Give Me Back My Legions(90)

He bowed to the wide-eyed Chauci. “He was as brave as any of you,” he said. “I don’t think I ever saw a man die so well. May the gods give his spirit peace.”

“May it be so.” Alcus’ brother spoke for his fellow tribesmen. “You downed him in a fair fight, where he had a like chance to slay you.” He eyed the other Chauci. “Let no one here claim otherwise.”

A few of the man’s tribesmen stirred, but no one challenged him. No one challenged Arminius, either. That relieved him. He didn’t want a blood feud with the Chauci. The Germans could fight among themselves later. They needed to join together now to drive the Romans beyond the Rhine.

And then what? Arminius wondered. Gaul was supposed to be a rich country, richer than Germany. The Romans hadn’t ruled there for even a lifetime yet. Old men remembered when the Gauls were still their own masters. Several German tribes had tried to take new lands west of the Rhine. The Gauls weren’t strong enough to stop them. Unfortunately, the Romans always had been.

If the Romans were cast out of Germany, though, wouldn’t they also be thrown into disarray in Gaul? Then the Germans could burst forth in a vast wandering of peoples. They could lay hold of all the living space they craved and deserved.

And, with the Romans all topsy-turvy, who could stop the German tribes? No one, Arminius thought exultantly. No one at all!

Shoveling. Chopping. Hammering. Sawing. Endless profanity and obscenity. By now, Quinctilius Varus was far more familiar with the sounds that went into making a legionary encampment than he’d ever dreamt he would be. Like the phoenix, Mindenum was rising from its own ashes once more. Varus remembered thinking it would make a fine provincial town one day.

The only trouble was, he didn’t want even the finest provincial town. He wanted Rome as a lover longed for his beloved. He wasn’t perfectly faithful to Rome. Alexandria would have done. So would Antioch, from which he’d ruled Syria. And if Athens was good enough for his son, it was good enough for him as well.

Mindenum wouldn’t make an Athens, an Antioch, or an Alexandria for the next two thousand years. And Mindenum wouldn’t make a Rome for . . . well, forever.

But it would make a place from which to administer Germany for another summer. One of these years, Varus supposed it would make a place from which to administer Germany the year around. He devoutly hoped somebody else would govern Germany by then. If a man wasn’t allowed to return to even the dubious civilization of Vetera ... he would be a mighty unhappy man after a while.

He would if he was anything like Varus, anyhow. Some stolid soldier might enjoy the kind of town Mindenum would be by then. Plenty of officers seemed to like Vetera well enough. No accounting for taste - or lack of taste.

“Would you care for a cup of wine, sir?” By the slight slur in Aristocles’ voice, he’d already had a cup of wine, or several cups, himself. He went on to explain why: “If you drink a bit, you don’t notice the racket so much. Or at least I don’t.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Varus said. “Why don’t you make it a cup of neat wine, as a matter of fact?”

“I’ll do that, sir.” The pedisequus winked. “Turning into a German, are you?”

“By the gods, I hope not!” Varus exclaimed. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, Aristocles, but what did I do to deserve that?”

“Well, sir, the next German I see who likes his wine watered will be the first. Be right back for you.” Aristocles hurried away.

Rome. Alexandria, Varus thought longingly. Antioch. Athens. His nearest approach to Athens was a Greek slave here in Mindenum. That wasn’t close enough. And the slave was bringing him neat wine at his own request: not only un-Greek but un-Roman as well.

The trouble was, in Mindenum neat wine was medicinal. Anything that helped you forget you were in Mindenum for a little while was medicinal. He would have used poppy juice if the physicians could have spared it. It was expensive, but he had no better uses for his silver. Still, the reason it was expensive was that it was the only remedy for real, physical pain. He could understand why the doctors didn’t care to use it for anything less.

Aristocles came back with the wine. “Your health, sir,” he said, handing Varus the cup.

“Wine will help my health.” The Roman governor poured a small libation on the rammed-earth floor. He drank, and smiled at the warmth sliding smooth down his throat. “Going back to Italy would help it even more.”

“Going back to Italy would help my health, too. Can we do that?” Aristocles practically quivered with eagerness.