“Where are your warriors?” Eggius asked bluntly. If they thought they could ambush his detachment, they’d be sorry - but not for long. And he had plenty of hostages, if it came to that.
But the old German pointed northwest. “There is trouble with the Chauci, may the gods cover their backsides with boils.” Eggius had to hide a grin; sure as sure, the native had learned his Latin from legionaries. “And so they go off to fight.”
“Good luck to them,” Eggius said. He’d fought the Chauci himself, and hadn’t enjoyed the experience. Even for Germans, they were rough, tough, and nasty. “I hope they help cut those buggers down to size.” He meant every word of that. If the Germans fought among themselves, they did the legions’ work for them. Every German some other German killed was a German the Romans didn’t have to worry about.
“It will be as the gods decide.” But after a moment, the barbarian added, “Any gods who would favor the Chauci over our tribe don’t deserve the sacrifices we give them.”
“There you go,” Eggius said as the German ambled off.
“Quinctilius Varus won’t be sorry to hear the savages are squabbling,” one of his aides said in a low voice.
“I was thinking the same thing,” the camp prefect answered. “For once, I won’t have to make up pretty stories when I write to him.”
“You don’t do much of that,” the junior officer said loyally.
“No more than I can help,” Eggius agreed. “If I told him what things were really like in this gods-forsaken province, he’d sack me. Not that I’d mind getting back to the real world - who would, by Venus’ pretty pink nipples? - but I hate to walk away from a job before it’s finished.”
Women - mostly women too old to be interesting - and youths brought out barley mush and beer. Eggius politely suggested that they kill some pigs, too. He would have got less polite had they said no, but they didn’t. The savory smell of roasting pork made spit flood into his mouth. Some soldiers said meat made them slow. He’d never felt that way himself.
He eyed the graybeard who’d come out to greet the Romans. “You fed us pretty well, I will say,” he allowed.
“We don’t want trouble right now,” the German said.
Right now? Eggius wondered. But probing what was likely just a slip of the tongue would only stir up trouble. He didn’t think it would tell him anything he didn’t already know. He teased the barbarian instead: “So you’re finally getting used to the notion of living inside the Empire, eh?”
The German looked back at him with eyes suddenly as cold and pale and flat as a sheet of ice. “Of course,” he said.
You lying bastard, Lucius Eggius thought. But the natives here didn’t have to like anything about submitting to Rome. They just had to do it. If they kept doing it long enough, their grandchildren would like it fine. And Eggius’ full belly told him they were getting used to doing it.
Rain drummed down on Mindenum. The Romans squelching along the encampment’s muddy, puddled streets swore at the miserable weather. Arminius had to work hard not to laugh at them.
They were used to winter rains. He’d seen that in Pannonia, which had weather like Germany’s. Spring and summer could be wet there, as they so often were here. The Romans, arrogant as usual, thought the pattern they were used to was the only natural one. Thinking that way only made them hate northern weather even more than they would have otherwise.
One of the legionaries twisted his fingers into the horned gesture they used against the evil eye. If he’d aimed it at Arminius, the German would have had to start a fight to salve his own honor. But the soldier shot his hand up at the sky. He might have been telling the gods they had no business letting it rain at this time of year.
They wouldn’t listen to him. No matter what he thought, rain in spring and summer was no prodigy, not in Germany. It happened all the time. The gods wouldn’t stop it on one Roman’s account; he reminded Arminius of a yappy little dog barking at his betters. No, the gods wouldn’t heed him. But they might - they just might - remember he’d been rude.
A wagon train came into the encampment: supplies fetched from the headwaters of the Lupia. If men had trouble getting through the mud, heavy wheeled wagons had far more. The wheels only tore up the ground worse. The oxen hauling the wains struggled forward one slow stride at a time. The soldiers guarding the wagon train had to shoulder wagons forward whenever they bogged down. By the mud soaking the men, they’d already done a lot of shouldering.
“Most excellent Arminius!”