The Emperor's Men: Emperor

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The Emperor's Men: Emperor Page 13

by Dirk van den Boom


  Maximus smiled wider. “Please continue the meal. I still have a lot of work to do. The victory will not fall in our lap without effort.”

  All rose as the Emperor left the room. When he was gone, there was an awed silence. Nobody wanted to look the Bishop in the eye or speak to him.

  The dinner didn’t last long.

  24

  It wasn’t quite as easy to get out of Hippo Regius, as he had imagined. For one, Godegisel was in this city and on African soil for the first time; he simply didn’t know his way around. Further, there were armed patrols everywhere, and many people were stopped and questioned along the way. When the legions were brought ashore, the civilians brought along were not allowed to leave the ships. But even when most of the soldiers had been moved into the military camp built in front of the city, the curfew hadn’t been lifted right away. Godegisel was among the last to be landed. For a moment he had considered simply fleeing the ship – opportunities would have been enough –, but he had decided against it. It would’ve been very suspicious, and he just wanted to be a docile young man, interested in further employment, who had a hard time in life and didn’t cause any trouble. He played this role so well that he got a recommendation for one of the big transports who hired sailors in order to travel the entire Mediterranean. Godegisel suddenly had a promising career at sea, but he quickly decided to pursue his original plan.

  With the money in his pocket, his modest bundle on his back and a great deal of time on his shoulders, he was finally released ashore. Immediately, the young Goth hurried to the forum, because he hoped to get hold of a way to travel on as quickly as possible. He knew by now that Theodosius and his kin had taken positions in Mactaris, so the purpose of his journey was clear. And because it was so clear, this part of Roman Africa was for a long time shunned by traveling merchants, caravans, and all others who were not in the Emperor’s pay and who wielded a sword for him. In other words, after a frustrating day of searching, Godegisel had to realize that he wouldn’t find a harmless camouflage ride – no ox cart, no horse cart, no one, nothing. Everyone was waiting for the outcome of the battle, for the victor’s orders, for the withdrawal of the troops. Only then would trade would resume.

  That was far too late for Godegisel.

  The night he spent in a sailor’s tavern at the harbor, which offered reasonably pleasant accommodation. The food was decent, but the bed bugs numerous, and the roommates in the large bedroom were noisy, stank and behaved anything but reassuring. When Godegisel awoke in the morning, he heard during breakfast that the legions of Maximus were about to leave. Since the Goth had to arrive at Theodosius and Rheinberg before them, he didn’t have too many options left. He hurried to the market early, bought a new set of solid sandals, a bag of all kinds of supplies, and was already on his way to Mactaris, always vaguely hoping to find a way to increase his travel speed on the way. He was good on foot, but the Roman legions knew how to march, and there was a danger that especially mounted advance detachments would catch up with him. Was he suspicious? He would rather not take that risk.

  A long, exhausting walk was very good for him. The freedom of movement aboard the ship had been limited. And if he hadn’t had such an urgent mission, he would’ve been interested in Africa that seemed to be nice enough here in the north, with its green hills, agriculture, and pleasant climate.

  But he concentrated on making as much distance as possible. He marched through the day, except for a brief lunch break. As the sun went down, he prepared a shelter off the road, protected by a tree. He was now, especially without a horse, no worthwhile object for mugger, on the other hand, he wanted to take no unnecessary risk. The few coins remaining to him were certainly still of use.

  Breakfast was meager, some hard bread, just as hard cheese, a sip of water. Without further hesitation, he set off again immediately, marched hard, pushed ahead, although his body began to protest after the first few miles. When he reached a market town, he was able to replenish his water supply. A farmer sold him dried and fresh fruit, his wife gave him freshly baked flatbread, all for a small sum. With no traders left until the great battle had ended, the whole country was in a strange state of stupor, and Godegisel was an almost welcome change.

  He didn’t spend much time stowing his supplies and marched on. At lunchtime, he stopped at the wayside to strengthen himself. He was disturbed in his meal when an ox cart loaded with hay rumbled out onto the street from a field. A wizened little man sat on the box, his skin burned deep brown, a cap pulled down his face so that one could barely see his eyes. When it became clear that the cart was turning in the direction that Godegisel wanted, he got up and waved. The cart came to a halt, the ox looked at the Goths with grateful eyes. Apparently the animal enjoyed the unforeseen break.

  “How far in that direction are you going?” Godegisel asked the coachman.

  The man shrugged and made a general gesture. It was clear that he was hard-pressed to give a useful estimate. “Hay for my master,” he said, scratching his head under the cap. “Hay for the stable.”

  Godegisel nodded and smiled. “Can I travel with you?”

  The coachman looked at him suspiciously. Godegisel sighed and pulled out a coin, letting it jump through the air. The coachman showed a remarkable and unforeseen agility, as he grabbed the metal with uncanny precision and let it disappear in his tattered coat in no time. Then he grunted and pointed to the seat by his side.

  Godegisel swung onto the coachman’s seat.

  “This direction is not so good,” the driver mumbled as the ox sighed and the cart lurched forward again. “There’ll be a big battle soon.”

  “I’ve heard of that.”

  “All nonsense.”

  “Yes?”

  The man looked up. “They fight up there, but nothing changes for us.”

  “What change do you think of?”

  The old man shrugged. “I don’t know. Would be satisfied if my son hadn’t been drafted. But he was. It might be that he is over there now. Haven’t heard from him for a while.” He sank into silence again, moving his lips back and forth, as if more words wanted to push his way through his mouth, which he held back with force.

  Godegisel remembered Clodius, whose son had long been sold as a slave and about whose fate he had learned nothing more. The young man knew many such stories. The long flight of his people from the Huns and the suffering after their arrival had given rise to many more such fates.

  He wondered if there would be a time when events like this would become unthinkable.

  He said nothing else to the coachman. He had experienced enough on his long journey through the Empire to understand how the big men’s decisions influenced the common ones’ lives and what kind of destiny lay behind him. Did Rheinberg think about the common people? He remembered that the Magister Militium had pushed ahead with the liberation of the slaves and had abolished the duty for a son to take up his father’s profession. In an abstract way, he probably thought of the ordinary man, yes. But even so, not least because of his actions, the old man’s son might soon die on the nearby battlefield.

  “We leave them alone,” the old man muttered. “Why can’t they just leave us alone as well?”

  Godegisel still didn’t say anything. He felt the rumble of the cart under his butt, staring down at the dusty road in front of them, knowing the marching legions of Maximus behind him. His insights burned in his soul, he wanted to get rid of them.

  “Do you want to go to battle, boy?”

  Godegisel shook his head. “No I don’t.”

  That wasn’t even a lie.

  “Hide yourself, I tell you,” the coachman advised. “Hide yourself. That’s all we can do.”

  Godegisel said nothing, and the coachman sank into silence.

  Hiding, the Goth knew, was the last thing he intended to do.

  25

  “The soldiers of Maximus are on their way!”

  Rheinberg looked up, glanced at Richomer, who had entered the tent,
a piece of parchment in his hand, with which he waved.

  “The scouts just confirmed it. Our African allies have reported it. The legions are marching.”

  Rheinberg stretched. The sudden feeling of approaching danger mingled with relief. The wait would soon come to an end. With this battle, everything would be decided. He shook off the fear. They had prepared themselves as well as they possibly could, had made plans, made alliances, resorted to treachery. They didn’t have much more left to do now.

  “I want scouts to keep a close eye on the advance but keep their distance. We don’t want to stop the enemy because we are ready. Everyone wants it to be over.”

  Richomer nodded. “I have already given the appropriate orders.”

  The scouts wouldn’t get in trouble. Unlike Maximus’ men, they possessed the few precious binoculars of the time-wanderers. No one had to go near the armed caravan rolling toward them. Already on the way there, Rheinberg had identified good observation posts, hills, buildings, far away, just within sight of the binoculars, where scouts could hide without being immediately in danger.

  “Let’s inform the officers down to the centurion,” Rheinberg said. “They’re supposed to shut up, but they’ll be able to smile meaningfully when asked. I want tension to build up. This sharpens the senses, and the soldiers can gather the energy they will soon need.”

  Richomer grinned. “I’ll call a meeting.”

  “Does Theodosius know?”

  “He was informed. He said the details were your problem. Tonight he wants a brief meeting, but otherwise he just walks through the camp and talks to the soldiers to give everyone some courage and confidence. ”

  Rheinberg was pleased. The Emperor did what he did best in his position, now that everything was planned and decided. Theodosius was a passionate man, and he radiated these feelings. He could talk to the simple legionaries who had accompanied him a long way. He would evoke the memory of Gratian, the vision of a new Rome – a place where faithful and brave legionaries who had proven themselves had untold opportunities to make a difference. He wouldn’t threaten and discipline; he wasn’t a sergeant. His job was to inspire. Would Maximus do the same? He was told that it was his great strength to take care of the affairs of his simplest men. Maybe that was also the motivation for the Spaniard to try harder for an emotional bond with his troops. It was a weapon that cost little but could make a big impact when the going gets tough and the battle unfolded unpleasantly.

  Unpleasantly …

  When Richomer left the tent, Rheinberg had to think again about what would happen to him if they lost this clash. He knew some of his men were planning an escape for such a case, but he didn’t feel that he liked the idea. The Saarbrücken would certainly flee and try to seek refuge in the East. Perhaps she could take Theodosius with her, and then he could hold himself for a while as the Emperor of the East – again an interesting historical parallel to the Theodosius of his past, who had also had to share the Empire with Maximus for a while.

  Only in that timeline there hadn’t been the plague and the Spaniard had won in the end. But this time the omens would be reversed, and Rheinberg wasn’t sure whether alone with the Saarbrücken he would succeed in turning the rudder once more.

  He could no longer stay in his tent.

  He had to go out to meet with the troops too. He had to feel their readiness, their confidence and their hope. Maybe it would help to get infected.

  He wandered through the army camp. It was gigantic, because now also the African troops had arrived. Almost 40,000 soldiers were gathered here, one of the largest armies in the history of the Roman Empire. Should he feel proud to command such a machine? Or should the responsibility rather inspire fear?

  Rheinberg didn’t want to decide for one or the other. He found that focused humility was the right attitude for this moment.

  Some of the legionaries spoke to him. The commander was not known as aloof. Many only greeted him. Two offered him a helping of porridge, and once Rheinberg accepted the offer, praising the cook ironically, earning laughter.

  He didn’t want to inspect anyone, but overzealous NCOs called their men to attention as he approached, and then it was his job to calm the general agitation. He assumed that the weapons and armor were in good condition everywhere. And if not, well, that wouldn’t change too much.

  He didn’t want to spread fear.

  Not all of the men noticed him with excitement or special respect. Not all soldiers liked him. He was still a foreign man who didn’t understand much of what made up the soul of these troops. Some felt threatened by the new weapons, some by the changing times. Rheinberg couldn’t persuade anyone to like him. For those who had reservations, there was still the iron discipline of the Roman legions.

  Rheinberg hoped that would be enough.

  Especially with the tents of the African troops he met many questioning looks. It was a slightly cooler, restrained politeness he felt, nothing that surprised him a lot. They practiced, they marched, they rested, let the signals sound. But in the end, it was two armies that were to be put together in a short time. The African generals had asked to keep the coherence of their units because otherwise they feared confusion in battle. Rheinberg had quickly seen that, too, and accepted. The African troops were placed on the two wings. The army of Theodosius would be the center. That’s how it had been decided a few weeks ago.

  It was all a little like patchwork. So much could go wrong. It was these imponderables that robbed Rheinberg of sleep. This feeling of not having everything under control – as if that was ever possible. But in these times when safety and quiet were strange concepts and the threats piled up, the illusion of control was even more important. It allowed him to maintain his sanity. If the illusion was destroyed, what was left but trusting God?

  And that, in turn, was something that Rheinberg unfortunately found very difficult. If God loved sending him and his men through time, pulling them out of their familiar world and confronting them with challenges of that sort, what kind of trust would he have to face such a God?

  Rheinberg spent a good two hours wandering around the camp, always willing to be stopped, didn’t hurry, didn’t seem to be rushed. And what he was most aware of wasn’t enthusiasm or trust or fear … but consistently professional serenity. He exchanged many words. He was asked many questions. Fear of what was to come lay only subtly above anything, no matter how professional and relaxed the veterans were. There was so much at stake, not the least their lives.

  Control, Rheinberg thought. He felt the illusion melt like sand in his hands.

  Trust in God. Confidence. It really couldn’t get any worse.

  They’d succeed if they kept everyone together and, as a military unit, mastered this last great challenge.

  When Rheinberg returned to his tent, this was precisely this insight he sought. After all, he was not a politician, not a revolutionary, not a visionary, not a creator of a new empire, but only one thing – a soldier.

  Maybe that was what ultimately gave him the necessary rest.

  26

  If only he would’ve been allowed to do his duty in Capsa.

  But no.

  But no.

  But no.

  Lucius Strabo stared at the dusty road and turned to his two comrades. The Centurion had said this morning that they would no longer neglect the patrols despite the fact that the Prefect had withdrawn almost all mobile troops north toward Hippo Regius to fight a civil war there.

  Strabo was grateful for not belonging to that contingent. His need to be smashed by one of the spellcasters of the time-wanderers was limited. Here on the southern border of the Roman Empire on the African continent, the situation was calm and manageable. The adjoining kingdoms behaved modestly and didn’t seem to have any intention of exploiting the current exposure of the border. It was all very peaceful.

  Maybe that was why they had neglected the patrols a bit. Nevertheless, Strabo had no sympathy for the Centurion’s zeal. In fact, there we
re very few border guards in the area, just enough to give the appearance of public order. Everyone was afraid of the outcome of the great battle, so everyone remained covered and quiet. No matter who won, the frontier troops would return, and anyone who had used the time of their absence to do evil would be punished, regardless what the new Emperor’s name was.

  Strabo therefore found it unnecessary to punish him and his two comrades by marching south along the road to the border post near the beginning of the desert, where nothing was happening and nothing would.

  What a torture.

  Of course, Strabo thought, the order could also have been causally related to the fact that he and his two comrades had spent yesterday evening their free time in a bathhouse to use the services of some whores, to then determine that their cash for the payment was not quite enough. When the owner of the bathhouse used muscular help, the legionaries retained the upper hand, but the ensuing complaint to the commandant’s office did more than muscles and clubs could. The debt was withheld from their pay, there was a sermon, there was special service – cleaning latrines, what else? –, and this patrol smelled strongly of additional punishment. His two comrades, too, seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, for many of the curses they uttered along the way contained artful and imaginative variations of the name of their Centurion.

  Justice was sometimes overrated, Strabo thought.

  Besides, the whores had been old and not very enthusiastic. If someone still had to pay off debts, then the bathhouse owner to his customers for not properly rendered services.

  With that in mind, the man consoled himself, as he trudged along the road. He would spend the night at the small border station, which was known to have no food supplies and very hard beds. The porridge from the ingredients he brought would have to be sufficient, and from that Strabo always got bloated, which in turn would lead to an interesting night in close companionship with his fellow sufferers.

 

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