The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  It was therefore not surprising that a few days before their departure for the final battle Claudia was ready to fulfill the true wishes of Secundus, of whom she was well aware, and so exhaustive that the Centurion’s resolve to ask for the lady’s hand after his safe return had only intensified.

  Claudia was happy. Julia was happy. Secundus was happy. Volkert was happy.

  It was hard to believe.

  Volkert looked at the column of the last 2000 men who had stayed in the camp in front of the port city and now began the march inland. He firmly believed that his luck was short-lived. Something would go wrong. Someone would die. A misfortune would happen. It had been so good and so bad at the same time lately that Volkert couldn’t believe that everything would come to a happy ending. This dark foreboding plagued him. He wanted to strip it off, forget it, and laugh at it. But once he was not busy with other things, his thoughts wandered back to the subject and his head was covered in dark clouds, as if the threatening evil was already clearly visible.

  Bertius, sitting on a horse next to his superior, noticed that. Unfortunately he was in a bad position to cheer Volkert up. The German himself had his doubts and fears. It was the decisive battle, and Bertius was no one who valued decisions. He preferred to move in the dimness of indifference, in the shadow of indecision, was a man of the vague. As soon as things began to pinpoint and threaten to turn black or white, provoke a yes or a no, he felt uncomfortable. And that’s where everything went at the moment.

  Bertius therefore was not happy.

  Of course, he didn’t miss any opportunity to express his emotional state. Since Volkert was used to that, he usually didn’t pay any attention to it. This time, however, there was a new quality in the man’s constant lamentation, the hint of fear. Of course, Bertius was always afraid of things, not least of all having to work too hard or not getting enough food. His current fear, however, was fundamental, almost creaturely. He was torn between his loyalty to Volkert and his need to maintain as close a distance as possible between himself and the battlefield.

  “That’s okay, Bertius,” Volkert said, as they rode slowly along the marching column.

  “I’m just …”

  “Me too. But we can’t run away. Things develop without our help, but we are caught up in them, can’t pretend that they’d never affect us.”

  “It must be the last battle,” his servant said hopefully. “I don’t think my weak mind can handle another ‘decision.’ I mean, someday something has to be decided.”

  Volkert smiled indulgently. He had given up this belief some time ago, whether he wanted to call it cynicism or not.

  Had to give up.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Whatever happens, it only triggers another change. Hopefully one that we think is right, but don’t expect any rest afterwards. One decision triggers the next. Always.”

  “But we need to be satisfied at times,” Bertius complained. “We have achieved something and are satisfied. This may make us more frugal, and we won’t have to look for a new quarrel.”

  “A little less conflict would be in my own interest. But the hope that we will ever be satisfied with something permanently – you can’t expect that. Once we have achieved something, a goal, a wish, a stage, we pause for a moment, then look up or forward again. Then we see something glittering on the horizon, we have a new, even better idea, the house is getting too small, the horse is getting too old, the food is monotonous, and we want to do more, something new, the next step. There are no final decisions, no final events, no end of something. As soon as we have something, we strive for the next. Only when we are very old can we look back and rest, and leave the effort to others.”

  Volkert looked at Bertius almost apologetically. It wasn’t that he himself cherished this realization very much. The problem was not always to strive for something new. It only started when people were striving for very different things and these desires contradicted each other. Unfortunately, a particular ambition sometimes lead to the assumption that every means could be considered appropriate to reach the goal. The consequences of such a consideration is what they experienced currently. An experience that gave Volkert, like Bertius, only very limited enjoyment.

  He looked at the stump of his factotum’s arm.

  Very, very limited joy.

  “If this continues, I won’t get very old,” Bertius said. “Otherwise, I don’t believe you, noble Tribune. I know myself quite well. A beautiful house, a nice woman, a peaceful life. This is me. No further desires, ever.”

  Volkert grinned. “That’s why you wanted to stay in the Legion after your injury, rather than retire with your bonus?”

  “I regret this decision now.”

  “If you continue to complain, then so will I.”

  Bertius looked a little offended for a moment. Then he regained his composure, sighed with little enthusiasm – it was still necessary for the master to be fully informed about his suffering –, and focused on opposing the next development. They couldn’t continue their conversation anyway, because Volkert realized that Secundus was riding toward him, turning his horse, and joining them. He had just ridden at the top of the column.

  “It’s all right,” said Secundus, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The helmet rested tethered on his saddle. Although the day was still young, Africa’s sun was already burning from the sky. Volkert had ordered a break every two hours and made sure his men got enough to drink. His intention was to bring the troops safe and sound to their new camp.

  “A tearful farewell?”

  Secundus frowned.

  “A centurion never cries,” Volkert said.

  “But maybe his fiancée.”

  “A centurion’s fiancée never cries.”

  “But a fiancée she is?”

  Volkert watched with a grin as Secundus’ forehead clouded even further.

  “I think that’s what it amounts to,” Secundus said a little awkwardly. He didn’t seem to have developed comfort with this thought yet.

  “Well, it’ll be fine,” Volkert assured him soothingly.

  Secundus sighed.

  Silently, they continued on their way, everyone busy with his own thoughts. The march went without incident, was calm, almost too calm. It was as if destiny wanted to give them one last rest before entering Armageddon.

  Secundus joked. Bertius complained. They drank. They ate.

  Volkert wasn’t emotionally involved in any of it. He joked listlessly. He only half-heartedly advised Bertius. He drank out of duty and let the meal go.

  He knew he was waiting for something, but it was more than just the onset of the decisive battle.

  Something was brewing.

  And whatever it was, it robbed him of more than just his appetite.

  21

  The passage from Ravenna to Hippo Regius lasted a good twelve days, and von Klasewitz enjoyed the time at sea very much. The incident with the agents of Theodosius was forgotten shortly after it had occurred, the fact that two of the traitors had killed themselves was an unfortunate mishap that had ultimately not affected his feeling of triumph. The other two hadn’t been fast enough and had been extensively tortured. When the torturers had fed their leftovers to the fish, two findings had been made – who was responsible for some of the attacks of the last few weeks and that in all likelihood only those four had belonged to the group of culprits.

  When von Klasewitz learned that the leader of the gang was responsible for his failed mutiny on the Saarbrücken, his mood had been raised quite considerably. This was, if anything, an act of divine providence. Fate wanted him to succeed, there was no doubt about that. The German burst with confidence.

  Slowly he took pleasure in this game of betrayal and conspiracy, especially when things developed in his favor. When Hippo Regius appeared in the mist of the morning sun on the horizon, the Magister Militium felt refreshed despite the relatively short period of sleep he got. Everything was now approaching toward his final triumph. He hadn’t all
owed the last few days to pass unused. He had many conversations, sometimes subtle, sometimes less restrained. It was about preparing the activities that would lead to him seizing the purple. The Church had also laid a good foundation here, Petronius and some other priests had begun in their own way to influence especially the artillery legionaries, so that no matter what would happen, von Klasewitz always had a loyal force at his disposal – the “divine providence” that had saved everyone from the poisonous attack came just in time.

  The German grinned into himself. That this “divine providence” had consisted of a fat and ugly kitchen helper who had been ready to blurt everything out for a bag of denarii, no one but the already informed had to know. The German supported every rumor that helped him to get close to be regarded as a divinely chosen being, because especially for the simpler minds this was a helpful bridge over which the sheep would walk.

  He needed the shepherds to help him, he was quite aware of that.

  He stiffened involuntarily as Magnus Maximus stepped at his side. The Emperor had spent the entire journey relatively withdrawn, brooding over plans and tactics, and following up with briefings of his inner circle. It all depended on whether the African prefects would fulfill their promise to flip to their side at the crucial moment. Sure, Maximus had collected hostages, but the Emperor had no illusions about the merciless ruthlessness of many Roman dignitaries, for whom the family was no more than a resource that had to be used in the struggle for power. And, as with any resource, their use was sometimes synonymous with their destruction to serve a higher purpose. So there remained a small risk. Thus, the Emperor and his officers also planned for the case that the African legions would betray the wrong side. Von Klasewitz had no problems with that. His artillery would ensure that they won in any case, especially since the opponents apparently had no intention to sink their fleet, as it had been his greatest fear.

  There seemed to be something like chivalry in the enemy’s considerations. The German didn’t know if he should admire it or laugh about it. It had no major impact on morale, because most legionaries didn’t understand how easy it would’ve been for the Saarbrücken to send their entire fleet to the bottom of the Mediterranean.

  He would have given this order without hesitation. A clean end without any losses on his side. A gigantic massacre, sure – but that’s the way it was.

  Maximus watched the passage into the harbor. No cheering crowd greeted them. They hadn’t expected any. Hippo Regius lived off trade with the rest of the Empire. Most of the people here preferred the Pax Romana instead of constantly having to deal with changing emperors. Peace was good for business. War was a disruption, a threat, an interruption that could cause huge losses. Maximus had no intention of staying here long. He was thirsty for the moment of decision.

  The docking procedure took a while, although the three transport giants were dealt with right away. When Maximus, accompanied by his officers and secured by his personal guard, entered firm ground, an emissary of Gaudentius was already waiting for him, as agreed. It was not long before they had moved into a larger room in the harbor administration, again sealed off by the legionaries and thus a place where they could talk undisturbed.

  “Mactaris is the place of battle,” the officer had immediately told the two men. “We chose it, and Theodosius agreed, because the location also benefits him. We have already had a precise map made – a copy of the one used by the time-wanderers. Gaudentius has taken an officer to the meetings, who has a keen eye and an excellent memory, and a wonderful gift for drawing.”

  Maximus and von Klasewitz leaned over the unrolled parchment.

  The German nodded in satisfaction. “There are good positions for my guns. This time we have to strengthen the artillery’s protection so that the men of von Geeren don’t get too close to me. But from here, we will clearly dominate the battlefield.”

  “Which would not do much good for us if the African legions don’t switch sides,” Maximus remarked, watching the officer lurking. He bowed.

  “Gaudentius has agreed signals with his commanders, as proposed by you, my Lord. As soon as you are ready, give the order, and the African legions will bring disaster to Theodosius. We have gathered all the soldiers, even border troops, auxiliary soldiers, all the locals. We will provide 20,000 men to Theodosius, and this apparent superiority will be his downfall.”

  Maximus didn’t show it, but he had to be impressed. And he wasn’t worried that the exposure of African borders would be exploited by any neighbor. Everybody knew that Maximus himself was in Africa and would cruelly punish anyone who took advantage of the occasion. There was always time to beat the heads of barbarians.

  “The signals are ready?”

  The question had been addressed to von Klasewitz. He smiled. “We have everything prepared. They won’t be overlooked.”

  For a long time, they had discussed which kind of signals should be used. Was it the sound of the trumpets and horns normally used to direct the troops? Doubt had been expressed as to whether this would be sufficient given the battle noise of such a large number of legionaries, reinforced even by the cannons. Von Klasewitz had finally come up with the right idea, and the development had been done relatively quick. Nobody would overlook or ignore this signal, of that everyone was sure.

  “I trust Gaudentius and his men,” Maximus explained in a tone of conviction. “And not only he himself, but also all who serve him faithfully shall be richly rewarded for their patriotism.”

  The officer stiffened and smiled quite pleased.

  The next few hours went by quickly. Von Klasewitz was busy supervising the landing of his artillery and at the same time preparing it to march. The new wagons proved sturdy and easy to maneuver, and his artillerymen were well-trained, so everything ran smoothly. As Magister Militium, he also had to take care of the proper preparation of the other units. By the time most of the soldiers had moved into the hastily constructed camp outside the city, it was already midnight. Maximus had ordered that the men would have a full day before the march started south, and von Klasewitz feared that it wouldn’t be easy to comply – too much to do with the unloading of the ships.

  When he himself fell exhaustedly on his bed in the early morning – not in the camp, of course, but in a villa in Hippo Regius himself, which had been made available to the Emperor and the highest dignitaries by the city’s leaders –, he found no sleep despite his weariness. He had never held such responsibility before, and although many capable men took a great deal of work from him, both his own mistrust and the desire for perfection drove him to take care of things that another commander would’ve left to his subordinates.

  It was hard for him to do that. Somewhere in his heart, he also knew the cause. If he had worked with people for a long time, it was easier for him to delegate. This had been the case with the construction of the three gigantic transports or with the construction of the artillery legion. In time, he had found one or the other, who didn’t give him sleepless nights at the thought of performing tasks independently. However, his appointment as commander was too short a time to properly familiarize himself with his staff.

  And even if he would’ve, the German was nobody who trusted other people much. He was very convinced that he possessed all of the necessary wisdom, and some, and he admitted that openly, at least to himself. Once he knew the only truth, he was willing to adjust, ready to adapt to the circumstances. Von Klasewitz held a lot of principles but was quite ready for flexibility. So ultimately, his arrogance towards the barbarians of the past – and in principle he meant all Romans – was still in his way. He was aware of that as well, but he didn’t succeed in jumping over the last shadow. They couldn’t know what he did.

  He knew he had to change that. He had learned a lot in the last few months. He was a different man from the one who had fiercely instigated the mutiny on the Saarbrücken. He now appreciated the benefits of careful planning and the need for good and dedicated people. Once he was Emperor, it was imp
ossible to take care of everything and everyone. He had to delegate. He had to trust people – to a certain extent.

  And he knew what could happen if one trusted the wrong people.

  But how did he separate the wheat from the chaff?

  Was his knowledge of human nature sufficient? Could he see through the facades that many high-ranking officers and politicians had woven around themselves with sophisticated acting? Could he find counselors who recognized these things – and could he then trust these counselors to tell him everything truthfully and without ulterior motive?

  Von Klasewitz sighed, straightened, reached for the wine cup next to him and drank. This restlessness of his thoughts led to nothing. He had to find peace. The heavy red wine he served himself might help.

  He drank the cup, then lay down again, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

  Sleep! Sleep! He wanted to force himself to find peace. But the inner tension had him firmly under control. He rolled back and forth for a few minutes, then poured another glass of wine, drank hastily without paying any more attention to the quality of the drink.

  At some point, he succeeded in dozing off, but the dreams that followed showed him clearly that only his body had found rest, not his mind.

  22

  “That is not enough. Dig deeper!” Von Geeren pointed to the corporal beside him. “Like him. Otherwise, this isn’t a decent cover. The enemy has cannons!”

  It was tedious to have to emphasize that again and again. The infantryman in front of him just nodded and leaned down to drill the shovel back into the ground. Since the early morning hours, they were busy digging out the positions. They had to perform several functions simultaneously: providing a good position to hit the battlefield with targeted shots, adequate protection against the tyrannical traitor’s cannons, and a mount against attacking ground forces that they would most certainly encounter.