The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  On board the transporter was, according to human discretion, not a single rat and not a single infected man. But everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before the epidemic spilled over to Africa. Despite all efforts, complete containment wasn’t possible. With luck, the development wouldn’t be as severe and comprehensive as comparable outbreaks in the past.

  Salius watched as the food rations were distributed. On large, iron ovens, pots with grain porridge were heated. There was flatbread and fresh fruit, and for drink, diluted wine. Salius hovered near the open-plan kitchen, as if he didn’t want to miss the distribution of food, and studied exactly which sacks of cereal and other ingredients were being brought up and opened by the legionaries who had been ordered to cook. A good half wore the markings Flavia had placed. So it would start immediately.

  Salius then withdrew unobtrusively, sitting down next to his luggage, rummaging about aimlessly. He had an extra bag filled with his own food, cheese, bread, nuts, dried fruits. Enough to feed him for three or four days without relying on official rations. Flavia had expressly refrained from poisoning the drinks – water and wine. That would have put the assassins themselves in dire straits.

  Salius grabbed a handful of nuts and began to nibble them. The first queues formed before the cooking place. Flavia had said that the effect of the poison would not be immediate, but with a delay – eight to twelve hours had been her estimate, enough time to finish breakfast the next day, and thus to secure the spread of the poison all over the galley, albeit in different dosage. Especially those with a strong constitution could possibly survive a lower dose of the poison with mild discomfort.

  Salius leaned back. He heard the men joking, as they fetched their hot porridge.

  He almost pitied them.

  The calming sway of the waves and the murmur of the eating legionaries lulled him into a gentle slumber. When he awoke, it was already pitch-dark. He felt cold, rummaged for his coat and wrapped himself in it. He could have gone below, but warmth there was mixed with the stench of sleeping men, while up here the fresh sea air was very pleasant. Salius stared for a moment into the clear starry sky, enjoying the sight to the fullest before his eyes closed again.

  The next morning, he woke up at sunrise, watching again casually the tired meal of the tired legionaries. Again the porridge was prepared, again bread distributed. The food was monotonous, but usually well digestible and fortifying. That would, Salius was now sure, change in the course of the day. Once again, bags of flavia-labeled food had been brought to the deck. The poison was definitely going around, and the first effects were soon to come.

  There was not much to do on board. Everybody tried most of the time to avoid the seafarers, so as not to disturb them at work. Dice games helped to pass time, and some of the more educated legionaries began to read from works of poets and historians but found a mostly rather bored audience. Many were just dozing or taking care of their equipment. It was mended, whited, cleaned, although the latter only with salt water and coarse soap. Everyone was busy, and an almost peaceful mood descended on the sunlit deck. The officers largely left the men alone, as long as there were no problems. It was a rest before an important battle, the last for a long time. Since a drill on the cramped decks made little sense, there was no other pastime than to take care of themselves.

  Salius, however, became restless. It was approaching noon, the sun was at its zenith, and it was warm, almost hot. Many men sought shade, either below deck or by pitching tarpaulins and squatting underneath. Some were sweating. Amphorae with chilled, thin wine made the rounds.

  But everyone seemed to be just fine.

  Too fine indeed.

  Salius frowned at the scene, his eyes searching for the signs of the poison, as Flavia had predicted. He was so engrossed in his activity that he almost didn’t notice the Trierarch of the ship joining him, accompanied by two squat legionaries, sweating but still wearing helmets.

  Salius looked at the man and felt the agitation rise in him.

  “Have a nice day, Decurio,” the man murmured in greeting. “But you look worried. May I know your concern?”

  “Do not worry, Trierarch. Maybe I feel a little uncomfortable. I’m not used to the sea.”

  The man nodded thoughtfully and gave Salius a sympathetic smile.

  “Yes, that’s a problem for a lot of people. All in all, however, the men behave well, and the complaints are rare. We must endure.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “How fortunate that the plan to make our crossing a cruel ordeal by providing poisoned supplies to us has failed so terribly, isn’t it?”

  Salius froze. He was struggling for composure. The Trierarch had said the sentence so casually that the true meaning of his words was beginning to trickle in slowly.

  Treason.

  He had been betrayed.

  The image of the maliciously smiling Flavia was right in front of his eyes, as real as if she were actually on board.

  Salius felt the hands of the two soldiers closing around his own wrists, as the Trierarch took his sword away, again in an almost casual gesture. The action caught the eye of everyone, especially as two more legionaries took red-headed Screpius to the deck, hands tied behind their backs, disarmed, betrayed. And then came the other two men who had also been unmasked by Flavia.

  Screpius’ gaze towards Salius was fatalistic and reproachful.

  Salius couldn’t blame him.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” he asked the Trierarch firmly. To deny anything now would have been meaningless. Besides, the question was ultimately of a rhetorical nature. They were traitors to Maximus’ men, and there was only one fate for them. The only question was whether he would suffer death quickly and painlessly, or whether its end was only the conclusion of prolonged agony.

  The Trierarch scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll have you and your friend tortured until we know all the details of your job. I suppose you are acting on behalf of Theodosius.”

  It did no harm to admit this, because it was so obvious that it didn’t need any discussion at all. Salius nodded.

  “I understand. Well, torture is a good approach, as we want to know everything. Maximus is not happy about this development. We have you people, but I suppose there are more of your kind. We would like to know where.”

  Salius frowned. Flavia had unmasked them all. But she didn’t know that, and the Trierarch had to assume that there might be other traitors. For him, the interrogation was the logical consequence of this situation. Salius couldn’t even blame him. He probably would have done the same in his place.

  Salius feared torture like every sensible man did. He could endure pain, and probably quite a long time. But he knew the methods, and he knew the perseverance of those in charge – either men who enjoyed what they were doing, or those who just exercised meticulous precision and care in the task.

  Salius would speak if he didn’t die before. Masters of their craft made sure that the latter only came about if intended. Screpius would talk as well, finally. That wasn’t an expression of lack of trust in the comrade, it was a simple fact.

  Salius met Screpius’s eyes. He noticed the imperceptible nod. Regret filled Salius. It was so sad it had to end now. After all, he would die at the side of an old companion. This thought comforted him for a moment.

  He lowered his head. He couldn’t look at the other two of his companions without arousing suspicion. They had to take care of themselves now. It was bitter to see that.

  Very bitter. It hurt more than what he was about to do.

  “I … I don’t want to be tortured … I will talk.”

  The Trierarch smiled. “Naturally. But you’ll understand we want to make sure.”

  Screpius sobbed aloud and dropped his shoulders forward.

  One of the legionaries laughed sardonically.

  Then the two men sprang forward, twisting in a sliding motion out of the hands of their captors, who had let down in their care. And
they were surprised that the two men didn’t turn against them, didn’t seek weapons, didn’t strive to fight.

  Salius and Screpius dove headfirst over the rail and splashed into the water.

  There was shouting, angry screams.

  “I’ll loosen your shackles,” Salius said, as he appeared beside the struggling comrade.

  He shook his head. “Leave them. That’s how it will be faster.”

  Salius saw Screpius submerge, gasping up again, driven by the creature’s fear of death, only to go down again.

  Ropes fell into the water. Legionaries, only in their tunic, began to climb down.

  Screpius didn’t reappear.

  Salius glanced at the Trierarch’s face, still angry, and waved to him, then descended, deeper, deeper, deeper and deeper, reaching the body of Screpius, who still twitched softly, clutching at him.

  It was a painful death, a torture of its own, but short, very short.

  And nobody heard him give any names to anyone.

  19

  Godegisel had only noticed some of the excitement on the other ship, heard rumors spreading about betrayal and a planned attack, and how it had all collapsed. He saw worried faces in some men, as he helped prepare the food for the legionaries, heard some inquiring questions as to whether the grain was still good or the cheese wasn’t too old. Godegisel responded to the best of his knowledge and belief but was relieved when the Trierarch turned to the passengers and crew alike. Thus, all learned of the dark plans of the adversaries, of their insidiousness, and of the intelligence of their own military leadership, which had succeeded in thwarting them, whereby the traitors, the scum, had found their deserved death in the waves of the Mediterranean. The food on board, it was assured, was impeccable and everyone should calmly return to their duties, if they had any. The fact that they got some duties was quickly ensured by shouting NCOs, and everywhere already cleaned and sharpened swords became even cleaner and sharper, and helmets and shields even more brilliant. Godegisel knew that this sudden wave of work was primarily designed to direct the men’s attention elsewhere.

  He was both happy and unhappy about the course of events. Happy because such a poison attack wouldn’t only have hit him – and he couldn’t afford another illness, just having recovered from the plague –, and actually he’d also be suspected as part of the kitchen staff immediately, either for being sloppy or to have acted deliberately. His scars didn’t make things easier. But he was unhappy, because a successful attack would have significantly weakened the power of Maximus’ troops, especially in the artillery. That would’ve surely helped in the upcoming battle.

  So, however, all legionaries – aside from those with a strong tendency to seasickness – would arrive well-fed and relaxed in Africa, ready – yes, angry and eager – to show the enemy that his treacherous plans hadn’t been successful. Thus, the failure of the infiltrators had led to an increase in morale of the troops and their combat readiness. Godegisel had once listened to a German officer say using a phrase that he wasn’t aware of before – the idea had “backfired,” a phrase that suddenly made sense with the time-wanderer’s firearms and described very well what had obviously happened here.

  Therefore, Godegisel simply fulfilled his duty, remained inconspicuous, calm, sought no personal interaction, but didn’t reject it either, was submissive where appropriate, and affable, where he could afford it, all in all a wonderful strategy to settle on board and not stand out in any way negative. Even the searching glances that had initially struck him when his scars were visible diminished. This was a very welcome development for him.

  In the evening after Trierarch’s speech and at the end of endless rehearsal drills, the ship’s command let the amphorae with the proper wine circulate – not the watery vinegar that was served as a regular drink, and from which nobody brought down so much that he could get drunk, but the real wine, not mixed with water, not of the highest quality, but especially in its form as a red wine with a certain effect, at least to those who were not completely dulled by constant drinking and needed several amphorae to feel the effect. In any case, this action led to general relaxation and below deck, when the sun was slowly setting, there was finally an almost happy mood on the ship. Since Godegisel was commissioned to walk around and refill with a large decanter in hand, while making sure no one consumed more than three cups, he quickly became a welcome guest among the joking and celebrating men.

  He always half-listened to the legionaries when they talked, which became easier as the evening progressed, as the volume of talking increased. Even as the released ration slowly came to an end, the mood remained stimulated and relaxed at the same time.

  At a rather late time, Godegisel, with his newly-filled carafe, passed a group of senior NCOs gathered in a corner of the hold around a flickering oil lamp. Reddened cheeks and a slightly blurred look showed that the fixed ration had not been respected by everyone, especially those who had the authority to override such silly limitations.

  They waved Godegisel to come closer. He rushed in, which was enough to get the men’s attention back to their conversation. As a servant, the young Goth had not much higher priority than a piece of furniture; basically, he didn’t exist for the drinkers at least not as long as he pleasingly and efficiently refilled their cups.

  “I hope I’ll be with the troop storming the commander’s tent,” a man with gray hair in the carefully groomed whiskers said, as he set his mug down. “I just want to see Theodosius’ face when he realizes his time has run out.”

  “Boring,” another said, causing protest. He raised a hand. “I want to see his face when he realizes that his African allies are turning in the middle of the battle and going for his throat!”

  Godegisel pretended he hadn’t heard.

  “Yes, but then we’ll be too close to victory,” the first lamented. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  “If the Spaniard is clever, he plunges himself into his sword first.”

  “Ah, damn it, yes. He could be trusted to do that. Honest man, that’s what he is. Ha, I would have liked the fun so much. But that won’t work.”

  “His face,” a third now said, reverently suppressing a burp. “His face is one thing, but the other one … I want to see that from this time-wanderer, Rheinberg. He won’t kill himself, I don’t think so. All the cowards, these time-wanderers. No guts. They hide behind their weapons and are afraid of the hard reality of the blade. I want to see Rheinberg how he trembles and moans.”

  “That won’t be so exciting. He will think up until the end that the Africans wouldn’t betray him, but only try to lure Maximus to safety and then give him the death-blow,” the first explained. “He wouldn’t want to realize until the end that he was really betrayed. That’s how it’s supposed to go, as planned from the beginning!”

  All three of the men giggled and ignored Godegisel, who poured with a submissive expression in his face until the decanter was empty, then withdrew quietly.

  His heart pounded his throat.

  He brought the empty container back to the amphorae, where he was told there was nothing left and he could go to sleep. Godegisel was grateful for that. His thoughts were racing. His return to Africa had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning, a special quality. There was more to it now than just finding the way back; it was now a matter of hurrying to the troops of Rheinberg and telling him what he had just heard.

  Time was suddenly burning on his nails. He wished for a strong wind that would increase the speed of the ships, even though this would allow the enemy to arrive faster in Africa. The words of the men dominated his thoughts and he rolled them restlessly in his head, trying to think of a way out, a reaction, a strategy that could make this betrayal ineffective. He hoped and prayed that Rheinberg would come up with something.

  Godegisel stared into the clear starry sky as he made himself comfortable on deck in a corner. He found no sleep, felt the thoughts circling in his head; he kept turning, but sleep didn’t come. As the sno
ring of the wine-lovers reached his ear from all over the ship, he cowered restlessly on the rail and felt his hands clench into fists.

  Ah, his fate, he thought with a touch of desperation.

  Slowly, it became a bit too much to bare.

  20

  Volkert didn’t look back when he left the camp at Hadrumentum with the rear guard. He felt light this morning, almost elated. Julia’s words were still ringing in his ears. Her description of the separation from Martinus Caius had filled him with both joy and anger. On the one hand, it meant that, as he wasn’t too good for marrying an outcast, he had a good chance of still living with Julia. Since he lacked the arrogance of the Roman upper classes, although he might become a member slowly due to his steep career, this was no problem. He had felt great anger when he heard Caius almost murdered his daughter. His thanks to Claudia had been sincere and long, and the young woman was almost ashamed that a Roman officer had known such nice things to say about her. But since Secundus had overheard everything and was informed by this way that Claudia was a thoroughly respectable and caring young woman, she had endorsed the hymn of praise with dignity and side glances toward the Centurion. Secundus, for whom respectability and caring were not as important as the abundance of Claudia’s bust and her willingness – in principle – to let him partake of it, knew what was expected of him. Above all, he knew that a victory over Maximus would also start a new chapter for him. As a Centurion, he was already a man of great standing, and if Volkert continued to ascend – which he didn’t doubt for a moment –, a loyal friend was needed, which would certainly promote his own career. Officer’s position for Secundus, the crook – an interesting perspective, especially one that required to reconsider one’s lifestyle, at least outwardly. Marriage was an important option, and if he married the best friend of his patron’s wife, there couldn’t be a better combination.

  So Secundus had mastered himself exemplary, wrinkled his forehead with sorrow wit perfect timing, looked admiringly and appreciatively if needed, and held Claudia’s hand at the climax of the drama. He had behaved so politely and decently that Volkert had not failed to give him one or the other slightly surprised look.