“Treason!”
Heads moved up.
One of the servants held up his meat knife. Rheinberg blinked. The man was … he knew that odd person somewhere.
“Treason!” the man said again, then threw himself on Maximus. Rheinberg left his seat like everyone else, but it was Maximus himself who brushed away the advancing blade with a swift reaction. The blade cut his arm open, not deep, but it started to bleed violently. Shouting everywhere. One of Maximus’ bodyguards stormed in, recognized the situation, raised his sword, and dropped it into the thin body of the old servant, who fell to the ground with a gurgling sound.
He was still clutching the blade as he died.
Theodosius’s guardsmen stumbled in, caught sight of one of Maximus’s men killing the servant, and Rheinberg shouted, “Stop! Stop it!”
But the soldiers, in their savage effort to ward off an actual or perceived threat to their respective lords, charged at each other. Theodosius took a few steps back.
Rheinberg put himself protectively in front of him. One of Maximus’s men was struck down before his eyes.
“Get out of here!” Rheinberg shouted to Theodosius. The Emperor just nodded, staring at the scenery in complete astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“Rheinberg … we have to … we have to …”
“We have to get out of here!” Rheinberg completed the sentence. There were calls from outside. Weapons clinked. The entourage of the two emperors had met and begun to fight. All the painstakingly controlled pressure had erupted in a bloody, unpredictable spectacle.
Rheinberg pulled Theodosius through the door, raised his own sword defensively, and saw another servant, this time one of Maximus, crouching on the floor before him, his eyes at least as confused and painful as that of Theodosius.
“Right this way!”
Theodosius had recovered, didn’t have to be pulled anymore. Men of his bodyguard approached, the blades bloody, and took them both in their midst. It took less than five minutes before they sat on their horses and galloped back to the camp. They barely looked around.
They didn’t believe that they were being followed.
As they restrained the horses, Rheinberg looked questioningly at Theodosius. “Who in God’s name was this servant?” he asked the pale-looking Spaniard. The Emperor had obviously not processed the events yet. The mayor’s question tore him out of his thoughts, he regained his composure quickly, visibly grateful for being able to analyze what had just happened.
“That … that was Elevius, Gratian’s former servant.”
Rheinberg hit his forehead with his hand. “Who was dumb enough to let him serve for this meeting?” he asked.
Before Theodosius could reply, they reached the Emperor’s tent and dismounted. Anyway, it was just a rhetorical question because it wouldn’t undo what happened.
They stood in front of the tent. Excitement prevailed in the camp. Men returned. Rumors spread. In minutes, every legionary would know what had happened. In minutes, everyone would realize that any hope for peace had been shattered.
And when the Emperor finally opened his mouth to say a word, someone stepped out of the tent, a thin, run-down figure whom Rheinberg didn’t really recognize, until he opened his eyes and pulled the man into the light of a torch.
There was no doubt, even if he had to get used to the change in sight a moment. Much had happened to this man, and little of it pleasant.
“Godegisel!” he exclaimed. “What an evening!”
Nobody had expected the appearance of the Goth. And a look into the face of the unexpected visitor gave an idea that this reunion didn’t bring any happy news.
The man smiled weakly. “I have bad news, my lords.”
Rheinberg laughed, and it sounded not amused, but desperate. He took off his helmet, scratched his head. “Godegisel, we’ve just had a catastrophe.”
The Goth wanted to say something, but then Theodosius approached him. “We have bad news, too, young man. You look awful.”
Godegisel nodded and let himself be led inside. They gathered at the fire and gratefully accepted goblets of wine. Rheinberg chose the heavy red wine that he normally renounced and poured the contents of the chalice into his mouth with hardly tamed wildness.
It took a while for them to calm down and discuss the issues ahead. Their excitement was contagious, and time and again their conversation returned to the events they had just encountered. No one understood it, and only gradually did they realize that a unique, terrific historic opportunity had been lost here and that they were now faced with a battle that they almost had avoided. The pain associated with this realization went deep and troubled them, and the wine didn’t soothe the nerves either. It took almost a half-hour of perplexed discussion to remember the Goth again, who patiently and quietly waited to be given the floor.
Rheinberg took a deep sip of wine and wished he hadn’t banned spirits from the camp. A bit of the hard stuff would suit him right now. As if that thought affected his body, he immediately choked on the wine.
“Give it to us!” he coughed, holding out the goblet. He looked at Godegisel.
“You should drink, too, Goth. You are not yourself anymore.”
The Goth shook his head. He had refused any of these offers, but had taken food and water on his own. It had been a miracle that he had been recognized and not kicked from the camp as a tramp.
That would have been bad.
“I have experienced terrible things,” he said, “and terrible things will happen.”
“Much worse it cannot be,” Rheinberg said.
Godegisel measured him with a long look. “Don’t say that.”
31
There was no clearer and more definite reaction than this. If anyone had entertained any hope that the events of the previous day wouldn’t prove to be the end of the already very short negotiations between the two Emperors, then now it’d become finally evident that these hopes were in vain. The troops of Maximus went into position, the enemy offered battle. And Theodosius had no choice but to accept the offer.
Not all had escaped alive. Some soldiers and almost all servants had been butchered. Maximus himself seemed to have recovered well. But the door to further negotiations had no doubt been closed.
Rheinberg watched as the generals gave their orders. For him, there was currently not much to do. The battle plan had been discussed so often, everyone knew exactly what to do. The troops, which had been transferred from Italy, stood in the middle, a mighty block, which should move at first as little as an anvil, on which the opponent was steadily beaten. Positioned on the wings were the auxiliary troops as well as the units of the African prefects, more agile, ready to exploit any weakness of the opponent. Von Geeren’s infantry would position itself on the right wing and try to target the enemies from there. It was about hitting at least some of Maximus’ men in important tactical positions. To bring movement into the formation was of great importance. Cavalry stood ready to launch an assault on von Klasewitz’s artillery positions – swiftly and stormily, as had been ordered. Every available horse had been mobilized for it. The cavalry was currently far away, in order not to be in the immediate field of vision of their opponents. Rheinberg hoped that their definition of the “right time” to which the attack should be commenced turned out to be correct.
After all, there was good news too.
Rheinberg couldn’t stop smiling slightly, as he thought of the reaction Godegisel had caused the night before. He had told them of the treachery of the African troops with a straight face, and Theodosius had only grinned. Rheinberg had told the baffled – and given the hardships he had undertaken to deliver the news, perhaps even a little offended – Godegisel that their own plan had worked out. Maximus should believe that he had the African troops under control, the Goth was prepared to expect that they wouldn’t change sides at the crucial moment but continue to fight for Theodosius. With that, the tactical plan of Maximus would dissipate
and he might – ideally – come to the conclusion that continuing the battle was not worthwhile.
In turn, Rheinberg didn’t believe in that. This was too much to be expected. If the usurper saw even a small chance, especially with the traitor’s cannons, to win the battle, he would be persistent, no matter how much the setback disturbed him.
It would be a long, bloody battle. And an unnecessary one.
Godegisel had heard his explanation with ever-widening eyes and shook his head several times in disbelief. He then spoke of his experiences with his own people, the failed ambassadorial mission, and his eventful journey back to the court. His story had been accompanied by general tension and great praise. In the end, the Goth had shown that he was glad on the one hand that his information was not as catastrophic as he had feared … but on the other hand hinted once in a while that he was not sure if this wonderful plan could really be implemented the way it was planned. What if there was betrayal in betrayal?
Rheinberg hadn’t pursued this train of thought. But it had given him a restless and very short night. Godegisel’s story had moved him deeper than he wanted to admit. Theodosius seemed to be carefree and optimistic again – or perhaps simply on principle, because the Emperor was expected to radiate optimism and trust God in every situation.
Godegisel had then withdrawn. He was weakened, and nobody resented him for not wanting to participate in the fighting. Everyone found that he had done more than his own and had gone through a lot of trouble. Now the task was in the hands of others.
“Half an hour, everyone’s in position,” Richomer said. The previously rather vague concepts of time of the Romans, which were based primarily on sundials, had given way to exact information. All the generals had received one of the few pocket watches they had collected from the crew of the Saarbrücken and were kept protected like eyeballs. Dahms had stated that he should sooner or later be able to construct large wall clocks or grandfather clocks, that the miniatures of a clockwork that anyone could carry with them, however, would be unattainable until further notice. The tools were lacking to construct the tools necessary to make such a small device possible.
Rheinberg watched Gaudentius, the leading prefect of the African provinces, mount his horse and wave to him. The Prefect apparently felt the need to be with his men once the battle began and to issue orders directly at the scene. Rheinberg couldn’t blame him. There was a lot at stake, and you never knew if one of the subcommanders was in your opponent’s pocket. It was good to keep an eye on everything personally. Gaudentius knew the battle plan and knew which commands meant what. He would do well.
Rheinberg turned around. Godegisel had come to his side, wearing a full Roman officer’s uniform. He had slept long and had breakfast extensively, and he had asked to be a witness to the battle. Rheinberg had allowed him to do so. It was amazing how calmly he acted next to the one who had killed Jonas Becker. Godegisel himself had changed, too, and that didn’t even mean the extent to which the disease had marked him. The young nobleman was now a different person than a year ago, when he stood on the battlefield close to Adrianople against Valens. One could actually say that about everyone. When this was over, he would ask the man how he thought about his future. He couldn’t quite imagine that the Goth would simply return to one of the villages in the East of the Empire to live an existence as a rural nobleman. From what he had reported on the failed negotiations with Engus, his relationship with the Gothic leadership was more likely to be somewhat cold.
Before the Goth could say anything, someone else came to Rheinberg, someone whose visit he had silently expected. The tribune Thomasius – Ensign Thomas Volkert – approached him, gave Godegisel a quick look and made his salute.
“Tribune,” Rheinberg said, and bit back a smile. “Questions about your orders?”
“No. The orders are clear.”
“Then you should be with your legion.”
“Yes, General.”
Rheinberg looked inquiringly at Volkert. “Something is on your mind.”
The man looked down. “It’s … private.”
Rheinberg raised his eyebrows and waved to Godegisel. The Goth bowed and disappeared. Now the two men were alone, at least as alone as one could be given the circumstances.
Volkert sighed and started to speak, but Rheinberg raised a hand and told him to keep silent.
“I can imagine what this is about!” Rheinberg said.
“Really … I … oh.”
With a second delay, Volkert noticed that Rheinberg had not spoken to him in Greek or Latin, but in German. He stared at the Captain – and he was his Captain, more than anything else – and lacked the strength to speak. “Since when?” he finally managed.
“Since our meeting here in Africa,” Rheinberg explained. “You are forgiven, Tribune. I have made a mistake. I have to apologize to you for that.”
Volkert was still staring. One couldn’t see the burden that had fallen from his shoulders with these words, yet his body seemed to tighten, to stand upright, and his eyes shone, knowing that these worries had now been removed from him.
“I …”
“No, seriously, Volkert,” Rheinberg interrupted. “What you have done is phenomenal. You are an excellent officer, and you have made difficult decisions. I brought you into this malaise – but look what you made of it! What a career! You deserve respect and recognition.”
Volkert bowed his head, probably feeling his face heat up. At that moment, he wasn’t the brave and successful Tribune but the timid Ensign.
“Whether you want to remain Thomasius or become Thomas Volkert again – you have to decide that,” Rheinberg continued. “But all doors are open to you. After the victory over Maximus, you can be sure that the highest offices will be available to you. You will start the family you have wished for and play an important role. By the way – congratulations. You are going to become a father.”
“Uh … yeah, well, thanks …”
Rheinberg grinned, approached the embarrassed man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Survive the battle. Help us to achieve victory. Forget what was. We are on one side, as it always has been and how it should be. Are you ready?”
Volkert’s eyes tightened, he nodded.
“Then go to your men. Survive, Volkert. We want to be victorious. But we don’t need more sacrifices.”
Volkert saluted. He couldn’t say anything else than the ultimate reply every subordinate officer had at his disposal. “Yes, sir.”
32
Von Klasewitz passed the batteries, inspecting everything exactly as he was expected to. He had barely slept after that fateful night of the failed encounter between the two Emperors, when things had worked out so well without him having to intervene any further. He was very glad that this so-called peace hadn’t materialized, and when he looked at the blunt pipes of the guns, as they threateningly extended their dark openings toward the battlefield, he felt great joy and confidence, a feeling that animated him more than strong coffee.
He felt almost euphoric.
His good mood was transmitted to the men, with whom he had in recent months – with considerable self-control – built an emotional bond. He spread more than the quiet confidence of the competent leader, he exuded joyous anticipation, yes, almost enthusiasm. He joked, praised and slapped shoulders.
And his gunners had indeed done an excellent job. The endless drills, day and night, had paid off. The cannons were in excellent condition, perfectly cleaned, perfectly aligned, stocked with all supplies. Here was the only serious problem that von Klasewitz was willing to acknowledge – lacking in gunpowder. The production just couldn’t keep up with the growing demand, especially not in such a short time. He hoped the battle would not last forever. If the plan of Maximus was fruitful and the African legions changed sides in due course, it was not to be expected anyway. At the latest then, the united armies should be able to finish the men of Theodosius even without cannons. It would anyhow be difficult to identify clear targets
. When the trick was done, a confusing battlefield was the consequence. Maximus had been reminding him insistently what he thought of the idea of his own soldiers being accidentally hit by the murderous shot of their own guns. Von Klasewitz could only agree with the Emperor on this point. He definitely didn’t want to have to explain occurrences like this.
He needed every living and loyal legionary once he was Emperor.
That was the real reason for his euphoria. The approaching battle, the approaching triumph – good. But what came afterwards was even more important. Petronius had taken him aside, revealed his plans in detail. As soon as the victory was over, Theodosius was imminent, when it was clear that there was no salvation for the Spaniard, no result other than surrender or death, Maximus would be attacked. Von Klasewitz, whose guns were silent on this phase anyway, had to get near the Emperor’s location in time to make a determined move to keep the army going, and shortly after the triumphant victory, he himself would take the purple. Petronius had left nothing to chance. A lot of money had changed hands. It was necessary to make the transition as smooth as possible, also in regard to the reaction of important high-ranking officers and civil servants, especially those on the ground.
Smooth.
Von Klasewitz shook his head. That he would ever catch thinking so – he, the man of action, who had always considered male assertiveness and bravery as the true nobility of mind and deed as so important! How had he always looked down on the politicians of his time, their intrigues, their clandestine backroom meetings, the balancing, the mumbling, the compromises, the half-heartedness, the bickering, and the platitudes – even the Emperor was often helpless in navigating the meaningless and dishonorable activities of this caste, only to watch in honest indignation. Von Klasewitz had felt this shame almost physically.
But now, himself on the threshold of absolute power, he had to realize that without that kind of behavior he wouldn’t be able to make it, especially if he wanted to yield that power in real life. People, including henchmen, had to be involved, they had to be assured of their own share of power, given a say in decisions, given consideration for their preferences. And though all of them were somehow servants of the Empire, that didn’t mean they were always in agreement with the Emperor, and depending on their personality this criticism was expressed in one way or another.
The Emperor's Men: Emperor Page 16