Tubero nudged the surgeon he’d brought with him, a balding Greek with a protuberant wart on one cheek. ‘It’s not too severe yet, governor,’ he said. ‘Only three men have died, but it will be far more if the affected cohort isn’t isolated at once.’
Varus wanted to scream, Why this, now? Dysentery was a serious matter. ‘Do so at once, but position their tents close to the camp rampart. Use the healthy men in the cohort to dig the ditch and move the tents.’ There wasn’t much more he could do, thought Varus, but it might be best if he didn’t go hunting. If the disease spread any further …
It was as if Tubero had discerned his reluctance to stay. ‘I can manage the situation, sir,’ he offered. ‘I’ll oversee everything, and report back to you this evening.’
Varus hesitated. How hard is it to isolate a cohort? he wondered and said with a smile, ‘Excellent, tribune. I leave things in your capable hands. We shall speak again later.’ He advanced from behind his desk. With confused faces, the officers stood to attention. ‘As you were,’ he said, sweeping past. ‘Aristides will take note of your queries, and Vala will deal with them later.’
‘Sir-’ protested a senior centurion, but Varus had gone. The last of his guilt evaporated as the officers vanished from sight. He spent his life enslaved to the demands of others. The world wouldn’t end if he wasn’t there for a day, the dysenteric cohort would not all die, and his legions wouldn’t fall apart. He’d be back at his desk tomorrow and, if needs be, he would stay at it until the backlog of administration had been cleared. Even the idea of that living hell wasn’t enough to take the spring from Varus’ step as he emerged from the principia. The sun wasn’t that high in the sky, and there was a hint of cloud cover moving in from the east. The day wouldn’t get too hot, and Arminius was a man of his word – he’d be waiting for Varus still, by his tent lines.
Varus’ high spirits lasted until the headquarters was perhaps fifty paces behind him. ‘Governor! Governor Varus!’ called a voice. Hunching his shoulders, Varus stopped. The junior officer responsible – an optio, by his appearance – hurried over at once. Varus’ hopes that he might yet get away rallied – he’d put a flea in the upstart’s ear damn quick – before slumping once more. The brawny, silver-haired chieftain dogging the optio’s footsteps was none other than Segestes, leader of part of the Cheruscan tribe. Segestes was a fierce ally of Rome, which made him a valuable asset, but he was also a rambling, loud-mouthed boor with a love of his own voice. Varus despised him.
‘Governor!’ Segestes called. ‘A word, if I could.’
Wishing for the power to make himself invisible, Varus instead pulled on his politician’s cloak. The smile, the cordial salute, the warm tone. ‘Segestes. What an unexpected pleasure. In ordinary circumstances, I would invite you to share a cup of wine, but I have a pressing engagement-’
‘That can wait,’ interrupted Segestes.
Varus took a breath of outrage. Ally or no, Roman citizen or no, he would not be spoken to in this manner, in particular by someone who resembled one of his elderly, hirsute house slaves.
‘Want us to get rid of him, sir?’ asked the lead soldier in his escort. There was a hopeful look in his eyes.
Varus was about to give the order, but Segestes beat him to it. ‘My pardon, governor,’ he called out. ‘I did not mean to cause offence. It’s urgent that I speak with you.’
Varus waved a hand at his escort. ‘Stand down.’
The optio stepped aside, allowing Segestes past. Close up, the sweat beading his brow was evident. He bent his head towards Varus. ‘Governor.’
‘Segestes. It has been too long,’ lied Varus. ‘What has brought you to the camp this fine morning, and in such a hurry?’
Segestes’ wild eyes roamed over Varus’ escort and the optio. ‘We need to talk – alone. There are far too many sets of ears here. How about your headquarters?’
Varus pictured the queue of officers. ‘Out of the question.’
Segestes’ face grew pained, even frantic. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone, governor. Please.’
Varus was about to refuse, but Segestes’ uncharacteristic humility – and his distress – piqued his interest. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered his escort. The soldier began to object, and Varus silenced him with a look. ‘You too,’ he directed the optio. ‘Walk with me, Segestes. If we converse in low tones, no one will hear.’
Segestes’ disgruntlement eased, and he fell into step with Varus as he paced along the via praetoria. There were incredulous looks from everyone they met. Ordinary soldiers, officers low- and high-ranking: none could believe that the governor of Germania was strolling about the camp with a tribal chieftain. Varus wondered if it had been rash to leave his escort behind, or to leave Segestes with his sword. He discounted the idea in the same breath. Segestes – an old man in poor physical shape – wasn’t here to assassinate him.
‘I bring you calamitous news,’ muttered Segestes.
Unease stirred in Varus’ belly. ‘Go on.’
‘Arminius is a traitor.’
Despite his shock, Varus kept walking. Ignoring a surprised mule-handler, he stared at Segestes. ‘A traitor. Arminius.’
‘As the gods are my witness, it’s true.’
‘Arminius is as loyal as you are! He has served the empire since he was a boy, fought with the legions for nigh on a decade. Augustus saw fit to elevate him to the equestrian class.’ Varus could reel off Arminius’ list of achievements by rote.
‘He has done all of those things,’ agreed Segestes, ‘but he’s also a treacherous, scheming whoreson. He plans to attack your legions as they return to Vetera.’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Heads turned, and Varus realised that he had raised his voice. He leaned close to Segestes. ‘What you’re talking about … it’s insane.’
‘It may seem that way, governor, but it’s true. Every word.’
‘How have you come by this information?’
‘A warrior whom I trust, whom I have known my entire life, heard Arminius talking to Inguiomerus, trying to persuade him to join forces. It seems that Arminius has been recruiting chieftains among the tribes for some time. Knowing my loyalty to the empire, the dog didn’t approach me. The idea of twenty thousand spears behind his banner might have won over other chiefs, but not I,’ Segestes said, his jaw jutting.
Inguiomerus led another faction of the Cherusci tribe. Varus regarded him in the same light as Segestes. Loyal. This unwelcome revelation felt like part of a bad dream. ‘Twenty thousand warriors?’
‘That’s what he said. As well as his portion of the Cherusci, the Chatti and Bructeri are with him, and the Usipetes. The Angrivarii and Marsi too.’
This was the proof that Segestes’ source was lying, or that the old man was rambling, thought Varus. ‘You expect me to believe that six tribes have united? Arminius is many things, but he’s not a worker of magic, to persuade men to set aside vendettas that go back generations.’
‘The warrior who told me was not lying.’
‘I would give more weight to your words if you brought before me someone to corroborate them,’ challenged Varus. ‘The warrior himself perhaps.’
Segestes’ face darkened. ‘He would not come.’
‘Perhaps that’s because you imagined him,’ challenged Varus.
‘I’m old but no dotard!’ protested Segestes. ‘It was too dangerous for him to accompany me.’
‘I dined with Inguiomerus not seven days since,’ said Varus. ‘It’s hard to imagine a more pleasant evening, or a steadier ally of Rome.’
‘Looks deceive, governor. You are in great danger.’ Segestes clutched at Varus’ arm.
Varus regarded Segestes’ hand as if it were a fresh-landed splatter of horse shit. Realising that he had gone too far, Segestes released his grip. ‘You must listen to me.’