But the sun was sinking in the west. Days were shorter than they had been in high summer. Some Romans might escape in the coming darkness. If Varus turned out to be one of them, Arminius promised himself he would kill the warrior who’d delayed him by talking back. That bonehead might not know what was important, but Arminius did.
Another determined group of Romans: determined enough to die on their terms rather than those of the Germans, anyhow. If that was what they wanted, Arminius and his comrades would oblige them. He struck and slashed like a man possessed. He split a scutum clean in half with a sword stroke, which was supposed to be impossible. The Roman holding what was left of the shield reeled away, terror and awe on his face. Arminius sprang after the fellow and cut him down.
“A god has hold of him,” one of the other Germans said to another. The second warrior nodded. That was what possession meant, wasn’t it?
Arminius didn’t think he was in a god’s clutches. He just wanted Varus. Anything that stood between him and the Roman had better watch out. And, since the legionaries standing in the way couldn’t watch out, they fell, one after another. How much time had they bought their commander? Too much? It had better not be too much!
“Onward!” Arminius roared, hoping he wasn’t too late.
Night was falling, literally and figuratively. When the end came, the best you could do was face it with style. Publius Quinctilius Varus looked around. The end was coming, all right. The end, in fact, was just about here.
An officer with wild eyes and with gore from a missing right ear splashed all over that side of his mailshirt staggered out of the ruination ahead. Varus was shocked to recognize Ceionius. The military tribune had always been so neat, so spick-and-span. No more, no more.
“Let’s surrender, your Excellency!” Ceionius cried. “If we give up now, maybe the Germans will let us live!”
Even at the end of all things, some people could still cling to illusions. Varus had clung to his much too long, but he was free of them at last. As gently as he could, he shook his head. “It’s no use any more,” he said. “We might as well fight as long as we can.”
“But - “ Ceionius said.
“No.” Quinctilius Varus cut him off. “Do as you please for yourself, and good luck to you. But the legions will not surrender.”
“You cursed stupid old fool!” Ceionius shouted. Varus bowed his head, accepting that. With a howl of despair, Ceionius dashed off toward the swamp. Maybe he’d get away. Maybe he’d find a German who would take his surrender and let him live as a slave. Maybe - but Varus didn’t believe it for a moment.
An embattled centurion not far away shouted for men to go forward and hold off the barbarians a little longer. Quinctilius Varus took him by the arm. The man jumped. His sword twitched, then stopped. Varus realized he’d almost died a little sooner than he’d intended. Well, what difference would it have made? Not much, not now.
He said what he needed to say to the centurion: “I’m sorry. I made a mistake, and we’re all paying for it. My fault - no one else’s. I am sorry.”
“Too late for that, don’t you think?” the other Roman growled.
“Too late for everything,” Varus agreed.
“Ah, bugger it,” the centurion said. “Too late for everything is right. What do you aim to do now?”
“Die,” Varus said simply.
“Want me to do the honors?”
“My slave will attend to it,” Varus replied. “But if you’d be kind enough to take him off quickly after I’m gone, I’d be grateful, and so would he.”
“I’ll tend to it,” the centurion promised. “And then I’ll look for somebody to do the same for me.”
“Thanks,” Varus said, and then, raising his voice till he sounded almost gay, “Aristocles! I’ve found someone to kill you!”
“Oh, thank you, your Excellency!” Relief filled the little Greek’s voice. “Better one of our own than . . . this.”
His wave took in the madness all around them. The Germans would have assailed them sooner, but a whole great swarm of the barbarians were plundering the baggage train, which wasn’t far behind. Some of the Germans guzzled wine. Others stuffed themselves with barley bread. Still others led off pack horses and murdered the slaves who’d tended them. All the barbarians seemed to be having a rare good time.
Here and there, small groups of Romans fought on. But there was no room for the legionaries to make war as they usually did, and the Germans, who were used to fighting as individuals, had all the better of it.
“I’ll be glad when I’m dead,” the centurion said. “Then I won’t see the savages steal our eagles.”
“I’m sorry,” Varus said again. He knew what the eagles meant to the men who served under them. Three legions were going down here. Was it any wonder their eagles would be lost?
A spear flew through the air. It pierced the soft ground and stood quivering only a few cubits from Varus’ feet. Aristocles said, “Not meaning to rush, sir, but I don’t think we should wait much longer.”
“No, no. Neither do I. If anyone here ever sees Augustus, tell him I’m sorry, too,” Varus said. He drew his sword. He’d never used it in war here - the first blood it would drink in Germany would be his own. He handed it to his pedisequus. “Here you go, Aristocles. I daresay you’ve dreamt of doing this for years. Strike hard!”
If Varus had little experience with the sword, Aristocles had none. A slave - a slave who wasn’t a gladiator, anyhow - caught with a blade commonly died a cruel death. Rome had seen too many slave uprisings and plots for anything else to seem safe. And so the skinny Greek held the blade as if it were a kitchen knife - and as if he didn’t know what to do with kitchen knives.
Sighing, Varus pulled up his tunic and ran his forefinger between two ribs on the left side of his chest. “Put it here and stick it in,” he said, as if he were a girl helping an eager boy lose his cherry. But you only did this once.
Aristocles set the sword in place. He gulped. He closed his eyes. With a horrible grimace, he shoved it forward.
It hurt. It hurt like nothing Varus had ever known before. He knew a certain pride that he didn’t pull away from the blade. He couldn’t help shrieking, though. When the sword came out, he fell to the ground and waited for the end.
It took longer than he’d hoped it would. From what he’d seen, dying always took longer than you hoped it would, and hurt worse. Blood filled his nose and mouth. He felt as if he were suffocating, but he was really drowning, drowning from the inside out.
Aristocles screeched. The centurion had struck him down from behind, by surprise. That wasn’t so bad. But, as Varus’ vision faded, he saw that the soldier needed a second stroke to finish the job. That wasn’t so good. But Aristocles was in no position to complain. And, after a bit, neither was Varus.
Arminius hadn’t slept for a day and a half, maybe longer. Excitement kept him going. He wondered if he’d ever sleep again.
It was all over now. Well, close enough. The Germans still hunted Roman stragglers through swamps and woods and fields. Sooner or later, they’d track down most of them and kill them. A few might get away. Arminius had stopped worrying about it. They would spread fear ahead of them, spread it all the way into Gaul. And behind the fear would come . . . Arminius.
Three legionary eagles lay at his feet. He knew what the eagles meant to Roman soldiers - knew as well as any German could, anyhow. They defended those eagles to the death. They had defended these eagles so, and now they were dead.