“As if we had a great choice, Tribune.”
“Be assured of our good will.”
“This time for real?”
Sedacius raised his arms. “I can only say what I think and feel. I am a small tribune.”
Erminius nodded and sank for a few moments back into a pensive silence. Then he nodded a second time, more violently, and took the floor. “Prove your good will, Tribune, and find a way to learn more about our common enemies.”
“And how?”
Erminius gesticulated into the darkness. “Not far from here, no more than 50 Roman miles, there is a larger host of the enemy. We’ve been watching it for a while. It seems like they’re waiting for reinforcements. We don’t want to find out what happens when those arrive.”
“Not more than 50 miles?”
“Toward the sunrise.”
“How many?”
Erminius pursed his lips. “Two-thousand, rather 2,500. All on horseback.”
“I have scarcely a thousand men at my disposal,” the Tribune said.
“I offer 4,000 or 5,000 of my men, all that remains after the Empire was finished with us.” The bitterness in the King’s voice was unmistakable.
Sedacius didn’t pretend as if he didn’t notice it, and nodded expressively.
Volkert observed the Tribune carefully. He learned.
“So 6,000 men, if all comes together,” Sedacius said. It was left unspoken that the Roman soldiers had a very special reinforcement, which could be quite beneficial to the success of any attack.
“The chief of the Huns is a man named Octar. It is said that he is very close to the current leader, one of his closest advisors and commanders. Even if we can’t get hold of him, a few prisoners could help us.” Erminius had been waiting with this piece of information until the end.
Volkert realized that Sedacius was more and more inclined to seriously consider the proposal of his counterpart. “How did you learn name and position of that fellow Octar?” Volkert slipped.
Sedacius turned aside, giving the Decurion a half-blaming, half-appreciative look.
Erminius did not seem to mind the fact that someone else than the Tribune had asked the question. They all sat by the same fire. “Our friend spoke of it,” he said lightly, pointing to the mutilated head of the Hun, now lying decoratively on a wooden plank behind him, the flames reflecting on his empty face.
“I’d like to talk to your military leaders, your clan-chiefs,” Sedacius said.
“No problem. So you are interested, Tribune? Such an attack must take place soon. Who knows when the reinforcement appears? Then it could be too late even for our joint effort.”
The Tribune narrowed his eyes. Volkert sensed what was going on in his head. And when he made his demand, the young German knew that he had anticipated correctly.
Sedacius wanted to know how desperate Erminius really was. “I am commanding the attack,” the Tribune said.
Volkert watched the King closely. There was a resistance felt by the man, which was easy to discern. Pride as well, despair, but also fear and insecurity … and then, even before he opened his mouth, Volkert saw that Erminius had made a decision.
“I myself have other tasks to fulfill,” the leader of Quadians answered slowly. “My older son will take command of our warriors. He is well-acquainted with Roman customs; he served five years in the border troops until …”
“Until we betrayed you and murdered your King,” Sedacius completed in a quiet voice. “Then your son left the service and fought against our troops.”
Erminius smiled at the Roman. “You’re taking command. Luvico, my son, will not be enthusiastic about it, but he will understand your orders.” The King waved toward the darkness. “Bring Luvico and the scouts.” He looked at Sedacius searchingly. “We’ll begin at once?”
The Tribune lifted his cup. “Not if you have anything else to discuss.”
Erminius grinned.
3
Adulis, according to Chief Köhler, was worth a trip. Although their latest experiences had been a bit uncomfortable, the long voyage had proved to be largely uneventful. Köhler wasn’t sad about it. Alexandria had shown them very urgently what powers were secretly directed against them. Still, no one knew how well their opponents were actually organized – or who actually belonged to them exactly. The fact that von Klasewitz, the apostate, had become a bitter enemy after his failed mutiny, wasn’t one of the great surprises. But the extent to which the resistance to the influence of the time-travelers was actually rooted in the imperial hierarchy was ultimately guesswork.
Here, outside the immediate Roman area of control, the situation was somewhat different – possibly simpler, but perhaps even more complicated. Adulis was the economic center of the Empire of Aksum, the predecessor of what Köhler had known from his time as the Empire of Ethiopia, to which the German Reich maintained friendly diplomatic relations. In addition to the capital Aksum itself, Adulis was the second major urban center of the North African empire, which, if Köhler was right in remembering the historical lessons of Rheinberg, was close to reach its zenith. Its special position as a Christian empire of its own kind wasn’t of importance so far. At that time, Roman North Africa was largely christianized as well. Islam as a great, competing world religion did not exist yet.
The port of Adulis was, of course, by no means as great as that of Alexandria. But the coastal sailor, which they had ascended in Alexandria, had to look for his jetty with an effort. From here, almost the entire trade of Aksum, in and out, was settled. The long quay walls were hardly recognizable because of the numerous ships. There was lively activity in the harbor basin and the noise of a heavily frequented transshipment area was already clearly perceptible during their approach. Their captain, a gray-haired sailor with many years of experience, was well-informed about the navigational hazards of their trip, so that Köhler was content to leave the nautical details entirely to him.
“Impressive, is it not?” Behrens and Africanus looked up, as the infantryman came nearer. “There is a whole new world to discover. What does it look like in the east? Or in the south? At this time, we are not making any real sense of our world.”
“There is still much to explore,” Köhler agreed. “And we’re obviously just right in the middle. Africanus, what does our next step look like?”
The Trierarch held a parchment roll in his hands. “This is the letter written for us by the Prefect of Egypt. We shall report to Josephus Diderius Latius. He is something like the resident ambassador of Rome to Adulis. His main task is trade rather than politics, but he knows his way around and will be able to establish the connection with the Aksumite government for us. He can also help us find the quickest way to Aksum.”
“Where does Latius reside?”
“Our Captain says he knows it, and we will be led there by one of his men. The ambassador is supposed to occupy a town-house near the port.”
“Our own accommodation?”
“I hope Latius will accommodate us. Otherwise, the Captain will be able to provide us with lodging that is not too dangerous.”
“We’ll manage, I’m sure.”
Africanus looked a little astonished at Köhler but didn’t reply. The Trierarch felt that the Germans had prepared themselves with a good mood, and above all, Köhler seemed to be so much at ease that nothing could make him nervous. The Roman officer even suspected that the Germans, in any case, saw this as an exciting adventure, which they wanted to enjoy to the fullest. Probably a better way to deal with fate than to think day by day of lost family members or friends who had vanished in the stream of time forever. Since, however, with all his enthusiasm Köhler didn’t lack the necessary precaution and care, Africanus couldn’t find any evil in this attitude. In fact, he himself was very anxious about Aksum, for this too was his first visit to this kingdom. So far, despite all his experience at sea, he had been staying only on the Mare Nostrum. Therefore, he entered new territory, and that in the truest sense of the w
ord.
It took another hour for the coastal sailor to be moored properly. The Captain kept his promise and sent one of his men to show them the way. In addition, he promised to have the goods the expedition brought along well-guarded. His ship would remain here for four days; until then, the expedition had to find another safe place for their valuables.
They had spent a lot of gold in Clysma to buy valuable Roman products, which they could transport easily as well. Among these were, first and foremost, fine fabrics, but also exquisite wines as well as some of the artistic craftsmanship known to be in high demand among the elite of rich cities, eager to place anything exotic in their villas and mansions. All in all, the goods were less intended to cover their livelihood in Aksum – the Roman coin was gladly exchanged against the local currency or could even be used directly – but rather to present suitable gifts to the king in Aksum, and probably for important people in his court.
After all, they wanted something from him.
Köhler, Behrens and Africanus formed the delegation, which, under the leadership of a bullish sailor, finally entered the quay and dived into the streets of Adulis. The weather was hot, and the sun was burning from an almost completely cloudless sky. The swirling crowd, the noise, and the rapid movements of their guide, who obviously knew perfectly how to navigate in the city, quickly generated sweat not only on their foreheads, but the light cloths with which they were adorned were completely drenched as well.
Although the estate of the Roman envoy was “near the port,” they were on the road for a good half an hour. The early afternoon had begun, and as the three men, in their quest to visit Latius as soon as possible, had departed without taking a snack, they felt a throbbing hunger as well as thirst. But they were full of confidence to be able to enjoy the hospitality of the envoy, and the prospect of chilled wine and a meal bolstered the agility of their progress.
Soon they had entered a side street. Here, too, the expedition moved quickly and the tall, white walls gave a relaxing shade. They had arrived in a quarter of the city where obviously more prosperous citizens lived. In some of the courtyards the travelers saw a few of the gigantic stelae, like the Aksumites used to erect them, marked with inscriptions. It seemed that they shared the same passion for impressive monuments as the Romans did. Like the Germans as well, Köhler thought to himself. Some things just lasted forever.
Then their guide stopped so abruptly that the three men almost bumped into him. They were standing in front of a white wall. A big wooden door stood open. In one of the two door wings, a sturdy “SPQR” was artfully carved into the wood. That this was the house of Latius there could be no doubt.
“The door is open. This isn’t normal, is it?” Africanus said. He looked at her guide. “Is this customary?”
The sailor shrugged, pointed to the door.
“I should only bring you here,” the guide said. “Everything else is none of my business. I have done my duty.” He raised his hand to greet them, turned away without comment, and disappeared, relieved of his obligation. Whatever was going on here, he obviously didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
Africanus, Köhler and Behrens looked at each other. There was mistrust in her eyes.
The time-travelers drew the pistols they carried with them. They were not recognizable as a weapon for the random observer, so they wouldn’t immediately be considered as a threat, should the open door only prove to be irrelevant.
Köhler nodded to Behrens. That was his area of expertise.
The Sergeant touched the door carefully with his toe. It swung wider, without any squeaking from the hinges, opening to a view of a courtyard in Roman style. Latius had built a small piece of home in Adulis.
Behrens stepped forward, his scrutinizing look wandering vigilantly. Nothing moved. Africanus and Köhler followed him. A gentle breeze blew from the coast to the yard and gave them some needed cooling.
Slowly, observant, they pushed forward, entered the pillared main building with the painted walls and the mosaic floors, artistic architecture that bore witness to wealth and taste.
No servant stood up to them and asked for their request. The house was silent. The only sounds came from the street.
They entered the atrium, and there they saw Latius, as he smiled amiably at them. A handsome man, the toga swung around the body like a senator, with a large, bulging nose, wrinkles around his eyes, and short, Roman-style hair. He had raised his hand to the salute, the symbolic gesture best known to any Roman, greeting as the master of the house.
A life-size statue of himself had been placed in the atrium, carefully marked with name and rank, a modesty that helped them to unambiguously identify the beheaded corpse that lay directly in front of the statue in its blood. The head had rolled a little further, had been coming to rest under a bed-chair, the facial expression rather unfriendly, showing traces of the agony and horror Latius must have felt at the moment of his death.
Africanus looked at the corpse with a professional look.
“A clean, well-executed blow. This man here wasn’t a warrior. He was at the mercy of his opponent.”
“Where are the servants?” Köhler asked. “Latius must have had slaves.”
Africanus looked around, paused for a moment, lowered his gaze in attention. “I hear something.”
In fact, footsteps approached, hurriedly. Several men.
Heavy steps.
Then a half-dozen Aksumite soldiers, armed with shield and spear, plunged into the atrium, led by two men, who could be identified as slaves. The two seemed to be quite excited.
For a moment, both groups glared at each other.
Then everyone’s eyes fell upon the beheaded body of the Roman envoy.
One of the slaves, trembling, lifted his right arm, his mouth desperately trying to form the words that Köhler already anticipated. When the finger pointed toward the three visitors, the trembling man said something in a foreign language, but there could be no doubt about the content of the message.
The soldiers lifted their spears. They’d found the culprits.
4
Petronius entered the empty church and paused for a moment. An uninvolved observer might have thought the priest just remained silent, but instead the man looked around imperceptibly. The big room was empty, oil lamps flickered on the walls. It was already evening in Ravenna, and the high, narrow wall windows didn’t allow a lot of light inside. Finally, the man’s gaze fixed itself on the collapsed figure, who, apparently inoblivious of anyone, crouched before the altar. Petronius knew that this person was waiting for him, but he had been informed by a messenger only that morning of the imminent arrival of this important personality.
He hurried forward. He didn’t even think about why he had been requested to come and not his master, the bishop. He knew who was calling for him, and it was only logical that the old and unreliable bishop was not involved in this conversation.
When he had reached the figure, the person rose silently and slammed back the hood of his garment. Petronius was not astonished when he recognized the man’s face at once; indeed, a feeling of joyful expectation filled him.
He lowered his head respectfully. It was always a good thing to show Ambrosius, the Bishop of Milan, the necessary reverence. After all, a good relationship could only help him to become Bishop of Ravenna, as soon as the elderly man currently occupying that position has finally withered away.
“My brother,” the Bishop said softly, and a gentle smile greeted Petronius. He bowed his head and let himself be blessed. Then he crouched next to Ambrosius and looked at the flickering tallow candle, which stood before them. He didn’t say anything. The Bishop had called him, and he’d speak at the appropriate time.
“How is Liberius?” the visitor finally asked for his brother from Ravenna. Petronius listened carefully. The question was not totally of a harmless nature.
“My master is doing well, as much as he can expect in his old age,” he replied. “I talked to him this
morning and held a prayer. He looked tired.”
“Time makes you tired,” Ambrosius replied, his crooked eyes facing the priest again. “And for an old man like Liberius, all of this is certainly very hard to grasp.”
“He carries his burden bravely.”
“You’re helping to carry it. Without your help, Liberius couldn’t fulfill his duties, everyone says that.”
“I serve where God has commanded me to. If I serve well, I’m pleased.”
“You’re doing very well,” Ambrosius said. “In fact, I suspect that your services will one day enable you to claim the highest office in Ravenna.”
“I don’t expect so,” Petronius replied modestly. Both men knew it was a lie, and both of them didn’t bother.
“I have friends in Ravenna,” Ambrosius said.
“You have friends everywhere,” the priest flattered.
“Not everywhere. At the moment I am less popular at the imperial court.”
“A very regrettable circumstance.”
“I couldn’t phrase it more adequately.”
“It is necessary to change this.”
“That’s why we meet.”
For a moment, Ambrosius said nothing, looking only at the sluggishly flickering candlelight. “Say, Petronius, what have we learned from the failed attempt to attack the metal ship of the demon worshipers?”
Petronius had a spontaneous answer on his tongue, feeling somewhat out of balance by the sudden question, which still put a finger on the painful wound of his recent failure. But then he swallowed the answer and thought about it more. The Bishop wouldn’t ask him in order to blame him. The meaning behind this question went further. It was necessary to answer it the right way.
“We mustn’t underestimate them,” Petronius began cautiously.
Ambrosius bowed his head. He didn’t comment.
“Violence against them is meaningful only if we have created a situation in which they are clearly in an inferior position,” Petronius warmed to the topic. His next sentences came quicker, more eagerly, without waiting for a possible reaction from his opposite. “They must be far from their weapons, or the advantages of their weapons can’t be put to use properly. A clear superiority of our numbers and greater determination would also help.”
The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising Page 2