Текст книги "Give me back my Legions!"

Автор книги: Harry Norman Turtledove

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

To Numonius’ vast relief, the other officer realized he’d gone too far. “I’ll thank you now, and thank you kindly,” he said. “But how we could have let that cursed German walk out of here ... It makes no sense. You can’t tell me it does. Nobody can, not if he wants me to believe it.”

“You think Arminius is more dangerous than Quinctilius Varus does,” Numonius said.

“He’s a barbarian. Why take chances with him? If he’s done a tenth part of what his woman’s father says he has, he’s a menace,” Eggius said. “Getting hold of Germany is hard enough if we do get rid of the troublemakers. Why let ‘em run around loose?”

“Arminius isn’t just a barbarian.” Vala Numonius pointed out what should have been obvious. “He’s a Roman citizen. He’s a member of the Equestrian Order – one step below the Senate. He can appeal any sentence to Augustus.”

Eggius snorted scornfully. “Let’s see him appeal being dead. We’d all sleep better of nights after he was.”

“Would we?” Numonius was anything but convinced. “Or would that start the big German uprising when Arminius alive didn’t?”

He startled Lucius Eggius; he could see as much. “That’d be a pretty kettle of fish, wouldn’t it?” Eggius said.

“It would.” Numonius pressed his advantage: “And what do you think Augustus would do to the people who sparked a rebellion here, especially when Tiberius still hasn’t cleaned up the mess in Pannonia?”

Eggius winced like a man contemplating a bad hangover. “That wouldn’t be pretty, would it?”

“I don’t think so.” The cavalry commander thought that made a pretty respectable understatement. “So why don’t you be a little more careful before you start talking about killing Germans you don’t happen to like? And it won’t happen anyway, because his Excellency likes Arminius.” Vala Numonius didn’t, but he, unlike Lucius Eggius, understood subordination.

“I know he does.” If the knowledge gave Eggius any pleasure, he hid it very well. “You think I worry about the barbarian too much? I’ll tell you something, Numonius – he doesn’t worry about him enough, and you can mark my words. He thinks Arminius is a tame dog. He can’t see a wild wolf when one’s standing right in front of him.”

Vala Numonius didn’t try to argue. What was the point? Instead, he answered indirectly: “All these Germans are wolves – now. A lifetime ago, all the Gauls were wolves, too. They’ve settled down. Fifty years from now, the governor is sure these Germans will have, too. And we’ll be wondering what we ought to do about the barbarians on the far side of the Elbe. That’s what the Roman Empire does: we move forward.”

“Hrmp.” Lucius Eggius’ grunt was not one of agreement. “The reason the Gauls settled down is, Caesar walloped the piss out of them. They knew they were licked. They knew we were better men. We cursed well showed them we were. The Germans don’t believe it. And why should they? We’ve won some against them, but they’ve won some against us, too. We haven’t convinced ‘em we can squash ‘em whenever we put our minds to it.”

“It’s this miserable country,” Numonius said. “Bogs and swamps and woods and gods only know what all else. No place where an army can form a proper battle line and show the savages how real soldiers do it.”

“You’re right,” Eggius said. This time, he surprised Vala Numonius. “Yeah, you’re right,” he repeated. “But so what?”

“What do you mean, so what?” the cavalry commander demanded. “It’s the truth. If it weren’t for the country, we would have beaten the Germans a long time ago.”

“And if it weren’t for the ocean, you could walk from Sicily to Carthage, too,” Eggius said. Vala Numonius gasped at the unfairness of the comeback. But Eggius couldn’t see it. He pressed ahead: “Don’t you get it? Why we haven’t beaten the stinking barbarians doesn’t matter. That we haven’t beaten them does. It matters a lot. They still think they can mess with us. And they may even be right, a plague take them.”

“It’s not that they’re such wonderful warriors,” Numonius said. “They skulk, and they hide, and they sneak out and bite us like spiders or scorpions. The lay of the land lets them do it.”

“The lay of the land’s got blond hair down to here and tits out to there.” Lucius Eggius gestured lewdly. Vala Numonius winced. Eggius got more serious – a little, anyhow. “But you’re not wrong – this country is a big pile of turds,” he said. “The fun and games we go through getting back to the Rhine every winter prove that. I wish we had a route where we weren’t up to our knees in muck most of the time.”

“I’ll bet the Germans know a route like that,” Numonius said.

“Sure. But will they tell us? Don’t hold your breath, friend,” Eggius said, which had the unfortunate ring of truth. “We need proper roads here. We need ‘em worse than anything else.”

Numonius nodded. “The governor knows that. I expect we’ll have them before very long.”

“But we need ‘em now.” Lucius Eggius hawked and spat. “By Venus’ cunt, we’ve needed ‘em for years.”

“Well, you may be right.” That was the most polite brush-off Numonius knew. Some people kept pounding with hammers even when there wasn’t a nail in sight. And Lucius Eggius, all too plainly, was one of them.

X

From perhaps half a mile away, Sigimerus eyed the Roman encampment of Mindenum. “You want us to go in there?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

But Arminius nodded. “I do, Father. I’ve been in and out several times. Varus thinks I can’t possibly be dangerous. And why? Because I don’t hide from him, that’s why. He doesn’t believe someone who is an enemy of Rome would dare let the legionaries get their hands on him whenever they please.”

“I can see why he doesn’t,” Sigimerus muttered.

A train of ox-drawn wagons guarded by Roman soldiers brought supplies from the Lupia River to the fortress. By now, after a couple of years, the wagons had worn deep ruts in the German soil. The Romans thought they were wearing their way into Germany in the same fashion. Arminius stubbornly refused to believe it. That the invaders felt they needed so many men to protect their goods showed how far from victory they were. It did to him, anyhow.

“Come on. He will treat you with honor,” Arminius said. “Why shouldn’t he? Aren’t you the father of a Roman citizen, the father of a veteran of the Roman auxiliaries?” Sigimerus was the father of two veterans of the Roman auxiliaries, but Arminius refused to think about Flavus, who was still fighting in Pannonia.

“Gods grant I am not the father of a fool,” Sigimerus said.

Despite the gibe, he followed Arminius toward the fort. He studied it with keen interest as they got closer. Arminius understood that. The Romans were masters of fieldcraft. No German army had ever dreamt of protecting itself in hostile country the way the Romans did. The Germans thought the Romans worked too hard . . . till they had to attack one of those encampments. Then the legionaries’ labor proved its worth – again and again and again.

A Roman soldier outside the rampart spied the approaching Germans and trotted over to see who they were and what they might be up to. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, recognizing Arminius. He sounded polite but businesslike: not a tone a German would have been likely to take. “Who’s this, ah, gentleman with you?”

Who’s this barbarian with you?That was what he’d been on the point of asking. Arminius was sure of it. But the Roman had swallowed the insult, so Arminius had to pretend he didn’t know it was there. “This is my father – his name is Sigimerus. He has come to meet the great Quinctilius Varus, whose praises he has often heard from me.”

No German would have swallowed flattery laid on even half so thick. But the legionary did. The Romans were in the habit of extravagantly flattering one another. They might have been so many dogs, licking one another’s privates and assholes. But they were dangerous dogs.

This one wasn’t dangerous now; the flattery put him at ease. “Well, he can do that. You can do that. Come along with me, and I’ll bring you to the gate.”

By the way he spoke, he intended to be obeyed. Arminius had to use an effort of will to keep his hand from dropping to the hilt of his sword. How dared this trooper order him around? But Arminius had seen that Romans always thought they could order anyone who wasn’t a Roman around, just because they were Romans.

Yet another reason to make sure they lost their hold on Germany.

Arminius glanced over to his father. Sigimerus was less used to Roman arrogance than he was himself. The older man looked ready to murder the legionary who was leading them to the encampment. Ever so slightly, Arminius shook his head.

His father’s raised eyebrows asked, How can you put up with people like this, even for a moment?And Arminius’ tiny shrug answered, Well, what choice have I got?He couldn’t see any, not yet.

The men at the gate greeted him politely enough. “Hail,” one of them called. “Come to call on the governor again?”

“That’s right,” Arminius answered.

“Is that your father with you?” the Roman asked. “The two of you have a family look.”

“Yes, it is,” Arminius replied in Latin. In his own language, he added, “Do you understand them, Father?”

“Well enough,” Sigimerus said, also in the Germans’ tongue. He switched to Latin slower and less fluent than Arminius’ to give the sentries his name.

“Hail, Sigimerus,” said the one who’d greeted Arminius. “Welcome to Mindenum.”

“I thank you,” Sigimerus said. Arminius didn’t think he’d ever heard anything less sincere in his life.

His father kept looking around the encampment once they got inside. “These Romans are an orderly folk, aren’t they?” he said in his own speech. “They enjoy living like animals in cages, eh? All in row after row. Boring!”

“I think so, too, but it works for them.” Arminius added, “Be careful with your words, Father – some of the Romans have learned bits of our tongue.”

“I thought you told me they stuck to Latin whenever they could,” Sigimerus said.

“They do – especially the officers. They think learning our speech – or any other speech except Greek – is beneath their dignity,” Arminius answered. “But the common soldiers aren’t so fussy. If they’re in the field and they get hungry or they want to sport with our women, they learn thewords they need to have. So you never can tell when one will know more than he lets on.”

“Sneaky devils. How do you trust people like that?” Sigimerus answered his own question: “Simple. You don’t.” He eyed the tent in front of which Arminius had stopped. “So this is where the Roman governor lives?”

“Yes, Father.” Arminius smiled. Sigimerus could watch his tongue if he worked at it.

The older man delivered his judgment: “Well, if you want to live under canvas all the time, you could do worse than this. But I would not care to live under canvas all the time.” Who in his right mind would?Sigimerus didn’t say that out loud, but his eyebrows were eloquent.

“If they have to, the Romans can move out of this encampment tomorrow,” Arminius said. “When I was in Pannonia, I saw them do things like that at a moment’s notice. And they build a fortified camp every evening of a march – you will have seen that.”

“Yes.” Sigimerus nodded. “Too much work, I think.”

“Maybe, but it makes them hard to assail.” Arminius held the tent flap open so Sigimerus could go in ahead of him. He’d seen how curtains did duty for walls in these fancy tents. Where they stood was the equivalent of an entrance hall.

A swarthy slave nodded to Arminius. “You wait,” the fellow said in bad Latin. He hurried away.

“He will bring Varus to us?” Sigimerus asked.

“Maybe. More likely, though, he will bring Varus’ chief slave to us,” Arminius answered. “You have to go through slave after slave before you finally get to talk to an important Roman.” Again, his father didn’t say what he was thinking. Again, Sigimerus’ expression spoke louder than words.

Sure enough, it wasn’t Quinctilius Varus but Aristocles, his pedisequus,who emerged to greet the Germans. “Hail, Arminius,” Aristocles said. “Is this . . . distinguished gentleman your father, by any chance?”

With him as with the fellow who’d met them outside the encampment, that pause showed he was really thinking something like graying savage.But Arminius responded only to the words Aristocles actually used. “Yes, he is. Father, I present to you Aristocles, who is the Roman governor’s chief slave. Aristocles, here is my father, Sigimerus by name.”

Aristocles’ bow lacked for nothing in manners. “I am honored to meet you, sir. With his citizenship and the courage he showed fighting Rome’s enemies, your son is an ornament among these forests.”

“Good to meet you. Thank you for nice words,” Sigimerus answered in his deliberate Latin. “I come here with Arminius to meet Roman governor.”

Anyone who knew Sigimerus would have understood that to mean, Why am I wasting my time talking to a worthless slave instead?Arminius did, and had to hide a grin. If Aristocles also did, he concealed it well. Romans were good at that; their slaves, of necessity, even better. The pedisequussaid, “Of course the governor will be delighted to make your acquaintance, excellent Sigimerus. Let me inform him of your most auspicious arrival. And of course you will wish refreshments, to put down the dust of your journey here?”

Before Sigimerus could say yes or no, Aristocles vanished behind a curtain. When the curtain stirred again, out from behind it came yet another slave, this one carrying a silver tray with wine and bread and fruit candied in honey. Like all of Varus’ slaves Arminius had seen, this fellow was not a German. Arminius knew the Romans did enslave his folk. Varus was shrewd enough not to rub German visitors’ noses in that unpleasant fact, though.

“When I was young,” Sigimerus said, “wine was a sometime thing, a once-in-a-while thing. Many more Roman traders nowadays, and much more wine in Germany than there used to be.”

“Wine is a goodness,” Arminius agreed. Anyone listening to them on the far side of a curtain would find no fault in what they said. But their eyes met in perfect mutual understanding. Wine may be a goodness. Rome is anything but.

Quinctilius Varus’ voice came from farther back in the tent. So did those of a couple of other Romans. Arminius supposed the governor was conferring with his officers. If Arminius knew Romans, Varus would take care of that before he deigned to meet any barbarians. All the high-ranking officials in Pannonia had acted the same way.

Sigimerus didn’t recognize Varus’ voice. He probably couldn’t follow what the Romans were saying, either. Arminius could get bits and pieces of it, though slaves’ chatter in the foreground made him keep missing some.

From what Arminius could hear, Varus was finding out what several different columns he’d sent forth were doing. He had to be confident Germany lay open to him like an unchaste woman if he divided his forces like that. Down in Pannonia, Tiberius had been much more cautious.

But Pannonia was a real war. No one could doubt that, even for a moment. Germany seemed peaceful. Varus must have thought he could take chances here that he wouldn’t have risked if the countryside were in arms against him.

Well, let him believe us peaceful. Let him think Germans are nothing but the Romans’ curs. Let him send legionaries here, there, and everywhere. The less we worry him now, the better.

“When is the fancy Roman coming?” Sigimerus asked. “Doesn’t he reckon we’re important enough to see?”

“I don’t think it will be too much longer, Father,” Arminius answered. “He is talking with his retainers now.”

“Hrmm.” It was not a happy noise. Sigimerus partly muffled it by taking another swig of wine.

The jug soon emptied. The slave fetched another. Did Varus want the Germans drunk before he met with them? Arminius wouldn’t have been surprised. Wine was stronger than beer. Taken neat, it got people drunk faster, especially when they weren’t used to it.

“You may want to go easy, Father,” Arminius whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Sigimerus said impatiently, in a way that couldn’t have meant anything but No, no.

He wasn’t drunk when Varus finally came forth. He wasn’t too drunk, anyhow. Arminius made the introductions. “So, Sigimerus, you are the father of this young man?” Varus said. He spoke slowly and clearly and kept his grammar simple – he must have realized Sigimerus was not fluent in Latin.

“I am,” Sigimerus answered.

Varus reached out to touch the golden fibula that fastened Sigimerus’ cloak. That would have been uncouthly familiar, except for what he said next: “Even more than this, he is an ornament to you.”

Sigimerus smiled. “He is,” he agreed, running through another part of the conjugation of the verb to be.

“I miss my own son. He is far away, studying– – learning – in Greece,” Varus said. He set a hand on Arminius’ shoulder. “When I met your son, it was almost as if I had mine with me once more. Not quite – you will understand that. But almost.”

He wore a toga, chalky white wool with a purple border. Sigimerus’ cloak was of bearskin trimmed with fine sealskin pained in trade from the Chauci, a tribe that lived by the North Sea. Varus’ hair was cut short; Sigimerus let his grow long. Varus shaved his face. Sigimerus wore a beard. The Roman was short and heavyset, the German tall and lean. Varus had none of the Germans’ language, Sigimerus only a little Latin.

And yet they were both proud fathers. For a moment, Arminius found them more alike than different. But only for a moment. Sigimerus cared nothing for Varus’ son. Varus, whether he fully realized it or not, wanted to enslave Sigimerus’. What difference could be greater than that?

“Please excuse me for keeping you waiting,” Varus said. “I was discussing, ah, certain matters with my aides. We aim to bring peace to Germany, you understand.”

“I understand, yes,” Sigimerus said. Arminius feared he would add, If you want to bring peace, then leave!But, to his relief, Sigimerus left it there.

Hearing him say he understood made Varus believe he approved. “Good, good,” the Roman said. “I am glad that, like your son, you see the advantages of working with Rome.”

How would Sigimerus answer that without spilling the chamber pot into the stew? Arminius’ father looked at Quinctilius Varus with wide, blue, innocent eyes. “Pardon me?” he said.

“I was talking about the advantages of cooperating with Rome,” Varus said. Sigimerus still looked artfully blank. Varus turned to Arminius. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to translate for your father?”

“Of course, sir,” Arminius replied, and he did. Though he was sure Sigimerus already understood the Roman’s words, he rendered them into the Germans’ tongue. He did a proper job of it, too, in case another Roman, one who knew the language, stood listening behind a curtain.

Sigimerus’ enlightenment was a small masterpiece of its kind. The Romans put on stage plays to entertain themselves. Arminius had seen a couple in Pannonia. Once he got the idea of playacting, he enjoyed them. Sigimerus had never seen or even imagined one, but he could have gone up on a stage himself.

“Oh,” he said. “Work with! Now I follow you, sir!”

Varus smiled. He didn’t notice that Sigimerus didn’t say he agreed with him or approved of him. Arminius didn’t notice, either, not right away. When he did, he realized there was more to his father than first met the eye: not always the most comfortable realization a young man can have.

“Will you both dine with me?” Varus immediately answered his own question before the Germans could: “Of course you will! You are my guests. I am pleased that you are my guests. Your being here shows the world that Germans and Romans can get along.”

“We are pleased to show that, sir.” Where his father had evaded, Arminius lied without hesitation or compunction. Under other circumstances, Sigimerus would have had every right to beat him for being so shameless.

“Well, so am I,” Varus answered. “And your being my guests will go a long way toward laying to rest some of the, ah, unfortunate rumors that have attached themselves to your name, Arminius.”

“That would be very good,” Arminius said, to himself alone adding, especially since those rumors are true.

His being here might lay them to rest among the Romans who suspected him. But it also might make his fellow Germans wonder whether he was turning traitor. That could cause him problems after the Romans went back over the Rhine to winter in Gaul.

But even if it did, he could repair such things later. For now, he was inside the Roman encampment. As long as he stayed here, he would do well to act as much like a Roman as he could.

Sigimerus coughed a couple of times. What that would have amounted to had he put it into words, Arminius could imagine. Luckily, Quinctilius Varus couldn’t.

“Aristocles!” the Roman called.

“Yes, sir?” The pedisequusmight have appeared out of thin air. One heartbeat, he was nowhere to be seen. The next, he stood at Varus’ elbow.

“Tell the cooks Arminius and his distinguished father will be dining with me tonight,” Varus said.

“Certainly, sir.” Aristocles vanished almost as smoothly as he’d manifested himself. He might have made a good conjurer, amusing people by pretending to pull coins or jewelry out of their ears and noses. Or, Arminius thought uneasily, he might be a real wizard, one who could snap his fingers and appear or disappear. Arminius thought that unlikely – wizards were more often talked about than seen – but you never could tell.

Or could you? Why would a true wizard let an ordinary man enslave him? That struck the German as something only a fool would do. Aristocles was no fool, which had to mean he was no wizard, either: only a man uncommonly light on his feet.

The cooks served mutton without garlic. That had to be a compliment to Arminius and Sigimerus, because the Romans doted on the stuff. Varus noticed, too. He remarked, “It’s, ah, interesting flavored with mint, isn’t it? Different from what I’m used to.”

“Good,” Sigimerus said. The amount of meat he’d put away said he approved of what the cooks had done.

“We might seethe the mutton instead of roasting it,” Arminius said. “But I think my father is right – it is very good. We thank you for it.” He sucked marrow out of a bone.

“My pleasure, believe me,” the Roman said. “And I assure you that it is also my pleasure to see Germans who trust me and my people enough to be our guests and accept our hospitality.”

“Who would not want to accept it when it is so generous?” Arminius said. He wasn’t sure his father had followed all of what Varus said. If Sigimerus had, he was better at keeping his face straight than Arminius had guessed. If he was, good; in Mindenum, he needed to be.

“Will you two spend the night with us?” Varus asked. “We can run up a tent for you. You, Arminius, will be familiar with our arrangements from your time of service with the auxiliaries. You can acquaint your distinguished father with them as well.”

Arminius went back and forth with his father in the Germans’ tongue to let him know what Varus had offered. After a moment’s thought, Sigimerus nodded. “It would be our privilege, sir,” Arminius told Varus in Latin.

“Splendid!” Varus exclaimed. Arminius reflected that he was turning into a better liar than he’d ever wanted to be.

Lucius Eggius looked back at the long column of legionaries he led. They slogged through the German forests and marshes, slapping at the mosquitoes and biting flies that plagued them and swearing at the officers who’d sent them forth.

Since Eggius felt like swearing at those officers, too, he didn’t even try to restrain the men. Let them cuss,he thought. It’ll make them feel better, and it won’t hurt the buggers they’re cussing out. . . . Too stinking bad.

“Come on, boys!” he called. “Looks like better ground up ahead.”

“If it was any worse ground, it’d swallow us up and we’d never be seen again,” one of the soldiers said.

“Oh, cheer up, Gnaeus,” Eggius said. “At least the barbarians aren’t giving us any grief.”

The legionary was not cheered. “Yes, and that’s all wrong, too,” he answered. “Why aren’t they? It’s . . . suspicious, like.”

“Quinctilius Varus says it’s because they’re finally coming to see we really are their masters.” Eggius, loyal to the idea of Rome if not necessarily to the blue-blooded chuckleheads who represented that idea in Germany, gave forth with the party line.

Gnaeus wasn’t the only soldier who jeered at him – and at Varus. Unlike the governor, the men had been going through these woods for years. They knew the Germans weren’t subdued. So did Lucius Eggius, but he’d given up on trying to get his superiors to see it. Sometimes you could yell till you went blue in the face, and it didn’t do you any good.

He hadn’t been lying to the legionaries. Unlike some of his superiors, he didn’t think that was a good idea. The ground ahead did improve. It was higher, less muddy, less swampy. It didn’t try to suck the caligaeoff the soldiers’ feet at every step they took.

Eggius glanced toward the sun. At least he could see it. With the beastly German weather, there was no guarantee of that. It neared the western horizon. “As soon as we find a spring or a stream, we’ll camp for the night,” Eggius said.

He didn’t think that would take long, and he proved right. He’d never seen any place for water like Germany. It bubbled out of the ground here, there, seemingly everywhere. When the legionaries found a spring, they began digging in around it. Fortified camps took a lot of work, but nobody grumbled. They bumped up your chances of lasting long enough to get gray hair and wrinkles, and the men knew it.

Ditch. Earthen rampart made from the spoil thrown out of the ditch. Sharpened stakes atop the earthwork. Gates facing the cardinal directions. Main streets running north and south, east and west between the gates. Tents always placed just so inside the square perimeter. Every soldier had a particular job to do, and everybody, through long familiarity, did it without much waste motion.

Torches flared along the rampart, ensuring that the Germans couldn’t sneak up on the camp. Sentries paced the circuit, exchanging passwords and countersigns. Eggius chose Latin words with r’s in them for those. The Romans trilled their r’s, while the Germans gargled theirs. Not even a barbarian who’d served as an auxiliary and knew Roman military customs would be able to fool a sentry. Eggius hoped not, anyhow.

Thinking of Germans who’d served as Roman auxiliaries naturally made Lucius Eggius think of Arminius. When his column left Mindenum, the young German and his father had been installed there, happy as a couple of sheep in clover. Quinctilius Varus thought Arminius a house snake, not a viper.

Lucius Eggius sighed. He hoped the governor was right. He had trouble believing it, but he had even more trouble believing he could change Varus’ mind. Men like that didn’t listen to men like him. To Varus, he was nothing but a craftsman who’d chosen a necessary but nasty way to make a living. No, Augustus’ grand-niece’s husband wouldn’t pay attention to a veteran legionary.

And, since he wouldn’t, what point to brooding about it? No point at all. Eggius shoved it out of his mind. He had plenty of more immediately urgent things to worry about.

When the Romans got moving again the next morning, scouts came trotting back from the woods ahead. That they came back was a good sign in and of itself. “No Germans in there!” one of them called.

“Good,” Eggius answered. He turned to the men he led. “We’ll go on through – double time. The sooner we’re out the other side, the better.”

Before plunging down the path, he made sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. The scouts had done their job, but you could never be sure they’d done enough. Germans were like any other beasts of prey: they were masters at leaping out from hiding.

The trees blotted out the sun. Eggius’ eyes needed a few heartbeats to adapt to the gloom. His nostrils twitched, taking in the spicy scents of pine and fir and the greener, more ordinary odors of oak and ash and elm. Were he a beast himself, he might have sniffed out any lurking barbarians. Or he might not have; maybe the strong odors coming off his own men would have masked them.

Along with the dim light came dankness. The narrow path he followed turned muddy almost at once. His hobnailed marching sandals squelched at every step. He was at the head of the column, too. The going would be worse for the men farther back after their friends had chewed up the track.

Bushes and ferns pushed into the path from either side. It was as if the forest resented having any way through it and was doing its best to reclaim that way for itself. Something large and heavy crashed through the undergrowth off to the left. Before Eggius consciously realized it, his gladiuswas halfway out of the bronze scabbard.

No volley of spears. No screaming German warriors. With a shaky chuckle, another Roman said, “Only an animal.”

“Right.” Lucius Eggius kept his own voice under tight control as he let the shortsword slide down again. “Only an animal.”

A bear? An aurochs? An elk? He’d never know. Now that silence had returned, he could tell himself it didn’t matter.

He could tell himself, yes. But he couldn’t believe it.

The woods didn’t just seem to squeeze in on either side. Eggius felt, or imagined he felt, the canopy of leaves and branches pressing down on him. Maybe everything would close in, like a great green hand making a fist. And when the fist opened again, he wouldn’t be here anymore. Maybe the whole Roman column wouldn’t be.

He laughed at himself. He told himself that was nothing but nonsense, moonshine. This time, he did manage to convince himself he was right. Some Romans had far more trouble going through these forests than he did. They really believed the trees were closing in on them – they didn’t just have brief vapors about it. Cold sweat dripped off them. They went pale. Their hearts pounded and raced. Only coming out into the open again could cure them.

Eggius wondered how a German would feel out in the Syrian or African desert. Would he think the landscape was too wide? Would he feel tiny and naked under the vast blue dome of the sky? Would he shudder and shake, wishing he could draw forest around him like a cloak? The Roman wouldn’t have been surprised.