The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  Rheinberg felt an itch in his throat and cleared it. Of course that wasn’t illogical. It would take a big burden off his shoulder. Why did he now feel pain in the face of the discussion? “It’s your decision, Theodosius,” he replied calmly. “I won’t cling to this office.”

  The Spaniard nodded as if he had expected this answer. “I won’t do it. I won’t replace you. Honestly, that’s not because I do not know anyone better who could lead the troops. I have good generals. Men who would also listen to your advice but who know how to lead a war on land. But there is a very important reason for leaving you in office.”

  “Which one?” Rheinberg asked, knowing it was expected of him.

  Theodosius held out a parchment that he had brought out from under his flowing cloak. It was a small scroll, typical of the messages that the Emperor reached by messenger every day from subordinates, spies or friends.

  Rheinberg raised both hands. “I believe you, if you just tell me!”

  Theodosius smiled knowingly. Rheinberg was able to talk very well in Latin as well as Greek, but reading was much harder. But the smile quickly disappeared from his face. Rheinberg immediately felt a sense of foreboding.

  No doubt bad news.

  “A message from Ravenna,” Theodosius said measuredly.

  “A new development with Maximus?”

  “Oh yes. There’s a new Magister Militium following poor old Andragathius.” The Emperor looked at Rheinberg. Was there compassion in his eyes?

  “Who?”

  “Von Klasewitz.” Theodosius lowered the parchment, said nothing further, just looked at the German.

  Rheinberg tried not to stare too much, but he didn’t succeed. Disbelief spread in him. That was … he didn’t have the words. Was he angry? Was he disappointed? Or was he, after all, just amused at how it all happened that fate was constantly busy spitting him in the soup?

  The Spaniard gave him a few moments, then spoke again. “It’s a bit ironic, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t miss that,” Rheinberg said. “I’m not happy about it.”

  Theodosius nodded thoughtfully. “Now the time-wanderers compete against each other as military leaders of their emperors. This has great symbolic power. And no one knows better how this man thinks, acts and plans. That’s why you stay where you are, Rheinberg. Until the end.”

  “The end …” his counterpart echoed thoughtfully.

  “Yes, the end,” Theodosius affirmed, giving Rheinberg an intense look. “Make sure, Magister, that I’ll like it.”

  Rheinberg lowered his head. Naturally. He had to work, he knew that. The Emperor was expecting a lot from him, especially now.

  The end.

  He didn’t fancy even the beginning anymore.

  3

  Freiherr von Klasewitz was extremely satisfied with himself. He stood on the quarterdeck of the Julius Caesar and looked down at the long, massive ship’s body in front of him. The view over the deck of the big transport was obstructed by the two masts and not least by the dark chimney that stretched out of the wooden floor and thus symbolized what this ship was.

  It was a small revolution.

  Von Klasewitz turned his head to the right. There was the Octavian, the sister ship of the Caesar, just as it was about to be completed. He turned his eyes to the left, and his eyes rested pleasantly on the almost finished construction of the Traian, the third new ship of this class. They were the largest ships Rome had ever built, even larger than the grain freighters that transported the precious food from Africa across the Mediterranean. There were also completely different ships, high-boarded, with a mighty keel and other sails and rigging. The classical square sailors of antiquity could neither cross against the wind nor perform a decent turn, these three leviathans were absolutely capable of doing so.

  The steam engines built into the fuselage were far too weak for the big constructions. This was due to the haste with which Klasewitz had had to go about. Day and night work had been done on the transports, as well as on the three bronze machines. They wouldn’t be able to power the ships on their own, but they would help with headwinds, maneuvers, and at least some movement if there was no wind. They made these three giants the most efficient ships of the Roman fleet. They were a great weapon in the hands of the right man.

  Of course, he was the right man.

  “When can we start shipping the legionaries?”

  The voice tore the German out of his thoughts. Tribune Lucius Sempronus belonged to his staff, since the Emperor had already assigned the man, even before his appointment as master of the army, at his side. Von Klasewitz had secretly hoped to be freed from him after his promotion, but the Tribune clung to him like a burdock, always polite, even submissive, never contradictory, a faithfully caring assistant, but just there all the time. Just there. Von Klasewitz turned around, and there was Sempronus. When he opened a door, there was the Tribune, smiling, with a polite bow. He inspected a construction site, a maneuver, a building while Sempronus inspected him. He was his shadow, and he was good at it. The nobleman couldn’t shake him off, because that would mean rejecting the Emperor himself, and that the newly appointed commander did not dare. Yet.

  So it was the time to endure the Tribune.

  And to answer his questions, because they were the questions of the Emperor.

  “Each of the ships can transport a good 800 legionnaires, almost a legion,” von Klasewitz said. “We can start the first transport in a week, maybe two. The ships are almost completed. It will take us about two weeks to reach the agreed landing point in Africa, then the return trip … I think we will have the emperor’s core force in Africa in two months. Until then, Maximus will have requisitioned enough other ships to let the rest of the army transfer in one swing, not to mention the ships the prefects from Africa will send him. We are on schedule. Everything works as agreed.”

  At least from their side, he thought silently. Maximus relied on the treacherous prefects of Africa, who acted as if they were supporting Theodosius, but in reality had sided with the usurper. Von Klasewitz had a healthy mistrust of traitors, and he was well-acquainted with the necessary traits. He himself had been one and he wanted to become one again. That’s how he shaped his thoughts.

  But none he intended to share with Sempronus.

  The Tribune, in any case, listened to his Lord’s words with respectful devotion and was very pleased with everything. How much of it was sincere and how much was pretense von Klasewitz couldn’t guess. In the end, it didn’t matter because the Tribune himself was of no importance. He was the loyal follower of the Emperor, his ear, his voice, nothing more than an extended arm, a puppet. Von Klasewitz had to watch out for him, because he had to watch out for Maximus, but Sempronus himself was … nothing.

  Nobody.

  Annoying.

  Von Klasewitz took a deep breath. Of course, there were many lies. From the outside, the ships looked pretty neat, but in fact it would take some time before they were really operational. In late summer, maybe. But that didn’t hurt. Until then, Theodosius’ troops would feel so safe and spoiled by the African prefects that the sudden change in loyalty and the emergence of Maximus’ army would completely disconcert them. Until the end, they would believe that victory was assured. And then their fate would be sealed. Von Klasewitz looked forward to this moment, especially since it would be the starting point for the sealing of his own fate. With a loyal force at hand, he should be able to overthrow Maximus and make himself the Emperor. Maybe there would be another little civil war after that. But the situation helped him. The East groaned under the plague; with luck the illness would spread to other parts of the Empire. He just had to wait until enough people died that his government would be seen as an anchor of stability, a source of confidence. He didn’t expect serious problems once the deed was done, which would ensure him the purple.

  Sempronus, he had decided, would also be one of the victims. A little revenge, actually not worthy of him, unnecessary, but pleasing. As an
emperor, he was allowed to treat himself to these little pleasures, the nobleman considered. Why else to hold the power in your hands?

  He smiled at Sempronus. “Shall we inspect the ships together?”

  The Tribune waved. “If you order so, immediately, of course. But I’m not a specialist, and I do not understand most of it.”

  The German smiled wider and patted the officer’s shoulder. “That’s okay.”

  Von Klasewitz knew perfectly well that Sempronus had tried to avoid these endless inspections that were done wherever possible. The German himself didn’t do this to control everyone continuously, but rather to chat with all the workers, foremen, and the guards, to listen to their silly worries and hardships, to pretend that he was actually interested in the chatter, and then applying himself regularly to exactly one of the little grievances and to put an end to the problem. Such a thing got around and did well for more loyalty and trust in his person. And it was not a big effort. The mob had problems that matched his mental horizon. Maybe the wine tasted too watery or lunch break had been too short yesterday, and after someone injured himself at work, there was no one around to put on a bandage. This and that. Von Klasewitz then made sure that the next day one or two amphoras of really good wine were delivered or that the break for the workers who so suffered was extended the following day or that a doctor walked the site and treated every ailment with great sympathy.

  This made von Klasewitz popular.

  And that was a capital he could use well.

  Sempronus left the ship, entered the quay, and marched toward the canteen.

  Von Klasewitz’s smile changed. It wasn’t false anymore, it was now full of sincere and honest arrogance. This eternal acting certainly took its toll and for a moment to be allowed to be quite the old certainly served his mental health. And the price he paid for this effort was nothing compared to the price he would once receive as a reward.

  How well, he thought to himself before he began his inspection, that the world consists mostly of idiots, and I don’t belong to them.

  How good, how wonderful.

  4

  “At some point you’ll have to decide,” the old man explained as he watched Godegisel brush his fingertips gently over the newly healed scar.

  “Decide what, Clodius?” the Goth asked softly.

  “Whether you want to be happy about being alive or appalled for carrying the scars of your illness with you.”

  Godegisel nodded slowly and looked down at himself. He felt weak and looked like it; the bumps of the plague were clearly visible on his now emaciated-looking body. They were on the way to healing, the pain had subsided. For some days, Godegisel had been eating three meals a day again, carefully prepared by old Clodius, and he was able to wash himself carefully, wear fresh clothes, and occasionally got up to take some shaky steps. It was best when he sat with his benefactor on the bench in front of the hut and let the summer sun shine on his aching limbs.

  Clodius used this time to tell him about his life. He also read to him from the scriptures, of which he possessed versions of varying quality, the greatest treasure in this modest dwelling. Godegisel was sure that at no time in his life had he been more intensively and comprehensively engaged in the Lord’s words than in the past few weeks. Clodius took care not to tire his patient. Godegisel slept a lot. And the nightmares subsided, they faded with the receding fever.

  When Godegisel looked at the old man, he felt great warmth and affection. When he woke for the first time from delirium, completely disoriented, burning with hot fever, fainting and fainting again, he had seen the smiling face of Clodius, which was covered with fine wrinkles. And then there had been the cool, damp refreshment of a cloth on his forehead, and the gentle voice that calmed him, assuring him that everything was alright and that he was beyond through the worst part soon. He remembered with pleasure the strong taste of the chicken broth Clodius administered to him, the pleasant, invigorating warmth in his stomach, the animation of his spirits, and the almost euphoric joy of being alive.

  Old Clodius was like an anchor and constant companion, the embodiment of the feeling of security and concern. The old man had taken care of the infected bumps, endured the unbearable stench, calmed the suffering of the sick if he threatened to despair of his fate. He had been by his side, by day and by night, and Godegisel could only guess what powers the old body had needed to mobilize to accomplish this task.

  Godegisel had thanked Clodius many times, and he had accepted it with a refreshingly natural modesty. But the Goth felt every day that he hadn’t yet adequately addressed his debt, and promised Clodius a house and honors and money when he had returned to serving his Roman masters.

  Clodius always made a wide movement of both arms and shook his head. “What else do I need? Live your life, young Goth, that’s enough for me.”

  Godegisel then accepted these words in apparent humility, yet he could not shake off the thought of being indebted.

  And he looked at himself, the slowly healing wounds, with emerging scars that would be visible forever at the joints, in the area of his loins, something that would accompany him for life. A sign that he was blessed, a survivor, tougher than most, not even a blemish.

  But, Godegisel kept asking himself touching one of the healing bumps with careful fingers, what would Pina say?

  Maybe it would actually be better to banish the woman from his thoughts. He had left her, secretive, and would not return to her as a radiant young man of nobility, as honored hero, in office and dignity, with salary and wealth, but as someone exhausted, aged by the plague, and whether still in honor, that alone would be decided by the outcome of the civil war. And that perspective didn’t look good at the moment. The East couldn’t help Rheinberg and Theodosius. The West was in the hands of Maximus, who cornered his opponents. Help was not to be expected from anywhere.

  Godegisel thought he wasn’t doing a very good job at this time.

  Clodius seemed to at least partially guess his thoughts. The old man looked at his charge with a mixture of pity and indignation. Godegisel sensed that Clodius would have little sympathy for his whining, and it took a few queries from the old man before he was finally ready to say a few words in regard to his state of mind.

  “I’m glad I’m still alive,” Godegisel said finally, answering the old man’s question. “But I’m not sure what kind of life that will be.”

  Clodius raised his eyebrows before shaking his head indulgently.

  “The weakness that came from the disease damages your soul,” he explained, casting a searching glance at the hearth, where a pot of his excellent chicken soup simmered. “If the body feels bad, we get sad and expect the worst. It isn’t different with you. Once you have fully recovered, you will think differently about it. There must be things in your life that please and make you rejoice. Dedicate your thoughts to these.”

  Godegisel hadn’t told the old man much about himself, and his caretaker hadn’t asked. But surely enough Clodius has gathered that the young Goth wasn’t just any traveler who was just unlucky.

  He had already considered telling Clodius a lot more about himself. But who would believe such an adventurous story? First captured the Emperor of the East, then killed a time-wanderer, Valens then, whom everyone had considered dead, brought to Britain. There, first part of the conspiracy of Maximus, then the flight to Gaul, then the death of Valens, the journey south, Pina, the admission by Rheinberg, special envoy to the Goths and now a plague sufferer in the hut of an old freed slave – all this within a little over a year.

  Such a life wasn’t led by any normal man. He had experienced more than old Clodius during his entire existence, and he was still young. Now he had even survived the plague, something many don’t, and now … by God, what now?

  “I hope the Lord has had enough of my adventures,” Godegisel said quietly. “I’ve done my part, I guess.”

  Clodius didn’t know what his patient was alluding to, but he probably guessed that he was not
just talking about the epidemic. The old man seemed to want to suppress another shaking of his head – he managed to do so halfheartedly – and then he sighed softly. It was hard to give hope and confidence to someone who was tired and suffering from a serious illness.

  He got up and looked down at Godegisel.

  “I’ll bring you some chicken soup and bake fresh bread. Tomorrow, I go to the market and buy a roast.”

  Godegisel shook his head. “No, it costs way too much money, my friend. I can’t pay you back until further notice.”

  Clodius made a derogatory gesture. “I have my livelihood, my pension from my former master, I can’t spend all that. Or how else could I have afforded the scrolls, in your opinion? I’ll buy a roast, a decent piece of meat, and we’ll see if we wouldn’t get you a long way along the road to recovery.”

  Godegisel didn’t object again. His appetite grew. And he wanted to get stronger. He still had a long way to go and, as life had taken everything from him, there was no alternative to choose from. That wasn’t a prospect that pleased him. But the restlessness, which became stronger with each passing day, was difficult to control. As soon as he was reasonably able to travel, he would set off, and then certainly to Clodius’ displeasure, who enjoyed the young man’s company despite all the work.

  “What’s the situation in the surrounding villages?” he asked the old man. “How are they keeping up?”

  “I’m pretty surprised,” Clodius replied. “The authorities reacted with expedience and apparently took the right measures. Sick people are quickly isolated. Everywhere people are hunting for rats. Purifying fires are kindled. The movements of travelers are closely controlled. In my time, the plague has spread faster and more extensively. Everyone is not half as panicky as we were then. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but there are actually these moments that I want to be grateful for the Imperial administration. Anyway, the plague seems to stay here in the area. But I heard that the eastern army was badly affected. The men were isolated in time, but they suffer.”