Harry Turtledove - Give me back my Legions!

“Arminius!” Varus was pleased he remembered the fellow’s name. He’d had it shouted in his ear all winter long, of course, to say nothing of the scandal the summer before. But Arminius was only a German, after all. A lot of Romans wouldn’t have bothered recalling his barbarous appellation no matter what. So ... Quinctilius Varus was pleased.

The Germans in the village debated what they ought to do about men from a village a few leagues away who ran off their cattle on moonless nights. They’d already decided what they would do: they planned to set an ambush and slaughter the thieves. But they couldn’t say that in front of the Romans, who aimed to reserve killing for themselves- - one more usurpation among so many.

Arminius turned what they did say into Latin for Quinctilius Varus. He couldn’t shade the translation much. Varus would have someone else along who spoke the German tongue. Arminius didn’t want anyone giving him the lie in front of the important Roman. He just hoped the men in this supposedly Roman-style assembly wouldn’t come out with something everyone would regret.

To his relief, they didn’t. One of them even asked Varus to send soldiers to the other village to order its men to stop thieving. Why not? The order wouldn’t make them stop, but it would humiliate them. They deserved that. So these villagers thought, anyhow.

Arminius didn’t care one way or the other. They weren’t men of his clan, or even of his tribe. Their very dialect sounded odd in his ears. But they were Germans. They shouldn’t have had to pretend to follow Roman customs to make this big-bellied Quinctilius Varus happy.

And Arminius himself shouldn’t have had to smile and clasp this big-bellied Roman’s hand and pretend to be his friend. He’d made Varus like him the summer before; if he hadn’t, Segestes would have used the official to get his vengeance for losing Thusnelda.

From what Varus said, Arminius reminded him of his own son, who was growing to manhood down inside the Roman Empire. That was probably lucky for the German. If Varus had no children or only daughters, or if his son were different . . . Better, perhaps not to dwell on such chances.

To Arminius’ way of thinking, if the younger Varus were any kind of a man, he would be here in Germany with his father. What better thing could a son do than help his father accomplish something important for their folk? Maybe it wasn’t good to remind the Roman of a son like that.

But Varus himself seemed to find nothing amiss in the youngster’s absence. The Romans didn’t have the family cohesion Arminius’ folk took for granted. Husbands and wives in the Empire divorced for any reason or none at all, and no one there thought the worse of them because of it. Roman women were so fickle, so faithless, that their men had got used to it and even made jokes about it. To a strait-laced German, that was truly shocking.

At last, the farce in the village played itself out. Beaming, Quinctilius Varus told Arminius, “Please convey to these distinguished gentlemen how much I admire their thoughtful and mature deliberations. The course they plan seems wise and just. One day, their grandsons may wear the toga and ornament the debates of the Senate in Rome.”

As best he could, Arminius did put that into his own language. Again, he dared not shade the translation, lest some Roman who knew his tongue give him away. He hoped the men who’d gathered in the square would remember they weren’t supposed to show Varus what they really thought of him. To Arminius’ relief, they did remember. The Roman had brought along enough cavalrymen to massacre the so-called assembly here and the rest of the village besides. That no doubt helped the Germans concentrate on what they needed to do.

Arminius particularly admired them for not showing offense when Varus said their descendants might one day become Roman Senators.

Varus meant it as a compliment. The Germans received it as if it were one rather than the last thing they wanted.

“That went very well - even better than I would have hoped,” Quinctilius Varus said as most of the men returned to their steadings.

Staying there in the square with all these Romans, Arminius felt very much alone. He did his best not to show it. Wasn’t he, in Varus’ eyes, a Roman citizen? Wouldn’t a Roman citizen be at ease with his fellow citizens? Of course he would . . . seem to be.

“They grow used to the idea that their future will be part of the Empire’s future,” Arminius replied. He didn’t say the men of his folk liked that idea, but neither Varus nor any of the other Romans noticed the omission. Like any men, they heard what they wanted to hear, regardless of whether it was really there.

“This is not your home, is it, Arminius? You live north and west of Mindenum, don’t you?” Varus said.

“Yes, that’s right, your Excellency,” Arminius said. “You honor me by remembering it. One day, perhaps, you will honor me more by visiting me among my clansmen.”

“Why, perhaps I shall.” If Varus sounded surprised that Arminius should suggest such a thing, he covered that surprise with layer upon layer of practiced Roman politesse. “It would be a rare privilege, in fact.”

“May the day come soon,” Arminius said.

“Indeed.” Quinctilius Varus nodded and smiled. “And, since you find yourself away from home now, would you care to come back to Mindenum and sup with me this evening?”

“I would like nothing more,” said Arminius, who would have liked anything more. But he couldn’t refuse the Roman, not unless he wanted Varus to believe he mistrusted him. Arminius did mistrust Varus, but didn’t want him believing that. And so I stick my head into the bear’s mouth again, the German thought.

“Splendid! Splendid!” Varus’ jowly smile got wider. He turned to some of the other Romans who’d come with him to watch the farce in the village. “There, my friends! Do you see?”

Some of the small, swarthy men nodded. Even the ones who did, though, eyed Arminius like hounds eyeing a wolf. So what exactly had the Roman governor meant by that? Something like No matter what you’ve heard about this barbarian, he’s not such a bad fellow after all? Arminius didn’t see how he could mean anything else.

And what would the Romans have heard about him? Unfortunately, he had no trouble figuring that out, either. Word of what he’d gone through Germany saying during the winter would have got back to them. Well, Arminius already knew it had. Segestes and his henchmen had made sure of that. If only my friends could have killed Masua, Arminius thought angrily.

But Varus still believed he was friendly to the Empire, and these other Romans would have to be wondering, wouldn’t they? A man who hated their folk wouldn’t stick his head into the bear’s mouth on purpose, would he? (The Romans would have talked about sticking your head into a lion’s mouth. Arminius had seen a lion at a beast show in Pannonia. Any god that could create a wildcat the size of a bear was a god to be wary of.)

Varus’ cavalry commander was a dour fellow named Vala Numonius. He eyed Arminius the way a snake eyed a toad. “I’m sure you will enjoy the wine at supper, eh?” he said.

The only reason you said yes to Varus was to guzzle our fine vintages. That wasn’t what he said, but it was what he meant. Arminius looked back just as coldly; the Romans often scorned someone who let his temper run away with him. “I like beer about as well,” he said in a wintry voice, adding, “I’m no water-drinker. You ask for a flux of the bowels if you do that when you don’t have to.”

“He’s got you there!” Quinctilius Varus said with a chuckle. “You can’t very well tell him he’s wrong, either.”

“No, sir,” Numonius answered tonelessly. That quiet reply didn’t mean he agreed. Oh, no. It meant he despised Arminius all the more, but he didn’t feel like showing it. A German would have. But the Roman was a serpent, all right. He tried to make himself invisible in the grass, but he’d poison you if you stepped on him.

Varus either took no notice of Numonius’ unhappiness or affected not to see it. “Well, let’s go back,” he said. “You have a horse, Arminius?”

“Yes, sir,” the German said. He vaulted into the saddle without bothering to ask for a leg-up. It was less of a feat than it might have been; he was a big man getting up onto a small horse. Standing next to the Romans, he was taller than any of them. Riding with them, he was the shortest man in the group. They noticed as soon as he did. Their chuckles said they liked it.

Arminius shrugged. Yes, he craved a charger like the one Vala Numonius rode. But he was still himself, the Romans still themselves. Had he been sitting on a short stool while they used high ones, he still would have been taller than they were. And so he was now, whether they liked it or not.

They didn’t have much to say to one another or to him as they all rode back to the Roman encampment in the German heartland. Their glances his way told him they would have liked to talk about him, but their silence proclaimed that they remembered he spoke good Latin.

The Roman sentries frankly stared at him when he rode in with Varus and Vala Numonius and the rest of the Romans. Arminius didn’t think he could behave haughtily toward the Roman officers in whose company he found himself. Sentries? They were a different story. He affected not to notice them as he went by.

“Miserable scut!” one of the common soldiers growled.

“Who does he think he is?” another said. Maybe they didn’t know he could follow their language. More likely, they just didn’t care. Unlike their superiors, they weren’t hypocrites. When they didn’t like somebody, they didn’t try to hide it.

Quinctilius Varus’ Greek slave looked surprised to see Arminius in the company of his master. The weedy little man - Aristocles was his name, Arminius remembered - somehow contrived to look down on Romans as well as Germans. Varus and the legionaries here knew it, too, but for reasons beyond Arminius’ ken they failed to get angry. Come to that, he’d seen the same thing with the few Greeks he’d met in Pannonia. He didn’t understand it, but he was sure it was real.

“I’ll let the cooks know we have a . . . distinguished guest,” Aristocles said.

“By all means. Thank you.” Quinctilius Varus didn’t notice the slave’s discreet pause -or, if he did, he pretended not to. Yes, Romans were master dissemblers.

He noticed Aristocles’ hesitation. He knew what it meant, too. Aristocles thought he would have got angry if he heard something like We have a hairy barbarian eating with us tonight. Well, the Greekling wasn’t wrong.

“Oh, Aristocles!” Varus called when his slave had already taken a couple of steps away.

The man perforce stopped. “Yes, sir?”

“Bring us some wine when you come back. It’s been a long day. We can all use some refreshment.”

“Of course, sir.” This time, Aristocles succeeded in disappearing.

Of course, sir. What else could a slave say? The Germans kept slaves, too - what folk didn’t? Theirs, though, were less like to be body servants, more likely to be farmers who owed their masters a share of what they raised. A German master was less likely to beat or whip a slave than a Roman was. But a German was more likely to lose his temper and kill a man he owned. And why not? It wasn’t as if he had to pay any penalty for doing it.

If the Romans got their way, they’d turn all the Germans from the Rhine to the Elbe into slaves - maybe even farther, if they thought their legions could bring it off. They’d already enslaved more lands, more peoples, than most Germans had ever imagined. Arminius remained determined he wouldn’t let them do that to his folk.