Maximus sighed.
He was glad to have this annoying topic off the table.
“Vetius, send the Guard. I want Theodosius to die. Make sure he finds his end on this battlefield!”
The General punched the breastplate with his fist and turned, eager to carry out the Emperor’s command.
Maximus turned back to von Klasewitz. “And you, General, accompany me to your cannons. I want to praise your men for their work and watch the outcome of the battle from there.”
He turned and looked at his entourage – several more officers, servants, and some clerics, some of whom looked rather timid, as they watched the Emperor’s Guard leave its rearward position and move toward the embattled position of the time-wanderers. Maximus suppressed a smile. The civilians were not to blame. Such a battle was not for everyone, and the presence of the Guard had certainly been reassuring. But the artillery troops were supposed to scatter the fears of the timid.
“Up, all of you!” he exclaimed loudly, smiling broadly. “We enjoy the grand finale and our victory!” He pointed to von Klasewitz. “Follow this man, and don’t be afraid!”
Everyone laughed. The mood became lighter. The idea of victory made them cheerful. All would be rewarded richly. Latifundiae. Positions. Slaves. Gold. They had put their bet on the fate of Maximus and had been rewarded – surely by God himself – for it. There wasn’t much to do. Now it was time to enjoy the fruits of victory and to set themselves up in a new phase of life in which the key factors would be wealth, power, prestige and more wealth – and the promise of even greater blessings in the Last Judgment, because the losers were now all those who opposed the true word of God.
Someone clapped the German on the shoulder. “Well, time-wanderer, take us to your men. We want to enjoy the victory and hear the rejoicing of the legions. Our triumph – and yours!”
Happy laughter followed the pithy words.
Von Klasewitz turned his head away. Nobody should see that his face showed more expectation than triumph.
40
“They’re sending their damned guard!” Theodosius cried. He stood in front of a dead legionary, struck down by one of the bullets from Rheinberg’s pistol. That one of the adversaries had come with determination and brute force to threaten the Emperor in person, said something about their situation. And it would become much worse now.
Rheinberg nodded grimly. He still had seven cartridges in his gun. He assumed that every shot had been a fatal hit, and it was so depressing that this alone had barely stopped their approaching demise. Seven more shots. “Lord, we must endeavor to remove you from the battlefield,” he finally said, earning exactly what he had feared – a savage, angry look from the Spaniard.
“No chance, my General!” was the expected answer. “I’m not running away anymore. The decision is here and now. Our lot is in the hands of God!”
The fact that many of the officers accompanying them – no generals, who had been badly worn out by this battle, and the death of the Richomer had left a particularly painful gap – nodded in approval, showed Rheinberg that in close proximity to the Emperor he wouldn’t find any allies. He wished Renna had not stayed in Hadrumentum to plan for their defeat and escape in case of emergency. He could have used him well by now.
Rheinberg made a fool of himself. Renna wouldn’t be able to do anything more than to die gloriously here. But Rheinberg felt … left alone.
And the stubbornness of the Emperor didn’t help him at all.
“We have to retire,” Rheinberg insisted. “The Saarbrücken can take us in Hadrumentum and …”
“No, time-wanderer. I’m not running away,” Theodosius interrupted firmly. “This is going to be fought out here and now.”
“The betrayal of the prefects has put us in a hopeless situation.”
The Spaniard didn’t listen. He turned and headed for the next skirmish with his bodyguards. He turned his back on his master, a more than merely symbolic act. Rheinberg stared after him, felt the conflicting emotions, wanted to follow the Emperor and protect him, and yet he sensed that he would do nothing but kill himself.
“Titus, Marcus, see where the detectors and signalers are. The Emperor wants to fight, I have to give orders.”
“They are off, sir, near the old command post.”
“We’ll go back there.”
The two legionaries didn’t conceal their relief at his decision. With his arm around Marcus’ shoulder, Rheinberg let himself be helped, and slowly they got away from the fighting. The pain in his thigh was significant, the bandage soaked in blood. His old knife wound had started to hurt as well, a clear sign that he was about to reach his limits.
“The enemy’s guard is approaching!” Titus observed, and Rheinberg looked around. It was a torrent breaking over the positions of the infantrymen, and Rheinberg felt the guilt that he was not down there with his men and dying with them.
Dying, they did. The fire continued, and the bayonets and swords flashed. They didn’t go easily and without resistance, and many more Romans died than Germans. But the legionaries knew what was at stake and threw themselves on the infantrymen, coming closer and closer, hurling their grenades and spears, leaping into positions where they could use their melee skills to their full potential.
The gunfire became less. That certainly had something to do with the almost vanished ammunition stock, but above all with the fact that those who could shoot died.
Rheinberg felt bitter bile rise in him. He had led all of them to death. Many more, thousands, had previously shared their fate. And there, on the battlefield where the legions were still fighting, more died. In the end, their death was due to his hubris, and for a moment, the idea of finding the end for him was not so frightening anymore.
“Sir. Sir.” The voice of Titus tore him from his gloomy thoughts. “The Emperor’s banner has fallen.”
Rheinberg turned his head clumsily aside, didn’t want to look but couldn’t avert his gaze. The situation was confused, but the Emperor’s sign had fallen. He raised his binoculars to his eyes, saw Maximus’ men triumphantly throw up their arms, then there was a legionary holding something up, and when Rheinberg focused his optics, he recognized the severed head of Flavius Theodosius, Emperor of Rome, who didn’t want to run away.
“Lord, the army will break when it finds out,” Titus whispered in a sinister voice. “The army will break.”
“Take me to the signals,” Rheinberg replied hoarsely. “We’ll see what to do. If we have to order retreat, then we do it. I don’t want a slaughter. We have ships in Hadrumentum. We can save the survivors.”
“But where to, sir?” Marcus asked quietly. “East, where the plague rampages?”
“To Spain maybe,” Titus suggested. “Spain is calm and loyal to Theodosius. His son Arcadius lives there. He is the new emperor.”
Rheinberg looked up, mustered the legionary in surprise, then nodded slowly. “No stupid consideration, Titus. I should appoint you general.”
The legionary raised his hands defensively. “It’s enough for me to simply survive the army, Magister.”
Rheinberg could argue little against his priorities.
He felt carried away by the legionaries as they marched him over the hill to the old command post. Rheinberg focused on two things: the pain in his leg and handling the current events. This was already the second emperor to have died since his arrival, and in contrast to Gratian, whose early death, if inclined to cynicism, was already “destined” by fate, Theodosius now fell clearly before his time. Instead of dying a natural death, he was killed in a battle, many years before he could do or refrain from acts which earned him the epithet “the Great” in Rheinberg’s time line. Rheinberg didn’t know if the Spaniard had reproached him in his last moments. Both had so basked in the skillful manipulation of Maximus by the apparent betrayal of the African prefects that they hadn’t wanted to realize that Maximus had thought further ahead. Godegisel had warned them. How did the Goth feel now? Rheinberg hope
d that he was safe somewhere and was no longer involved in the fighting. That would have been too much to expect after all. If he was smart, he would have made his way home, whatever he now called home.
It took a while until they reached the position. Rheinberg broke away from the legionaries, beckoned to the signalmen who immediately got into position, reached for binoculars, and spent a minute watching the situation. He was not an expert in ancient land battles, lacking experience and in some ways intuition. But most of his officers were dead. He had to make a decision. His inability didn’t relieve him of his duties.
And that duty was a bitter one now, he realized.
Miraculously, the troops of Theodosius withstood. But it was only a matter of minutes before the formations would break apart.
Rheinberg came to the conclusion that all that remained for them now was the most orderly retreat possible. In fact, however, he assumed that it would rather lead to a wild escape. Who was there to give the men guidance? Rheinberg felt that at this moment, in this situation, he lacked, title and office or not, simply the necessary legitimacy.
He had seldom felt as much of a foreign body in this epoch as in these moments.
Rheinberg sighed.
Self-pity hadn’t helped anyone yet.
He brought the binoculars to his eyes. The left wing held with remarkable steadfastness. Whoever was in command there knew how to motivate and command the legionaries.
Maybe not everything was lost yet.
41
Someone handed Maximus a goblet of wine, he took it and drank. The mood in the Emperor’s tent improved with every passing minute. The victory was imminent, and they all knew it. Theodosius had fallen. The battle was over. With a little luck, this civil war was also completed. Maximus was the sole emperor of all of Rome, and that was more than he had dreamed of before his insurrection began.
His troops were led by senior officers who could handle the rest of the battle without any problems. Maximus had retired to his tent with his retinue, the Magister Militium, and good old Vetius. It was time to eat and discuss how to proceed, but it was also time to celebrate.
“What’s to happen to those legionaries who surrender and do not flee?” was the first question that Maximus was asked.
The Emperor had already provided well-considered answers to all these things, which he now had to clothe in proper orders. “Everyone should be shown mercy and pardon. I don’t want torture or mistreatment. They will be disarmed and guarded for a short time, then they will all be offered an opportunity to return into the service of Rome.”
Everyone nodded. Nothing else had been discussed before and everyone saw the need.
“What’s to happen to time-wanderers?” was the next question.
“Nothing should happen to them either. The normal soldiers and officers should be granted mercy. Only Rheinberg will be killed.”
This had also been expected. The order was now valid, and the men of Maximus would strive to carry it out faithfully.
Von Klasewitz asked for attention.
Maximus waved to him.
“All weapons and other equipment of the time-wanderers should be diligently collected and treated with care. They are to be transferred to me,” the German said, and this order was also recorded.
“In addition,” Maximus went on, “a message should be sent to Hadrumentum for the ship of the time-wanderers. It should contain an offer of peace and cooperation, under the new captain, von Klasewitz.” He looked at the German. “We should imply that the new captain has many duties as commander-in-chief and therefore will not be able to stay permanently on the Saravica.”
Von Klasewitz grimaced but was too smart to protest.
“The messenger should take one of the time-wanderers, an officer best, to witness the outcome of the battle and its consequences,” Vetius suggested, and this, too, met with general approval.
“What orders do we give our legionaries?” Vetius then asked.
“First of all, there are three days of rest so we can take care of the injured and gather strength,” Maximus explained. “Wine and beer are to be richly served, and we want to organize a banquet. The African prefects have promised slaughter animals and exotic fruits, all of which we want to offer the men. Then we return to Hippo Regius, where we want to take another break for a few days, so that the men can prove their strength in the brothels. Then we will move to Italy, if we have found an agreement with the Saravica.” He looked up to von Klasewitz. “If we don’t conclude one, I doubt the time-wanderers will simply sink our fleet. It seems to me, no matter what the Magister thinks about his old command, that there are men there who are familiar with a notion of honor and chivalry. Or am I wrong?”
His gaze fell on the young priest Thidrek, who stood beside Petronius and was busy pouring a cup of wine for General Vetius, softly, quietly, submissively, unobtrusively as ever. Petronius caught his eye and nodded gently.
Von Klasewitz felt his heart begin to beat.
So it was decided! Then his hour had come. Now he just had to play the cards that God had placed in his hands.
He took a deep breath and didn’t show his sudden excitement. He had to be as surprised and horrified as anyone else. He collected himself. Just don’t make a mistake, he thought forcefully, fighting for the necessary self-restraint and concentration.
Petronius spoke up. “Noble sir, there are more decisions to make, if I may remember.”
Maximus’ face darkened a shade. “Of what nature are these decisions?” he asked a bit curtly.
“All those in the army of Theodosius who want to decide to join the now unified forces of the empire have to abjure the various heretical misconceptions and to commit to the Trinitarian orthodoxy of the Empire. We have reliable information that among the soldiers of Theodosius are not only Arians – that would be bad enough – but also many followers of Mithras and a number of Asian and Germanic cults, all of which have been tolerated. It is this false tolerance we have argued against, my Emperor.”
“You don’t have to remind me what I’m arguing about,” Maximus muttered, narrowing his eyes at Petronius.
“I just wanted to mention it again. This is a great opportunity to send a message of orthodoxy and truthfulness. It must not only be a precondition that all accepted legionaries publicly confess, no, consequences must also be drawn for those men who refuse the deed.”
Maximus’ face got something lurking. There was the innocent horror in the face of General Vetius, who already imagined what that meant, but had not yet produced a word.
Reverent silence descended upon the congregation. Everyone followed the argument. No one doubted that this was one of importance.
“What kind of consequences are we talking about, Brother Petronius?” Maximus asked.
“Well,” he replied in a tone of voice as if he were uttering something absolutely natural. “Of course those who refuse must be severely punished. I’m quite in favor of their execution. If we don’t show determination, there is a danger that they will join stubborn loyalists of Theodosius and continue to cause trouble. We must eradicate the spread of heresy, once and for all, especially here in the legions, the most sacred part of the imperial body. A healthy Christian legion is at the heart of a healthy Christian Empire, and all illness and infection must be removed from the body with the purifying power of fire and sword. When the body is healthy and resilient, freed from every wound, it can withstand the challenges of the future with equal strength and determination.”
Vetius turned his head and looked at Maximus imploringly. The Emperor also knew why. It was surely not the case that all soldiers in his own army were upright Trinitarian Christians. Should he let those who didn’t follow this particular faith with the same enthusiasm as Petronius become victims – after they had just given their blood for him in a great battle and won?
Maximus nodded imperceptibly to Vetius.
The General understood the hint and relaxed.
But the veteran a
pparently didn’t represent the majority, as Maximus noted with a glance in the round. Many high-ranking officers expressed their approval of Petronius’ words, nodded, made supporting remarks. And the Magister Militium? Apparently von Klasewitz was trying to keep a polite distance, but there was certainly a reason why Petronius looked at him once or twice from the corner of his eye. Did he just want to confirm if the commander-in-chief responded favorably to his words? Or …
Maximus felt a strange discomfort seize his body. Of course, he only imagined the worst. Now, in the hour of his greatest triumph, nobody could seriously …
“Lord, as a representative of the Church, I await your answer!” Petronius’ voice woke him from his dark premonitions.
Magnus Maximus, Emperor of Rome, would say the truth. “If we do that, we’ll tear up the legions!” he said firmly. “We have to convince people about the right faith. Send your priests to the legions to preach and convert the men. In this way, we reach them much better, and it is more reliable to rely on conviction than on coercion. We won’t slaughter those we fought with and whom we offered the Emperor’s Gold to risk their lives for me. That would cause great unrest, and our enemies would take advantage of this unrest with great joy. No, Petronius, won’t do that!”
Maximus looked at Petronius, who was obviously outraged.
“My Emperor! How can you make such a mistake?” Petronius said. “If you let the seeds of heresy sprout in the legions, you endanger the unity of Church and Empire. Restlessness is our least problem when God turns His grace away from us and we thus become easy prey for all those whom the Corruptor sends against us. Only with an absolute purity of faith at all levels of the state will we be able to win God’s help in the fight against the enemies and to be victorious. No short-term sacrifice, no temporary difficulty, can be too great for that. It is your duty as a Christian and an Emperor, now that the Lord has put victory into our hands, to stand up for this with all your strength and toughness. Otherwise we are doomed! Otherwise this battle was in vain! Otherwise, the victory is stale and useless!”
The Emperor's Men: Emperor Page 20