“I wouldn’t say that,” she replied, and paused thoughtfully. “For once she was the one who was ambiguous as to what should be done. She knew by incurring Germanicus’ ill will her husband was in jeopardy, not to mention Agrippina — she’s quite the vindictive one! I almost wish they had asked me to do her as well. I probably would have done it for free.”
The pleasant smile on Livia’s face was no longer pleasant as Martina suddenly felt a stabbing pain in her belly.
“Oh, I must have eaten too fast!” she said with a short, unconvincing laugh. She began to feel hot and sticky. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She looked at Livia in alarm.
The Empress’ demeanor was no longer pleasant. “You underestimated the Julio-Claudians. You really did,” Livia said, almost conversationally. “You obviously believe the slander and thought I could have been so ruthless as to have had a hand in the murder of my own blood? You are an abomination!”
Martina was suddenly in a panic. Her stomach was turning in knots, and she was starting to feel dizzy. She went to reach for Livia, only to find that her hand was trembling badly and refused to function properly.
Martina might have been little more than a peasant, but she was not stupid and realized why Livia arranged their ’meeting’. She tried to stand, but found her body was already too weak to support her bulk, and she fell ungracefully on the floor.
“What is going to happen to me?” she asked, her eyes wide with panic.
Livia stood over her. “You should know. It’s what you gave Germanicus.” Her voice was icy as she continued. “I know history and slanderers will forever damn me, finding some way to connect me to his death. But my own conscience is clear, knowing that, in my little way, I avenged my grandson.” Martina could only stare in terror, her mouth gaping like a fish. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest felt like it was in a vice. The pain in her belly spread through her body. In her fading vision, she saw a man standing over her. Everything else around her had turned to black, but he stood out clearly. The man was dressed as a legionary legate, eyes were full of wrath, his sword drawn. She knew his face, and it terrified her.
He’s come for me! She thought, as what remained of her breathing came in short rasps. No longer could she speak, and all she could see was the form of the man seeking his revenge on her.
Livia walked over to the door and gave it a short rap. A man wearing a legionary tunic, sword belt, and cloak walked in and bowed.
“My friend seems to have fallen ill,” Livia said, looking at Martina’s body with mock concern. “Be so kind to see to it she is taken care of.” With that she swept out of the room.
“Yes, Lady,” he replied.
Chapter IV: Return to Germania
Ietano swallowed hard when he received word that Roman soldiers were approaching. It had been four years since he had seen a Roman. He had been wounded at Idistaviso and arrived at the Angrivarii stronghold in time to watch the Romans destroy it. He claimed Bructeri heritage, even though he was a Cherusci by blood and tried to put the scourge placed on the disgraced and decimated Cherusci in the past. Being one of Arminius’ closest confidants brought him much in the way of glory and honor. He’d since become chief of a small tribe of scattered Cherusci.
“How many?” he asked the young warrior who was trying to catch his breath after running a great distance to give Ietano the news.
“It appears to be a single cohort,” he answered.
Strange, Ietano thought, a single cohort moving on its own? Either the Romans had become confidant to the point of being almost arrogant since their victory, or they were laying a trap to provoke war once again.
Ietano took a deep breath. “Summon the village elders,” he ordered. “We will see what these Romans want. Rest assured if an entire cohort is moving our way, there are more.”
A small gathering of the tribe leaders and warriors made their way towards the approaching legionaries.
As they walked through the thick woods and came upon a large clearing, Ietano was impressed with the way the soldiers moved in step with one another, their red and gold shields close together, javelins protruding forward. They wore the standard armor of segmented plates, which caught the glint of the sun. Eight men marched abreast in the columns. At the head was a soldier bearing the cohort’s standard, and another that was unmistakably the centurion pilus prior. His armor was adorned with his medals and decorations, setting him apart from the other soldiers, as well as the transverse crest that adorned the top of his helmet.
“Cohort…halt!” Proculus shouted.
Artorius’ section was directly behind Proculus in the front rank. He gazed with distain at the small gathering that arrived to meet them. It was a group of ten men, mostly elderly.
Artorius’ mind briefly drifted back to a time of horrendous battles. He had been decorated for valor, having personally killed War Chief Ingiomerus, the uncle of Arminius. Though openly docile, the men who came to parlay with the Romans exuded a tension-filled air of hate. Their clansmen may have died by the thousands, but those who survived lost none of their will to fight, nor their lust for glory. Artorius snorted at the notion. He had found honor in serving as a soldier of Rome, but not the elusive “glory” that supposedly accompanied it. To him, glory was just a word one used to compel men to perform as one’s puppets. Julius Caesar had often spoken of it, and yet what of the men who executed the horrific tasks he had set them to? Was their glory for them? Perhaps, but it was fleeting at best.
A small number of warriors had started to gather behind their village elders. One in particular, stared at Artorius. He was slightly irritated with the barbarian’s blatant stare.
“Find out what you can here,” Proculus told Macro. “I’ll take the rest of the cohort on ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” Macro replied.
Ietano approached the centurion as the rest of the Third Cohort continued its march. “What business brings the legions of Rome to our lands?” He asked as neutrally as possible. “It has been some years since we’ve seen soldiers venture across the Rhine.” “Circumstances were slightly different then,” Macro replied politely. “We have come to make certain your people remain peaceful and are no threat to Roman interests.”
“If you see us as a threat, why not just come and conquer our lands?” one warrior blurted out. “Is that not the Roman way?”
Ietano blanched at the man’s outburst. Before he could speak, Macro turned to the warrior.
“Do not try my patience, barbarian. If you doubt that Rome can take your lands at leisure, think back to the final days of the war four years ago.” Macro strained to keep his voice as neutral as Ietano. “You are Cherusci, are you not?”
Ietano hissed at the brash warrior to keep silent, then sighed resignedly, “The Cherusci are no more. Your attempt to exterminate all of us may have failed, but you succeeded in wiping out the Cherusci influence from these lands.”
Artorius was a little surprised to hear the bitter regret in his voice, as if he were almost ashamed of his blood.
“What of Arminius?” Macro asked, seeing no need to delay looking for what he sought. “You practically revered him as a god, and yet his head was offered to the Emperor after the war.”
“Arminius is dead. He was recently murdered by some of the other chiefs, hoping Rome would not return to our lands and would leave us in peace.” He snorted, “Such a waste, that was!”
“Indeed. You did not play a role in his death, then?” Macro asked bluntly.
Ietano raised his head proudly. “I stood by Arminius till the very end. I am proud to have fought beside such a magnificent warrior and chief!” Macro nodded and gave a dismissive wave of the hand. Just then, the warrior who had been staring at Artorius stepped forward purposefully.