Текст книги "Give me back my Legions!"

Автор книги: Harry Norman Turtledove

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Most reluctantly, one of the sentries went back into the encampment. “May we enter?” Sigimerus asked in his slow, halting Latin. “I am not a young man any more. I get tired standing out here in the sun.”

He and Arminius had practiced at swords not long after sunup. If he’d been tired then, Arminius hadn’t noticed. Sigimerus might not be quite so fast or quite so strong as he had been when he was Arminius’ age. But he was still fast and strong enough to be dangerous – and he knew every trick all his years of fighting had taught him.

Shouts rang out inside Mindenum. Arminius hid a smile. His father was probably doing the same thing as he murmured, “See how much they love you?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Arminius said. He raised his voice again: “May we come in? I don’t want to harm my father’s health.” The Romans were like Germans in respecting their elders. And, once he and Sigimerus got into Mindenum, the legionaries would have a harder time throwing them out than they would excluding them in the first place.

But one of the sentries answered, “Let’s see what the governor’s got to say. If it were up to me . . .” He didn’t say what would happen then. Arminius drew his own conclusions.

Another sentry looked over his shoulder. “Here comes his Excellency now!” The legionaries stiffened to attention. They expected their auxiliaries to do the same thing. Arminius had never seen anything so ridiculous in his life, but he’d learned the silly pose. Going along was easier than arguing, especially for one lone man facing a ponderous military machine.

The Romans thought all of Germany would take the easy road, go along, and submit to their yoke. But the Germans were not one lone man. They outnumbered the invaders. They were more determined than the Romans, too. I’m more determined than the Romans are,Arminius thought. And I can kindle Germany. I can, and I will.

A stocky figure mounted to the top of the earthen rampart. The sun gleamed from the Roman’s bald scalp. Arminius smiled and waved. “Hail, your Excellency!” he called. If the smile never reached his eyes, Quinctilius Varus couldn’t hope to notice from that distance.

Sigimerus waved, too. If he didn’t smile so broadly, he wasan older man, and carried himself with more dignity. Arminius hoped Varus would think so, anyhow.

And evidently Varus did. He was at least as old as Sigimerus, but he wore a smile wider than Arminius’. “Hail! Welcome!” he said. “I didn’t know if we’d be lucky enough to see the two of you back here this year.”

“Here we are, sir,” Arminius said. “May we come into Mindenum? Your men didn’t seem to want us to.”

“You know how soldiers are,” Varus said. And Arminius did: he was one himself. If the Roman governor wasn’t, or didn’t think of himself as one, why did he hold this position? Smiling still, he went on, “You certainly have my permission to come in. I’m sure I will want your advice again and again on how best to civilize this province.”

Sigimerus growled down deep in his throat. Arminius’ gaze flicked over to his father, but the older man’s expression didn’t change. And the Romans wouldn’t have heard him. Arminius wore his smile like a mask, hiding his fury. What Varus meant by civilizing Germany was taking away its character and its freedom.

“Always a pleasure to help,” Arminius lied.

“Spoken like a Roman citizen – like the member of the Equestrian Order you are,” Varus boomed. After a moment, Arminius realized the Roman governor wasn’t really speaking to him, or wasn’t speaking to him alone. Varus was reminding the legionaries that the man outside was a tame German, a good German. He didn’t say anything to or about Sigimerus. But if the soldiers accepted Arminius, they wouldn’t mind his father.

Arminius drew himself up straight and delivered a clenched-fist Roman salute. Yes, let the legionaries see I can ape their customs. Let them see that I’m a tame German, a good German. And, when the time comes, I’ll show them just how tame and good I am.

None of that showed on his face. He probably had more practice dissembling than any other German since the gods first created his folk. Among themselves, Germans were always altogether honest (unless, of course, they saw some pressing reason not to be, as Segestes had when he broke his pledge to Arminius and tried to give Thusnelda to Tudrus). What they thought of as their innate honesty put most of them at a disadvantage when they tried to deal with deceitful foreigners.

Arminius had been shocked to discover that the Romans reckoned his folk a pack of lying, thieving savages. How could they be so blind? He finally decided that, since the Romans were liars and thieves themselves, they thought other peoples shared their vices.

“Pass in, Arminius. Pass in, Sigimerus,” Quinctilius Varus said loudly. If the sentries tried to go against that now, they would be mutinying against the provincial governor – indirectly, against Augustus himself. The Romans had some fearsome penalties for anyone who dared such a thing.

Any folk that had such penalties was bound to need them – one more argument against Rome and all its ways.

Legionaries mostly held their faces straight as Arminius and Sigimerus walked into Mindenum. They probably wouldn’t have done that if they weren’t under Varus’ eye. Then again, they probably wouldn’t have let the two Cherusci into Mindenum if not for Varus’ orders.

“That one soldier is smiling at us,” Arminius’ father whispered. “What’s wrong with him?”

Arminius got a corner-of-the-eye glimpse of the Roman his father had to mean. Sure enough, the fellow had a broad, welcoming smile plastered across his face. Arminius didn’t think the man was putting it on for Varus’ benefit, either.

“Some of the legionaries must see that the governor is right and that we aren’t dangerous to Rome.” Arminius also spoke quietly, but you never could tell whether somebody with a big nose and sharp eyes was eavesdropping. He could say what he meant even if he used words that said the exact opposite if you took them the wrong way.

“Ah. Of course.” Sigimerus understood him just fine. If a snoopy Roman thought he meant something different . . . well, that was the chance you took when you listened in on conversations not meant for you.

Several legionaries paced the Germans as they walked through the encampment. Our hounds,Arminius thought, or maybe our keepers.He called out to one of them: “Will we stay in the same place we did last summer?”

The Roman seemed embarrassed at being noticed. Arminius wondered why. The only way he could have made himself more obvious was to paint himself blue. After a moment, the man recovered enough to answer, “Yes, I think so.”

“All right. Thanks.” Arminius hadn’t really expected anything else. As he’d seen in Pannonia and here, Roman camps varied little from one place to another or from one time to another. If the legionaries had put them there last year, chances were they’d do the same thing again.

It was boring. It gave ordinary men no room to deviate from the pattern. But it worked. The Romans wouldn’t have conquered so much of the world if it hadn’t. They always camped the same way. They always fought the same way, too. If you offered them battle on ground where they could do what they usually did, chances were they’d make you regret it. No one could doubt that the Germans were the fiercest fighters the gods ever made, but the Roman legions had given them all they wanted and then some for a generation now.

We need to fight them on our own terms, then . . . if we can,Arminius thought. That same notion had spun round and round inside his head ever since he came back from Pannonia. Like so many things, it was easier to imagine than to bring off – as his father hadn’t tired of reminding him. But Quinctilius Varus really did think he was a tame German. That was bound to help. Would it help enough?

XIV

Quinctilius Varus paused halfway through his latest report to Augustus. He knew he sounded as hopeful as things in Germany could possibly allow, and then a little more besides. When you were writing to the ruler of the Roman world, you didn’t want to have to tell him things weren’t going well. Even a man married to Augustus’ grand-niece could spill his career in the chamber pot if he forgot that.

And if, after Varus returned to civilization, anyone asked him why-he’d seemed so optimistic, he could point to the reports he’d got from subordinates all over Germany. He’d kept every single one of them, dating back to the day he’d first crossed the Rhine. And he’d based his optimism squarely on theirs.

He started to write again, then paused with the reed pen only a digit above the papyrus. “Damnation!” he muttered. Of course he made everything in Germany seem good to Augustus, whether it really was good or ... not quite so good. Wouldn’t his own underlings do the same thing with him?

They would if they thought they could get away with it. He was sure of that. They wouldn’t want him breathing down their necks, any more than he wanted Augustus breathing down his. But he had to accept their reports. How else was he supposed to know what was going on?

You could travel all over the province and see for yourself,he thought. But he was shaking his head as soon as the idea formed in his mind. If he spent all his time on horseback and in the sorry camps legionary detachments built for themselves while patrolling the German wilderness, how was he supposed to administer the land between the Rhine and the Elbe? He saw no way.

But he didn’t like having to depend on reports he couldn’t check. “Aristocles!” he called.

“Yes, sir?” As usual, the pedisequusappeared with commendable haste.

“I’d like to speak with Ceionius for a bit. Fetch him, if you’d be so kind.” Some Romans would have said Varus wasted politeness on a slave. But a little honey made the gruel more appetizing. It wasn’t as if politeness cost anything.

“I’ll bring him directly.” Aristocles hurried away.

While Varus waited, he wrote a little more of the report. Some inspiration seemed to have oozed out of him, but he persisted even so. Augustus expected to be informed on how Germany was doing. And what Augustus expected, Augustus got. More than a generation of his rule had proved that.

If Aristocles couldn’t find Ceionius, if he brought Lucius Eggius back instead . . . Varus wouldn’t be very happy about that. The two camp prefects were as different as chalk and cheese. You could reason with Ceionius, while Eggius, curse him, was as stubborn, as cross-grained, as any man ever born. He didn’t have nearly enough respect for his betters.

To the governor’s relief, his slave returned with Ceionius. “Hail, your Excellency!” the prefect said, saluting. “What do you need today?”

“I expect you’ll know, ah, reliable centurions in most of the detachments we’ve got wandering through Germany,” Varus said.

Lucius Eggius might not have caught his drift. Ceionius did. Leaning forward and lowering his voice, he asked, “Reliable in what way, sir?”

“If some of their superiors are trying to gild lead in their reports, that’s something I should hear about, don’t you think?” Varus said.

By the camp prefect’s vulpine expression, he did think so. “It’s something I ought to hear about, too,” Ceionius murmured. He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, sir, I’m sure I can find centurions like that. Quietly letting them know what you need will take a bit of doing, but I can manage it.”

“I thought you might be able to,” Varus said. “The more ways we have to learn what’s really going on, the better. And, as you say, best to do it under the rose.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir. Off the top of my head, I can think of three or four men who’d be perfect.” Sketching another salute, Ceionius hurried away.

Aristocles had listened, as discreetly as if he were part of the tent canvas. “Not bad, sir. Not bad at all,” he said.

“Who knows whether these field commanders truly are doing all the wonderful things they claim?” Varus said. “If some of them are lying and I can show they are, that will make all of them tighten up.”

“Just so.” Aristocles dipped his head in agreement. “Do you need anything else from me right now, sir?”

“No. You may go,” Varus said. The pedisequusvanished as smoothly and quickly as he’d manifested himself. Varus attacked his report for Augustus with renewed vigor. He might not tell Claudia Pulchra’s great-uncle things weren’t perfect here, but at least he could come closer to the truth himself.

Varus paused once more, muttering to himself. He was setting spies on his subordinates now, to make sure they did what they told him they were doing. He was a good enough administrator. Realistically, though, the Empire had plenty of others just as capable, even if they didn’t enjoy his connections.

Augustus, now, had long since proved he was one of a kind. No one else could run things the way he did. That being so, wouldn’t he have had men quietly keeping an eye on Varus and Germany all along?

What were they saying? How well did they think Rome was doing here? If they thought Varus was botching things, would he suddenly get a letter recalling him to Italy?

Would I be sorry if I did?Varus wondered. He would be sorry Augustus judged he’d failed – he would be especially sorry if Augustus shipped him to an island in the middle of the sea – but would he be sorry to get out of Germany?

“No,” he said firmly. With a sigh, he re-inked the pen and started writing again.

Lucius Eggius watched the old German come out of his village and approach the legionary detachment. Eggius kept his hand on his swordhilt. Even if this fellow was graying and balding, you never could tell with Germans.

But the native held up his right hand with the palm out to show it was empty. “Hail, Romans,” he called in fair Latin. “Come ahead, if you like. We have no quarrel with you.”

“Thanks,” Eggius answered. “Can you feed us?”

“Some,” the German said. “We are not rich. This is not a large village, either. But we will give you what we can.”

They would try to hold out on the legionaries. Lucius Eggius had heard that song often enough to know all the verses. Well, his men had got plenty of practice at squeezing out more than the barbarians felt like giving. And if the Germans didn’t like it, too bad.

“We will take what you can give,” Eggius said aloud. Several of his men grinned. A few of them chuckled. They’d take anything else they thought they needed, too. Again, what could the locals do about it?

“Come. Be welcome,” the old man said. He wasn’t going out of his way to make trouble, anyhow. Eggius wished the locals were this reasonable more often.

As soon as he got into the village, he figured out why nobody here felt like getting uppity. The place held plenty of women and girls of all ages, but only a handful of men between fifteen and fifty. Youths with downy cheeks, yes. Fogeys like this fellow who spoke Latin, yes. In between? No.

“Where are your warriors?” Eggius asked bluntly. If they thought they could ambush his detachment, they’d be sorry – but not for long. And he had plenty of hostages, if it came to that.

But the old German pointed northwest. “There is trouble with the Chauci, may the gods cover their backsides with boils.” Eggius had to hide a grin; sure as sure, the native had learned his Latin from legionaries. “And so they go off to fight.”

“Good luck to them,” Eggius said. He’d fought the Chauci himself, and hadn’t enjoyed the experience. Even for Germans, they were rough, tough, and nasty. “I hope they help cut those buggers down to size.” He meant every word of that. If the Germans fought among themselves, they did the legions’ work for them. Every German some other German killed was a German the Romans didn’t have to worry about.

“It will be as the gods decide.” But after a moment, the barbarian added, “Any gods who would favor the Chauci over our tribe don’t deserve the sacrifices we give them.”

“There you go,” Eggius said as the German ambled off.

“Quinctilius Varus won’t be sorry to hear the savages are squabbling,” one of his aides said in a low voice.

“I was thinking the same thing,” the camp prefect answered. “For once, I won’t have to make up pretty stories when I write to him.”

“You don’t do much of that,” the junior officer said loyally.

“No more than I can help,” Eggius agreed. “If I told him what things were really like in this gods-forsaken province, he’d sack me. Not that I’d mind getting back to the real world – who would, by Venus’ pretty pink nipples? – but I hate to walk away from a job before it’s finished.”

Women – mostly women too old to be interesting – and youths brought out barley mush and beer. Eggius politely suggested that they kill some pigs, too. He would have got less polite had they said no, but they didn’t. The savory smell of roasting pork made spit flood into his mouth. Some soldiers said meat made them slow. He’d never felt that way himself.

He eyed the graybeard who’d come out to greet the Romans. “You fed us pretty well, I will say,” he allowed.

“We don’t want trouble right now,” the German said.

Right now?Eggius wondered. But probing what was likely just a slip of the tongue would only stir up trouble. He didn’t think it would tell him anything he didn’t already know. He teased the barbarian instead: “So you’re finally getting used to the notion of living inside the Empire, eh?”

The German looked back at him with eyes suddenly as cold and pale and flat as a sheet of ice. “Of course,” he said.

You lying bastard,Lucius Eggius thought. But the natives here didn’t have to like anything about submitting to Rome. They just had to do it. If they kept doing it long enough, their grandchildren would like it fine. And Eggius’ full belly told him they were getting used to doing it.

Rain drummed down on Mindenum. The Romans squelching along the encampment’s muddy, puddled streets swore at the miserable weather. Arminius had to work hard not to laugh at them.

They were used to winter rains. He’d seen that in Pannonia, which had weather like Germany’s. Spring and summer could be wet there, as they so often were here. The Romans, arrogant as usual, thought the pattern they were used to was the only natural one. Thinking that way only made them hate northern weather even more than they would have otherwise.

One of the legionaries twisted his fingers into the horned gesture they used against the evil eye. If he’d aimed it at Arminius, the German would have had to start a fight to salve his own honor. But the soldier shot his hand up at the sky. He might have been telling the gods they had no business letting it rain at this time of year.

They wouldn’t listen to him. No matter what he thought, rain in spring and summer was no prodigy, not in Germany. It happened all the time. The gods wouldn’t stop it on one Roman’s account; he reminded Arminius of a yappy little dog barking at his betters. No, the gods wouldn’t heed him. But they might – they just might – remember he’d been rude.

A wagon train came into the encampment: supplies fetched from the headwaters of the Lupia. If men had trouble getting through the mud, heavy wheeled wagons had far more. The wheels only tore up the ground worse. The oxen hauling the wains struggled forward one slow stride at a time. The soldiers guarding the wagon train had to shoulder wagons forward whenever they bogged down. By the mud soaking the men, they’d already done a lot of shouldering.

“Most excellent Arminius!”

That precise, fussy voice belonged to Aristocles. Sure enough, here came Varus’ chief slave. He was fussy about his person, too, and looked even more unhappy at going out in the rain than most of the Romans did.

“What can I do for you today?” Arminius asked. He treated the skinny Greek as politely as if Aristocles were free. You had to do that with prominent Romans’ prominent slaves. Your life wouldn’t be worth living if you didn’t. Some of them ran their masters rather than the other way around. That would never have happened among Germans. Slaves here knew their place. If they forgot it, a clout in the teeth reminded them what was what.

“The governor wishes to confer with you,” Aristocles said.

He could be polite, too. Arminius had no trouble imagining what Varus had told Aristocles. Go fetch the German,he would have said, or, perhaps more likely, Go fetch the barbarian.He wouldn’t have cared whether his slave honey-coated the message or not. But Aristocles did.

“I am always pleased to confer with the governor,” Arminius replied. He can give me orders as long as I’m stuck in this terrible encampment.So many things the German and the Greek weren’t saving. Arminius wondered if Aristocles heard them nonetheless.

He watched the pedisequusflinch 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 mesuch 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 didhave 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 ghastlyweather! 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. “ Iknow 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.”

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?”