The Emperor's Men 3: Passage

by Dirk van den Boom

  “There are enough people who still think so,” the officer reminded him.

  “Yes, and I’m also not immune. I shall now accept an Arian as an equal Christian, and the dispute about the true nature of Trinity should be left to the scholars? The followers of the ancient Roman cults are to live in peace? The latter I can understand in a way, out of respect for the traditions the Empire and our ancestors. But I wasn’t educated in tolerance, Tribune. It is difficult for me to jump over my own shadow sometimes.”

  “And yet you have obviously done so,” von Geeren answered smiling. “You even warn us of Ambrosius, who in another course of history alloted you the title ‘the Great’.”

  The Spaniard snorted. “The Great!” he said snidely. “And yet that great one shambled and handed the realm into the hands of an incompetent son, who only accelerated the decline.” Theodosius sighed and looked at his reflection in the wine. “I’m glad that you time travelers have come,” he admitted quietly. “You have at least opened my eyes. I’ll do everything to avert the disaster. My father would’ve done it as well.” He nodded to himself, as if to affirm the last sentence, took the last sip of wine, laid his hand shortly on von Geeren’s shoulder and left the room without another word.

  The infantryman remained for a moment and stared into the crackling flames of the fire. He came to the conclusion that today’s meeting did actually go quite well.

  5

  Johann Freiherr von Klasewitz shivered a bit. Although a fire flickered in the room’s fireplace, he pulled the coat, in which he had totally wrapped up, even closer to his body. He tried not to appear too annoyed; he knew like all the other attendees that this place was not particularly comfortable but possessed other attributes that made it appear very suitable for this meeting.

  It was outside of the big cities. It was far from one of the garrisons. It had been prepared just for this get together. Von Klasewitz had been told that this property previously had been a ruinous heap of stone and wood. In his eyes, the state was now not much better, even though a squad of twenty silent legionaries had worked one week to prepare at least the main building. Through the walls, the icy winds of a Gallic winter blew. The roof was leaking, which meant that the snow lying thereon began to melt by the heat of the fire and dripped into the interior of the building, which in turn resulted in a humid warmth that made clothes damp. And once a breeze drove through leaky joints and cracks of the holey wall, the moisture of the clothes produced such a pervasive feeling of coldness that the nobleman didn’t want to leave his place right in front of the fireplace.

  He stood at the head of a rough-hewn table. Placed on it, one of the new properly scaled maps of the Roman Empire had been spread, which had been distributed to all garrisons, a visible expression of the influence Rheinberg was now exercised over the Emperor. Von Klasewitz forced himself not to think too long about his former commander. Every time he imagined Rheinberg’s face, a mixture of unbridled anger and frustration seized him. Without any possibility to vent these feelings at some scapegoat, he had to control himself. Everyone present was a senior figure, which impressed the need to behave reasonably. This was extremely difficult for him. He gritted his teeth and forced Rheinberg out of his consciousness, knowing that the ensuing discussion would inevitably lead his thoughts yet again to deal with his nemesis.

  No, he corrected himself. Who would be whose nemesis was to be seen. Though the nobleman was currently no more than a failed mutineer, he was working on a career as a conspirator and should everything go smoothly an adviser of the coming emperor, whose name should be Magnus Maximus, currently Comes Britanniarum. In von Klasewitz’s own time, Magnus Maximus had been, for a while, Emperor of the West, after Gratian was sneakily assassinated, before he had been finally defeated by Theodosius the Great. After that, and for the last time in Roman history, the power of the Empire had been concentrated in the hands of one man. The influence of the Germans had meant that things went now differently – Gratian was the one and only emperor now. And Magnus Maximus was still as frustrated as and still has convinced of his cause as before.

  The Comes was a tall man with a weathered face and a determined look, an unmistakable charisma that had helped him along the way, as he took care of his troops in a way that instilled great loyalty among the legionaries. Since Gratian’s original sin had been, among other things, to no longer take care of the regular units of the legion, this was a great initial advantage for the Comes, because in these times the legions made the emperor – not the people, not the Senate, not the church.

  Von Klasewitz’ eyes fell on the oblique face of a man who sought to change this. He still saw in Ambrosius of Milan someone to worship. For the nobleman, the bishop was one the saints and one of the Fathers of the Church, an almost mythical, ethereal figure. That the actual Ambrosius, with whom he had to deal with currently, was actually aside from being a highly educated scholar primarily a shrewd and tricky politician, seeped slowly into his awareness. The Bishop of Milan, dressed in simple cloth, seemed not to worry about the cold gusts of wind or the dripping ceiling. Instead, he stared at the map with approximately the same hunger in his eyes as Maximus. Both had the same goal, which bound them, and their ambition was similar in many ways.

  That von Klasewitz was for them no more than an instrument, the nobleman wouldn’t and couldn’t see. Since he had cut all ties with his past on the Saarbrücken, the former first officer had nothing left than his illusions and self-deceptions. Ensign Tennberg he had sent away on behalf of the conspirators. It was better when the impressionable young man didn’t know too much.

  What von Klasewitz didn’t admit was the fact that without these illusions, which he nurtured for himself, his essence would melt like the snow on the roof of this little renovated homestead, some fifty kilometers north of Lyon.

  In another timeline, which would probably never become a reality through the intervention of the Germans, Lyon was the city where Gratian would be betrayed and killed.

  Nevertheless, it was one of the objectives of the gathered men to restore this historical detail in some way.

  “Do we expect someone else?” Ambrosius asked.

  A tribune, who had come with Maximus, nodded. “The envoy of the Alans,” Maximus added,

  “A barbarian?” Ambrosius asked and grimaced.

  “We need the Alans if we are to succeed,” the Comes insisted. “My legions are not sufficient. It also will help us to attract more Germans to our cause. We need all the support we can get, especially now that the rules of the game have changed.”

  He threw a significant look at von Klasewitz, who bowed his head. It was not least his job to regain a certain equality of arms – and quite literally so.

  “Besides, noble Bishop, don’t worry that a lousy barbarian with dirty breath and bad manners appears here. The Alans have long enough been allies of the Empire in order to enjoy certain advantages of our civilization. Why do you think the Alans are so eager to put their horse archers at the disposal of our beloved Emperor? It’s the gold, yes, but it is also the Roman way of life. And many Alans have received high honors. They can hardly be distinguished from a real Roman.” Maximus made a snorting noise. “Whatever a real Roman is today.”

  This time he avoided looking directly at von Klasewitz as his stance might have been too obvious if he had been staring at him. Before anyone could say anything, the door opened and flurries swirled into the room and immediately fell to the ground to form a puddle. In the doorway stood a wide-built man of imposing stature.

  “Damn it, shut the door!” Maximus commanded and the man entered completely. He wore a long beard, the ends of which were intertwined. His hair, however, was neatly trimmed and cut in Roman style. When he took his coat jacket off, the attire of a typical Roman merchant came to light, and despite the snow it was evident that the man strived to maintain a neat appearance. He looked around, put the jacket to the others on a be
nch and stepped closer to the fire. Von Klasewitz looked him in his eyes. They were the clearest blue he had ever seen, like a mountain lake.

  “That’s Fabius Lecrinus, our liaison to the Alan princes,” Maximus introduced him. “He doesn’t only speak perfect Latin and Greek, he has also worked in the prefecture of Gaul for a long time and held a respected position there.”

  “Why did he abandon it to join our cause?” Ambrose asked.

  “Did he?” Maximus asked and nodded toward Fabius who smiled at him knowingly.

  “I’m still working in the Imperial administration, and my services are greatly appreciated in Lyon,” Fabius said in a pleasant voice. “I’m not a freedom fighter. I just want more opportunities for my people in the Empire.”

  “Why then conspiring against Gratian?” the Bishop asked. “The Alans are held in high regard by him.”

  “Only those who are directly in his service and allowed to go hunting,” Fabius said and the contemptuous tone was unmistakable. “But I have broader goals. I received certain promises from Maximus. That is why I am here.”

  “You are authorized to make binding agreements?” von Klasewitz asked in order to finally add to the discussion. The appreciative nod of the Bishop told him that he had asked the right question.

  “To a certain extent, yes. Final decisions, of course, are only for the leaders I represent. That goes without saying, I guess.”

  “Then let us begin,” Maximus said. “Tribune von Klasewitz will report first. It is about our efforts to compensate for certain disadvantages in terms of our equipment.”

  Ambrose frowned. This was the difference between the Bishop and Maximus. While the Comes, the professional soldier, had accepted the technical innovations and wondrous weapons of the time-travelers eagerly and sought to get them in his hands, the Bishop was apparently still not sure exactly where the boundary between advanced craftsmanship and witchcraft was to be drawn. That he didn’t do more than just reacting with a sinister look, spoke for his realism.

  Von Klasewitz coughed.

  All the eyes were directed toward him.

  “I don’t have to tell you that our own efforts in regard to the production of modern weapons are endangered by unequal conditions in comparison to those of our opponents,” von Klasewitz said. “The Emperor has the ship with all the workshops and the entire crew, and he supports Rheinberg with all the resources available to him. We have now built a small base in Britain, not far from Londinium, and started with our work there. Maximus and I have therefore decided to focus our efforts on a single goal – the production of field artillery. Cannons. Once we have a functional artillery, we can compensate for many of the advantages of our opponents. The challenges are considerable, as you can imagine.”

  He looked around. No, most people here couldn’t imagine that. Even Maximus, who had his little weapons technology development center close by and followed the efforts made, didn’t understand most of it. The production of black powder especially presented a major problem. But von Klasewitz was well aware of the fact that the elaboration of technical details would bore nearly everyone here.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “I assume that a number of pieces will be available to us in the spring. It will be bronze cannons without rifled barrel, but it is the first step. I am already working intensively on a successor design with greater range and better accuracy. Perhaps we will hammer that out very quickly, but I don’t want to promise too much.”

  “What about the fire tubes for our legionaries?” Ambrosius asked.

  Von Klasewitz shook his head. “In the short term, impossible. As our informants tell us, even our enemies shy away from arming the legions of the Emperor accordingly. We call the first stage of these tubes muskets, and they are not worth too much militarily. But I want to arm the troops with something else. It bears the name grenade, and I aspire to a very simplified construction.”

  Also, von Klasewitz only added in his thoughts, for muskets he needed gunpowder – and in substantial quantities.

  “These grenades will help in the fight man against man?” the Alan asked.

  “Against riders as well as foot soldiers alike,” the nobleman replied. “Its only drawback is that each man will only be able to carry a limited number with him and that it can be dangerous if you don’t know how to properly handle the weapon. The men will need proper training.”

  “What about the Alan horsemen?” Fabius asked. “Will we receive any of the advanced weapons?”

  Von Klasewitz exchanged a quick glance with Maximus. Here the conversation left his jurisdiction. It was about politics, no longer about military strategy. Fabius noticed the silent exchange and looked invitingly at the commander. “An important question, which is linked ultimately to the number of these weapons we’ll be able to produce,” Von Klasewitz said. “I cannot assure it now. But there is certainly no fundamental reason to the contrary.”

  That was an outright lie, as von Klasewitz knew. Of course there were fundamental reasons not to give means of that power into the hands of barbarian tribes. Even among them, talented and studious craftsmen could be found, with a good grasp of the underlying principles of certain constructions. One couldn’t allow the Alans to hurl grenades against legions as the barbarians could very likely become an enemy thereafter. Maximus could, of course, not say so, but von Klasewitz wasn’t sure whether Fabius, educated man he undoubtedly was, couldn’t guess by himself. The facial expression of the Alan remained opaque. He decided to keep his thoughts to himself, however, and seemed to be ready to accept the reply, at least for now.

  “We need to cover some political options before we go into the details of the military planning which I must leave you to,” Ambrosius said in false modesty. The Bishop deceived no one with his presumed ignorance. He might not be a soldier, but also he wasn’t an unworldly clergyman. Yet he attracted full attention. Even Maximus seemed startled. Apparently the bishop had another surprise in store.

  There was a general and unspoken agreement that the goal of the whole conspiracy was to make Maximus the new emperor. It wasn’t yet clear whether he would operate as a pan-Roman Emperor or ultimately be limited to the West by the appointment of a new emperor in the East, but if he had Gratian overthrown, he would be the only man wearing the purple. Von Klasewitz had received assurances that Maximus would make him the captain of the Saarbrücken and an admiral of the fleet, as well as a senator. That was, as von Klasewitz surmised, not too bad. For a start.

  Ambrosius’ ambitions were actually crystal clear. He wanted to eradicate both the Arian heresy as well as the ancient Roman cults in order to raise the Trinitarian variant as the only recognized state church. In the timeline of which von Klasewitz came, he had succeeded in this, thanks mainly to slavishly acting emperors, first the young Gratian and afterwards Theodosius, although that one with a little less enthusiasm. But Gratian, it seemed, was now pursuing another church policy, inspired by Rheinberg liberal ideas, and Theodosius was not even Emperor and might never be. Just because Ambrosius knew what he had achieved in that other timeline, the intervention of the time-travelers must have hurt him particularly.

  The bishop with the oblique face – one eye was slightly higher than the other – rose and spread his arms. Von Klasewitz saw that one of the two priests who had accompanied him to the meeting left the room silently.

  “Of course, it is our common goal to overthrow Gratian and to make the noble Maximus emperor. Gratian’s unlimited power is currently based not only on the fact that the Germans support him, but also that since the battle of Adrianople he alone is the legitimate ruler of the Empire after the death of Valens – as long as he doesn’t appoint a successor to his deceased uncle.”

  “He won’t too soon,” Maximus said, narrowing suspicious eyes. “Even Theodosius turned to formally swear his loyalty.”

  “Yes,” Ambrosius said, nodding. “He won’t help us i
n this crisis. We may even need him to be eliminated if there is time, despite the fact that I despise the notion. But there another development has emerged.” The bishop paused for effect. “A few days ago, I received a visitor. A very strange visitor. He didn’t come directly to Milan; instead, I received a message that led me to a meeting place, not unlike our present whereabouts. There I was confronted by two men. I will show you.”

  As if on cue, the door opened again. Snow swirled in, and then two hooded men trudged into the room, followed closely by Ambrosius’ companion, who had led them here. Even with the hoods on, one of the men was obviously young, moved powerfully and confidently. The other seemed older, looked clumsy, and was held by the younger’s arm, as if he had problems with orientation.

  Then the younger one threw the hood backwards. A striking face, adorned with a beard, a penetrating look, which seemed to dissect all present. He didn’t say anything.

  “May I introduce you to the Gothic nobleman Godegisel?” Ambrosius intoned now almost solemnly. “It is one of those who fought in Thessaloniki, where he and his men opened the gates. He is a confidant of Judge Fritigern and in some ways his emissary.”

  “What do the Goths want?” Maximus asked, who clearly showed his suspicions now.

  “We bring a gift and demand nothing,” the young Goth replied in clearly accented Greek. He turned to his still masked companion and pulled the hood from his head.