Harry Turtledove - Give Me Back My Legions!

“Father!” Arminius shouted.

He ran toward Sigimerus. The two big men embraced. Sigimerus peered through the raindrops at the growing rampart. He pounded Arminius on the back. “I did not think you could bring this off. By the gods, son, I did not. And, by the gods, I own I was wrong.”

“We aren’t finished yet,” Arminius warned. “You know what they say about pricing the colt before he’s born.”

Sigimerus went on as if he hadn’t spoken: “They’ll come right past here. They have to—they’ve got no other choice. None. The track leads straight here. And if they go off it, they go into the swamp, into the mud. They don’t know the secret ways through it—and those ways won’t let them move that many men, either.”

“Won’t let them deploy.’“ Arminius used the precise Latin word. “This is what we’ve been looking for all along.”

“You found it,” Sigimerus told him. “You said you had when we went up to talk to the Chauci, and you were right. And this mound—”

“Rampart.” Again, Arminius used a Latin word in place of a less accurate one from his own language.

“Rampart,” Sigimerus agreed indulgently. “You’ll stick on leaves and branches and such, so they don’t know what it is ‘till too late?”

“Oh, yes.” Arminius grinned. “You’re thinking along with me, all right.”

“You can talk about deploying and ramparts and all that fancy stuff as much as you want,” his father said. “Just the same, you’d better remember I was ambushing Romans before you were born.”

“Some people do need a head start.” Arminius sounded as innocent as a child.

“Why, you miserable puppy!” But Sigimerus started to laugh instead of walloping him. “I’m among my own kind again! Gods, it feels good. And pretty soon—”

“No more Romans among us,” Arminius finished for him. “If everything goes the way it should, I mean.” No, he didn’t want to price the unborn foal.

“Where are your warriors cutting those turves?” Sigimerus asked.

Your warriors. Arminius didn’t answer for a moment, savoring that. It was as if his father had passed him the jeweled pin that closed a highborn man’s cloak. Pride made his heart swell—and almost choked him. He had to try twice before he could say, “Over behind the hillock there.” He pointed. “We don’t want the Romans to notice anything wrong.”

“You thought of everything.” Sigimerus’ eyes glowed. “Well, I’ll go back there and cut some myself. I want to be part of all of this, even if it means fetching and carrying like an ox or an ass.”

“I’ve cut them and carried them, too,” Arminius said. “I feel the same way you do—and seeing me work hard makes the rest of the men work harder.”

“That’s one of the tricks, all right,” his father agreed. “I hate to say-it, but I was some older than you are before I figured it out.”

“One more thing I picked up from the Romans,” Arminius said. “Anybody knows fighters will follow a strong fighter. But in the legions and auxiliaries, any officer who works himself, no matter at what, can get his men to do the same.”

“The Romans have taught us plenty of lessons,” Sigimerus said. “Now we teach them one: they don’t belong in our country. We’ve been trying to get it across since I was a little boy. This time, maybe…” “Just one more thing we’ve got to do,” Arminius said. “What’s that?” “We’ve got to win.”

From behind Caldus Caelius came the usual racket of a Roman army on the march, somewhat muffled by the rain’s dank plashing. Legionaries squelched through puddles on the track they were following. The ground to either side was worse—much worse. Chainmail clinked faintly. Like most of the other soldiers, Caelius had rubbed his mailshirt and helmet with greasy wool. That would help hold rust at bay, but only so much. He’d have a lot of scrubbing and polishing to do once the legions got back to Vetera.

Ahead? Through the rain, he could see a couple of horses’ rumps, and also the glum-looking cavalrymen atop the animals. The way the riders’ shoulders slumped said they wished they were anywhere but here.

As a matter of fact, Caldus Caelius felt the same way. That German who’d served with the auxiliaries over in Pannonia had told the governor this part of Germany had better weather than Mindenum did—so scuttlebutt insisted. As far as Caelius could see, the barbarian had sold Quinctilius Varus a bill of goods. It was coming down like a mad bastard.

Caelius stepped into a puddle—and went in deeper than he’d expected. He swore wearily. His voice was only one note in a massive grumbling chorus. The legionaries would complain marching on a paved road in perfect weather. Since this was neither, they groused and groused.

Water dripped from the visor of his helmet. Most of the time, it didn’t drip onto his face. Every so often, though, the wind would swing and blow the drips—and the rest of the rain—into his eyes… and into his mouth, and onto his nose, so he had new drips from the end of it. With his feet soaked, too, chances were he’d come down with catarrh. Just my luck, he thought.

He shook his head, as much to look to right and left as to try to get rid of some of the water. Not much to see in either direction: only swamp that was starting to fill up with nasty little puddles. He didn’t spot any Germans. He hadn’t for some time now. Part of him was unsurprised—they wouldn’t have wanted to live in this gods-forsaken country, either. But Germany was full—much too full—of savages. He’d seen worse terrain packed with big blonds trying to scratch out a living. Why weren’t more of them doing the same thing here?

Maybe Varus could ask his pet German. As soon as that thought crossed Caelius’ mind, he shook his head again, this time annoyed at himself. The accursed German was off dealing with his woman. His father had buggered off, too; nobody quite knew why. But it was unsettling. The neck-guard on Caelius’ helm kept water from dripping down his back. He had that chilly, unsettling feeling all the same.

Something a little more substantial than usual in this marshy landscape loomed up ahead and to the left: a low, grassy hillock. Not just grassy, Caelius saw as the path brought him closer to it. Branches and bushes sprouted from it. Caelius wished he could get a better look, but the rain wouldn’t let him. His mailshirt clattered about him as he shrugged. You could find anything in Germany. Why get all hot and bothered about one poorly manicured little hill?

It looks funny, a voice inside him said. He told the voice to shut up and go away. It wouldn’t. That hill doesn’t look right.

Caldus Caelius shrugged again, this time in exasperation. If anything were wrong, the horsemen up ahead would be catching it right now, as they rode past. And they weren’t. They were riding along wishing they were somewhere else, the same way he was marching. At least their feet weren’t soaked.

Something’s wrong, the small voice shrilled. Ignoring it, Caelius pulled his left foot out of the mud and stuck his right foot into it.

Arminius peered out between two lovingly transplanted bushes. Roman cavalrymen rode by on their big horses, almost near enough for him to reach out and touch them. One looked his way. He froze. The Roman looked straight ahead again—he hadn’t noticed a thing.

The gods are with us, Arminius thought jubilantly. To make sure they stayed on the Germans’ side, he hissed, “I’ll kill the man who casts now—d’you hear me? I’ll gut him like a swine. Remember—you’ve got to wait.”