If Aristocles couldn’t find Ceionius, if he brought Lucius Eggius back instead . . . Varus wouldn’t be very happy about that. The two camp prefects were as different as chalk and cheese. You could reason with Ceionius, while Eggius, curse him, was as stubborn, as cross-grained, as any man ever born. He didn’t have nearly enough respect for his betters.
To the governor’s relief, his slave returned with Ceionius. “Hail, your Excellency!” the prefect said, saluting. “What do you need today?”
“I expect you’ll know, ah, reliable centurions in most of the detachments we’ve got wandering through Germany,” Varus said.
Lucius Eggius might not have caught his drift. Ceionius did. Leaning forward and lowering his voice, he asked, “Reliable in what way, sir?”
“If some of their superiors are trying to gild lead in their reports, that’s something I should hear about, don’t you think?” Varus said.
By the camp prefect’s vulpine expression, he did think so. “It’s something I ought to hear about, too,” Ceionius murmured. He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, sir, I’m sure I can find centurions like that. Quietly letting them know what you need will take a bit of doing, but I can manage it.”
“I thought you might be able to,” Varus said. “The more ways we have to learn what’s really going on, the better. And, as you say, best to do it under the rose.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir. Off the top of my head, I can think of three or four men who’d be perfect.” Sketching another salute, Ceionius hurried away.
Aristocles had listened, as discreetly as if he were part of the tent canvas. “Not bad, sir. Not bad at all,” he said.
“Who knows whether these field commanders truly are doing all the wonderful things they claim?” Varus said. “If some of them are lying and I can show they are, that will make all of them tighten up.”
“Just so.” Aristocles dipped his head in agreement. “Do you need anything else from me right now, sir?”
“No. You may go,” Varus said. The pedisequus vanished as smoothly and quickly as he’d manifested himself. Varus attacked his report for Augustus with renewed vigor. He might not tell Claudia Pulchra’s great-uncle things weren’t perfect here, but at least he could come closer to the truth himself.
Varus paused once more, muttering to himself. He was setting spies on his subordinates now, to make sure they did what they told him they were doing. He was a good enough administrator. Realistically, though, the Empire had plenty of others just as capable, even if they didn’t enjoy his connections.
Augustus, now, had long since proved he was one of a kind. No one else could run things the way he did. That being so, wouldn’t he have had men quietly keeping an eye on Varus and Germany all along?
What were they saying? How well did they think Rome was doing here? If they thought Varus was botching things, would he suddenly get a letter recalling him to Italy?
Would I be sorry if I did? Varus wondered. He would be sorry Augustus judged he’d failed - he would be especially sorry if Augustus shipped him to an island in the middle of the sea - but would he be sorry to get out of Germany?
“No,” he said firmly. With a sigh, he re-inked the pen and started writing again.
Lucius Eggius watched the old German come out of his village and approach the legionary detachment. Eggius kept his hand on his swordhilt. Even if this fellow was graying and balding, you never could tell with Germans.
But the native held up his right hand with the palm out to show it was empty. “Hail, Romans,” he called in fair Latin. “Come ahead, if you like. We have no quarrel with you.”
“Thanks,” Eggius answered. “Can you feed us?”
“Some,” the German said. “We are not rich. This is not a large village, either. But we will give you what we can.”
They would try to hold out on the legionaries. Lucius Eggius had heard that song often enough to know all the verses. Well, his men had got plenty of practice at squeezing out more than the barbarians felt like giving. And if the Germans didn’t like it, too bad.
“We will take what you can give,” Eggius said aloud. Several of his men grinned. A few of them chuckled. They’d take anything else they thought they needed, too. Again, what could the locals do about it?
“Come. Be welcome,” the old man said. He wasn’t going out of his way to make trouble, anyhow. Eggius wished the locals were this reasonable more often.
As soon as he got into the village, he figured out why nobody here felt like getting uppity. The place held plenty of women and girls of all ages, but only a handful of men between fifteen and fifty. Youths with downy cheeks, yes. Fogeys like this fellow who spoke Latin, yes. In between? No.