The door creaked shut.
The men drew him up the narrow staircase, at the end of which lay a house occupied by legionaries.
Everywhere triumphant faces. Merry shouting arose when they saw the fat prey. No one beat Rheinberg, but there were some rough clappers on the back, as if one would advertise a particularly good horse in the market. Laughter broke out.
Rheinberg had no choice but to pray.
12
The weather was wet and cold. Thomas Volkert leaned over his bare feet. Beside him stood a wooden bucket of hot water, freshly cooked. With embarrassing care, the Centurion, sitting on a hollow stump in front of the tent, began to cleanse his feet. Like most Roman soldiers, Volkert also wore boots in the winter instead of the usual high-heeled sandals. It was just too cold for everything else. The heavily nailed boots were warm and enclosed the foot and the lower leg, as Centurion Volkert had also earned the right and the pay to have the boots made to measure. However, the wet and cold weather and the heavy use led to some dangers, not least to fungal diseases and other skin damage. Most of his comrades didn’t seem to care that much, but at least in his unit, Volkert had painstakingly begun to make sure that the men washed their feet regularly with hot water, dried them very thoroughly, and wore no damp boots. Some of the men put leather stockings in their boots, others wrapped their feet in thin cloths, and if either was the case, they also had to clean the stockings thoroughly and dry them before putting them on again. And to set a good example, Volkert celebrated foot care in public.
Volkert was so engrossed in this blessing activity that he first realized how someone sat with him when he had already settled down. It was, as might be expected, his friend Secundus, with whom he not only shared the tent, but also the promotions of recent times. However, while Secundus didn’t tend to worry too much about the potential fatalities of their fate, Volkert had lapsed into deep pondering lately. He probably saw all this from a different perspective, especially one that didn’t make him accept the vicissitudes of his military career quite as easily as Secundus did. He was primarily interested in gambling, easy girls, wine, and other very immediate amusements.
The advantage of Secundus was, however, that he was extremely well-informed, having a good network of friends, creditors and debtors. He used this last but not least to serve the, in his view, pre-determined career of his good old friend Thomasius. Not unselfishly, as it was understood – Volkert’s career, so Secundus calculated, would also do his own good. His promotion to Centurion was actually the best proof.
Volkert sometimes wondered if there was even one person not interested in personal gain in the whole of the Roman Empire. He wasn’t sure he would ever know the answer to that question.
“Washing your feet?”
Secundus began the conversation in the most meaningless way, and Volkert found himself nodding as meaninglessly as if the obvious needed confirmation. “What about you?”
Secundus grinned and shook his head. “Yesterday I tasted this time-wanderer’s brandy for the first time. I think it cleaned me up quite well, especially from the inside.”
Volkert grinned back. Secundus had no real knowledge of the disinfecting effects of alcohol, so he did not even suspect how close to the truth he was. In the army of Theodosius, a large part of the infantrymen of von Geeren marched, and the paramedics in the company used the time to teach a number of inquisitive Romans, field medics and normal soldiers alike, to be a paramedic. At least through this the salutary effect of the alcohol was explained, at least in its external application. By this, too, the burning spirit had come into the army camp, a curse more than a blessing, and the Emperor had put strict regulations in place to prevent the most bored soldiers in their cold tents to regularly become royally pissed.
Volkert had full sympathy for that. Alcohol was strictly rationed in his unit. And there was a lot of occupational therapy for the bored men. No unit has been volunteered more frequently for guard and patrol duty, latrine work, and palisade recovery than his. The men grumbled and cursed at the overzealous and servile Centurion, who was obviously trying to lug up, but that didn’t bother Volkert. He knew what he was doing – his men had hardly any fights, no drunks, the equipment was excellently repaired, and the men fell tiredly on their blankets, if they didn’t have night-duty, without any other thought to waste on how to stir up trouble. And that was exactly what Volkert wanted to achieve. He was also certain that in case of a real alarm his soldiers would be fully operational in no time. Something like that extended their life expectancy enormously.
But, of course, they moaned and grumbled as this was what their centuries-old custom that wouldn’t be any different in hundreds of years from now.
“You heard something new?” Volkert asked.
Secundus nodded. “Scouting reports. Andragathius wants to put on pressure. He left with a big army, despite the bad weather, departing from Rome. Full winter equipment.”
“Cannons?”
Secundus shrugged. “I don’t know. The rumor is that ships from Britain are said to have landed new pieces, but I don’t give much to that. The weather is bad, the sea is rough; I wouldn’t want to see the galley venturing onto the water at this time. I don’t expect it.”
“That gives us a small advantage.”
“But only a small one. The time-wanderers have again pointed out that they have little ammunition left.”
“And Maximus’ men were trained to take cover and continue attacking under fire,” Volkert added bitterly. They had had the experience during their first battle against Maximus. There had been many deaths, but ultimately it had become clear that the military-tactical advantage the Germans once had began to melt away. It would actually reverse itself to the contrary if Maximus on the one hand could put more bronze cannons into the field and the men of von Geeren on the other were constricted to use their rifles only as a holder for the bayonets.
“How many soldiers does Andragathius lead?”
“We don’t know.”
“What does Theodosius say?”
“He’s already sitting with the staff and deliberating. But I think we’ll break camp soon and start marching. I don’t believe in an open battle at this time. We keep running.”
Volkert nodded and washed his toes with devotion. If it was true, what Secundus said, he would need resilient feet, and that in the very near future.
“We must not let ourselves be seduced like Spartacus,” the German muttered. “The farther we go south, the fewer options we have. We don’t have ships to go to Sicily.”
Volkert suddenly closed his eyes.
“What is it?” Secundus asked.
“On the other hand, it would be a damned good idea to escape to North Africa despite the bad weather,” Volkert said. “If we control the breadbasket of the Empire, we’ll put the knife to Maximus’s throat and be maneuverable.”
“The weather is getting better. Spring is breaking. By the time we’re ready, crossing is easy,” Secundus said, brushing Volkert’s objection aside. He frowned, nodding more to himself than to his comrade, then asked, “Where do you want to take the ships from?”
“Requisition and building,” Volkert replied. “We don’t build classic galleys, that would be suicide. We build sailing ships, small, and many. Per ship maybe 50 men, with a deep keel, high side wall. They have only to survive one crossing. We confiscate every available vessel, from the smallest fishing boat. The vast majority of ships are in possession of the state anyway. We hog them for our purposes, albeit temporarily. Grain-transports for example. We’ll find something. It won’t always be cozy, but that’s not the top priority.”
Secundus looked at him a little strangely. It seemed to him that his friend’s vision was a bit far-fetched, but he now knew well enough that Volkert was good for interesting ideas. He was also pleased to be infected by the friend’s passionate plea, as an enterprising grin covered his face.
“You should talk to Sedacius,” Secundus suggested.
Volkert s
colded himself a fool. He should have shut up. Secundus had the unpleasant habit of always wanting to put spontaneous ideas into action. Volkert was safer if he served the results of his imagination in small portions, carefully weighed, rather too little than too much. Volkert frowned. He should really know that by now. He made this mistake again and again. He was a fool. A fool. “I don’t want to be in the foreground.”
“Despite the fact that you don’t want that, you have been quite successful so far.”
Volkert paused, staring at Secundus. Then he nodded carefully. “I cannot contradict you. But I don’t have to do it by force.”
“It’s an idea that gives us the initiative and could save our ass,” Secundus said lightly. “Your ass. But especially mine. I like my ass. Talk to Sedacius.”
Volkert sighed. This man was a plague. He was silent.
Secundus stared at him for a while, then shook his head and stood up. “Are you talking to Sedacius?”
“He probably got the idea himself.”
“Are you talking to him?”
“I don’t think Theodosius would join in there. It looks like an escape.”
Secundus sighed. “It is an escape, idiot. Andragathius’s advance as a massive attack wasn’t included in our plan. We need a better battlefield. And we need allies.”
“Rheinberg expects us to hold the West, so he can attack from the East.”
“We can cross the sea again when the time comes. We can beat Maximus together in Africa if he should follow us. You called that a ’war of movement,’ Thomasius, didn’t you? So we should move.”
Volkert was silent.
“Are you talking to Sedacius?”
“Leave me alone!”
“All right.”
Secundus turned away, hesitated for a moment, then marched toward the large tent where the Tribune was working with his staff.
Volkert looked after him. There was disaster on the horizon, he was sure of that. He was tired of all this. He looked at his toes, pale, cold, wet. He didn’t feel like it anymore. Time to wear boots.
13
Obviously the Goths had settled down.
Godegisel wandered around the village, looking at the newly constructed buildings, most of them no more than huts. The path through the settlement was long and more of a trail than a road. Although it was relatively cool, winter in Greece was rightly considered mild. Some residents looked questioningly at him, as he walked down the street, the horse in the rein, and one or the other might recognize him if he looked closely. Godegisel, well-known among his people, had enjoyed the judge’s favor quite early, the whole, long way from their ancestral home to the Battle of Thessaloniki. It was quite possible, indeed probable, that one or another nobleman of his people had taken up residence here. He just had to look for the biggest house. Sure, they were all no more or less Roman citizens now, and the Gothic leaders no longer had political functions. But it was very unrealistic to assume that beloved traditions would dissolve so quickly, especially as the fundamental distrust of the Romans was still considerable despite the contract the two people had concluded.
And that’s why Godegisel was there too. He hadn’t chosen this village by accident. According to his information, a man named Engus was sitting here in the most handsome estate in the settlement. He was not just any Gothic nobleman but the man who could have become the new Judge of the Goths if his people would still enjoy right to their own leadership. Fritigern and Alaric were both old, and their influence had dwindled with the conclusion of the contract. Not only was Engus younger, he had also learned the Latin and Greek languages, as disciples of an Arian wandering preacher who had once been received by his father. Engus was considered a man of the future who was able to balance both Gothic traditions and the necessities of life in the Empire. Nobody called him the Judge – there was no current judge because the tenure of the last titleholder had expired without replacement –, but many thought he was the one to speak for the people. Engus did the same, met regularly with Roman notables, with members of the military administration, traveled to not-so-distant Thessaloniki to consult with the provincial prefect. Mostly, it was just everyday problems, but every Roman of rank knew who to turn to when it came to the really important things.
That’s why Godegisel was here. Because of the really important things.
He looked at the sky. Spring was noticeable by a fine smell. It was still cool, but it got better. For a moment, he lost himself in thinking of building a house in this peaceful settlement, of farming a piece of land, of bringing a daughter from Gaul, smeared with coal, and leaving all his duties behind. A beautiful thought, a pleasant fantasy that caused some melancholy in him. He took a deep breath. To postpone was not to end. When all this was over … Yes. Later.
He looked up.
Finally, he stood in front of the house.
“Act on your own initiative,” Rheinberg had told him in parting. “I cannot foresee what you will be confronted with.”
The young Goth couldn’t do that either. He was rather confused. His assignment was vague. He had to talk to someone who was not officially there, who didn’t hold any office, a cause for which there was no precedent, a request that was as abstract as it was concrete, just as dangerous as it was attractive, a mingling with which he barely could get right. So why had he agreed? Godegisel was not sure. He might just as easily have disappeared, but he felt that what he was doing now had meaning. Even if he wasn’t completely clear about it.
In front of the house, which was certainly the largest in the village, but far from impressive for itself, two young men loitered around, playing with stones, giving him a brief, casual glance. Godegisel was not fooled. These were no good-for-nots who were chasing time; they were men of Engus’ entourage who would intervene if their master was in danger or the door guard would call them. The two long daggers they carried were hidden under wide jackets, and they looked run-down enough to be underestimated by the occasional visitor.
Godegisel smiled. Not dumb.
He tied his horse to a post. Then he knocked on the heavy wooden door. It immediately opened a crack. Of course, his arrival had been watched.
“Yes?”
“I wish to speak to Engus. My name is Godegisel.”
“The Godegisel?”
The Goth raised his eyebrows. He suspected that the question was made in earnest. He took out the seal of Fritigern, which he had received as a personal emissary of the Judge some time ago and had never returned. Now it helped him to legitimize himself to his peers.
“Here.”
The door opened a little further, and a squat guard stepped out, longsword close by at his side.
“That’ll do. Give me your sword.”
Obediently, Godegisel dropped the weapon. The guard grunted in agreement and cleared the way.
The living room that adjoined the door was neatly furnished but ultimately simple. The most precious piece of furniture was the small house altar that Engus had built next to the fireplace.
Engus himself was not half as impressive as his guard. As he rose from a stool to greet the visitor, he reached Godegisel up to his nose. He seemed to be broader without appearing fat. He moved with youthful vigor, deliberately as if weighing every gesture carefully before executing it. Godegisel had heard of Engus, but had never met him in personal conversation. He knew that he was not five years older than himself.
“Godegisel, yes? We haven’t heard from you for a long time.”
“I’ve been traveling.”
“You have to tell me about that. Fritigern sends you?” Engus gave Godegisel a stool. “You are hungry.”
“Thirsty, thank you.”
Engus waved to a young woman waiting in the corner. She brought Roman wine.
Godegisel drank, then put the cup down and turned to his host. “Fritigern doesn’t send me. He doesn’t know that I’m here.”
Engus just nodded. “Speak.”
Godegisel fished out a document from his po
cket. The fact that Engus was able to read and write turned out to be a great advantage. The letter, sealed by the Magister Militium of the Roman Empire, was all the more impressive, if one could actually read it.
Engus picked it up and read it in concentration. It legitimized Godegisel as an emissary of Rheinberg, as his mouthpiece, as a man of imperial authority, whatever that might mean in these times.
Engus dropped the letter. His eyes showed respect and wonder.
“You have come a long way, Godegisel.”
“It’s less my fault. God has led me on this path.”
“Even on the way to my house?”
“I want to believe that. At any rate, I don’t feel like I’m free to decide much about my life currently.”
Engus grinned. “I’ve known that feeling since I got married.”
Godegisel grinned back. “I hear you’re still a man of influence, Engus.”
“I heard that, too. People talk a lot.”
“The German captain told me to find someone like you.”
“He knows my name?”
“No, but I know him. And what people are talking.”
Engus laughed. “Then we have a wonderful basis for our conversation.”
Godegisel put the paper back and got serious.
“I come with a request.”
“A request from the Magister Militium?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Engus sighed and got up. He walked to the window and looked out at the dusty street before answering. “It’s hard for me to even listen to it. You know that there is currently no other leader of the Goths than the Emperor of Rome. He can give us orders.”
Godegisel snorted derogatory. “You know that’s not true. In thirty or forty years maybe, but not right now. And – which emperor should give you orders, Engus?”
The unofficial leader smiled at Godegisel. “Yes, that’s the question, is it not, my friend?”
Godegisel bowed his head. Engus was rightly a respected man. He didn’t just use his head to put food inside. “What’s the mood of the people?” he asked.
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