Chapter 3: Spring Has Come—With Hidden Intentions
A few days ago, before the procession…
Following their victory at the Weser River, Germanicus and his men began the march back to VeteraCastrum.
They were still riding the high of battle.
But then—by mutual agreement—Germanicus made a detour.
Not out of pride, but out of duty.
They would honor the fallen legions of Teutoburg Forest.
A journey he hadn't dared make since he began the revenge campaign in Germania.
It was more than just a whim.
It was a reckoning.
Arminius' wife, Thusnelda, and her newborn accompanied them—prisoners of war.
She remained quiet and allowed herself to be led.
As they entered the haunted depths of the forest, their triumph dulled into solemnity.
For the first time in years, Roman sandals disturbed the soil where three legions had perished.
The air was still, as if the forest itself refused to breathe.
No noise.
No sniffle.
No nothing.
They moved like ghosts through the graveyard of their forebears—
A grim monument to Rome's most bitter defeat.
Germanicus raised a prayer—one that sounded more like a desperate chant to the gods and goddesses.
A plea for the souls of the dead.
Then came the order.
"Find the lost eagles," he whispered to his aide.
The aquilae (plural of aquila or eagle)—the golden standards of the legions—emblems granted by the Emperor to each legion personally.
Symbols of their pride.
Of their honor.
And Germanicus would return them to Rome.
To where they belonged.
That night, they camped beneath the towering trees.
Their only companion was the distant, mournful call of an owl.
HOO-hoo-HOOOOO
Dawn broke over the somber forest, pale light filtering through the dense canopy of leaves.
After a night spent searching for the lost aquilae—
Tending to the wounded—
Preparing the fallen for transport—
Their bodies were carefully laid and stacked upon large wooden carts and wagons readied before the battle against the Germanic tribe—
A white cloth covering each one—
Germanicus stood before his troops, head bowed in a final, wordless prayer.
Then, without another glance, once all was ready, he gave the command to move.
The grim procession to Vetera Castrum began.
The soldiers marched in a disciplined formation.
Silent.
Steady rhythm.
Unbroken.
Their return journey was continuous—
Almost ceremonious.
Like a funeral rite.
Upon arrival, an imperial messenger awaited them.
'The news of our victory at the Weser River must have already reached the Palatium,' Germanicus thought, eyeing the scroll clutched tightly in the man's hand.
It bore the wax seal of Emperor Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus—
The second ruler of the Roman Empire.
'That was fast.'
He gave the unkempt messenger a curt nod, permitting him to speak and relay the Emperor's orders.
And the decree was clear—
They were to return to their land and naval military base in Ravenna City—to its great port, one of Rome's key territories.
Germanicus stood holding his young son—
The boy had fallen asleep after he picked him up, crying on the roadside after witnessing their grim procession.
His gaze shifted from the messenger then to the child in his arms.
Without hesitation, he made his decision—
There would be no delay.
Preparations began at once.
Yet, despite the urgency, the realities of war logistics slowed them down.
It took a full seven days before they were truly ready to move.
And during those seven days, a new concern weighed Germanicus.
His son—Caligula—had developed a fever.
Plagued by constant nightmares, the boy had grown afraid of moving shadows—
Flinching at the smallest rustle of leaves.
And then there were the strange behaviors—hands balled into fist, trying to rub out his eyes.
As if he were trying to erase them.
'Something is wrong.'
The once-spirited child had grown restless and irritable.
'He shouldn't be like this…?'
He clung to Germanicus in a way he never had before.
His usual enthusiasm had vanished.
Replaced by exhaustion and unease.
'Was there something I missed?' Germanicus' eyes wandered around his tent.
A subtle fold in the tent's animal hide, and a patch of dried mud on the floor, caught his eye—but he thought nothing of it.
The camp healers couldn't tell what was wrong with the boy.
If it was truly an illness or something else.
There was no explanation.
No one knew why.
Germanicus, worn thin by worry, had grown more strict and his mood—severe—his temper flaring at minor missteps.
As soon as all was ready, he wasted no time.
He commanded his troops out of Vetera toward their new destination.
Ravenna.
But even as they marched, his thoughts stayed with his son, whose suffering remained a mystery.
It made the journey feel even more grueling.
What was already an arduous trek through Germania's treacherous terrain became an intricate ordeal.
Germanicus had to balance two battles—the obstacles along the way, and the other—the strange illness consuming his child.
Even their path was fraught with the unknown.
It made him grow weary.
'I'd rather fight a thousand Germanic warriors.'
He bit his lip until it bled, then raised his gladius—his silent command to charge.
Hostile tribes lurked in the shadows ahead.
Skirmishes like this erupted along the way, demanding his full attention.
He looked back toward the center of their formation—where his son was.
Remembering how he had left him.
Struggling.
Writhing.
Crying out of his babysitter's hold.
He shouldn't have been able to hear his son's wails, yet they echoed in his ears, even beneath the roar of battle.
'We'll have to take another detour.'
Time and time again, he was forced to leave his son behind.
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.
Serving beneath Germanicus' were three Roman Legions, each boasting five to six thousand soldiers.
Foot soldiers, archers, cavalrymen, auxiliaries, siege engineers, and marines, all moving as one disciplined force.
Alongside them, another three thousand six hundred non-combatants—servants, merchants, and civilians—soldiers' families and friends—traveled in support.
His vast army moved in unison.
Yet, to the beloved general, only one truly mattered.
After a whole month of restless nights and torturous worry, Caligula finally calmed down.
The fever was gone.
The clinginess had vanished.
His blue eyes, inherited from Germanicus, were unfocused and distant.
A chill ran down Germanicus' spine.
There was no spark, no life in his son's eyes!
It was like something disconnected.
Like a festival doll, suddenly slack and lifeless.
Nobody had prepared him for this!
Many marveled at Germanicus' leadership, praising his ability to manage such a colossal army.
His tactical brilliance and charismatic aura 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 his mouth.
A father's worry.
'Had I known that this would happen…' he silently regretted keeping Caligula by his side.
At the time, it had seemed harmless.
He himself had grown in the battlefield, where his own father kept him.
So he thought of doing the same to his own son.
Had he known that every child was different, he might have sent his son away.
Away from the bloodshed.
Away from the suffering.
Away from the weight of war…
Had he known…
Had he known…
But now, the damage was done.
It was too late for remorse.
Oh, how wrong he had been in his judgement.
**