A servant gave the courier a cup of neat wine. “Much obliged,” the man said, and drank it down without blinking. How many winters up here had he gone through? Enough to get him used to strong wine, anyhow. The man led him away for something to eat.
“What does Augustus say, sir?” Aristocles asked.
“I don’t know.” Varus wondered if he wanted to know. But his right thumbnail lived a life of its own. It automatically dug under and flipped off the wax seal that held the sheet of papyrus closed. Varus held the letter out at arm’s length; his sight was lengthening. The same thing must have happened to Augustus, of course, but the letter was in his own hand - Varus recognized it at once.
When he didn’t go on right away, his pedisequus prompted him: “Well?” Aristocles was still sober, or close enough. He went on watering his wine, and wore a long, thick wool tunic and two pairs of socks for warmth.
“ ‘My dear Varus - I am glad to hear your first summer in Germany went well,’ “ Varus read, and breathed a sigh of relief that smoked in the air despite a charcoal brazier. He swigged from his goblet before going on: “‘You seem worried when you tell me what your tax collectors brought in.’ “
That made him swig again, drain the goblet dry, and fill it once more with the dipper plunged into the wine jar. He’d done his best not to sound worried, to treat the Roman soldiers’ sorry performance as nothing but routine. His best proved not good enough. Augustus hadn’t ruled the Roman world for more than a generation because he was blind to what lay below the surface.
Quinctilius Varus drank once more. His eves crossed. He knew he would have a thick head come morning, but morning seemed a million miles away. His slave made a wordless, impatient noise. Varus didn’t want to find out what Augustus said next, but knew he had no choice: “ ‘Lose no sleep over it. The idea is to get the barbarians used to paving taxes. Once they see thev have to, collecting more and more will grow easier year by year. Keep up the good work.’ “
“He really says that, sir?” Aristocles sounded astonished.
“He really does.” Varus couldn’t get angry at the Greek - he sounded astonished, too. Augustus was a notorious cheese-parer. He always had been. To have him write that he didn’t care how much Varus collected in Germany . . . proved he was also a statesman.
“What else does he say?” the pedisequus inquired.
“Who cares?” Varus said, and he laughed raucously. Augustus wasn’t angry at him! Next to that, everything else shrank to insignificance. But he finished the letter: “ ‘The weather here is tolerable - better, I daresay, than what you have. The harvest was good, for which I thank Ceres and the other gods. No danger of hunger this year. Tiberius seems to be bringing order to Pannonia at last, and that is also good news. I am as well as a man of my years can be. I hope the same holds true for you. Next year, you will go on breaking the Germans to the saddle.’“ Below that was nothing but a scrawled signature.
It sounded like Augustus: straightforward, to the point, with hardly a wasted word. The closing that got back to the business at hand was very-much Augustus’ style, too. He never left anyone in doubt about what he expected - unless doubt worked to his advantage, of course. Here, it didn’t.
“Let it snow!” Aristocles exclaimed. “We are warmed from the south, so let it snow as much as it please!”
“That’s right!” Varus said. “As long as Augustus is pleased, the whole world is pleased!” No matter how cold it was, it felt like spring already.
Varus was not a small man, not by Roman standards. All the same, he thought he’d get a crick in his neck from staring up at one enormous visiting German after another. This particular fellow, who gave his name as Masua, was even bigger than most: he stood several digits above six feet. He wore a bearskin cloak. With shaggy hair, unshaven cheeks and chin and upper lip, and blunt features, he looked like a bear himself.
“Sit down, sit down.” Varus waved him to a stool, not least so he wouldn’t need to keep looking up at him.
“I thank you, sir.” Masua spoke slow, deliberate, guttural Latin. The stool creaked under his weight. He was bear-wide through the shoulders, too. A servant brought in wine. Masua took a cup with murmured thanks. So did Varus. He didn’t mix in water, but he did sip cautiously. He didn’t want to get drunk so early. By the way Masua gulped, he didn’t care.
“You are one of Segestes’ men, you told my aides,” Varus said.
“That is right.” Masua’s big head bobbed up and down. “I am one of his sworn band. I fight for him and do what he needs. One of the things he needs now is someone to deliver you a message. He chose me.” Pride rang in the tremendous German’s voice.