Give me back my Legions!

GIVE ME BACK MY LEGIONS!

HARRY TURTLEDOVE

To Gwyn Morgan, Ron Mellor, and Hal Drake

I

Rome brawled around Publius Quinctilius Varus. Half a dozen stalwart lectiarii bore his sedan chair through the streets towards Augustus’ house on the Palatine hill. The slaves wore matching red tunics. Their smooth, skillful broken step kept him from feeling the bumps in the cobblestoned roadway.

Varus could have lowered the sedan chair’s curtains. That would have given him privacy in the midst of untold tens of thousands. But he didn’t mind being seen, not today. Anyone could tell at a glance that he was someone important.

A wagon full of sacks of grain drawn by two plodding oxen blocked his path. The ungreased axles squealed and groaned. A man could die of old age stuck behind something like that.

His slaves weren’t about to put up with it. One of the pedisequi who accompanied the litter - a Roman aristocrat was too special to carry whatever he might need, but had underlings to do it for him - called out in Greek-accented Latin: “Make way, there! Make way for the litter of Publius Quinctilius Varus!”

In narrow, winding streets packed with people on foot, donkeys, carts, and other wagons, making way for anybody wasn’t easy. The gray-haired man driving the wagon didn’t even try. “To the crows with him, whoever he is,” he shouted back. His accent said he was a Samnite or Oscan by birth.

“ ‘Whoever he is’? How dare you, you - peasant, you!” The pedisequus knew no worse abuse. He was as furious as if he’d been insulted himself. The master was the sun; the slave was the moon, and shone his reflected light. Varus’ man went on, “I will have you know he was consul twenty years ago. Consul, I tell you! He is just returned to Rome after governing the province of Syria. And he is married to Augustus’ grand-niece. Gods help you, wretch, if he has to ask your name!”

The wagon driver lashed his oxen. He also flicked the lash at a couple of middle-aged women to make them get out of the way. They screeched abuse at him, but they moved. The wagon slid into the space they’d occupied. The litter and its retinue glided past.

“Nicely done, Aristocles,” Varus said. The pedisequus thrust out his chin and thrust out his chest and marched along as if he were ten cubits tall and eight cubits wide, not a balding, weedy little Greek. Quinctilius Varus smiled to himself. As with anything else, there were tricks to getting the most out of your slaves. Judicious praise at the right moment could do more good than a denarius.

Aristocles did more shouting as the litter made its way toward the Palatine. Too many people and not enough room for all of them - that was Rome. Musicians strummed citharae or played flutes, hoping passersby would throw them enough coins to keep them fed. Scribes stood at street-corners, ready to write for people who lacked their letters. Hucksters shouted their wares: “Figs candied in honey!” “Beads! Fine glass beads from Egypt!” “Bread and cheese and oil!” “Kohl to make your eyes pretty!” “Roasted songbirds! Who wants roasted songbirds?” “Amulets will give you luck!” “Wine! Genuine Falernian!”

Varus guffawed. So did his bearers. The pedisequi, men who made much of their dignity, only shook their heads. No one but a fool would think a scrawny street merchant lugging an amphora had wine fit for Augustus himself. Whatever was in that jug would taste like vinegar - if it didn’t taste like piss.

When the litter finally reached the Palatine hill, traffic thinned out. This had been a prosperous part of town for many years. Important people - proper Romans - lived here. You didn’t see so many trousered Gauls and swarthy Jews and excitable Numidians on the Palatine. People from all over the Empire swarmed to Rome, hoping to strike it rich. No one had ever found a way to keep them out. Too bad, Varus thought.

And the Palatine became all the more exclusive when Augustus, master of the Roman world, took up residence on the hillside. He had dominated the Empire for more than a third of a century now. Senators still pined for the days of the Republic, when they were the biggest fish in the pond. Most people didn’t remember those days any more. Most of the ones who did, remembered round after round of civil war. Hardly anyone - except those Senators - would have traded Augustus’ peace and prosperity for the chaos it replaced.

Quinctilius Varus knew he wouldn’t. He was part of the new order: one of the many who’d risen high by going along with the man who had - who’d won - the power to bind and to loose. He couldn’t have done better under the Republic. Rome couldn’t have done better under the Republic, but Rome mattered less to Varus than Varus did.