"Victoria aut mori!”—Cato the Elder (Victory or death!)
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The murky surface of the rushing river darkened—a heavy shape rising from the depths before it bubbled violently, breaking its steady murmur.
Cicadas immediately fell silent.
Toads swallowed their tongues.
A squirrel froze on the grass in mid-crouch, its paws locked around a single, fat acorn.
They watched and waited with bated breath, sensing that something—or someone—was coming—
A predator.
WHOOSH—!
SPLASH!
A man burst from the deep, knife clenched between his teeth—head, broad shoulders, and solid chest lunging into the crisp morning air.
He rose in one powerful motion, as if the river itself had spewed him back out.
Tucked firmly under one muscled arm was a massive wolf, its limp body bound tight with a thick rope looped around its broken neck, the other end knotted at the intruder’s waist beneath the water.
SCREECH!
SQUEAK—!
The forest exploded into motion.
Tiny wings flapped.
Leaves scattered.
Small bodies jumped and fled in blind panic.
Unbothered by the disturbance he had stirred, the man carefully released the beast’s dead weight from his grasp, allowing it to float on the surface beside him.
Water sheeted from him like a falling veil as he hovered in eerie silence, still and poised like a snake.
Only the river’s quiet breathing remained, as though the unknown man had melted into water itself.
A heartbeat had passed.
One second.
Two.
Then five.
He reached up and yanked the blade out from his teeth.
“Hah!” he gasped, lungs burning.
He shook his head, flinging icy water from his long, black hair like some drowned animal.
The wet leather cord around his neck—a yellowing, ancient wolf fang strung on it like a bead—whipped against his collarbone, slapping his skin.
Droplets scattered, flashing like shards of crystals as they caught the sun.
Yet the man was still unsatisfied.
With the knife’s hilt anchored in his right palm, he raked his fingers across his brow without thinking, shoving back the hair that blocked his sight.
Slowly, his gaze scanned the shadows, the trees, and the riverbank.
Rare purple eyes glowed, dark and wet like blood.
Arminius.
The Germanic chieftain.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Cold.
“So damn cold,” he grumbled, breath misting as he swam toward the riverbank, the rope tugging the sodden wolf behind him.
Every movement tightened the bind, making it hard to breathe.
“Shit.”
Cursing it as it bit his flesh, he neared the shallows, his feet finally touching the bottom.
He started wading.
The river fell away from his chest to his waist, then his hips, exposing the rope and his scars—they marked him all over, old cuts, faded welts, the map of every fight he had won—and inch by inch, his skin met the freezing air.
“Damn it.”
His arms flexed, veins and goosebumps standing out, as he heaved the wolf onto the grass and set the knife beside it.
Bracing his hands in the soft earth, he hauled himself fully out of the river, muscles straining as the water finally released its grip on his body.
His chiseled back arched tightly, gleaming like polished bronze.
A crude wolf-head tattoo glared defiantly from his toned right calf, a bold declaration of a man who would never bow to anyone.
Standing tall, he surveyed the ground for his trousers and thick white pelt—realizing he had gone too far downstream.
Grunting another string of swear words, he slung the giant beast over his shoulders, handling its gray fur with a strange sort of care as he started towards his clothes.
He had gone out seeking a fat boar, but found none.
Dismayed, he turned to catch rabbits, searching underground burrows, but then, this creature had the same idea and had chosen to hunt him instead.
It had fought well.
To treat such a brave soul roughly would be an insult to the gods.
Then he thought—
‘No, maybe it hadn’t been hunting at all,’ he contemplated.
Because he saw—if only for a moment—the gray wolf had a mate, huddled in one of the hollow burrows.
But he’d left her behind.
He was sure there were pups.
‘It was… protecting…’ he sighed, remembering the small cries he had heard.
Gero’s face surfaced in his mind—the young night watcher he’d scolded earlier at dawn.
‘He’s like a pup,’ he smiled to himself.
The boy had flinched and whined like a newborn pup when he’d barked at him to urinate away from the camp.
‘Am I too harsh?’
He stilled.
“No,” he muttered.
‘Cleanliness and discipline keep them—keep us—alive.’
“I’ll give the kid the heart of this beast that tried to eat me,” he smirked.
The leather cord around his neck snapped without warning, the wolf fang tumbling against his chest.
He halted, growling as he picked it up, unbothered by the weight on his shoulder.
He examined the necklace and tutted.
“This thing’s old,” he muttered.
He tied it back together clumsily with both hands, expertly balancing the wolf as he did, then huffed a quiet breath of amusement.
‘I should have Thusnelda fix it.’
Her quiet, familiar presence.
The way she smells.
“Like roses,” Arminius said aloud.
He briefly closed his eyes, picturing her as she was this morning.
“Come back soon…” she whispered, before turning her back and hurrying inside their tent.
But not before Arminius caught the telltale tilt at the corner of her lips.
‘Being shy makes her so lovely.’
He blinked and laughed like a fool in love—the warmth touching his eyes, softening him, as if she were standing there seeing him smile back at her.
“I’m such a lucky man.”
Once he reached his clothes, he gently put the wolf down, untied it, then braided his hair hastily and began putting on his garb.
“I need to head back—now.”
He was already too late.
Arminius watched in silent fury.
His people—
‘ My tribe!’
—were being butchered like animals before his very eyes!
He’d left them only hours ago at dawn, promising fresh meat upon his return from the hunt.
Now, he was being greeted by a massive fire and the smell of blood and despair.
His warriors were divided—literally and figuratively—and vastly outnumbered.
Their once advantageous position was now their greatest weakness.
The sun’s warmth on his skin now felt like a cruel mockery of the cold dread seizing his heart.
‘A dog’s death!’
Indignation filled him.
His lip met his teeth.
The bitter copper taste of his blood burned his tongue.
As chieftain, all he could do was make a last stand—and for that, he had to move fast.
“Form the shield wall!” he commanded as he ran, his voice cutting through the chaos.
‘Will it hold?’
He already knew the answer.
It won’t.
Not enough.
‘They’re already breaking…’ he bitterly thought as he scanned the hellish surroundings.
The dead wolf lay forgotten on the blood-slicked ground, its wet fur had long since gone cold.
Useless now, just like Arminius himself.
He had risked his life to bring back a kill that could and would never be eaten.
It was his duty.
His responsibility.
But now…
He had utterly failed to protect his people!
Survivors rushed to him.
‘I have to make do with what’s left.’
Arminius’ tall frame stood out like a forgotten beacon of hope—
Long wild black hair now in a braid, the white wolf’s hide around his shoulders—the symbol of his status within his tribe—now felt disgustingly heavy.
Shields immediately locked into a dome-like formation, as if it were choreographed.
‘Too loose, too few,’ his jaw clenched.
A few archers crouched within, arrow nocked, waiting.
Infantry stood outside.
Shields up.
Bracing for impact.
Arminius stood within the shield dome.
His eyes burned—darkened by the injustice—so much that they almost seemed red, like spilled blood.
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.
A single bolting horse without its rider was about to run past the human dome.
Its eyes were rolling white.
Foam dripped from its mouth.
It had gone mad.
One of the veteran archer’s hands shook so badly that he released his arrow prematurely, striking the animal’s front hoof.
Startled, the horse whinnied, halted, and tripped.
Arminius clacked his tongue, nearly spitting a curse in Latin, but then shouted—
“FIRE!”
SWOOSH SWOOSH
A volley of arrows cut through the approaching Romans on foot.
Dozens fell.
For a moment, silence followed—the only sound was a lark singing somewhere above the smoke.
Then the earth shook again, and the killing resumed.
“DEFEND!”
The shield wall snapped shut.
But the Romans quickly adapted.
Before Arminius could give the next command, the legionary cavalry unit tore through the warriors’ formation, swords slashing, horses stomping.
The feeble dome crumbled in an instant—wood and flesh alike.
Arminius, wounded, fought desperately, picking up weapons left and right from his fallen warriors.
But the battle was already lost.
A strong arm seized him.
“Retreat!” his uncle, Inguiomerus, shouted, trying to hoist him onto a running horse.
“We must retreat!”
“No!” Arminius struggled, causing the bloody white fur around his shoulders to slip.
“I’d rather die!”
Inguiomerus reined in his horse and released Arminius—who was about to run back into the fray—then he jumped down and caught his nephew’s arm.
“Listen to me, Arm—”
“I will fight!” Arminius shouted, wrenching his arm free, almost hitting his uncle’s face.
The older man’s hand suddenly lashed out, the crack of a slap echoing louder than Arminius’ yells.
“Are you insane?” Inguiomerus growled.
Stunned by the slap, Arminius stumbled backward, his ears ringing.
“We must regroup! Fight another day! Order the retreat—NOW!” his uncle barked.
Arminius slumped against a tree, the rough bark biting into his now-bare back.
He slid down.
“I… I…” he looked at his wet hands, a crimson red slicked them.
He slowly crumpled on the grass like wax softening under the sun.
The screams around him blurred into a dull roar.
He could no longer tell who was crying for mercy and who was howling for blood.
A severed hand twitched near his knee—he recognized the copper ring on its finger.
Baldur.
Arminius counted the fallen faces, one after another, until his eyes burned and the numbers stopped making sense.
His cheek still stung from the jarring slap of his uncle’s hand.
Instinctively, his fingers brushed the leather cord around his neck—the charm his father once wore before he died.
It had snapped earlier, he only tied it crudely, hoping Thusnelda would fix it later while she was smiling shyly in his arms.
Now, that illusion was gone.
He clenched his teeth and fisted the wolf fang, ripping it from his neck.
A trickle of blood ran from his lip.
He scanned the battlefield again—his warriors—his tribe—dying in droves.
Gero, the pup-like kid, lay lifeless—an arrow in his forehead, eyes still wide open, a ghastly expression forever frozen on his face.
Guilt struck Arminius like a spear.
‘I’m sorry…’
“My tribe… my people… my Thusnelda…” he whispered, voice breaking.
Tears burned his eyes, his heart clenched so tight that it hurt to breathe.
For a fleeting moment, Arminius wondered if today’s execution had been his tribe’s undoing or solely his.
He watched the ongoing chaos—disconnected—noting how 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.
“RETREAT!” Arminius finally commanded as he stood up.
Inguiomerus turned around and snatched another horse, preparing it for Arminius.
“FALL BACK! RETREAT!” Arminius’ face flushed red with fury and raw effort to be heard.
‘I will never forget this!’
He swore under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he crushed the wolf fang in his hand in a death-grip.
‘Whoever planned this…’
His eyes searched for the one who commanded these legions.
‘... I will kill you with my bare hands!’
This was a strategy that he had never learned.
‘You—your children—and all who follow you!’
Then, he saw him.
Atop the hill.
Beside a tall tree.
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 horror 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 each other for a horse.
Their cries were swallowed by the roar of the Roman pursuit without mercy.
Like the reverse hum of their barritus.
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 the Romans’ swords.
The legions left no stone unturned.
Relentless.
Like hungry lions.
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As the last echoes of battle faded, Germanicus stood victorious, watching Arminius flee with his tribe like an injured animal.
He surveyed the carnage, looking for someone.
‘This is for General Varus and for Rome’s honor,’ he thought, remembering whom and what he was fighting for.
‘For the legions lost in Teutoburg.’
A cruel expression hardened his face.
He hadn’t been there when it happened but…
‘They have paid for their arrogance,’ he thought, his face darkened.
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 carnage.
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 we will never forget.’
“I’ll get you next time,” he promised darkly.
“General, what is your next command?”
A voice from behind him—his trusted aide—broke his train of thought.
Germanicus snapped his head around and gave a curt nod to the now kneeling soldier.
“Send scouts to every corner. Search every fallen warrior, every hiding place. Find Arminius’ wife,” he ordered.
“She’s the symbol of his pride. And now—” he paused as if thinking, hesitation came and went.
His voice slightly caught on his last words, a momentary tremor of human doubt crossing his face.
‘Family is family,’ the thought passed through him, unbidden.
He recalled the day the news of the Teutoburg slaughter reached Rome—how Varus’ family and the entire city had wept over empty coffins.
‘To use one to break the other…’
It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
‘But what can I do?’
His face hardened.
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.
As Germanicus stepped away, a pitiful, mournful howl—the wolf who had lost her mate—drifted from the distance.
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