Give Me Back My Legions(116)

“Obliged,” the other man said. “I think his mailshirt will just about fit me. Sandals, too. The Romans make good stuff. Why can’t we do more things like that?”

“I don’t know,” Arminius said. “But they didn’t know how to win this battle - we did. That counts for more, because now all the good stuff they made is ours.”

“Sure is,” the other warrior agreed. “Get right down to it, and that’s what counts most.”

“That’s what counts for everything,” Arminius said. He looked around. Things seemed to be under control. The counterattacking Romans had done as much as flesh and blood could do - and now almost all of them had met the universal fate of flesh and blood. The last few still on their feet kept fighting hard. They wanted to make the Germans kill them outright, and it looked as if they would get their wish.

Which reminded Arminius . . . “Where is Varus?” he asked. But the question answered itself. Anybody who’d seen one Roman marching column had seen them all. The commander always placed himself in the same position: not far ahead of the baggage train.

Arminius’ grin was gleefully feral. How he wanted to take the Roman general alive! How the gods would love to drink Varus’ blood, to savor his screams as he died a digit’s width at a time. How Arminius himself wanted to gloat in Varus’ face. The Roman, fool that he was, had trusted him. How you could trust anyone who wasn’t your closest kin . . . Well, Varus had done it. And he’d paid, and Rome had paid with him. Rome would go right on paying for generations to come. Varus wouldn’t last that long.

The last legionary from that counterattacking band went down, a spear through his throat. He’d got himself a quick end. On this field, that made him one of the lucky ones. Arminius didn’t want Varus to share his luck.

“Come on!” he called to the Germans around him. He pointed forward. “Let’s go grab the Roman general!”

That drew less eagerness than he’d hoped. “Why bother?” one of them said. “He’ll get killed pretty soon any which way. And the plunder’s bound to be better here. The plunder here is better than anything!” Several other warrior solemnly nodded.

“We have to make sure,” Arminius insisted. “Besides, I want him alive. The gods in the sacred grove deserve their fair share of his suffering.”

A few of the men nodded, but only a few. The fellow who preferred looting said, “If the gods want him taken alive, they’ll fix it so he is. They don’t need us to do it right now.”

“I’ve got another reason for you to come with me,” Arminius told him.

“Oh? What’s that?” the other German asked.

“I’ll cut your lazy, cowardly heart out if you don’t,” Arminius said.

He braced himself, wondering if he’d have a fight on his hands in the next instant. The other German said, “I’ve killed enough Romans so no man can call me a coward. Lazy? Why not? Only a fool or a slave works harder than he must.”

Since Arminius felt the same way, he had trouble arguing with that. The Romans wouldn’t have agreed; they’d done great things with hard work. But what had it got them in Germany, here at the end? Only death, three legions’ worth of death.

“Come with me, then,” Arminius said. “Kill some more Romans. That still needs doing. And if you do it well, I’ll reward you from my own share of the booty.”

“Now you’re talking like a man!” the warrior exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

Others came with them, too. Even so, Arminius noticed fighters sidling off so they wouldn’t have to quit stealing. He swore at them, but sometimes there was no help for a situation. And the men he did have would probably be enough.

They had to shove their way through more plundering Germans. A couple of times, they almost had to fight their way through their countrymen. Yes, the baggage train drew his folk the way nectar drew bees. And, here and there, small groups of legionaries kept on fighting. A few of them, as mad for things as the Germans, seemed to be defending their personal property. Much good it would do them when they were dead! And dead they were, in short order.

But the sun was sinking in the west. Days were shorter than they had been in high summer. Some Romans might escape in the coming darkness. If Varus turned out to be one of them, Arminius promised himself he would kill the warrior who’d delayed him by talking back. That bonehead might not know what was important, but Arminius did.

Another determined group of Romans: determined enough to die on their terms rather than those of the Germans, anyhow. If that was what they wanted, Arminius and his comrades would oblige them. He struck and slashed like a man possessed. He split a scutum clean in half with a sword stroke, which was supposed to be impossible. The Roman holding what was left of the shield reeled away, terror and awe on his face. Arminius sprang after the fellow and cut him down.