“No!” von Klasewitz snapped. “The Captain is entrusted with highly sensitive negotiations at the Imperial Court! Any disruption can have fatal consequences! We must deal with this problem ourselves.”
Joergensen shook his head. “With all due respect …”
“You don’t seem to agree to my ability to assess the situation properly,” interrupted the nobleman.
“This is not an assessment of your abilities,” Dahms chipped in. “It is about the fact that you want to make a fundamental decision of great military and political significance. I also have a feeling that we should not ignore the Captain in this matter. We have heard clear instructions of him, especially regarding the fact that we should not interfere.”
“These orders are based on outdated information,” von Klasewitz said icily. “The latest developments could not have been foreseen by him!”
“I have the impression that the Captain has imposed restraint on us exactly because he was afraid of these and similar incidents,” Dahms said.
“What do you want to accuse me of?” asked the nobleman. “Insubordination?”
Dahms raised his eyebrows. “I did nothing of that sort. What I want to say is that we have clear instructions, and we have no authority to simple override them, especially since there is no immediate emergency. If the riots occur again, we set sail and wait in front of the coast for the Captain’s return. Renna will surely agree with this course of action.”
“Have you talked to the prefect on this issue?” Joergensen added immediately, grateful for that keyword. “I’m sure that we should seek his counsel!”
“Oh yes?” von Klasewitz’s face showed his increased displeasure. “Now I will also discuss with the local authorities? Who should I ask in addition? The Oracle of Delphi?”
“The counsel of Petronius for you was quite extensive,” Dahms said dryly.
“Don’t be cheeky, Mr. Engineer!” von Klasewitz snapped. “I have convened this meeting not to play Reichstag ! I’m the commanding officer and I insist –”
“That the standing orders of the legitimate captain are to be respected and followed and that he is informed of any changes immediately and without delay.” Dahms was equally icy now, but backed by greater self-control.
The initial enthusiasm for Klasewitz’s plans had subsided. Some of those who were moved by his words at first now seemed to remember their duties. Only Tennberg glanced annoyed at Dahms.
Von Klasewitz looked around, read the rejection in the majority of the faces. He gritted his teeth, suppressed the undoubtedly harsh reply already on his lips and lowered his head in apparent agreement. “Well,” he rasped. “I see that I cannot achieve much with my reasoning. Your blind loyalty to outdated commands and a captain who has left us alone with the problems will have its repercussions. But good. Tomorrow we send a message to the East with a report about the events of the day. And until Rheinberg condescends to answer it, we feed the cocks and push ourselves into a corner, hoping that the righteous wrath of the indignant mass won’t haunt us again in this city.”
Von Klasewitz’s description of the Captain bordered on insult, and if Rheinberg had been here, he would have stopped these utterings immediately. But now the other officers were just glad that any danger was averted, as von Klasewitz seemed to give up his plan for the meantime.
The meeting of the officers ended in stony silence. When the men left the room, von Klasewitz disappeared with Tennberg, grumbling in the darkness of nightfall. Joergensen and Dahms looked after them. They felt that slowly a wedge threatened to be driven into the crew of the Saarbrücken . They knew that von Klasewitz had his friends on board, NCO s and men who expected an advantage or shared some of his sharper views. It was to be feared that the gap in the officer corps of the cruiser would extend downward. That was the last thing they needed.
“I hope Rheinberg comes back soon,” said the second.
“Yes. And we should talk to Köhler,” the engineer added.
They set out immediately to do so.
8
“I don’t get it, Judge.”
“Me too.”
Fritigern sat on his horse and glanced at the long line of covered wagons and carts pulled along the hilly area. Small groups of warriors galloped along the whole route, to warn of surprise attacks by the Romans if any would occur. But so far no one had disturbed the mile long trek, and if it was true what he had just been told by his breathless scouts, nobody would soon.
“It’s a little unexpected,” Godegisel said now, rubbing his chin. “Yes, a consolidation of the Roman forces was inevitable, but not as fast and not under the command of Victor. I thought that Gratian would send a new general – a candidate for the Eastern throne, especially now that everyone thinks Valens is dead.”
The gaze of the young nobleman fell involuntarily on the big cart, which was surrounded by eight riders from Fritigern’s personal guard. The cart was bulkier than the others, and seemed very stable, and in its interior sat chained like a dog aforementioned Valens, staring blankly.
“Valens is as good as dead,” muttered Fritigern. “He speaks only gibberish and has few bright moments. An undignified spectacle. Even if we should return him, he will hardly be able to claim the throne again. We need to do something so that he will survive a meeting with a Roman envoy reasonably sane. Then I shouldn’t care what becomes of him.”
“But what have the Romans done? They assemble the remains of their eastern army at Thessaloniki. Good. Do they want to attack us with that rabble?”
“I don’t know. But it wouldn’t happen if they were without a plan. We must be doubly alert and send out more scouts than before. But it is clear that we have to face the threat somehow. I would like to destroy the remaining troops of the East, especially now, where they have not been able to add new recruits to compensate for the losses. At the same time, we must try to establish an official contact with the Romans.”
“Will Gratian send troops?”
Fritigern waved to some passing warriors, before he turned back to the young man. “Possible, but unlikely. Although we’d have a lot on our hands with Gratian’s troops, the risk is too great for the little emperor: we could destroy his men, while the Alemanni march in the West, like many of the other German tribes. They’d overrun the garrisons with the certainty that no army could oppose them anymore. No, Gratian’s too much his father’s son to take completely unpredictable military risks. He is looking for another solution.”
“Yes – send a general, give him some gold, maybe a few good officers and the order to evade us and build up the troops again, a request which can take years to accomplish. But then it wouldn’t start by pulling the remnants of the eastern army in front of us already. He must know that we notice that. This smells like a trap.”
Fritigern sighed. “That may be – but what kind of a trap will that be if he doesn’t have any men to let it snap?”
“A secret alliance with one of our allies?” Godegisel mused.
“It’s possible. But unlikely. Traitors could quickly become the betrayed. The risk would be very high for both sides. No, I think it is due to an act of desperation, some political problems that build up at the court of Gratian or in Constantinople. Something we cannot know.”
“You want to continue to let Alaric go to Constantinople?”
Fritigern nodded immediately. “An excellent idea. The old man is highly regarded, and he is at the end of his life. The respect he enjoys he can’t translate into real political power without help; he needs me. But he is a wonderful ambassador, and the Romans will receive him with honor, because no matter what Gratian’s up to, he will not be averse to negotiations. But I still need a Roman envoy to see Valens and at least briefly talk to him. Or something else.”
“Valens is crazy,” Godegisel replied curtly.
Fritigern didn’t answer. On the cart rumbling past their current location a tall young woman, not even 20 years old and with straw-blonde hair sat on the front seat. H
er rather ragged clothes couldn’t hide the very obvious charms of her body.
Fritigern frowned thoughtfully. “I have an idea on how we can possibly rid Valens of his delusion – at least for a certain time.”
Godegisel looked at him quizzically. The Judge pointed to the cart and the figure of the young woman who slowly moved away from them.
“Do you know her?” Fritigern said.
“Yes.”
“I need to know her, too. Bring her to me.”
“Judge, I am not your –”
“Not for me, my son,” Fritigern interrupted the protest. He now smiled dreamily. “Not for me, Godegisel. It is a gift for the Emperor.”
9
“Work faster. Even faster. You there – dig deeper! Do you want attacking barbarians to simply tip over the stockade and massacre you? Or do you want that damn wall to protect us? We build no fucking village here, we build a military camp! Hey, you! What is this? Did I order a break, scumbag?”
The shouting found no end. Volkert didn’t dare rest the shovel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His whole body was wet from the work. Over the tunic, he wore a matching breastplate, the helmet of a legionary on his head, and tied to his belt the sword, the main weapon of the Roman soldier. It was warm, late summer, but at no time had the roaring centurion allowed them to take off any piece of equipment. One must always be prepared to follow the call to battle, he said, especially if you build a camp in enemy territory. Volkert controlled himself not to tell him that during the latest battle against the Alemanni, Gratian had been the last emperor to lead Roman forces across the Rhine. From now on they would be wholly on the defensive and rather have the problem that the enemy, no matter which one, would take the fight into the empire.
He kept it to himself.
The Roman forces didn’t much resemble the elite legions that had once built the empire, Volkert thought. The military reforms of Diocletian had the old system replaced by a more flexible structure with smaller units. The once 5,000-strong legion had been reduced to 1,500 soldiers. A distinction was made between the border troops, who were often no more than militias, and the mobile strike forces, the best trained units, the main army that went on campaigns with the emperor. What remained was hard training and discipline. But the glorious past of the Roman legionary was long gone.
The training for Volkert and the other involuntary recruits had begun shortly after the speech of the centurion, and as an instructor the gruff veteran Latinus had presented himself as much as a relentless grinder as Volkert had feared. They had received equipment, some still adored with dried blood spots collected from a battlefield, taken from the dead body of a comrade. They had not started training with weapons but with important basics. They learned how to pack one’s bundle and what had to be included – from food to firewood to important details such as a sewing kit. And then they started with two central training units: marching in formation and building of a field camp.
The marching wasn’t any problem for Volkert. He had done quite a lot of it in his life and knew what was up. As soon as he reasonably understood the barked commands of the centurions, the drill had not been a fundamental challenge for him. But when they had practiced battle tactics and had to form the turtle with a phalanx of shields, the pain in his upper arms had almost been unbearable at some point. When he had to lower his shield, he had to learn that in the Roman army very traditional practices of instilling discipline were popular. These were other times, but Volkert had to adjust to the fact that whipping was lavishly applied particularly in cases of recalcitrance, and in the worst case entire units could be decimated – that is, every tenth legionary was selected by lot and beaten to death.
But the worst thing was his current task. Setting up camp sounded relatively harmless but was obviously murderous work. Erecting the palisade, digging the necessary excavation, cutting down of trees, cutting the piles, balancing and fixing, building the tents – and all this after a well prepared plan in which one activity must go hand in hand with the other. Two of his new comrades were quickly freed of this heavy duty. They were elevated to the rank of “immunes” because their superiors had realized that both were gifted craftsmen. This meant not only that they would soon obtain a higher pay, their special skills would also be rewarded insofar as they were freed from heavy and cumbersome services. The Roman system of promotion didn’t know so many different ranks as the modern German army. What was remarkably similar though was that the highest-ranking officer in place, here a centurion, was in fact God.
It had changed little over the centuries.
Volkert sweated like someone poured water over his body. He dropped the shovel and grabbed a log. His hands were already torn by the only roughly cut wood, and as he heaved the pile up, it threatened to slip from his fingers. But then another pair of hands popped up, callous and full of scars, the hands of a man who had made his life using them, through hard work. Together, they set up the trunk, rammed it into the prepared hole next to one already standing, rammed again until he ran deep and held firm, so even the centurion could not do more than utter an affirmative grunt.
Volkert looked gratefully at his fellow recruit. He was about his age, of broad and stocky build, with dark hair spreading wild above the face. His face was flat and broad, the skin tanned and weathered. “I’m Simodes,” he introduced himself, and immediately struck Volkert amicably on the shoulder. The German almost lost his balance. “I was a shipyard worker, before I found the recruiters.”
“They have pressed you like me? I’m Thomas.”
“No, Thomas, I signed up voluntarily.” Volkert must have looked surprised because Simodes laughed.
“I’m not a good shipyard worker and have taken the job because my father did it, and the Emperor believes what is good for the father can be only fair for the son.” Simodes laughed again, but this time without any real joy. “What nonsense. The only way to escape the endless torment and sadness was to report to the army.”
Volkert shook his head. “Take it as you will, but it seems to me that cruelty and sadness are waiting for us here as well.”
“Yes, I understand you, Thomas. You’re not here by choice. But I have happily exchanged the cries of my foreman against the bellow of the centurions. It may be a philosophical question, but the burden that one chooses by himself is a special kind of freedom. I’m Greek, so forgive me this attitude.”
Volkert saw the wicked sparkle in the eyes of Simodes and smiled. The massive man was probably not wrong. To bear all this with a little more composure and humor would probably make everything a lot easier. Volkert sighed. A philosophical view about himself was something new to him. “Anyway, thank you, Simodes.”
“Don’t thank me, give thanks to the Centurion. Because we were so busy, we get water!”
The Greek was right. A legionary with a big water bag came up and filled a wooden tankard of equally impressive size. Everyone was allowed to take some deep swallows. Volkert was amazed again to find that water and wine have been mixed. The sour taste that rather reminded him of vinegar was even somewhat refreshing.
“Enough laziness!” roared the centurion, as the water carrier moved on. “No more breaks until the camp is ready!”
Simodes and Volkert reached for the shovels.
“Where are you from, Thomas?”
“I’m German,” Volkert said simply.
“What did you do before you were put into service?”
“Sailor.”
Simodes nodded. “My father loves the sea. Good attitude for a shipyard worker. Likes to assemble triremes for the Emperor. The only water I like is the one in which I bathe. The ocean scares me. I’m glad that I’m far away from the coast.”
Volkert said nothing.
“And, Thomas, is there someone waiting for you?”
“My bride,” replied the German, his voice suddenly damped. “I hope so.”
“So say we all,” said the Greek philosophically. “I hope for you that your bride ca
n march quickly. I heard this morning that we get more of our training on the way.”
Volkert stopped. “On the way? Where to?”
Simodes shrugged. “Wherever the Emperor may send us. But it is clear that we either go to one of the borders in Germania or the East to pay homage to the dead Valens. Perhaps the high lords still need a bunch of recruits they can feed to the Goths. No matter how, one of us is getting closer to home.”
“That’s reassuring,” Volkert muttered. His gaze wandered over the boundaries of the training site to the actual camp, where they had been given quarters. Out there, somewhere, in one of the villages in the vicinity, he suspected, was Julia. He wasn’t allowed to leave the camp. If Simodes was right, and it would fit the tense situation at the borders, the opportunity to leave wouldn’t arise too soon. Hopefully, Julia had open eyes and ears to learn when the recruits left. Otherwise, he would be gone one day, and his chances of ever seeing her again would be very, very low.
Simodes saw the storm of emotions that raged through Volkert, easily recognizable on his face. “Do not worry, my friend,” he said awkwardly. “It won’t be so bad. Gratian has put the Alemanni in their place, and when we go to the East, then they will have already dealt with the Goths. The magicians of the future will take care of this.”
Volkert’s head snapped up. “The what?”
“Didn’t hear about it? Symmachus and the other pagan senators have gathered with the help of their priest mage from the future to save the empire from the outside dangers and to teach the raging Christians reason.” Simodes smiled apologetically. “The story goes around everywhere. Interestingly, the priests themselves put that into the world. Anyway, some of my Christian friends are quite sour. They accuse the Emperor of being too soft and not recognizing the threat.”
Volkert controlled himself with difficulty. There could be no doubt about whom these rumors referred to. Something was going on that could be extremely dangerous for the Saarbrücken ! It matched the impression he had gained from his meeting with Petronius.
The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal Page 7