Spring Has Come, with Hidden Intentions

Following their victory at the Weser River, Germanicus and his men began their march back to Vetera Castrum, still riding the high of battle.

But not before paying a tribute to the fallen in Teotuborg Forest.

Arminius's wife, Thusnelda, and her newborn baby accompanied them, as prisoners.

As they entered the haunted depths of the forest, their triumph dulled into solemnity. This was more than a detour—it was a reckoning.

For the first time in years, Roman boots disturbed the soil where three legions had perished.

The air hung heavy with silence.

It's been years, but the forest held the weight of their loss, a grim monument to Rome's bitter defeat.

A brief prayer, led by Germanicus, rose through the ancient trees, a plea to the gods and goddesses for solace.

Then, they retrieved the three aquilae (emblem), the lost eagles of the fallen legions, symbols of Rome's enduring spirit.

That night, they camped beneath the towering trees, their only companion the distant, mournful call of an owl.

HOO-hoo-HOOOOO

Dawn broke over the somber forest, a pale light filtering through the ancient trees.

After a night spent tending to the wounded and preparing their fallen comrades for transport, their bodies laid upon the large wagons readied before the battle at Weser, Germanicus stood before them, head bowed in a final, wordless prayer.

Then, without another glance back at the forest, when all was ready, he gave the order to move.

The grim procession began.

His troops followed in disciplined formation, their march steady and unbroken as they made their way back to Castrum.

Their return journey was silent.

Upon their arrival, an imperial messenger awaited them, a scroll clutched in his hand.

A decree, bearing the seal of Emperor Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus, the second emperor of Roman Empire.

And his orders was clear: they were to return to their land and naval military base in Ravenna City, to its great port.

Germanicus held his young son, who had fallen asleep after he picked him up, crying—from watching their procession from the roadside.

His gaze shifted from the imperial messenger to the boy in his arms.

Without hesitation, he made his decision—there would be no delay.

Preparations for departure would begin immediately.

Yet, despite his urgency, the reality of war logistics slowed them.

It would take seven days before they were truly ready to move.

During that time, a new concern weighed on Germanicus.

His son had developed a fever, plagued by constant nightmares and a strange actions—hands balled into fist trying to rub out his eyes. As if he is erasing them.

The once-spirited child had grown restless and irritable, clinging to his father in a way he never had before.

His enthusiasm was gone, replaced by exhaustion and unease.

The camp doctors could find no explanation.

Neither the soldiers, nor the caretakers who watched over him, could explain his illness.

And as the days passed, Germanicus's worry deepened.

Before the seventh day arrived, everything was in place.

With his troops ready, he led them from Vetera to Ravenna.

But even as they marched, his thoughts remained with his son, whose suffering remained a mystery.

His son's condition made the journey even more grueling.

What was already an arduous trek through Germania's treacherous terrain became an intricate ordeal.

Germanicus had to balance two battles—one against the land and its dangers, the other against the fever consuming his child.

Their path was fraught with danger.

Hostile Germanic tribes lurked in the shadows, forcing them to take careful detours.

Skirmishes erupted along the way, demanding his full attention.

Time and time again, he was forced to leave his son behind, his cries fading into the roar of battle.

The journey was a complex undertaking, involving both land and river travel.

At times, they boarded boats to navigate safer routes, only to disembark and march once more.

Each transition took its toll on the sick child, his condition worsening with every passing day.

Under Germanicus's command were three Roman legions, each boasting five to six thousand soldiers.

Foot soldiers, archers, cavalrymen, auxiliaries, siege engineers, and marines moved as one disciplined force.

Alongside them, another three thousand six hundred non-combatants—servants, merchants, and civilians—traveled in support.

Soldiers' families and friends followed the march, adding to the ever-growing column.

His vast army, moved under his command in unison.

Yet, to the beloved general, only one truly mattered.

And then, after a month of restless nights and relentless worry, his son finally awoke.

His blue eyes, inherited from Germanicus, were unfocused and distant.

The fever was gone. The clinginess had vanished.

But when he looked into his child's eyes, a chill ran down his spine.

The spark that once shone so brightly—was gone. Nobody had prepared him on what happened to his son.

Many marveled at Germanicus's command, praising his ability to manage such a colossal force.

The sheer logistical challenge of moving this immense column of men across vast distances, through rugged terrain and unpredictable weather, was staggering.

His tactical brilliance and charismatic leadership had forged them into a cohesive, disciplined, and formidable fighting machine.

Every detail of the route, every stop for rest, resupply, and military matters, had been meticulously planned.

A testament to his strategic mind.

And yet, despite these accolades, a bitter taste lingered in Germanicus's mouth.

A father's worry.

He silently regretted keeping Caligula by his side.

At the time, it had seemed harmless—he had expected the campaign to stretch on, not conclude so swiftly.

He hadn't foreseen how easily they would track down Arminius and his wife, how quickly they would turn them into bargaining chips.

Had he known, he might have sent his son away.

Away from the bloodshed, the suffering, the weight of war.

But now, the damage was done. It was too late for regrets.

Ravenna City, Around May. 17 AD..

After months of a draining travel, they finally arrived in Ravenna.

They had endured an unforgiving winter and half a season of sluggish, lingering spring rains.

Their trek had been long, their bodies worn down by time and hardship.

Now, at last, spring was in full bloom. They could smell it in the air.

TRUDGE TRUDGE TRUDGE

The ground, still soft from the recently thawed snow, squelched beneath their boots.

Birds chirped in the distance, their songs blending with the rustling of new leaves.

As the hora octava approached, the afternoon sun bathed the land in a tempered glow—warm, but not oppressive.

A long line of soldiers stretched toward the city gates, Germanicus leading them.

Their faces bore the weight of war, of exhaustion that no rest could ease.

His son rode with him, sitting in front of him, his gaze hollow, unmoving, just breathing.

The few townsfolk paused to watch, their murmurs hushed as the legions passed.

At last, they reached the port.

The salty air of the Adriatic clung thick to their skin, mingling with the scent of damp leather and worn iron.

Summoned for the Germania campaign in 12 AD, he had not once set foot back home.

And now, even with Ravenna before him, he would not yet return to Palatine Hill, that was now just a few days away.

Not yet. But soon. He must endure a little longer.

Then he ruffled Caligula's hair who was sitting in front of him. Who did not even stir.

Tiberius awaited them at the entrance of the port, a calculated smile playing on his lips, masking his true intentions.

Five years had passed since Germanicus last stood on Roman soil.

Five years of meticulous planning, of battles fought and lost and won.

In that time, Tiberius had ascended to the throne following the death of Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius Augustus in 14 AD.

He stood with his praetorian guards lined in perfect formation behind him.

A former general, the driving force behind the Germanic campaign, a campaign born from the desire to avenge Varus's legions, slaughtered in Teutoburg eight years prior.

Rome's greatest humiliation.

Germanicus dismounted, lifting Caligula down from the saddle, and handed his son to Aulus Caecina Severus, his trusted aide.

But not before giving the boy a glance.

As he turned, Tiberius stepped forward, extending a hand.

"Well met, nephew" He said, his voice thick with formal courtesy. "Your victories over the Germanic tribes are a testament to your military skill and bravery!"

And for a moment, no more words are said.

Then, suddenly, his tone shifted, his laughter booming.

"Ha ha ha! Well met indeed! Now, come! A banquet awaits to honor you and your men!" Not sure how to react to his uncle's sudden change of mood and status, he remained silent.

Throwing an arm around Germanicus' shoulder, Tiberius grinned. "You must be weary!"

Turning to his guards, he barked, "Tell them to make ready! The heroes of Rome have returned!" His joy was on full display. A show.

Germanicus forced a smile, still stiff from the battlefield, struggled to adjust to this warm reception. Feeling like a fire was lit in his skin.

With his uncle's arm draped over him, he hesitated before bowing his head—an awkward, almost unsure gesture.

"Thank you, your grace, but, Rome's glory is my reward," he said, his voice steady but formal. He's not used to this excessive welcome by his uncle.

Tiberius chuckled, waving away the stiffness. "Ha! Don't be so rigid, nephew! Cast off such formality! After all, we are family!"

With that, he pulled Germanicus forward.

"Now, let's go in!"

Together, the two disappeared into the port, leaving the legions and guards to trail in their wake.

They entered the bustling port, a cacophony of hammering from the fabrica workshops, the clang of metal, and the salty tang of the sea.

THUCK THUCK THUCK

Sounds of faster hammering rang out from the port, they're working quickly to finish their tasks so they can participate in the banquet.

The harbor is filled with various ships, from small fishing vessels to larger merchant and military ships. The ocean's wave gently swaying them.

Within the grand hall, the banquet hall shimmered with golden torchlight, casting flickering shadows against the polished marble walls.

The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmurs of Rome's most powerful men—senators, generals, and gentes gathered, eager to bask in the reflected glory of Germanicus's triumphs.

And to curry favor with the emperor.

Now, as they seated themselves in the grand hall inside the port, Tiberius took his seat at the head of the table and gestured for his nephew to sit to his right.

"Let the banquet begin!" Tiberius declared, his eyes surveying the room.

And so, the banquet began.

Looking around the table, Germanicus' eyes scanned the faces of the people in front of him.

Seated across from him, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso, the governor of Syria and a fellow general, caught his eye.

Piso raised his cup in a toast, his eyes locked onto Germanicus as if he had been waiting for this very moment.

"Germanicus, welcome back. I trust your journey was uneventful?" His voice dripped with feigned politeness. "How was Germania, hmm?"

He took a slow sip of wine, letting the question hang in the air, his gaze sweeping the room, ensuring that all attention remained fixed on him before continuing.

Not caring that the person he's talking to is not answering him.

"Ah, Germania! A land so wild, so untamed... so full of trees," Piso mused. "Tell me, did the barbarians even bother fighting? Or did they simply step aside and let you march around, playing at conquest?"

A blatant insult.

"Pfft..." Piso snickered, feeling like he had won a contest nobody else was playing.

Then he pause. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in mock sympathy.

"Well, I suppose that's why Rome sends you there, Germanicus—someone has to talk to the trees!" He threw his head back, laughing—a sharp, barking sound that echoed through the hall.

Alone.

Making Germanicus frown.

Once his laughter subsided, he takes another jab.. Piso swirled the wine in his cup, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if telling a secret.

"Ahem, I heard Agrippina often visited you in Vetera... Such a devoted wife,"

He tapped his fingers against the cup, watching Germanicus closely before adding, in a voice just soft enough to sound conspiratorial:

"How fortunate you are."

The corner of his lips curled upward, his smirk deepening, as if daring Germanicus to react.

Tension suddenly arose.

For a moment the noisy hall has become subdued with unease.

The people in the room all knew that Piso was notorious for his sharp tongue and ability to stir up controversy.

They waited with bated breathe. Unsure how will the general respond. All eyes on him.

Germanicus's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightened around his cup.

His expression darkening at the mention of his wife's name on Piso's lips.

He was exhausted, his mind burdened by worry for his son and the emperor's strangely welcoming gestures. And now, this man—this snake—taunting him so openly.

'You can make a joke about me, but my beautiful wife's name is not for you to throw around so casually', He thought while gritting his teeth.

He wanted to punch Piso's face. 'It sounded so foul in his dirty mouth!'

For a fleeting moment, he imagined the satisfying crunch of his fist against the snake's sneering face.

Piso's smile faltered as he saw the expressions in his eyes, and Germanicus sighed to calm himself and seized the opportunity to counter instead.

He exhaled slowly, lifting his cup as if considering Piso's words. Then, with a voice smooth as polished steel, he spoke:

"And how is your wife, General Piso?"

Piso's smirk faltered.

Germanicus turned the cup in his hand, absently studying the dark swirl of wine.

"I hear she's been frequenting a certain salon... seeking comfort in the arms of another man. To alleviate her loneliness."

He took a deliberate sip.

Then, as though just remembering something, he looked up and added, with mock innocence:

"But oh... you never left Rome." Silence. The tension snapped like a drawn bowstring.

Then the room erupted into laughter, with some nobles chuckling louder than others.

Piso's face reddened, his eyes flashing with anger. Then, with a sharp scrape of his chair, he shoved himself to his feet, his anger bubbling over.

Germanicus only lifted his cup towards Piso, as if in a mocking toast. Making Piso livid.

Sejanus, the praetorian guard, stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to intervene.

As a praetorian guard who swore to protect the emperor, if he deemed it would lead to a fight, he'd have to break it off. And protect his Emperor.

However, Tiberius's raised hand stayed him, a warning glance conveying the message: 'You dare not draw your gladius in the presence of Germanicus.'

Silence ensue, as the guest are eager to watch what will happen, will Germanicus put Piso in his place or Piso will retaliate?

But before any of that could happen, Tiberius decided to become the mediator, his theatrical peacemaking returning, his expression turned jovial once more.

"Enough, enough. Let us toast to Germanicus's triumph in Germania!" He raised his cup, gave Piso secret look.

"To Rome! May our former emperor's soul be blessed by Jupiter!"

The room fell silent.

"To Rome!"

Then they soaked their bread in the wine. A Roman custom.

"Salus!"

The assembly echoed the toast, their voices ringing out in unison.

Loud laughter, clinking of cups, high pitch clang of ligula(spoon) and culter(knife) and endless chatter deafened the emperor.

The people seems to forget that he was the emperor, as all their attention was on Germanicus every words.

'Like it was that interesting.' Tiberius' thoughts revealed his nature. He swirled the wine in his cup.

Every time the people laugh, the emperor's eye turn small, every time, they 'ooohhh' and say 'aaaaaahhhh' his eyes twitched and twitched until it became just a slit.

As the evening wore on and the people became drunk, losing their focus on Germanicus, the now drunk emperor loosened his tongue.

Unable to keep it all in, he leaned in on his nephew.

"Germanicus," He murmured, his voice a low, probing whisper.

But it took him awhile to follow it with words. Germanicus whose attention was now on the emperor, waited.

"Tell me, nephew, what are your thoughts on the empire's future??" Tiberius suddenly asked.

But the response was diplomatic and automatic. "Rome has a bright future with you as its leader."

Tiberius nodded, not smiling; his expression remained unreadable.

Eyes are narrowing slightly. He pressed on, his voice taking on a slightly sharper tone. "Do you harbor ambitions to one day sit upon the throne?"

Germanicus's eyes remained neutral, but he did not expect the emperor to ask him like this directly. A fleeting moment of uncertainty.

His mind still haunted by the ghosts of Teutoburg and the fevered cries of his son in Vetera, replied, "My only ambition is to serve Rome, your grace."

Tiberius's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion in their depths. "Does it not tempt you?"

Wariness crept into his voice. "May I be honest with you... uncle?" he whispered back to the emperor.

His answer seems to be drowned out by the people's raucous laughter.

But the emperor heard it loud and clear.

Germanicus paused, the weight of his unspoken thoughts heavy in the air. "No, my emperor. I am a soldier, not a politician. My duty lies with Rome, not ambition."

He took another sip of his wine, and added "So no, it does not tempt me, your grace."

Tiberius's eyes gleamed sharply. All of his attention is on his nephew's answer.

But Germanicus is unaware of the emperor's change, revealing his true nature.

A sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped Tiberius's lips. "Excellent," he declared, his smile returning, a mask of joviality. "Excellent!"

But as the night drew to a close, and Tiberius spoke of their imminent return to the Palatine, Germanicus's mind was a storm of questions.

'What did Tiberius truly want? Was this a test? Or a veiled threat?'

The fragile peace between them hung in the balance, a delicate thread stretched taut over the abyss of ambition.

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INDEX:

Hora Octava- eighth hour of the day (2-3pm)

Fabrica- weapon workshop

Palatine Hill- one of the hills in Rome, this is where the emperor's palatium is located

Salus- cheers/to your health

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FUNFACT:

In Emperor Augustus time, there are 60 legions (each legions 5000-6000 soldiers).

But then later reduced it to 28 legions.

So in Tiberius time there are only 28 legions.

And Germanicus commanded 3 legions in his Germanic campaign.

And 3 legions got killed in Teutoburg forest by Germanic tribe, resulting for Tiberius and Germanicus to seek revenge, forgetting their original purpose of territory expansions.

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TIMELINE:

9AD - defeat of General Varus with his 3 legions in Teutoburg forest

12AD - August, Caligula is born

- Germanicus left for his Germanic campaign

14AD - Emperor Augustus died

- Agrippina visited Germanicus camp

- conceived Julia, younger sister of Caligula

15AD - Agrippina gave birth to Julia on November

16AD - Agrippina left with Caligula, took him to Vetera camp. They left summer, and arrived on autum.

- around Nov and Dec, weser battle happened

17AD- around January came back to Vetera camp

-left Vetera camp

-arrived at May (spring)