(Content Warning—This chapter contains graphic violence and gore. The reader's discretion is advised.)
"Eat well, for tonight we shall dine in Hades!”—King Leonidas of Sparta, Plutarch, Sayings of Spartans
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A gloved hand—plain and scarred by countless campaigns—trembled once around the reins of a moving horse.
Just one time.
Enough to crumple the glove’s worn brown leather like dry papyrus.
Then a shout—
“ROMANS!"
The commanding roar pierced the air like the furious cry of a war god, striking the sky just after the warning arrow was loosed.
"SHOW NO MERCY!”
It was Germanicus.
He was riding a magnificent dark-maned beast, its hooves thudding against the forested slope with relentless force, each stride syncing with the echoing drumbeats as he drove it onward with purpose.
Leaning low into the wind, the man shifted his weight instinctively, hips flowing with the horse’s gallop, absorbing each jar and jolt.
A mask of fury contorted his features into something inhuman—the countenance of Mars made flesh—followed immediately by another savage bellow.
“LET THEM KNOW THE FULL MIGHT OF ROME!”
His long brown hair, wild and untied, lashed in the wind as he raced higher, urging his horse up the hill.
The lorica hamata he wore blazed under the blinding sun, a moving morning star in full charge.
But to the Germanic warriors watching from below, Germanicus was no man, no star at all.
He was the vision of Wodanaz climbing back to Valhalla , abandoning them to their doom.
And yet this god of war’s true identity was a blue-blooded prince.
His people’s revenger.
The former Emperor’s adopted grandson and the current one’s adoptive nephew—the next-in-line for the Roman throne, its golden child.
‘But I’m no child,’ he reflected as he reached the summit, now forcing his mount to stay still as his focus sharpened.
Shining cobalt eyes—the color of a storm-tossed sea—scanned the enemy’s camp below.
‘Like cornered rats,’ Germanicus mused, his mouth twisting with grim satisfaction.
He was a general forged in war.
Tall and broad, his body etched with scars, he radiated a presence that made even seasoned men hesitate.
He raised his right arm, gripping his gladius firmly.
Light flashed along its edge.
His legions answered with perfect silence—their marching and the beating of the drums halted at once, so sudden and unnatural—like a lie.
Stillness fell, suffocating in its weight.
As thick, trembling droplets of cold sweat beaded on every Germanic warrior’s face, Germanicus’ harsh expression never wavered.
He made certain the entire tribe felt it—made them realize the truth in a single, crushing heartbeat—Roman forces had them surrounded on all sides.
“You never saw it coming, did you?” he grunted, not expecting an answer to his question.
There was no need.
He already could tell.
He sensed it without seeing them—the warriors from afar, their breaths hitching, their muscles tensing—taut as a wire.
Slowly, deliberately, Germanicus began to lower his gladius .
It was a signal.
The start of the battle.
“ROMA!”
A lone battle-cry rose from the river below.
Germanicus turned sharply toward the sound, spotting his navy—their massive ships gliding through the Weser River like a shimmering, moving mirage.
But it was no illusion.
More than a hundred vessels choked the water, sealing it shut and cutting off any possible escape.
‘It’s time,’ he thought, nodding once.
“VICTORIA!”
An answering roar boomed from the slopes—the cavalry—followed by a long ominous silence.
Then—
Chaos.
“PRO ROMA!” (For Rome)
Screams of rage tore through the plains, ripping the stillness apart like cloth torn by hand.
Germanicus felt it—the burning anger of a thousand Romans—flooding through his veins.
Red crept into his vision.
He was no longer just Germanicus.
He was the conduit for Mars’ wrath itself.
“CHARGE!” he thundered as his gladius fell, pointing toward the enemy.
The treeline broke open, giving way to a torrent of charging warhorses, finally revealing themselves.
Thousands upon thousands strong, they surged forward with unified, furious speed.
The earth heaved beneath them, alive with the non-stop drumbeat of hooves—pounding the grassland into submission—leaving a huge cloud of dust.
From their camp, the Germanic warriors greeted them with arrows of their own, shooting and felling some of the advancing party.
But it didn’t stop the Romans.
It didn’t even faze them.
“ROMA VICTRIX!” (Victorious Rome)
On another forested hill above—behind the charging men—thousands of archers stood in disciplined rows.
“Nock—!”
A senior centurion shouted, hands raised.
The archers moved as one, placing their arrow’s rear end onto their bowstrings.
Half of them bore rags tied tightly around their long shafts, soaked in oil.
The rest held bare arrows, ready to follow the fire volley.
“Draw—!”
The centurion’s eyes were fixed on the general, awaiting the signal.
Germanicus inclined his head.
The centurion dropped his hand.
“READY—!”
The optiones under his command moved quickly, lighting the oil-soaked rags with their torches.
Bowstrings creaked.
Breaths were held.
After gauging the wind, the centurion roared once more, giving his final order.
“LOOSE!”
Meteors of flaming arrows rained down on the Germanic camp, arcing cleanly over the charging soldiers to support them.
“Ah—!”
Warriors’ screams were cut short as arrows found their flesh.
Some burned to death in seconds.
“ROMA AETERNA!” (Eternal Rome)
From the opposite side—straight from the river—the navy finally emerged.
Their armor gleamed as they poured out from the ships.
They flooded forward like a steel tide, swords flashing as they cut down unprepared enemies with nowhere to hide—
“NON MORIEMUR—AETERNI SUMUS!” (We will not die—we are eternal)
Their shouts rang out as steel and fire consumed their enemies’ camp.
A horse whinnied behind Germanicus—
“General!” a voice cut through the din.
“I have something to report—”
Without breaking focus, the general turned his head just enough to acknowledge his trusted aide’s presence.
“Speak,” Germanicus replied without missing a beat.
“Arminius is nowhere to be seen,” the aide breathed.
Germanicus stilled.
Then nodded, his eyes narrowing though they never left the slaughter below.
“I see…” he answered, as if it didn’t matter.
But his mind was already plotting… calculating.
He continued to watch as the Germanic tribes—caught by the three-pronged assault of archers, cavalry, and navy, all part of the legions—had no time to regroup.
A thousand clashes of steel clanged out, an ear-splitting grind of metal against metal.
And beneath the deafening savage roars of both warriors and soldiers came another sound—the high, thin wails of the wounded and the dying—the true sound of annihilation.
Germanicus drew a lungful of air.
It was already thick with the coppery taste of blood, acrid stench of burnt flesh, and the sour sweat of fear—poisoning his every breath.
The unmistakable scent of death.
‘Even after all these years… I will never grow used to this.’
A face flickered behind his eyes—Varus—smiling with a fool’s pride as he marched out with three legions to crush a so-called ‘minor uprising’.
Germanicus jaw tightened at the memory.
‘General Varus… three legions… gone… the forest swallowed them whole.’
Clenching his fist, he turned to his aide before rage could consume him.
“Where is he? Where is Arminius?”
“They are tracking him as we speak,” the aide replied, bowing, a scroll clutched in hand.
“Arminius… Arminius,” Germanicus hissed, venom thick in the name, making the aide flinch.
Arminius.
‘That man…’
His face burned red.
Exceptionally bright.
Exceptionally capable.
‘That is what he was,’ Germanicus bitterly admitted as veins stood out along his temples.
That was how they had perceived Arminius.
Given to Rome as a noble child hostage by his own father—a Cheruscan tribe leader—under the guise of cooperation with the peace treaties.
And yet, Arminius was never treated as a prisoner.
The empire had treated him well.
Raised him as a noble of their own.
Trained him.
Educated him in Roman military doctrine.
Thus Arminius had earned Roman citizenship.
Rank.
Trust.
‘He even wore the legions’ armor.’
But all of it had been a disguise.
An infiltration.
‘He had us fooled.’
Arminius gathered their secrets, studied their military tactics to learn how to break them—then betrayed them in the Teutoburg Forest , personally leading the massacre of three legions.
Varus—Arminius’ own superior—had answered that shame with suicide.
“He can never truly hide his barbarian roots,” Germanicus grounded his teeth.
After that betrayal, Arminius was hailed as a hero across Germania, earning a chieftain position within his tribe.
But to Rome, Arminius was a traitor.
A rogue wolf that had sunk its teeth into the empire’s back.
When the truth emerged, all Rome could do was seethe—helplessly in its rage.
But now, they were done waiting.
Now—
They were out to get the traitor.
It had taken them years.
‘But it doesn’t matter.’
Arminius would fall today.
And fall, he would.
For years, Rome had studied him.
Learned him.
Obsessed over him.
Now they struck—using Arminius’ own playbook.
A fitting revenge.
Germanicus’ gaze swept over the mayhem.
The once-proud warriors—muscled and honed by years of hunting, warfare, and brutal labor—now lay trampled under ruthless hooves.
Germania itself had always been the tribe’s shield—and their greatest weapon—vast land, dense forests, marshes, scattered tribal villages, and brutal weather.
No cities.
No roads.
A place that defied conquest.
Even those who called it home fought simply to survive.
And their survival bred arrogance.
'Perhaps… too arrogant,' he concluded.
This time, however, fate had other plans—or rather, Germanicus did.
Through repeated, calculated encounters, the Romans had dissected Germanic battle strategies—and mapped the very bones of Germania’s geography.
Germanicus was the one who had identified the chinks in the tribes’ armor—the vulnerabilities he could exploit—a forever thorn in the side of the Roman Empire.
An empire ever expanding its territory—swallowing provinces like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering size and momentum as it went.
Germanicus had learned that splitting the warriors’ attention would sow disorder.
After all, they were not one people, but composed of different tribes.
And he was determined to strike in that moment of confusion—using the divide and conquer strategy.
‘Your own land has betrayed you,’ he mocked, his eyes suddenly narrowing—something had caught his attention.
He kicked his horse forward, needing a clearer view of the grassland below.
From the trees, there emerged a tall figure, dragging a dead animal, a huge wolf, by its hind legs.
It was Arminius.
Germanicus’ gloved hands shook uncontrollably as he sneered.
Was it the cold?
Or perhaps the exhilaration of Rome's retaliation, finally within his grasp?
He couldn’t say.
But with Arminius now here, their vengeance felt complete.
Crimson continued to soak the earth in rivers, drinking the blood of the fallen warriors.
A sickening chorus of torn flesh and breaking bones continued to echo across the flatlands.
The dead and dying now lay piled in a grotesque, reeking mass.
“How does it feel, wolf?” he muttered to the wind, knowing Arminius would never hear him from this distance.
Far below, Arminius paused mid-stride, jaw locking for a heartbeat as if Germanicus’ hatred had reached him.
‘That’s right,’ Germanicus thought.
‘We, the Romans you so deeply underestimated, have outmaneuvered you.’
A humorless curve came to his lips as he watched the traitorous wolf survey the destruction of his people, frozen where he stood.
‘This wasn’t a battle.’
Germanicus’ gaze hardened as his grip crushed the horse’s reins.
‘This was an absolute execution.’
Then, he delivered his final judgement, his voice low and sharp.
“I, Germanicus, have come to take your head.”
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