Varus and several officers smiled. Not all of them did, though. A man Arminius didn’t know asked, “Was it your German tongue that made you say your people ought to chase all the Romans out of Germany?”

The pork suddenly sat heavy in Arminius’ stomach. He was in his enemies’ power here. If they wanted to stretch out a hand and crush him, they could. The trick, then, was making sure they didn’t want to - or, at least, making sure the most powerful one didn’t.

“I never said anything like that,” Arminius answered steadily. “I never would say anything like that. Whoever told you I did – whoever told you I would - is a liar. There are Germans who do not love me. Segestes insulted me, and you know how I answered his insult. So now Segestes spreads lies wherever he can, and uses his friends to spread them, too. I can’t do anything about that except to remind you they are lies.”

He waited. They didn’t have to believe him. Some of them plainly didn’t. But Varus said, “Yes, we’ve been over this ground before. Don’t worry, Arminius. Whatever Segestes and his friends say, we know we need to take it cum grano salis.”

“ ‘With a grain of salt’?” Arminius echoed. “I know what the words mean, but not the phrase.”

“It means we have to doubt whatever they say,” Varus explained. “And that is so - we do.” He looked down from the head of the table, waiting for anyone to challenge him.

No one did. At a German feast, someone would have. And when someone challenged him, it would have gone from words to spears in the blink of an eye. The Romans accepted Varus’ guidance because he held the highest rank among them.

Was that better or worse than the German way? It was simpler, anyhow. If the man of highest rank knew what he was doing, everyone would do well by obeying his commands.

If he didn’t . . . Arminius slept at Mindenum that night. He left the encampment the next morning. The Romans could have rid themselves of a great danger. They didn’t. Arminius waited till he was more than a bowshot away from the encampment’s earthwork and ditch. Then, making sure he kept his back to Mindenum so the sentries wouldn’t notice him doing it, he laughed and laughed and laughed some more.

Roman soldiers liked to complain. Vala Numonius knew as much. But what Lucius Eggius was doing went far beyond complaint. “You really should watch your tongue,” the cavalry commander said. “If you don’t, someone will say you’re trying to incite a mutiny.”

“By the gods, maybe we need one!” Eggius burst out.

Vala Numonius looked at him. “I am going to do you the biggest favor anyone ever did. I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that. You can thank me when you come to your senses.”

To Numonius’ vast relief, the other officer realized he’d gone too far. “I’ll thank you now, and thank you kindly,” he said. “But how we could have let that cursed German walk out of here ... It makes no sense. You can’t tell me it does. Nobody can, not if he wants me to believe it.”

“You think Arminius is more dangerous than Quinctilius Varus does,” Numonius said.

“He’s a barbarian. Why take chances with him? If he’s done a tenth part of what his woman’s father says he has, he’s a menace,” Eggius said. “Getting hold of Germany is hard enough if we do get rid of the troublemakers. Why let ‘em run around loose?”

“Arminius isn’t just a barbarian.” Vala Numonius pointed out what should have been obvious. “He’s a Roman citizen. He’s a member of the Equestrian Order - one step below the Senate. He can appeal any sentence to Augustus.”

Eggius snorted scornfully. “Let’s see him appeal being dead. We’d all sleep better of nights after he was.”

“Would we?” Numonius was anything but convinced. “Or would that start the big German uprising when Arminius alive didn’t?”

He startled Lucius Eggius; he could see as much. “That’d be a pretty kettle of fish, wouldn’t it?” Eggius said.

“It would.” Numonius pressed his advantage: “And what do you think Augustus would do to the people who sparked a rebellion here, especially when Tiberius still hasn’t cleaned up the mess in Pannonia?”

Eggius winced like a man contemplating a bad hangover. “That wouldn’t be pretty, would it?”

“I don’t think so.” The cavalry commander thought that made a pretty respectable understatement. “So why don’t you be a little more careful before you start talking about killing Germans you don’t happen to like? And it won’t happen anyway, because his Excellency likes Arminius.” Vala Numonius didn’t, but he, unlike Lucius Eggius, understood subordination.

“I know he does.” If the knowledge gave Eggius any pleasure, he hid it very well. “You think I worry about the barbarian too much? I’ll tell you something, Numonius - he doesn’t worry about him enough, and you can mark my words. He thinks Arminius is a tame dog. He can’t see a wild wolf when one’s standing right in front of him.”

Vala Numonius didn’t try to argue. What was the point? Instead, he answered indirectly: “All these Germans are wolves - now. A lifetime ago, all the Gauls were wolves, too. They’ve settled down. Fifty years from now, the governor is sure these Germans will have, too. And we’ll be wondering what we ought to do about the barbarians on the far side of the Elbe. That’s what the Roman Empire does: we move forward.”

“Hrmp.” Lucius Eggius’ grunt was not one of agreement. “The reason the Gauls settled down is, Caesar walloped the piss out of them. They knew they were licked. They knew we were better men. We cursed well showed them we were. The Germans don’t believe it. And why should they? We’ve won some against them, but they’ve won some against us, too. We haven’t convinced ‘em we can squash ‘em whenever we put our minds to it.”

“It’s this miserable country,” Numonius said. “Bogs and swamps and woods and gods only know what all else. No place where an army can form a proper battle line and show the savages how real soldiers do it.”

“You’re right,” Eggius said. This time, he surprised Vala Numonius. “Yeah, you’re right,” he repeated. “But so what?”

“What do you mean, so what?” the cavalry commander demanded. “It’s the truth. If it weren’t for the country, we would have beaten the Germans a long time ago.”

“And if it weren’t for the ocean, you could walk from Sicily to Carthage, too,” Eggius said. Vala Numonius gasped at the unfairness of the comeback. But Eggius couldn’t see it. He pressed ahead: “Don’t you get it? Why we haven’t beaten the stinking barbarians doesn’t matter. That we haven’t beaten them does. It matters a lot. They still think they can mess with us. And they may even be right, a plague take them.”

“It’s not that they’re such wonderful warriors,” Numonius said. “They skulk, and they hide, and they sneak out and bite us like spiders or scorpions. The lay of the land lets them do it.”

“The lay of the land’s got blond hair down to here and tits out to there.” Lucius Eggius gestured lewdly. Vala Numonius winced. Eggius got more serious - a little, anyhow. “But you’re not wrong - this country is a big pile of turds,” he said. “The fun and games we go through getting back to the Rhine every winter prove that. I wish we had a route where we weren’t up to our knees in muck most of the time.”

“I’ll bet the Germans know a route like that,” Numonius said.

“Sure. But will they tell us? Don’t hold your breath, friend,” Eggius said, which had the unfortunate ring of truth. “We need proper roads here. We need ‘em worse than anything else.”

Numonius nodded. “The governor knows that. I expect we’ll have them before very long.”

“But we need ‘em now.” Lucius Eggius hawked and spat. “By Venus’ cunt, we’ve needed ‘em for years.”

“Well, you may be right.” That was the most polite brush-off Numonius knew. Some people kept pounding with hammers even when there wasn’t a nail in sight. And Lucius Eggius, all too plainly, was one of them.