Harry Turtledove - Give Me Back My Legions!

When the graybeard touched the torch to the pyre, the wood began to blaze at once. Standing in the crowd of mourners with his head bowed, Arminius caught the odor of burning butter. The Romans used olive oil, sometimes perfumed, to make sure their pyres burned strongly. Butter worked just as well, as it also did in cookery.

“Alcus was a worthy fighter. No man of the Chauci could ask for greater praise,” his brother said, stepping back from the flames.

A low murmur of agreement ran through the crowd. Arminius hadn’t known Alcus alive, but added his respects now that the man was dead. He didn’t want an affronted ghost dogging his tracks. A man could fight the Romans. How could anyone hope to fight a ghost?

“He would have gone to war once more against the invaders of our fatherland,” Alcus’ brother continued. “Now his spirit will watch to make sure we fight as fiercely as he would have.”

More murmurs of approval rose. Again, Arminius joined them. Leaping flames engulfed Alcus’ body. The stink of charred meat mingled with the odors of butter and wood smoke in the air. Coughing, Arminius sidled away so he was upwind of the pyre. Beside him, his father was doing the same thing. So were the Chauci, so the two Cherusci didn’t stand out. All the mourners swung to the left.

How long had the Chauci been burning bodies in this meadow? A long time, judging by the number of turf mounds that rose here. Arminius had seen that the Romans raised stone memorials above their dead. Like any German, he thought those oppressively heavy. A ghost might not be able to get out from under one of them. Cut turves were better.

And then, suddenly, he forgot about Alcus, forgot about the sorrow he was supposed to share with his hosts. He nudged his father and loudly whispered, “Turves!”

“Turves?” Sigimerus echoed. “What are you talking about?” His tone suggested he would clout Arminius if he didn’t like the answer he got. He’d done that often enough when Arminius was smaller.

But Arminius repeated, “Turves!” When the Romans wanted to remember something, they could write it down and preserve it as if they were smoking pork. Most Roman officers had their letters. Only a handful of men in Germany did, to write Latin rather than their own tongue; Arminius wasn’t one of them. When he needed to hold something in his memory, he spoke to make his ideas stick—and to pass them on to someone else so they wouldn’t stay in his head alone. He went on, “If we pile them up to make a rampart at that spot we found coming here…”

“Ah! I see what you’re saying!” Sigimerus sounded as excited as he did.

Several of the Chauci sent them scandalized glances. Arminius was embarrassed; he wasn’t behaving as a mourner should. “Where are your manners, guest among us?” a big man rumbled. His tone suggested there might be bloodshed if he didn’t like the answer he got.

“My apologies,” Arminius said. “I just had a notion that will help us in our fight against the Romans. In my excitement, maybe I spoke louder than I should have.”

“You did.” The big man nodded. “But that is a good reason for bad manners. I say no blame sticks to you.” He eyed his fellow tribesmen as if daring them to disagree. No one did.

Another man was not so easily pacified. “You say you want to do this and that and something else to the Romans,” he told Arminius.

“I do,” Arminius replied. “And I say it for the best reason: it is true.”

“You say it,” the man from the Chauci repeated. “But is it true? Or are you a spy for them? You spent last summer in their stinking camp! Are you a proper German, or are you the Romans’ lapdog?”

“I am a German. Never doubt it,” Arminius said. “If you fish for trout, don’t you put a fat worm or a cricket or a bit of meat on your hook? Of course you do. The bait will help you catch your fish. I am the bait that will help Germany catch the Romans.”

“So you say,” the other man returned.

“Yes. So I say,” Arminius agreed. “And if you say I lie, you had better say it with something more than words.”

The other man had a spear in his hand and a knife on his belt.

Germans from all tribes carried their weapons everywhere, even to a funeral. The fellow dipped his head to Arminius. “I am ready. Shall we be-gin?”

Sigimerus set an urgent hand on Arminius’ arm. “What if he kills you?” he whispered. “You can’t do this. You risk too much.”

“The gods will not let him kill me,” Arminius said calmly. “And even if they do, you can lead our folk to victory against the Romans. You know everything I’ve done and everything I aim to do. You have the name of a brave warrior, no less than I do. Men will follow where you lead.”

“If you fall, the first thing I’ll do is kill this ass with ears,” Sigimerus growled.

“I’m not going to fall,” Arminius assured him. Then he bowed to Alcus’ brother. He didn’t want to anger the Chauci; he wanted them fighting the legions alongside his own Cherusci and as many other Germans as he could gather. “I mean no disrespect to the fine fighter now lying on his pyre. But you surely are a man of honor yourself. Would you let anyone say you did not tell the truth? How could you show your face among men afterwards if you did?”

“You will do what you will do, and the gods will show us all who has the right of it,” the older man replied.

“Just so,” Arminius said. The Chauci who had been mourning Alcus now buzzed excitedly. Some of them pointed towards Arminius, others in the direction of their fellow tribesman. They argued in low voices. Arminius knew what they were doing: getting their bets down. If he weren’t in the fight, he would have done the same thing. Like most Germans, he loved to gamble. Men who’d lost everything else would bet their own freedom. And, if they lost that, too, they’d go into slavery without a word of complaint and with their heads high.

The Chauci formed a circle around Arminius and the man who’d called him a liar. “You know who I am. Tell me your name, please. I would not kill a stranger.”

“I am Vannius son of Catualda. I had heard that the Cherusci were a rude lot. I see that is not so,” the other man replied.

“We hear those things about the Chauci, too. It must come from living beside each other for so long.” Arminius raised his spear in salute. “Shall we begin?”

“Let’s.” Vannius advanced on him. By the way the fellow held his own spear, Arminius knew him for an experienced warrior. Well, he was a few years older than Arminius: few Germans reached that age without a battle or two under their cloaks. The two men were about the same size. Vannius might have been a little thicker through the shoulders.

Arminius hefted his spear as Vannius stalked closer. If he threw it and hit, he could end the fight before it began. If he threw it and missed, he’d be left with a Roman gladius against a spear with four times the reach. He’d die in short order, in other words.

Vannius had to be making the same calculations. Arminius’ foe showed no sign of wanting to cast his spear. Of course, nobody with a grain of sense would till the instant before he let fly. Why let your enemy get ready to dodge or duck? But Vannius seemed to want to fight it out at close quarters.

I told Father the gods wouldn’t let him kill me, Arminius thought. Was I right, or was I fooling myself? Before he could wonder for more than a fraction of a heartbeat, his right arm went back, then forward again.

He watched the spear fly as if it had nothing to do with him. He didn’t even reach for his sword. One way or the other, he didn’t think it would matter.

Vannius waited till the last moment to start to spring aside. Maybe he was gauging the spear’s flight. Or maybe he wanted to show how brave he was. Whatever the reason, he waited too long. As he tried to fling himself to the right, the spear caught him square in the chest.