That would be difficult for von Klasewitz. Gratian had listened to the dissenting views of his counselors, Maximus even encouraged dissent among his highest advisers, and Theodosius also appeared not to be averse to a lively and varied discussion. When he became Emperor, he couldn’t just pretend it was a practice of the past, especially not if he wanted to get the fickle and the disapproving on his side.
He would have to listen and smile pleasantly when someone politely but surely wished to direct him to the right path.
The nobleman paused for a moment and shook his head.
Well, maybe one didn’t need to smile too friendly.
But he wouldn’t be able to avoid listening. He wasn’t allowed to send critics immediately to the lions – this noble tradition had already fallen out of fashion in Christian Rome anyway – or otherwise muzzling polite dissent. He wasn’t even allowed to demote those disapproving of his actions right away or to send them to a lonely post, at least not as long as their statements were uttered within a certain frame of respect, deference, and politeness.
Of course, these weren’t very pleasing prospects.
On the other hand, he should be able to enjoy other aspects of his new reign that would benefit him greatly. Everyone needed his hobby, with whom he could live out his interests. Otherwise, if he worked adequately and maintained the balance of forces that secured boundaries and was a good Christian, it should be possible to pursue other inclinations without causing too much disapproval.
Von Klasewitz unconsciously licked his lips. That would be very, very stimulating.
A legionary came to attention as von Klasewitz approached him. The German had taught his men the way German soldiers showed respect and discipline; this had previously been unknown in the Roman army – above all because clicking heels as a way of expressing respect in sandals or rather soft boots didn’t produce this most satisfying sound. But von Klasewitz had missed it, he wanted to admit that, and his gunners took it as a special sign of their privileged position, as a privilege, to show their readiness this way.
With that, the German concluded, everyone got something out of it.
“Cannon 7 loaded and ready!” the gunner yelled at him.
“Thank you,” the German replied, keeping his eye on the arrangement in front of him. In fact, the report was true. He didn’t see any blemish. Von Klasewitz leaned forward, eyeing the black cannon barrel. The greatest danger was in fine hairline cracks, which were often difficult to see with the naked eye and which could lead to catastrophic consequences if the cannon was fired several times. One more reason not to let the artillery fire last too long. After all, it could happen that he himself was nearby when a cannon was torn and the bystanders were cut down by metal splinters.
And of course that had to be avoided in any case.
Von Klasewitz slapped the proud grinning man on the shoulder and mumbled something appreciative.
This one was replaceable.
Johann Freiherr von Klasewitz wasn’t.
33
Volkert took a deep breath. The weather was still cold. Standing in front of his unit, he watched the line of men as they persevered in formation, all eyes on the mass of legionaries who had lined up on the other side of the battlefield. The distance was considerable, as the armies were large and both sides had no interest in the two bodies merging prematurely. Von Klasewitz wanted to use his guns as accurately as possible, and they wanted to do the same with their shooters. No one asked the poor victims on this “field of honor” who would either eat bullets or cannon shot.
But they kept their discipline. If Roman troops had nothing else, discipline had been taught to them. Eternal, indelible discipline. Many of the men looked at him. He was “the Tribune,” even for those who didn’t know his name. The one who killed the Magister Militium, who revealed the betrayal of Sedacius. He who left with a transport ship and arrived with a flotilla. The Tribune. Volkert accepted it. It helped him to establish authority. And there would be plenty of opportunity and necessity for that today.
Volkert saw some of the men puttering around like a girl before the decisive entrance to a reception. In was much the same, except that the men were less concerned with their appearance and more about whether the equipment was reasonably safe and comfortable.
Volkert himself had renounced all unnecessary ballast. He wouldn’t be right on the front line, for the first time in his career as a Roman soldier. His rank was now so high that he was expected to take a command position behind his men and keep track. That didn’t mean that the fight would not reach him. Officers who marched directly with the ground forces were always involved in the clashes, if only because of passion and thirst for blood – or perhaps despair. But he wouldn’t participate in the first rush, the first clash. That was still quite dangerous. Von Klasewitz’s guns would try to avoid the front line at some point at the beginning of the battle, as it was very likely to hit their own men. Instead, they would concentrate on the rear units, in no way mistaken in assuming that they would be able to do the relatively biggest damage there – exactly where Volkert would stand.
He actually stood. He renounced his horse – it was too good a target, and he didn’t want to be buried under or with the animal. He wore nothing but sword and shield, no spear, and he had nothing but a water bottle with him. The helmet was firmly on his head, already somewhat dented, although repaired. Equipment was scarce in the army of Theodosius, and they used everything until it was no longer reparable. That was also true for officers.
Volkert tried to radiate confidence, though he felt otherwise. But he kept his doubts under control. He could neither run away nor had a particularly great influence on the course of events. The battle would begin, and at the end there would be victors and defeated. What Volkert was more interested in was the fact that there would be at the same time survivors and dead, and he had the firm intention not to belong to the latter. There was a lot to live for – Julia, his daughter, his newly found freedom and identity, an end to his hiding, a new life. It would be a bitter irony of fate, if at the moment when everything seemed to turn out for the better, a shot fired by his former first officer would wipe out his life.
Volkert had developed quite a sense of irony. He had found an opportunity to talk to Godegisel, the young Goth, barely older than himself. The man’s highly adventurous story had been fascinating. Godegisel also had some hopes, as Volkert himself did. And an even deeper mistrust. In contrast to the protestations of Rheinberg, he believed that the apparent betrayal of the African troops could turn out to be a factual one.
Volkert looked to the right wing, saw the formation of the provincial troops preparing for the attack.
He felt Godegisel’s doubt echo inside. In addition to a sense of irony, he also developed one for betrayal and ambush, as did the Goth. He decided to keep a careful eye on the movements of his neighbors and comrades.
He looked up. The horns sounded. Her whining, slightly weird tone yelled across the battlefield. And then he heard a similar sound from opposite, the enemy. It was the formal initiation of mutual slaughter.
Commands were roared. Volkert remembered the howling, how the rehearsed commands almost automatically left his throat. He remembered the first time he had commanded Roman soldiers in a surprise raid of the Sarmatians when he was on his way to Noricum with his cohort. Hardly a year had passed since then, but it seemed like an eternity. He had given himself command at that time in an effort to turn a desperate situation, the first step of a career, which had led him to the current position, and at a rapid speed. The first dead friend, the Greek Simodes, who had remained on the battlefield. Not the last man who had died when Volkert gave orders. He would never be able to put it that way.
He heard a distinctive voice. Secundus had an even stronger lung than he himself, a piercing and startling voice that the otherwise lethargic legionary was capable of.
The men began to march, all at once.
The ground was a better meadow, muf
fling the sound, but when thousands of feet trampled, there was no grass left to suppress that noise. Volkert saw himself progressing. He had drawn his sword, as every legionary had done, though there was nothing for the blades to do yet. The closed phalanx of the comrades conveyed a false sense of security, at least at the present stage. Only those who marched in the front saw the adversary’s wall approach at them with the same mechanical tirelessness. Volkert knew how it was over there. In the first row either the very timid stood, who were driven by their comrades or the military police, or the very brave and serene, who pursued the craft of slaughter with emotionless routine.
Then white clouds of smoke rose in the air, and Volkert thought to hear a soft singing. It was unmistakable.
The traitor’s cannons had begun to fire.
Volkert estimated the distance to the opposing battle line, within seconds, came immediately to the conclusion that he was still far enough away, and shouted, “Abdite!”
The drill worked. Like a man, the legionaries threw themselves flat on the ground and pulled the shield over their backs. Not a second too late: The mighty clouds of shot fired by the cannons spilled over the lying men. Many were lucky and were unhurt. Some shot was held by the shield or the helmet if the speed of penetration was not too high. But then came the screams as the metal balls tore skin open, exposing veins, tearing limbs. Volkert dared to look up, feeling that he himself had been spared, staring directly at a man in front of him who was looking with incredulous horror at the hand-sized wound on his leg, from which the bright red blood of the arterial blood shot violently. Volkert had barely risen halfway, as the legionary already lost consciousness.
“Elevate!”
They couldn’t stay here. They had to go ahead. And they were no longer allowed to prostrate themselves when there was a danger that the opposing lines would storm and trample over them.
They stood up, swift, precise and marched forward. Roman discipline took them over the fallen and wounded comrades. Grass and earth mixed with blood. The orders of the officers were muffled by the lamentations of the victims.
Secundus screamed, “Elevate, Culi! Elevate!”
Was it really helpful to call your own men assholes? For Secundus, it seemed to work. His voice ripped up the soldiers, driving them forward. Then again clouds of smoke, a rumble of thunder and Volkert roared out his “Abdite!” one last time, for the enemy was approaching. He threw himself to the ground, heard the disgusting noise as the cannon shot tore flesh and opened wounds. Again, miraculously, he was unhurt.
“Elevate!” Secundus roared. “Culi ignavi! Elevate!”
Volkert got up. Now the men were even lazy asses. Secundus really knew his way around in proper leadership.
He heard a lot of screaming and the clinking of metal on metal from the front. The first lines had collided. Then he heard the shots of the German infantrymen, not the wild bangs he had expected but a very low cadence, deliberate firing, clearly to save ammunition and let each shot find his target. Then again the crash of artillery and this time no command to cover, because more and more of the legionaries were busy in the melee.
Some of the legionaries in the back rows threw themselves to the ground anyway. Volkert noticed that the shot hit, took lives. The cries of the wounded shook his soul. Around him, men fell, clasped their hands on gaping wounds, dropping their weapons.
“Why am I unhurt?” Volkert wondered, looking down at himself. Inviolate.
He stumbled, just caught himself. A man was lying in front of him, bloody blisters spilling out of his mouth. Shotgun pellets hit him head-on at the chest, crushing the bones. Volkert saw ribs sticking out of his skin, blood spurting out. The wounded man was still alive, wheezed something, moved his lips. He looked pleadingly at Volkert, almost compelling. The German knelt down, held his outstretched hand, tried to say something reassuring – but what did one say to a man who was nearly dead and writhing in pain?
“What’s your name?” he finally managed.
The dying man coughed. “Olavus … Olavus Scintilla.”
Scintilla. The spark. This one would go out soon.
“Say … tell my father I fell in the battle. Honorably.”
“I will tell him. Where can I find him?”
“He lives … near Augusta Vindelicorum …” Olavus coughed again, spitting blood. His eyes became cloudy. “Promise me. My dad always said that I’d never achieve anything.”
“I’ll tell him,” Volkert assured him. He saw a faint smile slip across the dying man’s bloodied lips, then his eyes broke, and he collapsed, his cramped body suddenly relaxed.
Volkert closed the dead man’s eyelids. For a tiny moment, the battle didn’t seem to take place around him.
34
“Careful! Careful!”
Von Geeren’s words of warning made the young infantry soldier look up guiltily. He fired five shots into the crowd of legionaries in quick succession, apparently believing that he would always find a victim. Of course, that wasn’t wrong, but von Geeren had repeatedly told the men to aim carefully and be absolutely sure of their targets. Randomness was a waste of ammunition, even if the five shots had been, indeed, five kills.
A brief rattle distracted him. The machine guns fired no single shots, but short volleys, especially on those enemy legionaries who were too close to their own position. The big storm on the infantrymen’s positions had not begun yet. The cannons of the enemy concentrated on the area where they could do the most damage. The shotgun packs loaded by von Klasewitz had a devastating effect on the tight formations of the legionaries. Von Geeren knew that there was no time to rehearse new tactics, but the traditional Roman modes of organized slaughter made less and less sense. This wasn’t the way they should throw away their men. A loose formation with a lot of cover was necessary, flexible, and mobile, in which each soldier could find cover for himself on the basis of his individual decision, with assault attacks only from under the cover. If the primitive hand grenades had spread and firearms were in common use, the battle would be different, more fluid, more flexible.
Von Geeren knew that he wouldn’t have understood these thoughts at home in Germany. He had always had the impression that the military leadership had gladly accepted the ever better weapons, but the tactical implications of a resulting war of aggression largely bypassed them. Von Geeren didn’t know what this war would be like before he had departed the German Reich, but he feared that the battles would be very bloody and above all completely wrongly fought.
He observed all of this now, not of immediate use in comparison to pressing issues, but nonetheless. If he survived here, he would develop a new military doctrine for the Roman forces with Rheinberg and those Roman officers who had proved to be more flexible in their thinking. The sea was Rheinberg’s job, but for the land forces, who were far more important to the continued existence of the Empire, this challenge rested on his shoulders.
The infantryman in front of him fired, carefully, deliberately. Von Geeren saw an enemy legionary throw up his arms and fall to the ground, unable to move. A clean hit, an efficient use of ammunition.
“Okay then!”
Von Geeren crept on, from position to position, admonishing, praising, correcting. His infantrymen were disciplined, almost methodical, and yet the captain was watching with great concern as the ammunition melted away. He hoped again and again that this battle wouldn’t last much longer. If this went on, they would, despite all the caution, plant their bayonets at the end of the fight and barricade themselves in the trenches, nothing else. Then Centurion Verilius would fight with his men. They could handle the sword better.
As if the commander of his bodyguard had listened to the mention of his name in the German’s mind, he suddenly appeared beside him. His face was serious. He had bad news, one could tell immediately.
“They are coming, Tribune von Geeren!”
The Captain didn’t have to think long about what Verilius meant. It was inevitable that the enemy would do ev
erything possible to attack and eliminate the infantrymen’s positions. The shooters out of action would move the balance of power quite massively in favor of Maximus. And that was also true in the other direction, where a cavalry unit was already riding in a wide arc on the way to attack the cannons of the traitor. There too, another Verilius would stand in front of von Klasewitz and soon – or even now – utter the ominous words.
They are coming.
But the reciprocity didn’t make it easier for von Geeren.
“How is the situation?”
“They diverted a whole legion for us,” the man said, his expression gloomy. “In ten minutes, my men need some protection.”
Von Geeren nodded. That meant he had to pull off essential firepower from the actual battle. But what was the “real” battle? Everything was connected. A purely defensive position, however, was inflexible and reduced tactical options. Von Geeren hated being forced into such a stance.
“I’ll give the appropriate orders.”
“I’ll call when it gets really hot.”
The positions of the infantrymen had been carefully chosen and prepared. They were sitting on a hill, in a strong entrenchment, on all sides with a free range and a short line of defense. Maximus, too, had recognized that, and therefore assigned significant forces to eliminate this threat. Von Geeren remembered the Battle of Gaul. There, legionaries had come so close that they had been able to throw their primitive hand grenades. It could actually have been easier for Maximus if he had ordered the cannons to be aimed at the Germans.
The Emperor's Men: Emperor Page 17