Besides issuing orders to them as if they were actually slaves of the Romans, he exacted money as he would from subject nations. (Cassius Dio)
Reimar paced in front of Segestes, who watched my betrothed through narrowed eyes.
“Varus asks too much,” Reimar said. “He’s out there picking every tribe clean.”
I sat on my bedding with Jotapa nearby, sorting through our remaining stores for the trip back to our lands. Though I usually dreaded the long walk back, this year I might skip the entire journey.
“He is already getting another hundred men for his army. Is that not enough to sate his greed?” Reimar paused with his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with labored breaths.
Arminius had approached us with an idea a week earlier: He recruited Reimar and around one hundred Chatti for the auxiliary. Ostensibly, this placed loyal fighters within the Roman ranks, but it offered a secondary benefit I didn’t believe was a coincidence. It conveniently meant Reimar and the other recruits were to leave immediately for the garrison, with no time for a proper wedding.
“You will not speak of him that way,” Segestes hissed. His eyes darted about our shelter, as if he sensed ears listening to their conversation. “Varus takes only what is owed to Rome. As for your enlistment—”
“What about it?” Reimar cocked his head and took a threatening step closer. “Is there some reason you object to our people fulfilling their duty to Rome?”
“Isn’t this what you wanted, Father?” I sat up. “To make loyal citizens of us all?”
He curled his lips, his fists, and I tensed. Would he strike me with Reimar present? Would I finally, finally beat him so bloody he never raised a hand or his voice to me again? A sharp wail cut through the camp. I jerked to my feet, but Segestes pointed a finger at me.
“Stay with your brother.”
Before I snapped a reply, Reimar said, “Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.”
I bristled. First Arminius, now Reimar stepped in to fight my battles in the most unwelcome fashion.
He and my father left the tent, leaving me alone with Wout’s glare and Jotapa. Unfortunately, Jotapa was no match for Wout, least of all an angry Wout. She kept silent.
“Reimar will never have you once he finds out you let Arminius fuck you.”
I gave him my back to roll up my bedding, while Jotapa crouched to do the same with hers.
“No,” Wout went on, “not when he won’t know if he’s raising another man’s bastard.”
A cold fissure of anger flashed in her eyes, but it wasn’t directed at me. She shared my opinion of Wout and was free to express it only with me. More than once she’d offered with a smile on her face to slit his throat in his sleep for me.
Perhaps I should have let her. Anything was better than sharing a tent with my more-hateful-than-usual brother. All that pitiless rage radiated from him, burning hotter than our cook fire.
“You’ll be killed.” He stared into the flames. “They’ll kill you all.”
“You should be so lucky.”
“Do your damn duty. Stop this nonsense with Arminius. Marry Reimar. Talk him out of the madness you’ve concocted and bend the knee to Rome.”
“And make slaves of our people?” I shouldn’t have engaged with him. Perhaps it was my boredom and frustration, or that he already knew the truth.
He laughed, a bitter sound. “Better slave than dead, wouldn’t you agree, Jotapa?”
The truth of his question slid deep into my belly. I was a hypocrite of the worst sort, dragging Jotapa along my mission of freedom while she remained in bondage.
I never cared for the practice, but let myself overlook it because our servants were indentured. They were free to make their own households and buy their liberty. I had no power to change our tribe, let alone any of the others. That was no longer true, though. The women listened to me. Reimar heard me out, as did Arminius. I’d been quietly supervising our tribe since before my blood came.
Arminius, Reimar, and I were uniting the tribes. We were reshaping the future of our people. Who was to say we couldn’t halt the slavery? That’s what it was, by a different name with different treatment, depending on the tribe.
The tribesmen wouldn’t like it. They might abandon us. Arminius was unlikely to ever consider it. A multi-tribal alliance alone was unheard of, let alone this. It was a way of life for us; scalcs were the spoils of battles and fair trading. We found the Roman way offensive, but the only difference was the scale and expectation of release.
The problem vexed me: the hypocrisy of fighting for freedom while denying that same freedom to people not at all different from us. The hint of a solution nibbled at my brain, no more tangible than mist, an idea on the tip of my tongue I couldn’t yet remember.
I looked at Jotapa, but her attention was focused on mending a tunic. None but me would have noticed the faint tremble in her fingertips.
* * *
While our carts and pack animals were loaded for the return journey, I cast a sidelong look at Wout, his splinted leg stretched straight out, propped up in the back of the wagon. For all our bickering and lost love, I didn’t envy the agony of a broken limb.
It wasn’t unusual for an injured person to die from their wounds. Thoughts of infection, of a permanent limp, must have plagued him in addition to the pain, for he was a surly beast, snapping and growling at any who dared acknowledge him.
Jotapa’s porridge breakfast was too hot. The water in his drinking skin too cold. The tribe moved too slowly to his liking. I, apparently, smelled like a week old pig carcass and would hopefully die soon.
Even Segestes caught his wrath. Segestes, who, according to Wout, had taken no action against Arminius for breaking his leg. Segestes, who was too tepid to keep Arminius away from me, too weak to resist when Varus’ men claimed our best horses.
If I snarled and spit at our father that way, I’d probably have a broken leg, too. Wout, however, was the favored son and heir, therefore free to speak his mind.
I ignored him and instead watched the other tribes packing their things. The leaving was always a subdued affair. After weeks of trading, celebrating, and reconnecting with old friends, parting ways to return home for a long, cold winter never inspired joy. This day, though, was different.
People squabbled over minor grievances and shot evil eyes to the legionaries mingling between the carts and horses.
The longer I watched, the more I saw legionaries seizing property and passing it back to their own baggage carts. People put up little, if any, fight. The men’s shoulders slumped and the women wept. They directed their ire at each other.
Then I saw Arminius walking alongside a cheerful Varus, smiling and laughing in all those stricken faces. Arminius’ expression remained impassive while he responded to whatever Varus said, periodically redirecting a legionary.
“What’s going on?” I eased over to the wagon, conflict with my brother be damned.
Wout grunted. “Varus is collecting all the unpaid taxes.”
That couldn’t be. The Romans were relentless in their tax collection and from listening to the women express their grievances, they’d already surrendered a dangerous amount from their food stores and animals.
There were more of us than them. If everyone stood together, we could put a stop to this.
Varus noticed our carts and pawed at the extra animals now in our possession. With the snap of his fingers, two legionaries hustled forward to collect the bounty, as if they hadn’t already taken a dozen horses.
Wout, who’d been so vocal about Segestes’ weakness, said nothing. Only the slight stiffening of his shoulders and quick hiss of breath through his nostrils betrayed him.
I couldn’t recall the first time I understood how weak my family was, only that I’d known it a long time. My mother hadn’t suffered their deficiencies. Strength was a trait I could only have inherited from her.
“Arminius,” I called.
He said something to Varus before heading my way, every inch of him resplendent in that cursed armor.
“What are you doing? Our tribe paid our taxes and then some. Why are your soldiers taking more, and from everyone?”
Wout grumbled, but didn’t speak up.
“Varus wants to ensure we’re well stocked before we break for winter quarters.” He spoke from the side of his mouth, never quite making eye contact with me.
“That sounds like a problem for your army, not our people.”
He turned his head away. That muscle in his jaw jumped.
“I cannot argue with him about this and you know it,” he said.
“There’s more than enough of us here—”
“Shut up,” he cut me off. “I’ve let you have your meetings—”
“You let me?”
“—and mostly, you’ve done an excellent job quelling any unrest here, whether or not that was your intention. But Varus is concerned about our own stores and if I fight him here and now, if any of us fight him, we may win the day, but believe me when I tell you, we will lose the war. Need I remind you there are three legions currently posted across Germania?”
Gods, I wanted to strike him. All I could do was seethe.
“Do you know what I’ve learned from Rome?” He cocked his head and stared me down with a banked fury that rivaled my own. “Pick your battles, Thusnelda. Pick the time and place where it best suits you and not right now, not when you’re angry. Think of the future.”
All I did lately was think of the future. I wanted something now, something I could hold in my hands and know it was real and mine. What I didn’t want was my co-conspirator talking to me like a child.
“Our people are going to starve,” I said through clenched teeth.
He nodded. “Some might, yes.”
“And you’ll do nothing?”
His eyes flickered to Wout. “What makes you think I’m doing nothing? Do you truly, after everything, believe I’m not doing all I can?”
We locked horns in a silent battle over the things we couldn’t say aloud so near to Wout. My brother didn’t need to know everything.
I thought back to the day Arminius bid me to follow him while he secured more allies. He’d taken a serious risk by trusting me then. Whatever my frustrations were, I knew enough to trust he wanted this rebellion as badly as I did. I closed my eyes and nodded once, resignation settling like a damp blanket upon my shoulders.
“I met with the Marsi and Bructeri, and they’ve pledged their support. We’re doing well. Take the winter to rest,” he said. “I’ll be back in the spring and we can resume our verbal sparring then.”
“You mean my berating you and you talking me out of violence?”
He chuckled, took my hand, and held my eyes while he placed a lingering kiss on my knuckles. “Exactly.”
That light brush of his lips soothed some of my ragged edges, damn him. How dare he talk down to me than flirt.
“Take care of yourself, Arminius,” I said with a cruel smile. “If you don’t come back, I’ll be forced to start burning things down.”
“Don’t worry about me. A march is a march. Keep an eye on your food stores. People are likely to start raiding if they get hungry enough.”
He spoke lightly, a joke, to mask the genuine concern wrought on his features. It was so easy to hate him when he came at me with snide arrogance. Mistrusting an arrogant Roman came naturally. The daring Cherusci warrior made me want things I dared not.
I tried to smile, but it was a sad thing. “We’ll be fine. Go, before I change my mind and lead the women in a revolt.”
He laughed outright. “I’ll see you soon, Wildberry. Before we leave.”
He returned to Varus before I my mouth could make a witty rejoinder. My throat turned thick and too achy for words.
The sun had no promise of breaking through the gray, overcast skies. Sheep bleated in the distance and angry voices carried across the field.
“You’re not even trying to hide it,” Wout said.
I observed my resentful, sullen, beleaguered people watching the Romans behind hooded eyes. There was rage here. Even the Mattiaci and other Roman supporters felt it. Even Wout felt it, try as he might to hide it. All that furious energy boiling just beneath the surface, ready to break free.
“What’s the point?” I asked. “You can’t stop this.”