The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  This was one of those days when Strabo counted the remaining years of his service. It was a depressing activity, having spent the first ten years three months ago and then had decided to benefit from the recent military reform – retiring after 10 years with bonus and land title – or continuing to ten more years in the next higher rank. Strabo had joined the army mainly because it was well-paid, he received medical care and a certain social prestige, especially when he was promoted. And so Strabo had signed, been promoted, and now had another nine years and nine months’ service, a decision he was beginning to seriously question just then.

  Next to him his old friend Lacius, who differed from him by the fact that his ten years were over in two months, and he would start as a shoemaker in his father-in-law’s business in Hippo Regius, matched with the prospect of inheriting the shop from the old man in the not too distant future. This process was now simpler than before, because the economic reforms had led to the breakup of the guilds and free career choice slowly began to assert itself as a principle. Lacius had used the favor of the hour in his own way, and that he would bring his retirement bonus as a dowry into the workshop, the old man had liked particularly well. Lacius wouldn’t make Strabo’s mistake. But Strabo also had no wife who could have directed him on the right path.

  After all, he would now know a reliable source of neat footwear in the future, and that was a good thing.

  “We’ll arrive at the border soon,” Lacius muttered, taking a sip of watery wine. “How long are we supposed we stay there?”

  “Until the Centurion sends new men, we’ll patrol the road,” Strabo said.

  “Who would know that we’re actually doing that? There’s no one the asshole can send to check on us.”

  “He’ll suspect we’re just going to sit in the shade and get on his horse himself to kick our asses,” Decius, third in league, suggested. He rubbed his crotch. “Damn, the whore yesterday was so exhausted, I barely got a shot. I should get compensated.”

  “You’ll probably have to lay hands on yourself,” Strabo commented. “It will be some time before you see another woman stupid or desperate enough to get involved with you.”

  “The Centurion needs people for the watch,” Lacius said with hope in his voice. “He will not let us waste out here forever.”

  “We have to cool down, he told the Optio,” Decius muttered.

  Strabo nodded. Given the summer temperatures, that would be difficult for them.

  In the distance, he recognized the squat stone building of the small border station. The men stationed there would be happy to escape this godforsaken place. In the surroundings one could find – except from the road – only a few skewed houses from which farmers sold snacks for travelers. The nearest village was almost as far away as the nearest major city, Capsa, from where they had traveled. There was a village on the other side of the border, in the area of the Garamantes, but they were not allowed to cross the line. And there wasn’t much going on over there anyway.

  “We’re almost there,” Decius muttered. “I hope the well has not silted up again.”

  Decius had been stationed here once before. His statement led to sinister fantasies in Strabo’s mind, in which a shovel and a lot of sweat played an important role.

  He had no choice but to surrender to fate anyway. There would be better times. The building was then clearly visible. In front of it, two legionaries stood watching listlessly as a trader trotted down the street with three loaded donkeys. The pack animals carried vegetables. Here, too, the reforms had made it easier for the legionaries to do their work – food was no longer levied. It was good to always have enough to eat, the time-wanderers had decided.

  A point Strabo had no objection to.

  He stopped, took a sip of his own and sighed. Casually, he looked up to see if any other lonely traders came from the south of the road, promising at least some variety.

  Then his eyes narrowed, and he raised a hand to shade it. His eyes wandered past border posts and donkeys.

  What was …

  He cleared his throat.

  Decius and Lacius stopped, following his gaze.

  Strabo narrowed his eyes.

  “Say,” he said slowly, with a slight tremor in his voice, “what is this?”

  27

  Ox cart or not, Godegisel was overtaken in the end. When the old coachman had shooed him off the cart and headed for the latifundia of his master, the Goth had already identified the riders in the distance – and not only him. The old male had advised him to stay away from the street for now, for marching legions paid little heed to lone wanderers. This was all the more true of the equestrian unit, which approached the marching man at a steady pace. Of course, the animals were not rushed unnecessarily, they were rarely sped up to a trot. Not only because the riders didn’t want to increase the distance to the foot soldiers too much, but also because excessive speed would have unnecessarily fatigued the animals. But a slow horse was still faster than a Goth, and the time came, already in the early evening, when he had to hide himself in a lonely tree, standing on the side of the road, and let the seemingly endless rider column pass by. He continued his way for a while on the adjacent fields and meadows, but this was an increasingly dangerous undertaking, especially in the dusk.

  He finally prepared his modest bed about fifty yards from the military road. It was fortunately warm and dry, so his night wouldn’t be too hard.

  The sun had just set, and Godegisel had sunk into a first gloomy slumber when light woke him again. He opened his eyes and started up.

  Torches were waved in front of his face.

  “Hey, wake up!” a raspy voice snapped. “Who are you?”

  Godegisel scrambled to his feet. Three legionaries stood in front of him, holding out torches. They hadn’t drawn their weapons, probably because they realized that the sleeper was unarmed. Godegisel looked at the military road. A torchlight procession marched along there. The legions used the safe road to get through part of the night and would probably only make a relatively short nocturnal break. It was not quite a forced march when no soldier would sleep at all, but it had become very clear to the Goth that if he couldn’t organize a horse, the troops would arrive well in advance of him. And if he couldn’t convince the three men here of his harmlessness, then he soon wouldn’t have to worry about this fact anymore.

  He raised his hands, showing empty palms. “I didn’t do anything! I only wanted to sleep!”

  “Show what you have.”

  Godegisel bent down and handed the soldier his bundle, which he shook carelessly on the ground. He bent down to the rest of the hard cheese the Goth had left, bit in, grunted, and began to chew.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m looking for work on a latifundia or as worker in a city,” Godegisel explained. “I have no real goal. I’ll stay where I’m paid.”

  “Hm. There’s not much on you,” the legionary grumbled. “What kind of work are you capable of?”

  Godegisel understood that the physical signs of his plague might prove helpful now. He pulled on his collar to show the scars.

  “I survived the plague,” he explained. “I can work, even if I look weak. I can clean your armor!”

  Laughter answered him. Godegisel felt the mood relax.

  “You take a risk, my boy,” another man said. “One might think you’re a spy.”

  “A good spy who sleeps by the wayside while the legions march past him, and who doesn’t even hear them to wake up in time,” Godegisel replied with a grin.

  Another laugh answered him.

  “Still, Decurion, we should take him to the commander and have him interrogated,” the third legionary now said, who had not spoken for now.

  Godegisel stiffened inside. Interrogations meant torture. And under those, everyone broke. That was also true for him, he had absolutely no illusion.

  But the decurion didn’t seem to think that necessary. He waved it off. “No, that’s a waste of time.�
� He turned to Godegisel. “You can go back to sleep here, but we’re not the only patrol tonight. I would advise you to take a good distance from the marching column. There are fields over there where you can find shelter, or else you’ll be woken up a few times tonight – and possibly by men who are not as understanding as we are.”

  Godegisel humbly bowed his head. “Yes, sir. I understand. I’m leaving immediately.”

  “Pack your things!”

  Godegisel bent down and did as he was told. The chewing decurion, in his sympathetic way, had finished eating the cheese, but the young Goth was smart enough not to object to this kind of toll.

  No interrogation, no torture. Everything else was incidental right now.

  He packed up. He had some nuts and dry flat bread left for breakfast, but he was used to this kind of deprivation. Once again he thanked the decurion almost submissively, who acknowledged it with a grin of approval, then turned and stumbled away from the street into the darkness. The starlight helped him find a dirt road, and he didn’t look back until he was reasonably sure the legionaries couldn’t see him anymore. Then he paused, looking at the torch-shaped chain, which was still clearly visible. Maximus didn’t hide his advance. That wasn’t necessary. If it was true what Godegisel had picked up at sea, then Maximus couldn’t lose.

  The young Goth felt despair rising. How could he manage to warn Rheinberg in time? He had to wait until the legions had passed. He couldn’t take the risk of being picked up a second time. He would just unnecessarily challenge his luck.

  Another ten minutes later, Godegisel had reached what he considered a safe distance from the troops. He found a large stone on the roadside, which was well suited as a seat. He felt exhausted and overwhelmed. His body felt more tired than he was allowed to be. He didn’t know if it was just imagination, but he felt his pest marks as if they were burning or itching. He controlled himself, didn’t want to make it worse by scratching or rubbing wildly.

  He rested his head in his hands. The darkness of the night was also spreading in his thoughts. But why? Was it so bad if Maximus won the battle? He was certainly no worse emperor than others, yes, he seemed to be competent in many ways. He would pursue a more radical religious course, but that was nothing that affected Godegisel any further. He was Arian, like most Goths, but it was unlikely that anything as radical as pogroms would come about. Underpopulated Rome needed the Goths. Maximus knew that too. And he himself, Godegisel? He could do anything, become everything. Sailor. Wagoneer. He could produce charcoal.

  Yes, charcoal.

  Godegisel rubbed his eyes.

  He got up.

  He opened his bundle, pulled out his modest supplies. With methodical movements, he put nuts and bread in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. He ate until there was nothing left, and it didn’t take long. Then he reached for the water hose, drank it half empty. He then tied it on his back.

  He looked down at the rest of the baggage, shaking his head gently.

  He would drop all of it.

  He took a deep breath.

  He was such a fool! But he just couldn’t get out of his skin.

  Godegisel, the Goth, began to run.

  28

  “Is he serious?”

  For a moment there was total silence in the Emperor’s tent. The congregation was silent, because they had all been taken by surprise. When a messenger arrived at the camp and wanted to hand over a message from Maximus, hectic activity had broken out. Theodosius had summoned all the important men and then read the letter aloud. No one seemed to want to be the first to speak, even the Emperor’s unbelieving question remained unanswered.

  Theodosius looked at the parchment. Rheinberg said nothing. He was pale. He didn’t want that. His rejection had nothing to do with the suggestion of Maximus. The usurper wanted to talk, suggested a pre-battle meeting. Talking instead of fighting – or talking before fighting. Both things were quite right for Rheinberg.

  But it was not just the two emperors who were supposed to meet. No, Maximus suggested that the two commanders should also be present. That, too, was basically to be expected. But it would mean that Rheinberg would meet with von Klasewitz.

  And Rheinberg didn’t want that.

  Would he be able to control himself? Would he be able to offer the mutineer, the traitor, and the deserter the minimum of courtesy necessary to keep the meeting from becoming absurd? The thought of the nobleman still and again triggered a storm of emotions in Rheinberg. Everything boiled up in him. Contempt. Hate. It couldn’t be called anything else.

  Rheinberg didn’t want to vouch for his behavior at such a meeting.

  That was possibly shameful for someone in his position. But it was the way it was.

  “I think it doesn’t hurt. And I think it’s an important, indeed necessary conversation,” Richomer said. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Theodosius. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m ready for battle. I think we have a good chance of winning. But if there is a very small chance to come to an agreement …”

  Protest rose. Officers took the floor. Rheinberg frowned, resisting the urge to let Richomer run the knife for completely selfish motives. He took a deep breath.

  “Richomer is right!” Theodosius said loudly. Immediately silence returned. All eyes turned to Theodosius, who then nodded measuredly.

  “Richomer is right,” he repeated. “The chance is very small. But he wants to talk to us, in a limited circle, without a large audience. This is more than just a propaganda trick. Whether it is just a necessary formality for him to save face, I don’t know. He has Gratian on his conscience and is about to kill another emperor. Perhaps he seeks legitimacy for his actions by giving me the chance to reject a peace offer that is formulated in such a way that I cannot possibly accept it. But that doesn’t matter, because I have to commit to the meeting for exactly the same reason. If I reject the meeting, his moral position would be better. But I have the same concerns as he does, strange as it may sound now.”

  The Spaniard looked at Rheinberg. “Of course, it’s very hard for you.”

  Rheinberg hid his slight surprise at this demonstration of empathy. He bowed his head and ran his hand over his hair. “Your Majesty, I find another question a lot more interesting – what happens when he makes a serious offer, one that is not so crazy that we cannot accept it,” he replied, eager not to discuss his personal misgivings.

  “What kind of offer could that be?” von Geeren asked, who was also a member of the War Council.

  “The same thing he offers to Theodosius in our past,” Rheinberg explained.

  Theodosius looked at him. “What was that?”

  “Civil war also happened in our past. Even there Maximus has killed Gratian by betrayal. Then, for a while, the conflict stagnated; Theodosius established himself in the East, while Maximus consolidated his rule in the West. During this time, Maximus tried to agree with Theodosius that they would, as before, share the imperial rule, and thus end the civil war. Maximus reckoned that the effort to rebuild the eastern army and protect the eastern borders was too much to justify further confrontation. Maximus underestimated that the East was by far the wealthier part of the Empire. Theodosius, angered by the betrayal of Gratian, didn’t accept the offer, rebuilt the Eastern Army, and eventually forced Maximus to his knees.”

  “The situation is different today,” Richomer mused. “The East is threatened by the plague, we no longer have a working army there. And we must seek the decision in Africa, where we more or less fled to.”

  “Yes, but the situation is not so different for Maximus,” the Emperor said. “He doesn’t necessarily have an interest in a never-ending civil war. He too knows that the plague will not stop before reaching the West. A completely paralyzed Empire is not a very attractive alternative for him either. If we were to accept such a proposal, it would serve him well. He has made his decisions in Rheinberg’s past on the basis of a certain attitude, and this personality he also has in our time, that’s for sure. I think Rh
einberg is right: Maximus will suggest that we stop the war and share the Empire.”

  “If so, will we accept that proposal?” von Geeren asked. Again, all eyes turned to Theodosius, who stared into the flames of the cast-iron hearth that was set up in the tent. The Spaniard didn’t press for an answer. He thought carefully. Rheinberg was sure that Theodosius didn’t consider this question for the first time. The man thought ahead, in spite of his spontaneity, was someone who acted with perspective. His emotional outbursts were better controlled than with the historical Theodosius, of whom Rheinberg knew. Did this also mean that he was equally determined to reject an offer made by Maximus?

  Rheinberg looked into the Emperor’s focused face, and it seemed to him that an answer was emerging – or was it only his own weariness that made him hope for something similar. Yes, of course, it would be a thorn in his side, if von Klasewitz would be permanently established as the Magister Militium of the West, a constant reminder of betrayal and mutiny. But wasn’t ready to pay that price? In Constantinople, he would be able to rebuild with his people what had been destroyed in the West. If they survived the plague, many new possibilities would arise – and he was sure that the West would depend on the economic and technical superiority of the East immediately, no matter how hard von Klasewitz tried. He lacked the Saarbrücken and, thus, the very basis for a faster technical development. He was alone.

  “What if Maximus demands a price for peace – a prize like the Saarbrücken or a share in her?” another voice asked, which had hitherto held itself in the background.

  Rheinberg looked up, suppressing a smile. The Emperor’s council also had a particularly capable and intelligent Tribune named Thomasius. Volkert. The deserter, whose career had been so different from that of von Klasewitz – and whose motivation for desertion was so much easier to understand.

  “We won’t be able to avoid sharing technology,” Rheinberg said.