Harry Turtledove - Give Me Back My Legions!

“That’s right!” Varus said. “As long as Augustus is pleased, the whole world is pleased!” No matter how cold it was, it felt like spring already.

Varus was not a small man, not by Roman standards. All the same, he thought he’d get a crick in his neck from staring up at one enormous visiting German after another. This particular fellow, who gave his name as Masua, was even bigger than most: he stood several digits above six feet. He wore a bearskin cloak. With shaggy hair, unshaven cheeks and chin and upper lip, and blunt features, he looked like a bear himself.

“Sit down, sit down.” Varus waved him to a stool, not least so he wouldn’t need to keep looking up at him.

“I thank you, sir.” Masua spoke slow, deliberate, guttural Latin. The stool creaked under his weight. He was bear-wide through the shoulders, too. A servant brought in wine. Masua took a cup with murmured thanks. So did Varus. He didn’t mix in water, but he did sip cautiously. He didn’t want to get drunk so early. By the way Masua gulped, he didn’t care.

“You are one of Segestes’ men, you told my aides,” Varus said.

“That is right.” Masua’s big head bobbed up and down. “I am one of his sworn band. I fight for him and do what he needs. One of the things he needs now is someone to deliver you a message. He chose me.” Pride rang in the tremendous German’s voice.

“I see,” Varus said, though he didn’t, not yet. With luck, he would soon. “And this message is… ?”

“This is message is, you are not to trust Arminius for any reason, sir,” Masua said. “He goes up and down in Germany. Everywhere he goes, he speaks against the Romans. He speaks against Roman rule beyond the Rhine.”

“I see,” Quinctilius Varus said again. “Have you heard Arminius say these things with your own ears?”

“No,” Masua answered. “I would not walk as far as I can spit to listen to that woman-stealing swinehound.”

That last had to be some German insult translated literally. Varus rather liked it. All the same, he went on, “Has Segestes heard Arminius say these things with his own ears?”

“Segestes would not walk as far as he could piss to listen to Arminius.” Masua paused, considering. “Segestes might walk far enough to piss on Arminius’ corpse. He might not even do that.”

In spite of himself, Varus had to smile. But he also had to ask an important question: “In that case, how do you know what Arminius is supposed to be saying? How does Segestes know?”

“Everyone knows what Arminius is saying,” Masua replied, as if to a half-witted child. Varus thought an oafish barbarian had no business taking that tone with him. No matter what he thought, the oafish barbarian went on, “Arminius makes no secret of it. Like I tell you, he goes up and down in Germany. He says what he says to anyone who will hear him. Many men do—too many men.”

“I have met Arminius. He did not seem anti-Roman then,” Varus said.

Masua snorted. “He would not. He was in your power. You could have killed him. You should have.”

“He fought as a Roman auxiliary. He is a Roman citizen. He has been made a member of the Equestrian Order, a rare and important honor for one who was not born to our people.” For a barbarian, he thought.

“He is a viper. If you clutch him to you like a woman, he will bite you in the balls,” Masua said.

“Segestes sent you to me,” Quinctilius Varus said. The German nodded. Varus went on, “Segestes is Arminius’ enemy.”

“Of course he is,” Masua broke in. “Would you not be, if Arminius carried off your daughter?”

If Arminius hadn’t carry Thusnelda off, Varus was convinced she would have done more to try to get away on her own. A Roman woman certainly would have. No, the truth was that she preferred Arminius to the middle-aged man to whom her father had tried betrothing her in-stead. Segestes might not—didn’t—like that, which made it no less true.

No point explaining any of that to Masua, who naturally saw things his patron’s way. Instead, Varus said, “Segestes naturally wants me to believe bad things about Arminius.”

“Yes, indeed.” Masua didn’t even try to deny it. “He wants you to believe them because they are true. And Segestes, remember, is a Roman citizen, too.”

“The enmity comes first, I think.” Varus liked Arminius and found Segestes tedious: almost a character out of an old comedy. “Without more proof than you have given me, I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“Arminius will give you proof,” Masua said. “See how you like that.”

Varus’ face froze. “I have no doubt that you have now conveyed to me everything your principal imparted to you. That being so, you are excused. Please convey my respects to Segestes.”

Even a lout like Masua couldn’t mistake his meaning there. Get out of my sight, and don’t ever let we see you again —that was what it came down to. The German got to his feet. That meant he looked down at—looked down on—Varus. “I go. You would have done better to heed me. I will tell Segestes you are too blind to listen, too deaf to see.”

He turned his back. The cloak made him seem even more bearish from behind than from before. He should have gone through polite formulas of leave taking. Arminius would have—Varus was sure of that. Masua didn’t bother. Varus didn’t demand them of him, either. The Roman governor was still trying to decide whether the German had been foolish or profound or both at once.

Lucius Eggius watched legionaries march and countermarch. If you didn’t keep them working through the winter, they wouldn’t be worth a moldy grain of barley come spring. “ I can’t hear you!” Eggius bawled, pitching his voice to carry through the bawdy ballad the soldiers were singing.

They made more noise yet. The song bragged about the havoc Varus would make in Germany and among the blond German women. As far as Eggius knew, the general was pretty moderate when it came to wenching. Maybe the legionaries knew that, too. It didn’t matter one way or the other. You needed a good, bouncy song to keep you picking them up and laying them down. The tune for this one went back to Julius Caesar’s day. Eggius had heard some of the old words when he was new-come to

the army. They were raunchy, too.

The men divided in half and went at one another with pointless spears and wooden swords. You couldn’t get killed in drills like those, not unless you were mighty unlucky. But you could get knocked around pretty well. A broken arm, a banged knee, a sprained ankle, assorted bruises and cuts… about what you’d expect from a good afternoon’s workout.

Everyone seemed spirited enough in the mock combat. That wasn’t what bothered Eggius about it. As the surgeons tended to men who’d got hurt, he said, “The trouble with this is, the Germans don’t fight the way we do.”

“Well, you can’t expect us to fight like Germans,” another officer said. “Then our men who were aping the barbarians would learn all the wrong things.”

“I suppose so,” Eggius said, “but now our men who are fighting as Romans are learning all the wrong things.”

“No, they’re not,” the other man insisted. “They’re fighting the way we’re supposed to fight, the way we’ve always fought.”

“Yes, but they’re not fighting the enemies we’re going to tight, Ceionius,” Lucius Eggius said. “A defense that works fine against a Roman with a scutum and a gladius will leave you shorter by a head if you go up against a German and his whacking great slashing sword.”

“As long as we fight the way we’re supposed to, the other buggers can do whatever the demon they want,” Ceionius said. “We’ll beat ‘em. We always have—we’re Romans. I expect we always will.”