The Emperor's Men 8

by Dirk van den Boom

  The medic nodded to him promptly. Köhler knew what was in the bottle—a perfidious herbal drink that everyone said was the most disgusting thing they had ever drunk. Köhler had had enough of disgust that he had so far successfully avoided the doctor’s approaches. But now Aedilius had caught him.

  There was no escape.

  He grimaced and tried to shake his head one last time, but the doctor looked at him firmly and raised a warning finger. Then he made a pouring gesture in front of his mouth. Aedilius was in command of everything related to health. He was even allowed to give orders to Langenhagen.

  This was an order. Köhler was a soldier. He followed orders.

  He lifted the cork, closed his eyes, and took a deep sip. Better to get it over with and die a dignified death, manly, without fear.

  The burning, rotting liquid flowed down his throat. He felt his stomach rebel almost immediately. He didn’t know which was worse, the utterly disgusting taste or the caustic feeling when the drink combined with his upset stomach acid. He immediately felt the gagging sensation start and put the bottle down, ready to do it all again …

  But nothing happened.

  Köhler’s eyes widened, and he listened to himself. A strange, numbing warmth had settled on his battered stomach, and the nausea was just a lurking feeling somewhere below, covered and anything but acute.

  He was almost … fine.

  Aedilius looked at him knowingly, smiled, made another, pouring movement.

  Köhler did not hesitate a second time.

  He had been a fool.

  He raised the bottle and took a deep sip. It was still an unspeakable brew, but now he drank it without fear and bad expectations. It made things easier. The warming, numbing feeling in his stomach was intensified and it pushed back the nausea until it was almost imperceptible.

  He handed the bottle back to the doctor. Köhler could not gauge whether his expression was adequately communicating the gratitude he was feeling, but it seemed as if the message had arrived. Aedilius nodded to him, gave him a smile, and turned. A boatswain stood a few meters further and, in a high arc, put a meal that was not even slightly digested into the waves. The wind was unpredictable. With stoic calm, Köhler wiped a chewed chunk off his sleeve. Seconds later the spray had completely cleaned him.

  Aedilius ran to the boatswain and presented him with the bottle. According to the facial expression of the sea sick, this candidate had previously also been rather reserved about the doctor’s brew. A mistake, as Köhler was now ready to admit. He regarded with pleasure that the boatswain submitted to the doctor’s request, and shortly afterwards the same pleasantly touched facial expression that Köhler had just shown was visible on his features as well. The man took another sip almost hastily.

  Köhler now returned to his place next to the Navarch. Another senior officer, Adrianus Sextus Cabo, stood on the foredeck and gave the necessary orders. The night black sky and the spray roaring over the rail made it almost impossible to see from here what was happening in the front part of the ship. It was late afternoon, but the sun was only a faint glow behind the thick banks of clouds that a mighty wind was pushing across the sky. There was not much to issue orders for – almost all of the sails had been dropped, only a small storm sail hung from the front mast. The control of the ships was possible primarily because the steam engine was running at full power, and thus gave the ship enough propulsion to actually influence the course with the rudder. The gubernator was a muscular man who was almost as tall as Köhler, although he did not descend from the generally taller time walkers. He clutched the rudder wheel with strong fists, despite the fact that it was currently tied. The storm came directly from the west, and they steered the fleet against the wind. Without the steam engines, this would be an extremely difficult undertaking. It was problematic enough. The ships were built robustly and had ridden the storm without problems. As always, it was the human factor that started to wear off.

  Helmut Köhler could say this with some certainty, at least for himself.

  “How are you?” Langenhagen shouted against the noise of the storm and turned his wet, shiny face to Köhler. Next to the rudder hung two storm lamps, which swayed to the left and right on short iron chains and undeterredly cast their pale light on the ship’s command deck.

  “Aedilius!” Köhler shouted back. He waved in the direction of the medicus, who was just now giving his herbal drink to another sailor swaying like the storm lamps. Langenhagen grinned and nodded, having overcome his fear of the brew from the start and set a good example. In fact, Köhler had watched him eat ship’s biscuit, cheese, and hot wine without giving everything back.

  Köhler decided to no longer unnecessarily question his trust in Aedilius.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Far off course!” Langenhagen back. He pointed to the sky. “We won’t know until it clears up properly.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “Three days are over. The longest storm I’ve ever seen was five. I think we’ll be through soon.”

  Langenhagen sounded confident and looked that way. Köhler nodded and clung to the railing that separated the quarterdeck from the rest of the ship. Only the most essential crew remained on deck. The Boatswain regularly checked that everything was lashed tight and counted whether all the people who were supposed to be there were onboard. The rest lingered inside the ship and did little more than wait for the torture to end.

  Köhler remembered that the first two weeks of their trip had been absolutely trouble-free and peaceful. They had entered the Atlantic, and it seemed as if their expedition had started under a good star. Favorable winds had accelerated their progress, the ships had stayed together without any problems. The mood among the men had been excellent, full of curiosity, a great desire to explore and discover. When the skies closed and the storm announced itself, nobody had expected such a catastrophic and constant change in the weather. Nevertheless, they had endured it all with great confidence. Weren’t they the best seafarers in the Empire? Weren’t their ships the best of the entire fleet?

  But now the mood began to change. Köhler hoped that Langenhagen – who actually had the rank of Navarch, but liked to see himself primarily as the captain of his ship – would be correct with his forecast.

  “Go below deck!” Langenhagen shouted. “I want to know if everything is okay. And eat something. Aedilius’ drink really helps. You need strengthening. Hot wine, slightly diluted. Something solid on it.”

  Köhler only nodded. Now that the herbal potion had taken effect, he felt a different kind of rumbling in his stomach. Hunger. Clearly recognizable desire for food for the first time in three days. He immediately followed the order.

  He was grateful when he closed the companionway. It was a little quieter down there than on deck, the roar of the storm fading somewhat into the background. He saw sailors looking at him, nodding, often sitting tired against the wall or curled up in hammocks, in different phases of exhaustion, boredom or illness. But there was calm, a little fatalism, and only a few conversations. No dice game. No noise except the muffled roar from outside. A certain discipline in exhaustion. Good enough for Köhler, good enough for the ship.

  He entered the galley. The ship’s cook, called Smutje in the language of the time-wanderers, looked at him expectantly. It was significant that the only man who was completely unaffected by the storm was of all people the master of supplies. He showed his gaps in his teeth when he grinned at Köhler and gestured at his supplies with a sweeping gesture. The man was his best customer and always chewed on something. Even now, his mouth moved not only according to his words, but also to work on food. This sight had recently made Köhler nauseated, but now it triggered something like anticipation in him.

  “A fresh start, sir?” The man was dripping with hypocrisy.

  “Still an iron stomach, Vitelius?”

 
“Bronze, like our brave machine. Some wine?”

  “Water and rusks.”

  “The very big risk, sir. You are a brave man, an ornament of the fleet, an image of Roman masculinity.”

  “Stop talking rubbish.”

  The Smutje grinned and handed him what he wanted and watched with a certain lurking look what was going to happen. He was genuinely impressed when Köhler ate the food with methodical chewing and then pecked some soaked crumbs off his coat. The Smutje smiled knowingly. “Our dear Medicus’ herbal drink.”

  “Clever man.”

  “I swear on the stuff. Haven’t drunk anything of it yet.” The cook patted his stomach. “Bronze, as you know.”

  Köhler gave the man a disparaging look, but was as happy as a child that the rusk in his stomach made no move to reappear.

  “Are you all right down here?”

  If anyone could answer that question, it was the Smutje. He was one of the few who still looked at everything with open eyes. And very much amused in most ways.

  “With drawbacks. I think some are almost bored.”

  “As soon as the wind subsides, we set sail again to save coal. Then there will be more than enough to do.”

  “But that doesn’t apply to legionaries. Not only are they sick, they absolutely don’t know what to do with themselves.”

  “There’s a lot of cleaning up to do upstairs. We will put together work details. They’re going to be busy, too.”

  Vitelius nodded and scratched his ear. Apparently he found something, looked at it for a moment before immediately put it between his busy jaws. Köhler was reasonably certain that behavior like this couldn’t be healthy.

  “How long?”

  “The Navarch thinks no more than two days.”

  “And are we heading further west?”

  “Indeed. I prefer not to say anything about whether the storm has broken the fleet apart. We have had no contact with the other ships since the winds started. Only noise on the shortwave. We’ll have to wait here too, and see what the end of the wind will bring us.”

  “Two days?”

  Köhler smiled.

  “Is it getting too much for you? Despite a bronze stomach?”

  “I haven’t cooked anything decent in three days. I am filled with pity and care for my starving comrades. They have to get some proper food between their teeth.”

  Köhler agreed. However, he assumed that the Smutje did consider primarily his own teeth with his remark.

  “Just be patient.”

  Köhler raised his hand in greeting and turned away. A short passage below deck confirmed the cook’s statement. Everything was quiet, as far as one could really speak of calm with these violent waves. He answered a few questions – roughly the same ones he had just discussed – and spread more confidence than he felt.

  But he was an officer. Always smile and wave.

  When he finally struggled back up, he closed his eyes, almost blinded. The beam of light that had briefly shone down on them through one of the thick cloud banks had disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared – but his heart leapt when he saw the light dancing over the violent waves.

  A good sign.

  Langenhagen nodded to him, grinning happily. Even the helmsman looked relaxed, although he was still clutching the steering wheel as tightly as when Köhler had last seen him.

  The wind didn’t let up. A deep wave trough made Köhler’s stomach go up again, but this time everything was under control.

  It got better.

  Everything was getting better now.

  3

  Of course, he had to make an example.

  It was no different.

  The former king of Saclemacal was no longer very pleased. The main reason for this was that Inugami had separated the man’s head from his torso with his sword, with a quick, targeted and powerful stroke of the exemplary sharpened weapon. The body had bled to death in a red pond, and the head from which the feather headdress had fallen rested a little further.

  The man had behaved appropriately, and Inugami was able to show respect for that. When they had conquered the city – after a short but fierce struggle in which the defenders quickly realized the hopelessness of their situation –, the King had subjugated himself to the conquerors. Inugami didn’t know if he had hoped for mercy. But he hadn’t been in the mood to let this wonderful opportunity for a symbolic act pass away. He certainly didn’t have to kill every king he got hold of, but it was a necessary, useful sacrifice at least for the first time.

  So the head fell. The King had immediately recognized his fate and accepted the judgment without complaint. Therefore Inugami had left him the headdress, the sign of his dignity. It had only made the act of killing stronger. The crowned head fell before the eyes of everyone, the conquered as the conquerors. The Mutalese cheers had been loud and contained real enthusiasm. For them, Saclemacal was a haven of treason. The just punishment had been pronounced and executed. The messenger of the gods had taken the King’s head, and his wondrous sword had described such a beautiful, clear bow and had carried out his work so smoothly and quietly that the magic of this weapon had made the warriors’ hearts beat faster.

  A worthy deed. A necessary act.

  Inugami turned, sword still raised. Next to him stood Chitam, the king of Mutal – a title that lost value every day, and this was not only the view of the Japanese. In fact, Inugami was in the process of contesting the power behind it. To be more precise, with the severed head of the inferior ruler, the captain had also cut off a lot of Chitam’s power, and he waved his bloody sword like a scepter.

  Finally he lowered his arm with the blade and left the top of the temple building on which he had carried out the execution. All sorts of rituals would follow that had to do with the Mayan religion and into which Inugami was disinterested. He sensed that he could not maintain this ignorance forever if he wanted to achieve Mayan loyalty on this spiritual level as well, if he wanted them to follow him with body and soul in all things. But he first had to reform the Mayan religion. The practices that did not help him had to go – human sacrifice, for example, the decision to wage wars according to the status of the stars and not when it seemed strategically wise. He had to reinforce the religious aspects where they were useful to him, but everything had to be more efficient. From now on, every conquest would upset the military practices of this people. In former times, Saclemacal would have been conquered, one would have set an example – just as Inugami had just done –, and afterwards, Mutal would have left with a promise of tribute after installing a new ruler, someone, from whom it was hoped that he would not cause any trouble during his lifetime. Sometimes that worked and sometimes it didn’t; indirect exercise of power depended heavily on the victor’s enduring prestige and ability to maintain a permanent threat. As memory faded, it became more likely that the once defeated developed the opinion that their defeat should be seen as a historic event and that there were no political consequences involved anymore.

  Inugami would not allow that. Saclemacal would not be free again. The smaller city and its outskirts were the first building block of his new empire. He would appoint a governor who would always do exactly what Mutal ordered him to do. The road between the two cities would be expanded, and he would set up a daily messenger service. The couriers would walk but would exchange the latest news and orders every day – orders that were supposed to be executed, otherwise the consequences would be felt immediately. A new state could not be erected on any non-binding agreements.

  Saclemacal would thus remain firmly in the grip of Mutal. The city’s warriors would fight alongside Inugami. The way was mapped. Other cities had taken part in the attack on Mutal, and other royal heads had to detach themselves from their shoulders. The counterattacks were legitimate; no one in the neighborhood could blame Mutal.

  Inugami had no illusi
ons. As soon as word got around that the conquered cities would be firmly incorporated into the Mutal’s dominion, resistance would increase. Then, he knew, the real war would begin, the war about absolute supremacy in Central America. Inugami knew the risks. It could, of course, go wrong. He needed the help of people who were fallible. But if he didn’t try, he would throw away his life here in the distant past and live an undignified existence. Others might get used to it, get an Indian girl pregnant, and grow old and fat. Inugami was not ready for this.

  He did great things.

  He made history.

  Or at least he would die trying.

  He walked along the ranks of his warriors, silently taking their testimonies of honor. The men would be rewarded. That night was theirs. Inugami would let the reins slide, close his eyes. No looting, no rape – but everything was allowed up to this limit, and the city had to make the warriors feel good.

  The good mood of his soldiers was in the interest of those who were controlled by them.

  He disappeared into the palace of the King of Saclemacal and left the crowd behind. Here, in the chambers of the dead, only his bodyguard and the servants of the executed king awaited him, submissive and ready to carry out his orders.

  Achak, the general of the King Chitam, also waited here, and now, Inugami wanted to accept that, his general, intoxicated with victory and Chi, whom he had plentifully awarded himself after the triumph. His face was red. He had cleaned his armor, his long obsidian knife, with which he had devotedly sliced open the bodies of his enemies. The man was far from young, but the battle seemed to give him unprecedented energy. He had driven through the ranks of enemies like a wisp and had taken one life after another, with such a fervent enthusiasm that even Inugami had been scared for a moment. It was as if he had released a demon on his enemies who had devoured, with the greatest devotion, the blood and suffering of his opponents, insatiable and full of strength.