never been introduced to the man. ‘You know Varus?’
Arminius shrugged. ‘We get on well, aye.’
Tullus felt a flicker of irritation that a German chieftain should be a friend of his supreme commander, when he, a veteran Roman officer of more than twenty-five years’ service, was not. It wasn’t altogether surprising, though. Arminius’ cavalry detachment was similar in size to a cohort. He was a high-ranking noble of his tribe, a Roman citizen and, as everyone knew, an honorary equestrian. The last detail rankled a little. Just a little. ‘Well, when Varus has finished with you, come to my barracks. We can share a jug of wine.’
‘I will take you up on that offer,’ said Arminius, grinning. ‘Until then.’ So that was Arminius, thought Tullus, watching the Cheruscan ride away. He tries hard, but he seems like a good sort.
III
PUBLIUS QUINCTILIUS VARUS was sitting at a desk in the office of the legate Gaius Numonius Vala, a room that he had commandeered since his arrival. Although his red tunic was of the finest quality, he was an unremarkable-looking short man with thinning, curly grey hair and a slight paunch. Despite his luxurious surroundings – heavy wooden furniture, expensive busts of the emperor, an ornate candelabra – the office felt to him like a prison.
‘Are we nearly done?’ he asked, knowing from the heap of documents and tablets on the desk that they were not.
His secretary Aristides, a rotund Greek slave who’d been with him for longer than he could remember, let out a practised sigh. ‘No, master. We have worked our way through perhaps half of them.’
Varus rubbed a hand across his weary eyes. ‘If I’d known that my life would be ruled by paperwork, I never would have started this career,’ he grumbled.
Aristides, who was standing behind his left shoulder, said nothing.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ said Varus, whipping his head around.
Aristides’ face was a blank. ‘What look, master?’
‘The disbelieving one, when you lift an eyebrow.’
The corners of Aristides’ mouth moved a little. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, master.’
‘Liar. I just didn’t catch you.’ Varus smiled. ‘You know me too well, Aristides.’
A trace of smugness entered Aristides’ expression. ‘After this long, master, I would be a fool if I didn’t.’
‘I have no real reason to be unhappy,’ admitted Varus. ‘After returning to Rome from Syria, I spent my time moaning that I had nothing to do. When Augustus offered me the governorship of Germania a little more than two years ago, I was overjoyed. I am governor of one of the most important provinces in the empire. Better these, here’ – he slapped a hand on to the documents – ‘than having to sit on my hands, listening to my wife’s complaints about the prices that her dressmaker charges.’
‘You are happier when you’re working, master.’
‘Yes, I am,’ declared Varus. ‘Fetch me some of that Gaulish vintage I like, and we’ll get through the rest of these papers in no time.’
Despite his master’s robust words, it was telling that he should ask for wine when it was just after midday. Ever discreet, Aristides kept his thoughts to himself. Calling for the slave who stood by the door to the office, he ordered wine to be brought.
By the time that Varus had finished his first cup, they had dealt with a bundle of letters from Lucius Nonius Asprenas, the legate based at Mogontiacum, two hundred miles up the river from Vetera. Asprenas, Varus’ nephew, was an able administrator and commander, and his communications consisted of reports and straightforward requests that were easy to deal with. Varus dictated his replies to Aristides, who scribbled notes in cursive on a waxed wooden tablet, to be written out in full later. This done, Varus tackled the next pile of documents, which consisted of grievances from German tribal leaders locally and further afield, and appeals for a surgeon from the
Arminius shrugged. ‘We get on well, aye.’
Tullus felt a flicker of irritation that a German chieftain should be a friend of his supreme commander, when he, a veteran Roman officer of more than twenty-five years’ service, was not. It wasn’t altogether surprising, though. Arminius’ cavalry detachment was similar in size to a cohort. He was a high-ranking noble of his tribe, a Roman citizen and, as everyone knew, an honorary equestrian. The last detail rankled a little. Just a little. ‘Well, when Varus has finished with you, come to my barracks. We can share a jug of wine.’
‘I will take you up on that offer,’ said Arminius, grinning. ‘Until then.’ So that was Arminius, thought Tullus, watching the Cheruscan ride away. He tries hard, but he seems like a good sort.
III
PUBLIUS QUINCTILIUS VARUS was sitting at a desk in the office of the legate Gaius Numonius Vala, a room that he had commandeered since his arrival. Although his red tunic was of the finest quality, he was an unremarkable-looking short man with thinning, curly grey hair and a slight paunch. Despite his luxurious surroundings – heavy wooden furniture, expensive busts of the emperor, an ornate candelabra – the office felt to him like a prison.
‘Are we nearly done?’ he asked, knowing from the heap of documents and tablets on the desk that they were not.
His secretary Aristides, a rotund Greek slave who’d been with him for longer than he could remember, let out a practised sigh. ‘No, master. We have worked our way through perhaps half of them.’
Varus rubbed a hand across his weary eyes. ‘If I’d known that my life would be ruled by paperwork, I never would have started this career,’ he grumbled.
Aristides, who was standing behind his left shoulder, said nothing.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ said Varus, whipping his head around.
Aristides’ face was a blank. ‘What look, master?’
‘The disbelieving one, when you lift an eyebrow.’
The corners of Aristides’ mouth moved a little. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, master.’
‘Liar. I just didn’t catch you.’ Varus smiled. ‘You know me too well, Aristides.’
A trace of smugness entered Aristides’ expression. ‘After this long, master, I would be a fool if I didn’t.’
‘I have no real reason to be unhappy,’ admitted Varus. ‘After returning to Rome from Syria, I spent my time moaning that I had nothing to do. When Augustus offered me the governorship of Germania a little more than two years ago, I was overjoyed. I am governor of one of the most important provinces in the empire. Better these, here’ – he slapped a hand on to the documents – ‘than having to sit on my hands, listening to my wife’s complaints about the prices that her dressmaker charges.’
‘You are happier when you’re working, master.’
‘Yes, I am,’ declared Varus. ‘Fetch me some of that Gaulish vintage I like, and we’ll get through the rest of these papers in no time.’
Despite his master’s robust words, it was telling that he should ask for wine when it was just after midday. Ever discreet, Aristides kept his thoughts to himself. Calling for the slave who stood by the door to the office, he ordered wine to be brought.
By the time that Varus had finished his first cup, they had dealt with a bundle of letters from Lucius Nonius Asprenas, the legate based at Mogontiacum, two hundred miles up the river from Vetera. Asprenas, Varus’ nephew, was an able administrator and commander, and his communications consisted of reports and straightforward requests that were easy to deal with. Varus dictated his replies to Aristides, who scribbled notes in cursive on a waxed wooden tablet, to be written out in full later. This done, Varus tackled the next pile of documents, which consisted of grievances from German tribal leaders locally and further afield, and appeals for a surgeon from the
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