“I can offer you some chicken soup!”
Alewar laughed. “I heard it is incomparable.”
Clodius was quite flattered. “I will hurry.”
“No need. It will be several months before your grandchild is born.”
Clodius had already turned away when he realized what Alewar had said … and what Godegisel, the Goth, clearly carried in his heart for him, the old freedman. Clodius shook his head, had to wipe his eyes again.
Chicken soup.
He still had some in the pot.
He just had to find some clean plates.
He stumbled a little as he stepped into his hut, a little overwhelmed by the emotions that flooded him.
Then he thanked the Lord for this day and for his new son.
* * *
It was said that gardening has something meditative. Working with your bare hands in the ground, planting roots in the small, carefully dug holes, or sprinkling seeds that would someday sprout new plants – all of this connects one to God, who had prepared everything so wonderfully for his chosen people of this earth, so that they could receive all they needed for their survival.
Meditative, indeed. That might be true for a while. Surely it was good to seek peace, to move away from the confusion of the world and to seek strength in silence. There were certainly others who were willing to devote their entire existence to this way of life, who, in the quiet dignity of the simplest activity, saw the highest praise they could sing to the Lord.
Ambrosius sighed. Some quickly began to get very bored.
He straightened from his crouched posture, perched on his knees beside the long patch of kitchen herbs. The bed was almost ten meters long and one meter deep. The different plants, neatly arranged, were separated by thin wooden plates, which had been pushed vertically into the soft earth. Ambrosius, former bishop and at this time no more than a simple priest, was not even finished with half of the work he had been asked to do and his back ached. No one resented him for allowing himself a break. He wasn’t in a dungeon. He was no slave and no servant, the latter at least not in the immediate sense of the word.
In search of a suitable way to get rid of the annoying bishop, without wantonly provoking his followers in the church, the new Emperor Thomasius had invented a tradition that was later to have a significant impact on church life: the monastery. The Emperor himself had founded it, far from any major city, in the middle of Gaul, in such a remote area that even a Christian like Ambrosius was sometimes inclined to call it godforsaken.
He wasn’t alone in this.
Also Petronius, who had survived the confusion in North Africa, had been sent here to “think things over,” as the Emperor had said, until the end of his days. The property wasn’t small at all. A stone church had been built, lodgings, a stable, a well drilled, fields laid out. In addition to Ambrosius and Petronius, twenty-six other priests lived in the community, and they were all here voluntarily. That all their roommates belonged to the Arian heresy, Ambrosius was not surprised to discover. The Arians had a great interest in keeping him under surveillance. And so there were always some of his brothers in his vicinity. His mail was read. He wasn’t allowed to cross beyond the fencing of the sprawling complex. It wasn’t a prison in the traditional sense. Nobody was tortured. He wasn’t hungry – the meals were even quite varied. He could do more or less what he thought was right as long as he participated in the community tasks and didn’t cause any trouble. Ambrosius was still trying to figure out what exactly qualified as “trouble.” So far, he had met with tolerant friendliness among his brothers.
It was almost as hard to endure as the monotonous work on the field.
Petronius, who was busy planting herbal seeds not far from him, mumbled something to himself. Ambrosius couldn’t help but smile. The poor guy was suffering from the aftermath of their defeat especially hard. He saw his lifelong dream destroyed, the desire to once hold an episcopal ministry. Sure, Ambrosius had quietly been exiled from his position, but at least he could boast of having once reached the height of his career. In addition, the former bishop continued to make a name for himself as a scholar. Nobody prevented him from writing witty religious treatises and memoranda. There were even enough people who wanted to read them. Perhaps Ambrosius wouldn’t be recorded, in this version of history, as a particularly successful politician, but he was still able to work on his image as a clerical teacher.
This was no consolation for the good Petronius, whose qualities lay more in the realm of intrigue and subtle whispering, and not so much in learning and spiritual contemplation. Sure, he knew the scriptures – but more because it was expected of someone like him and less because his religious zeal drove him to study hard. His ambition had been different, and so he now suffered more under the exile than Ambrosius himself did.
The former bishop looked around, nodding to the two brothers who happened to be busy nearby, setting up a hedge of berries that would make a wonderful source of compote. They returned his silent greeting with friendly restraint.
Ambrosius was lucky to have all his limbs. The new Emperor was different from the previous brood, he had to acknowledge that. Politically blinded, yes, and not filled with the fire of the true faith. But nobody who seemed to be particularly vindictive. And he had smart advisors. Even the Bishop of Rome he was said to have pulled on his side.
Ambrosius wondered where and when he had failed. This was an important question. Did one not learn from mistakes? And even if this lesson couldn’t be of much use to him anymore, the knowledge itself was valuable enough. After careful consideration, he concluded that he had made two mistakes. For one thing, he had let Theodosius drift too easily into the spell of the time-wanderers. On the other hand, he had too hastily planned the end of Maximus.
Ambrosius looked at the small shovel in his dirty hands and sighed. Both mistakes were forgivable because they were based on human fallibility, the size of the task that had overwhelmed him. He had been premature and too optimistic about the outcome of the plan. The Lord put always big stones in the way of the Faithful, no matter how much he thought their way was right. Ambrosius had sunned himself in the blessing of God, forgetting that the blessing always included trials with the risk of failure.
He was ready to accept these mistakes.
Indeed, as he thought of it, a third, a fatal, indeed unforgivable mistake was responsible for his failure.
Ambrosius pressed his lips on each other and rammed the shovel into the ground as if to stab the dirt. He took a deep breath, trying to get his emotions under control. Yes. Unforgivable. All his life he would regret that. And this monastery was a wonderful place to deal with his self-reproach intensively. Perhaps the Emperor had sensed that and deliberately exposed him to this torture.
Ambrosius, he was convinced, had not shown enough fanaticism and radicalism. Deep in his heart, he knew that God had expected more from him. He should have punished more Arians. He would have had to persecute other heretics just as intensely, the Mithras followers, the Jews – especially the Jews! – and the followers of Jupiter and Mars, the friends of the Egyptian cults and the oriental ones. Here he had proved too hesitant. And so, he was sure, the Lord had turned away from him and given his enemies victory.
Ambrosius hoped that someday someone would arise who was stronger in faith and had the grace and gift of wielding the cleansing sword of the true gospel with greater fervor than the former bishop of Milan.
His prayers concentrated around this hope.
List of characters
Aurelius Africanus: Roman Trierarch
Ambrosius of Milan: Roman bishop
Aurelia: companion of Rheinberg
Peter Behrens: infantry sergeant
Bertius: Roman legionary
Charamadoye: King of Nobatia
Claudia: servant of Julia
Clodius: a freedman
Johann Dahms: Chief Engineer of the Saarbrücken
Flavia: a thief
Gaudentius: pre
fect in Africa
Godegisel: gothic nobleman
Dietrich Joergensen: Officer of the Saarbrücken
Julia: daughter of Marcus Gaius Michellus
Harald Köhler: NCO of the Saarbrücken
Klaus Langenhagen: Officer of the Saarbrücken
Magnus Maximus: usurper and emperor
Modestus: Praetorian prefect of Constantinople
Dr. Hans Neumann: Medical doctor of the Saarbrücken
Petronius: a priest
Marcus Flovius Renna: Roman military prefect
Jan Rheinberg: Captain of the Saarbrücken and Magister Militium of Theodosius
Richomer: Roman officer
Marcus Tullius Salius: Roman centurion with a special mission
Sassmann: German infantryman and sharpshooter
Lucius Sempronus: Roman officer
Theodosius: Roman Emperor
Quintus Virilius: Roman legionary
Thomas Volkert: Ensign of the Saarbrücken and Roman officer
Klaus von Geeren: Infantry officer and company commander
Johann Freiherr von Klasewitz: former First Officer of the Saarbrücken and officer in the service of Maximus
Wazeba: an envoy of Aksum
Preview
The Emperor’s Men # 7 “Rising Sun,” will open a new chapter in this exciting Alternative History-universe.
The new submarine flotilla is the pride of the Japanese Navy. The maiden voyage of the newest boat not only attracts the attention of the Imperial family yet is at the same time a test for the selected crew. But shortly after departure, something mysterious happens: The submarine seems to sink, and all crew members lose consciousness. When they awaken, they realize with horror that their boat has left its element. It rests on the top of a gigantic tomb for the King of Mutal, lord of the largest metropolis of the Maya, in the middle of the Central American mainland, some 1500 years in the past. The confused crew goes straight into war and faces the crucial question of where their path will lead them now – to an empire or straight into disaster?
The Emperor's Men: Emperor Page 25