The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  He examined Godegisel scrutinizingly. “We must make sure that you don’t embark on your journey until your bumps have healed well and visibly, my friend. Otherwise, you will be mistaken for an ill person and immediately picked up and isolated. It’s better if you keep your impatience in check and stay with me.” He smiled understandingly at Godegisel. “I’m getting boring, right?”

  The Goth shook his head. “Clodius, I love you like my father.”

  The old man looked at the patient strangely. Then he turned his head quickly, wiping something from his eyes and concentrated on filling a plate with chicken soup.

  5

  Charamadoye felt that it was too early to deal with these issues. He had the cape plucked by his body slave, then sighed softly. Aira withdrew her hands from the royal figure and smiled. She was, like her overlord, not even seventeen, and last night she had served him in a different way than helping him dress. Charamadoye’s gaze rested with pleasure on the slender and tall figure of the slave girl, who had evidently been chosen with great care by his elders. She wasn’t just any girl qualified solely by the external beauty and docility of spirit to serve the King of Nobatia. She was also a daughter of the King of Alwa, and the campaign Charamadoye’s father had waged against the distant neighbor, with the tacit and silent support of Makuria in between, had not only led Charamadoye to ascend the throne, but also brought plenty of booty.

  The young ruler of Nobatia looked at himself in the richly decorated Roman mirror in front of which he stood. This item had also been part of the spoils of war. He wasn’t sure if his father’s death on the return trip from Alwa had been worth it, although after last night he was almost ready to believe it.

  The young king had to get up early. At night, the Aksumite delegation had arrived. The wars between the three Nubian successor states, which had divided the remains of the once mighty Kush, were one thing. The mighty Aksum was a completely different one. Ezana had once conquered Meroe, the ancient capital of Kush, and thus killed the once mighty empire. But Aksum had renounced a permanent conquest – their territorial interests were more in the Arab world, and there was nothing against three beautiful buffer states between themselves and Rome. That didn’t mean that Aksum wasn’t interested in what was happening in Nobatia, Makuria and Alwa, and Charamadoye’s father’s campaign didn’t necessarily bring joy to Aksum. The elders suspected that the delegation, which had now arrived in the capital of Pharas, graciously indicated to the young king, who had just risen to the throne, that the Emperor had a watchful eye on the Nubian developments, and therefore a rambunctious man like Charamadoye would prefer to think twice before he sets out on new deeds.

  The king of Nobatia had absolutely no problem with that notion.

  He would use the presence of the Aksumite delegation to announce his engagement with Aira and her release from the status of a slave. This wouldn’t only bring peace but also sent a strong signal to Aksum that the new Lord in Pharas had the intention to conduct his foreign policy through his bed and not his sword. The Aksumites, who were dependent on a complex marriage policy within their Empire, mostly between the rival family clans, would understand that well. And if they gave him his blessing, that would surely cement his position in Nobatia.

  That was only right for the King, especially in the face of the confusion that threatened to develop in the Roman Empire north of Nobatia. Aegyptus was close – too close to Charamadoye’s taste – and above all, his spies heard no good.

  The King sighed. It was too early for him. And diplomacy was exhausting when one had just spent the whole night exploring a beautiful woman in all subtleties. With fervor. It was tiring a bit. Charamadoye wasn’t looking forward to the duties that lay ahead of him. He wouldn’t be happy again until he had performed all of them.

  “Then we don’t want to keep our guests waiting,” he murmured more to himself, but Aira saw this as an invitation to pluck at his robe one last time and then quietly retire.

  The King of Nobatia left his personal apartments. At the door, the four men of his personal bodyguard joined him; they would accompany him today. They were all no older than him, sometimes playmates, sons of influential personalities, good friends. In their presence, he felt as sure as a king could feel these days.

  Soon they had reached the courtyard of the modest palace. It was built in Roman style. For a true Roman, it might be nothing more than a sprawling mansion of a wealthy knight, but Charamadoye was not so vain as to overestimate his place in history. Young indeed, since his earliest childhood he had been prepared for his function with the best teachers. When Kush collapsed about thirty years before, Charamadoye’s family had been an important aristocratic powerhouse, provincial princes only, but still important. That his father would then become a king himself had been rather unforeseen. But he quickly got into the role and died the death of a ruler.

  Charamadoye respected and even loved his father, but had planned to die of old age. In the arms of young girl like Aira, preferably. After all, he was the King.

  He should have the power to arrange that.

  His equally modest entourage had already assembled, and there, opposite the slightly raised armchair that the King claimed as his throne, stood three Aksumites, well recognizable by their dress as well as their posture. Not rude or even arrogant, but not too submissive either.

  One of his advisors joined the King’s side and whispered to him, “The leader of the group is Wazeba, Ouezeba’s brother.”

  Charamadoye stiffened involuntarily. Wazeba was a high nobleman and officer of the Aksumite forces, and thus certainly a worthy envoy. But above all, he was the brother of the future Aksumite Emperor, and that was remarkable. It symbolized the importance that the Emperor gave to this embassy, and it also meant that Charamadoye had to be extra careful.

  He sat down on his throne chair and looked kindly down at the gathering. Then he raised his hands.

  “I want to greet our guests. Come forward!”

  The three Aksumites moved forward, keeping a respectful distance and bowing.

  “I’m Wazeba,” a particularly tall man said in a deep voice. “I represent Mehadeyis, the Emperor of the great Aksum. I bring the friendly greetings of my overlord, and I look forward to see the King of Nobatia in good health.”

  Charamadoye nodded majestically, but as condescendingly as possible. “I greet you, Wazeba. Please, sit by my side.”

  Seating next to the throne chair was reserved for the counselors and elders, or particularly important guests of honor. Wazeba and his companions took their seats and were immediately served with refreshments, which they consumed more out of courtesy.

  “What message did my fatherly friend, the Emperor of Aksum, give you?”

  Wazeba smiled. It seemed to him quite pleasing that the young king came straight to the point. “My Emperor was worried about the death of your honored father and the process of your accession to the throne. He wanted to make sure everything was fine in Nobatia.” He made a sweeping gesture. “I see that my master’s concern was unfounded.”

  “Not at all,” Charamadoye said. “It’s always a risk when someone without much experience suddenly succeeds a ruler. Your Emperor is so wise to prepare your brother for this high office. My father didn’t have much time for that and was often busy with … other things.”

  Wazeba inclined his head. “My Emperor is not sure if the campaign against Alwa was a wise decision.”

  “Ah, I assure you, noble Wazeba, that I’m absolutely convinced that my father’s decision was at least premature.”

  The Aksumite nodded interestedly. Charamadoye leaned forward.

  “Please tell the Lord of Aksum that I have no intention of continuing my father’s martial activities, at least not offensively. Kush only vanished a few decades ago and many nobles from that time have a deep desire to revive the Empire. I would like to assume that my father also had thoughts in this direction.”

  “You do not?”

  “Not at all. The
re are reasons why Kush fell apart. We had lost all inner unity.”

  “Aksum conquered Meroe.”

  “That was a symptom but not the cause of the disease.”

  “You are kind.”

  “I’m realistic enough. I’m less worried about what’s going on in the south than what’s happening in the north.”

  Wazeba’s eyes narrowed, his face curious with tension. “You speak of the Roman civil war.”

  “Yes, that is true. I understand you got a visit from the time-wanderers.”

  “You are well-informed.”

  “Every friend of Aksum is well-informed about what’s happening at court.”

  Wazeba grinned. “It’s common among good friends, isn’t it?”

  Charamadoye grinned back but became serious again as he continued. “Warn your guests, Wazeba. The Egyptian Prefect knows that the time-wanderers are in Aksum, and it seems to me that he expects to welcome them back in Egypt soon.”

  “Is that so?” Wazeba frowned. “Why?”

  “Why? Because he has exposed a bounty on men named Neumann and Köhler as well as on a Roman officer named Africanus – 200 gold denars, old coinage, for each one of them. But this message was only for military units and was not publicly proclaimed.”

  “You are well-informed,” Wazeba repeated.

  “Some young men of my people are in Roman service. Some already a bit longer. Some voluntarily, others as slaves. But they haven’t forgotten their homeland. I … learn things.”

  “How useful.”

  “Useful also for your master, noble Wazeba.”

  The Aksumite leaned back and looked thoughtfully at the dusty floor of the palace courtyard. “My lord will be grateful if you keep him informed. In fact, I indeed want to send him a messenger today.”

  “Before you do, pay attention to a second piece of news I want to give you,” Charamadoye warned.

  “I hear.”

  “The prefect gathers troops and sends them west.”

  “Civil war. The African prefects support Theodosius, I’ve heard.”

  Charamadoye smiled bitterly.

  “Yes, that’s what you hear. But what did I?”

  Wazeba’s gaze seemed alarmed.

  Charamadoye, King of Nobatia, told him one or the other detail that his informers had leaked to him. Then he told Wazeba his marriage plans and asked for Aksum’s blessing, so that the king of Alwa could approve of the connection and Charamadoye could take care of other things than to repair his father’s mistakes.

  Wazeba, brother of the future emperor, assured him of all this. His words spoke of gratitude. And respect, almost reluctant respect for a seventeen-year-old king, who already proved more capable than his predecessor.

  The day turned out, as this particular king mused, to be quite pleasant.

  6

  “Well, that’s a camp!”

  Secundus was satisfied, and that was remarkable, for although the Centurion had gone through so much in his life and had suffered so many hardships, he was somebody who actually set high standards for his life. Patience distinguished him: if, through promotions and small “business,” he could accumulate the riches that would enable him to change his life in a few years, he would endure less enjoyable circumstances for some time.

  But that he would be satisfied at once with a camp, Volkert felt to be quite remarkable.

  And his friend was right.

  The workers, who had been assigned by the prefects of the African provinces to set up the camp for Theodosius’ men, had achieved two things. First, they made it possible for the legionaries, who otherwise would have borne the brunt of the work, to relax a little. Secondly, they built with a little more attention to detail than the soldiers focused on drill and practicability. The fact that the camp was built around a deserted village helped: Not only were old stone buildings refitted, there was also a beautiful little bathhouse, which was repaired very quickly. When the first wagons arrived with supplies – fruits, fresh cereals, amphorae with wine, and barrels of beer –, the mood didn’t only lift inside critical Centurion Secundus. Nobody had anything against the usual cereal porridge, but the variety was welcome.

  Volkert let his people relax a bit, but not too much. He continued to report his unit regularly to night and guard services, much to the displeasure of his legionaries. The subliminal criticism he endured. There was nothing wrong with some holiday and rest, but they were at war, and nobody should forget that. Sometimes fate loudly reminded you of such facts, and then it was good to not be too surprised.

  Secundus was satisfied, Volkert wasn’t.

  He was looking for an excuse, but he found none.

  He had to comply to a duty he really wanted to avoid. This consisted of a staff meeting with the Emperor, who had arrived the previous day in camp. The Saarbrücken was near, too close for Volkert’s taste. But as an ascending star in the military hierarchy, he was invited to the Emperor’s meetings, as of now. The problem was that not only Captain von Geeren would be present but also Rheinberg and Engineer Dahms, both men who knew him well. The question was if the beard, the attire of a Roman officer, and the signs of the hardships of the past few months that had made him age visibly – he himself preferred the term “matured,” but that was ultimately a matter of opinion – were enough to conceal his true identity.

  And was that still necessary?

  It was a war, and Volkert was an officer, a most respected one, a man whom everyone foretold a great career, even greater than the one he had completed in the past. Everyone was very interested in him. Volkert felt his former comrades might be merciful. Should he reveal himself to Rheinberg?

  This inner turmoil and uncertainty made him look for an excuse not to attend the meeting. If he could avoid it, he only would delay the confrontation, Volkert was well aware of that. But sometimes that was enough.

  But his search for a reason to abscond had been unsuccessful. Secundus hadn’t helped him much. When Volkert had suggested that he would rather not attend the meeting, his friend and companion had stared at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy?” had been his spontaneous reaction. “The Emperor is waiting for you! You will be presented to the Germans! They want to hear your opinion! You have to go there! Think of you and your career! And think of mine!”

  Secundus had sounded like his mother to the last sentence, Volkert thought. But the very last remark had put things right. Of course, his good friend was quite interested in profiting from Volkert’s rise. It was reassuring, though, that he made no big secret of it. That made Secundus reliable in his own way.

  And so Volkert had no choice.

  The meeting took place in a large building that used to be the main mansion of a squire and was still being worked on. But part of the roof was restored and a large room so clean and equipped that it was well-suited for the gathering.

  There were twenty-five officers in all, a selected group, and this made the fact that Volkert belonged to it particularly problematic. When he entered the room, most of the invited guests were already present, but Theodosius and Rheinberg were still missing. Small groups had formed and talked, but Volkert didn’t want to join any of them. He knew most of the men only superficially. Richomer, the youngest general in the room, was most likely someone he could talk to. He had made the preparations that led to the imprisonment of Sedacius – and his subsequent suicide, all triggered by Volkert’s betrayal.

  He shook his head, trying to get rid of these depressive thoughts quickly.

  “Ah, Thomasius!”

  The heads lifted as the Emperor’s loud voice boomed through the room. He walked next to Rheinberg and hadn’t been announced. Theodosius appreciated being as informal as possible at such meetings.

  Volkert tensed, forced a smile, lowered his head submissively. Maybe that helped.

  “Here, Rheinberg, this is the young man I told you about.”

  Volkert looked Rheinberg in the eye, presented his forearm to the Roman handshake. For a moment he rela
xed. There was no sudden recognition in the eyes of the man, only friendly curiosity. Volkert looked too different, older, with lines on his face, a beard, a Roman uniform – probably not even his own mother would have recognized him. He even managed a smile.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Tribune,” Rheinberg said in greeting and took his arm. “You have unmasked a traitor, killed Maximus’ best general, conquered a pirate fleet, rescued a barbarian heir, and thus brought us an ally – did I forget something?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Volkert muttered softly. He wanted to say as little as possible. His voice could still betray him; it was well-known to Rheinberg. To play the intimidated young man was easy, one, who preferred not to speak too much in the presence of his elders. Modesty was also a good thing for a steadily rising officer. In the background, he discovered Engineer Dahms, who apparently examined him only casually. From him, in all probability, he couldn’t expect any real danger.

  “Even the suggestion to go to Africa to plan the reconquest of the entire empire came from you,” added Rheinberg, putting a hand on Volkert’s shoulder. “Keep up the good work, Tribune. We can only win this war with men like you!”

  Applause and approving noises were heard. Volkert felt for a brief moment the strong, almost overwhelming urge to drop the mask, to explain himself to Rheinberg now and at that moment, but he couldn’t manage more than a narrow, seemingly timid, but actually rather tense smile. He lowered his head humbly and accepted the applause.