Lamentation didn’t help.
He now had to save the lives of his men, even if it was his last act. Certainly his last as a Tribune. Easy come easy go. The new Emperor would scarcely want to keep him in his service, and if he did, he wouldn’t want him in that rank. And Volkert didn’t want to serve this new Emperor, no Magister Militium like von Klasewitz. If he survived this, he would have to seek another employment.
The pain was under control for him. He didn’t long for further battles and promotions. Why not become a peaceful wagoner? He had traveled enough to know what challenges could get in the way.
Volkert stretched, looking for Secundus. He would miss this friend, the old crook, the good-for-nothing, more than anyone else.
Trumpets became audible.
That wasn’t the agreed signal.
“Tribune!” a centurion called to him, gesturing excitedly, pointing with his outstretched arm.
The cries became louder, no screams of pain, but of surprise, horror, unbelief.
They came from his men.
They came from the army of Maximus as well.
The fighting faltered. The clinking of the swords faded away. It was as if someone had taken all the energy out of the struggle, as if a cloth was sinking over the battle. Heads turned, eyes were opened, questions were asked.
Volkert turned, stared, didn’t really recognize anything, reached for the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. At first, he remained at a loss, saw nothing that could justify this excitement.
But then.
He saw a black wall approaching. A broad, mobile wall consisting of riders. They carried colorful banners and flags in weird shapes. Such breastplates Volkert had never seen before, such helmets were alien to him. The colors and signals said nothing to him. The faces of the men, if he could catch a glimpse of them, looked determined. Everyone was dark-skinned and they came from the south.
Volkert flung himself around, ran up a hill, wheezed, paused, and again brought the eyepiece to his eyes. Riders, thousands of riders, and behind them the approaching band of foot soldiers. He had been in the Roman legion long enough to estimate the size of the host. How many were there? At least 20,000 men. A large army, powerful enough to make a difference, sweeping away the exhausted fighters.
But whose warriors would attack them? Did they only take the chance, now that Rome was weak? Or …
Who was that?
Volkert lowered the binoculars, realized his mouth was open. He didn’t have … that was not …
He looked again, searching, focusing. His eyes caught the group of men, splendidly dressed, nobles, officers, and there were a few who stood out because they wore Roman uniforms or …
Those were Köhler and … there, Behrens … and Neumann, the doctor of the Saarbrücken!
Volkert cried out, lowering his binoculars.
Men who had followed him, Secundus beneath, stared at the hysterically laughing Tribune who had fallen to his knees, head back, as he threw his arms up to the sky and cried aloud in a language that none of them understood could.
“That can’t be true!” Volkert shouted again and again. “That can’t be true!”
He got to his feet.
“Secundus!”
“Tribune?”
“Give the orders. All signals of surrender coming from Rheinberg are to be ignored.”
“What?”
“Can’t you hear well?”
Secundus looked around, but then his confidence in his friend’s abilities won, and other subordinates nodded. They ran, shouting orders that their enemies had to hear.
Volkert laughed. It was a liberating laugh, a sobbing, painful outburst of emotion. This battle was over, that was true.
But with God and all powers of fate, not as Maximus had imagined. Anything but that!
“We’ll attack again!” he yelled, whirling around himself. “Listen to my orders! We attack again! Our allies have arrived!”
Was it the halo of the “Tribune” that gave it credibility? Was it the desperate hope of the men for a miracle, an intervention of God that would save them from the deepest distress? Was it the realization that the great, alien army could be just as much a blessing as a curse and they just assumed it was the former?
The order of the Tribune was carried on. The word “allies” spread. The men of Maximus heard it, too, seemed hesitant, disoriented and perplexed. As the legions of the opponent raised their swords again to continue the battle, they defended themselves weakly, seemed very defensive. Their confidence, their courage for victory had faded.
They were in the majority, but they retreated.
Volkert ran like a dervish across the battlefield. He ordered, drove the men forward. He encouraged. He shouted, “Foederati! Foederati!” And his words were carried on. Soon the voices of the legionaries mingled with sudden enthusiasm. Some shouted “Tribune! Tribune!” others bellowed “Rome!” and others again carried the word of the newly arrived allies across the battlefield. Movement came into the units.
Volkert looked at the rider’s wall, as it paused on the edge of the battlefield, seemed to orient itself. He ran through the swirling crowd of fighters, ruthless, as fast as he could, toward the newcomers, began waving his arms, making loud noises. Well, didn’t they notice him? His own men made way for him, for them he had to act like a madman who had succumbed to the stress of the battle and spinned totally out of control!
He felt his legs get heavy and dropped his sword and breastplate. He ran like never before in his life, and his legionaries made way for him, staring at him like a man possessed. Then Volkert broke free of the formation.
He saw Köhler’s eyes fall on him, the Roman officer opening his arms, madly screaming, how he touched Neumann and seemed to say something.
“Köhler!” Volkert roared, waving with his arms again. “Köööhler!”
He stopped, gestured to his side of the battlefield, gesticulated. “Here! Köööhler! Here we are!” His words spoken in German made the difference.
Orders were given. Many a battle cry echoed across the battlefield. Köhler and Behrens rode up to Volkert, who stood, breathing heavily, his hands on his thighs. He had exhausted himself completely.
“A horse!” He heard Köhler’s voice. “A horse for the man!”
Volkert saw one of the dark-skinned warriors bringing him a horse, and in a trance he mounted the animal, staring at the battlefield.
“Forward, my boy,” Köhler muttered to him, and recognition flashed in his eyes. “Now show me where the party is on.”
Volkert picked himself up, commandingly raising one hand, then spurred the horse, felt a crowd of soldiers begin to move behind him as he rode ahead of them, unarmed, and heard himself again, shouting to hoarseness, “Rooome! Rooome!”
And the men of Theodosius received the call, witnessed how the Tribune – the Tribune – led an army of foreign riders into battle, how it the dumbfounded men of Maximus struck like a hammer and how the army of the usurper stumbled the onslaught of the new arrivals, was overrun as it broke, fled, vanished, as their own officers threw away their weapons, as signals were overheard, how banners fell, insignia were trampled to the ground, how formations broke and how the pain engulfed the army of Maximus, the pain of defeat, the pain of strange blades, the pain of shattering hooves.
The pain served by the Tribune.
46
It was a cold morning when Jan Rheinberg met with the returnees from Aksum. In addition to the three Germans, the Trierarch Africanus and Ouezebas, the leader of the united Aksumite-Garamantite troops were present. Outside, everything was cleaned up.
It could not be called anything else.
The legions of Maximus had collapsed and hadn’t withstood the onslaught of the Aksumite army for long. The death of their Emperor had certainly not helped to strengthen their fighting spirit. When it became known that von Klasewitz, wearing the Emperor’s purple, had been shot dead the moment he left his tent, Rheinberg understood the en
emy’s relative insensitivity. He actually understood them very well, as his own soldiers barely escaped the same fate.
The traitor’s corpse had been discovered when Rheinberg’s men had taken possession of the enemy’s camp, which was now serving as a holding area for prisoners of war. The gunshot wound had been unmistakable, and when, after the battle, a visibly weary, but ultimately contented Private Sassmann spoke again, it had also been clear who was responsible for it. Sassmann had acted on special orders from von Geeren. An ultimately very wise decision, as Rheinberg found, and one that relieved him of a great burden.
Other burdens remained, of course.
Still, his heart was light as he sat down with his comrades and their new guests and friends. To see Neumann again was of particular pleasure to him, and for the first hour he did nothing but listen to the physician’s account of his adventures in Aksum. That it had been the old Aksumite Emperor who, in the face of disturbing news from Rome, had come to the conclusion that relations with the Empire could be “placed on a new footing,” something Rheinberg found remarkable. The old man hadn’t taken part in the long and exhausting journey for understandable reasons, but found himself eloquently and convincingly represented by his designated heir apparent, who intended to use his special position as a believer in the gratitude of Rome without false timidity and modesty.
“We certainly have no further problems here,” Rheinberg said when it came to the current situation. “The defeated troops are in custody and largely demoralized. We will integrate most of them into our own legions after a while, they are too valuable for us. The treacherous prefects have been apprehended and whimper for mercy, they are robbed of their troops and have put their bets on the wrong horse. They will lose all their positions, and many will probably lose their lives as well. The whole thing is high treason, and there we can indeed show no weakness. Ultimately, that will be a matter for the new Emperor.”
Neumann looked questioningly at Rheinberg. “What’s the situation, Jan? I heard you have no ambitions.”
“I’m not von Klasewitz. I don’t think I could last long as an emperor. I’m still too distant from everything, from the legions, the Senate, all the important forces that an Emperor must rely on. Half of Christendom hates me because I don’t advocate any intolerant, state-driven Christianity. With these Romans, my reputation is completely burnt. And let’s face it – as a field-commander I didn’t excel in any particular way. As soon as it becomes clear what the new power structure looks like, I will leave office. I will command the Saarbrücken and do everything we can to continue the work that we started before the civil war at Ravenna. There are so many projects and ideas – we have to resume that work. I heard coffee roasting is now on our list.”
“That’s right, my friend,” Neumann confirmed with a smile. “But to come back to my question: Arcadius is therefore the new emperor? Under guardianship of his mother and the Senate? Will that be the solution?”
Rheinberg shrugged. “Something in that direction is certainly under consideration.”
“And the Saarbrücken?”
“We return to Italy with the army and re-establish our rule. The East is reasonably safe in this respect, but we now have to change some of the Western staff at court and in the provinces. Here I hope, however, that I can act without causing too much bloodshed. I don’t want to drag a trail of blood behind me in the next few months.”
Neumann looked at Rheinberg but said nothing. The sharp wrinkles on the young man’s face testified to the strain he had endured, both physically and emotionally. The loss of von Geeren and many of his comrades weighed heavily on his consciousness, and this without speaking about the deaths of many Roman friends and companions. Neumann was aware that he had arrived at the last minute. They had marched day and night to even make it. If Maximus’ men had known how exhausted and on the edge the soldiers of the relief army had really been, they probably wouldn’t have surrendered so easily.
But Neumann was glad that it had developed this way.
“Does Maximus still have troops in Italy or Gaul? Certainly his loyalists in Britain are firmly in the saddle,” Köhler said.
Rheinberg smiled weakly. “Loyalists, yes, but only with limited power. Maximus could risk the battle against us because he pulled together all the troops he could get hold of. There are still the Border Guard castles in Gaul, which he has – reasonably – bared, but his most powerful units are here – and our prisoners. We shouldn’t expect any serious resistance. Other things worry me much more – the role of Ambrosius in this intrigue, the spreading plague, the imminent danger of the great migration, which we have by no means already overcome. Whoever ultimately takes over the leadership of the Empire, the list of challenges he faces becomes longer with every minute I think about it.”
“And in this situation you want to give up your position?” Neumann asked. He strove to avoid as much as possible an undertone of disapproval.
But Rheinberg knew the doctor long enough to suspect what the question was. “Yes, my decision is clear. With the demise of our infantry, we no longer have any significant resources for land battles. We will build on the previous work of the deceased von Klasewitz and develop the artillery, and Dahms will have the opportunity to pursue further projects. But the coming conflicts should be led by someone who has experience in battle on land while being able to tactically combine the innovations with the proven methods of our legions. This person is not me.”
The last sentence sounded pretty categorical, and Neumann obviously knew when a topic had reached a deadlock in a discussion. So he just nodded and accepted the decision, which certainly had a lot to it. To find a new commander-in-chief, who had the qualities mentioned by Rheinberg and at the same time was ready to show loyalty to a child emperor, was certainly one of the great list of challenges he had spoken of. Making this choice would be one of Rheinberg’s most important legacies.
Neumann wanted to express a comment on another topic when the tent door was turned. A Roman officer entered with a worried face, which immediately electrified everyone. The excitement of the battle wasn’t gone for long enough not to expect that fate had more bad surprises for them.
“Lord, something is happening in the legions,” the man reported, and seemed undecided how to proceed. Rheinberg rose with an alarmed expression.
“What happened?”
“There has been a large gathering of officers. They decided to talk to the troops.”
“You’re among them?”
The man was feeling unwell in his skin. He was an officer, a legate, so he knew exactly what had happened. Apparently he had been chosen to deliver the message to the meeting. The man was young and had a very harmless-looking, round boy’s face. Perhaps this was the decisive selection criterion for this task.
“If you want to follow me … nothing will happen to you, my lord. The point is that we want to inform you about certain … decisions. The Aksumite guests are also invited. It’s all very peaceful.”
Rheinberg’s concern dwindled slightly. The man sounded sincere enough. He waved to the others, and together they left the tent. As they stood outside, they discovered that the legions had started to assemble outside the camp. Rheinberg and Neumann exchanged a look, then followed the officer, marching out. Now he was overcome by a certain amount of anxiety. Rheinberg knew the history of Rome and the way legions had made policy over the centuries. The tough men in the uniforms of the Empire had the habit of using that hardness against their own leaders, too, if they no longer lived up to their expectations. The consequence, if you were lucky, was that you were allowed to return to a private room to plunge yourself into your own sword.
Rheinberg’s abdominal muscles tensed. He struggled for self-control, but his historical education thwarted him. Sometimes it wasn’t good to be well-educated.
They were led to the field.
Only now did Rheinberg realize that the legions were grouped in a rectangle around a small podium. It reminded him
in a fatal way of a place on which public executions were celebrated. He looked into the faces of the men, sought and found no hatred, no anger – no, the mood seemed rather relaxed, he saw men smiling, some nodded to him, all seemed very festive, almost happy.
This atmosphere was transferred a bit to Rheinberg, who took a deep breath and looked at the podium. There stood the highest ranking surviving officers of his army, and in the middle of it was a wooden chair with someone sitting on it …
… a purple coat.
Rheinberg stopped dead in his tracks.
He almost hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, but he stifled that gesture. Relief gripped him – and anger at his own stupidity.
What a fool he had been!
The situation was obvious! Tired of wrestling, blessed with an army commander with a rather weak popular base, the legions had, of course, done what they had always considered their right for many centuries – sometimes more successful, sometimes less.
They had appointed an emperor, evidently from their midst.
Rheinberg nodded, continued on his way.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. It eliminated the lack of guidance, pushed a little boy out of the lurch in Spain, made things clear, and was based on a proven, if doubtful, tradition. And with luck, they would let him live. He had never distinguished himself by any particular cruelty, and he could expect that one would deal with him just as graciously.
As always, in such cases, it simply depended on whom the legions had chosen.
Rheinberg and Neumann looked at each other, their eyes met those of Köhler and Behrens. Everyone had obviously understood what it was all about. In a few moments, they would get to know the new Emperor.
Rome had decided to act without asking the time-wanderers.
Even that, Rheinberg thought to himself, didn’t feel wrong.
As they approached the platform, a figure rose, a little reluctantly, as Rheinberg observed.
Then he stopped again, surprised again and embarrassed by his lack of foresight.
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