“A god has hold of him,” one of the other Germans said to another. The second warrior nodded. That was what possession meant, wasn’t it?
Arminius didn’t think he was in a god’s clutches. He just wanted Varus. Anything that stood between him and the Roman had better watch out. And, since the legionaries standing in the way couldn’t watch out, they fell, one after another. How much time had they bought their commander? Too much? It had better not be too much!
“Onward!” Arminius roared, hoping he wasn’t too late.
Night was falling, literally and figuratively. When the end came, the best you could do was face it with style. Publius Quinctilius Varus looked around. The end was coming, all right. The end, in fact, was just about here.
An officer with wild eyes and with gore from a missing right ear splashed all over that side of his mailshirt staggered out of the ruination ahead. Varus was shocked to recognize Ceionius. The military tribune had always been so neat, so spick-and-span. No more, no more.
“Let’s surrender, your Excellency!” Ceionius cried. “If we give up now, maybe the Germans will let us live!”
Even at the end of all things, some people could still cling to illusions. Varus had clung to his much too long, but he was free of them at last. As gently as he could, he shook his head. “It’s no use any more,” he said. “We might as well fight as long as we can.”
“But - “ Ceionius said.
“No.” Quinctilius Varus cut him off. “Do as you please for yourself, and good luck to you. But the legions will not surrender.”
“You cursed stupid old fool!” Ceionius shouted. Varus bowed his head, accepting that. With a howl of despair, Ceionius dashed off toward the swamp. Maybe he’d get away. Maybe he’d find a German who would take his surrender and let him live as a slave. Maybe - but Varus didn’t believe it for a moment.
An embattled centurion not far away shouted for men to go forward and hold off the barbarians a little longer. Quinctilius Varus took him by the arm. The man jumped. His sword twitched, then stopped. Varus realized he’d almost died a little sooner than he’d intended. Well, what difference would it have made? Not much, not now.
He said what he needed to say to the centurion: “I’m sorry. I made a mistake, and we’re all paying for it. My fault - no one else’s. I am sorry.”
“Too late for that, don’t you think?” the other Roman growled.
“Too late for everything,” Varus agreed.
“Ah, bugger it,” the centurion said. “Too late for everything is right. What do you aim to do now?”
“Die,” Varus said simply.
“Want me to do the honors?”
“My slave will attend to it,” Varus replied. “But if you’d be kind enough to take him off quickly after I’m gone, I’d be grateful, and so would he.”
“I’ll tend to it,” the centurion promised. “And then I’ll look for somebody to do the same for me.”
“Thanks,” Varus said, and then, raising his voice till he sounded almost gay, “Aristocles! I’ve found someone to kill you!”
“Oh, thank you, your Excellency!” Relief filled the little Greek’s voice. “Better one of our own than . . . this.”
His wave took in the madness all around them. The Germans would have assailed them sooner, but a whole great swarm of the barbarians were plundering the baggage train, which wasn’t far behind. Some of the Germans guzzled wine. Others stuffed themselves with barley bread. Still others led off pack horses and murdered the slaves who’d tended them. All the barbarians seemed to be having a rare good time.
Here and there, small groups of Romans fought on. But there was no room for the legionaries to make war as they usually did, and the Germans, who were used to fighting as individuals, had all the better of it.
“I’ll be glad when I’m dead,” the centurion said. “Then I won’t see the savages steal our eagles.”
“I’m sorry,” Varus said again. He knew what the eagles meant to the men who served under them. Three legions were going down here. Was it any wonder their eagles would be lost?
A spear flew through the air. It pierced the soft ground and stood quivering only a few cubits from Varus’ feet. Aristocles said, “Not meaning to rush, sir, but I don’t think we should wait much longer.”
“No, no. Neither do I. If anyone here ever sees Augustus, tell him I’m sorry, too,” Varus said. He drew his sword. He’d never used it in war here - the first blood it would drink in Germany would be his own. He handed it to his pedisequus. “Here you go, Aristocles. I daresay you’ve dreamt of doing this for years. Strike hard!”