Before Sigimerus could say yes or no, Aristocles vanished behind a curtain. When the curtain stirred again, out from behind it came yet another slave, this one carrying a silver tray with wine and bread and fruit candied in honey. Like all of Varus’ slaves Arminius had seen, this fellow was not a German. Arminius knew the Romans did enslave his folk. Varus was shrewd enough not to rub German visitors’ noses in that unpleasant fact, though.

“When I was young,” Sigimerus said, “wine was a sometime thing, a once-in-a-while thing. Many more Roman traders nowadays, and much more wine in Germany than there used to be.”

“Wine is a goodness,” Arminius agreed. Anyone listening to them on the far side of a curtain would find no fault in what they said. But their eyes met in perfect mutual understanding. Wine may be a goodness. Rome is anything but.

Quinctilius Varus’ voice came from farther back in the tent. So did those of a couple of other Romans. Arminius supposed the governor was conferring with his officers. If Arminius knew Romans, Varus would take care of that before he deigned to meet any barbarians. All the high-ranking officials in Pannonia had acted the same way.

Sigimerus didn’t recognize Varus’ voice. He probably couldn’t follow what the Romans were saying, either. Arminius could get bits and pieces of it, though slaves’ chatter in the foreground made him keep missing some.

From what Arminius could hear, Varus was finding out what several different columns he’d sent forth were doing. He had to be confident Germany lay open to him like an unchaste woman if he divided his forces like that. Down in Pannonia, Tiberius had been much more cautious.

But Pannonia was a real war. No one could doubt that, even for a moment. Germany seemed peaceful. Varus must have thought he could take chances here that he wouldn’t have risked if the countryside were in arms against him.

Well, let him believe us peaceful. Let him think Germans are nothing but the Romans’ curs. Let him send legionaries here, there, and everywhere. The less we worry him now, the better.

“When is the fancy Roman coming?” Sigimerus asked. “Doesn’t he reckon we’re important enough to see?”

“I don’t think it will be too much longer, Father,” Arminius answered. “He is talking with his retainers now.”

“Hrmm.” It was not a happy noise. Sigimerus partly muffled it by taking another swig of wine.

The jug soon emptied. The slave fetched another. Did Varus want the Germans drunk before he met with them? Arminius wouldn’t have been surprised. Wine was stronger than beer. Taken neat, it got people drunk faster, especially when they weren’t used to it.

“You may want to go easy, Father,” Arminius whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Sigimerus said impatiently, in a way that couldn’t have meant anything but No, no.

He wasn’t drunk when Varus finally came forth. He wasn’t too drunk, anyhow. Arminius made the introductions. “So, Sigimerus, you are the father of this young man?” Varus said. He spoke slowly and clearly and kept his grammar simple - he must have realized Sigimerus was not fluent in Latin.

“I am,” Sigimerus answered.

Varus reached out to touch the golden fibula that fastened Sigimerus’ cloak. That would have been uncouthly familiar, except for what he said next: “Even more than this, he is an ornament to you.”

Sigimerus smiled. “He is,” he agreed, running through another part of the conjugation of the verb to be.

“I miss my own son. He is far away, studying- - learning - in Greece,” Varus said. He set a hand on Arminius’ shoulder. “When I met your son, it was almost as if I had mine with me once more. Not quite - you will understand that. But almost.”

He wore a toga, chalky white wool with a purple border. Sigimerus’ cloak was of bearskin trimmed with fine sealskin pained in trade from the Chauci, a tribe that lived by the North Sea. Varus’ hair was cut short; Sigimerus let his grow long. Varus shaved his face. Sigimerus wore a beard. The Roman was short and heavyset, the German tall and lean. Varus had none of the Germans’ language, Sigimerus only a little Latin.

And yet they were both proud fathers. For a moment, Arminius found them more alike than different. But only for a moment. Sigimerus cared nothing for Varus’ son. Varus, whether he fully realized it or not, wanted to enslave Sigimerus’. What difference could be greater than that?

“Please excuse me for keeping you waiting,” Varus said. “I was discussing, ah, certain matters with my aides. We aim to bring peace to Germany, you understand.”

“I understand, yes,” Sigimerus said. Arminius feared he would add, If you want to bring peace, then leave! But, to his relief, Sigimerus left it there.

Hearing him say he understood made Varus believe he approved. “Good, good,” the Roman said. “I am glad that, like your son, you see the advantages of working with Rome.”

How would Sigimerus answer that without spilling the chamber pot into the stew? Arminius’ father looked at Quinctilius Varus with wide, blue, innocent eyes. “Pardon me?” he said.

“I was talking about the advantages of cooperating with Rome,” Varus said. Sigimerus still looked artfully blank. Varus turned to Arminius. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to translate for your father?”

“Of course, sir,” Arminius replied, and he did. Though he was sure Sigimerus already understood the Roman’s words, he rendered them into the Germans’ tongue. He did a proper job of it, too, in case another Roman, one who knew the language, stood listening behind a curtain.

Sigimerus’ enlightenment was a small masterpiece of its kind. The Romans put on stage plays to entertain themselves. Arminius had seen a couple in Pannonia. Once he got the idea of playacting, he enjoyed them. Sigimerus had never seen or even imagined one, but he could have gone up on a stage himself.

“Oh,” he said. “Work with! Now I follow you, sir!”

Varus smiled. He didn’t notice that Sigimerus didn’t say he agreed with him or approved of him. Arminius didn’t notice, either, not right away. When he did, he realized there was more to his father than first met the eye: not always the most comfortable realization a young man can have.

“Will you both dine with me?” Varus immediately answered his own question before the Germans could: “Of course you will! You are my guests. I am pleased that you are my guests. Your being here shows the world that Germans and Romans can get along.”

“We are pleased to show that, sir.” Where his father had evaded, Arminius lied without hesitation or compunction. Under other circumstances, Sigimerus would have had every right to beat him for being so shameless.

“Well, so am I,” Varus answered. “And your being my guests will go a long way toward laying to rest some of the, ah, unfortunate rumors that have attached themselves to your name, Arminius.”

“That would be very good,” Arminius said, to himself alone adding, especially since those rumors are true.

His being here might lay them to rest among the Romans who suspected him. But it also might make his fellow Germans wonder whether he was turning traitor. That could cause him problems after the Romans went back over the Rhine to winter in Gaul.

But even if it did, he could repair such things later. For now, he was inside the Roman encampment. As long as he stayed here, he would do well to act as much like a Roman as he could.

Sigimerus coughed a couple of times. What that would have amounted to had he put it into words, Arminius could imagine. Luckily, Quinctilius Varus couldn’t.

“Aristocles!” the Roman called.

“Yes, sir?” The pedisequus might have appeared out of thin air. One heartbeat, he was nowhere to be seen. The next, he stood at Varus’ elbow.

“Tell the cooks Arminius and his distinguished father will be dining with me tonight,” Varus said.