The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal

by Boom, Dirk van den

“That’s interesting.”

  “It is a lie and fantasy!”

  Fritigern looked at Alaric. The old man chewed his lower lip like a little girl. For some time, the legendary leader of the Goths had become increasingly frail and sick, yet still far too many listened to him, so that even Fritigern, who had to make the daily decisions, couldn’t dismiss his counsel without causing consternation. Alaric was a Goth of old school – wouldn’t or couldn’t understand what they had experienced so far – and yet he was usually easy to impress. The reports, however, who had been brought by Rechiar and then another one of Godegisel’s men, seemed not to convince him at all.

  “Godegisel isn’t a busybody,” Fritigern replied. The young noble was his man, he had to stand up for him. The statements of the spy behind the walls of Thessaloniki were not as unbelievable as Alaric said in his blustering way. In fact, the young man had focused to present a factual narrative of what he had learned. Fritigern could not wish for a better espionage report. But covered by all the objectivity laid the core of the problem: that Godegisel ultimately confirmed the reports of the survivors of Fastida’s bunch. There were these miracle weapons, and their effect was catastrophic. And the Romans and their new allies were planning something, a trap for the advancing Goths. Fritigern had this growing, uneasy feeling about the attack and would’ve liked to cancel the approach toward Thessaloniki. But that was already beyond his power. Rumors among the Goths made the rounds: that there were Gothic spies inside the city, which would in time open the gates; that the Romans fought with the courage of despair but would be hopelessly inferior; that Flavius Victor was seeking death and was willing to sacrifice his entire remaining troops to be with his emperor again; that unbelievable riches have been accumulated in the city and that is why the Romans were so keen to defend it.

  Of course, Godegisel would try to help them, but Fritigern had no great hopes. And the other rumors were just that – rumors, many of them probably invented by the Romans themselves to attract the Goths. If that was their plan, they had succeeded, for Fritigern could keep the numerous sub-leaders barely under control. No, to cancel the attack was certainly not a serious option. He had to make the best of the situation, and this was to convince the council of war to assume that Godegisel’s warnings were to be taken seriously. It was possible that arrangements could be made to avert the disaster and thus the complete defeat Fritigern saw looming on the horizon. Maybe even with a little luck and God’s help, the possible defeat could be turned into a victory.

  But his people had to listen to him – and especially the old stubborn Alaric.

  “I haven’t sent Godegisel because he’s a madman who hears voices or someone who doesn’t remain calm in battle and can make no decisions.”

  Fritigern saw the old man in the face. “Or do you want to accuse him of this?”

  Alaric made a derogatory gesture. “Godegisel is an acceptable captain and certainly has his qualities. But he was predominantly sent because he belongs to your clients and you wanted to give him the opportunity of probation, so that your own reputation continues to rise in return.”

  Fritigern smiled thinly.

  “If that is so, dear Alaric, then I would have certainly selected him with great care, one who is indeed able to give me reputation and not one from whom I have to think that he invents a fairy tale which might reflect badly on me.”

  Alaric snorted. “Or did you deliberately pick someone who can tell good stories, so that you both look fine and we swallow these strange descriptions?”

  “All this doesn’t lead us anywhere!”

  The fragile, barely audible voice that interrupted the dispute the room filled faintly. But everyone raised their heads, and an uncomfortable silence spread. Festida the Elder had reached the eightieth year of life this summer according to the general estimate, and it was his son who had been struck down by the same miraculous weapons whose existence seemed to be confirmed by Godegisel’s report. The younger Festida had been the only surviving son of his father until that fateful encounter, and the voice of the old man carried weight. Even Alaric had respect for the old man.

  “That’s silly,” continued the elder Festida. Though his voice sounded hoarse, his tone was firm. The frail old man clutched the knob of a cane with both hands, staring with blind eyes on the table to they were all gathered. He did not recognize anyone, yet he saw all. “Godegisel isn’t an idiot, Alaric,” Festida whispered. “Fritigern has led us to victory at Adrianople. My son died a cruel and unpredictable death and with him hundreds of good warriors. Those who survived, I know well. They are all now in their tents suffering nightmares yet they were experienced warriors who have never lowered their sword against a superior force of legionaries. Each of them fought at Adrianople with the utmost bravery and prudence, and my son thought the world of them.” Festida turned his head toward Alaric. “You don’t want to bring the memory of my son into disrepute calling his trusted companions crazy, don’t you, mighty Alaric?”

  The leader cleared his throat. “No, Festida. I will not dishonor the memory of your son. He was a brave man.”

  “My son was a reckless fool,” Festida replied calmly, “but he was brave, that’s true. Godegisel has brought us Valens, and he killed the bodyguard of the Emperor. The young man has proven himself, and Fritigern did well to entrust him with this difficult mission.”

  Approving murmur surged and dried up once Alaric slammed his hand on the table.

  “He has brought us Valens, and what do we do with him? Hide him instead to ask the Romans for a ransom and peace on our terms.”

  “Valens’ fate is not our topic,” Fritigern retorted a sharp voice. “He is one of our trumps, with which we can wager, if the situation develops to our disadvantage. We will now talk about Godegisel’s reports and the question of whether we believe them and want to prepare accordingly.”

  The leader of the Goths looked around. Thirty-two chieftains of Goths, Alans and Huns had gathered, the elite of the multi-ethnic army, which currently had Eastern Rome under control.

  Festida the Elder lifted the cane and slammed it effectively on the ground.

  “I believe him. How should we deal with the problem?” he said firmly.

  Fritigern nodded. He didn’t offer any comment. His gaze wandered, and he saw how cautious agreement surged among the congregation.

  Then his look remained at Alaric, who quite obviously felt that he had lost the argument. The old man spat on the ground and nodded grimly.

  “Well, Fritigern,” he said, as the expectant silence began to become uncomfortable. “So we want to believe these reports. What do we do?”

  Fritigern allowed himself a smile, reached for the pitcher in front of him, and took a deep swig of beer. “I have no plan, my friends,” he said half apologetically, “but I’ve read Godegisel’s message several times and with great attention. I have ideas, but I need your advice.”

  He spread out his arms, making sure to include the grumpy-looking Alaric in the gesture.

  “Let’s discuss it!”

  33

  Thomas Volkert recognized a powerless speech when he heard one. His Latin was now, just like his Greek, on a level that he could follow any everyday conversation easily. The speech, which had begun to be delivered before the assembled new troops, was no exception, not least because the rhetorician of Theodosius had endeavored to formulate words even the simplest peasant’s son was capable to understand. The stupid stuff uttered by the potential future emperor had been of so abysmal primitiveness that even simple peasant sons among the recruits responded with bleary eyes to the uninspired presentation. To underestimate one’s own soldiers permanently was nothing that would have happened to a Latinus.

  On the way here, since the battle against the scattered pile of barbarians, Volkert had begun to judge the gruff man differently and to look at him with renewed respect. He had to realize to his surprise that the kind of respect that he showed the man was quite different than any he ever had for
a German officer or even old Köhler. As a centurion, Latinus was no more than a captain, but above all he was a man who had tried to keep men entrusted to him alive in a most cruel environment and allow them to experience their service’s end – because he knew well that most didn’t join the legion voluntarily.

  And for that Volkert had to realize, the centurion was more than just literally willing to walk over corpses. Oddly enough, it was this new view which drowned any despair Volkert felt. He caught himself daydreaming, where he returned to Ravenna after many battles, as a radiant tribune or even legate and Senator Michellus gave him the hand of his daughter with joy. He woke up in the morning, wrapped firmly in his blankets, and felt the warm stickiness of an extremely wet dream between his legs, a dream in which the senator’s daughter whom he had believed never to meet again played an active and memorable role. He found himself carefully looking at his comrades, a scrutiny that had perhaps been restricted by his close friendship with Simodes, and analyzing their qualities as well as shortcomings. He suddenly found himself in the situation to think like an officer.

  And when his new decurion, freshly posted from the troops of Western Rome which Gratian had passed to Theodosius, had asked him for the first time if this or that one would probably cause problems and who exactly was probably best qualified for the numerous special tasks that are usually higher paid and meant liberation from bearing service, Volkert had grasped it.

  He had emerged from his permanent unconsciousness, his routine, his misery, his emotional bitterness. He looked clearly at the world once more, no longer just drifting, and had, consciously or unconsciously, made the decision to become someone who does something and to make plans.

  Without doubt, the death of Simodes had triggered this process. The sudden end of the man who had only recently saved his life had been a great lesson – especially about the value of his own existence and the gift that the Greek had given him, and the debt that he’d never be able to pay it off. He owed it to the fallen not to throw his life away carelessly, but rather take it as an invitation to see it that he made something out of it.

  Volkert had regained control. He felt his love for Julia with a new, almost forgotten intensity. Longing and hope, and even the subsequent short bouts of resignation, he felt as almost refreshing and inspiring. The confidence he felt was passed along as he fulfilled his duty. The certainty that this campaign would be successful he gained from his historical knowledge, but this didn’t change the fact that he expressed his unshakable belief in a victory during every conversation.

  This made him a welcome guest at campfires.

  This confidence didn’t change much because the speech of Theodosius was anything but enthusiastic. The endless series of platitudes to a generally less motivated, tired and sometimes still inexperienced army had no visible effect, and the prescribed cheers after the end of the speech sounded weak and not very convincing. Especially those of the new recruits as Volkert, who, due to their battle with the Sarmatians, already experienced something “real” legionaries do, didn’t get much from the noble and yet so meaningless words of general.

  When they were allowed to break the formation, Volkert trotted along with his comrades to their part of the camp. He was scheduled for tomorrow’s watchkeeping, so the rest of the day he had basically off. The wet cold of winter had befallen the soldiers in full force, so everyone felt exhausted, frozen and listless. The clothes didn’t dry properly, everything was clammy and cold on the body. The mood wasn’t good. A few legionaries passed the time with games of chance, two obviously musically talented soldiers had begun to play instruments, the audience grew and listened to very sad-sounding songs. The whole atmosphere in the camp seemed to be more depressed, and that was certainly not helped by the less than inspirational speech of the new general. The prospect of having to confront barbarian invaders in these weather conditions pleased no one, and even the veterans among them showed a rather grim expression.

  Just when Volkert wanted to rest at the warming fire, a tribune came up to him. The officer called Vicinio was apparently responsible for the new recruits. A senior centurion accompanied him. It was the tesserarius and therefore corresponded approximately to what Volkert knew from in his time as senior sergeant of a battalion. Without a word, the men sat next to Volkert and held outstretched palms toward the flames. The tribune cleared his throat. The firelight flickered in his hard-lined face, his deep wrinkles expressing the life of a man who had aged too fast and too soon.

  “Have you coped with the death of your comrades?” Vicinio finally asked softly.

  Volkert, somewhat surprised at the unusual sympathy, nodded hesitantly. He did not know if this answer was ever true, but it seemed appropriate.

  “Good,” said the tribune, and it sounded almost as if he was glad not to have dealt with this issue any further. “I’ve been watching you, and I’ve heard that you have more than a few interesting abilities. Your action in the small battle against the Sarmatians was unusual, but you did the right thing and saved your comrade’s life.”

  “I’m just a simple recruit,” Volkert replied politely.

  Vicinio waved it away.

  “Yeah, let’s stop the banter. You have been pressed and have proven yourself anyway. Many are frustrated, and some of your comrades have not coped well. They are full of fear.”

  “I am not fearless.”

  “Fearless or not, I have the impression that you can perform your duties even when afraid.”

  Volkert nodded. What could he say? His assumption of command was well known, and he could hardly take claim to have suddenly gone mad. Did this recommend him for higher tasks? On the other hand, he knew how thin and problematic the staffing of the legions was, and surely men had been promoted for less and comparably fast.

  “The newly raised legions need people with your skills, Thomasius. I am looking for those who are to receive posts in the new units. My selection is very limited, the lack begins with very simple problems and doesn’t end where soldiers have to be able to command men in battle and keep a cool head.”

  Volkert nodded cautiously. “I can imagine, sir.”

  Vicinio grinned in satisfaction. “Good. You are hereby promoted to the rank of a principales and get the post of a decurion. Sign up tomorrow with Egregius here. He will make you familiar with your new responsibilities. Your troop will consist of ten of your comrades whose lives you’ve saved recently. They will certainly like to follow you. Congratulations on the promotion.”

  The tribune patted Volkert almost affectionately on the shoulder and stood up. The men looked at the German with a mixture of envy and appreciation. The promotion made him “immune” to watchkeeping as well as simple camp-work because he had been entrusted with a special function. It was this kind of promotion that meant the rise in the ranks of the army, hoped for by each soldier. Decurion Volkert – the rank shot through the head of the still surprised man. The sound of it was a suddenly not entirely absurd. Who would have thought that he would embark on a career as a noncommissioned officer? And to collect the higher pay would also cause no great pain to him.

  As he wrapped himself in his blankets up at dusk and looked into the crystal-clear night sky, he felt that he had made peace with his fate, at least for the moment. The wild despair and deep depression had given way to a clear will to use his life and to pursue his goals, especially never to lose sight of an eventual return to Julia – to persevere and to achieve this with sufficient patience.

  His time would come, he was sure. And with a very different form of certainty that he could not explain rationally or wanted to, he felt his beloved wife-to-be would wait and in turn look for him. The warmth that filled him at the thought was deeper than anything the flickering campfire was able to provide.

  34

  “They are many.”

  “But not more than expected.”

  Flavius Victor didn’t say anything, but the lines of worry on his forehead didn’t want to give way either. Becke
r didn’t try to spread false confidence, and to have worriers was sometimes invaluable, as they stopped others becoming too cocky or optimistic. In addition, Becker couldn’t even blame the old general for his bad mood because from the highest tower of the fortification one could appreciate the impressive military parade with which their enemies presented themselves in front of the city in all their menace. This was, after all, the army that had overcome tens of thousands of Roman legionaries, the flower of the Eastern Roman forces – had swept them away and with them Emperor Valens. Fritigern had not been able to gain a significant strategic advantage from his victory, but ultimately that hadn’t been necessary. In his own time line Theodosius, the new Emperor of the East, would give the Goths the status of Foederatii after years of military strife, and thus create the first state in state of the Roman Empire, ultimately putting the cohesion of the whole empire in question. Theodosius had given Rome a breathing space, sure, but ultimately it had been the beginning of the end.

  Becker was here to stop the beginning of the end at an early stage and thus to pave the way to a very different development. He didn’t want to imagine what consequences it would have for the time travelers if their plan failed. The position of the crew of the light cruiser would be difficult, if not untenable. Their future depended on a gamble of truly epochal proportions. Becker was still giddy every time he thought about it.

  “When should we offer them battle?” Africanus wanted to know. The trierarch had arrived with the Saarbrücken at Thessaloniki and continued to fulfill his role as liaison officer. The fact that the mere presence of the dark-skinned man was not only normal but had an almost soothing influence was nothing Becker took notice of consciously. Behind Africanus waited five Roman legionaries without weapons and armor. They were specifically chosen because they were considered fast runners with good stamina. Also, horses waited for them below. These were Africanus’ messengers and thus their communication link to the ship. Becker hoped that they wouldn’t be needed for more than routine reporting on the progress of the battle. For a moment, Rheinberg had considered himself to leave the cruiser and to follow developments on site but had then taken back his idea.