Chapter 4: Bittersweet Taste Of Victory
Palatine Hill, Rome—Mid-May. 17 AD.
Tiberius had dispatched an imperial messenger ahead of time from Ravenna to Palatine Hill.
His aim was simple—
To announce their arrival to the people of Rome.
He wanted them to prepare.
Prepared for what?
For a triumph worthy of returning victors.
A triumphal procession—the highest honor Rome could bestow upon a victorious general.
"Io triumphe!"
"Hurrah!"
The crowd's sudden uproar caught Germanicus and his group off guard.
Thick incense smoke coiled through the air, blurring their view—they hadn't realized how many were waiting.
They had only just stepped inside the city.
CLACK CLACK
Petals rained down from apartment balconies lining both sides of the road, their perfume threading through the haze of incense and hurrahs.
"Io io io!"
"Roma victoria!"
Such an outpouring was to be expected—Rome had long awaited the end of this grueling campaign.
Though spring lingered, the atmosphere felt heavy and still, unmoved by even the faintest breeze—as if the gods themselves were holding their breath.
"Hurrah!"
"Vivas Roma!"
All citizens of Rome had come to watch—flooding the streets—their eyes hungry for a glimpse of glory.
The scent of fresh bread from the nearby thermopolia, thick incense smoke lit by the young camilli, the sweet perfume of falling flowers, and the sweat of a thousand moving bodies blended into something both intoxicating and oppressive.
It made the space even more stifling, pressing in from all sides.
Yet the masses paid no mind.
They were enraptured.
Their attention was fixed on the glittering march of honor before them.
Rome had not seen such an extravagant spectacle since the death of Emperor Augustus.
Now, the victory parade was grander—more lavish than ever before.
Tiberius had succeeded in unveiling his true power.
It was more than just a celebration—it was a strategy.
CLACK… CLACK… CLACK
Children laughed as they darted beside the Emperor's golden chariot.
Their excitement bubbled over—wild and uncontained.
They ran alongside the chariot as it rolled slowly into the city, its golden wheels clattering over the wide cobblestone road.
Steady and relentless.
Just like the weight of the onlookers' expectations pressing upon Germanicus' group.
He rode alongside Tiberius, flanked by the Emperor's ever-watchful praetorian guards.
Behind them trailed the generals, senators, and noble houses of the gentes—all aligned to the Imperial family.
Disciplined and thunderous, the Roman legions followed in lockstep.
Their final destination was the Palatium—located at the heart of Palatine Hill.
Sunlight danced across the soldiers' armatura militaris—their full-body armor—dazzling the
breathless audience that packed the avenue.
A few gasped.
They 'oohhed' and 'aahhed' as the mighty legions passed them by.
Awed.
Impressed by the army's disciplined precision and their dignified bearing.
More and more Romans huddled together, lining the side of the road—willing to risk being elbowed and stomped just to catch a glimpse.
Dressed in their finest dyed togas and tunics, their vivid attire turned the city into a festival of color.
Shouts and cries filled the air, echoing off the towering marble buildings.
Rome pulsed with life.
CLACK CLACK
Then all turned to stare at the man beside the Emperor, leading the procession—Germanicus.
He rode with calm composure, seemingly unaware of the thousands watching him.
But the spectators noticed everything—even the smallest details.
And today, under the blazing sun, his overwhelming presence held them spellbound.
His blue eyes, bright and cutting beneath the shadow of his brow, swept over the throng without pause.
His dark brown hair, just long enough to brush his neck, moved freely as his horse stepped in steady rhythm—unbound by galea or helmet.
The silver links of his lorica hamata glinted with every movement—an armor worn by generals, earned through a series of wars.
His battle-hardened frame was evident beneath it all—a body honed through years of tough combat.
He looked like a man born and built for battle.
A legend.
Sighs of adoration escaped parted lips.
Rome's golden son.
His title was befitting.
His charm—undeniable—so potent that half of the female population seemed to swoon as he passed them by.
A silent conquest of admiration.
"Roma victoria!"
"Euge!"
CLACK… CLACK… CLACK
Germanicus believed that he owed this warm welcome—to his father—Nero Claudius Drusus.
A renowned Roman general.
A statesman.
Often hailed as the 'People's Hero', and the original bearer of the honorific 'Germanicus'—bestowed upon him by the Senate in recognition of his triumphant territory expansion campaign in Germania.
But fate was unkind.
His father died suddenly—struck down by illness while still on campaign.
And so, the son took up the title.
Not merely as an honor… but as a name.
Germanicus Julius Caesar.
'Father… I've brought more glory in your name,' he prayed in silence.
This was a moment of triumph—not just his—but also a tribute to his father's legacy.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
The horde roared louder.
It was getting rambunctious.
"Roma!"
The sight of their victorious general—lost in thought, yet radiant—fueled a new rage of idolization.
'His legacy…'
Germanicus halted his horse slightly.
"I'll pass it to my children," he silently vowed—then kicked his stallion forward—with renewed aim.
As the animal cantered deeper into the city, the cheers of the populace and the gentle trudging of the beast's hooves grew louder, merging into a single, booming anthem.
"Io io io!"
Sandal-clad feet began stomping against the cobblestones.
"Vivas Imperator!"
Louder.
Harder.
"Vivas Roma!"
It was music.
A wild, living drumbeat.
"Vivas Imperator!"
STOMP STOMP
"Hurrah!"
The chants pulsed like heartbeats.
The ground trembled with fervor.
CLACK CLACK
Red, gold and green wreaths sailed through the air mixing with the petals from the balconies—like blessings cast to the wind.
Tiberius smirked.
He was convinced that the people's warm welcome was all for him—unaware that they were meant for Germanicus.
After all, it was he—the Emperor—who had orchestrated this grand triumphal procession.
He was the one who ensured this exceptional display of Rome's power.
This was his moment.
A reminder to those damn nobles and senators who still dared compare his reign to Augustus.
Let them talk.
Let them scheme.
Let them praise the dead.
'Look at me!'
Today, the people worshiped him.
HIM!
'I am the driving force behind the Germania campaign!'
"Vivas Roma!"
'I am the one who did that!'
"Vivas Imperator!"
'Yes, that's it!'
His chest swelled as he basked in the people's supposed adoration.
A slow, superior smile stretched across his lips.
'More!'
With calculated grandeur, he raised one arm—then the other—still clutching the chariot reins.
He acknowledged the masses like high sacerdotes dispensing benediction.
'Say my name!'
Draped in opulent red robes and crowned in gold, Tiberius cut the figure of an Emperor.
'Worship me!'
Yet, beside Germanicus… the contrast was stark.
But he didn't mind.
What mattered was that he held the power.
CLACK CLACK
His short black hair, now streaked with white, and the wrinkles framing his sharp brown eyes betrayed his age.
He stood tall in his ornate golden chariot, drawn by two majestic white horses.
Yet still—he lacked the vigor.
He lacked the commanding presence that made Germanicus beloved.
That raw, effortless charisma.
The kind that stirred hearts without pretense or trying so hard.
The kind that Tiberius could never fake.
A truth he desperately refused to acknowledge.
No.
Never.
'I am the Emperor of the Roman Empire!'
**
INDEX:
Io triumphe—hail the triumph
Io io io—similar to huzzah
Vivas Roma—long live Rome
Thermopolia—vendor's stall
Camilli(plural)/Camilius(singular)—noble helpers/aristocratic youths who assisted priests in various religious rites, they often participated in public ceremonies
Euge—bravo/well done
Vivas Imperator—long live the Emperor
sacerdotes—Roman priests