On the neighboring bed there was a dirty giggle and a man’s voice said, “Filius salex, quod tu mulierorum diutuisto!” 2
Volkert became deeply red. Less because he understood but rather because Julia looked embarrassed.
“What did he say?” asked Volkert just to be sure. Julia nodded and smiled and told him. The young man decided not to react. At another time he would reveal his lover that this had just been the very first sex in his life.
Julia pulled away. Their sleeping place was sticky and sweaty, but they didn’t care. And had the senator’s daughter still suffered from insomnia, now it didn’t take long before the weariness overcame her. Her sleep was deep and only a loud noise would wake her up.
Well after midnight some more than just unusual sounds brought them out of their sleep. Oil lamps lit the dormitory and loud curses echoed through the room.
“Cacator!” 3 shouted an older man, than a foot nudged and forced him to turn around. Julia opened her eyes and pressed herself against Volkert, who sat up sleepily.
Four legionaries in full armor had entered the dormitory. They were led by a fat man in civilian tunic, carrying a heavy bag at his belt, from which a clicking sound came anytime he moved.
“Men!” His voice echoed through the hall. Meanwhile, he had the undivided attention of all guests. In many faces Volkert acknowledged fear. He had no idea what was going on.
“Men of Rome!” said the fat man in his remarkably penetrating voice. “The Emperor calls you up! The Empire is exposed to serious threats! Valens, our Divine Emperor of the East, has fallen against the marauding hordes of Gothic barbarians! A shame, Romans, that affects us all! A shame that can be extinguished only by the blood of the barbarians on our swords! Men of Rome! I give you now the opportunity to rush to help your Emperor and fulfill your duty to the Empire!”
The fat guy paused and looked around. Despite the dim lighting, it looked like he scrutinized each and everyone of those present. Volkert also felt unpleasantly examined by him, especially since he now had a good idea of what was going on.
The man in the tunic was here to recruit new meat for the Roman army. At his belt hung a bag of gold to pay each volunteer the entry money, if anyone would accept the man’s offer. Volkert knew this kind of men, as he had met some of them in Germany not too long ago … just then … The ensign was trying not to muddle up the various levels of time but finally failed. In any case, the basic skills and methods of recruiters seemed to have not changed over the centuries.
“Gold for everyone who writes his name!” the voice boomed now. “Regular wages, land and property by the end of the service period. Anyone here who still has no Roman citizenship? You’ll get it at the end and even earlier for your children. Glory and honor – and riches – if the enemy army is defeated and once its treasures are up for distribution. For those who want to become more than a simple soldier, many paths are open. Double pay for good craftsmen. For a blacksmith, even thrice the amount! For those who have proven themselves, rise in the ranks. Hasn’t our divine Diocletian himself risen from a simple soldier to become an emperor? Highest honors and offices for the successful! Honored back in your villages, exempt from all taxes and duties! There is no better life, and there is no greater adventure!”
The man’s voice was doubtlessly a well-tuned instrument. He joined pathos with facts, looked convincing, amusing, serious, ironic and honest, depending on what was currently required. The man mastered his business, and Volkert was sure that he would receive a corresponding amount of gold for each volunteer successfully recruited.
But no one in the dormitory seemed too impressed. At least not in the way as the fat guy would have liked. There was the fear in the faces of the woken, as they sat silent in their beds and avoided direct eye contact and did everything not to draw attention to themselves.
The recruiter sighed and gave a nod to the four legionaries. Volkert tensed, but the soldiers did nothing more than to march down the aisle between the resting places and look around. Then they turned and stood with a composed face behind the uninvolved civilian.
“Very well,” he finally grunted. “But when the barbarians are in your house, take your wives and daughters to rape them, pillage your belongings, burn your property, and abduct you into slavery, don’t beg the Emperor for help, because then it’s your own fault, as you left the Empire down in its hour of need.”
Surprisingly nimble, the man turned on his heel and left the room. The soldiers followed him. With them went the lights. Darkness returned to the hostel, relieved whispers filled the room for a short time, until all laid down again and the ubiquitous snoring returned.
Julia had cuddled with Volkert and stared for minutes with restless eyes into the darkness. Then also her eyelids fell, and she returned to sleep.
She jumped up again as rough hands grabbed her and pushed her to the side. She screamed involuntarily, pressing the thin blanket on her body. Screams, shouts, roars were heard in the hall when a group of grim-looking legionaries trudged through the space, isolated men, pulled them up, reviewed them briefly and then drove them together in the middle of the room.
“Damn,” Volkert shouted in German, as a mountain of a man grabbed him and put him on his feet. Ignoring his protests, he was flung against the group of now seven or eight men who were held in check by three legionaries with spears. Wide-eyed, Julia watched the spectacle. There could be no doubt about what was going on. After the peaceful and voluntary recruitment attempt had failed, they had resorted to other means. The men here, as far as the short examination judged them useful, were recruited by force.
Julia had heard of it, and as they were far removed from the reality of her existence, she had viewed the stories as regrettable and rationalized the need to provide the armed forces with the necessary personnel. But now she was flooded by the chaos of horror and growing despair. She tried to hold back the tears when she saw Volkert’s helpless glances. The legionaries had the “recruits” now roughly tied and began to lash the cords together with another long rope. There was no chance of escape.
“So!” The voice of the fat permeated the room. “I have good news for you, men, you shall serve the Empire and your Emperor. Maybe not entirely voluntary, but that doesn’t matter a lot.” A bleating laughter that had nothing to do with the rhetorical brilliance of his first appearance came with the jab. “Just to let one thing be clear: Whether voluntarily or not, you are henceforth soldiers of the emperor. That means 25 years of service and all the wonderful amenities that I have promised you. And of course the laws: On desertion follows death. Who helps deserters, also dies.”
The nagging look of the man seemed to fix each on the recruits. “That’s clear? Shall I repeat it? Who runs away, will be executed! Whoever will help or hide you, dies as well! I hope no one develops any ideas. Arrange yourself with your destiny, and you can probably make something of it. Fight us, and you won’t be happy anymore in your life. Once the training is over, write your letters and get in touch with your family. Once you’ve completed a certain period of service, you may even marry. Anything goes, no problem. Whoever is already married, reports to his decurion, and if you keep up well, you might receive visits.”
Volkert threw Julia a long, hard look. In it was a silent but very intense message. She immediately understood and nodded. It almost seemed as if the young man could even smile now.
Whatever had just happened, it was certainly one of the most appalling proposals of marriage in human history.
“And now we leave!”
A legionary pulled on the rope, and the recruits, still dazed by the overwhelming events, followed more or less willingly. The occasional encouragement of the soldiers finally got the column to move, and as fast as the nightmare had begun, it was over.
Remaining was the chaos of rumpled straw bags, bewildered travelers, a terrified-looking innkeeper who ran around desperately and helplessly, not knowing what to say or do.
And a silently weeping Julia.
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3
“Rheinberg was right.”
“I hear that phrase too often.”
Gratian threw Arbogast a mildly reproving glance. The grumpy general bowed his head in apparent submissiveness, but he couldn’t hide his true feelings from the Emperor.
Richomer refrained from any comment. He had just arrived in camp when Rheinberg and Becker had already finished their demonstration, but he had received vivid reports especially by those comrades who had witnessed the spectacle up close. The Emperor seemed to be inclined to accept the strange trierarch and the not less strange legate or tribune, and that was sufficient for him. Arbogast, however, with his habit to stir things up against the foreigners, had apparently no intention to change this behavior.
“Anyway, it’s true,” Richomer confirmed. “An estimated 22,000 dead, 8,000 survivors, a number of them wounded. Of the 8,000 around 2,000 are officers and NCO s, less than 6,000 normal legionaries. We therefore have eight legions, but each of them with more than the required number of officers. Flavius Victor took over the supreme command, and the troops are still gathering at Adrianople. This is not a good staging area, because the Goths still hold on in the area.”
Richomer leaned over the large map of the Eastern Empire, which was spread out on the huge marble table in Gratian’s tent. On it, one could place more easily little figures as symbols for units and cities than on the stretched version in the background of the tent. “Flavius proposes Thessaloniki as a rallying point for a new army.”
“The idea isn’t bad. But do we want to wait in peace to give the new general-to-be the chance to organize himself in the east?” Malobaudes asked. “The arrival of Rheinberg has changed the situation. The trierarch is of the opinion that there is no reason for a long wait and an excess of caution. He suggests the Tribune Becker sends his men at once to Thessaloniki to unite there with the survivors and to use the remaining legions as bait. No new army. We use the old one.”
Richomer looked from Malobaudes to Arbogast and back.
“As what?”
“As bait, as I said. They should pretend to be looking for another battle. Fritigern should feel attracted, because if he was successful against 30,000, he will probably be able to beat even 8,000.”
“He’s absolutely right,” muttered Arbogast.
“In fact, the legions have to keep a prepared battlefield and act seemingly ready but then withdraw from any attack and leave the ground in order to give the miraculous weapons of Becker the chance to teach the barbarians a lesson that they will never forget.”
Richomer looked at the map again, as if by studying it he could understand fully what Malobaudes had just told him.
“But I get this correctly – this Becker hasn’t even as much as a full cohort with him, yes?”
“He says he doesn’t even need all of his men. It requires no more than a good position to align his shooters so that they have a clear shot but remain in cover. He doesn’t expect many losses but wants to use our men as his bodyguard for protection, should some stray Goths break through. For that they should still be capable enough, or are they, Richomer?”
“Morale has fallen,” the officer considered. “But I believe that I simply don’t understand properly what these men can do with their weapons. Anyway, this attack is yours to command, my Emperor; I’ll do anything to support this man Becker.”
“Good,” said Gratian, who had previously followed the discussion silently. “I will also send Arbogast; he should take command from Flavius Victor, who is still injured. A few legionaries I can send as well, but I need to march westward again as soon as possible, because the borders are not safe if I don’t take care of them.”
“What about Theodosius?” Arbogast inquired. “He’s still the candidate to become commander of the East?”
“He is. He will make his way to the East as soon as the message has reached him. If Becker fails, he’ll hopefully pursue the war with vigor. If Becker is successful, we’ll have to worry about a lot of quite new ideas in many areas afterwards.”
“I think so, too!”
All heads turned around. In the entrance of the tent stood a figure, dressed in simple traveling clothes. He needed no introduction and no legitimacy. Each of rank knew the man with his crooked face.
Gratian rose. “Ambrosius!”
“My Emperor!”
“What a surprise and delight!”
“I am welcome?”
“You are always welcome! Elevius, a seat for the bishop. Bring wine and something to eat. You must be exhausted!”
“I’m tired, but I’m fine.”
Nevertheless, the bishop gladly accepted the offered seat and sat down with a sigh. He took several deep gulps of wine, which was handed to him, and stretched out his legs. Richomer and Arbogast exchanged glances full of perplexity. What had moved the bishop of Milan to make the arduous journey up to Sirmium? It was not too bold to assume that this had to do with the arrival of Rheinberg and Becker. But the officers kept their counsel for themselves. This was a matter between Ambrosius and Gratian, and although the Emperor was formally the more powerful, everyone knew that the young man worshiped the energetic clergyman and had repeatedly sought his advice in the past.
“The long road from Ravenna to here – you surely haven’t come just to bless my fight against the Goths.”
Ambrosius hid a smile. Gratian was maybe pious, and quite easy to influence, but he wasn’t an idiot. “You’re of course correct in your assumption, my Emperor. Urgent business brings me here. It’s about those strangers who have appeared in Ravenna and have, it seems, left a lasting impression on senators as well as the common people.”
Gratian leaned back. “Senators, the common people – and myself.”
Ambrosius hardly seemed surprised. “They are here, I’ve seen them. I heard stories of miraculous weapons.”
“I intend to send them against the Goths, so that they can prove their value to us.”
“Well, maybe a wise decision. The situation in the East is tense, and the death of your uncle a most unfortunate development.”
Arbogast frowned. “Your enthusiasm seems to be limited, Your Eminence.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
“I don’t care if the strangers fight against the Goths, and I’m quite happy if they win against the barbarians and establish security in the East.”
“You don’t care?” asked Arbogast.
“Well, it’s not so important to me. There are other things that cause me concern. On the way here, I have received messengers from Ravenna. Liberius has done some research on my request. One of his closest confidants has had interesting information, as he himself had established contact with the strangers and developed some trust … and we learned much about them and their friends in the city.”
“Can I interpret this correctly,” Gratian now said, with barely disguised distaste in his voice, “you initiated inquiries in Ravenna, behind my back, and that has included the military officials of my army? Senators of the empire probably also?”
“It was inevitable,” the bishop justified his actions. “Many senators are involved.”
“I have conferred with Symmachus and Michellus. Their arguments as well as their intentions appear to me without blame,” Gratian said. For hours he had talked with the two men, both individually and together. He knew who Symmachus was, and he knew what Ambrosius thought of the famous senator – very little would be an understatement. Sometimes, the Emperor had the impression that Ambrosius regarded the highly educated and rhetorically trained Senator as a direct threat, a living indictment of his theory that salvation by faith in Christ and a faithful life is the only possible way. Symmachus liked neither Christ nor did he strive for any salvation, but no one would put the immaculate integrity of his public life and his honorable disposition in question – Gratian certainly not, despite being obliged to the teachings of the Church. Symmachus, as it seemed, lacked this fanatical gleam in his eyes, and
he developed his arguments probably with the aim of intellectual understanding but rarely with the simple goal of persuasion. Perhaps it was this small difference which ultimately accounted too much.
“Michellus is a man of great wisdom,” Ambrosius admitted. “But he seems to me that he suffers from the fatal influence of Symmachus.”
“And what exactly is this unfortunate influence?” Arbogast said.
“His insistence on certain outmoded restraints and laws that are in urgent need of revision.”
“How about the excessive tolerance in regard to the Arians, who call the shots in the churches of the East, and who we seek to liberate from the yoke of the Goths?” Arbogast said. “Or even laws like the one edict of the great Constantine, the first who freed Christianity from its shackles and helped develop the influence it enjoys today?”
Ambrosius stared at Arbogast with recognizable indignation. “General, this is a philosophical debate. Why do you complain?”
“I’ve learned that philosophical debates tend to be discussed on the backs of the soldiers at a certain point.”
“This is outrageous!” exclaimed the bishop.
Arbogast sighed. “Your Eminence, my army consists of Christians, Trinitarians as Arians, followers of Mithras, the faithful of Mars and Jupiter, Osiris, and ah, I don’t know how many other gods. What you request is ideally suited to split the army and to open a crack through the whole empire, and that won’t help us currently.”
Ambrosius rose. “So it’s true! The insinuations of Rheinberg fell on fertile ground!”
“Rheinberg has nothing to do with common sense,” the general replied acidly.
“I know what kind of theses the leader of the strangers spreads,” Ambrosius insisted. “Preserving the edict and even expand it! To not fight the Arian heresy! As if that wasn’t enough, what else do I hear? To increase the revenue of the empire it is necessary to rescind the tax advantages of ecclesiastical property and the servants of the Church? What a blasphemous approach is that?”
The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal Page 3