Chapter 1: Battle At Weser River
Weser River, last week of November. 16 AD.
The proud Germanic tribes, fierce and untamed, had long been a thorn in the side of the Roman Empire—an empire ever expanding its territory like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering size and momentum as it went.
Conquering these tribes was no easy feat—their survival alone was a daily war.
A brutal life—one the pampered Romans could never comprehend, who lived in ease and amusement.
The Germanic warriors' powerful, muscular physiques—honed by years of hunting, warfare, and brutal labor—made them formidable opponents.
But it wasn't only their strength or battle-hardened frames.
Their usual strategy—swift raids for resources and prestige—was what truly made them dangerous.
Still, that wasn't all.
No, not at all.
Germania itself was an unconquerable land—an expanse of dense forests, vast marshes, scattered tribal villages, and harsh, unrelenting weather.
No cities.
No roads.
No easy path to domination.
Even those who called it home strove to survive.
So they grew confident.
Perhaps 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 the opportunity, the tribes—Cherusci, Marsi, Chatti, Bructeri, and possibly more—migrated en masse.
They set up camp near the deeper bends of the Weser River, where fertile flat land was ringed by forested slopes, teeming with game and fish.
They sought rich lands to cultivate—provisions to help endure 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 towards them.
A drunken warrior, relieving himself into the river while swigging from a leather flask, paused midstream to gulp the bitter liquor.
Something felt off.
Ominous.
A subtle ripple disturbed the water—just ahead of his stream.
He hesitated and tilted his head.
Was it just his piss—or something else?
Then—suddenly…
"TAA-RAN-TAAAA!"
A horn's piercing call shattered the morning stillness.
It rolled across the lush plains like thunder, waking the world.
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, still thick with the remnants of campfire smoke, shifted.
It 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.
Sturdy tunics and heavy animal furs, fastened with intricate bronze and iron brooches, caught the morning light.
Worn leather belts cinched steel swords and daggers in place.
Shields were gripped or slung onto backs.
Spears, javelins, and bows were hoisted in ready hands.
"TAA-RAN-TAAAA!"
Another horn.
The unmistakable sound of Roman Legions.
But it came from—
"...the river?" muttered the same warrior who had pissed into the river earlier, now completely sober.
His question wasn't directed to anyone.
It was a realization.
Silence, then—
"Curses! The Romans have sailed up the river!" shouted a scarred warrior with long black hair.
His cry hastened their movements.
Warriors scrambled to their feet.
They had camped near the water—strategically, they thought—never suspecting an attack from it.
Overconfident, they rotated shifts, watching only the slope for signs of attack.
Half alert and half ready.
They were certain their skilled archers would decimate any Roman soldiers long before they could reach the camp.
They had boasted of their superior position:
"Half of them will fall before they even blink," they sneered.
Their self-assurance stemmed from past victories.
Seven years ago, nearly all Germanic tribes had united and crushed three Roman Legions in Teutoburg Forest.
Since then, Rome had made no serious attempt to conquer Germania.
There had been a couple of scuffles and the occasional skirmish.
Brief, annoying probes by the Romans.
But nothing the Germanic warriors couldn't deflect.
They had been toying with the Romans' laughable quest for revenge.
But that wasn't until today.
Now, those same warriors who had once rallied for a joint effort years ago stood ready to fight the same enemy once more.
But the Romans had outmaneuvered them—a fact they were tragically unaware of.
For years, the Romans had meticulously studied their tactics and what made them tick.
They were drawing upon the knowledge gained from Arminius himself—the Germanic chieftain who had once served as an auxiliary officer under Roman General Varus.
The Romans, in essence, were now using Arminius' playbook against his own people.
A fitting revenge.
He had been 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—leading the defeat of Varus, the same General who perished in the Teutoburg Forest.
To Romans, Arminius was a traitor, while to Germania, he was hailed a hero—thus earning the chieftain position.
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 would fall today.
And fall, he would.
The overall Roman commander and his generals had used repeated and calculated encounters to dissect Germanic battle strategies—and to map the very bones of Germania's geography.
A head-on infiltration.
THUD THUD THUD
A deep, rhythmic pounding—a mixture of drumbeats and marching footsteps—resonated from behind the slopes.
The warriors' heads whipped around.
The earth trembled beneath their feet.
"It's their tactic to intimidate us," one warrior murmured, swallowing hard.
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.
"Where is the chieftain?" they shouted.
Atop the hill, overseeing it all, a lone figure stood tall.
A Roman General.
A Prince.
The Romans' revenger.
It was Germanicus—Rome's golden child.
But he was no child.
Long brown hair.
Blue, tempest eyes.
A tall, broad frame that would make any man think twice before challenging him—sturdy, scarred and sun-tanned.
He had a presence that commanded silence.
The adoptive grandson of the former Emperor.
The adoptive nephew of the current Emperor.
The next in line for the throne.
He was the one who identified the chinks in the tribes' armor—the vulnerabilities he could exploit.
He learned that splitting the warriors' attention would sow disorder.
After all—they were composed of different tribes.
And Germanicus was determined to strike in that moment of confusion—using the divide and conquer strategy.
"Show no mercy! Let them know the full might of Rome!" Germanicus roared.
His legions answered with perfect silence.
Their marching halted like a lie.
Stillness fell, suffocating in its weight.
The Germanic warriors broke into a sweat.
They felt it.
They were surrounded.
Their breath hitched.
Muscles tensed.
The sun's warmth on their skin felt like a cruel mockery of the cold dread seizing their hearts.
They knew they had to act swiftly.
But paralyzed by uncertainty, they hesitated—unsure what to do next.
"ROMA!"
A lone battle cry erupted from the river.
It was a signal.
"VICTORIA!"
An answering cry thundered from the slopes, followed by a long silence.
Then—chaos.
The tranquil plains shattered under 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 gleamed under the sun.
They surged forward like a steel tide, swords flashing like lightning.
From behind the hills, thousands of warhorses erupted into view.
Their hooves shook the earth.
Above them, thousands of archers assembled in disciplined rows.
Flaming arrows streaked through the sky to support the advancing cavalrymen.
The Germanic warriors, unprepared for the three-pronged assault, had no time to regroup.
A thousand clashes of steel rang out.
Screams of the wounded mixed with the roars of battle.
Fallen men were trampled under hooves, bones cracking, as dying bodies piled across the bloodied ground.
Blood soaked the earth in rivers.
The red was a stark contrast to the green of the forest, the silver of the Roman armor, and the brown of the trampled earth.
The air was thick with the coppery taste of blood, the acrid stench of burnt flesh, and the sour sweat of fear—turning it foul.
The scent of death.
The divided warriors were vastly outnumbered.
Their once advantageous position was now their greatest weakness.
They were cornered.
Arminius, the Germanic chieftain, watched in silent fury as his people fell—slaughtered before his eyes.
He had just returned from a hunt.
And now, his people were being massacred.
'A dog's death,' indignation filled him.
He bit his lips, the taste of blood bitter on his tongue.
As chieftain, all he could do was to 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.
Arminius' tall frame stood out like a sore thumb.
Shields immediately locked into a dome-like formation like it was choreographed.
A few archers crouched within, arrow nocked, waiting.
Infantry stood outside.
Shields up.
Bracing for impact.
Arminius stood within the shield dome.
His rare purple eyes burned—darkened by the injustice—so much that they seemed almost red.
Those who saw it gulped in fear, but suddenly, they found courage.
Just one man—and the remaining Germanic warriors who had lost their hope—blazed with renewed battle spirit.
Their faces were instantly set with determination.
A barritus started.
It began as a low murmur and slowly swelled into a loud rumble, boosting their morale.
It was a solemn battle cry of Germania.
"OPEN!"
The outer ranks parted just enough.
They held their breath, waiting.
Some advancing Romans were in sight.
"FIRE!"
SWOOSH SWOOSH
A volley of arrows cut through the approaching 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 running horse.
"No!" Arminius struggled.
"I would rather die!"
His uncle reined in the horse and released Arminius, who was about to run back into the fray.
Then he jumped down and caught his nephew's arm.
"Listen—"
But he was cut off by Arminius.
"I will fight!"
A slap.
His uncle struck him across the face.
"Are you insane? We must regroup! Fight another day! Order the retreat—NOW!"
Stunned by the slap, Arminius stumbled back.
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.
He clenched his teeth.
Blood trickled from his lip.
He scanned the battlefield—his warriors, his people, dying in droves.
"Thusnelda…" he whispered his wife's name.
Tears burned his eyes.
For a fleeting moment, Arminius wondered if today's slaughter had been his tribe's undoing or solely his.
"RETREAT!" he finally commanded as he stood up.
His uncle turned around and snatched another horse, preparing it for Arminius.
"FALL BACK! RETREAT!" Arminius' face flushed red with fury and effort to be heard.
'I will never forget this!'
The Germanic tribe's chieftain swore under his breath.
'Who ever planned this, I will kill you with my bare hands! You and your children!'
His eyes searched for the one who commanded these legions.
This was a strategy that he had never learned.
Then, he saw him.
Atop the hill.
Watching him.
Arminius recognized him.
He bared his teeth.
"So, it was you."
He narrowed his eyes at Germanicus—before his uncle forced him to flee once more.
"Go!"
Seeing their chieftain flee, the remaining warriors were filled with dread.
They turned and followed Arminius, their eyes wide with terror.
The terror in their eyes reflected the flames of their burning camp.
Their faces were a mask of death.
The retreat was a chaotic scramble, with warriors tripping over fallen comrades.
Some were even fighting for a horse.
Their cries were swallowed by the roar of the Roman pursuit without mercy.
Some Germanic warriors were cut down mid-flight.
Others drowned in the wide, unforgiving Weser.
The river, once a source of life, now carried the blood of the fallen.
Many vanished into the forests, hunted like wild animals.
Once a sanctuary, the forest now offered no refuge from Romans' swords.
The Roman legions left no stone unturned.
Relentless.
Like hungry lions.
As the last echoes of battle faded, Germanicus stood victorious.
He surveyed the carnage, looking for someone.
'This is for Varus,' he thought, remembering whom he was fighting for.
'For the legions lost in Teutoburg.'
A grim expression hardened his face.
'They have paid for their arrogance.'
The Germanic tribe had suffered a devastating defeat.
And they would not soon forget this day.
But neither would Rome.
The smoke from the burning camp hung heavy in the air.
A reminder of the day's massacre.
The Weser River stood as a witness to a conquest that would echo through history.
'He thought he knew Rome,' Germanicus mocked Arminius.
'But Rome learns.'
He had sent a clear message to Arminius.
'And Rome never forgets.'
"General, what is your next command?"
A voice from behind—his trusted aide—broke his train of thoughts.
Germanicus whipped his head around and gave a slight nod to the kneeling soldier.
"Send scouts—to every corner. Search every fallen warrior. Every hiding place. Find Arminius' wife," he ordered his aide.
"She's the symbol of his pride. And now," he paused as if thinking.
Then—
"She will be the symbol of Rome's dominance," he declared.
Resolute.
And with that, the Roman General turned his back on the bloodbath.
**
INDEX:
Germanic tribe/warrior—Ancient German people
Germania—Germany
Roman legion/soldier—Roman Empire's army, composed of 5,000-6,000 soldiers in one legion
Barritus—Ancient Germanic battle-cry, it was actually a bunch of murmurs that starts low to loud
Weser River—Second longest river in Northern Germany
Teutoburg Forest—a forest in Germany
General Publius Quinctilius Varus/General Varus—one of the Roman generals, he died in Teutoburg Forest with his three Roman legions
**
FUNFACT!
If you are a history buff like me, then you'll realized that I recreated the famed Battle of Idistaviso of Germanicus against the Germanic tribe in 16 AD. Although the battle choreography itself was an imagination from me (the author), Germanicus did really capture Thusnelda as a symbol of Rome's dominance against Arminius. And, Arminius wasn't really there at Weser River (in history textbooks) I just made the liberty of writing his presence here... I decided to make him a villain or rival of Germanicus, because he would have a major role in Caligula's life (in this novel).