The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  Inhalt

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  Epilogue

  List of characters

  Preview

  Dirk van den Boom

  Emperor

  Copyright © 2019 by Atlantis Verlag Guido Latz,

  Bergstraße 34, 52222 Stolberg (Germany)

  Cover © Timo Kümmel

  Editor: Rob Bignell

  eBook Production: André Piotrowski

  ISBN 978-3-86402-668-3

  www.atlantis-verlag.de

  1

  Volkert had kept it to himself.

  No one else had heard of it except him.

  As he stepped on solid ground, left the wide gangplank, and stared up at the sky, he shaded his eyes with his right hand. He took a step aside to make way for the column of legionaries who, under the command of Secundus, began to leave the transport. There was a cheerful mood, almost hilarious. Not only had the nature of the Mediterranean been defeated, no, even a pirate fleet had been overcome. There were wonderful stories to tell once they set themselves up in their new camp on African soil.

  Volkert brought the most wonderful story of all. And he had to keep it to himself, for although he thought that Rheinberg had to hear of it, he knew no way to communicate to him without endangering his hard-earned camouflage. No matter how he turned it around in his thoughts: Giving all the details he needed to be credible would seal his own fate.

  So he kept it to himself and it triggered intense musings.

  How did someone capable of the English language get into the pirates’ slave chains? Volkert had had every pretext to interrogate the prisoners, but the result had been completely unsatisfactory. The man had been acquired on a slave market in the east of the Empire, quite legitimately. And where did this slave trader get him from? Nobody cared.

  Volkert took a deep breath and sighed. One more thing he had to carry around with him. The loads he managed were not getting smaller. He moved his shoulders, trying to release the tension. As a Tribune, he enjoyed privileges. No one would blame him for taking a day off after the long sea voyage and getting some relaxation in the city’s bathhouses. Except him blaming himself.

  The city was the North African Hadrumentum. As far back as Volkert remembered the official nautical charts of the Mediterranean, the modern city of Sousse, in so far as he saw the future as “his” time, would be here, part of the French-dominated colonial territory. It was a very old city, he had learned, older than Carthage, and above all, unlike her more famous sister, she would outlive the millennia and survive until modern times.

  Now it was a bustling port, an important transshipment point for the African goods, especially the grain that fed the entire Empire. The fact that Theodosius had chosen this port, in consultation with the local governors, to land his army added even more to the hustle and bustle of this place.

  They had been expected. Officers advised Secundus. Volkert considered it necessary to stop looking at the city, although this was his very first visit to African soil. When he joined the men, he was greeted with respect.

  “Centurion Rufus Argentius,” one of the men introduced himself. “Sir, the troops must march on, I’m sorry. We are not opening the camp directly at Hadrumentum, as we don’t want to affect trade. We go a little further south and have already started work there. In Hippo Regius, the African prefects unite their troops. Once they’ve finished, we’ll unite all the armies and land back in Italy – or expect Maximus here, if he’s so stupid as to follow us.”

  The self-assured arrogance that spoke from the words of the Centurion displeased Volkert. Maximus hadn’t been a fool in the past, why should that have changed now? And if he transferred to Africa, then certainly with sufficient confidence to be able to win this attack. Who knew what von Klasewitz had been doing in the last few weeks and what he would do to make such an invasion feasible?

  Volkert suppressed his need to correct the man. He preferred to save his strength for the march.

  “Secundus, you organize that!” Volkert ordered his friend, who nodded eagerly. Then he turned back to the Centurion. “There was an incident at sea.”

  “Yes, I’ve already noticed that more ships have arrived than expected,” Rufus replied with a smile. “I suppose they’re pirates.”

  “Correctly. We have a pinch that I want to hand over to the harbor commander. In addition, I have prisoners whom I also want to get rid of.”

  “I will arrange everything.”

  “The prisoners are on the grain ship under guard of the Trierarch. He’ll be glad if he can dispose of this load soon.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Volkert nodded, satisfied. He turned away with a greeting and walked back to the wharf. He wanted to perform one duty himself.

  The liberated rudder slaves of the pirates were already led to shore. They looked a lot better now than at the time they had been released from their shackles. Their wounds had been treated as best as possible. From pirate holdings they had been given decent clothes and everyday items. All that remained now was the distribution of the money.

  Volkert watched in silence as a man dragged the box of pirate coins ashore and opened it. Volkert had ordered to be generous with the money. The men came from all parts of the Empire and possibly had a long way home. That was the least he could do for them.

  In the eyes of the liberated, Volkert saw gratitude and, moreover, a little surprise that the officer actually kept his generous promise – they were free, they had coins in their pockets, and a bundle for the journey. It was a turn of fate that everyone had thought impossible a few weeks ago.

  One of the men approached Volkert after the money had been distributed. Nobody had complained about the sum. Everyone had received it with quiet, joyful humility.

  “Sir, on behalf of my comrades, I would like to thank you again for your kindness. We will remember your name forever and ask God to protect and reward you in everything. We are all simple men, without influence and wealth. We can not offer more than God’s blessing for you.”

  Volkert smiled, perhaps a little embarrassed but pleasantly touched, a feeling he had not felt for a long time.

  “I accept your thanks,” he said aloud. Any other word would have been disrespectful. “I send you all my best wishes on your journey and hope that you will see your families again. I gladly accept your good wishes, because the war is not yet over and I can use every good will that is offered to me.”

  There was still a bit of murmuring, and hands were shaken, forearm on forearm, as was Roman custom, leaving out the traditional kiss. Then, after a brief moment, while the men stood unsteadily against the quay wall, the group slowly broke up, almost hesitantly, as if some still didn’t want to believe they could really leave.

  Volkert remained standing until the last of the liberated had disappeared in the hustle and bustle of the harb
or. Some would go home on the quickest way. Others would want to build a new existence here in Africa, uprooted as they were. And others would go to the nearest tavern or bathhouse and spend the money in the warm water of the baths, in the company of a soft bath girl’s breasts, and with a lot of wine and food.

  But that was their own decision now. They were free to fail and free to behave themselves and go their own way. Volkert hadn’t been able to do more for them, and in a way he envied these men. They enjoyed, perhaps only for a short time, a freedom that he hadn’t had for a long time.

  Volkert’s prison might seem gilded for these poor devils, and they wouldn’t have understood his envy, smiling in disbelief, suspected a joke, if he had spoken accordingly.

  So he kept it to himself.

  He felt someone approach him. It was Bertius with their common luggage, modest as it was, on his back.

  “Yes, Bertius,” Volkert said, nodding at his factotum. “We carry on.”

  “You look worried, sir.”

  Bertius knew Volkert well, probably too well. He was extraordinarily secretive about certain details, but sometimes had something too maternal in his caring – not least because he wanted to distract him from the fact that he didn’t always take his duties as seriously as he was expected to.

  Volkert wasn’t bothered. He had a serious debt to pay off, and this work would take a lifetime. It was certainly creditable to Bertius that he in turn didn’t consistently remind him of this fact.

  In fact, he never did.

  Volkert sighed and looked at Bertius. “I’m always worried.”

  “That’s just too true.” The man raised the one hand he had left and wiggled his index finger in disapproval. “That doesn’t improve your health, sir.”

  “That’s why you’re also a manifestation of vitality, my friend.”

  If the sentence was ironic, Bertius completely missed the message – or he had decided to ignore it. Instead, he dignifiedly raised one of his supervisor’s large duffel bags signaling that he felt it necessary to leave. “We carry on,” the legionary repeated, without pressing too hard.

  Volkert looked back to the sea, as if a longing drove him back there.

  Then he nodded to his factotum.

  He had many yearnings.

  His escape wasn’t on the agenda by now.

  2

  Theodosius, Emperor of Rome, looked unhappy.

  At any rate, Rheinberg hoped that had nothing to do with shaking hands with the Magister Militium and having to sit down with him in the narrow captain’s cabin of the Saarbrücken.

  But at least he guessed where the cause of the grief lay.

  The plague.

  The war.

  Betrayal and intrigue.

  The usual.

  The cruiser had arrived in southern Italy just in time to protect the remnants of the army as they boarded ships and also set out to move to Africa. The Emperor himself insisted on residing on the Saarbrücken, if only to openly demonstrate his lasting reliance on the ability of the German commander.

  The fact that he retired from his mission to gather a large army in the East and to lead it against Maximus seemed to necessitate this act of emphatic familiarity. The unimportant triviality of the pestilence raging in the east of the Empire and the lack of any army to deploy was not something that kept critical minds from nagging comments. All those who felt a bit pressed against the wall facing the seemingly insurmountable superiority of the time-wanderers now felt a bit better. The comments were subtle and pointed, always in well-spoken words, never offensive, at least not right away. But Rheinberg had learned by now to have an ear for nuances, and once he failed to grasp the deeper meaning of an incidentally thrown sentence, Aurelia was ready to offer him a comprehensive and exhaustive interpretation. The early pregnancy of his companion had a noticeable effect on her mood, and Rheinberg was not sure if that was a good thing. The latent, dangerous aggressiveness of the enchanting Aurelia now came to the fore, complemented by a radical protective instinct. Had she been given the opportunity, she would have marched against Maximus at the head of an army, only to be able to wade properly through the blood of her enemies.

  Rheinberg was very happy that Aurelia counted him among her friends.

  And he was glad that Theodosius was obviously prepared to continue to rely on him. In any case, the Spaniard was not one of those who indirectly blamed Rheinberg for the disaster in the East. He had received word of the plague from various sources, and one might blame witchcraft and the like for the time-wanderers, but that they would unleash the plague to destroy their own military power – no, the time-wanderers might be demonic sorcerers, but they haven’t been notable for extraordinary stupidity, a fact accepted even by their worst critics.

  Fortunately, these were at the court of Maximus. It was exhausting enough to endure the taunts and marginal notes of those who considered themselves loyal followers of Theodosius.

  Rheinberg looked at the Emperor. He was visibly aged. Gray strands were discernible at his temples, more than before. His eyes were tired. He didn’t sleep much, Rheinberg had heard, and so he was in the same situation as his general. He drove himself permanently. And the betrayal of Sedacius, of whom Rheinberg had been reported at once, had drained his strength. Less on the physical, but certainly on the emotional level. Who would be the next one willing to put the knife at the Emperor’s throat? Rheinberg knew how the man felt. At least since Malobaudes, at least since Constantinople, he knew it exactly.

  That didn’t make it any easier for them both. The saying that shared suffering was only half suffering was utter nonsense. Sometimes it was even more potent.

  “We should go on deck,” Rheinberg suggested. “We’re about to leave. It’s a nice sight.”

  “He symbolizes movement. But is that also a step forward?”

  Theodosius’s remark, like nothing else, revealed his current state of mind. Rheinberg only nodded and led the Emperor into the open. They stood at the bow, respectfully distant from the two sailors who had already started with the ropes. Rheinberg’s gaze wandered over to the anchorage, where seven sailing ships of very different sizes were already heading for Africa, accompanied by the three steamers who would take over their escort. The Saarbrücken itself would pass by with half-strength, still much faster than the other ships, but the Emperor now wanted to get as quickly as possible to Africa to supervise the coordination and composition of his forces.

  Rheinberg couldn’t blame him for this restlessness. Miraculeously enough, Maximus’ troops had not hunted them down here to prevent the crossing. The death of Andragathius by the hands of an ambitious young officer, of whom Rheinberg had heard, seemed to have kicked the usurper’s strategy more out of balance than expected. Theodosius had promised to arrange a meeting with the young man. He considered him a rising star among the ranks of his officers, as he had also been instrumental for exposing the conspiracy of Sedacius. He was a lighthouse of loyalty, richly rewarded by his rapid rise in the military hierarchy.

  Rheinberg was quite excited.

  The hull of the cruiser trembled as the command was given to turn up the idling machines. At first imperceptibly slow, then clearly noticeable, the Saarbrücken broke away from the harbor wall. She drifted a bit sideways into the harbor basin before the helmsman turned gently at the helm and the bow began to itch toward the open sea.

  Rheinberg’s gaze fell back to the land he had barely entered. The civilian population had come to attend the spectacle. Still everywhere in Rome, where the Saarbrücken appeared, came big eyes, open mouths and this mixture of enthusiasm, curiosity and fear. It would take quite some time before the sight of the cruiser would be a normal thing, at least until the steamers became more widespread and people could possibly make the mental leap from these ships to Saarbrücken easier than before. In fact, the steamers had not been such a big attraction. In the end, they were too much like the types of ships people were used to – wood, sails, rigging, and that metal tube st
icking out of the hull. The true quality was discernible only for the trained eye of the sailor, who suddenly had less to fear of high waves while the headwinds or currents no longer represented any danger.

  Recently there had been news that someone in Alexandria had taken seriously to the generously distributed plans of the bronze steam engine. It was heard that one was built as a first prototype. Rheinberg was confident that in eight to ten years at the latest, the proportion of steam-powered ships – even if only as auxiliary propulsion – would be noticeably high on the Mediterranean.

  Everything would be much faster, easier and more enjoyable, if not for the annoying triviality of the Civil War, a trifle that had dug these deep wrinkles into the Emperor’s face.

  Rheinberg himself didn’t often look into the mirror. He enjoyed the critical scrutiny of Aurelia and the brief moments in which she looked very worried, whenever she believed herself unobserved.

  Rheinberg suppressed a sigh. He now knew what it meant if someone aged early.

  “I expect you to take command of the troops as soon as we are in Africa,” Theodosius said. Rheinberg frowned. Of course, this was an expectation quite justified – he bore the title of Magister Militium and it was his job to lead the troops. But he knew as well that his experiences about warfare on land were very limited. Even in the decisive battle against Maximus he had to rely heavily on the advice of experienced generals. And they would have won if Gratian hadn’t been murdered.

  Theodosius knew that. He had to know.

  The Emperor had apparently identified the doubt in Rheinberg’s face. He allowed himself a thin smile. “We’re not allowed to make mistakes, Magister,” the Spaniard explained. “We’ve already lost an emperor and a battle. Our nimbus is scratched, loyalty questioned. Your failure in the East – not your fault, but nevertheless! – didn’t help either.”

  Theodosius paused and looked at the water. The sun danced in the waves. It was far too idyllic for such a serious topic.

  “There are many – and well-meaning – voices that advise me to appoint another commander. Someone who knows how to lead a Roman legion. The voices have grown louder now that everyone knows that your own soldiers can only use their miracle-weapons sparingly. No one doubts the benefits of the Saarbrücken. Nobody wants to turn the clock back and put away the many innovations that you have brought. In fact, it is proposed to make you the top naval admiral and assign you full authority where you are best versed and have the greatest power. That’s not completely illogical, is it?”