Passage

by Dirk van den Boom

  Finally, Tennberg and the man rose and left the tavern. Marcellus and Jos followed them. Outside, it was already getting dark. Marcellus realized that the men said goodbye and went their separate ways. He immediately knew who he had to pursue, and as Tennberg set off toward the harbor, the two boys rushed after him right away. Marcellus’ plan was to determine the whereabouts of the deserter and to report his findings immediately afterwards to the Valentinian. Africanus and Köhler would know what to do.

  The darkness made itself felt in the back alleys. While the main street was lit by the glow of numerous torches and lamps, there was hardly any illumination in the branching paths. Tennberg’s shadow was increasingly difficult to identify, so the boys had to get closer to catch up. The fact that even in the dark Josaphat was sleepwalking through his hometown – and especially the port area – proved to be an invaluable advantage. The donated dinner, Marcellus concluded, had been an excellent investment.

  Suddenly hard fists from behind grabbed his shirt. Marcellus struck involuntarily out, his little fist slapped a muscular arm, but then powerful fingers pressed painfully into his shoulders. Tears filled the boy’s eyes, and he cried out.

  “Scream as you wish. Nobody listens to street boys who have gone too far!”

  Marcellus was whirled around, couldn’t exactly make out the man, only a mighty shadow. Also Josaphat was caught, but he didn’t resist, rather fell down like a wet sack. A second man bent over him, wanted to put him on his feet, as the boy started groaning.

  “I feel so sick,” he wailed. Marcellus saw Josaphat bowing forward, placing his right hand to the body, the outstretched forefinger stuck in his open mouth deeply and willingly, choking loudly and throwing up his dinner on the tunic of his captor with a big, powerful surge.

  “Damn it! Ah! What a stink! Shit!” the man cursed and made an involuntary step backwards.

  That was his mistake.

  Josaphat tore himself from the weakened grip of the brute, whirled around and disappeared into the darkness. The captor, over and over covered with vomit, wanted to pursue, but realized already after a few steps that the boy had disappeared into the pitch-dark streets.

  The man cursed again, violently and loudly. During all of this, the hands of the other man had been placed around Marcellus’ narrow shoulders like iron. No chance of escape – and the trick with puking wouldn’t work a second time, Marcellus was sure of it. Jos seemed to have experienced this kind of attack several times, as fast and slick his reaction had been.

  Then the shape of a third person emerged from the dark.

  Tennberg.

  The young deserter looked disdainfully at Marcellus.

  “It’s him. He must’ve recognized me.”

  “The other boy got away, sir,” the man who had been vomited on said in a submissive tone. “He has …”

  “I smell it. Clean up and then come to the shelter. This one we take along. The other boy is hiding somewhere, and no one will take his words seriously. No one listens to this rabble. And no one knows where we are hiding. To have this one is the most important thing.”

  “What happens to him?” the big man asked, taking Marcellus in view.

  Tennberg threw the boy a contemptuous look.

  “That’s Dahms’s little pet. We will interrogate him. Once he tells us, he will be killed. Another child’s body in the sewer won’t interest anyone. Then we can continue our work.”

  “The expedition to Aksum will depart soon. Should we still intercept them here in Alexandria?” the other man asked.

  Tennberg whirled around and gave him a kick. “Idiot!” he hissed. “What’s next? Want to write our plans on posters and display them everywhere? Fuck you! Now go and clean yourself; your stink makes me sick.”

  The dirtied man turned away silently. Marcellus felt lifted up and thrown over his massive companion’s shoulder. In his stomach, he felt the icy lump of fear. He had well understood what Tennberg had said. Interrogation and death. Once more tears welled in his eyes, and he suppressed a sob. Suddenly he felt very alone and anything but adventurous. He waited and prayed fervently Jos would quickly find his way to the Valentinian and would be heard there. The crew surely already worried about his absence.

  Weak resistance stirred in him, and he squirmed in the iron grip of the man, but Marcellus had to be beaten only once, so hard that the boy had to gasp for air, that he stopped its attempts. Without resistance, he let them carry him away, his face turned toward the man’s back. Tennberg seemed to go ahead.

  No one would bother. Therein the deserter was certainly right. Alexandria was full of homeless children, like in any other major metropolis of the Empire. They were under no one’s protection.

  Marcellus felt discouragement.

  And this time he didn’t suppress the sobs.

  17

  Godegisel hadn’t expected this development.

  Yes, he had brought the imprisoned ex-emperor of the East faithfully to those who were cross with Emperor Gratian, in order, as the Judge had expressed it, “To stay in the game.” The young Gothic noble knew what was meant, and although the Goths were now de jure Roman citizens and settled on Roman territory, after they had been crushed resoundingly before Thessaloniki, the Judge still remained to be their leader, even if not formally in office, and eager to somehow help determine the fate of the Empire they were now a part of.

  Military influence was no longer possible. The Romans had taken the Goths’ weapons and widely distributed their people over the eastern half of the Empire. To have their own, closed settlements was banned, and with the population of the Empire being sparsely distributed anyway, that posed no problem: There were plenty of semi-orphaned villages and towns that were filled with the settlers. The reforms, which flooded the Empire after the arrival of the time travelers, benefited the Goths. They profited from the new freedoms and opportunities, as those who once had been homeless had to make an effort to be accepted in their new abode – and urged to prosper.

  And now here he was, and acting as something resembling a bodyguard. The conspirators under the command of Maximus had treated Godegisel not too honorably; doubtlessly, the nobleman wasn’t of equal rank for them. It was this strange contrast on which he pondered in his free hours of leisure of which he enjoyed too many: On the one hand, the conspirators wanted to fight Gratian and the influence the time travelers had through him, people they sometimes described as “unholy” and “demonic,” sometimes simply referred to as “traitors”; on the other hand, they had a certain respect for them, as they had defeated their enemies in the East and ended their threat for now, something they couldn’t deny. And every time Valens, in those phases where he was of relative good mental clarity, was able to accept the descriptions about the battle for Thessaloniki as true, the Eastern Roman Emperor was apparently not averse to recognize the blessing in the intervention of the strangers – albeit he seemed to struggle with the fact that Gratian was now Emperor of all of Rome.

  Valens was a special chapter anyway.

  The injury he suffered during the Battle of Adrianople was completely healed, and from the outside the Emperor – or ex-Emperor – gave a fully recovered impression. But something had left its mark on him. Although he went through times where he appeared clear and reasonable, there were other hours, sometimes days, in which he seemed to be lost somehow, uttering meaningless phrases, and he didn’t seem to perceive neither Godegisel nor anyone else who spoke to him.

  Valens had already been at his best what some would have called a fickle, indeed unstable character. He had always been very concerned about his reputation and had judged his nephew Gratian more as a threat than as a colleague in office. The older he got, the more irrational features had emerged in his personality. He had to rely more and more on the divinations of oracle-magicians and augurs of different origins, involving them in more and more decisions, and they had exerci
sed great influence on the eastern court – which had not been seen by all aristocrats or military leaders with joy. Valens had surely felt this displeasure even if nobody had dared to tell him openly. He had become locked up, imperious and intolerant, and it had been getting worse with each year. His decision at Adrianople not to wait for Gratian’s help, but to risk battle, had only been the culmination of many wrong and hasty assessments. He didn’t want to have to share the glory with his nephew, which was generally accepted as a reason for this decision. But maybe just one of his oracles had told him the fortunes for the battle stood well.

  So if one wanted to see something good in the new Valens, then that he was painfully aware of his greatest fault and in those phases where he seemed to think and speak clearly, he was able to argue and analyze. Godegisel had told him that it was he who had captured the fleeing Emperor in the ruins of a small farm far from the battlefield. Although Valens had been quite conscious, the older man couldn’t remember any of it. He didn’t seem to dislike the Goth for what he did, at least he didn’t show it, and he accepted him willingly as an interlocutor, he sometimes even showed an interest in continued conversation.

  The visits of the conspirators were of a different quality. Godegisel had quickly figured out what the men wanted from Valens: They wanted to take his shine as Emperor of the East to give the usurper Maximus some legitimacy. If after the fall of Gratian Valens would miraculously appear, formally wearing the purple of the East, and bless Maximus’ violent overthrow, raise him to co-regent, and afterwards abdicate so that Emperor Maximus ruled Rome – that would be ideal. Valens, as he had been promised him, could retire in honor, of course with an appropriate entourage, a state pension, perhaps on Capri, or in Diocletian’s ancient palace, or wherever he was out of the way.

  Godegisel had the impression that this plan was weighed by Valens, not being in favor and not against it, and so the conspirators had so far elicited no definite answer from him. It was as if two souls lived in the man’s chest: one of the new Valens, refined or humiliated by fall, injury and captivity, ready to compromise for a dignified life of old age; and the old Valens, proud, irascible, envious and ambitious, who defined himself entirely as Emperor of the East, and despite the rejection of his nephew’s rise, rejecting the usurpation of the Britannic general simply for reasons of principle. On top of that, the conspirators had their religious beliefs poorly concealed, especially a radical trinitarianism and, sponsored by Ambrosius, the idea of a corresponding state church. Valens was a Christian, but he had governed in a part of the Empire in which the Arian bishops used to have the upper hand, and it seemed that he rejected the fundamentalist radicalism of Maximus for reasons Godegisel himself couldn’t fully comprehend.

  Anyway, the young nobleman was not sure what role he had to play in this charade. Officially, he was seen by Maximus as a link to the “gothic interests,” whatever that meant. Godegisel wasn’t even sure what his interests were. The Judge had given him no instructions, and fearing discovery, Godegisel also had sent no request to ask for further advice. In addition, loyalty or not, Fritigern was really Judge no more but only a little, privileged landowner in eastern Rome, surely respected, but without any formal power. The treaty with Rome stated in great detail that the Goths had to dissolve any semi-statehood and had to fit completely into the legal structure of the Empire. No foederatii, no state within a state, but full integration and assimilation in exchange for peace and full citizenship.

  Godegisel wasn’t sure about his personal attitude in regard to the whole issue. He considered Maximus to be a military commander of some ability who could muster and maintain loyalty, a skill that was definitely essential. But Ambrosius appeared to him dogged and fanatical in every meeting he attended, and in addition most Goths were more inclined toward the Arians – a victory of the cause of Maximus might prove to be rather negative for his people in the long run.

  Godegisel had also spent much time thinking about the time travelers. The battle at Thessaloniki he had witnessed at the forefront. The arms of these men had indeed inspired fear. But the men themselves had differed only marginally from everyone else. They had been mortal, very mortal, and Godegisel himself had killed one of their leaders. But after that he had waited in vain for the revenge of the time travelers, expecting a special, individual punishment. The people never appeared to him as demons or beings with supernatural abilities. If it was true, and they were only separated from him by a large number of years in time, wouldn’t it make sense to take their advice seriously and to create a future in which some errors could possibly be avoided? Godegisel found this idea very attractive. And if God had something against it, why didn’t he simply make the trip of the metal vessel through the ages impossible in his omnipotence?

  No, the more he thought about all these things, the more it appeared that the help the Judge intended to render to the conspirators as a defiant gesture had not been fully thought through. And whether it were the critical comments of Valens when he was in the mood to talk to him, or his own perception of the meeting with Maximus and his comrades, both solidified Godegisel’s conviction that he played the wrong role at the wrong place.

  So he stood, lost in thought, not too far from the window of his residence, a simple building in the province of Britain, far from the capital. The fact that the temperatures in the new settlements of the Goths were probably far more comfortable didn’t contribute to Godegisel’s motivation to linger here any longer than necessary.

  “Full of thoughts, young man?”

  Valens’s voice startled Godegisel. He turned around. The ex-Emperor sat in a chair, a cup of wine in his hand and spoke his first words for hours. They were alone.

  “Lost in thoughts, yes, Augustus.”

  Valens made a dismissive gesture.

  “Don’t call me that. I may be a stupid old man who doesn’t always recognize what is happening, but Augustus I surely am no longer. And even if I should return to my office, then only for a short time and by the grace of Maximus, who, it seems to me, is a thoroughly ungracious man.”

  Godegisel smiled. Apparently one of Valens’ better phases has begun. They were mostly characterized by a healthy sarcasm.

  “You haven’t yet confirmed your role in the whole endeavor.”

  “I’m not satisfied with the assurances.”

  Godegisel listened up. That was a new line of thought, a new quality.

  “You don’t want to confirm the Emperor Maximus, once he has overthrown Gratian?”

  “Nope.” The man took a sip of wine and grimaced. “Vinegar,” he muttered. Then he turned his gaze back to the Goth.

  “I was very thoughtful, dear friend. Many weeks, even months. Often my thoughts were confused, but I’ve actually noticed much of what was happening around me.”

  Godegisel kept silent.

  “I have now made a decision. I was a fool before Adrianople, and I’m a fool if I make Gratian responsible for any wrongdoing. He is young and does what he can. Had I waited for him, your men would’ve been wiped out at that time, and all these problems wouldn’t exist.”

  Godegisel didn’t comment. But he couldn’t help himself but to agree with the old man. Against the united Roman army, the Goths would’ve had no chance. It would’ve been a bloody battle, but the result would’ve been utter defeat of his people.

  “Maximus will tear the Empire in pieces with a civil war. My brother Valentinian has repeatedly warned of this possibility and has done everything possible to prevent this to happen. He handed me the East, knowing that his son Gratian would inherit the West. My job as Gratian’s uncle would’ve been to protect my nephew and guide him, rather than putting him in peril through my carelessness and arrogance.”

  Valens shook his head sadly.

  “No, Godegisel” he said softly. “I didn’t do my duty. I’m not worthy that on the day you found me, Centurion Alchimio and his men have died. I’ve be
trayed them exactly as I have betrayed my nephew.”

  The ex-Emperor had seen that Godegisel had stiffened at the mention of the name. Alchimio had fallen by the sword of the Goth, as any remaining soldiers of Valens’ bodyguard.

  Valens raised a hand. “No complaints, young man. I told you, I take the blame. You did what had to be done. Had I been in your place and in my right mind, I wouldn’t have acted differently. Alchimio’s blood is on my hands, much more than on yours.”

  Godegisel did not know what to say. He had been assured in previous conversations that the former Emperor didn’t held any grudge against him, but in this context, Valens had never confirmed that so clearly. What was the old man up to?

  “Now you are asking yourself why I’m telling you this, right?,” Valens asked farsighted. “That’s is quite easy. When I recognized – and should I be wrong, then forgive me my words – that you are as little excited about Maximus’ plans as I am, I came to some conclusions. I ask you: Do you have clear instructions to follow Maximus’ orders, just to sit here with the purpose of not letting an old fool die of loneliness?”

  “My task was to bring you to Maximus and then be at his will, but always to act with the well-being of my people in mind. Officially, I cannot hold any function, because with the Treaty of Thessaloniki, the Gothic nation, as far as the survivors of the battle are concerned, is gone.”