He turned his back. The cloak made him seem even more bearish from behind than from before. He should have gone through polite formulas of leave taking. Arminius would have - Varus was sure of that. Masua didn’t bother. Varus didn’t demand them of him, either. The Roman governor was still trying to decide whether the German had been foolish or profound or both at once.
Lucius Eggius watched legionaries march and countermarch. If you didn’t keep them working through the winter, they wouldn’t be worth a moldy grain of barley come spring. “I can’t hear you!” Eggius bawled, pitching his voice to carry through the bawdy ballad the soldiers were singing.
They made more noise yet. The song bragged about the havoc Varus would make in Germany and among the blond German women. As far as Eggius knew, the general was pretty moderate when it came to wenching. Maybe the legionaries knew that, too. It didn’t matter one way or the other. You needed a good, bouncy song to keep you picking them up and laying them down. The tune for this one went back to Julius Caesar’s day. Eggius had heard some of the old words when he was new-come to
the army. They were raunchy, too.
The men divided in half and went at one another with pointless spears and wooden swords. You couldn’t get killed in drills like those, not unless you were mighty unlucky. But you could get knocked around pretty well. A broken arm, a banged knee, a sprained ankle, assorted bruises and cuts . . . about what you’d expect from a good afternoon’s workout.
Everyone seemed spirited enough in the mock combat. That wasn’t what bothered Eggius about it. As the surgeons tended to men who’d got hurt, he said, “The trouble with this is, the Germans don’t fight the way we do.”
“Well, you can’t expect us to fight like Germans,” another officer said. “Then our men who were aping the barbarians would learn all the wrong things.”
“I suppose so,” Eggius said, “but now our men who are fighting as Romans are learning all the wrong things.”
“No, they’re not,” the other man insisted. “They’re fighting the way we’re supposed to fight, the way we’ve always fought.”
“Yes, but they’re not fighting the enemies we’re going to tight, Ceionius,” Lucius Eggius said. “A defense that works fine against a Roman with a scutum and a gladius will leave you shorter by a head if you go up against a German and his whacking great slashing sword.”
“As long as we fight the way we’re supposed to, the other buggers can do whatever the demon they want,” Ceionius said. “We’ll beat ‘em. We always have - we’re Romans. I expect we always will.”
Eggius started to say something pungent. Then he hesitated. No doubt the other fellow was a fool. But he was a fool who spouted stuff they tried to ram clown your throat every day of the month. Best to go at him with care. “All I can tell you is that we’ve been screwing around here for twenty years, and we aren’t much closer to putting them into the yoke than we were when we started.”
“Oh, I think you’re wrong,” Ceionius said. “We’re wearing them down a little at a time. They have a lot of savage customs to unlearn -
“Like killing Roman soldiers by the wagonload,” Eggius said dryly.
The other Roman looked pained. “They’re holding markets. Those will turn into towns one day,” he said. “They’re holding assemblies, some of them with men from more than one tribe coming together.”
“So they can plot against us better,” Eggius said. “Have you heard what that one bastard who used to be an auxiliary is doing? Going all over everywhere and trying to tire up all the barbarians against us at once.”
“I’ve heard it. I don’t believe it.” Pointedly, Ceionius added, “His Excellency the governor doesn’t believe it, either.”
So there, Eggius thought. If Varus didn’t believe something, it didn’t behoove any of his officers to believe it. Which, most of the time, was all very well, but what if something Varus didn’t believe turned out to be true? Well, in that case we’ve got a problem.
“I hear the fellow who accused this German has a family squabble with him,” Ceionius said in lofty tones.
“Yeah, I heard that, too. So what?” Eggius said. “Suppose somebody ran off with jour daughter. Would you give him a big kiss? Or would you give him one where it’d do the most good?” He cupped his hands over his privates.
“Well, of course I’d pay back an enemy as soon as I saw the chance,” the other officer replied. “But that’s the point. Because they’re enemies, we can’t trust anything the one barbarian says about the other.”
“Segestes wouldn’t lie about something that big. Even in the wintertime, we’ve got people in Germany,” Lucius Eggius said. “We can get a pretty good notion of who’s trying to pull a fast one. Did the governor ask any of our people about that?”
“Not so far as I know. He doesn’t think it’s necessary,” Ceionius said.
Eggius’ sigh made fog spring forth from his mouth and nose.
“Here’s hoping he knows what he’s thinking about.”
Segestes clasped Masua’s hand when the younger German came back to his steading. “Welcome! Welcome, by the gods!” Segestes said. “Come in. Rest yourself. I hope your journey went well?”
“I’m here again.” Masua’s voice was harsh and flat. A slave hurried up with a mug of beer. Masua nodded thanks, took it, and drained half of it at one long pull. After sucking foam out of his mustache, he said, “Varus wouldn’t believe me - wouldn’t believe you. And Arminius’ friends tried to waylay me on the way home, but I gave them the slip.” He spoke with somber pride.
“Why wouldn’t the Roman believe you?” Segestes scratched his head, trying to fathom that. “Have evil spirits stolen his wits?”
“He wouldn’t believe you about Thusnelda, either.” His sworn man got to the bottom of the mug (Roman work, bought from a trader coming out of Gaul) in a hurry. The slave looked at Segestes, who nodded. The slave took the mug from Masua and carried it away to refill it.
“No, he wouldn’t.” The thought of Thusnelda lying in Arminius’ arms still filled Segestes with rage. He made himself push that rage aside, even though it was the heaviest burden he’d ever set himself against. “Not believing me there is one thing. If a man steals a woman, it’s a family affair. It is important to the people involved and to their friends. But if a man goes through Germany calling for a rising against the Romans . . . How can Varus not believe that?”
“He does not believe Arminius would ever do such a wicked thing.” By the expression on Masua’s face, he might have been smelling bad meat. The slave came back with the freshened mug. Again, Masua drank eagerly. He might have been trying to get the taste of bad meat out of his mouth, too.
“Ha!” Segestes said, a noise that was anything but the laugh it sounded like. “Arminius will do anything he thinks he can get away with. And we know what he thinks of Rome, and of Roman rule in Germany.”
“We do, yes. This Quinctilius Varus, he will not see it.” Masua sounded disgusted, for which Segestes could hardly blame him.
“Strange. He does not seem to be a stupid man,” Segestes said. “The Roman king, this Augustus whose face is on their coins, would not send a stupid man to do such an important job as this.”
“He is stupid enough. Otherwise, he would hearken to you.” As a sworn man should be, Masua was loyal.
Segestes scratched his chin. “Have you ever known a man who can-not tell red from green? There they are, plain as can be in your eyes, but they look the same to him.”