Harry Turtledove - Give Me Back My Legions!

He watched the pedisequus flinch delicately as rain poured down on him. That almost made him laugh. A German who minded getting wet would soon go mad. Besides, Arminius could always pull his cloak up over his head. He didn’t bother here. Impressing Aristocles counted for more.

“This weather leaves much to be desired,” the Greek said.

Arminius only shrugged. “It’s often like this here,” he said, which was nothing but the truth.

“But you say it’s better north of the hills?” Aristocles asked.

“Is that what the governor wants to talk about?” Trying to hide his sudden excitement, Arminius parried question with question.

“He doesn’t tell me such things,” the slave sniffed. “ ‘Aristocles, go find Arminius and bring him to me’—that’s what he said.” Arminius smiled—that was close to what he’d imagined, all right. Striking a pose even in the rain, Aristocles continued, “I found you, so now I’ll bring you.”

“So you will,” Arminius agreed. He followed the Greek back to Varus’ tent. If he was going to be seen as a proper Roman friend and ally, he had to act like one, no matter how it made his stomach churn.

Once under thick canvas, he shook himself like a dog. Water sprayed every which way. Aristocles squawked: some of it got him in the eye. “What did you go and do that for?” he said.

“To dry off before I see the governor,” Arminius answered. As he’d guessed, mentioning Varus calmed Aristocles down. All the same, Arminius added, “Sorry.” If you were going to act like a friend and ally, you did have to act like one, curse it.

Aristocles hurried off, no doubt to tell Varus he’d done his duty. Arminius could hear his voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying; the folds of cloth muffled words. Then the slave came back. “This way,” he said.

As Quinctilius Varus so often was, he was writing something when Aristocles ushered Arminius into his presence. “Your Excellency,” Arminius said, and waited for the governor’s pleasure.

Varus set down the pen with every sign of relief. He got up from behind the folding table he was using for a desk. High Roman officers in Pannonia had almost identical tables. The Empire expected its commanders to read and write, which had always struck Arminius as strange.

But he didn’t need to dwell on it now. Varus advanced on him with every sign of pleasure and clasped his hand in a grip firm enough to remind him the Romans were no weaklings even if they did care too much about their precious letters. “Welcome, welcome, three times welcome!” Varus said, and then, to Aristocles, “Why don’t you bring us some wine?”

“We haven’t got any, sir, not till they unload this convoy just coming in,” Aristocles answered.

Arminius learned a couple of Latin phrases he hadn’t heard before. Then Varus heaved a sigh. With the air of a man sacrificing on the altar of friendship, he said, “Well, bring us some beer, then.”

“Yes, sir,” Aristocles said, and, sensibly, not another word.

Arminius minded beer not at all. Why should he, when he’d drunk it since he was weaned? Before he could say as much, Varus spoke first: “This ghastly weather! We’re lucky the wagons got here at all!”

“Yes, sir.” Arminius said it, too. He suddenly wished he hadn’t shaken off some of the rain. He wanted—he needed—to remind Varus how wet it was here. He swallowed his sigh. Too late to fret about it now.

And Varus went on, “You must love it, too—you’re soaked.”

“Rain happens at this season in these parts,” Arminius said. Evidently he still looked soggy. “We go on as best we can. It is better on the far side of the hills. Not perfect, maybe, but better.” He didn’t want the Roman to expect too much, especially since there was no real difference in the weather up there.

“It couldn’t be much worse,” Varus muttered. Arminius didn’t think that was true. Near the sea, it was definitely cloudier and rainier, with fogs that sometimes lasted all day even in summer. But Varus didn’t need to hear such things.

Aristocles returned. He served the beer with as much ceremony as if it were finest Falernian. Arminius raised his mug in salute to Varus. “Health, your Excellency.”

“Your health,” Varus echoed. They drank. It was, Arminius thought, plenty good beer. The Roman governor sipped gamely. He didn’t screw up his face the way his folk often did after tasting beer. “I’ve certainly had worse,” he said.

“Nothing wrong with beer,” Arminius said. “Not so sweet as wine, maybe, but nothing wrong with it.”

Barbarian. Quinctilius Varus didn’t silently mouth the word. Aristocles did. Arminius was more amused than affronted. Aristocles looked down his nose at Romans, too. To him, anyone who wasn’t a Greek was a barbarian. The Romans had conquered his folk and ruled them for lifetimes? He himself was a Roman’s slave, as much his chattel as the writing table? Details. Only details. They dented his conceit not at all.

Quinctilius Varus drank again, and again managed not to wince. “You must tell me more about the route we would take if we went north of your hills. A bad rain just as we were on our way to the river on the old route could ruin us. We’d bog down in the mire, and the wild Germans might swoop down and cause us no end of trouble.”

“They do not understand that they and their children and their children’s children will be better off under Roman rule,” Arminius said. He didn’t understand any such thing, either, but Varus didn’t need to know that…yet.

The Roman governor beamed at him. “That’s just it! They don’t. Well, they’ll come to see as time passes. Gaul needed a while to get used to things, but the people there are happy enough now.”

“I believe it, sir.” Arminius wasn’t lying. Germans had a low opinion of Gauls. His folk had thumped them time after time till the Romans reached the Rhine—and, worse, crossed it.

If he could do what he wanted to do to Varus’ legions, he didn’t intend to stop there. How many troops would the Romans have left along the Rhine after a disaster in the heart of Germany? Enough to stop a triumphant army blazing with righteous rage—and hungry for all the good things Romans and Gauls enjoyed? Arminius didn’t think so.

“Speak to my military secretaries,” Varus told him. “Describe the route you have in mind in as much detail as you can. Tell them of the distances involved and of ways to keep the legions supplied on the march. If what you’ve been talking about seems at all feasible to the secretaries, to the crows with me if we won’t try it on the way home this year.”

“Your Excellency, I will obey you as if I were your own son,” Arminius said. Varus’ eyes went soft and misty. Arminius realized he’d come out with just the right thing. The Roman had talked about his son before, and how Arminius reminded him of the young man. Under most circumstances, Arminius would have taken that for an insult, not praise. As a matter of fact, he still did, but it was an insult he could use. Anything—anything at all—to make Varus trust him.

There stood Mindenum, an island of Roman order and discipline in the middle of Germany. Segestes eyed the encampment’s ramparts from perhaps a mile away. “By the gods, I don’t know why I’m bothering to do this,” he said mournfully. “That fat, bald fool won’t listen to me.”

Masua gave him a sidelong glance. “ I know why you’re bothering,” his retainer said. “You’re a Roman citizen. You’re a friend and ally of the Romans. If you walk away from a promise you made, what kind of friend and ally are you? Not the kind you’d want to be.”