The Emperor's Men_2_Betrayal

by Dirk van den Boom

  “Still red?” Rheinberg asked to be sure, although the fine column of smoke was clearly visible even with the naked eye.

  “Red, Captain!”

  “Fire. A volley.”

  “Fire a volley, yes!”

  Seconds later, the Saarbrücken shook. The harbor guards flinched, cowered in fear as fire came from the metal tubes and smoke and a deafening roar shot over the harbor basin. Glass splintered where the residents of the adjoining houses could afford it. Fearful cries accompanied the thunder, which so quickly faded as it had occurred.

  The effect, however, was almost immediate. Rheinberg had chosen explosive munitions that would detonate on impact. The five projectiles the Saarbrücken had fired barely needed a second to reach the western area of the city. They hadn’t practiced this, and misses were inevitable, no matter how careful the theoretical preparation had been.

  The burning gatehouse was hit by a 15 cm round and turned into an inferno, the bodies of Gothic cavalry, who had never even suspected what tore them into death, were thrown from their horses.

  A 15 cm shell hit an adjacent tavern, through which minutes before the Gothic spies had fled in the false security of the city itself, struck the multistory building, exploded with a mighty blast. Guests, host, barmaid, all were merged together with stones, wood and glass into an indefinable mass of blood, guts and building materials. They didn’t even have the opportunity to shout out their horror.

  Three 10.5 cm projectiles struck outside the city walls, one in the middle of the Gothic hordes, and tore large holes in the already panicking warriors. The new evil out of nowhere, so much more powerful than anything previously experienced, finally broke the invaders’ courage. The attack was over, as the Goths ran away.

  On the Saarbrücken , one saw nothing of all this. Langenhagen and Rheinberg eyed Becker’s position. Again smoke.

  “Blue, Captain!”

  “I confirm blue. Fire solution two, Langenhagen.”

  “Two it is, Captain.”

  The mouths of the naval guns were moving to a tiny degree angle upwards and purred a trifle to the left or right.

  “Guns aligned, Captain!”

  “Fire. A volley.”

  “A volley, yes!”

  Again the guns spoke, again they caused fear and terror. This time all five projectiles went down outside the city wall, and here misses meant nothing because there were enough targets. Five craters formed on the plane in front of the city, filled with dead bodies or injured, with broken and burnt bones, human and animal alike. Warriors were whirled through the air, the pressure wave of the explosion tore legs off, horses lost their balance. Shrapnel cut deep wounds in the mass of the attackers and caused terrible injuries, if they didn’t kill right away. Open, utter panic broke out, and the Goths were running as they could, not realizing that the range of the guns of the Saarbrücken could still reach kilometers if Rheinberg and Becker wanted it so.

  Rheinberg stared through his binoculars.

  “That’s white smoke, Langenhagen.”

  “I confirm white smoke, Captain!”

  “The guns back to rest. Unloading only on my command. The gunners remain on standby!”

  “Resting position and no unloading, readiness for the gunners, yes!”

  Rheinberg lowered the glass. He had done it. Becker was apparently satisfied with the result, otherwise he would not have given the signal for termination of the cannonade.

  Goths remained in the city, though. To shoot directly into Thessaloniki was no solution. Here the Saarbrücken could do very little.

  Now this was a problem that had to be solved by the Romans.

  “They know exactly what they do,” a breathless von Geeren came forth. “And our Roman friends – damn it!”

  Another group of Goths had come up the stairs. The few remaining legionaries threw themselves against the attackers, showing contempt of death. From below, the foot of the city walls, screams came up as legionaries tried to fight for access to Becker’s position. But the men around Fritigern, who had known exactly where they had to penetrate the defenses, had effectively entrenched themselves – in stark contrast to the Roman legionaries who had defended the access to this part of the city wall very sloppily.

  Becker raised his army pistol and choose his target. He cursed himself for not having thought of enough ammunition for himself and von Geeren, but who would have considered this seriously … he cursed himself again.

  A shot whipped and the ball struck directly into the chest of the Goth. The long-haired and bearded man fell down as if struck by lightning, but his comrades pressed on unswervingly. They hadn’t lost respect for the wonder weapons, but the superstitious fear receded remarkably quickly. They saw that the strangers in their unfamiliar uniforms looked and acted like ordinary people and made no mistake in assuming that a well-placed sword have the same effect as with a Roman legionary.

  “Caution!” Africanus shouted, as he stepped forward with his sword raised, distracting a wild attack of a raging Goth. The man faltered, and then the trierarch hit him powerfully with the flat side of the blade on the back. With a suppressed cry, supported by its own momentum, the Goth stumbled over the balustrade. His long-drawn scream ended abruptly once he hit the ground a good 20 meters later.

  Becker stepped back, the gun carelessly tossed aside. The magazine was empty.

  Determined, he drew the saber. He knew how to handle the weapon, but he had never used in a real fight – and especially not against opponents who were capable with blades ultimately far better than he was.

  “More to come!” Flavius Victor gasped weakly. The old commander was already bleeding from several superficial wounds, and the fact that he had not fully recovered from his injuries since Adrianople didn’t help either. Africanus, along with two other legionaries who had survived the previous onslaught of Goths, tried to keep him in the back, but the old veteran urged himself again and again to the forefront.

  Another group of Goths rushed up the stairs. It was a wild force, with men who looked as if they were prepared to go through hell. Leading them was a hulking young man with flowing hair, wearing an ornate breastplate over his embroidered shirt. Whoever this man was, he surely was one of those lieutenants who were following Fritigern along, and he radiated an aura of fearlessness and … intelligence. Awareness. Control.

  Becker raised his saber. The nobleman stepped resolutely toward him, his sword, shield at the ready, with a metal bracer on his left arm, positioned to repel any attack of Becker. His comrades immediately began to keep Becker’s companions busy, and they all had a different, fanatical, disturbing quality in their attacks.

  No one could come to Becker’s assistance. He parried a powerfully thrust, shuddered as the blow of the enemy’s sword almost bounced the saber from his hand. For a moment, his arm felt numb. The Goth took advantage of the momentary weakness and pressed on. His blade wiped Becker’s weak opposition aside, and the saber clattered to the ground. The captain reeled back, spread his arms in a gesture of submission, then he felt the hot cold pain with the sword of the Goth plunged into his right lung. Half incredulous, half shocked by the sudden stab, Becker stared down at himself. The Goth, unimpressed, pulled the blade, and it was followed by a gush of Becker’s red blood.

  The captain fell back, looked in fascination at the lifeblood that spurted from the wide wound before him to the ground, and then he felt a violent jerk. With the flat of the hand, the Goth had pushed his blood-soaked chest.

  Becker automatically reached behind him.

  There was the balustrade. His hands, weaker, weaker, sought for steadiness, but then another push and shove.

  The German flew over the wall, fell and fell and fell.

  And died.

  At the moment as Becker’s battered body shattered on the floor in front of Thessaloniki’s wall, a Roman relief force had finally stormed the position.

  When Godegisel turned, he saw that many blades were directed at him and his c
omrades were either dead or already in captivity. He dropped his sword and surrendered, without a word, with silent satisfaction in his face. He ignored the heavily bleeding body of Flavius Victor, lying on the ground, ignored the horrified gaze with which the swarthy trierarch and a second stranger rushed to the balustrade and looked down. He felt himself pushed down the stairs by strong fists. There were the remaining Goths, disarmed, and among them Fritigern, the judge who had truly held court, and more than he could measure at this time.

  They had lost, in the end, and their act of desperation couldn’t change it anymore. Godegisel saw it in Fritigern’s eyes, and he saw something like a quiet confidence, a relief. If the Romans were clever, they would now negotiate with the Goths, and the trek of the three peoples through Greece would come to an end. This might ultimately still turn their fate for the best.

  A continuation of the fight was already out of the question. Demoralized, the judge and his warriors in captivity, they would not be able to do much. They could continue to be a nuisance, sure, and the Romans might consider offering more than only unconditional surrender.

  The Goths would take what they could get.

  36

  “It’s decided!”

  The great symbolic importance was that these three words were spoken by Lucia, the wife of Senator Michellus. It showed who ultimately was in charge in the household of the esteemed dignitary. Not always did the other members of the household agree with these decisions. In this particular case, that was true only for one person: The daughter Julia, who was standing with clenched fists in front of their parents and was staring at them half angrily, half desperate.

  “Mother … Father … you cannot be serious!”

  While the gaze of the man, confronted by the plaintive voice of his daughter, began to soften and he hesitated with an answer, the face of his wife showed no signs of doubt or hesitation. She craned her chin and gave her husband a warning and at the same time provocative look, as if to challenge him to be counterproductive so that she could show him what evil he’d call upon himself by that.

  Senator Michellus, usually never short of wit and repartee in Senate debates, fell silent before he could say anything. There were fates that shouldn’t be conjured, and especially not if Lucia had made the right decision in the end.

  “It’s decided!” the massively built woman repeated, and this time her tone had something menacing. Julia heard this nuance very well – she was steeled in countless arguments with her mother –, but she had reached an emotional state in which she couldn’t care less. No calamity an infuriated mother could provide her with was greater than what has just been declared to her. It couldn’t easily get worse.

  “I won’t do it! I cannot!” Julia said.

  “You don’t decide! Your father is the one who calls the shots!” That sounded almost comical coming from Lucia’s mouth, but it was quite in keeping with the formal rules by which Michellus as pater familiae could actually decide freely about the welfare of all family members. That he exercised this right but only after consultation with his wife – or even by her direct instructions – was another matter. Although Julia was very much aware about the actual power structure, she focused her desperately pleading look on Michellus, who shifted uncomfortably on his stool back and forth.

  “Expect no pity from your father!” Lucia said. “We are your parents, and we know exactly what is good for you! Martinus Caius comes from a very reputable house! His father made a lot of money in trade, he maintains cargo ships and caravans in the whole empire! Martinus is about to be raised to the senatorial order and will then be a colleague of your father! Well, not old Roman nobility, but God knows your future groom is rich and will soon be an influential and respected Roman, enjoying the ear of the Emperor! Julia! Please be reasonable! Erase this silly man out of your mind! It is time for you to think about your future. You are not getting any younger!”

  In fact, Julia was already at an age in which age-matched women were mostly already married or engaged. Her stubborn nature and the fact that she had previously found each groom that had been presented by her parents unfit, hadn’t been conducive to a quick wedding. However, according to the will of their parents, this situation should change now.

  “Caius Martinus is an idiot who squanders his father’s money and visits the whores regularly,” Julia replied.

  “He’s a tempestuous young man, open to the pleasures of life,” Lucia interpreted the fact. “Marriage will mitigate his desires, especially with a wife like you.”

  “I will not marry that booze bag!”

  “Yes, you will. We have already discussed everything with the old Caius. The date is set, there will be wonderful celebrations, and it will be the talk for weeks in Ravenna.”

  Lucia’s face developed a slightly dreamy expression.

  “I won’t marry him!” Julia repeated firmly.

  “Michellus, will you please say something!” Lucia now turned to her husband.

  “Yes, Father, please, ask no such sacrifice of your oldest daughter,” Julia added with a sudden melting in his voice. Her smile reached a remarkably high level on the sweetness-scale. Michellus slipped even more back and forth on his chair, cleared his throat several times, his gaze wandered from wife to daughter and back. He seemed to consider which agony was easier to bear and closed his eyes for a moment, as if to think. His right hand meanwhile groped toward the small serving table, where a cup of wine was waiting.

  “Michellus! I ask you!” Lucia snapped and fixed her husband and lord with a cold stare. The senator sighed, curbing his right hand and then looked at Julia. She immediately knew what was coming, and the smile disappeared from her face. Gloomily she heard her father’s reply.

  “Julia, we only want the best for you,” he began defensively. “You’re destroying your life if you continue longing for this man. Let’s agree that he would hardly be a befitting husband. He’s probably already dead or he has forgotten you.”

  “I cannot believe it!” Julia said.

  “Then you dream like a little girl!” Lucia rebuked. “You’re always so insistent to be an adult and make your own decisions! But now you’re acting like you’re twelve! Julia! Pull yourself together and think of your future! Martinus Caius will take care of you, you will have a prosperous home with all the amenities. With a little gentle pressure, he will change some of his perhaps not quite as desirable habits.”

  Lucia looked thankfully at the sad and fatalistic expression in her husband’s features, who could well imagine what “gentle pressure” actually meant.

  “I will not touch him! He will have to take me by force!”

  Lucia shrugged ostentatiously. “If that is your will, my child,” she said with sudden coldness in her voice. “I don’t care how much you like to act like a fool and what kind of adventurous ideas you harbor. You’ll marry him and be his faithful wife and servant, as befits a well-bred senator’s daughter. You will not bring shame on our family, otherwise your husband will punish you hard. If so, don’t expect any help from us.”

  Again, Michellus seemed to want to add something, but he thought better of it. In some ways, he shared the concerns of his daughter. A major reason that the young Martinus was still available had to do with the fact that his erratic lifestyle was something other parents didn’t want to expose their lovely daughters to. Julia, however, was a similarly difficult, although somewhat different case. It appeared, therefore, to their parents as an effective means to intervene now courageously before something worse would happen.

  Lucia saw how it worked in her daughter, and an expression of defiant determination was visible on her face.

  “Before you say anything, listen to my words,” she intoned with a certain theatricality. “I know what you are thinking of! Once you run away, but a second time you will not succeed. Gunter!”

  A door opened, and a giant of a man entered. Gunter came from Germania and was a slave in the household of the Senator for ten years. He consisted of
a large number of muscles and very little brain, but above all he was his mistress Lucia’s faithful servant.

  “Lady, you called,” the mountain of a man uttered with a submissive tone.

  “You will from now on not depart from the side of my daughter. Only in her room she can stay alone! Leaving it, you will accompany her. She may only leave the house to go to church. If she needs something, errands are to be done by a servant. She may not receive any visitor who has not previously registered with me. You will sleep outside her door and keep watch continuously. You will take all meals together with her! The smallest irregularity is reported to me! If she wants to escape and steal away, you have my express permission to forcibly prevent it!” Lucia looked at intently at Gunter, who had endured the cannonade of orders with a straight face. “Did you hear me?”

  “I obey, Mistress,” the slave confirmed. For a moment, he looked at his new protégé as if to gauge the difficulty of the task. But he said nothing, giving no hint about to the outcome his assessment.

  “You can’t do that!” Julia exclaimed angrily.

  “Yes, I can. I can do much more if you don’t obey and do what I say.” Lucia rose. “The wedding is in three months. We begin immediately with the preparations. It will be a wonderful festival that everyone involved will long remember.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” her daughter replied bitterly. She turned abruptly and left the room.

  “Julia!” Lucia thundered. “What is this behavior? I have not … Julia? Julia!”

  Gunter looked confused, remembered his orders, and also turned to follow her.

  When they both had left the room, Lucia trembled angrily. Her husband hastily put the cup back on the table and wiped with a cloth over his mouth, his eyes full of guilt.

  Lucia sighed.

  This family would kill her one day.

  37

  The small church was like a monastery, although monasteries actually didn’t exist yet, as von Klasewitz knew. The first hermit monks lived in Egypt, and Martin of Tours had already set up a settlement near Marmoutiers, and Cassian, founder of the first great Gallic monastery near Marseille, was indeed already born but lived at this time in Palestine and studied local early hermitages. The age of the great orders began to appear on the horizon but had not yet materialized.