Harry Turtledove - Give Me Back My Legions!

“I am confident you will offer it to me, sir – in your will.” the pedisequus replied. “Till then—and the gods grant that time be far in the future—-I am content with my lot. A slave not lucky enough to have such a kind and generous master might see things differently, I confess. ”

Of course slaves flattered. A slave who didn’t flatter might find his master less kind and generous than he would otherwise. But Varus had heard the same thing from other men he owned. No matter how much he discounted each individual flattery, they added up to something; when taken all together.

He’d even heard the same thing from Women he owned, and not all of those women had been too old or too ugly to keep him from bedding them. Slavery was harder on women than on men Well, what in this life wasn’t? If a nice-looking woman happened to be your property, why wouldn’t you enjoy her? Your own property couldn’t very well refuse you. And if a slave conceived, that was pure profit.

Still, Varus didn’t want his slave women hating him afterwards. He was a cautious, moderate man, and didn’t want anybody hating him. People who hated sometimes struck out without worrying about what it would cost them afterwards.

Some men Varus knew didn’t care. Some of them took extra pleasure from laying a slave girl who would have spit in their face were she free. Some men liked hunting lions and bears and crocodiles, too. And quite a few hunters died younger than they would if they didn’t go after dangerous game.

How many men died sooner than they would have if they’d kept their hands off slave girls who couldn’t stand them? Horrible things happened to slaves who murdered openly. That was necessary; it kept other slaves from getting nasty ideas. But not all poisonings, for instance, were easy to detect. If someone came down deathly ill or slowly wasted away, maybe it was fate. On the other hand, maybe it was somebody else’s revenge.

Quinctilius Varus didn’t want to worry about things like that. He also didn’t want Aristocles brooding that he might not be manumitted. And so he murmured, “You’re quite right—I’ve provided for you. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

Aristocles might have dispraised freedom, but he blossomed like these German flowers in springtime when Varus affirmed he would gain it. “Your Excellency is very kind—very kind!” he said in Greek. Falling into his native tongue was often a sign he’d been touched. “I thank you so much!”

“You are welcome,” Varus answered, also in Greek. As far as grammar went, Varus spoke it perfectly. But his accent still proclaimed him a foreigner.

Romans reckoned everyone but themselves and Greeks barbarians. As far as Aristocles was concerned, Varus was as much a barbarian as Arminius or Segestes. The pedisequus probably wouldn’t say that out loud—his sense of self-preservation worked. Varus had talked with plenty of other Greeks—free men—though. He knew what they thought, even if respect for Rome’s might made them mind their manners.

“Things are different for you and the Germans,” Varus said. “You understand freedom. You know what it really means. The Germans are free like so many wolves in the woods. We have to be good shepherds, and make sure they don’t slaughter our flocks and run wild.”

“A nice figure, sir,” Aristocles said.

That might have been flattery, too. If it was, Quinctilius Varus didn’t notice, because he also thought it a nice figure. He would have thought of the Germans as wolves even if they weren’t fond of draping themselves in pelts like aquilifers and buccinatores. Since they were, the comparison sprang even more naturally to his lips.

Except for his visit to the friendly chieftain, he hadn’t seen many of them since Legions XVII, XVIII, and XIX plunged into Germany. That didn’t surprise him. Even in provinces the Romans had ruled for years, locals made themselves and their livestock scarce when legionaries marched by. No doubt the farmers in Pericles’ Greece had done their best to disappear when phalanxes full of hoplites came near their holdings.

Varus laughed. Back when the Pyramids and Sphinx were new, Egyptian peasants must have tried to steer clear of the Pharaoh’s soldiers. Some things never changed.

“What’s funny, sir?” Aristocles asked. Varus told him. The pedisequus dipped his head in agreement. “I expect you’re right,” he said.

“I suppose Pharaoh’s armies went through Syria every now and then,” Varus said musingly. “That’s old, old country there in the East. Maybe not so old as Egypt, but older than Greece and Rome.”

“Yes.” Aristocles’ mouth tightened as if he’d bitten into an unripe persimmon. Pride in their own antiquity was one of the few edges Greeks had on Romans. Varus’ slave couldn’t even complain, because the Roman had already admitted that Syria was older than his own homeland, too.

Then Quinctilius Varus’s mouth also tightened, but for a different reason. “From a land as old as time to one where time doesn’t seem to have started yet… A bit of a change, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit. Yes, sir.” Aristocles looked around at the oaks and elms and beeches and chestnuts coming into leaf, and at the pines and firs and other conifers whose needles darkened the German forests’ aspect. “It is a pity Augustus didn’t name you Augustal prefect. Then you could have seen the Egyptian antiquities at first hand. As you say, there’s nothing old here except the woods.”

“Yes. Indeed.” Varus’ mouth got tighter yet. A clever slave could get back at his master, as the Greek had just proved. Augustal prefect of Egypt was the most important administrative post in the Empire – after the one Augustus held himself, of course. It was also the post Varus had craved after governing Syria. And it was the post his wife’s great-uncle had chosen not to give him.

“I have to do the best I can where Augustus decided to send me,” Varus said. “The decision was his.” Everything in the Empire was Augustus’ to give or to withhold as he saw fit. That was what winning all those civil wars meant. Oh, he’d built up a fine Republican facade to operate behind, but it was a facade, as anyone with eyes to see knew.

Aristocles sighed. “If only the Pannonians hadn’t rebelled…”

“If, if, if,” Varus said, not because the pedisequus was wrong but because he was right. If Tiberius weren’t putting down the rising within the Empire’s borders, he would hold this post now. And if stern, unsmiling Tiberius were whipping the Germans into line, Augustus might well have sent Varus to Egypt.

Had Augustus sent Varus there, Aristocles would have gone along. The Greek sighed again, this time on a more resigned note. “Oh, well. What can you do, eh, your Excellency?”

That question looked for the answer, Not a thing. But Varus surprised his slave: “If I’m to make this a Roman province, I will make it a Roman province. The better the notion the natives have of what’s expected of them, the better Roman subjects they’ll make.”

“Er—yes.” Aristocles blinked. No, he hadn’t been looking for that or anything like that. “May your efforts be crowned with success.”

“I hope they will. I think they will. Centuries from now, I hope this will be as much Roman land as, say, Spain or Cisalpine Gaul. We’ll need hard work to make that happen, but I don’t believe any Roman here fears hard work,” Varus said.

Plenty of legionaries worked no harder than they had to. Varus took that for granted; legionaries were men like any others, but he also took for granted that their superiors would keep them working hard enough to do what needed doing. What else were officers for?