The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  Another soldier stepped into the resulting gap.

  “Traitor!” Volkert roared. “Kill them!”

  His anger spread to the men beside him, who used his cries as an incentive to fight the former allies even harder. Everyone shouted encouragement to each other, confirming themselves in their anger and contempt.

  Volkert’s sword pushed forward again, slipping off at a quickly uplifted shield. He quickly took a step back, lifting the deflected weapon to his own defense. The counterattack of his opponent went into the void. Obviously surprised by his opponent’s quick and light-footed reaction, the attacker leaned his upper body a little too far forward, extending his sword arm too far in an effort to catch Volkert.

  The German gave a satisfied grunt. The African troops were not elite units, but little more than glorified border troops without a real enemy on the continent. There were many of them, and they were clearly determined to implement their betrayal as effectively as possible, but Volkert’s men had already fought too many battles to be intimidated by troops of this quality.

  Volkert’s blade descended and severed his opponent’s arm just below the elbow.

  The man screamed, staring in horror at the pulsing blood shooting from the stump, and stumbled. Volkert had an easy time. His blade thrusted forward, a second graceful cut, and when Volkert pulled it back, the man in front of him was already dead. The corpse fell, Volkert took a big step, stood in front of the next foe. Everything was tightly packed here, restricting freedom of movement. There was no turning back and forth, merely over the dead bodies of the enemies. Volkert was happy with that. All caution, all doubts had disappeared. In a frenzy of bloodlust, he had roused his men when the extent of the betrayal had become clear. And he had reacted quickly, with other officers smart enough to follow his example.

  Volkert raised the blade, stepped forward. The metal shone red with the fresh blood of his judgment, ready to dispatch the culprits he had already condemned to death. Here and now, he was the judge of the Empire, and the determination and precision with which he made his way through the mass of enemies animated his comrades.

  “Traitors!” Volkert cried, when a hostile decurion stared at him in fear, barely lifting his arms before he fell to the ground, bloodstained. “Traitors must die! Forwaaard!”

  A polyphonic answer returned his command, a great rumble of thunder from the throats of hundreds of legionaries, who threw themselves forward again and again, thrusting, hacking, slashing, beating and bringing death many times over those who had once imagined themselves as their brothers in arms.

  “Rooome!” Volkert roared, as he took another step forward.

  “Rooome!” the men echoed around him, and the word spread, drowning out the calls of pain, the horns and trumpets, the loud orders of the opposing officers.

  “The Tribune! Follow the Tribune!” he heard a strong voice from the crowd, and again this idea continued to spread, from throat to throat, and soon the cacophony of voices mingled.

  “The Tribune! The Tribune! Rooome!”

  Volkert felt carried forward by these voices, no longer knowing whether he was still leading or being led by his men, but this distinction became increasingly irrelevant anyway. Like a determined wave of deepest contempt, the compact unit of several hundred legionaries streamed against the treacherous wing of the African forces and demanded a blood toll that the traitors could never have expected to pay.

  Time lost its meaning. Pain receded into the background. Hit and thrust. To look at the enemy, to assess, to react, to act. Every opponent was different. Everyone was a traitor. Traitors died that day, and they all were supposed to roast in hell.

  Volkert’s anger was more than contempt for the enemy. It was also contempt for himself. The deeper he rose into the wild intoxication of killing, the more often he saw the image of the dumb Sedacius plunging into his own sword with a determined movement, over and over again. Treason! Volkert knew exactly what price to pay for betrayal! And he judged all those who had dared to do so, as he challenged God to judge him for his own. That drove him. That pushed him forward, and he was just as ruthless to himself as to everyone else.

  A howl went through the crowd, as the bodyguard of Theodosius went into battle. He felt the resistance of his own opponents weaken, as if they were no longer as sure of their cause as before.

  A wild laugh escaped Volkert. If they all doubted, he didn’t. Once more, he took a deep breath and yelled with all his might, “Rooome!”

  A chorus answered him. All of them listened.

  But the delay was short-lived, the rising sense of triumph premature.

  Trumpets and horns from the enemy’s side. Maximus’s army started an assault, flinging forward, and Volkert watched with horror, as it gnawed at the lines of his own unit fighting on two fronts, and his forces were now rapidly dwindling.

  A shout, a scream that made Volkert turn his head. He stared at the image, not a hundred yards from him, saw General Richomer being dragged off his horse, how he was beating around and how others were rushing to his aid, then a spear shot out from below and broke forcefully through the chest plate of the general. Blood spurted out of his mouth as he was dragged limply and cut to pieces by triumphant legionaries.

  Volkert turned away his eyes. The bloodlust had gone, the madness of the fight that had driven him forward. He felt his men make room for him as he turned away from the front. He had to give orders again. How many officers of what rank did command down here? Where were they? Where was Theodosius and where was Rheinberg?

  He turned around himself, desperate for answers, for an overview, for some orientation in this chaos of betrayal, pain and death.

  What happened here?

  38

  “They are too many!” one of the legionaries informed Rheinberg. “They are just too many!”

  Rheinberg raised the pistol, sighted one of Maximus’ men, and pulled the trigger. The success was inevitable on such short distance, the soldier staggered, fell to the ground.

  Another one stepped into his place, throwing something. Rheinberg felt pushed down when someone pulled his arm violently so that he lost his balance and fell. Dirt and loose earth pattered down on him as the crude hand grenade exploded. He felt something penetrate his thigh and send painful waves through his body. Rheinberg raised his head, wiping earth from his eyes. The grenade thrower was pierced by a spear and dropped dead to the ground, felled by one of the legionaries of Verilius. Rheinberg looked down, felt his thigh, and raised his bloody hand to his face. With difficulty, he straightened up. The wound was full of blood, but the shrapnel had missed the central veins, tearing out only a palm-sized piece of muscle. Rheinberg reached for his bandages and pressed one on the wound, then wrapped it tightly. It would do – it had to.

  While he was taking care of himself, two legionaries stood guard, but no one approached them. The rattle of the rifles, the cries of the dying and the wounded, Rheinberg tried to ignore it for a moment. When he was done, he got up again, trying not to burden the wounded leg. Painful waves flushed through his body, black clouds danced before his eyes. He stumbled. Someone supported him.

  “Lord, there are too many of them!” the legionary whose name Rheinberg didn’t know uttered.

  He was right. The troops Maximus had sent against von Geeren’s position were too numerous. Theodosius and his guardsmen were directly involved in the fighting, as were Rheinberg and his men.

  “Captain!”

  The voice made him turn around. A German corporal waved to him, his face dirty, an assault rifle with an attached bayonet in his hands.

  “There!” Rheinberg ordered. Supported by the legionaries, he hobbled in the direction of the man. Moments later, they were sitting in a ditch. Next to them were three infantrymen who ignored the newcomers, instead shooting at the enemy legionaries. On the ground lay a figure with a chalk-white face, breathing hard, sweat on his forehead.

  Von Geeren.

  Rheinberg knelt down, ignoring the pa
in in his leg, and looked at the Captain’s eyes.

  “Ah … Jan,” he muttered with sudden recognition, indicating a faint smile. “We have no luck today!”

  His voice was barely audible in the noise, but Rheinberg was close enough to the man’s face to make it out.

  “Got me badly. Hand grenade. Don’t look at it.”

  Rheinberg’s gaze instantly wandered down the injured man, pausing briefly on the chaos of blood and flesh that was von Geeren’s abdomen. “The paramedic …” he said, but Geeren raised a hand.

  “Takes care of people who can be saved. You know what? I feel nothing down there. Nothing. The spine has cracked. Bad crack. Can’t move anything. It’s not a life for which I want to survive, Jan. It’s not how I want to be.”

  Rheinberg swallowed, felt tears come to his eyes. He grasped the limp hand of the dying man and searched for words … comfort, encouragement, something. Von Geeren seemed to notice that, for again that faint smile slid crossed his lips.

  “All right, Jan. Time is up. Hope it’s not in vain.”

  “I …”

  “That’s okay. It’s better this way. Take care of yourself. Keep yourself down. No reason to end this way. Fuck the Romans. They’re crazy, really.”

  Then his eyes suddenly unfocused into the void. He was dead. Rheinberg stared at him, speechless, feeling his body tremble. He closed his eyes for a moment before stroking the captain’s eyelids. Then he sat down, felt the pain in his leg and took a deep breath. The corporal looked at him questioningly.

  “Who is the highest-ranking infantryman?” Rheinberg asked flatly.

  “Lieutenant Paulsen. Should I get him?”

  “No. Just tell him that he is now the commander of the unit.”

  The man nodded.

  Rheinberg raised his pistol. “I have about twenty shots left for this one, Corporal. I won’t take them with me. Twenty more shots.”

  The man grinned at him and nodded.

  Rheinberg looked down at the motionless body of von Geeren. He would mourn, at the right time, and there would be a decent burial. He would let the funeral procession take place in Constantinople, so that a daughter of Modestus would have the opportunity to say goodbye to something that might have been.

  Rheinberg tested his weapon and waved his two guards. “What’s your name, men?”

  The one man, tall, broad-shouldered, with no front teeth and bushy eyebrows, almost requiring a barber, bowed. “Titus, sir.”

  The other legionary, smaller, stocky, but with powerful arm muscles, almost as massive as thighs, smiled at the commander. “Marcus, sir.”

  “Marcus will help me walk,” Rheinberg ordered. He was able to grab the smaller man well, and he had the stature to support an extra weight. Willingly Marcus stepped next to him and helped Rheinberg into the right position. Titus stood in front of them, sword ready, and looked at the commander. “Where to, sir?”

  “We run to the Emperor.”

  The legionary probably wanted to say something about “running” – at least he pursed his lips briefly as if trying to get a word out –, but then he changed his mind. Rheinberg shook his head gently. The comment wouldn’t have been necessary.

  “Forward!”

  They climbed out of the ditch with difficulty, and Rheinberg saw with a glance that the fight was still in full swing. The Emperor’s banner stood just a few hundred meters away. The position of the infantry wasn’t yet overrun. The dull hammering of a machine-gun sounded, probably a central reason for the slower progress of the enemy. Then again the crash of a hand grenade, not far, followed by screams, curses and orders.

  Rheinberg turned his eyes to the Emperor’s banner. Theodosius and his men supported the troops of Verilius. The Emperor was no stranger to war. He had fought under the protection of his eponymous father in Britain, against the Alemanni and several times against the Sarmatians. Only the unlawful execution of his father for alleged high treason had interrupted a brilliant military career. But he had learned the craft for many years. Rheinberg could at least be reassured of that. The Emperor was a field commander far better than himself.

  However, he had ensured that both his wife, who had never met Rheinberg, as well as his little son Arcadius remained in the Spanish province in relative safety. That might have been a great comfort to him now.

  Rheinberg pointed to the banner. “There!”

  He raised his weapon, but there was no target. Was it just an assumption, or had the focus of the fighting actually shifted to the men led by Theodosius?

  Rheinberg suspected that he had to hurry.

  39

  “Victory is ours!”

  Maximus beamed, and he looked with great joy at the battlefield. What a wonderful, glorious day! Alas, the betrayal of the African troops had not led to the immediate collapse of the enemy forces. Richomer, whose corpse lay on the battlefield, had been able to help one of the heavily beleaguered wings with Theodosius’s reserve, and on the other hand, some officer had been able to gather and motivate his own men. But now, with the storm of the main force, it became more and more clear that the army of Theodosius was doomed. On top of that, the German cohort was struggling to survive – with the Spaniard in the thick of it. In the near future, all of their problems would be solved at once.

  Maximus felt a slight regret. He would have preferred a peace agreement. But fate had decided otherwise. Who was Maximus for wanting to contradict the counsel of God, who so obviously wanted to give him victory?

  Marcus Vetius was with him, as was his Magister Militium, the time-wanderer. More officers had gathered, all of them standing at this spot from which they had a fair view of the events on the battlefield.

  “We must press them further,” Vetius said, pointing with an outstretched arm at the formations that had been wedged together, ultimately distinguishable only by the banner and sign bearers. “The men of Theodosius hold and retreat only slowly. The formation is still stable. There must be officers on the ground to keep the legionaries together.”

  After the death of Richomer, they had tried to get an overview of the still active generals of Theodosius. Arbogast, it was said, was still in command, but many other high-ranking officers had fallen to the treachery of the African forces, and Rheinberg himself was busy guarding the lives of his time-wanderer marksmen and, as it seemed, his Emperor.

  “I’m dispatching my guard to reinforce the attack on the Germans,” Maximus decided. “Not only do I want this danger to be eradicated, but I want Theodosius to die foolishly in their so-called protection.”

  Vetius nodded, but made a worried face. “We are exposing your own protection, sir!”

  “I’m not in danger,” Maximus replied with a dismissive gesture. He gave von Klasewitz a questioning look.

  “The troops who fought my cannons were withdrawn to reinforce the battle,” he explained. “The artillery is no longer threatened. I therefore suggest that the Emperor will accompany me to the artillery positions where many men can provide security. It gives the Guard the freedom to kill Theodosius and his people, as you ordered.”

  “That sounds like a very satisfactory solution,” Maximus smiled. Vetius took a long, critical look at von Klasewitz but kept any dissent to himself. His rivalry with the German was well-known – and Maximus promoted it to some extent –, but if he rebelled too loudly at this time, it would be regarded as a petty disagreement, especially in view of the fact that objectively nothing spoke against the German’s proposal. It was reasonable.

  Much too reasonable perhaps for the taste of Vetius.

  Maximus smiled. When all this was over, he would appoint the General to oversee the conditions in Africa. In fact, this would require a lot of “oversight,” because sooner or later Maximus would have to replace those prefects who had so easily changed their loyalties – and that as silently as possible. Loyalty was a scarce commodity in the Roman Empire, and those who proved that they didn’t have it in abundance were always insecure companions.
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br />   “We should think of other precautions,” Vetius said. “When Theodosius dies and the time-wanderers escape, they still have their ship, which they can use to cause a lot of trouble. And there remains a pretender to the throne.”

  “Ah.” Maximus frowned. “The little Arcadius. Will that be necessary?”

  Vetius shrugged. “He is unimportant as a person, but as a symbol …”

  Maximus thought for a moment. He wasn’t as passionate an advocate of child murder as many of his predecessors. On the other hand, there were the necessities of the state and the possibility that the prediction of Vetius contained a kernel of truth.

  And there was a nice opportunity to give the Magister Militium a task that could discredit him a bit, at least to some of them. It was just a matter of putting the matter in an order that would enable him later …

  Yes. That was a good solution.

  He looked at von Klasewitz.

  “Vetius is right. We have to make the most of our victory and not leave any loose ends lying around. Magister. I entrust this important task to you. Once the battle is over, take as many men as you think necessary and travel to Spain to the lands of Theodosius’ family. Deal with Arcadius and his mother, as you think necessary. I leave you the details; you will surely make the right decision. But it’s a problem that needs to be solved.”

  Maximus saw how the German hesitated, then nodded and took a firm posture. “I’ll do what I have to do, Augustus!” he said clearly, and there was no sign to Maximus that he wasn’t serious about it. Maybe the German didn’t even understand the possible implications of this assignment. As far as Maximus had been instructed, it was rather uncommon in the future of the time-wanderers to have unpleasant offspring removed for dynastic-political reasons. Certainly a far more civilized time if these things were no longer necessary, the Emperor thought. But it was just another era, and as much as everyone wished that one day it would be the same here, it was just the way it was. Von Klasewitz would have to deal with the necessities of the present he lived in, whether he liked it or not.