A few days ago…
Following their victory at the Weser River, Germanicus and his men began their march back to Vetera Castrum, still riding the high of battle.
But not before paying a tribute to the fallen in Teutoburg Forest.
Arminius's wife, Thusnelda, and her newborn baby accompanied them, as prisoners.
As they entered the haunted depths of the forest, their triumph dulled into solemnity.
This was more than a detour—it was a reckoning.
For the first time in years, Roman boots disturbed the soil where three legions had perished.
The air hung heavy with silence.
It's been years, but the forest held the weight of their loss, a grim monument to Rome's bitter defeat.
A brief prayer, led by Germanicus, rose through the ancient trees, a plea to the gods and goddesses for solace.
Then, they retrieved the three aquilae (emblem), the lost eagles of the fallen legions, symbols of Rome's enduring spirit.
That night, they camped beneath the towering trees, their only companion the distant, mournful call of an owl.
HOO-hoo-HOOOOO
Dawn broke over the somber forest, a pale light filtering through the ancient trees.
After a night spent tending to the wounded and preparing their fallen comrades for transport, their bodies laid upon the large wagons readied before the battle at Weser, Germanicus stood before them, head bowed in a final, wordless prayer.
Then, without another glance at the forest, when all was ready, he gave the order to move.
The grim procession began.
His troops followed in disciplined formation, their march steady and unbroken as they made their way back to Castrum.
Their return journey was silent.
Upon their arrival, an imperial messenger awaited them, a scroll clutched in his hand.
A decree bearing the seal of Emperor Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus, the second emperor of the Roman Empire.
And his orders were clear: they were to return to their land and naval military base in Ravenna City, to its great port.
Germanicus held his young son, who had fallen asleep after he picked him up, crying—from watching their procession from the roadside.
His gaze shifted from the imperial messenger to the boy in his arms.
Without hesitation, he made his decision—there would be no delay.
Preparations for departure would begin immediately.
Yet, despite his urgency, the reality of war logistics slowed them.
It would take seven days before they were truly ready to move.
During that time, a new concern weighed on Germanicus.
His son had developed a fever.
Plagued by constant nightmares—the boy had gone afraid of moving shadows.
Flinching on the smallest rustling of leaves.
And strange actions—hands balled into fist trying to rub out his eyes.
As if he is erasing them.
'Something is wrong…'
The once-spirited child had grown restless and irritable, clinging to his father in a way he never had before.
His enthusiasm was gone, replaced by exhaustion and unease.
'Was there anything I missed?' his eyes wandered inside of the tent.
The camp doctors could find no explanation.
Neither the soldiers, nor the caretakers who watched over him, could explain his illness.
And as the days passed, Germanicus's worry deepened.
Before the eighth day arrived, everything was in place.
With his troops ready, he led them from Vetera to Ravenna.
But even as they marched, his thoughts remained with his son, whose suffering remained a mystery.
His son's condition made the journey 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.
Their path was fraught with the unknown.
Hostile Germanic tribes lurked in the shadows, forcing them to take careful detours.
Skirmishes erupted along the way, demanding his full attention.
Time and time again, he was forced to leave his son behind, his cries fading into the roar of battle.
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.
Under Germanicus's command were three Roman legions, each boasting five to six thousand soldiers.
Foot soldiers, archers, cavalrymen, auxiliaries, siege engineers, and marines moved as one disciplined force.
Alongside them, another three thousand six hundred non-combatants—servants, merchants, and civilians—traveled in support.
Soldiers' families and friends followed the march, adding to the ever-growing column.
His vast army moved under his command in unison.
Yet, to the beloved general, only one truly mattered.
And then, after a month of restless nights and relentless worry, his son has finally calmed down.
His blue eyes, inherited from Germanicus, were unfocused and distant.
The fever was gone. The clinginess had vanished.
But when he looked into his child's eyes, a chill ran down his spine.
The spark that once shone so brightly—was gone.
It's like something disconnected.
Nobody had prepared him for what happened to his son.
Many marveled at Germanicus's command, praising his ability to manage such a colossal army.
His tactical brilliance and charismatic leadership 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 Germanicus's mouth.
A father's worry.
He silently regretted keeping Caligula by his side.
At the time, it had seemed harmless—he'd expected the campaign to drag on, not conclude so swiftly.
He hadn't foreseen how easily they would track down the traitorous Arminius—or how quickly they would use his family as bargaining chips.
Had he known, he might have sent his son away.
Away from the bloodshed.
Away from the suffering.
Away from the weight of war.
But now, the damage was done.
It was too late for remorse.
Oh, how wrong he had been in his judgment.
Ravenna City, Around May. 17 AD..
After months of a draining travel, they finally arrived in Ravenna.
They had endured an unforgiving winter and half a season of sluggish, lingering spring rains.
Their trek had been long, their bodies worn down by time and hardship.
Now, at last, spring is in full bloom.
They could smell it in the air.
TRUDGE TRUDGE TRUDGE
The ground, still soft from the recently thawed snow, squelched beneath their boots.
Birds chirped in the distance, their songs blending with the rustling of new leaves.
As the 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, Germanicus leading them.
Their faces bore the weight of war, of exhaustion that no rest could ease.
His son rode with him, sitting in front of him, his gaze hollow, unmoving, just breathing.
The few townsfolk paused to watch, their murmurs hushed as the legions passed.
At last, they reached the port.
The salty air of the Adriatic clung thick to their skin, mingling with the scent of damp leather and worn iron.
Summoned for the Germania campaign in 12 AD, he had not once set foot back home.
And now, even with Ravenna before him, he would not yet return to Palatine Hill, that was now just a few days away.
Not yet.
But soon.
He must endure a little longer.
Then he ruffled Caligula's hair who was sitting in front of him. Who did not even stir.
Tiberius awaited them at the entrance of the port, a calculated smile playing on his lips, masking his true intentions.
Five years had passed since Germanicus last stood on Roman soil.
Five years of meticulous planning, of battles fought and lost and won.
In that time, Tiberius had ascended to the throne following the death of Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius Augustus in 14 AD.
He stood with his praetorian guards lined in perfect formation behind him.
A former general, the driving force behind the Germanic campaign, a campaign born from the desire to avenge Varus's legions, slaughtered in Teutoburg eight years prior.
Rome's greatest humiliation.
Germanicus dismounted, lifting Caligula down from the saddle, and handing him to Aulus Caecina Severus, his trusted aide.
But not before giving the boy a glance—who did not even flinch.
His fingers curled and clenched.
As he turned, Tiberius stepped forward, extending a hand.
"Well met, nephew," Tiberius said, his voice thick with formal courtesy. "Your victories over the Germanic tribes are a testament to your military skill and bravery!"
And for a moment, no more words are said.
Then, suddenly, Tiberius' tone shifted, his laughter booming.
"Ha ha ha! Well met indeed! Now, come! A banquet awaits to honor you and your men!" not sure how to react to his uncle's sudden change of mood and status, Germanicus remained silent.
Throwing an arm around Germanicus' shoulder, Tiberius grinned. "You must be weary!"
Turning to his guards, he barked, "Tell them to make ready! The heroes of Rome have returned!" Tiberius' joy was on full display.
A show.
Germanicus forced a smile, still stiff from the battlefield, struggling to adjust to this warm reception.
Feeling like a fire was lit in his skin.
With his uncle's arm draped over him, he hesitated before bowing his head—an awkward, almost unsure gesture.
"Thank you, your grace, but Rome's glory is my reward," he said, his voice steady but formal.
Germanicus was not used to this excessive welcome by his uncle.
Tiberius chuckled, waving away the stiffness. "Ha! Don't be so rigid, nephew! Cast off such formality! After all, we are family!"
With that, he pulled Germanicus forward.
"Now, let's go in!"
Together, the two disappeared into the port, leaving the legions and guards to trail in their wake.
They entered the bustling port, a cacophony of hammering from the fabrica workshops, the clang of metal, and the salty tang of the sea.
THUCK THUCK THUCK
Sounds of faster hammering rang out from the port—working quickly to finish their tasks so they could participate in the banquet.
The harbor is filled with various ships, from small fishing vessels to larger merchant and military ships.
The ocean's waves gently swaying them.
Within the grand hall, the banquet hall shimmered with golden torchlight, casting flickering shadows against the polished marble walls.
The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmurs of Rome's most powerful men—senators, generals, and gentes gathered, eager to bask in the reflected glory of Germanicus's triumphs.
And to curry favor with the emperor.
Now, as they seated themselves in the grand hall inside the port, Tiberius took his seat at the head of the table and gestured for his nephew to sit to his right.
"Let the banquet begin!" Tiberius declared, his eyes surveying the room.
And so, the banquet began.
Murmurs and laughter grew louder, filling the room with a rising hum.
Germanicus looked around the table, his eyes scanning the faces before him.
A silver cup was handed to him by a slave.
Across the table, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso—the governor of Syria and a fellow general—caught his eye.
Once Germanicus's cup was filled with wine, Piso raised his own in a toast.
His sharp eyes locked onto Germanicus, as if he had been waiting for this very moment.
"Germanicus, welcome back. I trust your journey was uneventful?" Piso's voice dripped with feigned politeness. His long white hair reflects the orange glow of the torch fire.
"How was Germania, hmm?"
He took a slow sip of wine, letting the question hang in the air, Piso's gaze sweeping the room, ensuring that all attention remained fixed on him before continuing.
Not caring that the person he's talking to is not answering him.
"Ah, Germania! A land so wild, so untamed... so full of trees," Piso mused. "Tell me, did the barbarians even bother fighting? Or did they simply step aside and let you march around, playing at conquest?"
A blatant insult.
"Pfft..." Piso snickered, feeling like he had won a contest nobody else was playing.
Then he pauses. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in mock sympathy.
"Well, I suppose that's why Rome sends you there, Germanicus—someone has to talk to the trees!" he threw his head back, laughing—a sharp, barking sound that echoed through the hall.
Alone.
Making Germanicus frown.
Once his laughter subsided, he took another jab.
Piso swirled the red wine in his cup, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if telling a secret.
"Ahem, I heard Agrippina often visited you in Vetera... Such a devoted wife,"
He tapped his fingers against the cup, watching Germanicus closely before adding, in a voice just soft enough to sound conspiratorial:
"How fortunate you are."
The corner of his lips curled upward, his smirk deepening, as if daring Germanicus to react.
"She visits you so often—it's not like Germania is your next door neighbor," his voice was loud, then paused, deliberately. "She must miss you dearly."
Another pause.
Then, the strike:
"Or perhaps she misses something else?"
Tension suddenly arose.
For a moment the noisy hall has become subdued with unease.
The people in the room all knew that Piso was notorious for his sharp tongue and ability to stir up controversy.
They waited with bated breath.
Unsure how the general will respond.
All eyes on him.
Germanicus's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightened around his cup.
His expression darkened at the mention of his wife's name and the insult that followed on Piso's lips.
Still, Germanicus said nothing.
Not because he hadn't heard, nor cared—but because he doesn't trust himself not to kill anyone who dared insult his wife.
He was exhausted.
His mind was burdened by worry for his son and the emperor's strangely welcoming gestures.
And now, this man—this vermin—was taunting him so openly.
'You can make a joke about me,' he thought, jaw clenched, 'but my beautiful wife's name does not belong in your mouth,' rage flared behind his grinding teeth.
He wanted to punch Piso's face. 'It sounded so foul in his dirty tongue!'
For a fleeting moment, he imagined the satisfying crunch of his fist against the rat's sneering face.
Piso's smile faltered as he saw the expressions in Germanicus' eyes.
Then, as if it had all been a lie, Germanicus exhaled—steadily, deliberately—calming himself.
The burning rage still smoldered beneath the surface, expertly buried.
Silence stretched on.
Then Germanicus decided to seize the moment to speak.
An opportunity to counter.
He exhaled slowly, lifting his cup as if considering Piso's words. Then, with a relaxed demeanor:
"And how is your wife, General Piso?" Germanicus' voice sounded bored.
Piso's face twitched.
Germanicus turned the cup in his hand, absentmindedly studying the dark red swirl of wine.
"I hear she's been frequenting a certain taberna..." his voice trailed.
He let the words simmer.
Anticipation thickened the air.
Then Germanicus looked up from his cup.
His expression turned grave.
He stared straight in Piso's eyes.
"...Seeking comfort in the arms of another man. Perhaps to alleviate her loneliness," it was almost a whisper.
"We're all military men, so... I hope you understand. And don't be too hard on her when you get home."
All the people in the room heard it. Loud and clear.
He took an intentional sip, his eyes leaving Piso's.
Then, as though just remembering something, he lifted his eyes again and added, with mock innocence:
"But oh... you never left Rome..."
Silence.
Tension snapped like a drawn bowstring.
The room erupted into laughter, with some nobles chuckling louder than others.
Piso's face reddened, his eyes flashing with anger.
Then, with a sharp scrape of his chair, he shoved himself to his feet, his anger bubbling over.
Germanicus only lifted his cup towards Piso.
Mocking a toast.
Making Piso livid.
Sejanus, the praetorian guard, stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to intervene.
As a praetorian guard who swore to protect the emperor, if he deemed it would lead to a fight, he'd have to break it off.
And protect his Emperor.
However, Tiberius's raised hand stayed him, a warning glance conveying the message:
'You do not dare draw your gladius in the presence of Germanicus.'
Laughter died. The buzzing too.
Everyone holds their breath.
Silence ensues.
The guests are eager to watch what will happen.
Will Germanicus put Piso in his place or will Piso retaliate?
But before any of that could happen, Tiberius decided to become the mediator.
He chuckled darkly—then slipped on the mask. No one noticed
His theatrical peacemaking returned, his expression turned jovial once more.
"Enough, enough. This is a joyous occasion! Our lifelong wish has just come true!"
He reached for his golden goblet. Raised it.
"Let us toast to Germanicus's triumph in Germania!"
He gave Piso a secret look.
"To Rome!"
The room fell silent.
"May our former emperor's soul be blessed by Jupiter!"
"To Rome!" they answered in unison.
Then they soaked their bread in the wine.
A Roman custom.
"Salus!"
The assembly echoed the toast, their voices ringing out as one.
Moments later...
Loud laughter, clinking of cups, high pitch clang of ligula(spoon) and culter(knife) and endless chatter deafened the emperor.
The people seem to forget that he was the emperor, as all their attention was on Germanicus' every word.
'Like it was that interesting.' Tiberius thought bitterly. His envious nature was in danger of revealing itself.
He swirled the wine in his cup.
Every time the people laugh, the emperor's eyes turn small, every time, they 'ooohhh' and say 'aaaaaahhhh' his eyes twitch and twitch until it becomes just a slit.
As the evening wore on and the people became drunk, losing their focus on Germanicus, the now drunk emperor loosened his tongue.
His eyes were only a thin line now.
Unable to keep it all in, he leaned in on his nephew.
"Germanicus," He murmured, his voice a low, probing whisper.
But it took him a while to follow it with words.
Germanicus, whose attention was now on the emperor, respectfully waited.
"Tell me, nephew," he began. "What are your thoughts on the empire's future?" Tiberius asked.
But the response was diplomatic and automatic.
"Rome has a bright future with you as its leader."
Not satisfied with his nephew's answer, Tiberius could only nod.
Acting like he was a wise and benevolent emperor.
His mask is in place. Not smiling.
His expression remained unreadable.
'Reveal your ambition Germanicus.' his eyes are narrowing slightly.
"Do you harbor ambitions to one day sit upon the throne?"
He pressed on. Becoming persistent.
His own voice takes on a slightly sharper tone. Never caring now whoever heard it.
But Germanicus's eyes remained neutral.
He did not expect the emperor to ask him this directly.
A fleeting moment of uncertainty crossed his eyes.
Still haunted by the ghosts of Teutoburg and the fevered cries of his son in his journey from Vetera to Ravenna, Germanicus replied:
"My only ambition is to serve Rome, your grace."
Tiberius's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion in their depths. It was not the answer he was looking for.
"Does it not tempt you?" the emperor's questions are getting bold.
Brazen.
Wariness crept into Germanicus' voice.
"May I be honest with you... uncle?" he whispered back to the emperor.
Invoking their family relationship ties to soothe the growing tension.
Germanicus' words were nearly drowned by the crowd's raucous laughter—
But Tiberius heard them. Loud and clear.
He started to sweat.
He lifts his goblet and sips wine. The wine tasted sour. His throat constricted.
Then he nods to Germanicus, allowing him to continue.
All of his focus was locked on the younger man.
Germanicus paused, the weight of his unspoken thoughts heavy in the air.
"No, my emperor."
Tiberius exhaled, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"I am a soldier, not a politician," Germanicus said. "My duty lies with Rome, not ambition."
Germanicus also took another sip of his wine, and added "So no, it does not tempt me, your grace."
Tiberius's eyes gleamed sharply.
But Germanicus is unaware of the emperor's deep seated insecurities.
A sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped Tiberius's lips.
"Excellent," he declared, his smile returning, a mask of joviality.
"Excellent! Ha ha ha!"
But as the night drew to a close, and Tiberius spoke of their imminent return to the Palatine, Germanicus's mind was a storm of questions.
'What did Tiberius truly want? Was this a test? Or a veiled threat?'
The fragile peace between them hung in the balance, a delicate thread stretched taut over the abyss of ambition.
**
INDEX:
Hora Octava- eighth hour of the day (2-3pm)
Fabrica- weapon workshop
Palatine Hill- one of the hills in Rome, this is where the emperor's palatium is located
Salus- cheers/to your health
**
FUN FACT:
In Emperor Augustus' time, there were 60 legions (each legion 5000-6000 soldiers).
But then later reduced it to 28 legions.
So in Tiberius' time there were only 28 legions.
And Germanicus commanded 3 legions in his Germanic campaign.
And 3 legions got killed in Teutoburg forest by the Germanic tribe, resulting in Tiberius and Germanicus to seek revenge, forgetting their original purpose of territory expansions.
**
TIMELINE:
9AD - defeat of General Varus with his 3 legions in Teutoburg forest
12AD - August, Caligula is born
- Germanicus left for his Germanic campaign
14AD - Emperor Augustus died
- Agrippina visited Germanicus camp
- conceived Julia, younger sister of Caligula
15AD - Agrippina gave birth to Julia on November
16AD - Agrippina left with Caligula, took him to the Vetera camp. They left in the summer, and arrived in autumn.
- around Nov and Dec, weser battle happened
17AD- around January came back to Vetera camp
-left Vetera camp
-arrived at May (spring)