The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

Von Geeren was certain that von Klasewitz had told him exactly that. The traitor had to guess that his adversary expected no less and had built appropriate defensive positions that would protect well against the gunshot. It would be pointless to bombard a well secured place for an endless time with artillery, which was able to do so much more devastating effect on the free, unprotected battlefield.

  The Captain was not sure if he should classify that as a blessing or a curse. But it seemed to make von Klasewitz predictable. What other conclusions could be drawn from this?

  One more thing he would worry about later, when it was all over, and if he was still alive – and von Klasewitz had escaped from their grasp to cause further unrest. A decent jail, better still, a clean execution was a result he wished much more intensely and would finally make his reflections about his adversary superfluous.

  He heard a curse, ducking into the position from which the wordy filth had emanated. One of his marksmen handled his weapon, obviously jammed. Von Geeren said nothing and just watched as the man began to solve the problem. His comrades continued to fire methodically.

  Von Geeren crawled forward, looked at the battlefield. The lines had met. The cannons punched holes in the sea of bodies. His men frayed it from the side. Nevertheless, the legionaries on both sides showed a remarkable discipline. Gone were the days when the soldiers ran away like headless chickens when they came in contact with rifle fire. They may not fully understand everything that killed them, and many may still believe it to be the work of demons or sinister sorcerers whom they couldn’t oppose. But the training was worth it.

  Von Geeren shook his head.

  A nice reward. The legionaries had learned to continue fighting under cannon and rifle fire and keeping their lines. They had learned to become classic cannon fodder, except for those who came close enough to pay back the gunman.

  The improved discipline had one effect above all else: Dying was in full swing.

  35

  Maximus stared down at the battlefield. The canons of his Magister Militium fulfilled their purpose better than expected. Their massive onslaught didn’t only drive like the sword of God through the crowded mass of his opponents, it also did a lot for the motivation of his own legionaries – because so far the German had managed not to hit his own soldiers. Maximus’ followers watched as the opponent’s men were mowed down, and to many it seemed like observing the hand of God. The attack was motivated and powerful, supported by the prospect of a decisive victory.

  Maximus also had to realize that his enemies’ firearms didn’t even have half as much of a psychological impact. The occasional bang of the rifles was almost lost in the noise. Yes, men fell under the targeted shots of the time-wanderers, and, yes, there was an urgent need to eliminate this threat.

  Appropriate steps had already been taken.

  But it seemed as if the enemy would run out of breath. And even the rapid guns, which von Klasewitz called “machine guns” with a certain respect in his voice, didn’t have the massive effect as a thunderous salvo from the mouths of the Imperial artillery, which drowned out everything visually as well as acoustically. It was right to channel all resources into building these pieces, rather than getting lost in other projects. This battle sealed the fate of the time-wanderers, and Maximus respected von Klasewitz for his good advice. And he knew that he would win this battle mainly because he had the traitor on his side.

  Certain consequences would be inevitable.

  Maximus kept his eyes fixed on what was happening in the battle. His generals had the situation under control. Things developed as planned. There was no immediate need for him to give orders.

  His thoughts wandered again to von Klasewitz. By no means had he missed how Petronius had wandered around the man. He just had more important things to do than to worry about him. But he himself felt that the representatives of the Church were not quite as enthusiastic about him as they had been at the beginning. He couldn’t even blame them. But what should he do? Although things had largely developed as he had planned, it was clear that the arrival of the time-wanderers had upset everything. The events of the great migrations from the East also made developments unclear. Both events had to be taken into consideration. How could this goal be achieved by putting everything on one side and completely neglecting the counterweight?

  The imbalance was magnifying and would harm the Empire, Maximus was sure of that. But men like Ambrosius and Petronius didn’t share this perception. And von Klasewitz was someone who would obviously do anything to achieve the highest office, no matter what the consequences.

  There was only one supreme office left to him.

  Maximus pressed his lips on each other.

  He would really have to deal with this as soon as this was done.

  “Sir?”

  Maximus turned. Marcus Vetius was one of his generals who were responsible for leading the battle. An old veteran of his time in Britain, he had never shown much enthusiasm for the “disreputable” weapons of the time-wanderers, and although he recognized the effectiveness of the guns, their use seemed to cause him physical nausea. But he was of unquestioning loyalty and did what was expected of him, even under the constant bellowing of the despised weaponry.

  “Is it time, Vetius?”

  The general nodded. “There are different points in time when it makes sense, sir. But there is no use in giving our allies the agreed signal if the cannons have killed too many of them. The Magister Militium … is good at targeting and especially good in hitting the enemy in the middle of his formation. But this opportunity will dissolve more and more, and the wings are more involved into the normal fight man against man. Our allies will die for the wrong lord if we delay too long.”

  Maximus nodded. “We don’t want that.”

  “I’ll show you, Sir.”

  Vetius stepped beside his Emperor and began to explain the situation. In short order, he convinced Maximus.

  “Notify von Klasewitz. As soon as I give the signal, the cannons have to fall silent. We want to make sure that as few as possible are hit by our own artillery. The allies are traitors to Theodosius, now they themselves shouldn’t get the impression that they have been betrayed.”

  “I will send the messenger immediately.”

  Maximus’ gaze wandered over to the signal trumpeters. The men stood not far from the small cluster of generals commanding the battle from the background. At the German’s suggestion, they had added a number of additional horns to the ensemble, which sounded particularly piercing, with an absolutely unmistakable sound, blown by men with an impressive chest. As soon as they were released, another novelty would be visible.

  Von Klasewitz had been inventive. And he had terrified his followers, even the Emperor himself, with his new method of sending a clear message over the battlefield. “Rockets,” he called the simple things of reinforced parchment filled with gunpowder that were rammed into the ground on long sticks waiting to be used. As soon as the legionaries heard the hornists’ signal, they would set fire to short matches and send a battery of fifty of those projectiles hissing into the sky, hard to miss. A marvelous demonstration of power that would confuse the enemy and give their secret allies a clear command. When the rockets flew, it was time to plunge Theodosius and his followers into the abyss.

  That was the agreement. The prefects of Africa would order their troops to turn their weapons against the enemy. Thus, the soldiers of the Spaniard would be enclosed from three sides and would not be able to resist this superiority for long.

  Maximus hoped for a quick surrender. He didn’t want to shed Roman blood unnecessarily. In fact, after some time in which to cool their anger and forget their frustration, he thought of including the then-captured legionaries in his own army, as had been his practice before. Rome remained Rome. Only from some of the senior officers could he expect that they were difficult to be persuaded to obey him. But here, too, Maximus didn’t want to cause a bloodbath. Many would simply be removed from their post
s and sent to a private life. Some would be pacified with an attractive civilian position. All in all, Maximus intended to be very reasonable and act appropriately. Even Theodosius, should he not choose to commit suicide and be taken prisoner, would be allowed to live, in exile, but without further impairments. Those who had to be symbolically killed were Rheinberg, his man von Geeren, and Magister Dahms, although the loss of his special knowledge was certainly regrettable. Still, it was unavoidable. Ambrosius insisted … and von Klasewitz as well.

  Maximus sighed.

  That’s the way things were.

  It took a few minutes, then Vetius came back to him. He indicated a bow.

  “The German sends his respect,” he said with an undertone that seemed a little lacking in it. “He’s ready to stop the fire once the order is received.”

  Maximus nodded. Once more, he took a hard look at the billowing battle in front of him. He squinted. Among the inventions for which he had serious need were the glasses that could make him see over long distances. Given the fact that he had always had a mild visual impairment, this achievement was very important. The German had hinted to him that properly cut glasses, well-adjusted, could correct his deficit. Maximus had intended to devote as much resources to this opportunity, for military as well as personal reasons.

  Maximus scrambled to his feet and raised a hand. A legionary who had been waiting for that gesture raised his own and looked in the direction of the Emperor. Only when he performed the movement a second time for confirmation, was the signal given. The Emperor didn’t hesitate any longer.

  Moments later, the buglers put the powerful instruments to their lips, took a deep breath and pressed their lips to the mouths of the instruments. Moments later, the mournful song resounded, penetrating to the core, producing by over a dozen powerful instruments, echoing across the battlefield.

  It was as if everyone was pausing to listen to the sound.

  Just a moment.

  Then it hissed loudly, and the rockets raced into the clear air, a whole bundle of long, sometimes even colorful smoke trails behind them, where von Klasewitz had experimented with admixtures to black powder.

  A loud “ah and oh” could be heard. It came from both sides, for although their own officers were instructed, none of them had ever actually seen such a thing.

  An almost reverent moment.

  Then the trap snapped shut.

  36

  “What’s happening?”

  Rheinberg took a few steps forward, as if he could improve the clearness of the binoculars, with which he had armed his eyes. The horn signal had caught their attention, and Rheinberg was not the only senior officer straining his eyes to see what was going on.

  “The cannons are silent!” Richomer cried. Rheinberg listened. He now realized that he suddenly missed something from the sound of the battle. Indeed. The cannons had stopped firing.

  And then …

  Rheinberg stared into the sky. A whole phalanx of white and colored plumes of smoke rose into the air and made a loud, piercing hiss. Rockets! Von Klasewitz had given the missile to the Romans, no more than firecrackers, but certainly a very impressive display.

  A signal for whom?

  A signal for what?

  “There! Damn it! Rheinberg! Treason! It’s really betrayal!”

  Rheinberg made a mournful sound when he saw it too. The banners of the African troops turned, the men on the wings made a 90 degrees movement sideways, toward the center on whose side they had previously fought.

  “Godegisel was right!” Rheinberg finally said. “The prefects did not deceive Maximus but us!”

  Rheinberg watched the scene like paralyzed. He suddenly couldn’t say another word. The right wing penetrated with force into the no longer allied center, surprised the legionaries, drove a wedge into their formation. The left wing had bigger problems. Some officer had paid attention and given his own orders at the first sign of change.

  Everything threatened to break up.

  And Godegisel had been right.

  They had all been terrible fools.

  Rheinberg stared at her downfall, incapable of any meaningful reaction.

  “What … we have to withdraw the center, now!” Theodosius exclaimed, who now had an overview of the situation. That had been Rheinberg’s first reaction, but he raised his hand, lost the paralysis that had afflicted him, and tried to keep his mind calm.

  “Not so fast!” he explained. “Von Geeren is in a good position to attack the right wing. He should give everything he has. There is no time for exaggerated caution. The center seems to be steady on the left, someone was paying attention.”

  Rheinberg turned to the men. Theodosius looked excited, almost panicked, while Richomer made a calculating impression.

  “General,” Rheinberg told him, “you yourself take our new right flank. Take the reserve and the Imperial Guard. I want you to move forward as soon as von Geeren clears up there and has unbalanced the African forces. We have to clean up before we can press against Maximus. The silence of the cannons helps us.”

  Richomer’s back straightened. He clenched his clenched fist against the breastplate.

  “I obey!”

  As soon as he said that, he turned and ran to his waiting horse. Rheinberg looked at Theodosius.

  “Your Majesty, we must retire elsewhere. I suggest that we hide with von Geeren, he provides the best stationary protection on the battlefield. The Guard must intervene in the fight.”

  The Spaniard nodded. “So be it, my friend. I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “If we remove your person from the battlefield, our formation collapses,” Rheinberg said.

  Theodosius nodded. He knew what had happened when Gratian had been killed in the first battle against Maximus. The Emperor was a symbolic and actual figure central to the fighting morale of men. Theodosius was soldier enough to know that well.

  “We’re on our way immediately, Magister.”

  Rheinberg turned around and shouted orders. Horses were brought while Richomer, at the head of the Guard, ran down the hill. Then came the frantic rattle of rifles, especially the MGs, who were now faithfully executing Rheinberg’s orders. Long volleys of bullets drove into the now so close enemy and plowed through the densely packed formation, which was torn open by the violent gunfire. Only a few more minutes, and the once strong right wing would panic and fall apart. Von Geeren, that was Rheinberg’s confidence, would have the situation in view and stop the fire in time, so as not to endanger his own men in the center.

  A legionary appeared beside him, the horse in the reins. Rheinberg nodded to the man and swung himself onto the back of the animal. He looked down again at the battlefield. Von Geeren’s fire achieved its effect. The ranks of the African troops were clearing. Their formation collapsed, entire centuries melted away like ice in the sun. Were those not the first troops to break loose and sought their salvation in desertion? Rheinberg paused a little longer. Richomer’s unit got ready, and then the signal. The general had chosen the right time. The Germans stopped their fire almost immediately as Richomer thundered down the hill with his men, heading straight for the dissolving phalanx of the traitors. That had to have a murderous psychological effect on the men! Rheinberg found himself grinning triumphantly. Richomer drove his soldiers toward the African forces like a storm front, and when they collided, the traitors were driven back with a primal power driven by anger and bitterness.

  Rheinberg’s gaze shifted to the left. The center held. There you would have to attack next. The situation was still precarious, but things had certainly not developed as the former British governor had imagined.

  Rheinberg smiled. Von Geeren had really exceeded his expectations. How he managed to “smell” Richomer’s attack, so to speak, and give the order in time to stop the fire …

  Just at that moment, he heard the rifles speak again. He turned on his horse and peered in the direction of the infantrymen. The binoculars limited his field of vision a lit
tle, but what he saw made his newly-felt joy disappear again.

  The reason why von Geeren had ceased his fire was not his excellent sense of time or the clear analysis of the situation. It was the simple fact that he had to reform his entire troop.

  The position of the time-wanderers was about to be overrun. Rheinberg saw and heard rifle fire, but he also saw and heard clashing blades, and that much, much too close.

  He tore his horse around.

  Theodosius was on his way to this maelstrom. Hopefully, he had thought better of it in time and started his retreat. The Emperor had only a small bodyguard of perhaps a hundred legionaries with him.

  An uneasy feeling raised inside him.

  Perhaps the Emperor had thought that these men and his presence would be able to fend off the attack on the riflemen, that they would be enough for the Spaniard to do the job.

  Rheinberg let the binoculars wander, adjusted the magnification, found himself in search of the banners of Theodosius, as they moved towards the position of von Geeren. He didn’t find them at first, almost got scared until he finally succeeded. His fears were confirmed. Theodosius had made much better progress than he expected, and made no attempt to move away from the scene.

  That was not very clever … that was just too …

  Rheinberg stared down at the battlefield. A strong conflict raged in him. What should he do? He had an army to command. But what use was that command when the Emperor was dead and the infantry was wiped out? He had to set priorities, as always. And at that moment, he found it more difficult than ever.

  He pulled himself up and waved. He also had a bodyguard, another one hundred men.

  It was time, thought Jan Rheinberg grimly, as he pulled his pistol and checked the magazine. Time to get his fingers dirty.

  37

  “Holy shit!” Volkert bellowed, thrusting his sword forward. The blade pierced the legionary’s chest, who had neglected his cover at the wrong moment. He staggered back, and with a sucking sound, Volkert’s sword was yanked free from his ribs. In an automatic movement, the German pushed forward a second time, pierced the enemy’s throat and watched grimly as the dying man fell to the ground.