For a moment, Volkert looked at the prospect of having to leave for Noricum almost as the best of all possible alternatives.
The time before they left just flew by. A total of some 250 men was assigned to the Legio II Italica, and early morning of the next day centurion Latinus, who would lead them to Noricum, organized the barely trained recruits in something like a marching column. His face showed evidence that to lead a group of unenthusiastic recruits, half of whose would take the first opportunity to escape, hardly pleased him. The fact that he took a good 30 additional, apparently experienced legionaries with him, who performed more like security guards and less like comrades, confirmed this impression. Finally, the whole column transformed in Volkert’s view more and more into the character of a transfer of convicts.
Simodes seemed to be inspired by the prospect of a long march. His remarkably good mood was anything but contagious, and when he had been thrown quite a few dark looks by his comrades, Volkert advised him not to make his sunny disposition too obvious. For the ensign, however, the carefree optimism of the Greek was very pleasant, as he could distract him from his own gloomy thoughts.
After a quick breakfast, each freshly minted legionary had strapped a heavy bundle on his back, filled with tools, food, his weapons, a sleeping pad, extra clothes, and all sorts of useful utensils. Volkert already had determined that over the centuries apparently the requirements had changed little in regard to the capacity of soldiers to carry stuff – regardless of the existence either of donkey carts or diesel engines, any ordinary soldier was still obliged to put everything one needed on his own shoulders. Volkert had practiced marching in the camp and also experienced his share of marches during his basic training in Germany, therefore he was fundamentally better prepared than many other recruits. The prospect, however, to travel hundreds of miles by foot, possibly interrupted only by a river trip when weather and availability of ships allowed, pleased him no more than any other of the 250 men who were preparing for the march.
Already at the end of the first day Volkert’s feet already were full of blisters. He had to admit that the sandals worn by the Roman soldiers in summer were not poorly suited for marches as at least that the feet’s side weren’t too much chafed. Of course, lighter stones flew between foot and sole, so the feet were quickly and thoroughly dirty – and now that the weather had been slowly but surely getting wintry, it was probably soon time to try the boots.
The centurion lead with a strong march pace with only very short breaks and seemed to be seriously interested in a new speed record. Everyone complained, and they were studiously ignored by the veterans. Volkert understood why they were flayed like this: When they went to bed for the night, the recruits would all be far too tired to even contemplate desertion.
In the evening as they made camp, Volkert’s feet were torn and full of partially bloody calluses. Simodes handed him an ointment that he himself had mixed and gave some relief. The feet of the Greeks had suffered from the almost eight-hour march, yet he showed a friendly smile, joked, and gave generously of his medicine. His comrades had forgiven him for his intolerable good mood when he shared the recipe for the tincture with them and they noticed that the agent in fact helped because it eased the pain and enhanced healing.
Volkert barely remembered the evening he spent with sheer fatigue, without the usual ruminations and with almost automatic movements while erecting the camp. Fortunately, the troop had not built its encampment strictly by the book, as it was located far from enemy territory. It was enough to set up the tents, set up some guards – the centurion mercifully ordered the veterans to be awake during the most unpleasant time after midnight – and then, after a hasty meal, everyone lied down exhausted. Volkert fell asleep at once. He had never felt so tired in his entire life.
Just before dawn, the horn sounded the alarm, and the recruits were all in full attendance. The breakfast, the morning toilet – the centurion reacted to lack in hygiene with painful discipline – and the demolition of the camp lasted an hour and shortly thereafter they found themselves back on the road. Again and again, Volkert thanked the fate that the Romans had been fanatical road builders, or else the march would have become unbearable by then. They marched following the Via Flaminia and would soon reach Narnia, where the road would bifurcate. On one of the forks one could advance further toward Vienna. Volkert actually started to enjoy some aspects of his march as he had the opportunity to admire outstanding Roman monuments. Across the River Nar led the largest bridge ever built by the Romans, spanning in four impressive arches over the water. And close to Narnia one would pass through the large tunnel built by emperor Vespasian to allow fast traffic through the Apennines, the famous Intercisa. Volkert allowed Simodes to describe these Roman exploits in the most dazzling colors. The Greek seemed to have great admiration for the architectural achievements of the Empire. Volkert made a mental note to be righteously impressed once necessary.
On the second day, the centurion allowed them to proceed a bit more slowly and approved an additional break – primarily so that the recruits were able to take care of their wounded feet. When it was late, the men were a little less exhausted, but nevertheless tired and just grateful to be able to lie down.
Volkert was sure that Latinus would increase the pace the next day. They had made a good 20 miles on the first day and the second perhaps a little bit less. If they aspired for more tomorrow, they would have to put in some energy. The total march to Noricum would require a few more weeks, although a part of the journey was continued on riverboats. Volkert was looking forward to this part of the march, safe and leisurely, and couldn’t wait.
With this thought, sleep overcame him.
14
“So, Tennberg, who is with us?”
As if this “us” would have a magical effect on the ensign, the upper body of the young man straightened up and a gleam came into his eyes. Von Klasewitz allowed Tennberg to bask for a few moments in the splendor of his own importance before he repeated his question with a slightly urging undertone.
“Well, I’m not sure, Lieutenant Commander. Some of the officers will possibly remain neutral and not interfere in a confrontation. From the crew I see about 40 firmly on our side, maybe four non-commissioned officers. We can be glad that Becker is no longer with us with his men; that makes things much easier.”
The nobleman could not help but to agree with Tennberg. With Becker’s infantry still on board, he wouldn’t allow the venture he planned to start. But now Rheinberg’s hazardous travels ultimately turned out to be a blessing. With luck, the Goths and Becker’s men would decimate each other, so two birds would have been killed with one stone.
“That will have to be sufficient, because we get support from outside,” said von Klasewitz. “I have spoken with Petronius. He not only has some of Renna’s guards in his pocket, he also will bring a few dozen of his most fanatical followers secretly in the vicinity of the Saarbrücken . We need to plan carefully, Tennberg! It must be done at night, and we have to see that in the guard schedule our people have the majority at that time. We help Petronius’ men on board and show them where Rheinberg’s loyalist are. I want to avoid too great a bloodshed, but whoever defends himself will suffer the consequences.”
Tennberg nodded eagerly. Von Klasewitz had already detected the man’s slightly sadistic inclination some time ago when he had unnecessarily harassed enlisted men and had condoned it, if only slightly. The ensign knew that, and he thanked the nobleman for his acceptance of him with loyalty.
Quite helpful had been the fact that von Klasewitz had hinted that after implementation of the action – he avoided the word “mutiny” as much as possible – some field promotions were necessary, and he would need a reliable and disciplined first officer. With that, he Tennberg had finally in his bag.
Von Klasewitz himself was well aware that for most of the 40 men of whom Tennberg had claimed they would participate the only reason for doing so was greed. Tennberg had promised them w
hat they desired most: a life in luxury, large palaces, willing slaves – there was no insane or wet dream that the two officers wouldn’t address in order to get the necessary number of mutineers assembled. He had already talked with Petronius in detail about the consequences and had come to the conclusion that it would be a nice gesture to the Rheinberg loyalists afterwards to have the worst of the mutineers executed for their “atrocities” as scapegoats. Then the finer minds would have calmed down and at the same time would be faced with a fait accompli . And von Klasewitz had to hurry, because he knew that Rheinberg would eventually return to the Saarbrücken in the near future. The nobleman had read the historical works in Rheinberg’s cabin and knew that Gratian wouldn’t continue his campaign in the East. With Becker’s men on their way and with Theodosius as general, there was no reason why that should change – and also Rheinberg had made clear that he preferred no direct involvement of Gratian in military activities in the East. Accordingly, the Emperor would devote to his duties in the West and that would certainly be the occasion for Rheinberg to return.
It was necessary to act quickly and accurately.
“I have the guard plan adapted as far as possible, so nobody else notices something,” von Klasewitz said to his loyal assistant. “If all goes well, we will have the right constellation of men in the night guards in three days. I chose the shift from midnight for our action, because the few men who do not belong to us will be quite tired. I briefed Petronius, and he has assured me that his preparations have covered all eventualities.”
“Then everything is ready,” the young man said visibly happy. He seemed to regard the whole thing as a very exciting and promising adventure. At the appropriate time, quite certain for von Klasewitz, the young man would prove to be very useful.
The nobleman rose. “We must keep the lid on it, Ensign. Everything has to run perfectly normal up until the right moment. That fat walrus Köhler especially has his eyes and ears everywhere! If someone smells something, then it will be him.”
Tennberg clucked his tongue. “Köhler is at the top of my hit list once the time comes. The man doesn’t know where his place is. He’ll have to learn the limits of a senior petty officer.”
The nobleman could only agree. When the senior NCO would be among the victims of their small action, he wouldn’t shed a tear. NCO s who thought for themselves were one of the absurdities caused by the too liberal regiment of von Krautz and Rheinberg, a tumor in the crew’s body von Klasewitz intended to remove with resolution. There would be much to do, once he had taken command.
He nodded to himself as he left Tennberg. Oh yes, very, very much to do.
15
Odotheus was a brave warrior. He had followed Fritigern and Alaric from their old settlement area, as they eventually had to give way to the hordes from the East. Although they had been hopelessly inferior to the agile and ruthless attackers, Odotheus had done his own to protect the retreat of the many hundreds of covered wagons and had watched as his younger brother, Vitigis, dotted by Hunnish arrows, had fallen dead from his horse. Odotheus didn’t hate the Huns, because he had fought with too many of them side by side against the Romans; they were apostates, who had renounced the Hunnish king for a variety of reasons.
Odotheus didn’t hate the Romans either. What he had seen of Rome, he found impressive. The beautiful estates, the fortified cities with the white walls and all the magnificent buildings, especially churches, and the powerfully preaching of rich Arian bishops, who represented his faith and at the same time the importance of the Church in a way and manner in which no Gothic preacher had ever been able to. He had been with Fritigern, had negotiated a settlement in his empire with the Emperor Valens. Then they had been betrayed.
Odotheus had no problem with the Romans. He had just looted a large country farm, and his pack horse was full of treasures, his cart laden with fabrics and animal skins and in his bag jingled Roman solidi. Rome was a fine thing. Just a pity that the Romans simply couldn’t give up.
When the leader of their group, the swashbuckling Fastida, had heard of the Roman troops in their vicinity, it didn’t take much convincing to bring the mixed group of Goths and Huns to attack this unit to cement the domination of the Goths in this part of the Eastern Empire. There weren’t many Romans in that unit and they were clumsy on their horses, and they built their camp with such reckless noise that one could almost feel sorry for them. A quick attack would allow them to capture their weapons, armor, some gold from the pay office. A few survivors would be allowed to escape, so that they could report this terror to their superiors, who were barricaded behind the beautiful high walls and would fearfully pee in their togas – there was no nicer end to a successful day.
Odotheus winced as Rhima, his oldest friend, struck him on the shoulder. An ugly, fresh red scar ran through the beefy man’s face, tore a ford through his bushy beard. There the tip of a Roman sword had touched him decisively, a weapon which now ordained the belt of the warrior with its owner being with his ancestors for some time now; one of the countless victims of that memorable battle at Adrianople, where the Emperor fell.
“Well, my friend, don’t dream! The command to attack has come! Ride by my side and maybe, maybe I’ll leave you a Roman to deal with!”
“You will leave one for me?” Odotheus cried and spurred his horse. “Rhima, let’s treat that scar properly! The wound tarnishes your senses and your mind!”
But his friend could hear him no longer as the roar of the galloping had become deafening, and yet one of the most uplifting sounds Odotheus had ever heard. Dust kicked up, dirt moved by the hooves, and this sound mingled with the encouraging cries of the Goths, the guttural war cries of the Huns, all made a concert of a special kind, a music of war which was throbbing the blood in his temples. He no longer even noticed that he himself tore his mouth open and a war cry escaped, he brandished his sword over his head and became one with the power of the Gothic attack.
He didn’t understand what hit them.
He saw how Rhima was torn from his horse just before him, threw his arms backwards, the horse screaming and squirting in a sudden fountain of blood from a devastated neck. Rhima looked as if something had punched through his chest, an invisible force that left him perforated and conjured red, glistening spots on his breastplate. Odotheus looked for a moment, staring in the eyes of his dead friend, which showed surprise, incomprehension, nothing of the former arrogant confidence and joy.
Then he was gone, crushed under the hooves of the horses following him.
Everywhere the animals cried, their powerful chests shredded, a slush of blood and offal. Everywhere the men cried, whose limbs were torn with unexpected, sudden violence, skulls burst, shattered by invisible hammers. Odotheus spurred his horse, as if he could escape the horror.
Before him rode the daring Fastida, face contorted into a grimace, and a moment later a cloud of blood and brain matter seemed to drift toward Odotheus, emerging out of nowhere, where just now the head of their leader had been.
And then the pain, penetrating, hot, without warning. No sword felled the brave Odotheus, no spear pierced his entrails, and yet the invisible force threw life out of his body like a demonic curse.
Odotheus was already dead when he hit the ground, saw nothing more of the hooves trampling his face and crushing his bones.
He didn’t see his comrades who shared his fate. He didn’t notice the desperate attempts to escape the terrible curse that had haunted them. He didn’t see Gothic warriors, who pressed their large hands on gushing wounds and screamed in panic and tried to run. He was spared the whimpering and moaning of the wounded, spared by the Roman soldiers who, with horror on their faces, rode through the battlefield and redeemed the wounded from their suffering. He also didn’t hear the awful screams of the surviving horses who beat around them, bleeding, until Roman spears also ended their agony.
He was no aware of the group of seven riders – four Goths, three Huns, who had been riding at the back
of the bunch – who had time to turn around their horses and escaped with wide eyes and pale faces, fast, as the devil was about to pursue them.
16
Becker looked at the bodies and tried to guard himself against the horrific images. He stayed in the background, gave precedence to the Roman legionaries, as they walked the field, outwardly cool and in a wide column. Every now and then a blade jerked up or a spear thrusted downwards where a wounded Goth or a suffering animal were redeemed. Becker had to remember the lessons that Rheinberg had given him, especially about the fact that medical care on the battlefield at this time either didn’t exist or if the most was concentrated on those who had a certain chance of survival, to carry them to a quiet place and an opportunity to lie down. There were doctors and in the some of the Roman legions even field surgeons who, due to their many years of practice, were able to handle one or the other injury and thus to secure the wounded some chance of survival. But the legionaries here had no surgeons and the casualties weren’t Romans but enemies, and even the cautious efforts by Becker to let the paramedics of the infantry go over the battlefield had been rejected by Arbogast with visible contempt. Ultimately, Becker only managed to ask for a prisoner of war to obtain information. This logic the Romans had understood, and Arbogast gave instructions to look for a wounded man who could possibly be saved by the German paramedics to put him through a decent torture afterwards.
The success of the German arms against the completely unprepared Goths and Huns had been overwhelming. When the enemy had been in range and the command given, the bursts of machine guns as well as the well-matched shots from rifles by the infantrymen had mowed the riders from their horses. The Goths hadn’t even known what hit them and had reacted totally confused and headless. By their hasty and ill-considered responses, they gave the Germans more than enough time to complete their grisly work. Only a few clever riders at the end of the mass of attackers, who had been able to observe the chaos from a safer distance than the others, had escaped the hail of bullets. But on the field lied hundreds of dead and wounded.
The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal Page 11