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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 Pa
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 ski
“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 pedisequus flinch 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 me such 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 did have 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 Pa
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 ghastly weather! 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.”