Harry Turtledove - Give me back my Legions!

“Well enough,” Sigimerus said, also in the Germans’ tongue. He switched to Latin slower and less fluent than Arminius’ to give the sentries his name.

“Hail, Sigimerus,” said the one who’d greeted Arminius. “Welcome to Mindenum.”

“I thank you,” Sigimerus said. Arminius didn’t think he’d ever heard anything less sincere in his life.

His father kept looking around the encampment once they got inside. “These Romans are an orderly folk, aren’t they?” he said in his own speech. “They enjoy living like animals in cages, eh? All in row after row. Boring!”

“I think so, too, but it works for them.” Arminius added, “Be careful with your words, Father - some of the Romans have learned bits of our tongue.”

“I thought you told me they stuck to Latin whenever they could,” Sigimerus said.

“They do - especially the officers. They think learning our speech - or any other speech except Greek - is beneath their dignity,” Arminius answered. “But the common soldiers aren’t so fussy. If they’re in the field and they get hungry or they want to sport with our women, they learn the words they need to have. So you never can tell when one will know more than he lets on.”

“Sneaky devils. How do you trust people like that?” Sigimerus answered his own question: “Simple. You don’t.” He eyed the tent in front of which Arminius had stopped. “So this is where the Roman governor lives?”

“Yes, Father.” Arminius smiled. Sigimerus could watch his tongue if he worked at it.

The older man delivered his judgment: “Well, if you want to live under canvas all the time, you could do worse than this. But I would not care to live under canvas all the time.” Who in his right mind would? Sigimerus didn’t say that out loud, but his eyebrows were eloquent.

“If they have to, the Romans can move out of this encampment tomorrow,” Arminius said. “When I was in Pannonia, I saw them do things like that at a moment’s notice. And they build a fortified camp every evening of a march - you will have seen that.”

“Yes.” Sigimerus nodded. “Too much work, I think.”

“Maybe, but it makes them hard to assail.” Arminius held the tent flap open so Sigimerus could go in ahead of him. He’d seen how curtains did duty for walls in these fancy tents. Where they stood was the equivalent of an entrance hall.

A swarthy slave nodded to Arminius. “You wait,” the fellow said in bad Latin. He hurried away.

“He will bring Varus to us?” Sigimerus asked.

“Maybe. More likely, though, he will bring Varus’ chief slave to us,” Arminius answered. “You have to go through slave after slave before you finally get to talk to an important Roman.” Again, his father didn’t say what he was thinking. Again, Sigimerus’ expression spoke louder than words.

Sure enough, it wasn’t Quinctilius Varus but Aristocles, his pedisequus, who emerged to greet the Germans. “Hail, Arminius,” Aristocles said. “Is this . . . distinguished gentleman your father, by any chance?”

With him as with the fellow who’d met them outside the encampment, that pause showed he was really thinking something like graying savage. But Arminius responded only to the words Aristocles actually used. “Yes, he is. Father, I present to you Aristocles, who is the Roman governor’s chief slave. Aristocles, here is my father, Sigimerus by name.”

Aristocles’ bow lacked for nothing in manners. “I am honored to meet you, sir. With his citizenship and the courage he showed fighting Rome’s enemies, your son is an ornament among these forests.”

“Good to meet you. Thank you for nice words,” Sigimerus answered in his deliberate Latin. “I come here with Arminius to meet Roman governor.”

Anyone who knew Sigimerus would have understood that to mean, Why am I wasting my time talking to a worthless slave instead? Arminius did, and had to hide a grin. If Aristocles also did, he concealed it well. Romans were good at that; their slaves, of necessity, even better. The pedisequus said, “Of course the governor will be delighted to make your acquaintance, excellent Sigimerus. Let me inform him of your most auspicious arrival. And of course you will wish refreshments, to put down the dust of your journey here?”

Before Sigimerus could say yes or no, Aristocles vanished behind a curtain. When the curtain stirred again, out from behind it came yet another slave, this one carrying a silver tray with wine and bread and fruit candied in honey. Like all of Varus’ slaves Arminius had seen, this fellow was not a German. Arminius knew the Romans did enslave his folk. Varus was shrewd enough not to rub German visitors’ noses in that unpleasant fact, though.

“When I was young,” Sigimerus said, “wine was a sometime thing, a once-in-a-while thing. Many more Roman traders nowadays, and much more wine in Germany than there used to be.”

“Wine is a goodness,” Arminius agreed. Anyone listening to them on the far side of a curtain would find no fault in what they said. But their eyes met in perfect mutual understanding. Wine may be a goodness. Rome is anything but.

Quinctilius Varus’ voice came from farther back in the tent. So did those of a couple of other Romans. Arminius supposed the governor was conferring with his officers. If Arminius knew Romans, Varus would take care of that before he deigned to meet any barbarians. All the high-ranking officials in Pannonia had acted the same way.

Sigimerus didn’t recognize Varus’ voice. He probably couldn’t follow what the Romans were saying, either. Arminius could get bits and pieces of it, though slaves’ chatter in the foreground made him keep missing some.

From what Arminius could hear, Varus was finding out what several different columns he’d sent forth were doing. He had to be confident Germany lay open to him like an unchaste woman if he divided his forces like that. Down in Pannonia, Tiberius had been much more cautious.

But Pannonia was a real war. No one could doubt that, even for a moment. Germany seemed peaceful. Varus must have thought he could take chances here that he wouldn’t have risked if the countryside were in arms against him.

Well, let him believe us peaceful. Let him think Germans are nothing but the Romans’ curs. Let him send legionaries here, there, and everywhere. The less we worry him now, the better.

“When is the fancy Roman coming?” Sigimerus asked. “Doesn’t he reckon we’re important enough to see?”

“I don’t think it will be too much longer, Father,” Arminius answered. “He is talking with his retainers now.”

“Hrmm.” It was not a happy noise. Sigimerus partly muffled it by taking another swig of wine.

The jug soon emptied. The slave fetched another. Did Varus want the Germans drunk before he met with them? Arminius wouldn’t have been surprised. Wine was stronger than beer. Taken neat, it got people drunk faster, especially when they weren’t used to it.

“You may want to go easy, Father,” Arminius whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Sigimerus said impatiently, in a way that couldn’t have meant anything but No, no.

He wasn’t drunk when Varus finally came forth. He wasn’t too drunk, anyhow. Arminius made the introductions. “So, Sigimerus, you are the father of this young man?” Varus said. He spoke slowly and clearly and kept his grammar simple - he must have realized Sigimerus was not fluent in Latin.

“I am,” Sigimerus answered.

Varus reached out to touch the golden fibula that fastened Sigimerus’ cloak. That would have been uncouthly familiar, except for what he said next: “Even more than this, he is an ornament to you.”

Sigimerus smiled. “He is,” he agreed, running through another part of the conjugation of the verb to be.

“I miss my own son. He is far away, studying- - learning - in Greece,” Varus said. He set a hand on Arminius’ shoulder. “When I met your son, it was almost as if I had mine with me once more. Not quite - you will understand that. But almost.”

He wore a toga, chalky white wool with a purple border. Sigimerus’ cloak was of bearskin trimmed with fine sealskin pained in trade from the Chauci, a tribe that lived by the North Sea. Varus’ hair was cut short; Sigimerus let his grow long. Varus shaved his face. Sigimerus wore a beard. The Roman was short and heavyset, the German tall and lean. Varus had none of the Germans’ language, Sigimerus only a little Latin.

And yet they were both proud fathers. For a moment, Arminius found them more alike than different. But only for a moment. Sigimerus cared nothing for Varus’ son. Varus, whether he fully realized it or not, wanted to enslave Sigimerus’. What difference could be greater than that?

“Please excuse me for keeping you waiting,” Varus said. “I was discussing, ah, certain matters with my aides. We aim to bring peace to Germany, you understand.”

“I understand, yes,” Sigimerus said. Arminius feared he would add, If you want to bring peace, then leave! But, to his relief, Sigimerus left it there.

Hearing him say he understood made Varus believe he approved. “Good, good,” the Roman said. “I am glad that, like your son, you see the advantages of working with Rome.”

How would Sigimerus answer that without spilling the chamber pot into the stew? Arminius’ father looked at Quinctilius Varus with wide, blue, innocent eyes. “Pardon me?” he said.

“I was talking about the advantages of cooperating with Rome,” Varus said. Sigimerus still looked artfully blank. Varus turned to Arminius. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to translate for your father?”

“Of course, sir,” Arminius replied, and he did. Though he was sure Sigimerus already understood the Roman’s words, he rendered them into the Germans’ tongue. He did a proper job of it, too, in case another Roman, one who knew the language, stood listening behind a curtain.

Sigimerus’ enlightenment was a small masterpiece of its kind. The Romans put on stage plays to entertain themselves. Arminius had seen a couple in Pannonia. Once he got the idea of playacting, he enjoyed them. Sigimerus had never seen or even imagined one, but he could have gone up on a stage himself.

“Oh,” he said. “Work with! Now I follow you, sir!”

Varus smiled. He didn’t notice that Sigimerus didn’t say he agreed with him or approved of him. Arminius didn’t notice, either, not right away. When he did, he realized there was more to his father than first met the eye: not always the most comfortable realization a young man can have.

“Will you both dine with me?” Varus immediately answered his own question before the Germans could: “Of course you will! You are my guests. I am pleased that you are my guests. Your being here shows the world that Germans and Romans can get along.”

“We are pleased to show that, sir.” Where his father had evaded, Arminius lied without hesitation or compunction. Under other circumstances, Sigimerus would have had every right to beat him for being so shameless.

“Well, so am I,” Varus answered. “And your being my guests will go a long way toward laying to rest some of the, ah, unfortunate rumors that have attached themselves to your name, Arminius.”

“That would be very good,” Arminius said, to himself alone adding, especially since those rumors are true.

His being here might lay them to rest among the Romans who suspected him. But it also might make his fellow Germans wonder whether he was turning traitor. That could cause him problems after the Romans went back over the Rhine to winter in Gaul.

But even if it did, he could repair such things later. For now, he was inside the Roman encampment. As long as he stayed here, he would do well to act as much like a Roman as he could.

Sigimerus coughed a couple of times. What that would have amounted to had he put it into words, Arminius could imagine. Luckily, Quinctilius Varus couldn’t.

“Aristocles!” the Roman called.

“Yes, sir?” The pedisequus might have appeared out of thin air. One heartbeat, he was nowhere to be seen. The next, he stood at Varus’ elbow.

“Tell the cooks Arminius and his distinguished father will be dining with me tonight,” Varus said.

“Certainly, sir.” Aristocles vanished almost as smoothly as he’d manifested himself. He might have made a good conjurer, amusing people by pretending to pull coins or jewelry out of their ears and noses. Or, Arminius thought uneasily, he might be a real wizard, one who could snap his fingers and appear or disappear. Arminius thought that unlikely - wizards were more often talked about than seen - but you never could tell.

Or could you? Why would a true wizard let an ordinary man enslave him? That struck the German as something only a fool would do. Aristocles was no fool, which had to mean he was no wizard, either: only a man uncommonly light on his feet.

The cooks served mutton without garlic. That had to be a compliment to Arminius and Sigimerus, because the Romans doted on the stuff. Varus noticed, too. He remarked, “It’s, ah, interesting flavored with mint, isn’t it? Different from what I’m used to.”

“Good,” Sigimerus said. The amount of meat he’d put away said he approved of what the cooks had done.

“We might seethe the mutton instead of roasting it,” Arminius said. “But I think my father is right - it is very good. We thank you for it.” He sucked marrow out of a bone.

“My pleasure, believe me,” the Roman said. “And I assure you that it is also my pleasure to see Germans who trust me and my people enough to be our guests and accept our hospitality.”

“Who would not want to accept it when it is so generous?” Arminius said. He wasn’t sure his father had followed all of what Varus said. If Sigimerus had, he was better at keeping his face straight than Arminius had guessed. If he was, good; in Mindenum, he needed to be.

“Will you two spend the night with us?” Varus asked. “We can run up a tent for you. You, Arminius, will be familiar with our arrangements from your time of service with the auxiliaries. You can acquaint your distinguished father with them as well.”

Arminius went back and forth with his father in the Germans’ tongue to let him know what Varus had offered. After a moment’s thought, Sigimerus nodded. “It would be our privilege, sir,” Arminius told Varus in Latin.

“Splendid!” Varus exclaimed. Arminius reflected that he was turning into a better liar than he’d ever wanted to be.

Lucius Eggius looked back at the long column of legionaries he led. They slogged through the German forests and marshes, slapping at the mosquitoes and biting flies that plagued them and swearing at the officers who’d sent them forth.

Since Eggius felt like swearing at those officers, too, he didn’t even try to restrain the men. Let them cuss, he thought. It’ll make them feel better, and it won’t hurt the buggers they’re cussing out. . . . Too stinking bad.

“Come on, boys!” he called. “Looks like better ground up ahead.”

“If it was any worse ground, it’d swallow us up and we’d never be seen again,” one of the soldiers said.