Give Me Back My Legions(105)
Varus heard legionaries shouting “Sigimerus!” louder and louder and more and more insistently. What he didn’t hear was Arminius’ father answering. “Where could he have got to?” Varus said.
“He doesn’t seem to be anywhere close by,” Aristocles replied, which wasn’t what the Roman governor wanted to hear.
A little later, the horseman Varus had first asked to find Sigimerus came back and said the same thing in different words: “Sorry to have to tell you, sir, but curse me if it doesn’t look like the miserable bugger’s gone and given us the slip.”
“But how could he?” Quinctilius Varus’ wave took in the thousands of marching legionaries. “So many of us, only the one of him.”
The cavalryman shrugged stolidly. “Wouldn’t have been that hard - begging your pardon, sir, but it wouldn’t. Suppose he goes off into the woods a couple of hours ago. If anybody asks him, he says he’s easing himself or something like that. But chances are nobody even cares. He doesn’t mean anything to ordinary soldiers except for being one more nuisance they’ve got to keep an eye on.”
“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.