Harry Turtledove - Give Me Back My Legions!

Segestes grunted. “Well, you’re right. But it seems to me that this stupid Roman is walking away from me. Why he’d want to listen to gods-cursed Arminius…”

“Maybe he wants to stick it up his ass,” Masua said. “Everybody knows the Romans enjoy those games.”

But Segestes shook his head. “Varus likes women. He likes German women, in fact—all the gossip from Mindenum and Vetera says so. I suppose the ones he got used to in Rome seem little and skinny next to ours. No, he doesn’t want to bugger Arminius. But he doesn’t see that he’s being played for a fool, either. I don’t know why not, but he doesn’t.”

“He’d better wake up pretty soon, or he’ll land in more trouble than he knows what to do with,” Masua said.

“That’s why I’m here—why we’re here: to wake him up. We’ve got to try.” Segestes sighed again. “Come on. We can’t very well turn around after we’ve come this far.”

High summer hung over the land, warm and muggy. The birds that had sung so sweetly in springtime were silent now. They’d found their mates and were raising families, so they didn’t need to sing any more. Thinking of mates and families made Segestes think of Thusnelda. His right hand tightened on the spear he carried everywhere. His left folded into a fist. He would have warned Varus against Arminius even if Arminius hadn’t stolen his daughter. Of course I would, he told himself.

And Varus might have been—probably would have been—more ready to listen to him if Arminius hadn’t sneaked off with Thusnelda. Latin had a word for that: irony. Segestes hadn’t understood the notion till this happened to him. He would gladly have gone without the language lesson.

“They see us,” Masua said.

“Well, they’d better,” Segestes replied with a snort. “If they fall asleep on the ramparts, they won’t need Arminius to make them sorry they were ever born.”

A legionary cupped his hands and shouted, “Who comes?”

“I am Segestes, a citizen of Rome,” Segestes shouted back. “With me comes my friend Masua, also a Roman citizen.”

The soldiers put their heads together. Segestes realized he was as welcome as a hornet. He’d known he wasn’t in good odor among the Romans, but hadn’t realized things were this bad. After a bit, a legionary seemed to remember he was there. “Wait,” the fellow called, and then went back to the colloquy.

Segestes perforce waited. Time stretched. Time, in fact, dragged. What were they doing? Sending to Varus to find out if he’d deign to let in a couple of Germans? Standing there in the warm sunshine, Segestes decided they were doing just that.

At last, another legionary waved to him. “Well, come on, then,” the Roman said grudgingly.

“Thank you for your gracious kindness.” Segestes had learned enough from the Romans to appreciate irony. His own stab at it slid off the soldier like rain off the oily feathers of a goose.

“If they try and search us, by the gods, I’m going to break some heads,” Masua said. Like Segestes, he carried a sword and a dagger along with his spear.

“They won’t.” Segestes sounded more confident than he felt. “An insult like that would turn even me against them, and they have to know it.” The legionaries had to know, yes, but did they have to care? By all the signs, Quinctilius Varus cared very little for Segestes’ feelings these days.

The sentries huddled again. Segestes would have bet they were wondering whether to frisk him and Masua. But, when the huddle broke, one of them said, “Pass on through.”

“Thank you,” Segestes repeated, this time more sincerely. He didn’t want a row at the gate, but he too had his pride. He had more than Masua did, truth to tell. His comrade was a man of his sworn band, but he was a chief. If he let the Romans rob him of his pride, what did he have left? Nothing, and he knew it all too well. Fortunately, the issue didn’t arise.

How many Roman encampments had he visited in his time? A great plenty of them—he knew that. Even Vetera, across the Rhine, still plainly showed it had grown from a camp. And Mindenum was one more. They varied in size, depending on how many men they had to hold, but they were all made to the same pattern. Once you’d learned your way around one, you could find what you wanted in any of them.

Here, Segestes found something he didn’t want. Coming up the straight street toward him and Masua was Sigimerus. Arminius’ father and Segestes were about of an age: a little old to fight at the front of a battle line, but both seasoned warriors. They stiffened. Segestes lowered his spear a little, but only a little. Inside the camp, Sigimerus wasn’t carrying a spear. His sword came halfway out of its sheath, but no more than halfway.

Sigimerus greeted him: “You swinehound! You son of a swinehound!”

“Better a swinehound’s son than a swinehound’s father,” Segestes retorted. “If I thought you were worth killing, I’d kill you now.”

“Men better than you have tried,” Sigimerus said. “Ravens and badgers tore them once they were dead, while I still live.”

“I have killed, too,” Segestes said. “After so many, one more—especially a nithing like you—is easy.”

“You can’t do, so you talk,” Arminius’ father jeered.

“You know more about idle talk than I ever will,” Segestes retorted.

Romans gathered to watch the confrontation. They grinned and nudged one another. Segestes knew what they were doing: betting on who would come out alive, or on whether anyone would. Germans would have done the same thing. Also seeing that, Masua said, “You make a spectacle for them.”

“I know,” Segestes answered. He raised his voice to Sigimerus: “Let us go by. I didn’t come here to kill you, no matter how much you deserve it.”

“No—only to spit poison into the Roman governor’s ear.” But Sigimerus let his sword slide back down till the blade was out of sight. “Well, come ahead. Why not? No matter how many lies you tell, Varus won’t listen to you.”

Segestes feared that was true. It had been true every other time he tried to open Varus’ eyes. But what kind of friend to Rome was he if he didn’t make the effort? “Either you know nothing of lies or you know- too much,” he said. “Any man with his wits about him can guess which, too.”

He started forward, Masua a pace behind him and a pace to the left, ready to guard his flank. Slowly and deliberately, as if to show himself no coward, Sigimerus stepped out of their path. “Watch yourself,” Masua said loudly. “He may stab you in the back.”

“I don’t waste treachery on weasels like you two,” Sigimerus said.

“No? You must save it for the Romans, then,” Segestes said. Sigimerus haughtily turned his back.

Anywhere but here, Segestes would have attacked him for that offensive arrogance. He made himself walk by instead. Varus wouldn’t hearken to him if he killed Arminius’ father. He knew that too well.

The governor occupied what would have been the general’s tent in any other encampment. Segestes had expected nothing different: that was where the highest-ranking officer posted himself. For better and for worse, the Romans were a predictable folk.

“Hail, Segestes. Hail, Masua,” said Varus’ Greek slave. Segestes took it as a good sign that the man remembered his comrade’s name. He took it as another when Aristocles continued, “The governor will see you without delay.”

“We thank you.” Segestes had wondered whether Varus would try ignoring him without seeming to, keep putting him off with excuses, each plausible by itself but all together adding up to I want nothing to do with you. No German would play that kind of game; a German who didn’t care to see him would come straight out and say so. But Segestes had enough experience of Romans to know they could be sneakily rude.