Give Me Back My Legions!

by Harry Turtledove

  Shrieks from the southeast said the Germans were still working their way through the Roman column. Under normal circumstances, a Roman army had a considerable advantage over a German army of the same size. Legionaries fought together, deployed together, and enjoyed all the benefits of superior discipline.

  “Under normal circumstances,” Lucius Eggius muttered bitterly. Amazing how three words changed everything!

  The Romans couldn’t deploy here. There was nowhere to deploy; except for the road, everything was muck and trees. The legionaries couldn’t form a shield wall to ward themselves against enemy spears while they hurled their own javelins. A horrific number of them had died or been put out of action before they ever got their shields off their backs.

  Off to Eggius’ left—deeper in the swamp—whooping Germans slaughtered a small knot of Romans who’d managed to put up a bit of a fight before they died. That was about as much as the legionaries could manage.

  It wasn’t just the terrain. This battle was lost, and catastrophically lost, the instant the barbarians’ first spears flew. Three legions were getting massacred not least because they couldn’t believe what was happening to them. Too many men were too dumbfounded even to try to fight back. And their fall only made their fellows’ predicament worse, which dumbfounded them, which led to.…

  It led to Lucius Eggius calf-deep in clinging ooze. It was liable to lead to three legions wiped out almost to the last man. It was liable to lead to three legionary eagles being lost. Eggius’ jaw dropped. Even after everything that had happened and was happening, that thought only now crossed his mind for the first time. Legionaries guarded the eagles with their lives.

  They would rather die than let an enemy seize the sacred symbols of their trade.

  They were dying, all right, whether they wanted to or not. And once they finished dying, Arminius would have the prizes he must have craved all along.

  Even thinking of Arminius made Lucius Eggius spit in the mud in disgust. Thinking of Arminius also made him think of Publius Quinctilius Varus. He spat again, harder this time. “As soon as the vulture gets done with Prometheus’ liver, it can start gnawing on Varus’,” Eggius growled.

  He’d tried to warn the governor of Germany—now there was a title that had just turned into a monstrous joke!—about Arminius. So had gods only knew how manv other Roman officers. Varus didn’t want to listen. His rank meant he didn’t have to.

  So he didn’t. And now he was paying for not listening. And so was everybody else.

  Eggius limped toward some trees. If he could hide among them till the fighting stopped and the Germans went away, maybe he’d be able to sneak back toward the Rhine later and…

  He laughed. In spite of everything, the idea was funny. He didn’t think he could make it to the trees. If he did, he didn’t think he’d be able to hide for long. And even if he concealed himself, he didn’t think he’d ever see the Rhine again.

  A guttural shout. A tall blond man pointing at him. Four more barbarians coming along the edge of the track toward him. Two of them carried spears, one a captured Roman gladius, and one a gladius and a spear. One of them had a cut on his left arm. The other three seemed un-wounded.

  They would, Eggius thought as he turned and tried to find the best footing he could. Sure as Hades’ house, he wasn’t going to reach those trees. But at least he could—he hoped he could—make the Germans kill him. You didn’t want them to take you alive. Their gods were thirsty for blood, and captives fed them.

  “Surrender!” one of the barbarians yelled in Latin. Eggius shook his head.

  “You don’t surrender, you die,” the German warned, shaking his spear.

  “Now tell me something I didn’t know,” Eggius answered. The barbarian only scratched his head. That must have been more Latin, or harder Latin, than he could deal with. But he didn’t have to deal with it. He had the brute simplicity of sharp iron on his side.

  He flung the spear at Eggius. The Roman ducked. The spear grazed his left shoulder as it flew past. The German jumped up and down, shouting something hot and guttural. Plenty of spears lay on the ground, though. He picked up another one and jumped into the muck, heading purposefully after Eggius. Two more savages followed him. They grinned and laughed in anticipation.

  Grimly, Eggius set himself and waited. He couldn’t outrun them, not with his leg wound. He had to make the best fight he could. In other words, he was about to die.

  He didn’t want to. But soldiering had long since shown him you had to do all kinds of things you didn’t want to. One certainty: once he did this, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything else.

  That lead German thrust at him. Eggius twisted to one side and stepped forward—he still had one quick stride in him, anyhow. His gladius pierced the barbarian’s belly. The man looked absurdly surprised as he crumpled. Eggius twisted his wrist to make sure the stroke cut guts and killed.

  Even before he could clear the sword, the other two Germans speared him. He’d known they would. Nothing to be done about it. He screamed—no dignity when you died, none at all. He fell on top of the barbarian he’d taken with him. After a while—not nearly soon enough—the pain faded and the torch of his life went out.

  The baggage train! For many of Arminius’ Germans, the chance to loot three legions’ worth of booty was the only reason they’d joined his force. So many things here, all in one place! Traders from inside the Empire would have charged more for them than any ordinary man could hope to pay. But now anyone with a spear could take away as much as he could carry. Ordinary men could get their hands on things chieftains would envy.

  By the time Arminius got to the baggage train, a lot of ordinary men were drunk. One of the things the Romans carried with them was their wine supply. In a close-run fight, that might have meant disaster. As things were, it only served to make them fiercer and, at the same time, more foolish.

  Laughing like a loon, a shaggy-haired warrior capered in a transparent silk tunic some high-ranking Roman must have bought in Mindenum and been bringing back to Vetera for his ladylove. The change must have been easy for him, because he’d worn nothing underneath his stout wool cloak. He’d had nothing else to wear. He shook his hips at Arminius. “Aren’t I gorgeous?” he bawled.

  “Don’t tear that cloth,” Arminius told him—the big man seemed about to burst from the tunic in several different places. “Have you got any idea how much it’s worth?”

  “Why should it be worth anything? It’s hardly here at all.” The warrior put a hand under the fabric to show what he meant. “You can see right through it.”

  Patiently, as if to an idiot child, Arminius said, “That’s why. Imagine it on a woman. Imagine it on your woman.”

  “Ohhh,” the other German said in a low voice. Because the silk was so transparent, Arminius could see exactly what he thought of that. He liked the idea. Arminius had thought he might. No doubt much more carefully than the fellow had put on the tunic, he took it off again.

  Several dozen Romans from the rear of their column—the part that hadn’t been so irretrievably shattered—counterattacked then. They had it all their own way for a moment, because the plundering Germans weren’t expecting anything like that. The legionaries fought with the desperation of men who had nothing to lose. They had to know they wouldn’t get away. They were just trying to sell their lives as dearly as they could, and doing a good job of it.

  In their caligae, Arminius would have done the same thing. As it was, he pushed his own men into the fight, and went into it himself. He didn’t want to be seen—he couldn’t afford to be seen—hanging back. He thrust with his spear and then, after some Roman’s sword stroke shattered the shaft, he slashed with his sword. Red drops flew from the blade every time he swung it.

  One of the legionaries recognized him. “You traitor dog!” the man shouted. “If I can drag you down to Pluto’s house in the underworld, I will!”

  His gladius flicked out, quick and deadly as a striking viper, bu
t Arminius wasn’t there to take the stroke. Quick and deadly himself, he danced away, then returned to the fight. His sword thudded off the legionary’s shield. The man was good; if he hadn’t been good, he would have died a while ago, on this field or on some earlier one.

  No matter how good you were, though, nothing saved you from one German when another one tackled you from behind. The legionary let out a despairing wail as he went down. The wail cut off abruptly when Arminius’ sword descended on the back of the Roman’s neck. The stroke hewed halfway through; the legionary’s whole body convulsed. Arminius hacked again, then picked up the man’s head and waved it about.

  “That was well struck!” the other German said, nodding to him. “Want to share the bugger’s stuff?”

  “You can take it,” Arminius answered. “I have plenty.”

  “Obliged,” the other man said. “I think his mailshirt will just about fit me. Sandals, too. The Romans make good stuff. Why can’t we do more things like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Arminius said. “But they didn’t know how to win this battle—we did. That counts for more, because now all the good stuff they made is ours.”

  “Sure is,” the other warrior agreed. “Get right down to it, and that’s what counts most.”

  “That’s what counts for everything,” Arminius said. He looked around. Things seemed to be under control. The counterattacking Romans had done as much as flesh and blood could do—and now almost all of them had met the universal fate of flesh and blood. The last few still on their feet kept fighting hard. They wanted to make the Germans kill them outright, and it looked as if they would get their wish.

  Which reminded Arminius… “Where is Varus?” he asked. But the question answered itself. Anybody who’d seen one Roman marching column had seen them all. The commander always placed himself in the same position: not far ahead of the baggage train.

  Arminius’ grin was gleefully feral. How he wanted to take the Roman general alive! How the gods would love to drink Varus’ blood, to savor his screams as he died a digit’s width at a time. How Arminius himself wanted to gloat in Varus’ face. The Roman, fool that he was, had trusted him. How you could trust anyone who wasn’t your closest kin… Well, Varus had done it. And he’d paid, and Rome had paid with him. Rome would go right on paying for generations to come. Varus wouldn’t last that long.

  The last legionary from that counterattacking band went down, a spear through his throat. He’d got himself a quick end. On this field, that made him one of the lucky ones. Arminius didn’t want Varus to share his luck.

  “Come on!” he called to the Germans around him. He pointed forward. “Let’s go grab the Roman general!”

  That drew less eagerness than he’d hoped. “Why bother?” one of them said. “He’ll get killed pretty soon any which way. And the plunder’s bound to be better here. The plunder here is better than anything!” Several other warrior solemnly nodded.

  “We have to make sure,” Arminius insisted. “Besides, I want him alive. The gods in the sacred grove deserve their fair share of his suffering.”

  A few of the men nodded, but only a few. The fellow who preferred looting said, “If the gods want him taken alive, they’ll fix it so he is. They don’t need us to do it right now.”

  “I’ve got another reason for you to come with me,” Arminius told him.

  “Oh? What’s that?” the other German asked.

  “I’ll cut your lazy, cowardly heart out if you don’t,” Arminius said.

  He braced himself, wondering if he’d have a fight on his hands in the next instant. The other German said, “I’ve killed enough Romans so no man can call me a coward. Lazy? Why not? Only a fool or a slave works harder than he must.”

  Since Arminius felt the same way, he had trouble arguing with that. The Romans wouldn’t have agreed; they’d done great things with hard work. But what had it got them in Germany, here at the end? Only death, three legions’ worth of death.

  “Come with me, then,” Arminius said. “Kill some more Romans. That still needs doing. And if you do it well, I’ll reward you from my own share of the booty.”

  “Now you’re talking like a man!” the warrior exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

  Others came with them, too. Even so, Arminius noticed fighters sidling off so they wouldn’t have to quit stealing. He swore at them, but sometimes there was no help for a situation. And the men he did have would probably be enough.

  They had to shove their way through more plundering Germans. A couple of times, they almost had to fight their way through their countrymen. Yes, the baggage train drew his folk the way nectar drew bees. And, here and there, small groups of legionaries kept on fighting. A few of them, as mad for things as the Germans, seemed to be defending their personal property. Much good it would do them when they were dead! And dead they were, in short order.

  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.”