“Well, why didn’t they keep enough of an eye on him to notice that he didn’t come out of the woods?” Varus demanded. The cavalryman’s guess struck him as alarmingly probable.
He got another shrug from the fellow. He could figure out what that meant even if the horseman didn’t feel like putting it into words. He himself might care about Sigimerus, if for no other reason than that the German was Arminius’ father. Ordinary Romans, though, wouldn’t be sorry if the barbarian disappeared.
“It wouldn’t look so bad if he’d told you he was going off to keep Arminius company,” Aristocles observed: one more thing Quinctilius Varus didn’t care to hear.
“Shall we beat the bushes for him, sir?” the cavalryman inquired. “The boys’d like that - you bet they would. More fun than hunting a wild boar or an aurochs, even if we couldn’t butcher him or roast him over hot coals once we caught him.” He smiled thinly. “Or maybe we could, though we wouldn’t eat him after he cooked.”
Reluctantly - reluctantly enough to surprise himself - Varus shook his head. “No, better not,” he said. “He may still have left for some innocent reason.”
“Huh,” the horseman said: a syllable redolent of skepticism.
“He may,” Varus insisted. “And Arminius is a true friend. He wouldn’t stay one if we hunted his father with hounds.”
This time, the cavalryman’s shrug suggested that he couldn’t care less. Varus was surprised again - surprised and dismayed - when Aristocles shrugged exactly the same way.
Before the Roman governor could say anything, a drop of water splashed down onto the back of his left hand. He stared at it in amazement. Where could it have come from? Well, you idiot, where else but . . . ? Varus looked up at the dark and gloomy heavens. Another raindrop hit him in the right eye.
“So much for Arminius as weather prophet,” Aristocles said, brushing at his cheek.
“He did warn me that he couldn’t promise.” Varus’ voice sounded hollow, even to himself. Before long, it started to rain in earnest.
“Come on!” Arminius called. “You can do it! We can do it! And we have to do it fast, too!”
German warriors built slabs of turf they’d cut into a concealing protective rampart on a hillside. Arminius also cut and carried and stacked. When he said we, he meant it. He wasn’t asking the men he’d called together to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.
He made a point of being very visible as he labored. The warriors weren’t from his small sworn band, or his father’s larger one. Most of them weren’t even Cherusci. They would have been battling amongst themselves if he hadn’t persuaded them to try to deal with the Romans first. They might yet, and he knew it. He had to keep them loyal to him till the legions arrived. After that . . .
After that, he would either be the biggest hero Germany had ever known - or he’d be dead. Whichever way things turned out, he wouldn’t have to worry about fractious followers after the fight.
“Arminius!” somebody called.
He threw his chunk of turf into place and waved a grimy hand. “Here I am!”
“They’re coming!” the German said. “They’re not far! And - “
Arminius didn’t let him go on. He yelled, “They’re coming!” himself. His voice reached all the working warriors. Some chieftains had that knack. Most Roman officers did. The Romans could teach a man how to make his voice bigger. Arminius had learned the trick from them.
How the Germans cheered! Suddenly, this seemed real to them. They could do it. They would do it. They were less steady than Roman legionaries, less steady even than Roman auxiliaries. But they had more fire. With the goal plainly there in front of them, they would work like men possessed. For how long? Arminius wondered. For once, the question answered itself. For long enough.
The messenger came up to him. “There’s something more,” the man said, in tones not meant for the rest of the men.
“What is it?” Arminius asked, also quietly.
“Your father is free of them,” the other German said. He looked back over his shoulder. It had started to rain; he couldn’t see very far. But he smiled as he turned towards Arminius. “In fact, here he is now.”
“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.”