Richomer smiled indulgently. “Betrayal or not, every one of the Maximus side fighters would have the same chance – fight, give up, run away. We’re only increasing the likelihood of choosing one of the last two alternatives.”
“The legionaries of Maximus are not as disciplined as they should be?”
Richomer shook his head, this time rather sadly. “No, I don’t think so. On the contrary. They will begin with full confidence. And yet, they have a choice. They even have the chance to win the battle with superhuman effort and great steadfastness. Would they have this chance in your proposal?”
“No.” Von Geeren sighed again and looked at Rheinberg. He didn’t give the impression that it was particularly important to him that this opportunity would be granted to the enemy. On the other hand, he would faithfully carry out his orders and not keep an endless discussion alive.
“But?” Rheinberg asked anyway, noticing von Geeren’s discomfort.
The Captain shrugged. “But it would be over quickly and we could take care of the really important things.”
11
Quintus Virilius was a simple legionary without great ambition. He shared the fate of so many of his comrades, whose voluntary involvement in the armed forces was at least questionable. His father had been a soldier, and his grandfather too, and while elsewhere it was a venerable tradition that had filled all offspring with pride, it had always been a burden to Quintus. His grandfather had voluntarily joined the Legion and had been promoted to decurion. His father had already been compelled by law to join, a law according to which sons should take up the profession of the father, and this law was enforced particularly zealously in the case of legions always striving for new personnel. His father had not come far, but he had not shamed his profession either. He had survived, had been dismissed honorably, had settled down, fathered three children, and had fallen down to the ground dead at the age of 51 when attending his fields.
Quintus had nothing against the Legion.
But it seemed the Legion had something against him.
He always met the wrong people – the wrong comrades who turned out to be drunken rogues and involved Quintus, who was not looking for that kind of distraction, in things he was not responsible for but still was held accountable … the wrong superiors who saw a victim in the lanky, pale-faced young man, someone who could be made a bad example for other lanky young pale men. But since Quintus was thoroughly committed to duty, followed orders faithfully and kept discipline, one had to look very much for lapses to make a bad example of him. Some of his superiors seemed to have made this a life’s work.
And so Quintus Virilius kept watch all week on a distant frontier post, a wooden lookout built on four trunks, with a very rickety staircase leading up to him and his two comrades. The lookout had a roof – which was leaking – and a horse whose rider had to be ready to rush to command with an important observation while the other two legionaries had to see how they got along. All three men were in a bad mood, and with each passing day in the airy, not always dry height, with the monotonous meals of porridge and rock-hard bread and the duty to stare constantly to the east, should the hordes of Huns come from that direction, this mood became constantly worse.
And so they got on each other’s nerves.
Quintus tried to say as little as possible.
That alone seemed to irritate his two comrades, of whom he knew little more than their names.
No matter what he did or did not, it was wrong.
When he had time, Quintus was daydreaming. He didn’t see himself as an emperor or knight, as a glorious general or the like. He had loved his youth on his father’s farm, the freedom he had enjoyed there. His father hadn’t been a bossy man, had been tired of roaring and commanding after being discharged, a gentle, fast-aging man who had loved his wife and children very much. Quintus wished to return to the yard, dreaming to do something with the neighbor’s daughter, sweet Sabina, as he had never dared. Now he would never see her again, he was quite sure of that. He dreamed of completing the extension buildings his father always talked about but never started, and a stable for a few cows, if he could afford it.
These were modest dreams. They consoled him in the night when he was cheated once more by his comrades with the dices, when they laid sleeping and snoring, as he stared through the murky fog toward the wooded area barely lit by the starlight, guarding his post somewhere on the edge from Moesia Inferior, about 200 miles from Noviodunum, where Roman civilization and comfort beckoned.
Quintus sighed. This was his third year in the Legion. He had turned 20 two weeks ago, which didn’t interest anyone, and nobody noticed. The prospect of spending another 17 years serving such as this – or suffering an early death by the barbarian blade – didn’t lift his spirits. Then he was 37. With luck, he would afterwards enjoy ten or fifteen good years before his life ended.
That was not what Quintus had imagined.
At least it was relatively quiet.
It was also annoyingly boring. It was cool. Damp. The feet in his boots felt clammy, and now and then he stepped on the spot to get some feeling into them. The fog was dancing. Sometimes Virilius thought he could see shadowy figures in it. He heard the sounds of the night, and it was not always to assign the cause clearly. Animals, yes. But there … weren’t these steps?
Of course, nothing happened. The snoring of his comrades was the only sound that clearly came from a human being. And it was at the same time the one who strained his nerves most during the night. The sawing sound reminded him that he would hardly sleep that night, and that the coming day would only be full of leaden fatigue and hardships.
Virilius expected nothing from this guard except a continuation of his frustrating and sad existence as a Roman soldier.
At least until the time the figure appeared in the fog of the night.
The guard post had been built on the edge of a forest. To the east stretched a thinly wooded area with a lot of open grassland, a position that allowed a good view especially during the day. At night, visibility was limited, and though the sky was starry, a kind of fog billowed in which an entire army could be hidden. At the same time the fog carried sounds, so that the cacophony of nocturnal animals made itself heard easily. The footsteps, the clatter of metal and the snorting of a horse were therefore good to discern, much sooner than Quintus’ strained eyes could see anything.
Out of the mist a dark, barely recognizable figure peeled with a horse on its leash. That was not exactly what was called a surprise attack, and yet Quintus felt a certain satisfaction when he could shake his two comrades from sleep.
The silent cursing of the awestruck and dumbfounded men ended once they also spotted the figure who had stopped about fifteen feet from the guard post and seemed to be waiting for something.
“He wants something from us,” Quintus muttered.
“One of us should go downstairs and talk to him,” one of his comrades said.
“Shouldn’t we all go?” Quintus asked, already suspecting what that was all about.
“We’ll give you backing from up here,” came the expected, far from reassuring answer.
Quintus thought for a moment about how he could defend himself, but nothing clever came to mind. He sighed – which his comrades acknowledged with a hypocritical grin –, grabbed his weapons and climbed down the ladder, emphasizing slow and loud movements, so as not to be misinterpreted as an attacker.
When he stood on the ground, he adjusted his sword in the scabbard and leaned the spear after a brief reflection on the scaffolding of the watchtower. He preferred to fight with only one weapon, and the spear only obstructed him. He replaced his shield with a torch, of which a supply at the bottom of the high stand was waiting to be ignited. The flame promised the illusion of security. Then he took a deep breath and strode toward the patiently waiting figure.
As soon as he approached, he realized that he was dealing with a man and an old one for that. The weather-beaten, wrinkled face and
white-gray hair spoke a clear language. Still, the man, a little shorter than Quintus, stood remarkably straight and upright. Attentive eyes met the legionary. The horse was one of the ponies that the Huns liked to ride, and the man himself, as far as Quintus could judge, was also a representative of this people, and to look out for them his most important assignment.
Quintus felt a little bit how anxiety took possession of him. The old man was completely motionless, and he carried no weapons, especially not the dreaded bow of the Huns. Quintus could not see a blade either. And wild warrior or not, he should be able to deal with the old man in case of doubt. Quintus didn’t like being a soldier, but he quite mastered his craft. He had a strong intention to stay alive, and the ability to effectively use a weapon was quite helpful to a legionary.
He stopped a few paces from the man, held out his torch, and nodded to him. “I greet you. Why are you approaching our post?”
Quintus did not even know if the man understood Latin or Greek, but it didn’t seem to matter. The old man slowly and visibly pushed forward a bag, which he had worn behind his shoulder, and opened it. Quintus remained watchful, but the Hun didn’t produce a weapon, just a scroll, carefully wrapped in a tubular leather bag, which he opened briefly for the legionary to peek inside.
Quintus nodded. A message from the Huns?
The old man laid the leather tube on the floor, nodded encouragingly to the legionary, then turned and mounted his horse. Without making any utterance, he turned the animal and rode away slowly. It only took a few moments, then the fog had swallowed him.
Quintus took the container and looked closely at it. Characters had been carefully burned into the leather. It was unmistakable that there was a name there: Rheinberg, Magister Militium.
The Huns sent word to the Commander-in-Chief of Theodosius.
Quintus pocketed the tube and returned to his post. With luck, a little luck, the cowardice of his comrades would now be of use to him.
Fate had thrown him a few new dice, a little bit weighed in his favor.
Quintus would take the chance.
He only had that one, he knew.
12
“If it’s not his own goal, it has to be ours.”
Ambrosius leaned down and smoothed his long, articulated fingers gently over the herbs that grew in the garden through which he wandered with Petronius. It was warm, sunny, and the air was dry, too dry, actually. When they entered the small church garden, greeted by the priest living here, he had first complained of his suffering – it was generally too cold and too dry this year, and he had great difficulty in stimulating the plant’s herbs and vegetables to grow.
Petronius stopped beside the Bishop and waited.
“Your objections are justified, my friend,” Ambrosius went on. “Of course, it’s dangerous to question Maximus at the moment. But he is ambitious and too independent for me. God’s fear alone is not enough. If Theodosius is defeated, much more work is required. I want to make sure that someone is Emperor whom I can trust to enforce the necessary orders on a permanent basis. Nobody should get tired. Never let up. Do not waver – and above all, never should the interests of the state be more important than those of the Church. That’s exactly what, Petronius, is at the heart of the matter. The Church has priority in everything.”
“I don’t contradict you, Bishop,” Petronius knew only to say, and Ambrosius nodded as if he had expected nothing else.
“And yet?” he asked when the priest didn’t say another word.
“And yet … we can be glad someone like Maximus rules. To make von Klasewitz Emperor is very dangerous. He is a stranger, one of the time-wanderers, and if we kill Rheinberg, he will be very alone, too, surrounded only by those who fundamentally distrust him.”
“Very wise, my friend.” Ambrosius stretched and clapped his hands. “And that’s the point! An Emperor whose only friend is the Church, whose only support is the Hierarchy of the Church. Who must inseparably link a program to enforce our orthodoxy with his own political survival in order to stay in power and be alive. He would be a man of our graces, Petronius, who would receive consolation and help only from us, would find protection and encouragement in the faith and in the arms of the Church, nowhere else. Precisely because he has no supporters on his own in the administration – unlike Maximus. Precisely because he has no supporters on his own in the army – unlike Maximus. Because none of the senators will work for him – unlike for Maximus. One, who can’t show his own victories to gain legitimacy, no great deeds, no brilliant successes – unlike Maximus. The perfect puppet in the hands of the Church, constantly pursued by the fear of falling victim to an assassination attempt or rebellion, if he doesn’t devote himself completely to our cause in order to maintain his position. We will speak, and he will hear. Even if he doesn’t like what we have to say, he will have no choice but to enforce it. Would we withdraw our support, even in public, not a month would pass and his body would drift in the Tiber.”
Petronius nodded, an excited sparkle in his eyes. They both took a few more steps, watching the insects dance in the sunlight, and enjoyed the wonderfully peaceful silence of this secluded place not far from Ravenna. “Then it’s wise to wait until Maximus has prevailed over Theodosius,” Petronius finally said. “It must be the victory of Maximus, not of von Klasewitz, so that he can not obtain his own additional legitimacy.”
“You think well,” Ambrosius said, taking a deep breath. “That’s exactly what we have to do. But that doesn’t change the necessity to take the right steps to initiate the change of power after a victory against Theodosius, and as soon thereafter as possible. In fact, I don’t think there should much time between the triumph of the battle and the abdication of Maximus.”
“That sounds very challenging.”
“It’ll be. Above all, it requires a person who is close to the Emperor and is prepared to do the things to be done at the given hour, regardless of his own safety, without hesitation and in full trust in God – and without too much blemish falling on the church.”
“So von Klasewitz himself. Or someone from whom one can … distance himself when it happened. A … crazy man, who acted of his own initiative, by no means on higher orders. Someone who took the message of his superiors too literally. Someone of … a simple mind.”
Ambrosius nodded his approval.
“Very good, brother. Your thoughts are clearly going in the right direction. But of course we have to talk to von Klasewitz. He is an important part of our plan, even if he himself should not make the final blow. We have to make our goals his own. It would be even better if he had similar plans, and we could help him realize them, putting his fate into our hands.”
“I can talk to him,” Petronius offered, scraping the sandal tip of his right foot in the dry floor. Dust-dry the earth was here, crumbly, almost indistinguishable from sand. No wonder it was a great challenge to grow plants here.
“That would be helpful.”
“What can we offer him help with?”
“You.”
Petronius looked up and stared at Ambrosius. “If I raise my hand against the Emperor, it falls back to the Church. And you. Everyone knows that I’m your confidant.”
“Thou shalt kill no one. This feat should be done, as you have just suggested. Let us find a suitable tool. Among the young priests are some who know nothing but the Church and are willing to give their lives immediately for their salvation. A good candidate should be available. But your task is a different one, my dear Petronius.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s about the time immediately after such an act. It causes turmoil, and all too loyal henchmen of Maximus might be compelled exercise judgment on von Klasewitz. Someone must be there who moderates the excitement. Someone who speaks reasonably and is able to demonstrate the benefits of the new power structure, who expresses the Church’s regret over the sudden death of the Emperor, but at the same time suggests that the new emperor is quite one with whom we intend to coope
rate. It’s a difficult task, Petronius, but ultimately you don’t have to do anything except save von Klasewitz’s life so he can do what we expect of him. Once the first excitement is over, I take over and make sure that everybody makes friends with the situation in the long term. I have senators who eat out of my hand. I have administrative officials who do what I say. Bishops will follow me, the Pope as the supreme man of our church as well. But that takes some time, preparation, it takes a lot of talking and more or less gentle pressure here and there. You are responsible for the first days, the first weeks. I lay a big burden on your shoulders, my friend. I want to prepare you well, but you must quickly proceed for Ravenna and be close to the Emperor. I trust that the Lord will give you inspiration at the right time to do your work properly.”
Petronius remained anxious, concerned about meeting this major challenge. “The Emperor knows me, I’ve often accompanied you,” the priest muttered. “Von Klasewitz has given me his trust for a long time. But the most important obstacle is the others, the officers, above all.”
“They’re all Trinitarians, friends of the Church,” Ambrosius said. “I talked to everyone, and my word has weight there. Just take care of the first days. As soon as I have news of the deed being done, I rush to your side. Then everything should go its course, as we have imagined.”
Petronius sighed.
“I want to do it. But first, the traitor must be persuaded to become our tool.”
Ambrosius smiled pensively. “I feel that you won’t have to do much persuading. I’m even sure that this will be the easiest part of your assignment.”
Petronius nodded. “I don’t contradict you, Bishop. But first, I’m looking for a suitable candidate … someone ready to execute the will of the Lord without much thought.”
Ambrosius put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “And when all this is done, we should ensure that a certain Petronius becomes bishop of Ravenna?”
The Emperor's Men: Emperor Page 6