Give me back my Legions!

His father, Sextus Quinctilius Varus, had thought differently. He’d killed himself at Philippi along with Brutus and Cassius after they lost against Antony and Octavian - who was not yet calling himself Augustus. Almost fifty years ago now; Publius had been a boy. He was lucky the victors hadn’t proscribed the losers’ families. He nodded solemnly. He was lucky a lot of ways.

Soldiers guarded Augustus’ residence. Augustus was no fool - he was about as far from a fool as a man could be. He knew some people still resented his mastery of Rome. Three cohorts of praetorian troops - about 1,500 men - were stationed in the city to protect him. Six more cohorts were based in nearby towns. The armored men in front of the doorway unmistakably separated his house from all the others on the Palatine.

Some of the guards were Italians. Others, tall and fair, had to be Gauls or Germans. In its way, it was a sensible arrangement. Rome as Rome meant nothing to the barbarians. Augustus, as their paymaster and commander, did.

“Who are you? What do you want here?” the biggest and blondest of them asked, his accent guttural, as Varus’ litter came up.

Aristocles answered for Varus: “My master is Publius Quinctilius Varus, the ex-consul. He is to meet with Augustus this afternoon.” He didn’t throw his master’s rank in the German’s face, as he had with the wagon driver. The praetorian, after all, served a man with a higher rank yet - with the highest rank. But even someone summoned to meet with Augustus was a man of some consequence . . . and his pedisequus, therefore, a slave of some consequence.

“You wait here. We check,” the guard said. He spoke in his own sonorous tongue. One of the other soldiers ducked inside.

“It will be all right, boys,” Varus told the lectiarii. “You can put me down now.”

Gently, the bearers lowered the sedan chair to the ground. Varus got out and stretched. Unlike his slaves, he wore a toga, not a tunic. He rearranged the drape of the garment. At the same time, not quite accidentally, he flashed the purple stripe that marked his status.

The soldier returned and said something in the Germans’ language to the man in charge of the detachment. That worthy inclined his head to Varus. “You may go in now, sir,” he said, respect ousting practiced suspicion from his voice.

“Good.” Varus left it at that. He never knew how to talk to Augustus’ guards. They weren’t equals; by the nature of things, they couldn’t be equals. But they weren’t insignificant people, either. A puzzlement.

As soon as he and his two pedisequi went inside, one of Augustus’ civilian slaves took charge of them. Varus was sure someone else would bring his bearers into the shade and give them something cool to drink. A great house - and there was none greater - took care of such things as a matter of course.

“I hope you are well, sir,” Augustus’ slave said politely.

“Yes, thank you.” Varus enquired not about the slave’s health but about his master’s: “I hope Augustus is, too.”

With a hint of a smile, the slave answered, “He says a man who gets as old as he is is either well or dead.”

That held considerable truth, and truth told with Augustus’ usual pith. The ruler of the Roman world was seventy, an age many aspired to and few reached. He’d had several serious illnesses in his earlier days, but recovered from them all. And he’d outlived the younger men he’d expected to succeed him.

Varus, in his early fifties, already felt the first hints that the proud strength of his youth would not last forever - and might not last much longer. And he’d enjoyed good health most of his life, the main exceptions being a couple of bad teeth that finally needed the dentist’s forceps. He shuddered and tried to forget those times.

The slave led him and his attendants to a small room on the north side of a courtyard. A roofed colonnade shielded it from direct sun, but the broad doorway still let in plenty of light. The slave darted in ahead of Varus. His voice floated out through the doorway: “Sir, Quinctilius Varus is here to see you.”

“Well, bring him in.” Augustus’ voice was mushy; over the years, he’d had more trouble with his teeth than Varus had.

At the slave’s gesture, Varus and his pedisequi walked into the room where Augustus waited. Despite his years, the ruler of the Roman world moved very gracefully. He stood so straight, he seemed uncommonly tall, although he wasn’t. He wore a toga of solid purple: a luxury he’d reserved for himself alone.

“Good day, sir,” Varus said, bowing. His slaves bowed deeper, bending almost double. As he straightened, he went on, “How may I serve you today?”

“We’ll get there, don’t worry.” Augustus turned and waved towards a chair. “In the meantime, sit down. Make yourself at home.” Seen full on, his broad face seemed mild and unassuming. In profile, though, the harsh curve of his nose warned there was more to him than first met the eye.