His well-being had been severely impaired once the two infantrymen presented Markus Tennberg. The Ensign had been tied up, and Rheinberg had ordered to untie the cords. Tennberg had sat down and said nothing. Although Rheinberg had expressly given instructions not to cause him any physical damage, the man looked wary, a little sluggish. The dungeon was not a summer holiday for anyone.
When he looked at Tennberg, the thought of Thomas Volkert had involuntarily creeped upon Rheinberg. Another a young man, of Tennberg’s age, and with the same legal status, a deserter. And yet Volkert’s decision had a different background, leaving behind other feelings in the Captain, more regret and compassion, and some understanding for his youthful impetuosity.
For Tennberg, he didn’t feel much more than contempt. Rheinberg sighed barely audibly. It was not his intention to kill anyone else of his crew. Each of the time-travelers was indeed invaluable. They were, whether they wanted it or not, a community of a very special kind, assembled by destiny. It was by no means that Rheinberg had developed an understanding of Tennberg’s and Klasewitz’s motives, or pretended to accept their wrongdoing without punishment. But for the moment, he had the impression that the young Tennberg had been the victim of a seduction of quite different kind, though not half as innocent and romantic as that of Thomas Volkert.
No matter what you read in novels, Jan Rheinberg could not find anything romantic about mutiny. He looked in the eyes of Tennberg and found what he had hoped for.
Resignation and a tiny pinch of hope.
He could probably work with that. “Tennberg, where is von Klasewitz?”
The young man said nothing, stared at the wall.
“You know in what kind of situation you are in, do you?”
Tennberg shrugged. “Do what you think is right.”
“What do you think is ‘right,’ Ensign?”
His opposite looked into his eyes. “There are laws that answer this question.”
Rheinberg made a comprehensive gesture. “I am the law on a cruiser of His Majesty.”
“Then you decide.”
“You don’t make it easy for me to make that decision.”
Again the shrug but with hardly measurable delay.
Rheinberg couldn’t help smiling. “We can, of course, proceed according to the letter of the law,” he mused. “German and Roman law. In both cases, I can only tackle you hard; I don’t want to threaten you unnecessarily, you know what is possible. Ever seen a Roman torture room? I must say that in these procedures our new friends are quite proficient.”
Tennberg lowered his eyes. Was there fine sweat on his forehead?
“I’ll make you an offer. I believe that during the interrogations you were already made aware of the fact that I’m ready to save you from your death.”
“Yes,” Tennberg replied hoarsely.
“You can stay alive, Tennberg. I will take you out of the navy, and you’ll get rid of your rank. But you should live. And not in a dungeon, but in exile, at least initially. A Greek island. There is a choice. You stay there and have a simple, peaceful life, and I’ll leave you alone. For this, tell me all about the plans of von Klasewitz. If you lie to me, and I find that out, our deal is dead. If you tell the truth, you still have a very sunny future. Now, what’s it gonna be?”
Tennberg pressed his lips on each other. “How can I be sure that …”
“I keep my word! I’m not a traitor like von Klasewitz. My word is that of a German officer whose honor is still intact. Isn’t that sufficient for you? Have you gone so far from your old ideals that you have lost all confidence in honor and an officer’s commitment to truth?”
Tennberg seemed to think for a moment, then breathed heavily.
“Well. I agree with the deal.”
“Very well. Where is von Klasewitz?”
“In Britain.”
In Rheinberg’s head, his machinery of thought started to move. Britain, the province of Maximus, who would rise up against Gratian in the other, the original timeline, and kill him. The Maximus, against whom, despite all the demands, no action had yet been taken. “What does von Klasewitz plan?”
“I don’t know about his exact plans. He immediately sent me to Alexandria, once he set out for Britain.”
“Who helps him?”
Tennberg made a vague movement with one hand. “Influential Romans. Clergymen among them.”
“Ambrosius?”
The Ensign shrugged. “I don’t know. No one has been introduced to me. All talks have been conducted by von Klasewitz himself. But a high-ranking official named Maximus was there. He has also been mentioned several times.”
“What was your mission in Alexandria?”
“Contact potential allies of Maximus and prepare them.”
“Prepare for what?”
“Well. Insurrection. Revolt. Uprising.”
Tennberg now looked directly at Rheinberg, all the tension and premonition had disappeared from his attitude. He had made his decision and wouldn’t be afraid to put the cards on the table.
“An uprising,” he said. “Against Gratian and against the time-wanderers. Especially against your influence. Maximus is to become the new emperor – as in our past. Only this time he gets help, which he didn’t have before.”
Rheinberg nodded thoughtfully. It all made too much sense for the young man, and he had thought of it before.
“When will it start?” he asked the important question.
“I don’t know. I was sent to Egypt quite early. Klasewitz obviously wanted to get rid of me.”
The first reflex of Rheinberg was to dismiss this answer as a lie. But Tennberg didn’t look away, glanced openly into the eyes of his former superior.
“Didn’t you talk about it with von Klasewitz?” Rheinberg continued to ask.
“I don’t think he makes the decisions. And if I don’t think I enjoy his trust so much that he would have told me everything.”
“Who decides? Maximus?”
“Yes. And others who support him.”
“What role does von Klasewitz play then?”
Tennberg shrugged. “That is hard to say. I’m not sure if he knows it himself. As I see it, the insurgents use him only to learn the use of modern weapon technology as best they can. I’m pretty sure that he considers himself more important than he is.”
Rheinberg couldn’t suppress a grin. That sounded like von Klasewitz very much.
“What kind of promises were made to you?” Tennberg hesitated as if the answer was embarrassing.
“I should get the rank of a dux,” he said. “A province for me, as a governor of the Empire.” Again the shrug. “I never really believed in it. I’ve been part of it because there was no way back for me.”
“What was promised to von Klasewitz?”
Tennberg looked directly at Rheinberg, as if to see exactly how the latter responded to his reply.
“Your post was promised to him, Captain.”
“As a Magister Militium?”
“As captain of the Saarbrücken in the rank of a Navarch. Don’t know whether there has been more promised to him than that. I guess so.”
Rheinberg nodded, more to himself than to Tennberg. He didn’t believe for a moment in new modesty in the nature of that man. Whatever had been promised to him – and Tennberg’s version was as plausible as anything else –, he would be looking for more. If only to compensate for his vanity, and the disgrace of his initial defeat.
But in order to achieve this …
“What plans does he have with me?” Rheinberg asked.
“Death,” Tennberg answered briskly. “This was a condition of von Klasewitz for his cooperation. He wants to see you dead. Very simple.”
“I’m sure, everyone will be glad about this condition,” Rheinberg said dryly. Tennberg allowed himself a weak smile, ran his hand over the tangled, unwashed hair. He didn’t add anything.
Rheinberg thought for a moment. Whether trustworthy or not, he felt that Tennber
g had told him the truth. Of course, he would be questioned even more thoroughly, because there might be important details, about whose significance he wasn’t all aware, but that was not a task that Rheinberg would take over. Tennberg would talk, and then the Captain would keep his promise.
The Captain rose and called for the guards in front of his cabin-door. They stepped in, waiting for a moment. Tennberg also left his chair.
“You will be interrogated. You won’t be tortured, I promise you,” Rheinberg said, saying goodbye. “Stay with the truth and say everything you know, and I will make sure that a beautiful Mediterranean island is waiting for you.”
Tennberg bowed his head gratefully before he was led out.
When the door closed behind the men, Rheinberg dropped back into his chair. He put his head in his hands.
Well, so was to fear, something was about to happen that he had wanted to prevent from the beginning. A civil war.
And he would have to fight it.
Jan Rheinberg had a peculiar taste in his mouth.
11
“No, Martinus, remember the consequences.”
Martinus Caius, whose puffy hand still massaged Julius’s left breast, paused. His face so close to hers, she smelled his stink as the coarse pores of her husband exhaled the odor of too much wine. He had hardly drank for a day and a night, but the consequences of his last drinking bout still enveloped him. Since, unlike most other Romans, he was not quite as enthusiastic about the principle of physical cleanliness, the smell was strengthened. His tunic had old, dried red wine patches.
“Consequences?” Caius echoed, withdrawing his hand back completely.
Julia suppressed a sigh of relief. “Yes, consequences! You are a learned man, my husband, and have enjoyed the highest education by the best teachers!”
In fact, his father, Julia’s father-in-law, had spared no expense and effort to give the young Caius knowledge and scholarship. Caius, on the other hand, had spared no expense and effort to escape the teachers, and instead tried to investigate how far drink and easy girls could be of his benefit. This was a research area he had achieved true expertise – and he still seemed to discover new aspects in it. “Uh …” Caius said.
“I like to remind you of some facts, my dear,” Julia whispered, and moved a little from her husband to escape his stench. “It is well known that there is a great danger when you penetrate a pregnant woman like me!”
“Danger?”
“Yes, my darling! You are a man full of strength and endowed like a bull! When you gave me my child at that time, I felt as if a hot-forged sword had impaled me and pierced to the back. You don’t even know in the slightest what your little Martinus is capable of!”
A flattered smile flitted around her husband’s mouth. He involuntarily pushed out his chest, an effect that lost its effect because of the unequally voluminous belly. Of course, that night of passion had never happened, for Caius had been totally drunk. But Julia had told the story so often that he believed in it by now. And since then, she had managed to escape his desires by means of colorful and creative excuses. “But …”
But she interrupted him at once. “Now imagine, if you pound me again with all this male power! Yes, my screams of pleasure would be too widely heard, the whole of Noricum would talk about it! But the danger to our child!” She lowered her voice. “It could be hurt! Your son! The pride of the family! The pride of your father!”
Caius Martinus looked at her with widened eyes. “For real?”
“But yes,” she whispered almost conspiratorially. “Isn’t that known to you? The fruit of your loins injured by your loins! You can not seriously want that, my husband!”
“But no, no,” he said.
As his unsteady gaze wandered around, Julia had already prepared the chalice filled with wine. “Here, my dear Caius,” she sneered, as he grabbed it eagerly. “Just relax. Soon, soon, our son is born. And then, after half a year or so …”
Caius almost swallowed the wrong way. Wine splashed on the tunic and renewed the stains. “Half a year?”
“Well,” Julia said, with raised eyebrows. “It takes so long for a woman to be ready again. You know we bleed very much and smell like fish. This will be even worse right after birth. Men can get sick by that.” She patted the soft shoulders. “And we won’t trouble the little Martinus, wouldn’t we?”
“No,” the great Martinus confirmed. “We don’t want that.”
He looked into his cup, which had been replenished, as if by magic. He drank.
There was no greater fool in this world than her husband, and Julia was quite happy about it.
Otherwise she was just bored.
The long stay in Noricum approached the end, which was the good news. Julia had never had much time for the province, but she had been persevering in the hope of hearing something from Thomas Volkert, the man who was the real father of her child. She had used the contacts of her father-in-law in the region as discreetly as she could have. She had to be careful not to arouse any suspicion; on the other hand, she also didn’t have many possibilities for obtaining information. There was no clear indication of what might have happened to the troops sent eastwards. However, she didn’t want to exaggerate her worries; such campaigns, even those to explore the situation, could ultimately take months or even years, and the troops had only been on the road for some weeks.
Julia couldn’t win much from any fatalistic view. She hoped that her Thomas would find a way to leave the troop, and she would be free her from the prison of her marriage with an unloved, tumultuous drunkard. She wanted her child to grow up with her biological father and not with someone who was not really interested in it.
But the hope that this perspective would become reality was dwindling with every additional day. Her pregnancy was now clearly visible and advanced. The midwife, whom she regularly sought for advice, attested to her that everything was developed without any problems. Julia was at times sick in the morning, and she made a loud and, if possible, disgusting act of vomiting in front of her drowsy husband into a suitable container. This had the positive effect of decreasing Martinus Caius’ longing for morning sex. In the last few days, her general condition had improved a lot, and the morning sickness also had turned into a weak malaise, combined with a healthy appetite. And so far as to vomit every morning, Julia’s need for purposeful theatrics increased as the need to empty herself vanished slowly.
She found it therefore necessary to fight the man’s grazing hands. Since Julia knew quite well how to manipulate men – she had gleaned some knowledge about that topic from her mother –, it wasn’t such a big challenge.
Martinus Caius muttered something, left the matrimonial bed, and stumbled toward the wash. The cup was half-emptied on the floor. Julia swung her legs out of bed and looked at herself in the mirror, which was placed next to the sofa. A pleasant fire lit the couple’s bedroom. Outside, she heard the bustle of the house slaves preparing a breakfast.
Actually, she was doing quite well, at least that what she wanted to convince herself about.
Martinus Caius burped, sniffed and scratched himself extensively between his legs.
But really only quite.
12
“Some people are talking only because they don’t want to be silent. How seldom does it happen that someone is silent where it would be better if he talked.”
Malobaudes looked somewhat irritated at the Bishop of Milan.
The clergyman with the crooked pair of eyes smiled indulgently. “General, I know you’re in a difficult situation.”
The General didn’t know what the Bishop was talking about. He might refer to their current place of residence, a house along the Lutetia road to the south, toward Italy, not far from the border of the Northern-Gallic province. It was more like a big hut, a bit windy, and the whistling wind inspired an uncomfortable atmosphere against which the lit logs in the fire place could do very little. Outside, hidden behind the building, were horses and the compa
nions of both men, the latter bent over a camp fire. It was unpleasantly cool for this time of the year, a relapse into winter, and Malobaudes looked into the cup of warmed and spiced wine he held in his hands.
He was a king and a general, but that didn’t mean that he had a great understanding for cryptic utterances, especially when there were much more important things to discuss.
“I’m sure you can be more precise.”
Ambrosius nodded.
“The events have taken an unpleasant turn because of the Goth’s betrayal. I feel that our plans are accelerating.”
“There was no betrayal. Valens is dead.”
“Did you find his Gothic confidant?”
The general moved restlessly on his chair. The question was obviously unpleasant to him.
“No.”
“You’re still looking for him?”
“Carefully.”
“Carefully?”
Malobaudes sighed. “If I order my people to search too openly and with all means, people will ask me why and what is so terribly interesting in a Goth. And then, honored bishop, many things will indeed accelerate in a very unpleasant manner.”
“Ah.” Ambrosius smiled. “Good. I deserved that. Nevertheless, the incident with Valens and the lasting threat by this Gothic youth is a sign of the fact that we shouldn’t busy ourselves with too many preparations. The time for action is now coming nearer.”
Malobaudes felt colder than the weather and room temperature required. It is one matter if you kill someone who had long been dead. It is another one to overthrow the ruling Emperor – and in doing so his blood will inevitably be shed.
“We … Maximus is …”
Ambrosius waved dismissively. “Maximus is introspective. If it would be for him, we’d be waiting for months. But we don’t have these months any longer. And now there is a Goth around who has a story to tell.”
“No one will believe him,” the General interjected.
“Anyway. He represents a risk. We also have to keep in mind that the time-travelers around Rheinberg dig deeper into the structures of the Empire. They are now talking about building an officer’s academy, in which the leaders of the legions are to receive a one-year intensive training.”
The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising Page 7