Chapter 1: Battle At Weser River
The year is 16 AD. Last week of November. Weser River.
The proud Germanic tribe.
Renowned for their ferocity in battle, had long been a thorn in the side of the Roman Empire—an empire constantly expanding its territory.
Conquering this tribe was no easy feat.
The tribe's everyday existence was a struggle.
A stark contrast to the Romans' indulgence for leisure and entertainment.
The Germanic tribe's powerful, muscular physiques—honed by years of hunting, warfare, and hard labor—made them formidable opponents.
Aside from their battle-hardened frames, their strategy of swift raids for resources and prestige was their greatest strength.
But their strength wasn't solely due to their martial skills.
No.
Not at all.
Germania itself was an unconquerable land—an expanse of dense forests, vast marshes, scattered villages, and harsh, unrelenting winters.
No cities.
No roads.
No easy path to domination.
Even the people living here are having a hard time.
So they are confident.
Too confident.
This time, however, fate had other plans.
Autumn's chill was a final, deceptive breath of warmth after summer's departure, before winter's brutal reign.
Seizing this opportunity, the tribe migrated en masse, setting up camp near the Weser River—fertile land, surrounded by slopes and dense forests, teeming with game and fish.
They sought rich lands like this to cultivate and store provisions for the harsh winter months ahead.
As the sun rose, casting a golden glow over the landscape, the camp remained blissfully unaware of the impending doom creeping toward them.
A drunken warrior, relieving himself into the river while swigging from a leather flask, noticed something amiss as he bowed to swallow the bitter liquor—a subtle ripple disturbed the water near his stream.
He paused and tilted his head, wondering if it was his own urine or something else?
When suddenly..
TAA-RAN-TAAAAA!
A horn's piercing call shattered the morning stillness, echoing across the lush plains.
The Germanic warriors, some still lost in the haze of sleep after a night of revelry, jolted awake.
Horses whinnied at the sudden intrusion.
The crisp morning air, thick with the remnants of campfire smoke, quickly filled with the frantic clatter of metal, hushed curses, and the scent of sweat and leather as warriors scrambled to prepare for battle.
Braided hair fell over tattooed cheeks and necks.
Thick woolen tunics and animal furs, fastened with intricate bronze and iron brooches, reflected the morning light.
Leather belts, worn and supple, cinched steel swords, daggers, and shields tightly in place.
Spears, javelins, and bows were hoisted into ready hands.
TAA-RAN-TAAAAA!
Another horn.
The unmistakable sound of a Roman legion.
But it came from... the river?
"Curses! The Romans have sailed up the river!" a warrior with his long black hair and scarred face shouted.
Hastening their movements, warriors scrambling to their feet.
They had camped near the water, never suspecting an attack from there.
Overconfident, they had prepared for an assault from the slopes, certain their skilled archers would decimate any Roman force long before they could reach the camp.
They had boasted of their superior position.
"Half of them will fall before they even reach us," they sneered.
Their self-assurance stemmed from past victories.
Seven years ago, they had crushed three Roman legions in the Teutoburg Forest.
Since then, Rome had made no serious attempt to conquer Germania.
There had been a couple of scuffles and brief encounters with the Romans, but nothing they couldn't deflect.
They've been toying with the Romans' quest for revenge.
But that is not until today.
Now, those same warriors stood ready to fight once more—but the Romans had outmaneuvered them, a fact they were tragically unaware of.
For years, the Romans had been meticulously studying their tactics, and what made them tick.
Drawing upon the knowledge gained from Arminius himself—the Germanic chieftain who had once served as an auxiliary officer under General Varus.
The Romans, in essence, were using Arminius's own playbook against his people.
A fitting revenge.
Given as a child to Rome by his own father. Raised and trained there.
Even educated in Roman military doctrine.
But it was an infiltration in disguise.
He later switched sides to Germania.
And led the defeat of Varus—the same Varus who perished in the Teutoburg Forest.
To them, Arminius was a traitor.
He had bitten Rome.
And the Romans could do nothing but seethe in anger.
But now—they were out to get the traitor.
It had taken them years. But it didn't matter.
Arminius will fall today.
And fall, he will.
The overall commander and Roman generals had used repeated skirmishes and calculated encounters to dissect Germanic battle strategies—and to map the very bones of Germania's geography.
THUD THUD THUD
A deep, rhythmic pounding—a mixture of drum sound and marching footsteps—resonated from the slopes behind them.
Their heads whipped around.
The earth trembled beneath their feet.
'It's their tactic to intimidate us,' the warriors thought.
The Romans were creating an illusion—an army of a million men, stomping the ground in unison.
The Germanic warriors' attention was now split.
The horn from the river. The thunderous march behind the slopes.
Panic set in.
A lone figure stood atop the hill, overseeing it all.
A Roman general.
A prince.
It was Germanicus—Rome's golden child.
The adoptive grandson of the former emperor. The adoptive nephew of the current emperor.
Next in line for the throne.
He was the one actively leading the Germanic campaign for revenge.
He was the one who identified the chinks in the tribe's armor, the vulnerabilities he could exploit.
He learned that splitting their attention would sow disorder, and he was determined to capitalize on that confusion by using divide and conquer tactics.
"Show no mercy. Let them know the full might of Rome!" Germanicus shouted, his legions answered with silence.
The marching halted like a lie. Stillness fell, suffocating in its weight.
Germanic warriors sweated.
They were surrounded.
Breath hitched.
Muscles tensed.
The warmth of the sun to their skins felt like a cruel mockery against the cold dread seizing their hearts.
They knew they had to act swiftly to counter the Roman legions' clever tactics.
But, paralyzed by uncertainty, they were unsure of what to do next.
"ROMA!"
A lone battle cry erupted from the river.
"VICTORIA!"
And an answering cry thundered from the slopes.
Then, chaos.
The tranquil plains were suddenly shattered by an ear-splitting explosion of sounds..
Thousands of Roman soldiers disembarked from a fleet of over a hundred ships, now anchored along the river, their armor gleaming in the sun.
They surged forward like a steel tide, swords flashing like lightning.
From behind the hill, thousands of warhorses erupted into view, their hooves shaking the earth.
Above them, thousands of archers assembled in disciplined rows, unleashing flaming arrows to support the advancing cavalrymen.
The Germanic warriors, unprepared for the two-pronged assault, had no time to regroup.
The clash of steel rang out.
Screams of the wounded mixed with the roars of battle.
The fallen men on the ground got stomped on, crushed by horses with crack—as pile after pile of dying bodies decorated the ground.
Blood soaked the earth in rivers.
The red was a stark contrast to the green of the forest, the gray of the Roman armor, and the brown of the trampled earth.
Thick with the coppery taste of blood, the acrid stench of burnt flesh, and the sour sweat of fear mixed in the air, turning it foul—the scent of death.
Suddenly, the divided warriors were vastly outnumbered. Their once advantageous position was now their greatest weakness.
Arminius, the chieftain, watched as his people fell, slaughtered where he stood.
He had just returned from a hunt.
And now, his people were being massacred.
'A dog's death,' he thought.
The taste of blood was bitter in his mouth as he bit his lips.
As a chieftain, he could do nothing but attempt to make a last stand.
"Form the shield wall!" he commanded as he ran, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The dead wolf he had hunted lay forgotten on the ground.
Survivors rushed to him, his tall frame sticking out like a sore thumb, shields locking into a dome-like formation.
Archers crouched within, arrows nocked, waiting.
Infantry stood outside, shields up, bracing for impact.
Arminius stood within the shield dome, his rare purple eyes burning—so darkened by injustice they seemed almost red.
His warriors suddenly gained courage.
Just one person and the Germanic tribe, who had lost their hope, had regained their battle spirit.
Their faces were set with determination.
Then a barritus started; it began as a low murmur and slowly turned into a loud one.
Boosting the morale of the warriors.
It was a solemn battle cry.
"Open!"
The outer ranks parted just enough.
"Fire!"
SWOOSH SWOOSH
A volley of arrows cut through the advancing Romans.
Dozens fell.
"Defend!"
The shield wall snapped shut.
But the Romans adapted.
Before the next command could be given, a cavalry unit tore through the formation, swords slashing.
The dome crumbled in an instant.
Arminius, wounded, fought desperately.
But the battle was already lost.
A strong arm seized him.
"We must retreat!" his uncle shouted, trying to hoist him onto a horse.
"No!" Arminius struggled. "I would rather die!"
His uncle struck him across the face. "We must regroup! Fight another day! Order the retreat—NOW!"
He felt the rough bark of the tree scrape against his back as he slid down and sat.
Blood slicked his hands.
His cheek still stung from the jarring slap of his uncle's hand.
Arminius clenched his teeth, blood trickling from his lip.
He scanned the battlefield—his warriors, his people, dying in droves.
Tears burned his eyes.
For a fleeting moment, Arminius wondered if his tribe's pride had been their undoing or solely his.
"Retreat!" Arminius finally commanded as he stood up.
"Fall back! RETREAT!" his face turning red from shouting.
'I will never forget this!' the Germanic tribe chieftain swore to his breath.
'I'll kill you and your children!'
His eyes searched for the one who commanded the legions.
This was a strategy that he had never learned.
Then, he saw him, atop the hill.
Watching him. Arminius recognized him.
'So, it's you.'
Narrowing his eyes on Germanicus before he is forced to flee again by his uncle.
"Go! go! go!"
Dread filled them, the remaining warriors turned and fled.
Their eyes wide with terror, reflected the flames of the burning camp, their faces masks of death.
Their once proud formation collapses into a desperate struggle.
The retreat was a chaotic scramble, warriors tripping over fallen comrades, their cries swallowed by the roar of the Roman pursuit—without mercy.
Some Germanic warriors were cut down mid-flight.
Others drowned in the Weser.
Making the river, once a source of life, now carried the blood of the fallen.
Many vanished into the forests, hunted like animals.
Once a sanctuary, now offered no refuge from the Roman swords.
The Roman legions left no stone unturned.
They were relentless.
As the last echoes of battle faded, Germanicus stood victorious, surveying the carnage.
He was looking for someone.
'This is for Varus. For the legions lost in Teutoburg. They will pay for their arrogance,' remembering whom he is fighting for.
A grim expression on his face.
The Germanic tribe had suffered a devastating defeat.
But they would not soon forget this day.
And neither would Rome.
The smoke from the burning camp hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the day's massacre.
The Weser River ran red with the blood of warriors, and the land bore witness to a conquest that would echo through history.
'He thought he knew Rome. But Rome learns. Rome never forgets,' Germanicus had thought, after he locked eyes with Arminius.
As if, in that brief glance, he had been sending a message.
"Send scouts! Every corner, every fallen warrior, every hiding place. Find Arminius' wife and child!" Germanicus ordered his legions.
"She is a symbol of his pride, and now, she will be a symbol of Rome's dominance!"
And with that, the Roman general turned his back from the bloodbath.
**
INDEX:
Germanic tribe - Ancient German people/warriors
Germania - Germany
Roman Legions - Roman empire's soldiers
Barritus - ancient Germanic battle cry
Weser river - major river in northern Germany
Teutoburg Forest- a forest in Germany
General Publius Quinctilius Varus or General Varus- a Roman general, died in Teutoburg Forest in 9AD
FUN FACT:
Battle of Weser River is actually the famed Battle of Idistaviso of Germanicus. And his last battle.