The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  Africanus did the right thing.

  He lowered his head and knelt.

  On Neumann’s sign, everyone followed his example without saying a word.

  Then the Trierarch spoke. “Royal Highness. The news of the cruel death of your brother grieves me. But you see us at a loss. Why are we so obviously connected with this incident?”

  Something close to Africanus hit the ground. It was the casket in which the gifts of the Governor of Adulis, had been stored. The one for Ouazebas. Now it was empty.

  “The brooch, Romans, your gift. It was poisoned. The poison, I suppose, was intended for me.”

  “I suppose so, yes,” Africanus replied, raising his head. “But we didn’t place it there. This gift, like many others, was chosen and made available by Berhan, the governor. We have assumed in good faith that it would be a serious expression of appreciation.”

  Ouazebas’s eyes narrowed. “Berhan has given you this item?”

  “He did.”

  “And what other presents actually come from him instead from Roman hand, not provided by you?”

  Africanus felt hot and cold. If the special jewelry had been poisoned for the heir … “That for the Emperor, too. A similar box.”

  Ouazebas’ face turned ashen. He pulled Africanus up. “Follow me! The rest will wait here. Do not let them go until I’m back!”

  Africanus staggered to his feet. Two soldiers took him into the middle and dragged him along.

  The other men remained behind. A large section of soldiers stood with motionless faces before them, the swords drawn, spears directed at them. But it didn’t seem to bother anyone when they talked among themselves.

  “Where will they carry him to?” Behrens asked.

  “To the Emperor. Ouazebas suspects that the present for him has also been prepared with deadly poison,” Neumann surmised.

  “Preparation for a coup?” Köhler murmured, pointing out that he had gathered his wits quickly.

  “I guess so too,” Neumann replied. “Berhan has abused our confidence in settling bills at the imperial court – and made us look responsible. He probably thinks that no one will believe our assurances of innocence. After all, we are aliens – and quite strange.”

  “What will happen now?”

  Neumann raised his shoulders. “It depends on how much the family of Ouazebas is pushing for revenge, and whether the Emperor is a little bit offended. In the latter case, I don’t want to make any big bets on our lives. But we get a chance, we must try to strengthen the suspicion of Berhan’s responsibility.”

  “There must have been previous incidents and hints, things like this don’t happen without a long story or out of the blue,” Behrens said thoughtfully. “There must have been more to it we are not aware of.”

  “I agree,” Neumann said. “There is a history or at least a clear picture of Berhan and his ambitions, otherwise our words would’ve been dismissed right away. On the other hand, Ouazebas, despite his grief for his brother, doesn’t appear to me like a man who immediately falls victim to the first conclusion and isn’t ready to think beyond the too obvious.”

  “Quite hopeful assumptions, aren’t they?” Köhler interjected. He looked at the phalanx of the soldiers and lowered his head. “Even if Behrens and I had our pistols in our hands, they would chop us into pieces in no time.”

  “We will not provoke anything,” Neumann said. “We are peaceful and docile. What is important, is the Emperor’s reaction – and his current condition. Our fate is essentially dependent on his. If he is dead, we are, too.”

  * * *

  The darkness just before dawn. Africanus could barely orient himself, but that didn’t matter anyway. The strong hands that led him belonged to men who knew every inch. When they finally reached the imperial palace, the news of their arrival seemed already to have spread. Everywhere, torches had been lit, and troubled guards hurried to meet them. Africanus overheard an excited exchange between Ouazebas and an officer, after which the haste continued. It took no more than five minutes until they had reached the Emperor’s private quarters. There were once again violent discussions with body guards, which were terminated when someone brought the opened, gifted cup from the emperor’s sleeping chambers. Ouazebas became agitated, pushed the bodyguard aside, and rushed with his men through the doors.

  Mehadeyis of Aksum sat in his bed, watching the newcomers with great relaxation. Ouazebas, visibly relieved, fell on his knees before the Emperor and seemed to explain what brought him here.

  The Emperor’s eye fell repeatedly on Africanus. “Good, my friend, thank you,” the old man finally said in Greek. “I am fine. I have back pain, flatulence, and I have to pee too often without anything coming out, but that has nothing to do with any poison.”

  “I thought …” Ouazebas began.

  “I know. I opened the present and nothing happened to me. What does that tell you, my friend?”

  The heir to the throne had by now regained his self-control. He rose and sat down on the bedside of the Emperor. “I was the target,” he said.

  “And you alone,” Mehadeyis confirmed. “I am old. I don’t need much encouragement to die. Sufficient to let nature take its course. If, however, the Romans had the goal of causing Aksum to be stirred up or weakened in the long run, then this goal would be served well by preventing a strong and dynamic future emperor.”

  Ouazebas looked at Africanus, who gazed at him quietly.

  “But where is the advantage?” the Trierarch finally asked. “Aksum and Rome are friends, but quite far apart. We have different interests. And Rome has really enough to do with other challenges.”

  “Name anyone who could profit, we are willing to listen to your opinion,” Mehadeyis said with a hypocritical naivete.

  Africanus lowered his head. “It is not for me as your guest to interfere with Aksum’s inner affairs or to voice suspicions.”

  “Bullshit,” the old emperor said. “I’m sitting in my bed, not quite frightened. Ouazebas here has lost his brother, and we stand around like idiots. Everyone is tired and angry and irritated, and I am also very thirsty.”

  A chambermaid stepped quietly out of the room.

  “Let’s leave this diplomatic nonsense. Roman. Speak out!”

  Africanus looked slightly helpless at Ouazebas. The successor to the throne seemed not to be surprised about the nature of the Emperor’s language.

  “Berhan is an intriguer, we know,” Ouazebas said instead of the Roman. “And he has influential friends, provincial nobles like him. It has been rumored for some time that he himself wants to raise claims to the throne.”

  “It’s a matter of simple rumors, my friend,” Mehadeyis said, straightening in his bed. “He has ambition, but he’s not stupid. And his friends defend him. He is a danger primarily to you, Ouazebas.”

  “He is a danger to the Empire!”

  “Nonsense! Aksum will also do well under an Emperor Berhan. Ouazebas, I love you like a son, but you are astonishingly stupid in some aspects!” The Emperor laughed. His heir seemed not to resent criticism. He probably didn’t hear it for the first time. “An Emperor Berhan would be a man of influence and one who had been born into intrigue, harassment and political strategy, that is exactly what is needed on the throne. We’d have a wonderful emperor in him!”

  Ouazebas snorted, but said nothing.

  “But there are some disadvantages,” the Emperor continued. “The people find him terrible, especially his penchant for cruelty. And everyone knows that he is a thief. Just as he has many friends, he attracted many enemies. Ouazebas, however, may have opponents, but the least of these are real enemies. He can involve them through his personality. A post here, a nice campaign for loot there, it can be done. If Berhan is emperor, there will be slaughter.”

  Africanus looked at the heir. He now recognized that the Emperor was only repeating a conversation which he and Ouazebas had surely already had several times, but now summarizing it again for the Roman’s benefit.
But he didn’t know what was going to happen.

  “Did I mention I’m thirsty?” Mehadeyis asked, his voice raised. A moment later a servant appeared with an amphora and a chalice. The Emperor watched as the wine was poured.

  “Your time-wanderer-drink would help now,” he said as placing the cup to his mouth. Africanus nodded.

  “You are asking now why we want to believe you that it is not in your interest to kill the Aksumite emperor, Africanus.”

  “I’m still waiting for enlightenment, Your Majesty.”

  “Ah, now he’s cheeky. We have been too nice to him, Ouazebas.”

  The heir forced a smile. Mehadeyis got serious and nodded.

  “Your brother was a good man. He couldn’t leave his fingers off the wives of other men, but he was a good man. A good Christian. May the Lord accept him. We will all pray for him, Ouazebas. But we both know that you should not direct your anger against the Romans and their strange new friends.”

  The prince lowered his head. “I know. But …”

  “Yes, I understand your rage. But we want to remain friends of Rome, right? And I want this coffee.”

  Mehadeyis looked at Africanus.

  “Tell your friends that your expedition to the highlands will be delayed. We’ll go to Adulis tomorrow. I’ll hold court.”

  Africanus straightened, unsure of what to say. He knew, however, what role they were supposed to play.

  “I will be the judge and you will be witnesses.”

  “Witnesses to what, Your Majesty?”

  “Witnesses to all that I demand of you.”

  Africanus met the Emperor’s gaze. Everything made sense. The old Mehadeyis wanted to take the opportunity to settle the bill with Berhan and secure the legacy for Ouazebas before he died. He really didn’t care if the governor was actually guilty or not, even if everything spoke for it.

  This was about politics.

  “When the trial is over, and Berhan has been judged upon,” the Emperor continued, as if he had read Africanus’s thoughts, “I’ll give you permission to look for coffee, and I will plant the seeds and make sure that Ouazebas will not only be a favorable but also a filthily rich Negusa Nagast.”

  Africanus lowered his head. “Your wisdom is immeasurable, Your Majesty.”

  “The only thing that is immeasurable is the strength of my urge to pee, Roman!” The Emperor laughed again, and drained the cup, then nodded to Ouazebas. “Prepare everything, my friend. We depart at dawn. I will not hesitate. The coastal winds will do my old bones good. And I have to break an enemy’s neck, who would otherwise and sooner or later bring you much trouble.”

  Africanus could not hold onto himself. “But how can you be sure that it was not us who had the poison … I mean … you’d never know with ultimate certainty! Neither would you, Ouazebas. Our word against Berhan’s! This may well sound politically feasible, but will the future Aksumite emperor not be suspicious of all the Romans, since he will always suspect that Rome is behind the death of his brother?”

  Ouazebas and Mehadeyis looked at each other. Both smiled. Africanus looked highly confused from one to the other.

  “Roman, you are certainly a good soldier. A good officer. A clever man. But as a politician you are completely incapable. I’ll use you and your friends, and for that we had to knock you up,” the Emperor said relaxed. And Ouazebas still smiled.

  “But …” Africanus didn’t understand a word. The Negusa Nagast clapped his hands.

  It took only a few moments, then two men entered. One carried a simple garment, the other the armor of an Aksumite soldier. Both of them looked amused when they came before the Emperor and bowed before turning to Africanus.

  “This,” Ouazebas said, pointing to the soldier, “is my honorable brother, one of the bravest officers of the Empire of Aksum. He will one day roast in hell, for he covets the wives of others, and this repeatedly and with endurance. But the time of his judgment has not yet come.”

  The man, a few years older than Ouazebas, and looking almost identical, raised his hands. “You convey a completely false picture of mine, brother.”

  Africanus looked bewildered at the man. Then his eyes wandered to the second. He knew him.

  His name was Haleb, governor Berhan’s factotum.

  “This man here …” Ouazebas began, but then Africanus raised his hand.

  The heir fell silent.

  Africanus looked at the Emperor, and he didn’t know what came upon him when he said aloud to the Negusa Nagast. “The most accomplished intriguer of Aksum, Your Majesty, is undoubtedly you.”

  Mehadeyis laughed and raised his empty cup.

  “I’m thirsty! Hello? I’m thirsty!”

  26

  “And what did he say?”

  Secundus’ curiosity was just as intrusive as it was understandable. He had directed his horse to move beside the wagons for the wounded, or rather the column of three carts pulled by donkeys on which those who were still too weak were for riding independently rested. Volkert was half-erect in the middle cart, supported by a pillow of rolled blankets, and with every rumble and shaking, pain passed through his chest. For a week, the wounded had been nursed, and the paramedic had done miracles. Volkert had known his name – Florian Feldmann – and had since only spoken to him in Greek, which the young man was more likely to understand without further suspicion. No word had been said about the mistake the deserter had made, and Volkert was not sure whether Feldmann had ever reported the faux pas to his superiors.

  Secundus’ question was asking for another conversation.

  Volkert grimaced, as the truck rumbled through a particularly deep furrow. Two more wounded, sitting next to him, cursed. The man on the harness pulled his shoulders together. He could do nothing about it, but he remained the appropriate target for his passenger’s insults.

  “Sedacius made me centurion.”

  Secundus waved him off. “Yes, yes. What else?”

  “The king of the Quadians thanked me. His son is doing well. He also thanked me. Look!”

  Volkert took something from underneath his tunic. A golden necklace, decorated with precious stones, a beautiful and valuable handwork. A gift from the King. For the value of this piece of jewelry, he could buy a piece of land if he wanted. If he would ever have the opportunity.

  “Fine!” Secundus cast a professional and greedy look at the chain. Volkert didn’t hesitate to show it to him. On the one hand, Secundus was a gambler and a crook, but he wasn’t a thief, and he thought of Volkert as a friend. Apart from this, Volkert was certain he had surely “found” something of this and that in the enemy’s camp which someone else had “forgotten” during the gathering of valuables.

  “But what was said?”

  Volkert probably knew what the equally promoted Centurion really wanted. It was about the Tribune’s plans to become an emperor. The successful expedition had increased the fame and financial resources of Sedacius, and he had once again told Volkert that the aspiring officer could face a brilliant future if he only supported him in his endeavor. Volkert had asserted to be faithful to Sedacius, who would continue to help him. The German knew he could use any protection that was offered. Especially if one day the suspicion would arise that he was not the one he pretended to be.

  Volkert leaned toward Secundus and made a covert hand movement toward the other wounded. The curious comrade understood. Nobody could know who was in favor of Sedacius’ plans and who probably opposed them. It was better not to talk about these things in public.

  After a few more words, Secundus spurred his horse and left Volkert to himself and his thoughts. There were some things he wouldn’t tell his friend even in confidence. For instance, that the Tribune had taken him, the deserter, into his closest circle of advisers, into his general staff, if one wanted to call it that. Volkert was not sure whether he had deserved this kind of promotion, but he saw no reason to reject it. What exactly that meant for him in the future couldn’t be estimated.

&nbs
p; Again the cart jerked and the chest ached. The caravan paused every two hours, during which the paramedic cared for the wounded, changed bandages, and spoke to the men. Volkert simply longed to have some quiet.

  “Centurion.”

  Volkert looked to his side. Bertius shared this cart with him. His neat arm-stump hung down at his side. The blade of the Hun had been well sharpened, and Bertius had survived the loss of blood, his face color was almost rosy again.

  “What will happen to me, Centurion?”

  Volkert groaned, as he turned to the legionary and looked him in the face. “What do you think?”

  Bertius made the impression of being somewhat lost. “I’ve spent my entire life in the legion. I know. Though I have never been particularly successful, the legion was my life.”

  “You’ve proven yourself sufficiently to me, Bertius.”

  The man nodded and smiled. “Thank you, centurion, but it might not have been very smart.”

  “I have to contradict that.”

  “I believe you. But with this injury, I cannot return to active duty.”

  Bertius was right. Even with a good wooden prosthesis, the manufacture of which was definitely not beyond the abilities of Roman artisans, and which Volkert had undertaken to commission immediately upon his return, Bertius could no longer participate in combat. And a legionary who could not fight wasn’t useful to the legion.

  “You’ve been doing duty for several years,” Volkert said. “Sedacius has announced that all seriously wounded, who cannot return to Noricum to the fortress, will be given an honorable dismissal, as well as the promised land and gratuity.”

  Bertius shook his head. “What shall I do with land? I’m not a farmer. I cannot work any land.”

  So no difference to his life before, Volkert thought to himself. It was only that Bertius now had a better and, unfortunately, a permanent excuse.

  “I’ve grown up in the legion,” the man added. “I don’t know anything else to do.”