Harry Turtledove - Give me back my Legions!

The Romans did things like that. One of the Latin words Arminius had learned in Pannonia was eunuch. The idea was enough to sicken him. To treat a man as if he were a stallion or a bull or a ram . . . The idea almost made his yard shrink. And one of the Roman officers down there had had such a creature for a slave. Seeing a eunuch, hearing a eunuch - that had put Arminius off his stride for days.

But he’d cut the ballocks off the Romans in Germany! Curse me if I haven’t, he thought. He’d had a bad moment when the cavalry came back to try to rescue the legionaries. Too late for that, though! The Roman horsemen had figured that out themselves. Now they were running. Some of them might even make it back to the Rhine. But his folk would hunt most of them down before they could.

And if a few did escape . . . well, so what? Arminius nodded to himself. That could even turn out for the best. If the refugee Roman cavalrymen spread panic ahead of them, the Rhine garrisons might flee instead of fighting the Germans. In that case, Arminius would have an easier time taking Gaul away from the Empire.

He intended to do just that. He had a victorious army behind him. What else could you do with an army but use it? As long as he led it from one triumph to another, it would stay his. And as long as it stayed his, he could use it for whatever he wanted.

Germany needed a king. Germany might not know that yet, but he did. The Romans had done very well with one man telling them what to do. As long as the Germans followed scores of tribal chieftains and war leaders and petty kings, they’d waste most of their strength fighting one another. Led by somebody like Arminius, they could turn all that strength against foreign foes.

Led by somebody just like me, Arminius thought, nodding. He could do it. He was sure he could. After a victory like this, who would dare stand against him? But for himself, the strongest German king was Maroboduus of the Marcomanni, far off to the southeast. Everyone knew Maroboduus had stirred up the Pannonian rebellion to keep the Romans from invading his lands. That was canny, no doubt. But Maroboduus hadn’t had the nerve to attack the Romans before they came after him.

I did! Arminius exulted. “I did!” he shouted, thrusting his sword up into the air.

A dying legionary groaned. Several Germans stared at Arminius.

“You did what?” one of them asked. He wore a shabby cloak held closed by a bronze fibula tarnished green. He was a nobody, in other words, and had probably never got close enough to Arminius before to have any notion of what he looked like.

“I brought the Romans here,” Arminius answered. “I lured them to destruction!”

“Who do you think you are? One of the big shots?” The other German eyed his cloak of fine wool trimmed with fur, eyed the garnet-studded gold pin that closed it, and eyed the sword. Only rich men carried swords. The spear was the common German weapon. Grudgingly, the fellow went on, “Well, maybe you are.”

“I am Arminius.” Arminius wanted everyone to know who he was and how wonderful he was. Like the Romans, his folk reckoned a proud reputation one of the most important things a prominent man could have. What made you prominent, if not fame among your neighbors?

He impressed the unknown German less than he’d hoped. “Well, maybe you are,” the man repeated. “But two other fellows already told me the same thing.”

“Point them out to me, so I can kill them,” Arminius snarled. No one would rob him of his glory. No one would cling to his good name and suck the blood from it like a leech in a swamp, either.

“Don’t seem em now,” the other German answered. Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he didn’t care to watch a fight among his own folk. That might be wise. Arminius realized as much even before the poor man continued, “We ought to be killing these gods-hated Romans instead.”

“Well, you’re right. So we should,” Arminius agreed. “Let’s go do it.”

A legionary down with a leg wound stretched out an imploring hand and called, “Mercy, comrade!” in Latin.

Most of Arminius’ comrades wouldn’t have understood the words, though they probably would have figured out the gesture. Also in Latin, Arminius said, “Here’s all the mercy you deserve.” He drove his sword into the Roman’s neck. The man gasped and choked as life gushed from him, then slumped over to lie still.

Arminius knew he had been merciful. Already Germans were leading or dragging chained Roman prisoners away from the field. After the uneven fight finally sputtered out, they would offer the captives to the gods. How many interesting and unusual ways to kill legionaries would they find? All of them, Arminius was sure, would make harder deaths than a cut throat.

Here and there, individual Romans and a few stubborn knots of them still showed fight. Maybe they knew what would happen to captives and aimed to make the Germans kill them. Maybe, like brave soldiers anywhere, they were simply too stubborn to give up. Arminius admired their courage. But it would do them no good. They’d had no chance to form up, the head of their column was destroyed, and their foes had got in amongst them. If they wanted to die fighting, die they would.

Other Romans wanted to live. They stumbled out into the swampy mire that lined the track to the right. Quite a few of them got stuck in it. The Germans had a high old time throwing spears and stones at them. Men made bets with one another - who could hit the most Romans, or the ones farthest away, or who could hit a particular soldier with a particular cast.

A few legionaries managed more progress than the rest. Some were liable to get out of the swamp and have to be hunted on better ground. A few might even escape. Others staggered up onto higher, drier patches of ground within the swamp. A couple of those groups, perhaps led by hard-bitten underofficers, tried to ready themselves for defense. They would die in due course, too, but finishing them off might prove costly.

First things first. The Romans at the rear of their column hadn’t even been attacked yet. Arminius shouted and sent more of his men after them. “Their baggage train will be back in that direction, too,” he added. That got the Germans moving, all right. They did everything but slaver at the prospect of three legions’ worth of booty.

“You don’t fight fair,” a wounded Roman moaned as Arminius trotted past. The German chieftain almost stopped and bowed. He couldn’t imagine finer praise, even if the legionary hadn’t meant it that way.

Something else struck Arminius. “Take Varus alive if you can!” he bawled. “We’ll give him to the gods. They deserve to feed well for what they’ve done for us today. What would make them happier - what would make them fatter - than a fat Roman with the gall to call himself governor of Germany?”

How the warriors all around shouted and cheered! That acclaim tasted even sweeter than a woman gasping and quivering under Arminius. Most men could pleasure a woman. How many, though, ever won fame like this? As long as the German folk endured, men would remember Arminius. What greater immortality could a man claim?

“Come on!” Arminius said. “We won’t just beat them. We’ll slaughter them. They’ll never dare set their toes on this side of the Rhine from now till the end of the world. In fact, we’ll go take away their land on the far side!” The Germans cheered him again.

XVII

Lucius Eggius lurched through the mud. He had a nasty wound on the outside of his right thigh. Blood soaked the strip of cloth he’d tied around it and ran down his leg. It hurt like a bastard. So did several lesser gashes. It wasn’t often given to a man to know the date of his own death. Though not dead yet, Eggius knew when he would die.

Today.

Soon, in fact. The only reason he wasn’t already dead was that no German had decided to come after him instead of some other Roman and finish him off. At first, that had been nothing but luck. (Eggius was no longer convinced it had been good luck.) Later, after so many men fell in the first dreadful barrage of spears, Eggius not only stayed alive but fought back. He’d used his javelins. His gladius had blood on it, though the rain was washing that off. He’d made the barbarians pay for his tanned and scarred hide. And much good it had done him or anybody else.

Shrieks from the southeast said the Germans were still working their way through the Roman column. Under normal circumstances, a Roman army had a considerable advantage over a German army of the same size. Legionaries fought together, deployed together, and enjoyed all the benefits of superior discipline.

“Under normal circumstances,” Lucius Eggius muttered bitterly. Amazing how three words changed everything!

The Romans couldn’t deploy here. There was nowhere to deploy; except for the road, everything was muck and trees. The legionaries couldn’t form a shield wall to ward themselves against enemy spears while they hurled their own javelins. A horrific number of them had died or been put out of action before they ever got their shields off their backs.

Off to Eggius’ left - deeper in the swamp - whooping Germans slaughtered a small knot of Romans who’d managed to put up a bit of a fight before they died. That was about as much as the legionaries could manage.

It wasn’t just the terrain. This battle was lost, and catastrophically lost, the instant the barbarians’ first spears flew. Three legions were getting massacred not least because they couldn’t believe what was happening to them. Too many men were too dumbfounded even to try to fight back. And their fall only made their fellows’ predicament worse, which dumbfounded them, which led to. ...

It led to Lucius Eggius calf-deep in clinging ooze. It was liable to lead to three legions wiped out almost to the last man. It was liable to lead to three legionary eagles being lost. Eggius’ jaw dropped. Even after everything that had happened and was happening, that thought only now crossed his mind for the first time. Legionaries guarded the eagles with their lives.

They would rather die than let an enemy seize the sacred symbols of their trade.

They were dying, all right, whether they wanted to or not. And once they finished dying, Arminius would have the prizes he must have craved all along.

Even thinking of Arminius made Lucius Eggius spit in the mud in disgust. Thinking of Arminius also made him think of Publius Quinctilius Varus. He spat again, harder this time. “As soon as the vulture gets done with Prometheus’ liver, it can start gnawing on Varus’,” Eggius growled.

He’d tried to warn the governor of Germany - now there was a title that had just turned into a monstrous joke! - about Arminius. So had gods only knew how manv other Roman officers. Varus didn’t want to listen. His rank meant he didn’t have to.

So he didn’t. And now he was paying for not listening. And so was everybody else.

Eggius limped toward some trees. If he could hide among them till the fighting stopped and the Germans went away, maybe he’d be able to sneak back toward the Rhine later and. . . .

He laughed. In spite of everything, the idea was funny. He didn’t think he could make it to the trees. If he did, he didn’t think he’d be able to hide for long. And even if he concealed himself, he didn’t think he’d ever see the Rhine again.

A guttural shout. A tall blond man pointing at him. Four more barbarians coming along the edge of the track toward him. Two of them carried spears, one a captured Roman gladius, and one a gladius and a spear. One of them had a cut on his left arm. The other three seemed un-wounded.

They would, Eggius thought as he turned and tried to find the best footing he could. Sure as Hades’ house, he wasn’t going to reach those trees. But at least he could - he hoped he could - make the Germans kill him. You didn’t want them to take you alive. Their gods were thirsty for blood, and captives fed them.

“Surrender!” one of the barbarians yelled in Latin. Eggius shook his head.

“You don’t surrender, you die,” the German warned, shaking his spear.

“Now tell me something I didn’t know,” Eggius answered. The barbarian only scratched his head. That must have been more Latin, or harder Latin, than he could deal with. But he didn’t have to deal with it. He had the brute simplicity of sharp iron on his side.

He flung the spear at Eggius. The Roman ducked. The spear grazed his left shoulder as it flew past. The German jumped up and down, shouting something hot and guttural. Plenty of spears lay on the ground, though. He picked up another one and jumped into the muck, heading purposefully after Eggius. Two more savages followed him. They grinned and laughed in anticipation.

Grimly, Eggius set himself and waited. He couldn’t outrun them, not with his leg wound. He had to make the best fight he could. In other words, he was about to die.

He didn’t want to. But soldiering had long since shown him you had to do all kinds of things you didn’t want to. One certainty: once he did this, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything else.

That lead German thrust at him. Eggius twisted to one side and stepped forward - he still had one quick stride in him, anyhow. His gladius pierced the barbarian’s belly. The man looked absurdly surprised as he crumpled. Eggius twisted his wrist to make sure the stroke cut guts and killed.

Even before he could clear the sword, the other two Germans speared him. He’d known they would. Nothing to be done about it. He screamed - no dignity when you died, none at all. He fell on top of the barbarian he’d taken with him. After a while - not nearly soon enough - the pain faded and the torch of his life went out.

The baggage train! For many of Arminius’ Germans, the chance to loot three legions’ worth of booty was the only reason they’d joined his force. So many things here, all in one place! Traders from inside the Empire would have charged more for them than any ordinary man could hope to pay. But now anyone with a spear could take away as much as he could carry. Ordinary men could get their hands on things chieftains would envy.

By the time Arminius got to the baggage train, a lot of ordinary men were drunk. One of the things the Romans carried with them was their wine supply. In a close-run fight, that might have meant disaster. As things were, it only served to make them fiercer and, at the same time, more foolish.

Laughing like a loon, a shaggy-haired warrior capered in a transparent silk tunic some high-ranking Roman must have bought in Mindenum and been bringing back to Vetera for his ladylove. The change must have been easy for him, because he’d worn nothing underneath his stout wool cloak. He’d had nothing else to wear. He shook his hips at Arminius. “Aren’t I gorgeous?” he bawled.

“Don’t tear that cloth,” Arminius told him - the big man seemed about to burst from the tunic in several different places. “Have you got any idea how much it’s worth?”

“Why should it be worth anything? It’s hardly here at all.” The warrior put a hand under the fabric to show what he meant. “You can see right through it.”