But this was Valens, the emperor of the East, brother of Valentinian. And he was Richomer, an officer of Gratian, and he knew when to stop provoking an emperor.
He bowed. Richomer had been given command of the advance guard by Gratian and he was a capable Comes, and could allow himself to talk more frankly to Valens than his own generals, because he owed obedience and service foremost to Gratian. But even for him at some point a certain limit was reached, and Valens had executed quite a few critical spirits in his ever-increasing irrationality, not least with the all too quickly expressed allegation of a conspiracy.
Valens waved.
“You will serve me, Richomer, and ask Sebastianus where your place in battle should be!”
Richomer could only obey. Eventually he was allowed to leave the tent and entered the August summer heat, shading his eyes with one hand. Before him lay the entrenched camp of the Eastern troops, all veterans and professionals. The Western Roman officer had no doubt about that. But there were too few of them. And aside from the critical parts of the officer corps, most of the soldiers who had gathered here were at least as convinced about their invincibility as their emperor. A dangerous hubris, as Richomer thought.
From the shadow of the neighboring tent approached another officer. Richomer recognized the older man immediately; it was Victor, the Magister Equitum of the East, and thus the second-highest military commander behind Sebastianus. An experienced general who had served three emperors, he had been an ally of those trying to convince the sovereign not to initiate any battle too hasty. A look at Richomer’s face told him everything he needed to know.
“You have tried and failed,” Victor whispered to him out of earshot of the guards and after they had gone a few steps together.
Richomer sighed. “He is quite insane, more or less. To me, he seems torn between his desire for fame and the envy of Gratian’s victories on the one hand and the rationality of the experienced general he basically is, on the other.”
“The one he once was,” Victor corrected with a worried expression. “Since the death of his brother, he listens only to Modestus, and if he even makes his own decision, then more often than not a stupid one.” Modestus was the pretorian prefect and member of the Consistory of the East. He wasn’t incompetent, and quite a deliberate politician but hadn’t understood that one couldn’t leave Valens alone on his campaigns. If Modestus would be present, there would still be a chance to achieve something, Richomer was sure of it. But the prefect was in Constantinople, and Sebastianus, drunken with victory, wanted the glory of a quick and decisive victory as badly as Valens. And, here, beyond the moderating influence of the Consistory, Valens was also completely addicted to the oracle interpreters and astrologers that made him even more crazy with all sorts of insinuations. They swarmed around him with their runes and drawings, and Valens heard their counsel more than that of his experienced officers.
“We must make the best of it,” Victor finally sighed. “I’m very scared about the emperor himself. Stay close with your men; I want to make sure that we are not separated in battle. Sebastianus isn’t a bad general, but he underestimates the value of the cavalry – both for attack and for retreat. You have cavalry along with your troops?”
“Moorish and Aleman cavalrymen,” confirmed Richomer. “Fast as the wind, that’s why we were the advance guard. Gratian’s troops must already be on the way. If we were to wait only a few weeks …”
Flavius Victor snorted. “Forget it. Stay close to me. Maybe we can turn the situation!” Victor’s confidence sounded forced, but Richomer didn’t contradict him. It was better than nothing.
At the other end of the camp, Sebastianus inspected his troops. One could hear his jokes and laughter. Sebastian had a contagiously friendly way with the soldiers, which made it very difficult to disagree with him. He was among the ordinary legionaries as popular as with the auxiliary troops and the officers, and he made sure that the wages were paid regularly and everyone got his rations. Richomer would serve with pleasure under his command, if not for this nagging doubt that made him anything but enthusiastic. Regardless of how much Gratian would order forced marches – and whether he had the Alemanni under control Richomer didn’t know either – it would still take many days for the two field armies to coordinate, to take common action against the Goths.
“Not that there would be no more major problems even if we are victorious,” the Western Roman growled.
Victor nodded. “I know what you mean, my friend. There is a reason behind the fact that the Goths came to us and asked for settlement areas.”
Both looked at each with other meaningful glances. When the Goths had fled to the borders of the empire, it hadn’t looked like a military invasion at all. They had started negotiations, asking for settlement, and they promised to serve the Empire. For Rome, there were only advantages: There was plenty of land that was significantly under-populated, and the shortage of capable men for the armed forces had become dire to the point that any slave who reported a deserter gained his immediate freedom. Every son of a soldier was legally obligated to join the army and had no other choice. The Empire was attacked from many sides … Alemans, Goths, the Persian Empire gaining strength … too many holes, with only a limited amount of flexible troops who were not put into the frontier garrisons. Had the officers in charge of the Goths not been incompetent managers and had they not totally botched their crossing of the Danube and the care of the refugees, Richomer wouldn’t be here, and there would be no need to discuss gloomy forecasts with Victor.
“The Goths themselves report terrible things about what is taking place to the east,” said Victor now. “I don’t know what of it is truth or rumor, but if hordes fell upon them, they must have been huge.”
“True enough to move an entire people to flee,” Richomer commented dryly. They had reached the tents where the officers slept. “I fear the battle against the Goths is only the beginning. And that’s one more reason not to risk our own forces in a futile search for quick fame, but rather fight well planned and on the basis of a realistic assessment.”
“I won’t contradict you.”
Victor held out his hand. “I have to go to my men. See you, my friend.”
Richomer looked after him. The feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed him he wasn’t used to. He shaded his eyes and looked into the summer sky.
None of this wouldn’t go well, of that he was quite sure.
13
“Sit down, Aurelius!”
Navarch Renna pointed to a stool then looked at the large wall map showing the Roman Empire in its current borders – or at least the borders everyone assumed to be valid at that point of time. One could never really be sure.
Africanus accepted the invitation and sat down. On a small table stood a carafe of wine and a bowl of fruit. The trierarch ignored both.
“Tell me, Aurelius,” Renna said. “Have we a serious threat to our security in our harbor? The bishop said yesterday behind closed doors that the ship was the work of demons and one should consider an exorcism.”
“The bishop himself talks like a demon,” said Aurelius. “The foreigners are strange, I admit. They are powerful, and they are surely are a threat to our security, because if we do offend them, they alone can put Ravenna in ruins with the power of their weapons. But they are alone, that I understand clearly, looking for a home, just like the Goths in the East. They are no demons. All are Christians, as I was able to learn myself. They had a church service in their strange tongue, but the meaning wasn’t to be denied. Demons are not like that, Navarch. I would say … they are an opportunity.”
Renna looked his subordinates directly in the face. “An opportunity for what?”
Aurelius seemed to hesitate. Renna waited a moment, then sighed. He stood next to the captain, put a hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him. “Speak to me openly, trierarch. Whatever you have to say, it will not leave these four walls. We’ve so far dealt openly with each other. You are one of m
y best men, with a clear view of the reality of a situation. If I wouldn’t listen to you, let you tell me what you want, to whom should I listen instead?”
Aurelius pulled himself together. “We are facing major problems. The tax burden sucks the last bit of blood out of the people. Only the super-rich are spared due to political reasons. My sons are not free, and even as Roman citizens, they need to become soldiers like me without anyone asking them for their preference. The coins that are given to us as pay are becoming worthless; silver is not silver anymore, and gold is not gold. Each year, new barbarians push against the border, and every year we lose more legionaries who we cannot replace. The senators and landowners cram their pockets while the once free peasants become tenants of the affluent. Corruption is everywhere. Those who can afford it buy themselves free of all obligations. The Church, God be merciful to me, is exempt from all taxes and sows unrest throughout the Empire by its constant internal struggles. I don’t know how long it will take, and I don’t know what will be the final straw, but I’m no fool. My father sent me to school, and although I knew I was going to the navy, I studied hard. And I suspect that sooner or later the Empire is doomed unless something happens. The army cannot forever hold the pieces together. Something has to change.”
Renna snorted. “Diocletian said that. He has adopted the relevant laws.”
“He has also divided the empire into four parts and begotten incompetent sons,” Aurelius replied fearlessly. “If we want to endure, we must find new ways. We need more power where our number dwindles. I have seen what these strangers are capable of. By God, I don’t care where they come from. They have sunk my ship! Friends of mine died in the sea! But if we can just win them for us, if the Lord Emperor recognizes the opportunities that they bring – then I want to forget it and forgive them.”
Renna nodded in a measured way. He let go of Africanus and walked for a few minutes thoughtfully through the room. Then he stopped in front of the large wall map and looked at it as if the studies would give him new insights. Finally, he turned back to the trierarch, which had waited patiently. One didn’t push a man like Renna.
“I’ve had similar thoughts,” the navarch said softly. “But you see the danger. What the bishop whispers silently to me could go through the priests like wildfire. You know how they are. When their zeal is roused, they burn everything down, start to destroy and kill in the name of God, and are willing to sacrifice their own lives, regardless of their faith. Still they wait for the emperor to finally prohibit the ancient religions, so they can tear down the temples and kill or drive out the priests.”
Aurelius said nothing. He was a Christian, an Arian, something one didn’t say too loudly here in the West. Renna was known to be a follower of Mithras, as there were still many in the armed forces, whether openly or concealed. Religion was an issue that bothered both of them repeatedly, and both distrusted the church authorities in the West, although for different reasons. Both were well aware of the danger of religious conflict.
“I think that we need to avoid one thing: that the foreigners are mad demons,” Renna said. “If the people are incited by the zealots, I can post my whole port watch in front of the pier, and it wouldn’t suffice.”
The trierarch nodded.
“How do we want to prevent that?” he asked.
Aurelius felt that Renna connected similar hopes with the appearance of the strange ship like he himself. Maybe the tour through the iron vessel that Trierarch Rheinberg had given him yesterday helped him to recognize the potential of the visitor. Whatever the reason, the navarch had realized that they had to keep control of the situation, no matter what. And if they succeeded, they might succeed also to seize the opportunities of this strange coincidence.
“I sent messengers. Gratian marches to the east, and I don’t think he will turn to Ravenna just because of this ship. I have sent a message to the prefect of Rome. And I have sent an invitation to a few selected senators.”
Aurelius nodded. He had always known that Renna was an active man, and this only confirmed the impression.
“May I assume to whom, navarch? Moderate senators of high reputation and personal integrity? Christians as well as others? Men who are respected by all, and who even the biggest fanatics couldn’t simply discard as heretics? Men who enjoy the confidence of the Emperor?”
Renna smiled thinly. “You should be a senator. Or, better yet, see that you’re promoted to navarch soon. Diocletian may have separated civil administration and the military, but believe me, without a hand in politics you won’t go far as a high-ranking officer. You seem to have a talent.”
“I learn from a great master,” said Aurelius, and lowered his head submissively.
“The art of fake submission you have mastered as well!” Renna laughed. “Well, listen up: You’re right in everything. Once I have an equal number of curious and bored dignitaries in the city, I will meet with the senate of Ravenna to organize a treat in the villa of Urianus. Which is a great and pleasant place and his cooks are the best. We will invite them all – including a delegation of the strange foreigners. They should learn to know them, chat with them, share in the wine, watch the dancers – and note that the visitors are a little strange but in the end terribly normal men, whom nobody has to fear. The news will spread quickly and stab our suspicious zealots in the back. What do you think?”
“That sounds sensible. I’m with you! But I have to add: Whether that will really cause an urge for peace and understanding among the fanatics, I sincerely doubt.”
“You’re even invited. Contribute! The trierarch whose ship was destroyed by the strangers getting pissed with them. A convincing performance.”
“Then I thank you for the great honor! Yes, I will come and drink a toast to my dead comrades. Or two.”
Renna grabbed Aurelius at his shoulders. “I understand your bitterness, Africanus. But nothing will bring those men back to life. I’m more interested in preventing further unnecessary deaths. Head back to the ship of the strangers and prepare them for their own invitation. I’ll have to send dress makers, so they get all the appropriate clothing. They shouldn’t only act as normal men, they should also look like them. Make sure it works. We might have a chance to fulfill your dreams of a different Rome, my friend.”
14
It was cold and rainy despite being summer. There were various reasons why Magnus Maximus, Comes Britanniarum, more than just hated the territory over which he ruled. He stood on the parapet of the fortified garrison and stared through the haze to Hadrian’s Wall, whose imposing line was almost in sight. For three weeks now the British military commander rode from one frontier fortress to the next, met his officers, praised the men, visited the families. He had himself invited to dinner and brought fresh wine. He carried mail from Rome as far as it had arrived in London, he gave comfort to the injured and listened to the heroic stories of veterans at the campfire. Three weeks and another two months still lied ahead of him, because his goal was to visit every garrison personally, no matter how remote and small, in order to increase the morale of his men.
As much as he appreciated the respect of his soldiers and did everything to expand their loyalty, as much he hated Britain, why this island had once been conquered – or at least the southern part – no one knew for sure anymore. The times of Roman expansion were over since the great Traianus, already more than 200 years ago. Britain had never had anything that was necessary or helpful for the Empire. There were few natural resources, but there were many highly recalcitrant barbarians who showed little willingness to make friends with Roman civilization and way of life. The climate was harsh and wet and uncomfortable in every way. Hadrian’s Wall was built in order to pour the surrender of the Empire before the hordes of the North in stone and wood, and since then the Roman troops did nothing more than to defend themselves against the barbarians’ growing pressure. There was nothing of value for Rome but the prestige, and besides what the long Roman conquest finally had been able to esta
blish, especially the provincial capital itself, that definitely was the only place on this inhospitable island which represented a hint of what Maximus and his men understood as Roman civilization.
Britain was a depressing place, and the men who served there tended to express this frustration. Desertions had increased before the arrival of Maximus, and morale was down. He had been appointed Comes by Valentinian in order to keep Britain for the Empire, and the situation since had improved recognizably. Maximus cherished his men, showed personal courage in numerous skirmishes with barbarian hordes and dispensed generous commendations and promotions. He was popular with his legions, for he had brought them hope in a dreary and gloomy situation.
The fine drizzle that had prevailed all morning was intense. Maximus pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders and turned when he heard someone joining him on the balustrade. He knew the steps of his closest confidant, and he could distinguish them from those of thousand others. General Andragathius, Master Equitum, one of his highest officers, preferred to fight from horseback since an injury damaged his right leg slightly but permanently. The elderly man, whose gray beard was already well moisturized, joined his leader and looked like him toward the remote, dark stripes of the wall.
“It’s all quiet, Comes,” he said in a deep voice. “Since the last attack the barbarians have probably had enough. We have concluded agreements with some chiefs, and it looks like they want to keep this at least for a while.”
“We still need a few years,” Maximus reminded him and turned to his companion. “The preparations are not yet complete. And I will give Gratian the chance to redeem his mistake.”
Andragathius let out a snort. “The Emperor leaves the men in the mold. Since Valentinian has secured the border, I haven’t noticed any significant imperial attention anymore. Gratian cares about the heartland and has long forgotten Britain – and those who defend it.”
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