Aristocles sighed. “If only the Pannonians hadn’t rebelled . . .”
“If, if, if,” Varus said, not because the pedisequus was wrong but because he was right. If Tiberius weren’t putting down the rising within the Empire’s borders, he would hold this post now. And if stern, unsmiling Tiberius were whipping the Germans into line, Augustus might well have sent Varus to Egypt.
Had Augustus sent Varus there, Aristocles would have gone along. The Greek sighed again, this time on a more resigned note. “Oh, well. What can you do, eh, your Excellency?”
That question looked for the answer, Not a thing. But Varus surprised his slave: “If I’m to make this a Roman province, I will make it a Roman province. The better the notion the natives have of what’s expected of them, the better Roman subjects they’ll make.”
“Er - yes.” Aristocles blinked. No, he hadn’t been looking for that or anything like that. “May your efforts be crowned with success.”
“I hope they will. I think they will. Centuries from now, I hope this will be as much Roman land as, say, Spain or Cisalpine Gaul. We’ll need hard work to make that happen, but I don’t believe any Roman here fears hard work,” Varus said.
Plenty of legionaries worked no harder than they had to. Varus took that for granted; legionaries were men like any others, but he also took for granted that their superiors would keep them working hard enough to do what needed doing. What else were officers for?
In his mind’s eye, Varus saw towns growing out of legionary encampments in Germany, as they’d done so many other places in the Empire. He saw gleaming marble temples to Rome’s gods - and to Germany’s, for, Druids and Jews aside, the Romans didn’t meddle with religion. He saw bathhouses and colonnaded market squares where citizens in togas talked over the latest news. He saw amphitheaters for chariot races and gladiatorial games and beast shows. He saw theaters where the locals could watch Plautus and Terence and mime shows. He saw schools and shoemakers, millers and scribes.
It could happen. It would happen, once the Germans got used to the idea of being part of something larger than themselves. What would stop it then? Nothing he could see.
True, the Germans still nailed the heads of men they’d slain to trees, as an offering to the spirits inside. But the Gauls had done the same thing till Caesar conquered them. For that matter, the untamed tribes in Britannia and Hibernia still did. The ones within the Empire’s borders were surprisingly civilized these days.
The Germans could be, too. All they needed was a firm hand and a little time.
VIII
Arminius had found himself another forest-screened vantage point from which to watch the Romans encroach on Germany. This one didn’t lie hard by the Rhine - the border between Germany and Gaul since Caesar checked the Germans’ westward wandering. This one was in the heart of his own folk’s fatherland. Now that spring had returned, so had the storks, rebuilding their old nests in dead trees. And so had the Romans, rebuilding their old encampment at Mindenum.
This time, Sigimerus had come with Arminius for a firsthand look at the men who aimed to despoil the Germans of their freedom. What Arminius’ father saw impressed him - against his will, but it did. Arminius understood that grudging respect; it was a large part of what he felt about the Romans, too.
“They work hard, don’t they?” Sigimerus said. “And they work fast.”
“So they do, both,” Arminius agreed.
His father scowled. “If you go behind a tree to ease yourself and them come back to watch them again, the palisade will have grown some while you were pissing.”
“They wouldn’t be so dangerous if they didn’t have a good notion of what they were doing,” Arminius said. “They’ve conquered many other folk. They know how to go about it. If they don’t make any mistakes, I fear they’ll win here, too. They’re winning in Pannonia, no matter how-strong and how stubborn the rebels are there.”
“And you helped them.” Sigimerus sounded reproachful.
“I did.” Arminius nodded. “One man more or less made no difference in how the war would have turned out.”
“A hero -” his father began.
“No.” Arminius cut him off, even if that was rude. “One of the things I learned is that heroes don’t matter much, not the way they fight. Their soldiers might as well be farmers or potters. Everyone has his particular job to do, and he does it, and their armies mostly win.”
“Not here, by the gods!” Sigimerus exclaimed. “We’ve taken plenty of Roman heads.”
“I know, Father,” Arminius said gently. “But they’ve won their share of fights, too. If they hadn’t, would they be running up this encampment again? It’s a long way from the Rhine to here.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Sigimerus sounded glum. Arminius couldn’t blame him. Roman matter-of-factness at work had a daunting quality to it. The Romans went about their business no matter what, as if convinced nothing could withstand them as long as they kept at it. No, not as if: they were convinced of that. Arminius’ hitch as an auxiliary had taught him as much, along with many other things.
Here, some Romans felled trees. Others trimmed them. Others hoisted them into position on the palisade. Others dug a trench around the ring of sharpened tree trunks. Others took the spoil from the diggers’ work and shaped it into a rampart. And still others stood to arms, ready to ward the laboring legionaries against surprise attack.
“How can we stop them?” Sigimerus seemed gloomier still. “They’re like ants or bees, aren’t they? A big hive of Romans . . .” He ruefully shook his head.
“They can sting, all right,” Arminius said. “But you put your finger on it yourself - so can we. Somehow, we have to arrange it so we meet them on ground that gives us the edge. Then . . . we strike!”
“That sounds good, son. But a lot of things that sound good aren’t so easy to bring off,” Sigimerus said. “Just look at the swinehounds. They’re ready for anything. You can tell. They’d almost thank us for wading into them. It’d give them the chance to make us sorry we were ever born.”
“Too right. I remember an ambush in Pannonia. The Pannonians thought they were ambushing us while we made camp, but it turned out to work the other way around,” Arminius said. “Minucius - the military tribune who led us - picked a spot near some woods, so the enemy could gather there and think he was safe. But we figured they were in there, and we were out in the open, so we had plenty of room to deploy when they showed themselves. Oh, we made them pay!” He smiled at the memory - he’d fought well and his side had won, even if it was also the Romans’ side.
His father’s expression came closer to despair. “If they always take such pains, how will we ever beat them?”
“I said it before - they have to make a mistake,” Arminius answered. “They aren’t gods, Father. They’re men, and little men at that. They make mistakes all the time, just like us. We have to get them to make the kind of mistake that serves our need.”
“Yes, you said that before, too.” Sigimerus sounded like a man talking to a young, foolish son, trying to get him to see his foolishness. “What you haven’t told me is how you propose to do it.”
“I haven’t told you how because I don’t know.” Arminius sounded like the young, foolish son, admitting what he would sooner deny. “But there has to be a way.”
“Why?” Sigimerus asked relentlessly. “You want the Romans to be stupid, and you’ve just spent all this time explaining to me how clever they are. Clever people are clever because they mostly don’t do stupid things.”