The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal

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The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal Page 19

by Boom, Dirk van den


  “Shields! Front!” Latinus roared. The first row raised its shields right in front of the body. “Second row! Spears!”

  Volkert felt that he reacted like an automaton. The spears of the second row drooped forward, sideways to the front men to meet the onrushing enemy. He could make out the attackers now, wild fellows with long beards, brandishing large battle axes.

  “Formation! No one falls back!” the command of the centurion came. He stood, seemingly unfazed by the onslaught of the barbarians, right in front of his hastily erected unit and paid more attention to their discipline than to the deadly mob that approached him.

  The barbarians were firing stones with hand loops. The bullets pattered against the shields of the first row.

  “The cohort steps forward! One step!”

  Like machines, passed through the endless drills, forced by inevitability and the oppressive narrowness of the formation, the recruits made a step forward.

  The ground seemed to tremble as the approaching barbarians struck up a great howl. Some brandished the severed heads of the veterans who had bought them time. Volkert felt bad, but then a sudden, cold determination filled him.

  “The cohort steps forward! One step!”

  Again, the body of the soldiers lurched forward.

  “The cohort remains in formation!”

  The first barbarians bounced noisily against the phalanx, threw themselves against the outstretched spears, were impaled, others hacked with axes on the recruits, broke the front row. Blood everywhere, screams, falling bodies, the pungent smell of voiding bladders and a deafening noise of cracking bones and the clash of armor.

  Volkert screamed and screamed.

  “The cohort keeps formation!” the absolutely soulless, cold voice of Latinus pitched through the chaos. “Second row! Shield and sword! Third row! Spears!”

  Again, the drill took the conscious control, again Volkert saw his sword moving itself and the tip of the blade drove directly under the rib cage into the body of an attacker, exactly, smoothly, just as they had learned it. A hoarse gurgling sound came from the open mouth of the man, as he breathed his last and fell heavily to the ground. Volkert tried to free his sword from the falling body, saw a shadow rushing an ax on him. Volkert let go of the sword, lifted the shield, knowing that he was too slow, then someone drove a blade into the arm of the axeman, severed bones and tendons, leaving a fountain of blood raining down on him.

  Simodes stepped at his side, and then there were two spears from the third row, and the pierced man slumped to the ground. Volkert snatched up his sword, the handle slippery in his bloodied hand.

  “The cohort keeps formation.” Latinus’ command thrust through his momentary dizziness. Volkert saw the centurion severing a barbarian’s throat with indifferent composure before he turned back, keeping his recruits in mind. “The cohort marches forward! One step!”

  He opened his mouth for another command and the gurgling was only heard at the very front, where Volkert stood. The spear that pierced the neck of the centurion reappeared, colored red, on the other side, tore the skull almost from the neck. Latinus seemed to look directly into the eyes of Volkert, almost regretfully, to plead forgiveness that he let them down in this hour of need. Then the red plume of his helmet fell to the ground.

  Volkert looked frantically for the second centurion, but he was nowhere to be seen. Cries of horror went through the recruits. The lines were about to break. Fear gripped the inexperienced warriors, and the effect of the lack of leadership threatened to undermine the iron discipline. Glances were thrown over the shoulders, and everywhere you looked, recruits were in a retreating battle.

  Volkert didn’t have to be a veteran to recognize the signs of impending disaster. A few more moments and the lines of the legionaries would crumble like dry bread and a hopeless flight would be the beginning of a senseless massacre. Volkert pressed his lips on each other, ran forward, left the column, ignored the astonished exclamations of Simodes.

  He knelt beside the dead body of the centurion, grabbed his helmet. Volkert’s head would be almost completely covered by the large device, but that was just well.

  Volkert knew he had the voice. His instructor in Mürwik had certified that, and they had given him enough opportunity to use it. But it was one thing to have the voice. To fill it with authority, that was something else.

  He took a deep breath, stretched his body, raised his sword.

  Behind him, the ranks broke.

  Behind him, rampant panic emerged.

  It was now or never.

  “Cohort in formation!” he roared with fervor across the battlefield. “Cohort in formation!”

  Heads were flying around, pairs of eyes fixed the red plume, ears heard the usual command – the roaring, unmistakable voice, and they felt the authority behind it, allowing no questions and no refusal.

  A wave ran through the lines of the Romans. Where the first had turned around, the ranks closed again. Eyes turned forward. Shields went up.

  Volkert’s sword fell into the thorax of an onrushing Sarmatian and with a movement that looked contemptuously, he wiped the dying man aside.

  “The cohort steps forward! One step!”

  Groaning, struggling, the recruits made the step forward, and with lifted spears and swords they marched over the prostrate bodies of friend and foe alike.

  “Third row! Close ranks! Fourth row, fifth row! Regroup!”

  Lost legionaries got a new partner to fight at their sides as the soldiers of the third row closed the gaps in the former second. Still half incredulous, Volkert observed that the endless drills and ruthless disciplining now seemed to be working. A sudden, wild joy came over him. It worked indeed! He had averted the worst of all disasters!

  It was absolutely incredible.

  The onslaught of attackers faded, but still a few dozen run with fierce determination toward them.

  “The cohort steps forward! Two steps! Three! Four! One! Two …”

  Volkert’s voice tore all of them along. With hard steps, the phalanx moved toward the barbarians.

  “Rome! Roooooome!” Volkert yelled wildly. His sword flashed high. The phalanx fell into a rut, the spears soared, the blades cut attackers like fillets. The wild cries of the barbarians turned more and more into a howl of rage and fear and everyone felt it: The enemy was broken!

  Another five minutes passed before the first attacker turned away from the battle and retreated. Involuntarily, Volkert felt the urge to rush behind the fleeing, and he was not the only one, but then he composed himself, kept a cool head. No squander of the victory.

  “The cohort remains in formation! The cohort holds!” His command cut through the ebbing din of battle. As ordered the men came to a halt, breathing heavy, covered with blood. Some sank trembling arms to be subsequently rebuked by a decurion, others stared after the running barbarians who escaped into the misty darkness.

  Euphoria, elation, pride. The adrenaline that had whipped up Volkert subsided. He looked at the ground, looking straight into the face of a dead assailant, a man – no, a boy, maybe 16 years of age – with wide eyes and a bloody, mangled torso.

  Volkert vomited, writhed over the body of the boy. Someone was holding his shoulder, and no decurion yelled at him, no one said anything.

  They had won.

  The realization of the passed ordeal came slowly into the consciousness of all. When they returned in the nearly devastated camp, Volkert forced them to stay in formation. He strode among the exhausted and dirty men and nodded at them. Then he looked for someone he could return command to, found an unbelieving decurion, who looked at him with a certain gratitude, and took off the helmet of Latinus.

  He was too big for him, in spite of everything.

  Not a word, not one. But when the decurion turned away to organize the reconstruction of the camp – an immediate departure was now inconceivable – Volkert saw pride in the faces of many recruits, even among those who, like him, have been pressed into the
service. But Volkert also recognized, probably more aware than many of the others who were still drunk with victory, the price they had paid for this triumph. The wounded were brought together, at least those who had a chance of recovery. Comrades helped comrades to dress the injuries. Then Volkert saw with horror as a decurion lowered his sword into the chest of a legionary, who had been lying screaming and coughing on the ground, his hands clenched in front of the bulging intestines from his sliced abdomen. His face was motionless as carved in stone, and Volkert did not know how often he had already provided this last service. Again the sword of the man in front jerked, as he marched over the small battlefield, accompanied by some of the surviving veterans and relieving the seriously injured, whether Roman or barbarian, with fast, targeted strikes from their suffering. This was a cold efficiency, like the battle itself, and again Volkert felt weak with dark clouds circling before his eyes.

  The other recruits had now noticed the gruesome spectacle, held in what they do, and many realized that these men relieved them of a work, at least this one time, they themselves would be required to do in the future. Volkert had to think how he would have to kill an injured Simodes, and the thought alone …

  Simodes.

  Where was Simodes?

  Volkert’s last conscious memory was how the blade of the Greeks had rescued him along with two spears from the back row from certain death. He had to thank the comrades and friends for that.

  Volkert found himself wandering through the camp, calling Simodes’ name. He found himself on the battlefield at the end, and the decurion let him quietly search until he found the horribly scarred body of the Greek, lying under the corpses of two barbarians, his face more astonished in surprise than pain, but nothing left of that serene lightness that had distinguished him during his lifetime.

  It became definitely too much for Volkert. Far too much.

  He did not even notice as he slumped silently and without further stirring over the broken body of his friend. The darkness that surrounded him he warmly welcomed.

  30

  Godegisel and his men were lucky. Apparently out of fear of the advancing Goths, the Roman authorities had begun to send away refugees from the city and close the gates. While disappointed Roman citizens with bag and baggage had to make way in order to seek their salvation in another settlement, the camouflage of the Goths as formerly prosperous, but now refuge-seeking traders benefited them. This impression was reinforced by the generosity with which Godegisel distributed solidi among the guards who eyed him and his men suspiciously. But the legionaries here had not been paid for some time. As the supposed refugees asked, clinking Roman coin in hand, for shelter while verbosely lamenting their cruel fate – that is, actually only their spokesman wailed, while the rest sat rather silent on horseback and looked exhausted – there were those who participated in receiving the coins and then opened the way, and all this without any fuss. Once through the city gate, the Goths merged with the population of the overcrowded city. True to their cover story, Godegisel led them to an inn, whose price tag already showed him that only those would find accommodation who had enough cash. Thus, the Goth had sufficiently been stocked with great foresight. A grumpy innkeeper showed them two tight rooms – even this high-class inn was overcrowded – and also found space for the horses. The meal that was proffered to them for a horrendous amount of money was as bad as supply shortages made them expect. Until the Gothic army withdrew – whether victorious or defeated – this situation would only worsen. Bilimer looked particularly frustrated in the face of this perspective.

  They were not the only Goths in the city. Such a large metropolis like Thessaloniki housed at this exciting time a variety of nations, and it was also not as if there had previously been no Goths in the Roman Empire. Still, the city was dominated by Greeks and Thracians, and Godegisel gave his men an express order to stay in the hostel as long as possible, not to visit the taverns, and not to touch alcohol.

  Then he himself roamed the city. At first he followed the Decumanus Maximus the main street, which was a direct extension of the Via Egnatia up to the central marketplace, the Agora. He didn’t hurry, but that was hardly possible anyway, given the jam-packed streets. Thessaloniki already had more than 30,000 inhabitants in peacetime, and the many refugees had surely doubled the population. Although imperial law that forbade the daytime traffic of carts, horses and wagons in cities, the sheer mass of people significantly hindered Godegisel’s progress. From the main street he entered the Agora, admired the long shopping street with the Cryptoporticus, the giant warehouse of the city. Here was the center of public life, and for him as a Goth, the impression was overwhelming. Godegisel might still be highly critical of the Romans, but when he strolled down the street toward the impressive theater-stadium, which offered room for up to 20,000 spectators, he had to admit this civilization’s great power. He found himself impressed, and yet he felt no awe, only respect.

  He stayed close to the taverns and rather consciously sought out those that were frequented by soldiers. Godegisel played the role of melancholic refugee whose difficult fate slowly led him to booze, ready to squander the last of his money in taverns, to perfection. The legionaries took his invitation gladly, treated him decently, and let him sit where he wanted, but otherwise he was increasingly ignored. His solidi were loose in his bag, and therefore many rounds were paid by him. The wine, although poor and acidic, untied the tongues of the legionaries, and once Godegisel called for a decent roast, the soldiers were only too willing to talk about God and the world. The Gothic spy let them talk, didn’t steer the conversation, just sat back, made sure that the jars were refilled, and inserted a joke every now and then. He preserved the impression not to be able to speak Greek properly and used the language clumsily when he had to speak. The soldiers grew more and more accustomed to his presence and his appearance became less and less peculiar.

  That was exactly what the Goth had wanted to achieve. It took a few days, then he began to collect specific information. An offhand remark here, a few raised eyebrows there, much more wasn’t necessary since the arrival of the strangers was talk of the town. But Godegisel wanted to penetrate through the veil of rumors and collect tangible information, and here the legionaries were of great importance.

  And so he assembled, in the course of time, a picture. He heard of the secret weapons of the strangers who reportedly came from Germania – a theory that Godegisel held for adventurous. He was careful, however, to express any opinion, and concentrated on refills instead. The descriptions of the weapons and especially their effect corresponded, despite the obvious exaggerations of drunken Romans, with the accounts of the refugees of the recent battle so that the noble came more and more to the conclusion that they had told the truth. Multiple times a cold shiver showered down his spine when he had to imagine what these weapons could do to advancing Gothic army, and even if only half of it became true, how it would shatter the cause of his people. They were actually in very serious danger. His first impulse was to leave the city immediately and warn Fritigern, but then he thought better of it. It was clear to him that he shouldn’t give away the advantage of being within the city walls.

  This might yet prove to be extremely useful.

  When he had collected a first sample of valid information, he commissioned Rechiar to bring them to Fritigern. He took quite a risk, because no one of the remaining men spoke Greek, but on the other hand Rechiar was most likely the one who was able to maneuver through the Roman patrols – besides, he rode like the devil and would therefore arrive fast, very fast , at the Gothic troops. With any luck, he would also succeed in making his way back, but Godegisel had emphasized to leave this for him to decide. In his message to Fritigern, he included all the details of which he was reasonably sure and urgently warned him not to underestimate the danger. He knew that the judge had nevertheless no other choice than to attack if he didn’t want to lose his authority, but maybe he could do something to move the obvious imbalance in
favor of the Goths. In fact, Godegisel’s thoughts were about no other problem. He had to find out more about the actual plans of the strangers to get an idea of how they intended to use their superior weaponry. He had the feeling that the Romans would not hide behind the city walls either. The mood was optimistic. There was too much laughing. The legionaries showed too little caution or fear, even fresh recruits, pressed into service, behaved as if the victory over the Gothic threat was now only a matter of time.

  He began to understand more of all this two days after Rechiar had left. The Romans had commenced to undergo a hard drill. The taverns, which he had previously visited to entice the bored soldiers to speak, had suddenly been orphaned. Godegisel heard that the Roman troops had begun with exercises before the western gate. It was forbidden for civilians to climb the city walls and to watch the spectacle, and the city gates were closed during the exercises. It was clear that the military leadership had no interest in letting too much information out to the public. But Godegisel felt that since he was here, more knowledge about this development was desperately needed. With the stock of gold in his pockets already diminished considerably, he could not even gather sufficient funds from his companions to take advantage of the Romans’ venality. So he found a building near the city walls whose roof ridge was about the same height as the wall itself. This would give him an although limited view of the field before it, and at the same time he was far enough away from the walls so as not to unnecessarily attract attention. The owner of the house, a grim landlord, he was able to convince to give him access with some hard cash. And so the Goth one morning set up for a long day on the cool and windy roof of the building.

  He watched as the Roman troops marched out in formation. It looked like the Roman Army he knew: The order of battle was classic and set the troops in the usual units. Godegisel estimated that the Romans mustered about 15,000 able-bodied men and that no significant reinforcements had arrived so far. The 15,000 men were a formidable force but could be beaten, especially since almost all were veterans of Adrianople, where the Romans had mobilized 40,000 soldiers; the sight of the advancing Goths would lower morale. In fact, no reasonably sane Roman general would oppose around 40,000 Gothic warriors with only 15,000 legionaries. Godegisel had heard a lot about General Flavius Victor, and none of the stories hinted even remotely that the old man was crazy. Nevertheless, it really looked as if the Romans had the intention to offer the advancing Goths a battle. For Godegisel, this was incomprehensible, but only at the beginning. Since the foreigners seemed not to partake in the maneuver, their theoretical intervention didn’t help him to understand what he observed there.

 

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