“That’s right. I do.” Caelius nodded. “So open it up. Let’s see what all you forgot about. We’ll both be surprised.”

When the interpreter sent him a questioning glance, he nodded. The young German translated. The chieftain glowered some more. Caldus Caelius had enough men at his back not to care.

Inside the box was an oiled-leather sack. Caldus Caelius chuckled softly. The German looked daggers at him. Luckily for the barbarian, Caelius affected not to notice. This wasn’t the first German who’d coughed up his cash after protesting that he didn’t have any. Without a doubt, he wouldn’t be the last. The locals still hadn’t figured out that the Romans had heard all their lies and excuses before.

He supposed they would before long. That would make the tax collectors who followed on the army’s heels have to work harder to pry money out of these people. Caelius wasted no more sympathy on the tax collectors than on the Germans.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see the silver. If you forgot it was there, you won’t miss whatever we take, right?”

His men snickered. The interpreter grinned. Once the Latin was rendered into the Germans’ language, the headman didn’t seem to appreciate Caelius’ wit. The Roman wondered why.

The chieftain had more than enough denarii to pay the village’s tax assessment. Caldus Caelius took only what he’d been told to. He handed the rest back to the barbarian. “These are yours,” he said. “You see? I am not cheating you.”

“No, you are not.” But the German wasn’t agreeing, for he went on, “You are robbing me. Things should have their proper names.”

One of the legionaries hefted his javelin. “Shall we give him what he deserves for his lip, sir?”

“Do I translate that?” the interpreter asked.

By the way the chieftain eyed that javelin, Caelius guessed he had a fair notion of what the soldier said. “Yes, go ahead,” he said, and the young German did. Caelius continued, “Now translate this, too. No, we don’t hurt him, because he paid what he owed and he didn’t try to fight us. Roman subjects pay taxes. That’s all there is to it, and he’d better get used to the idea. We’ll be back to collect next year, too.”

One growled sentence at a time, the interpreter passed the word along to the headman. The older German looked at him. He spat out one word, then scornfully turned his back.

“What’s that about?” Caelius asked.

“He called me a traitor.” The interpreter shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. These people don’t understand that the Roman Empire has better ways of doing things than they ever dreamt of.”

“Too right they don’t,” Caelius said. “Well, that’s what we’re here for: to fix things so they do understand.” And we’ll teach ‘em the lesson if we have to kill every stinking one of them to do it, he thought. But he kept that to himself; some of these Germans might follow more Latin than they let on, and even the interpreter might not fancy it. He finished, “Now that we’ve done the job here, we go on to the next village and do it again.”

“Yes, sir.” The interpreter smiled. He was a pretty good fellow. Caelius trusted him as far as he would have trusted any barbarian - not quite so far as he would have trusted a Roman, in other words.

Beyond the fields these Germans cultivated, beyond the meadows where their animals grazed, stretched more forests and swamps. Caldus Caelius eyed them without enthusiasm. Germany had far too many of both, or so it seemed to him. He wondered that the place had any room for Germans. But it did, for altogether too many of them. How long would it take to drag them into the Empire one thatch-roofed village and steading at a time?

As long as it took, that was all. He raised his voice to a shout that would reach all the legionaries: “Come on, boys! Time to go find the next place!”

If they were eager, they hid it very well. But they followed him. And their rear guard stayed alert. If the Germans here thought about getting their own back, they thought again right afterwards. Caldus Caelius nodded to himself. One place at a time, all right. He marched on.

Silver clinked in front of the camp prefect as he counted the cash Roman soldiers had squeezed from German villages. When Arminius took service with the Romans, he’d been impressed to see that they had officers in charge of paying their soldiers. That had never crossed his mind till then. German warriors lived on loot and on gifts from the war leaders they followed. A niggardly leader had a hard time getting men to fight for him. Standard wages took care of that.

That the Romans should also have an officer in charge of money coming in only made the German nod. These people were nothing if not disciplined and thorough. They left as little to chance as they could.

Quinctilius Varus came up behind Arminius and his father. “You see?” the Roman said. “My own men wondered whether we would be able to tax Germany, but we manage. Germans use far more silver than they did when I was a boy.”

“That is so,” Arminius agreed. “Germans use coins far more often than they did when I was a boy.” He didn’t think he was half of Varus’ age.

Even Sigimerus nodded. “When I was young,” he said in his slow Latin, “you hardly ever saw a denarius. Now we use them often. The world changes.”

“The world does change.” Varus sounded enthusiastic about it, where Sigimerus, Arminius knew, hated the idea. The Roman governor went on, “You Germans grow ever more civilized, though you may not notice it. You grow ever more ready to become part of the Empire.”

“It could be so,” Arminius said before his father could tell Varus exactly what his opinion was.

“Oh, I think it is.” Varus thought becoming a Roman province would be good for Germany. He needed to think Arminius and Sigimerus agreed with him, or their role in the resistance would end suddenly and unhappily. He continued, “I don’t suppose Julius Caesar would recognize Germany if he saw it today.”

Arminius knew a couple of old men who’d fought against the first Roman to invade Germany most of a lifetime earlier. By things his father had said, Sigimerus had known many more, though most of them were dead. No one spoke of Caesar without respect. “He hit hard, he hit fast, and he could talk you out of the brooch on your cloak and make you glad you gave it to him,” was how one of the graybeards summed things up.

Romans said Augustus was as great a man as Caesar had been. Maybe it was true; Augustus had stayed king longer than Arminius had lived, which argued that he was formidable. None of the men he’d sent to try to bring Germany into the Empire came close to matching his quality, though. Tiberius might, but Tiberius was busy in Pannonia. Varus didn’t - he was no warrior, and uneasily aware of it.

But he seemed happy about what the legionaries under his command had been able to squeeze from the Germans. “Before long, we’ll be able to spend the whole year in Germany instead of wintering back in Gaul,” he said proudly. “That will be one more step toward bringing this province into line with the rest of the Empire.”

“So it will,” Arminius said, which let him acknowledge Varus’ words without showing what he thought of them. “But not yet, your Excellency?”

“No, not yet.” Now Varus sounded regretful. “We’ll have to slog back through the mud, through the swamps. . . .” He heaved a sigh.

“You could come farther north, through the land where my tribe lives,” Arminius said eagerly. “I know a route that stays on higher ground, on dry ground, all the way back to the Rhine. It’s longer, but you won’t have to worry about mud for even one step.”

Whether Varus and the legionaries would have to worry about Germans was a different question, but not the one the Roman governor was worrying about at the moment. If Varus decided to go that way, Arminius knew the kind of place where he wanted to lead the Romans. He thought he could gather enough of his own folk around that kind of place to give them a proper welcome, too.