidden doom. Numonius raises his sword when you’re close enough to smell the leader - a fat brute with a thick nose and gnarled beard - and you duck back down against him. Something wet splatters your cheek and you don’t look up again, hiding against the deserter with the roar and screams of battle around you.
Now you’re close enough to the battle with your eyes shut tight, there are other sounds you can make out you didn't hear before; rings of swords, screams of horses, the clank of chain mail. There’s even a sort of silent hiss of the blood rushing from a wound: the bloodied gurgling of dying men choking in their own blood. This, you think helplessly, is horrible. But there isn’t anything you can do to stop it, so you sit there on top of the frothing horse, listening to the difference of Roman and German men when they fall. Romans fall with a clank because of their armor; Germans fall with a earthy thud.
You only open your eyes when you feel a jerk from Numonius in front of you, almost like he’s pushing backwards. Leaning forward to keep your balance, you hiss when something pokes you in the stomach. A sword. There is a sword going through Vala’s body. You try to scream, but it’s caught somewhere in your throat between horror and disgust. Somehow, you think you might’ve said Numonius’ name and he coughs, spitting red on the horse’s mane. “L...ady... Varus....”
He slumps back on you, dead.
You are holding a dead man in your arms.
Without thinking, you jerk away, sending him tumbling off the horse into the grass below, half-mangled with other dead bodies. It’s only then you really manage to look up and see the carnage. Half the Roman soldiers are dead; their horses are injured, dead too, or bolting loose through the fray. The German soldiers have suffered losses, but you can’t see as many of their dead and the ones that aren’t have gathered around the Roman soldiers still living. They’re in a little group in the direction you came from, swords hissing, javelins waving about.
Then you realize that you are mostly alone. After killing Numinius, they must’ve assumed you were run through as well or just didn’t see you. The idea doesn’t even manage to form in your head, it’s more of a vague concept that you go with because you’re desperate enough to grasp at straws, but you follow it. Without hesitating, you lean down on the horse’s neck, dig your heels into his side, and kick him - hard.
He lurches forward and nearly sends you off, but you cling to him like life itself and head up over the ridge where the Germans attacked. It’s empty now, and they still haven’t noticed you.
A light fall of rain begins, washing away the dirty feeling of your tunic and making the grass gleam when a ray of light gets through the clouds to land upon it. The land - if cruel - is very beautiful. If you imagine hard enough, the blood and war fades away into a quiet green land where you’re simply riding to ride, like in Rome. The thought is so sweet for a moment that a threat of hope gleams somewhere in your heart. Maybe if you ride fast enough you can get to an outpost. Maybe you can even reach the Rhine and find a general. They would send you home - and even if you don’t find one, you can travel there yourself somehow. In Rome, things are simple. Logical. Easy-
One second your horse screams - how you’ve heard many horses scream on the battlefield just before they die - and the next you find yourself flying through the air like a ripped and disemboweled ragdoll. You crash on your side in the grass, rolling over a few yards before your arm thumps against something hard and a spasm of pain shoots up your side. You bite into your lip to hide the cry of agony but instead of stifling the pangs running up your arm it makes you cry; a weakness no better. It’s not that you want to die, then, but in that instant it feels overwhelming. You can’t believe the battle might be lost, but in realistic terms everyone is gone, you’re on your own, and now the horse is cut down - writhing in the grass yards from you in agony. There really is no hope. Either you die at their hands or you die at your own.
You don’t really have anything to preserve your honor though, so you hide your face in the grass and listen to the hoof beats of your killer approaching. When they’re almost above you the rider pulls his horse to a stop, giving a huff that isn’t quite a grunt, but a low treble deep in his chest as he dismounted. Footsteps and the rustling of grass.
A large hand holds your (bad) left shoulder gently for a moment before applying pressure and rolling you over to face him. You hiss, clenching your eyes and your shoulder against the world until you realize after a minute that he’s just standing there. Nothing has happened - you actually are still alive, which you weren’t expecting a few minutes ago. Warily, you open one eye, then the other. And then you stare.
It’s the same German who was snooping around camp the night before. You remember his well-proportioned, yet rough face and long blond hair with the thin braid on the left like it was engraved in your mind. There’s something otherworldly about him; something ethereal that holds you there in awe while he simply stares down and does nothing - he’s probably examining your soul, you finally figure. His blue eyes bore into your head like they can read every secret. Maybe he can.
“Salve.”
He- he just.... said.... Your mind somehow managed to short circuit in a mixture of horror and awe.
The German gave no outwardly opinion of your stunned surprise. “Salve,” he repeated again in perfect Latin. “You are Roman, yes?”
You open your mouth to say something before realizing your tongue feels like dry lead. It won’t move or swallow, more or less speak. You finally manage to nod, mouth cracked.
The German gets to his feet and extends a hand; his facial expressions still haven’t changed and he stares down with a cold blue gaze. “Friduric. You are-”
You stand up, gingerly helping your sore shoulder. “________ia Varus,” you whisper.
“________ia,” Friduric repeats flatly; perhaps the last name means nothing to him. He stares at you for another long second, then turns away and mounts his horse. “_________ia, you are mine.”
No, you want to add immediately. I’m my own. But in your heart you somehow feel it’s just on principle. There is death either way. You glance longingly over your shoulder at the open meadow following the river - but there’s no way to get there. He would cut you down before you ran a yard. And beside that, there’s a looming feeling of mastery over your head besides the death at your feet. Numonius tried to flee the carnage, was caught, and failed. You had tried to run, got caught, and failed. You had your luck and your chance and now it had run out. This was simply your fate too, you knew. Slavery was just what happened to those caught in war. You owned slaves too, once.
You really were lucky to be alive anyway.
Two tears slip out of your eyes as you followed him back down the embankment; not in passion, just loss perhaps, hopelessness, or another emotion even you can’t identify. However the Germans ignore you as you pass into their midst at Friduric’s heels, though they glance at him and he mutters something quietly in Germanic. It sounds like a command, you think, and you aren’t surprised when all of the group excepting two thin, younger men turn their horses and begin to trot off south. The remaining three, Friduric included, stand there and you glance around at the carnage you’re wading through as you wait. A dead Roman lies at your feet, a woman’s brooch clutched to his breast. One dead German with a sword through his stomach stares blankly at the sky with unseeing grey eyes; you look away. The spoils though - if the Germans want spoils - are great. Pounds of armor, thousands of swords. You vaguely start to calculate the price of loss and the amount the Germans might gain if they tried to save some of it. The sum is unfathomable really, you glance at the dead men’s moneybags too. How much had the senators - your father too, a chill grips your heart - and the emperor lost in this endeavor?
“_______ia,” Friduric barks, and you immediately look up at him. “Come.” He extends a hand - which you step over a dead man’s chest to take - and pulls you roughly up beside his horse, expecting you to struggle on from the right side. Somehow you manage to get on and he curls an arm around your stomach to hold you there, barking another rough word to the two men beside him. They immediately start up their horses and lead eastward back to the forest and the bog, talking brusquely in the chesty language you’d come to associate the barbarians with. Friduric is silent.
After a few minutes of riding when you reach the edge of the forest, the young men tug their horses to the left and set a varying course through the bog. It isn’t real dry land, but thick grasses that flatten easily when the horses step on them, so you can only see a thin layer of water above their hooves. On this causeway you travel for hours, stopping once or twice to rest and occasionally dismount. (You, however, aren’t allowed to stay on the horse, and one of the men ties your hands with a leather strip so you can’t resist.) After a while the young men stop talking, but Friduric stays silent and cold the whole time. You begin to wonder if he ever says more than a few words, and why he’s so stern all the time. He can’t be angry or vengeful; he would’ve killed you on the spot. It must just be a Germanic quirk.
Once around noon when the light sieved through the leaves is greatest, you try to get him to talk. “So,” you clear your throat and it sounds loud in the dead silence. “Who are you?”
No reply.
You wait for a few seconds to make sure he isn’t just thinking it over before you try again, but his expression doesn’t change. You aren’t even sure if his expression has varied from deadpan unconcern the whole trip. “Fridericus,” you dare to use the Latin version of his name (suddenly realizing you haven’t had water since this morning when your voice is dry) “Why don’t you speak?”
His position on the horse shifts left and you move with him, startled when he suddenly clears his throat. “It is- it is- seltsam -odd.”
“To talk?” You pretend to look at the bog and the thick trees, quietly ignoring him. “Everybody talks.”
“I do not.”
“Why not?”
His eyebrows draw together so inconspicuously you aren’t sure if he actually did it or your imagination is just playing tricks on his face. “Miene aussprechen-” the words sounded like a low growl. “I do not know how to say it in Latin. It is my sound. It is different.”
You think about that for a minute, trying to remember how the young men sounded when they were talking. They’re half-hidden by the trees now and quiet so you can’t compare immediately. “Well,” you finally say. “I don’t hear any different.”
His lips twitch. “You are- der Römer.” Which you guess to mean that because you’re Roman, you understand nothing of barbaric Germanic - which is true, but it ruffles you feathers to think of it so and you slouch, sullen. Immediately, his arm tightens around your waist and forces you to straighten up. “Aufhören.”
You huff, turning away from him in distaste. “I do not understand because your language is rubbish.”
“At least my people do not put others on crosses.”
“Do you bathe?” you snarl, flinching away like his smell offends you. (He smells like a tree though, if that’s even possible. Like a large bush; earth, the sun. Things you didn’t know had a smell. It’s uncomfortable and odd, but not unpleasant.)
Friduric says nothing in response and when you glance up, you see he is immobile and emotionless as always. The conversation, apparently, is over; and you almost feel regret at cutting it short. However, calling you ‘der Römer’ in his fashion is more insulting than calling you a barbarian. The slice on your Roman heart, you know, will sting longer than a few minutes and you aren’t ready to forgive him; not yet.
You travel through the bog till nightfall, stopping periodically to give the horses a rest. Nobody speaks; the only sounds you can hear are the rustling of trees and grunts from the horses. Sometimes an animal calls in the distance, (you wonder how many wolves are nearby and if Friduric might throw an expendable slave girl to them if any got too close) but they never seem to get nearer. Perhaps they avoid the bog as well.
As the shadows draw closer, one of the young men pulls out a Roman lantern - you recognize the squat iron thing with the tiny stub of a burning candle inside and wonder who they took it from - guiding the way on the more even parts of land. His partner falls behind to form a single-file line with you and Friduric taking up the rear. It isn’t long after that when you realize the horse has been walking on a fairly steady piece of land for a while. It isn’t rising, but there’s less mud and the trees aren’t leaning side-to-side in waterlogged earth.
Friduric startles you when he barks something out and the first man stops in the gloom, holding the lantern aloft like a question mark. You realize that both the men have pulled leather cloaks over their heads and they stand there, faces shrouded in secrecy as you draw closer. Friduric adds another gruff phrase you can’t make out and the young men nod, their blue-grey eyes fastened on him with twin looks of complete subjugation and respect. And again, you wonder vaguely who Friduric is to command such influence.
Bowing their heads for a second, they glance at Friduric once more before turning their horses around and continuing off a ledge you hadn’t seen into the mists of the bog. The light of the lantern is quickly swallowed up and you desperately hope your captor knows what he’s doing. Without hesitating, Friduric turns the horse north into a shroud of trees, farther into the tiny dry patch of land. Once you push through you see a tiny light through the leaves and mist. Then another. And then a soft glow seems to fall over the tiny clearing and you realize you’re at the front stoop of a squat earthen cottage. Flickering light shines from cracks in the wooden doorway and two low slits in the earthen paneling - entirely different from the windows of Rome. You find yourself staring at it, trying to take in the differences and wondering just what possessed them to build with earth, not stone.
Friduric doesn’t speak before he dismounts and you nearly slide off with him in surprise, but he catches you and slides you to the ground when you find your legs won’t even try to support you. Too much time on the horse, you realize, and flinch when something rustles in the bushes. Friduric glances at you for a second (You wonder if he really would feed you to a wolf for a second.) then glances back at the cottage and just stands there.
You nearly jump out of your skin when a small toddler leaps madly out of the bushes waving a small wooden bow while screaming at the top of his lungs, “VATTIVATTIVATTI.” You’re positive birds fly off somewhere and you yelp when he nearly topples over you while jumping up Friduric’s legs. “PICK ME UP,” he suddenly adds in Latin and you blink wildly when the child follows that with a gush of demanding German.
Friduric seems to act slow next to him as he leans down and scoops the child into his arms, ignoring the waving bow everywhere. He murmurs something softly and the child follows with another burst of indignance, suddenly squirming to get down. Friduric latches on and you see a faint smile form as the child attempts to hit him on the head with the bow. “Gisilbert-” he adds something teasingly into the toddler’s ear and the child grows slack, scowling up at him. “Go inside,” he adds in Latin and the little boy sullenly obeys, reminding you of yourself at a time that seems so long ago.
Without a word to you, Friduric offers a hand and pulls you to your feet when you take it, slipping an arm around your back. The door opens easily under his touch - the little boy, Gisilbert, must’ve left it unlatched - and you find yourself in a warm room. A fire illuminates the large shapes: a small bed to your right along with two chests at the foot, a chair in the center of the room; some cast iron miscellaneous things in the upper left corner (cooking utensils along with the glint of a sword), a cushy item that seems to be stuffed with feathers, fur, or another soft thing, and a small cradle in the corner. There’s a large bear rug before the fire that’s competing with the chair for center room with most of the fur has been rubbed off from wear, and there are half a dozen miscellaneous furs covering the rough wooden bed. Nothing is fancy or carved, but it looks worn in... practical, and even though everything is uncouth and foreign you can’t help but feel you’ve found your way into a home.
Friduric motions to the chair after a moment and you steady yourself on your legs, forcing one step and the other once he lets go. The chair - neither horse or carriage - is a welcome relief and you collapse against the backing just as Gisilbert explodes from under the bed. A toy arrow flies across the room, smacks the opposite wall (the toddler shouts his triumph), and lands inside the cradle with a thud. You wince. Friduric apparently expects something too though because he chides Gisilbert and strides over to the other side of the room as the cradle begins to rock.
He glances at you for a second when he leans down to pick up the child inside. “He is Chlodic.”
It’s a hideous name that sounds like a cough; you can’t imagine any Roman mother looking down at her child and naming him Chlodic, but it’s not like you would say that out loud - and perhaps, you think, the Germanic names will grow on you; harsh as they are. You smile and lean to see when Friduric lifts the child up. He looks about one-year-old - or still in the cranky stage, at least - with a pale mess of blond hair and enormous blue eyes that stare right at you. He stops crying just to look and you laugh at his stunned expression. Friduric smiles again, murmuring something in Germanic to the child before he carries him across the room and places him on the bed.
Chlodic gurgles angrily when Friduric immediately turns away (Gisilbert is waving his bow and Germanically demanding something from you at that point, which looks ridiculous in his toddler’s tunic; it’s then you also realize that his hair isn’t only blond, it’s nearly stark white and his eyes are reddish-brown. You’ve never seen anyone like him before and you laugh in awe rather than ducking at his blows.) to drag Gisilbert to the opposite corner next to the fire. He barks a phrase and the child plops down on the earthen floor, pulling out a carved toy from the miscellaneous items to play with along with three rough wooden bowls, scowling the whole time.
Friduric glances at you with an almost amused, exasperated breath before turning to the fire. It’s actually burning well with a pot over the flames, you realize after a second. Someone must have been with the two children to keep it burning and you almost expect a woman to step in the room and begin ladling whatever it is into bowls. Nobody comes to the door though and the room settles into quiet human noises while Friduric stirs, Chlodic begins to chew on the corner of a fox tail, and you rub some feeling back into your legs.
After that, dinner is a short affair of gulasch. You don’t know what kind of meat or roots compose it and you don’t care to ask, though you feel comfortable enough with Friduric to speak up if you wanted to. Instead, you help him by holding a sleepy Chlodovech while he argues with vehement Gisilbert who likes to scream in Latin and German that Bed is for Chlodi Only. Friduric’s eventual response to that outburst is to start a bedtime story - or you’re guessing it’s a story, as it’s all in German and you can’t understand the plot. His voice fills the room though and you begin to feel a bit drowsy too. The words are still gruff, but you can make out the rise and fall of the phrases and the melody of his voice makes sense. Within minutes, Gisilbert is snoring away and you’ve tucked a sleeping Chlodic back in his cradle for fear you’ll drop him.
Half asleep yourself, you drape your arms over the back of the chair and watch Friduric move about the room with lidded eyes. You think he gathers up some objects from the miscellaneous pile and shoulders them, tossing on a thick cloak pulled from one of the chests, but at that point you don’t know if you’re conscious or not. When Friduric drapes a final fur over you and leaves the room, it’s the final straw of exhaustion and you topple off the edge into a deep sleep. Past that point you can’t remember anything more; if Friduric ever came home or the boys woke up, you don’t know about it.
-=-*-=-
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you never took your sandals off when you entered the house and now your feet are completely numb. You unlatch them by memory more than looking and kick them somewhere by the fire. You recall you didn’t even notice which foot you stepped over the doorway with, but you’re too tired to care and figure that if you aren’t dead yet, the ensuing bad luck can’t be that terrible.
The second thing you notice when you’re just about to fall back to sleep is the empty bed in the corner. There’s a hollow fur where Gisilbert was laying and when you look in the miscellaneous corner you notice his bow is missing. You awkwardly push off the heavy cover and get out of the chair only to hear heavy footsteps right outside the door. You aren’t really sure what to do since you don’t know who it is. It might be best to run under the bed and pray the intruders don’t find you - but then again, perhaps a faction of your army regrouped and routed the Germans, or-
The door opens wider and Friduric’s face appears, impassive, yet without any malice in his eyes. He nods to you and steps inside, Gisilbert enters afterward furiously stomping his boots (you see remnants of bog mud fall to the floor) as he trails at Friduric’s heels. You’re still watching him when he looks up and he stares at you like he remembers absolutely nothing of last night. You stand there for a good minute, struggling not to laugh as he acts completely dumbstruck. Friduric finally kicks him gently in the direction of the corner and Gisilbert trails off across the room, still staring at you over his shoulder as he put his bow down.
“Varus,” you jerk your attention back to Friduric. “Clothes.” He hands you a thick bundle of wool and leather with a quick nod at the door to show where you’re to change before heading across the room to check on Chlodic. He doesn’t seem that worried about you, like he’s already assumed you won’t run away; and you’re not sure whether to feel grateful for his leniency or hate his assumption that you’re too weak to accomplish anything.
That matters less with the reeking items in your arms. They smell hideously of outdoor things, a person, and stuff. There’s so much scent you can’t even classify it and you mind begins to loop it all into one ugly category all its own. Struggling not to recoil from the items, you make your way to the door and hurry around the corner of the house where a large oak half-blocks you from sight. There, you figure you might as well get the torture over with quickly.
The clothes are hideous in sight and smell when you unfurl them. The top, (you assume) is simply a round piece of linen that fastens above your shoulders with two small pins while the skirt is similar, though made of a thick piece of linen too large for you. There’s a leather strap along with all of it and you assume that’s to tie around your waist, holding the skirt up and the top down.
You stand there for a moment with your old Roman tunic in hand, looking down at the repulsive scratchy mess you have on now. You hate it, you know; you hate it so much. It has no grace, no dignity. You feel like a slave in it shapeless, ripped from your own world and dropped in this colorless, barbarian new one. It’s not Rome. It’s not Italy. It’s not, it’s not, it’s not. And something inside you breaks, releasing a dam of hatred for this ugly forest and its horrible people. You want to kill them all, smash their skulls in, and find a horse: get away somehow out of this never-ending, hideous bog. You want out. You’ve got to get away.
Some part of your mind is aware that what you’re saying is ridiculous and stupid; common sense has fled and left you quite incapacitated. (Obviously, if you’re crumbled on the ground weeping.) But you can’t stop the flood. It’s been building up since the day before, you suppose, as you wandered through the same ghastly muck you’re stuck in now, and now everything is so far away and so hopeless. You won’t go home ever again. You’ll just live here... and die here. Arminius might rescue you - if he weren’t probably dead, along with the rest of any hope from the three legions; crushed along with your life.
You don’t know how long you cry there, brushing away your tears with your tunic, straightening it, folding it, and repeating the process. You can’t let go of it though, like it’s a part of you and whatever life you used to have. You need it.
However, you do have enough sense left for your cheeks to tint when Friduric comes looking for you and you try to push yourself to your feet to hide behind the tree, scrubbing away the tears again with your tunic and probably making the whole mess look worse. It’s like the man has eyes in the back of his head though; he looks behind the tree with his usual impassive gaze, saying nothing, and somehow that makes you feel worse. You’re the horrible one for being unthankful when he’s done nothing but treat you reasonably well. You remember the slaves marched into Rome in chains, their heads down and feet lagging and choke on a fresh bout of tears. You have to turn away to the trunk then. You can’t face him.
You both stand there in silence for a while as you try and force yourself to stop sniffling and behave like a Roman woman should. He doesn’t smack you or even say something in German before turning away like you expect, but you still catch your breath when you hear a slight pause in his breathing that means he’s about to speak. Only the words are soft, almost tender. “Sich abregen.” He rests a hand on your shoulder, and you’re forced to smile at how uncertain his touch feels. “Do not worry. We are all slaves at some point.”
“Even you?” you snap back. You slap your hands over your mouth the instant your brain realizes you said it. You’d think you have a death wish.
But his blue eyes merely crinkle the slightest touch; he still doesn't smile. “Vere,” the Latin affirmation comes easy. “I am a slave to the wills of my people.”
“You can go wherever you want,” you turn away from the tree, trying to push the heat of your swollen throat down for the dozenth time. It aches now in body and mind like the recurring of a painful memory. “You have a family.”
“Doch.” The eye-crinkle and possible upturn from the corners of his mouth are still on his face and you suppose ‘doch’ is a positive word. “But... I do not know how to say it. Die Sippe,” he pauses. “-my... people? No... family. Yet my family will kill me. I am not a slave in name, but I am not free.”
Your eyes fall to the ground to think about that last bit, and you slowly start to wonder what he meant by his family killing him. Did he actually mean Chlodic and Gisilbert? Because that- that didn’t make any sense. Hesitating over the puzzle, you look up to ask him what he meant, but he’s gone, already turning the corner of the house. You hurry after him, still clutching your tunic to your chest.
He’s by the doorway holding more things when you catch up: a kind of shapeless leather boot with more straps to hold it up and a cloak. You want your sandals and you wonder what will happen to them by the fire, but you bite down on your tongue and take the other things. Now isn’t the time to whine. With a slight readjustment from Friduric, (he drapes the fabric over your head before fastening it with another pin) he silently deems you acceptable with a nod and gives a whistle that splits your ears.
Gisilbert bolts out of the house instantly, nearly bowling you over. “Vattiiii,” he whines, waving his arms above his head. “VattiVattiVattiVatti,” there’s a burst of German you can make out and Friduric concedes with another vague smile that seems the closest he can get to a cheery expression, snatching Gisilbert up in his firm, steady way and tossing him in the air where he screams with delight. “Mehr Vatti! Mehrmehr!” Friduric smiles wider and catches him, swinging the toddler back to the ground with a steady stream of compromising German. Gisilbert’s face falls, but Friduric rubs his tousled white hair and pretends to give him a gentle kick in the direction of the doorway which the toddler easily dodges. Still giggling, he scurries inside and shuts the door.
You’re so busy watching them though that you don’t notice the same horse from yesterday that has appeared from out of the bog. The reigns are already on its head by a halter-like set and it takes the bit easily without any do-das or sugarcoating. (You remember once when Arminius got his hand chomped on by an old nag and you have to hold back laughter while Friduric swings into the saddle.) He quietly extends a hand, as usual, and you half-fumble when it lands you in back of him. You’re stuck in a flurry of thought as he urges the horse forward. He must trust that you don’t need a watcher all the time, not that you could run away if you wanted to - but it’s only been a few hours really. You adjust yourself, trying to find a comfortable seat without edging too close to him. But why? You’ve done nothing really. Why do it?
It takes a while, but as you ride your your head clears from the emotions of Friduric and Rome and you can feel yourself stepping back to take a look at the world again. It is lovely in the bog. In this part the trees seem to be lighter, letting golden sunlight flicker onto the water and grass. The air feels lighter with less mist and you can actually make out things, like the occasional head of a deer in the distance or the quiet call of a songbird. However, after an hour of riding passes and Friduric is still silent, you wonder if you ought to ask him about what he meant by his family killing him - just for conversation really, and you can’t think of anything else to say.
It takes a couple of tries to get the word out, even when you decide you’re going to ask. You clear your throat. “Friduric.” (He doesn’t answer, but you get the feeling he’s listening.) “What did you mean... when you said your family will kill you?”
“The countries...” he pauses and you guess he’s mulling the words over. “they do not last forever. It will... not happen. But the land goes on.”
That makes no sense whatsoever and you wrinkle your nose trying to decipher it. “But countries don’t have anything to do with the question.”
He lets out a huff, guiding the horse around a section of land that seems unstable. There is a phrase of quick German before his slower Latin. “When I die- it will be because my people are gone.” You ride onto a more level piece of dry land and Friduric urges the horse into a smooth trot; but you can still hear him thinking, planning out what to say. He finally raises his shoulders in a light shrug. “But it is- in Ordnung -all right. Because my family will say what my people will become.”
You lean back a second on the horse to stare at the back of his head: a length of hair blond enough to be white in the right light. He still smells like the forest, thick with pine and oak, along with too many scents to be named. And you wonder, vaguely, why it took you so long to recognize the little feeling of awe at a mystery. After a minute you realize you’re at danger of falling off the rear of the horse if you keep riding that way and you pull yourself straight, swallowing again to clear your throat. “Friduric, who...” you wonder if that’s quite the right word. “... who are you?”
There is the pause that you’ve come to expect before he lifts a hand and silently waves it at the boggy forest. If someone saw it from a distance it could easily be taken as a gesture of dismissal, but it’s much more than that. He holds it outstretched for a second like a domain to be seen before pulling it back to his side.
The country.
... A country?
You’re silent for the rest of the ride into the village with thoughts mulling over in your head. At first it seems impossible and- and terrifying. But the more you think the more you realize that it’s not that strange after all. Why wouldn’t a people have someone who... embodies them? - if that’s what the concept is; you aren’t that sure. Friduric’s actions begin to make sense in a crude sort of way: you wouldn’t picture him going to battle, but he was there anyway. And if what he said was true about countries fading (Did that mean he was sort of immortal then? Like a god? How did he die?) then Gisilbert and Chlodic were like two factions that would take root where he stood. (Which he explained, you realize.)
It accounts for nothing of your freer-access situation, however. You can’t stop thinking about how vague his answer is, and you keep pondering it when you reach the village. The place is small - there are probably more people in one of Rome’s slum apartments than there are in half a dozen scattered cottages - but you see the signs of a weaver, a blacksmith, and a few other small shops that mean there’s at least a stream of trade. The road (though, again, you can barely even call their sluggish, muddy Germanic dirt paths a road, not even after traveling through the bog) weaves through town and Friduric pulls up the horse at one of the cottage doors.
At a gentle nudge, you descent first and he gives you the reigns before sliding off as well. They land, rough leather and thick with sweat in your palms that until now have only held the finest silk. You swallow, push back the wall of emotion - though you tell yourself it’s definitely not for Friduric’s sake - and lower your head when he steps forward. You travel about the village that way as he talks and gathers a single parcel from the blacksmith. Some people seem to express surprise at his new slave and one woman even has the nerve to raise your chin to examine your face like some parcel of baggage. You contemplate ways for her to die the rest of the visit. Besides all of the Germans, your feet hate the rugged boots, your skin is chafing under the useless clothes, and the cloak tries to choke you every time you lift the hood. Under normal conditions it would be unbearable, but you somehow manage both your pride and your tears. Enough of them both, you think, swallowing emotions. You can’t afford them anymore.
When the transactions are finished a few hours later and you’re back at the edge of the bog, Friduric wordlessly takes the reigns from your hands and swings up into the saddle. The hand is extended and you quickly join him. It takes about half a minute to get into the thicker woods out of the villagers’ earshot and you immediately lean closer to him, ready to ask the questions that haven't been making sense. “Who is Gisilbert then? And Chlodic? Are they like you? How does it... happen?”
“... stop,” he guides the horse for a minute with his still impassive face, but you can somehow hear the amusement in his voice.
“Friduric-” (And somewhere the rational part of your brain wonders why you dare be so teasing with him.)
“You are asking things which I do not know.” He pauses the horse for a second at a rather odd decline covered with grass that stands between you and the avenue home. Impatient, the horse bobs his head and Friduric gives him free reign. You feel him urging the horse forward while wisely letting him pick his own path and you try to remain still as much as possible, waiting for the continuation of the conversation and the journey.
“But-” he adds once the horse has picked his way through the grasses and is plodding through the shallow water. “-I do know that they are tied to the land. And- they are mine. If not,” he urges the horse back onto a strip of grassy land. “I would not have found them.”
You swallow, leaning in again in your anticipation which makes him shift away. Not unkindly, but you can feel it’s not like him to give or receive physical contact. “Are there others?” you ask anyway.
“Doch. There is Rome.”
“Rome.” You grip him around the waist so tightly he visibly flinches and the horse snorts. “There- there is a Rome?”
“Yes.” The word is in Latin and curt this time. You physically force yourself to relax your arms and calm yourself or, you feel, the conversation is utterly over and you won’t learn any more. Once you manage that though, there is a palpable release of stress in the air and Friduric straightens again; but it takes almost half an hour for him to talk again. When he does, it’s to state a German phrase so complicated you have no hope to ever understand it - and his voice isn’t exactly kind when he says it. “I know him.”
“How?” You press. “What is he like?”
“Töricht. Laevus. Idiotic.” The man spits out the words and you find yourself recoiling a little, though you know it only makes sense. There is a brief silent as you start to slog through water again. “He was there,” Friduric adds in a calmer voice. “With you.”
Who? You feel yourself freeze, trying to flip through the faces of soldiers you’ve remember in the glimpses of the past days.
“He... er ritt- horses?” There is a flick of the wrist downward which you guess is supposed to encompass the general equestrian theme. He must’ve been riding with the deserters then. “I killed him.”
“You killed him?” you choke before you realize disapproval and sympathy for Rome probably isn't the best emotion to have, before.... before Germania. That thought feels odd and you decide to just think of him as Friduric.
“But he is not dead.” Friduric adds the contradictory statement off so easily you aren’t sure whether to believe him. You will yourself not to lean in and smother him with anxiety. “He will return in a few days. And then, when our people wish to fight again. We will fight,” The ground turns a little drier under the horse’s hooves and Friduric urges it into a smooth trot. “and one of us will die again. It will go on like that until-” he hesitates. “-until our people do not live. When they are different.”
“That’s horrible,” you state bluntly. And you don’t really know what else to say.
Friduric neither agrees nor disagrees and while you have plenty of questions, none of them really add anything to the conversation, so you hold your tongue. Hours pass as you travel and you feel the wind in the grass start to grow cooler as shadows lengthen. You end up halfheartedly hating Friduric for building his dumb house in the middle of a bog, miles from anywhere. The silence between you two is almost palpable at times; pensive and weighty. You end up hating that too, but it’s not unbearable. Whenever it gets too heavy, either one of you moves some body part or shifts their weight and the awkwardness goes away.
When you finally catch a glimpse of the island-like section of land in the distance, you breathe a sigh of relief before realizing there’s a horse tied just outside the door. The rider is too far away to make out. “Friduric,” you start.
“Duch. Ich verstehe.” You follow his gaze back over to the rider which he watches for a moment before returning to the road.
You’re half startled and half terrified at this sudden turn of events, however. You can feel your heart fluttering in your chest as you draw even closer and see a Roman eagle roughly branded on one of the horse’s saddlebags. But it could just be a German thief, you remind yourself with a soothing breath. You can’t go about thinking you’ll be rescued. In fact, rescue is pretty much null in any scenario. You’ve heard of different legions being sent in where soldiers were captured to dominate the territory and some men survived, but it was never many and men weren’t actually sent to rescue them. For you, a politically unimportant girl, there’s no chance. But you still can’t keep down the flutter of hope in your heart grasping at strings.
When you get closer and the horse pulls itself up onto the dry shore, the rider straightens up from where he was crouching and your breath catches. His face is dirty and rugged with a sharper, more chiseled look about his cheekbones, but you’d recognize him anywhere. “ARMINIUS,” you scream. Friduric jerks in the saddle, but you pay him no mind. You’re already struggling to get off the moving beast. You see Arminius’ head jerk up a few yards away. “Arminius!”
And then you’re running. Running faster than you thought possible, especially in baggy wool with a weighted cloak that unashamedly attempts to choke you by billowing behind in the slightest wind. You leap over a pot hole, stumble the rest of the steps because of those stupid boots sizes too large, and land smack in Arminius’ arms. He raises an eyebrow as you manage to straighten up and kiss him four times, twice on each cheek for good measure. “I knew you’d come back,” you manage, cursing the undignified sprint as you try to catch your breath. “I knew you were alive. You’re too good for that. Where’s Father?” You actually glance around as the words leave your mouth, as if Arminius has him hiding under his coat jacket. You correct your actions because that hope is rather slim, especially after so large attack. “Is- is he dead? Have you found him and given him a proper burial? And what about the legions? When did you realize I was missing? Do you have a way for us to get home?”
Arminius gives you a tired smile and pats your arm, though he doesn’t nod his head like he usually would and you find yourself surprised. However, you don’t care much about your respect, unlike other women, and you suppose there have been far too many problems from the battle for him to remember such a simple thing. You follow his gaze as Friduric impassively enters the yard and lightly dismounts, guiding the horse forward and somehow managing to loose the knots that hold the reigns so the horse is free. Arminius waits till he’s stopped a few yards away, reigns still in hand. You sense bitterness between the two though, and you’re about to edge out of the way when Arminius catches your arm and holds you tight.
“Hermann,” Friduric finally says.
“Friduric.” And Arminius imperceptibly nods his head. There’s another short pause and you hear a sudden fussing behind the closed door, most likely from Chlodic. Friduric’s eyes flicker to the house with a momentary look of worry, then settle back on Arminius who waves a hand. “They’re all right. The older one is attempting to cook stew, however. I ought to warn you.”
Friduric says nothing, but you quietly clear your throat. “... Arminius, you know him?”
He squeezes your arm and you fall silent.
It stays quiet for a long time then, maybe minutes, the two men just staring at one another. You’re starting to get bored, though you have the distinct feeling that this involves you and you ought to be worried for one side or another. “You do not have to do this,” Friduric finally says. There’s a long string of German following the sentence you can’t understand - but it feels like he’s talking to a snake, approaching slowly and praying the viper won’t strike. Arminius’ arm tightens and you suddenly dislike the pressure. You edge away from him a little, trying to get a good look at his face.
Arminius replies with another answer in German, eyebrows pulled in, frowning.
Friduric takes another step forward when he replies again; calm, face impassive. His eyes seem to be the bluest you’ve ever noticed them, like the Caesar’s precious jewels, and it’s somewhat frightening. You edge away again, frowning at Arminius when he won’t let you go.
“Unforgivable,” you adopted brother suddenly barks in return. “I have waited for this day. Dreamed of it, Arschgesicht. And she knows too much. You will not steal it from me or you will be killing yourself.”
You see a spark light in the blue eyes, but Friduric doesn't move. “And I owe you. Yet-”
“Nie! Do you not know how much this has cost me?” The grip on your arm has become unbearable and you begin to struggle as something in your gut knows its time to tear away. You find a whimper stuck in your throat as you tug at Arminius’ fingers. “Look!” Suddenly he tosses you loose and you trip onto the ground, staring up at him. “A proud daughter of Rome." He waves a hand at you, eyes on Friduric. "Reduced to nothing. They are tyrants, yet they sit in their palaces and do nothing but feed on the rubble they cause!”
The words are more painful than you would've believed and you stare at him. “Arminius,” you choke.
“But I did it,” he whirls on you, and there’s a maddened look in his eyes as you shuffle backwards. He advances. “I had to; don’t you see? Taxing my people and invading their lands.”
“Ar- Arminius-”
“And especially your father and his precious torture.” He look down at you with a steady gaze and you can only stare in horror as he unsheathes a dagger (engraved with the Roman eagle, which feels like the final blow). He kneels beside you, pinning your right shoulder into the ground so you can’t move, even if you tried, and lays the tip of the dagger right against your belly. “Nothing against you, ______ia. It's politics. A quick death though,” he murmurs with an apologetic smile. “The penalty to one who knows too much.”
The seconds the dagger hangs there are terrifying and in your mind you beg him to stop this madness. Why now? Did he remember nothing of growing up together? Of travels and the scrolls he read to you? You would stay here if he asked, or never return to Rome. It suddenly seems like a light price to pay compared to this. Please, please don't. But your tongue feels like it’s turned to lead and your mouth won’t move.
More seconds, and then then he stabs the blade deep into your stomach. There’s an explosion of pain, a scream, collapsing to the ground, and then everything flows into a ache at that point. It doesn’t sting so much as burn like fire, and a sickly copper taste rises in your mouth and spills over. You cough, trying to get rid of it, but already everything seems faint and heavy. Is this what dying feels like then? It’s rather peaceful, if not for Arminius’ face hovering over you like a pleased cloud. You see the dagger out of the corner of your eye dripping blood. You hate it.
Arminius rises with a few phrases of German - some seemingly directed at you which you can't understand and a final one towards Friduric. You begin to feel tired from the blood loss and you shut your eyes, trying not to move your chest or breath too deeply. The pain is dredging outwards, sucking the life out of your fingertips and toes; they don’t feel attached any more, and it takes a great effort to twitch them. But you feel Arminius’ footsteps as he walks away, then the horse’s hoof beats dying in the distance. And you, dying on a little piece of forgotten bog. It feels so unreal... and you’re so alone.
Seconds pass.
“______ia.”
You open your eyes to find Friduric kneeling beside you, face as impassive as ever. “You....” you whisper. A thin stream of blood trickles from your mouth onto the grass. “Friduric.”
“Ask your question.”
You manage a half-gurgled laugh, even though it sends shocks of pain up your sides and tears well in your eyes. You wonder, vaguely, if he acts so impartial because he doesn’t really die or because he wants you to forget you’re dying. You end up settling for the latter. “Y- you asked for my life,” you finally whisper. “Didn’t you? I’m- I’m Roman.”
Friduric pauses like he always does before he answers your questions and you wish you had the strength to reach up and throttle him. If you die before he finishes, you silently swear you’ll haunt him in the afterlife. “Enemies,” he finally starts, frowning into the distance. “may also be the closest of friends. And I swore to keep the promise of a dying man.”
“Rome.” The burning seems to consume your whole torso now and you can barely feel your arms. You know you can’t lift your head and there’s an oddly woozy thought to the whole process. “What... what did he... wish?”
Friduric neither corrects, nor denies. You see his hand lift up to rest on your hair but it feels like nothing’s there. “That you would be free.” It hurts then when you think about it, that you didn’t get back to Rome. Live to tell the story. You won’t marry; love your children. Free. Even your lips feel heavy now and you can’t make them shape the words you want. Instead, you focus on his blue eyes and breathing despite the pain. More blood trickles from your mouth and you wonder how hideous it looks.
After another moment the clearing is still silent as you feel your eyes fog over and you’re forced to close them, listening to thoughts of your life as they speed by. It seems similar to the brink of a cliff and a waterfall, carrying your limp body closer and closer to an unspecified edge. You cough, hating how much it hurts to breath. But just before you reach the edge, you feel something squeeze your hand.... Friduric, you remember. And his lips press against your forehead like a silent blessing. “Now you are free,” a voice whispers.
And then you die.