The Emperor's Men 8

by Dirk van den Boom

  Ik’Naah looked at the men who were now beginning the march to the city next to her.

  And there would be changes, she was absolutely certain of that.

  35

  Radio specialist Marcus Levius looked at the large mechanical clock on the wall. The central radio station of the Roman fleet was in possession of one of these rare examples, which had only been built by a manufacturer in Helvetia for a few years and which were in great demand everywhere. The admiralty had believed that radio operators should write down as precisely as possible when a message came in, especially with all those long-distance expeditions underway. Levius felt the presence of this gigantic wooden box as a threat, but despite the great knowledge of the artisans who created it, the watch did not seem to be working properly. No matter how many times he looked at it, the hands on the dial seemed to be stuck, and the end of each shift always seemed to be hours away.

  Poor craftsmanship was certainly to blame for this. He couldn’t imagine any other explanation.

  The radio center was constantly manned by four radio operators on four receivers. Usually there wasn’t much to do. The few ships in Rome that were already equipped with transmitters did not respond more than once a week unless there was anything special. There were also a few fixed stations, but these were connected by telegraph lines for domestic traffic, which enabled better transmission quality, were also open to private communication and mostly worked without problems. Despite all recourse to the technical knowledge of the time-wanderers, radio technology was still in its infancy and very fragile. Marcus Levius was more concerned with servicing and repairing the devices than receiving messages. After all, then he had something to do and wasn’t just sitting around.

  But now everything seemed to be working properly, and this was all the more regrettable because the hands of the big clock simply did not want to move again, although the clockwork ticked loudly and audibly.

  Someone should fix the watch, he thought.

  Marcus looked over at his comrades, who seemed just as bored as himself. Each of them took care of the news from certain broadcasting areas, although they all received the same signal. In the middle of the room sat Trierarch Titus Devinicus, a massive man. Marcus had never really understood why such a high-ranking officer was assigned to run the radio station. Devinicus and his night shift colleague did nothing more than sit more or less relaxed, eat food, and nod off the incoming messages before a runner brought them to the addressee. No officer would have been needed for that.

  And for the only other case – that had never happened, although Marcus had been here for a good three years.

  “Marcus, your people are coming in!”

  His comrade’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. He leaned forward and heard the call sign sent a third time. The expedition to America announced a message, and that unscheduled. Marcus’s hand gripped the pen and dipped the tip in ink to cover the prepared paper with a Morse code transfer. He listened to the signals coming, short, long, in the order in which they formed letters, and his quill flew across the paper. He had learned the Morse code intensively until it chased him in his dreams or he found himself translating any uttered word into periods and dashes. It was like a second mother tongue, and he translated it with the instinctive certainty of a real expert.

  This was exciting news, he noticed immediately. The expedition had met locals and a first contact had been made. That would not tear the ever-lazy Devinicus out of its lethargy, but Fleet Headquarters would take this news with great interest. It didn’t take long – just one repetition –, and Marcus was reasonably certain that the message was complete. He looked at his handwriting – neat, as printed, as always – and rose to hand over the slip of paper to Devinicus, who took note of it with his eyes half open and did nothing more than wave to one of the runners present.

  Marcus shrugged and returned to his seat.

  Just in time to notice the second message.

  He automatically converted the signals into letters. This automatism failed for a moment when he put down the call sign for the first time. He hadn’t expected that. Nobody expected that in his position. It had never happened either. But when the same sign was transmitted for the second and third time, there was no doubt.

  “Tr … Trierarch!”

  Devinicus looked up, eyes questioning, a sudden tension in the body that one would have sought in vain before.

  “What is it?”

  “The symbol … the code …”

  It was amazing how quickly the officer took the steps to Levius. There was suddenly a disciplined silence in the radio center. Marcus felt the man’s hand on his shoulder and understood the gesture, got up, and turned away.

  “This is a secret for now,” Devinicus said as he sat down. “Everyone leaves the room. Levius, you tell the navarch to come here immediately.”

  “It’s late …” the man protested, but the officer’s stern gaze instantly silenced him. He hurriedly left the room with his comrades, behind him the familiar sound of an incoming message, which Devinicus personally accepted this time.

  Levius hadn’t known the trierarch could do that.

  Some time passed before he managed to notify the navarch. As it turned out, he had been invited to a garden party at one of the city’s senior officials, and when he passed the hastily standing guards in slightly deranged toga, Levius smelled that the officer had already consumed alcohol. Still, the older man was on his feet, and his eyes were far from cloudy, even more alert. Levius wanted to report, but the officer simply stormed past him to the trierarch, who had been waiting for him all the time in the radio center. The discussion that followed wasn’t long before both men appeared and the navarch held a transcription of the strange message in his hand.

  He stopped, looked around the waiting radio operators, and nodded to them.

  “Men, there are interesting developments on our expedition to the west. I can’t tell you anything yet, but something happened that the Admiralty expected – but much earlier than expected. You can imagine what it is about. We have already telegraphed to the court. In future, all reports from the Gratianus must be forwarded directly to Ravenna. The secrecy will be removed shortly so that you can all operate undisturbed. Until then, I need you to be patient. You all do a good job and have carried out your duties faithfully. Go back to your stations now.”

  The men moved.

  “Levius!” The trierarch held the man by the arm.

  “Sir?”

  “Be careful. If there are new messages, immediate notification. An encrypted message may still arrive, but I don’t think many come in this form. The Emperor will authorize us to record everything in plain text once he has decided what to do with the information.”

  Levius saluted and turned away. He sat down at his device, trying to fight the excitement. Of course, each of them, who now gave each other significant looks, knew what it was all about. Sure, the expeditions served many scientific purposes. Cartography, botany, geology, oceanography – all the new areas of knowledge that the time-wanderers had given them. New trade routes were also welcome, as were exotic goods and the search for the plant that the old-fashioned wanderers called with a certain longing “tobacco.”

  But the central trigger of these expensive and dangerous efforts was the search for more time-wanderers.

  Everyone knew that there had been more than just the men from the Saarbrücken.

  And the Emperor wanted to know it immediately, out of well-considered self-interest.

  The radio message could only mean one thing: The men in the West had come across concrete information. And whether that would mean something good or bad, nobody could judge at that time.

  Levius nodded. Exciting. It was very, very exciting.

  And although he had to wait in front of the radio for some more hours, he felt the certainty that the boredom would not return so q
uickly.

  He suddenly suppressed a yawn and looked at the clock.

  Behold! Someone had fixed it.

  36

  “We’re walking the coast from here,” Ichik said, looking encouragingly at Isamu. “You are tired. The path is now easier for us. Once we’re with my uncle, the worries are over.”

  “You say that all the time,” the young Prince murmured, looking at his jagged hands. The long way through the jungle, always a little off the road, had left its mark on him. He felt muscles that until recently he had no knowledge of. Tree branches had whipped him, he had stumbled, scraped along trees, twisted his ankles – it was a miracle that he hadn’t seriously injured himself. Each of these ailments was unimportant in itself, but all of them accumulated to a constant state of exhaustion and pain. Sleeping on the hard floor, in forks, or on rocks wasn’t the biggest problem. Isamu was used to a frugal place to sleep and made no high demands on comfort. But sleep wasn’t always easy. The noises of the night were varied and sometimes threatening, no matter how kindly Ichik spoke to him and tried to explain what was going on in his ears.

  Isamu slept badly and everything hurt.

  He had come a long way in a foreign country.

  Still, he didn’t regret his decision.

  He looked out over the water of the Atlantic Ocean, which stretched calmly to the horizon. A flawless day, of perfect beauty, with the sound of the waves as a comforting background. Isamu had always loved the sea, and he was glad Ichik had led him this way. There was no ship to be seen, not even a small fishing boat, and no settlement far and wide. They still had a good way to go.

  It was good that he had left.

  He felt more free than ever in his life. Yes, he had lost weight in the weeks since he had fled, was almost skinny, and could count the ribs on his chest. But along with the upholstery, the prison had also given way, in the invisible bars behind which he had lived all his life. There was no Inugami here who wanted to make something of him that he was not, at least in this country and in this time. Ichik had been loyal to him, a true friend, and not because he was a prince, a king, a god, or whatever, but just himself. It was an experience that was new to Isamu, refreshing and making him crave for more of the same. If he could have a real friend, then maybe two. And if he deserved real friends, maybe one day a girl, who was not shown to him by courtiers, carefully selected, without will, a puppet in the game of power, without any choice and influence, and without any real sympathy for him.

  Isamu found this prospect extremely promising.

  Ichik crouched on the beach. The sun was at its zenith, it was oppressively hot, and it was good to move little at this time of the day and take it easy.

  Ichik had also had reasons to leave Mutal. Isamu had only gotten this out of his friend over time, partly because they understood their languages too little, partly because Ichik was initially reluctant to reveal too much of his story. It had a lot to do with a father who gave the impeccable man of the highest nobility to the outside world, but whose fierce anger terrorized the family with brutality that even horrified a hard-nosed Japanese prince in this regard. It was not just Ichik who had been driven away by it, many years ago his father’s younger brother had left Mutal for the same reasons and had to start a new life. Ichik knew about it fairly well, as letters from distant relatives occasionally arrived that were carefully hidden from his father’s anger. They were on the way there, a clear goal and with it the hope of a different kind of life for both of them.

  Isamu crouched next to his friend, and together they looked out over the sea, enjoyed the gentle, refreshing breeze and pondered their thoughts. They were not thirsty since they had only recently been able to fill the water hoses, but hunger was their constant companion, although Ichik had taught Isamu which fruits could be eaten. Unfortunately, the Mayan boy was a farmer and not a very good hunter, and the prince also had no special skills. Larger meals, really filling your belly – they had had to do without this for a long time. They did not starve, but they were rarely satisfied.

  And Isamu learned. He learned more than under the guidance of old Sawada, whom he regretted to leave a little more than he wanted to admit. He spoke Mayan and communicated with Ichik incessantly, and his friend proved to be a patient teacher. He learned about the country and nature, and he soaked up this knowledge. It was completely different from the useless ballast that he had had to buff all the years before. This knowledge served the world in which he lived and helped him to survive in it. He recognized the practical benefits and applied them immediately. It was a completely new experience for him to put knowledge into practice in his own way. He enjoyed it and was willing to put up with some hardship in exchange.

  “When we’re with your uncle … what’s going to happen to me?” he asked, and not for the first time. He was embarrassed by his own insecurity. The times were over when others had repeatedly told him what would happen to him. His first free decision had triggered a chain of events, and in that chain he was less of a game ball than a player, a development he may have been unconsciously longing for, but which sometimes overwhelmed him. Freedom without perspective, without any promise of security, turned out to be tricky, as he found more and more.

  So he asked Ichik again, and as if the friend understood what was going on, he answered the question as if he was hearing it for the first time.

  “My uncle will take us in, if only to annoy my father. He is just a farmer, but his farm is large, because he married well. He has two houses, and we will get a room in one. We’ll have to work. You won’t stand out if you hold back.”

  Isamu’s great fear was that of discovery. Of course, the news of the messengers of the gods and their strange appearance, especially the peculiar cut of their eyes, had spread slowly. Isamu looked very much like a typical Mayan boy in many things, the tan of the skin he had adapted, the black hair was not unusual, and he was of a similar stature. But his eyes betrayed his origins more than anything else, and it would not be possible to hide where he came from in the long run. Ichik’s uncle lived on the outskirts of the city, far from the hustle and bustle of the settlement, and so this fatal moment could possibly be delayed. But in the end it was inevitable, and what could happen then the prince could not anticipate.

  He thought it likely that he would have to run again.

  And then probably without Ichik, who would have found a new home with his relative.

  Isamu frowned, moving a stone through the sand with his big toe. That was not a good prospect. It was the prospect of a restless existence without a real home. He felt almost ready to think longingly of his rigid life at court and in the cadet school, which he had hated, but now he maybe began to lack familiarity and security.

  What did he want? Isamu scolded himself. First refuse the prison and seek freedom, now despair of freedom and longing for the prison? What kind of man did he want to be if he couldn’t stand by his decisions and their consequences?

  He took a deep breath, swallowed the emotions that came up, and tried not to think about what might happen at some point, but only about what was now and was right in front of him. That was challenging enough.

  “Are we going?” Ichik asked.

  Isamu nodded and got up, stretched his body, looked along the beach, sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy. “How far is it?”

  “I do not know exactly. We’ll be on the road for a while. If there is a fishing village nearby, maybe we can gather something to eat.”

  Ichik slapped his bag, which he had put on his shoulder. A central reason why he could no longer return was because he had stolen a handful of well-crafted obsidian tips for arrows and spears from his father when he was leaving. Isamu knew that this came very close to what he knew as cash. For quality of this kind, they would be given one or more meals and possibly even shelter.

  Above all, the former was a good prospect.

  They set out, each on
e with his own thoughts, and as sure as their steps were, they both felt insecure, and it wasn’t just the grumbling in their stomachs.

  37

  “A great victory,” Aritomo murmured when he heard the news the exhausted messenger had brought him directly. Only happy faces around him, triumphant smiles on lips, laughter, people patting each other on the shoulder. He nodded to the messenger, who bowed, and handed Lengsley the message that Inugami had written in Japanese. “A great victory.”

  The Brit glanced at the text. He spoke Japanese fairly well, but he couldn’t read it very well. “No announcement of his return soon?”

  “He’ll have to stay a few weeks to sort it all out,” Aritomo guessed, waving to his men, whose relaxed mood he didn’t share but didn’t want to spoil. What was a great adventure for them with the prospect of fame and power posed a problem for the first officer in the complex political network here in Mutal. But that was nothing new.

  “When do we expect him?”

  “We still have some time. He will announce when he leaves so we can prepare to receive him. He will also stop in Tayasal and Saclemacal to see if everything is right. The new empire is still a bit shaky. He won’t let that take him off guard. He seems to be exercising great care.”

  “As long as he’s victorious, no one will seriously stand in his way.”

  Aritomo shook his head. “As we know, a successful attack is enough. Armies are helpful but not sufficient.”

  Lengsley nodded and looked back at the paper as if it had the answers to their most important questions. In fact, it only increased the need to find an answer, which didn’t make finding a solution any easier. “I think Chitam will now make his own preparations,” Lengsley muttered, and one could see what that meant.