by Mark Tiro
I had gutted the place after I’d come into possession, and then redone it. Lately, I’ve found myself spending as much time here as I could. I had gathered a very solid library—which would have been no small feat for a private citizen in Rome itself, less yet for someone in a place such as Tusculum, so far removed from the trading crossroads that the Tiber had now become in this new era of Pax Augusta. And I could think of nothing better than to live out the rest of my days here, in this place, in these hills…
This was my own personal life in the shade. Most days, I spent in my study writing and dictating. Since Quintus had gone off to Germania in the North, I had written four treatises on philosophy, and three histories of the Republic too. The one that had been best received had been my brief history of the Republic. As most people would, I’d decided to begin my history at the point where Junius Brutus threw off old King Tarquinus. I had taken up the narrative so far, all the way up through the point of Hannibal’s sudden appearance, on three different sides, of our doomed legions at Cannae.
That disaster now seemed like a rather bad place to leave off… but of course as the Fates would have it—that is exactly where I left off. Sometimes the Fates act more like Furies when they intervene in the lives of men.
I received the two letters that afternoon. When the messenger arrived, I was happy to put away the wax tablet I was writing on. As close as we were to Rome here, any chance to keep in contact was always welcome. I took the letters and walked out into the garden. There I found a quiet corner of shade, and sat down to read.
I opened the one from Quintus in Germany first:
Greetings Brother.
I hope you are well. As you have probably heard by now, Tiberius has been recalled to Illyricum to put down the recent uprising in that province. He’s taken more than half the legions with him. The old man has sent your old friend Publius Varus to take command of the legions here in Germania. As you know, after I led the stand against the Macromani when they damn near overran our two camps towards the end of Tiberius’ last campaign, he rewarded me by attaching me to his command staff. Then he got called away to deal with that mess in Illyricum you’ve no doubt have heard about. Varus took over command of the army of the North. He left me on his staff. I’m not sure why; to say that he does not value my advice is an understatement. But soon enough, he put me in charge of logistics for the entire operation. I know logistics has always been your strength Marcus, and I do wish you were here with me, everything we’ve been through aside. Varus, of course, has assumed personal command of all strategic decisions, his complete lack of experience notwithstanding. May the gods help us all.
In better news, I have come across an old friend here. Do you remember Segestes? I can’t remember if I had ever mentioned him in my letters to you from so long ago. We studied rhetoric together, and the stoic philosophy too, when I went to Rhodes back years before I was married. He’s from the Cherusci tribe, but also a good friend of Rome. A good friend of mine, too. Varus has sealed up all communications and won’t let any letters out from camp that haven’t gone through his military censors. He says this is for security, which is probably true. Were word to leak back to Rome what an incompetent, entitled fool Varus is, it would be a great threat to his job security. This is how he’s able to pretty well control the flow of information back home. From what I’ve seen of his dispatches to the Senate, these bear very little connection to reality, as far as I can tell. It is my good fortune that Segestes has agreed to get my letter to you through some countrymen of his—traders who were headed back to Italy.
Segestes has a son-in-law here as well who is about the age my son would be now. Arminius by name. Segestes doesn’t trust him, and I can understand why. He seems nice enough, and seems to alternate between playing Varus’ obedient dog and his nightly drinking companion. This Arminius character and Varus—they’re two peas in a pod, meant for each other. Politicians, the both of them. No matter what happens, the bastard just never stops smiling (Arminius, not Varus, although now that I think of it, Varus does the same thing). Maybe it’s a Germanic thing, I don’t know. But his smile seems to wind from ear to ear, but somehow never reaches up to his eyes. Anyway, Varus has come to rely on Arminius in most all his dealings with these local tribes, both in the province here, as well as the barbarian ones over the river. Segestes is concerned enough to take me aside and bring it to my attention.
I am including the finished draft of a play I’ve been working on. ‘Electra’ it is after all. I know what you will say—the world does not need another Greek tragedy for Latin ears. And I would agree, although working through it during the long, cold winter months here has been about the only thing that kept me from sinking into one of my dark periods of melancholy.
Take care of yourself dear brother.
Quintus.
The second letter that arrived that day came directly from Augustus. Well, from Augustus’ Prefect’s secretary. But close enough. It was very short. Not even worth copying.
The Emperor had requested, the letter read, that I accept the “great honor” of a position on Varus’ staff in the North. And that I was ordered to leave with all due haste. There was some praise about my reputation and some mention about my experience in logistics and procurement, blah, blah, blah…
…which is how my semi-retirement, together with my time as a historian and aspiring philosopher, all came to an abrupt end.
Three days later, I found myself on the Campus Martius just like my brother had before me. Together with what seemed like another half a legion made up entirely of officers, I left for the North.
5
Five
“Good to have you here brother.”
“It’s good to see a familiar face,” I said, but my words were lost as Quintus threw his arms up, smothering me in a bear hug.
“Not too soon, either. One of our garrisons was attacked. But then, when aren’t they attacked?”
“I’m not sure I follow. Word in Rome is that the tribes are happy to have us, and that they’ll be full provinces by this time next year.”
“Maybe if it weren’t for Varus they would be. But his idea of provincial taxes… well, it’s damn near a tribute, for all these people can afford. Of course, we’d give them back their taxes in roads and trade—hell, the old man would probably put a few of them onto the Senate if it would ensure these tribes would settle down into a manageable province. But of course Varus just can’t resist being Varus, can he? So he’s trying to bleed them dry with this whole tax business.”
“Just like he did to Syria,” I smiled a wry smile.
“Just like he did in Syria,” Quintus smiled back.
“He’s going to have a tougher time making a small fortune here. Syria, at least, was a rich province.”
“Until he got done with it, that is.”
We both laughed.
“He’s going to cause a bloody uprising, with this tax business of his. He’ll spend the Emperor’s sesterces—sending the army here and there, putting down uprisings every other week—just to pocket a few assarii in bribes from these taxes he’s extorting. Honestly Marcus, right now, I’m just waiting for winter. Hopefully that’s when the old man will send Tiberius back, to knock some heads and get things straight before these tribes start up again with their next campaign in the spring.”
A group of legionaries stood facing outwards, while a few Praetorians stood not far from the old man by the makeshift altar. The impious thought had occurred to me that if that old priest didn’t get on with the whole business of inspecting the bloody entrails of that wretched beast soon, then those savage barbarians would most likely be inspecting our entrails by nightfall.
Jeesh! I thought.
“So what’s the word already?” Quintus said, only half under his breath, in the direction of the old priest taking the auspices. “Are we going to live or die today?”
“Now why’d you go and say that? You know the old bastard’s probably going to say tha
t he has to start the whole business of taking the auspices over, from the beginning.”
“Just relax brother. That senile old man didn’t hear a word I said.”
“Well at his age, it's hard to believe he can hear a word of anything.”
“He can't. Even if we didn’t have to put up with that insufferable wild eeping of those German bastards all day and all night over in that muddy shithole of a place they call a camp, I can guarantee you, our venerable Roman augur here didn’t hear a word of it.”
“Take one look at him Quintus. He’s lost half his mind already, and all of his eyesight.”
We both burst out at the same time, laughing.
Quintus stood back, looking at me at arms’ length now. “It’s good to see you brother,” he said, with extra care on the last word.
“And it’s good to see you too.”
The old man must have been able to hear something after all. He doddered his head around, squinting to try to find the source of the interruption. Then he muttered something to himself, and seemed to try to start again. But he staggered over his words and now seemed hopelessly confused as to what he was even doing there in the first place.
Quintus gave a sardonic grin. It was the wry, half smile of someone who’d spent the past two years of his life in the semi-conquered provinces on the Northern fringe of the Empire.
Just then a German walked out of Varus’ command tent. His face was red the way all their faces seemed to look, when there was too much sun, or too much drink. He walked straight over to where we were standing.
“What’s wrong now Segestes?” Quintus asked. “Why the foul mood? Oh, and by the way, this here’s my brother Marcus.” he said. The German extended out his hand, and his face lit up.
“He’s had a long trip up from Rome,” Quintus added. “At the least we should try to do something to celebrate the occasion of him finally making it up here.”
“I am sorry for my dour mood Marcus,” the German said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, years now. I could tell you of long days your brother and I spent in Rhodes, studying.” He mockingly tried to keep a stern face, but broke out in a grin at the same time Quintus broke out laughing.
“Studying? Yes, right. That is what we’re going with then, studying?”
They both laughed now.
“I seem to remember quite a bit of drinking, and girls. A lot of girls, if I remember. But I won’t ask you to try to remember specifics… or names. There were quite a few, as I recall.”
More laughter from the both of them.
In a tone of mocking seriousness, Segestes went on. “There is one thing I can’t remember, though, throughout our time in Rhodes.”
“And what’s that?”
“Did you even go to one lecture with me Quintus?”
“The essentials,” my brother shot back, not missing a beat. “Xeno, right? I remember it all. Of course I do. Warm Mediterranean nights, we sat around there—on Xeno’s porch of course.” He winked as he said the words, and then he went on. “He would lecture there… on his porch, ahem… while we’d sit around, grilling meats, drinking that pine wine of theirs. You know, that was maybe the happiest time of my life.”
I think I actually saw a tear in my brother’s eye, but he quickly wiped it away.
“On Xeno’s porch?” Segestes said, unable to control himself with laughter. “Right, that’s it.” Once he composed himself, he added, “Quintus, I think your brother here might just be thinking we were studying under the tutelage of Bacchus and Epicurius rather than Xeno.”
“Well, I got the gist of that stoicism of his, didn’t I?” Quintus said. Then, becoming slightly more serious, he added, “You know, it did take I think, through everything I’ve gone through in life. I mean, I don’t think I would have made it after my son died had I not at least been able to apply some of it.”
“You’re right by that. You know Marcus, you should listen to your brother on this one. He’s right. I think I’m happier, and have more meaning too—much more than I have any right to, at least based on the shit in my life that just never seems to end—because of applying the things we learned from that old stoic’s school over there.”
Then he made a wide, circular arc to the forest behind us, and went on. “Look around here. See—it’s all shit, as far as the eye can see. And a long way past that too, I can assure you. It’s all just shit. Half of my countrymen are always trying to start a war, and half of your countrymen,”—he pointed towards Varus’ command tent— “are always trying to finish it. But none of it really affects me. See, that’s the beauty of the stoic way of seeing things Marcus. That’s what Xeno, and your brother, and the whole brood of stoic philosophers and their books and lectures over there gave to me. There’s a solid rock inside of me, sometimes light, sometimes strong—but I can always go back to that rock. The shit that happens all around can never really chip away at it. That’s why I’m happy Marcus. It’s not because of anything that happens or doesn’t happen in my life out there.”
“Well, it looks like there’s another mess brewing here,” I said, pointing to the constant parade of officers, both Roman and German, who were parading into and out of Varus’ command tent.
“I wish there weren’t, but after my talk with Varus, I don’t think there’s anything to be done.”
“What do you mean?” Quintus asked him. In the background, the old augur had finally finished the auspices ceremony, and everyone was breaking up, leaving us eerily alone now.
“It’s my damn son-in-law,” Segestes started. “Arminius. He stole my daughter, and now he’s trying to steal Rome. Varus wouldn’t listen. Arminius—well Quintus, you at least know this. Varus trusts him. He trusts him with the legions here, and he shouldn’t. I wouldn’t trust Arminius with my dog. And my fortune’s a lot worse than that. He’s taken my daughter and married her. She’s practically a prisoner to him now. And, he’s gone and told Varus that there’s some uprising or other. He’s told Varus he needs to march the legions out to put it down.”
“That sounds about right. There’s always some uprising or other around here, isn’t there?” I pondered a moment. Then the problem struck me. “March the legions out this close to winter though?” I asked, then added, “That’s madness. And quite a gamble just to put down some tax uprising.”
Quintus and Segestes looked at each other in silence.
“Well, at least it's a good thing,” I said, filling the silence, “that our ally, Arminius…”
That’s where they’d heard enough and stopped me from going on and on, showing my ignorance.
“Well, he is our ally, right?” I protested, obviously not getting the hint. “Arminius is our ally? I mean, at least he’s telling us—isn’t that better? You know—isn’t it better that he’d let us know if there’s an uprising going on than that he not let us know?”
“Ally? To Rome? Oh no,” Segestes said, shaking his head bitterly. “The only ally Arminius has is Arminius. Of course this uprising business is plausible. That’s the problem, though. The viper has convinced Varus to send out all three of his legions first thing tomorrow, to go deal with it.”
I gulped, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t go away. “We only have three legions here, right?” I said, half question, half comment, directed mainly at Quintus. “So there’s… no… uprising?”
“Sure there’s an uprising. There’s always a bloody uprising over something or other up here. But they’re small, and there are always people who have more to lose than to gain by them, and so they always end soon enough, one way or another. But that snake Arminius is going to convince that idiot Varus to rush off with all of our legions in tow.”
“All of them?” I knew the answer, of course. But asking the question seemed to hold off actually hearing it. At least for a few—
“All of them Marcus,” Quintus said, shutting that down fast. “Ever since Tiberius took the rest of the legions off to Illyricum with him to put down the mess going o
n there, we’ve only had three legions here. And now Varus is going to run off into the woods following Arminius on some fool’s errand. Varus may be the commander here, but he’s no general. At least none that I’d ever want to follow.”
“Worse than that I’m afraid,” Segestes added. “What I’ve heard is that Arminius has already managed to get the support of all the tribes this side of the Rhine. There is something going on, and I bet Arminius is up to his eyeballs in it. He’s certainly not the solution. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t pledged to throw off the Roman yoke completely—that’s what he calls us by the way, when it’s only German ears around to hear—if only the tribes would agree to submit to his command.”
“Which they’ve agreed to, because Varus has already pissed off just about every other barbarian tribe—eh sorry,” Quintus said, turning to Segestes.
“No offense taken,” Segestes said.
“So that’s his endgame!” Quintus said. He had started to turn red now, too, just as Segestes had when I’d first seen him walk out of Varus’ tent.
“I don’t know. Well, not for sure,” Segestes answered. “He doesn’t trust me, even though he’s married to my daughter. I was not happy about that, and I let him know it. He’s never forgiven me. But I’m also a friend of Rome—hell, your brother’s been like a brother to me half my life now, ever since we were in Rhodes together. But I think he’s pulling together an army of the tribes. And I think he’s convinced Varus to march out his few legions into the countryside. To what end, I’m not sure. But it can’t be good, not on the brink of winter. No one would begin a campaign this late in the season—not in a place as hostile as this. I worry about our legions. Arminius knows the land, inside and out. Varus is an idiot. He doesn’t even know the inside of his own camp.”