Ravenna, around May. 17 AD.
After months of draining travel, Germanicus and his troops had finally arrived in Ravenna.
They had endured a long, unforgiving winter and half season of sluggish, lingering spring rains.
Their expedition had been prolonged.
Extensive.
Their bodies were worn down by time and hardship.
Now, at last, spring was in full bloom.
They could smell it in the air, along with the unmistakable salty scent of sea.
TRUDGE TRUDGE TRUDGE
The ground, still soft from the recently thawed snow, squelched beneath their sandals.
Birds chirped in the distance, their songs blending with the rustling of new leaves.
As 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, crawling at a snail's pace, with Germanicus leading them.
Their faces were grim, exhausted beyond what any rest could ease.
Germanicus rode with his son seated in front of him on his majestic black war horse.
The boy's gaze was hollow, unmoving—just breathing.
A few townsfolk paused to watch.
Murmurs hushed as the legions passed.
At last, they reached the port.
The sun was about to set.
The Adriatic air clung to their skin—damp and briny—mingling with the scent of damp leather and worn iron.
Summoned for the Germanic campaign in 12 AD, Germanicus had not set foot on Roman soil in all those years.
And now, even with Ravenna closer to home, he would not yet return to Palatine Hill—only a few days away.
Not yet.
But soon.
He must endure a little longer.
'It won't be long now, son.'
He sighed and ruffled Caligula's hair, but the boy didn't even stir.
In the distance, near the entrance to the port, Tiberius stood waiting, his praetorian guards assembled in a long line behind him.
A smile, slight and unreadable, played on his lips.
Many years of meticulous planning—of battles fought, lost, and won.
During Germanicus' long absence, Tiberius had ascended to the throne following the death of Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius Augustus in 14 AD.
'Emperor Tiberius…'
The new title sounded foreign to Germanicus.
A former general.
The driving force behind the Germanic campaign—a campaign born of Rome's thirst to avenge Varus' legions, slaughtered in the Teutoburg Forest seven years ago.
Rome's greatest humiliation.
'We haven't captured Arminius. But with his wife and son in our hands, it's as good as victory,' he mused.
'She's a valuable bargaining chip after all.'
He sighed, then studied Caligula's golden curl.
'A man's family was his greatest weakness,' he thought, clenching his jaw.
He ruffled his son's hair once more, 'Like mine.'
Germanicus dismounted, lifting Caligula down from the saddle and passing him to Aulus Caecina Severus, his trusted aide.
But not before giving the boy a glance—one that went unanswered.
Caligula didn't even flinch.
Germanicus' fingers curled, then clenched.
As he turned, Tiberius stepped forward and extended a hand.
Germanicus didn't take it.
Instead, he dropped to one knee and bowed.
"My Emperor," he began.
A beat passed.
Then Tiberius responded with a loud, sudden laugh, retracting his ignored hand.
"Well met, nephew," he said, after the laughter subsided.
His eyes had started to sharpen.
"Your victories in Germania are a testament to your military skill and bravery."
His voice now carried the heavy weight of formality.
And for a moment, no more words were exchanged.
Germanicus remained kneeling.
Proper.
Formal.
Imperial.
Then, suddenly, Tiberius' laugh again.
Booming.
Warmly.
Almost joyful.
"Ha ha ha! Well met indeed! Now, come! Get up."
He bent down and helped Germanicus to his feet.
The praetorian guards instinctively moved to stop him, but Tiberius waved them off.
"Now, now—a banquet awaits to honor you and your men!"
Germanicus, unsure how to react to the Emperor's sudden familiarity, remained silent.
He allowed himself to be led.
"I had them prepared myself," Tiberius went on, throwing an arm around Germanicus' shoulder with a wide grin.
"Ease up, nephew. You must be weary!"
He turned to his guards and barked an order.
"Tell them to make haste—the heroes of Rome have returned!"
Tiberius' joy was on full display.
A show.
Exaggerated.
Germanicus forced a smile, still stiff from the battlefield and the long excruciating journey.
He struggled to adjust to the warmth of the reception.
It felt like fire licking his skin.
With the Emperor's arm still draped around him, he hesitated—then offered a slight bow of the head, an awkward almost unsure gesture.
"Thank you, your grace. But Rome's glory as my reward is enough," he said, his voice steady, still restrained.
He hadn't forgotten his decorum.
'This was an excessive welcome, especially now that he was the Emperor.'
Tiberius chuckled, waving away the stiffness.
"Ha! Don't be so rigid, my nephew! Cast off such formality! After all, we are one family!"
Then he went quiet, his tone shifting.
Sharper.
Dangerous.
"Or… do you not see me as your uncle? Is that it?"
Germanicus immediately denied, " No—of course not, uncle…"
At that, Tiberius' smile returned.
He gave a playful tug, pulling Germanicus forward.
"Then, cheer up—and let's go in! Ha ha ha!"
Together, the two disappeared into the port, leaving the legions and guards trailing in their wake.
They entered the bustling harbor.
The sharp, salty tang of the sea hung heavier than ever.
A cacophony greeted them—hammering from the fabrica workshops, the clang of metal, the loud roar of waves crashing against the docks.
THUCK THUCK THUCK
The sound of rapid hammering drew Germanicus' gaze—workers rushing to finish their tasks, eager to join the banquet.
Then he looked at the swaying ships—
From small fishing vessels to towering merchant and military carriers.
The ocean's waves rocked them aggressively.
Germanicus felt like one of those ships.
And Tiberius?
He was the wave.
Relentless.
Unstoppable.
Germanicus drifted along, simply enduring the tide.
'But still… it was my duty,' he sighed bitterly.
'Like a ship.'
Then, he remembered his son.
'This is for you, my son. The sooner we're through this, the sooner we go home.'
He knew what banquets meant.
They weren't just a celebration.
'It's a political move.'
Tiberius led him to the port's grand hall, where the banquet was to be held.
By then, the sun had long set.
The vast hall shimmered with golden torchlight, emitting quivering shadows against the polished marble walls.
The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.
It mingled with the murmurs of Rome's most powerful men—senators, generals and families from the ten great gentes.
They had gathered, eager to bask in the reflected glory of Germanicus' triumphs.
And to curry favor with the Emperor.
'They were all imperial allies,' he noted as he entered the dining hall.
His gaze swept over the seated crowd.
Tiberius took his rightful place at the head of the table and gestured for Germanicus to sit at his right.
"Let the celebration begin!"
The Emperor declared, his eyes sharpening as he surveyed the room.
And thus, the banquet began.
**
INDEX:
hora octava—eight hour of the day (2-3 pm)
Palatine Hill—one of the seven hills of Rome, this is where the palatium is located (the Beverly Hills of Rome where nobles and Imperial family lives)
fabrica—weapon workshop