The Emperor's Men: Emperor

by Dirk van den Boom

  Maximus looked around, reading in the faces. Many – far too many of his officers and advisors – seemed to like the priest’s words.

  He took a deep breath. There were words on his lips that would hopefully smooth the waves and soothe them all. He needed them all here, as allies and loyalists, if he wanted to complete the great work of unifying the Empire. Later, he supposed, he would talk to Ambrosius – about the role that Petronius played, about what was at stake for the Church, and what was the Emperor’s business, where the limits were which both sides had to respect.

  Yes, respect.

  In the end it all came down to one thing: Petronius – and through him Ambrosius – lacked the necessary respect.

  Perhaps one saw his indignation at this realization on his face, because suddenly the men in front of him moved back a step, as if they were afraid or would recognize something in him, which reminded them to be cautious.

  Respect was good. If it didn’t exist, fear was an adequate substitute, Maximus thought.

  But no words left his mouth more. It was too late for that.

  The sudden pain in his back made him flinch.

  Weakness seized his body, a deep, very deep tiredness.

  Shouting. Fear. Satisfaction. Steps. Something went completely wrong.

  Maximus looked down at himself. His blurring gaze recognized the point of a blade sticking out of his chest from behind.

  A good attack, he thought, strangely detached as his legs gave way under him.

  Carefully executed, his last thoughts were. The blackness surrounding him took away all the pain.

  He didn’t notice how Vetius cut off the head of the priest Thidrek, who had held the blade. He was no longer aware of how the General then rushed at Petronius, guided by a sure instinct that this had to be the author of this cowardly murder. Gratefully, Maximus could no longer witness the swift death of Vetius under the blades of those officers who had plotted in favor of the cause of the Church.

  Thus, on behalf of Ambrosius, Petronius cleared the way for establishment of the Christian Empire they both dreamed about.

  Magnus Maximus had not suited them well, in the end.

  42

  The purple mantle stank. Von Klasewitz tried not to turn his nose up, but perhaps this highly symbolic piece of clothing had already seen better times – or simply didn’t adjust well to the stress of the long campaign.

  He craned his chin forward, trying to look as majestic as possible. He recalled the photographs of Emperor Wilhelm II, carefully trimmed to publicize the dignity of the German Empire, trying to push the crippled arm far out of sight, and above all to convey the impression of energy and masculine determination through his distinctive countenance.

  It turned out quite well that the photographic art wasn’t invented yet. The sculptors would, in due course and with detailed instructions, create a fitting picture of the new Emperor in order to spread his statues throughout the Empire. There was still time and opportunity for one or the other correction. Von Klasewitz liked the idea. He on a horse, sword raised. He in thinking pose, considering important issues. He, gazing far into the future, planning, forward-looking, visionary. He, with mildness and care in his attitude, the protective father of the Empire. He, with a glazed look, holding the cross on his chest, immersed in spiritual contemplation, a faithful servant of the Church, filled with the Word of God. Von Klasewitz decided to write down these and other ideas in a quiet hour. He found that the current postures of the imperial statues seemed a bit too one-sided and monotonous. He would make it his personal project to develop the propaganda effect of this art to its full effect. Variety, the representation of all important aspects, all facets and nuances, was as much a part of it as the observance of certain basic rules. Von Klasewitz was especially looking forward to this task and the first results. To be allowed to look at himself in marble, larger than life-size, certainly a little idealized here and there, he regarded as big pleasure.

  But now it was not about eternity, and at the moment in which he had to prove dignity and seriousness, and a sharp-smelling purple mantle shouldn’t stand in his way. Everyone looked at him expectantly. The officers on Petronius’ side had supported his proclamation to become Emperor, as expected. The only troops in the immediate vicinity – the artillery legion in particular – had also made it clear by loud cheers that this development enjoyed their support. And given that the rest of the army was still slaughtering the rather stubborn followers of the deceased Theodosius, the partisans of the dead Vetius had held back nobly, in order not to share his fate. They would pretend to accept the sudden development, at least for a while. And if they afterwards refrained from intrigue and subversion, they would find that von Klasewitz, Emperor and Augustus, would stretch his hand in peace toward them.

  If not, he’d have to take measures.

  And so he became Emperor of Rome. Of all of Rome. Theodosius was dead. His army dissolved before the eyes of the new Emperor. Von Klasewitz, who would rule as Johannes I, had no intention of repeating Maximus’ error and show too much leniency. Yes, there were military and political necessities, but some things needed to be done in a less subtle way than Maximus had intended. The new Emperor was firmly convinced that it was necessary to state an example. Known Arians or followers of ancient cults would be publicly executed, if they refused to repent and adhere to the Trinitarian creed. Petronius had provided a greater number of priests who were able to perform proper baptism ceremonies in a short time, so that there would be no lack of opportunity. Anyone who stuck to his outdated or false belief would bask in the joy of becoming a martyr for his faith. If this was the wish of the unlearnable, von Klasewitz was quite ready to fulfill it. Petronius would have no reason to complain, nor would his master, Bishop Ambrosius. Von Klasewitz intended to strengthen and expand Christianity, especially in Africa. He knew from the future what was to come, that Islam would quickly enjoy great success on the continent. It was already necessary to take precautions in order to show the limits to the Sultans of the future. Von Klasewitz didn’t believe that he could prevent the emergence of this religion, but its spread should be controllable. When he had discussed these things with Petronius, he found in him a strong supporter. Measures to strengthen Christianity were also to be taken in the Asian East of the Empire, so that in the future crusades would prove unnecessary and Constantinople would remain forever Constantinople. Klasewitz wanted to do what he could to ensure this. And to put a stop to the decay of the Empire, a strong official church in conjunction with a strong state was the only effective combination. Here, the new Emperor was absolutely in line with the Trinitarians, and if there was blood to be spilled along the way, he didn’t care. And if it was the blood of little children – such as a certain boy called Arcadius, who didn’t yet know of his imminent demise back in Spain –, then this too was to be accepted. Von Klasewitz would certainly be given absolution by appropriate authority in good time.

  He was now, so to speak, close to the source of any blessing.

  Everything was fine.

  Everything developed well.

  Johannes I felt at peace with himself, a satisfaction he hadn’t felt for a long time. It remained to kill Rheinberg. Best of all, death to all the other senior officers who were with him. None of them would ever serve him faithfully. Removing them was a greater gain as the concomitant loss of expertise was a step backwards. He would then, out of the crewmen and NCOs, all in all easily malleable, promote men of low status to new officers, personally indebted to him. Yes, a little purge. That wasn’t a bad idea. And some of the older NCOs … this man Köhler, should he ever return from his crazed expedition, had to be considered as well. The man had carried his experience like a banner and sometimes even dared to question the German’s orders. Yes, Köhler would have to die too. But some African savages might already have eliminated him.

  So be it.

  Von Klasewitz rose, adjusted the stinking purple. Enough of the musings. Now it was time for action
. He would step out of his tent and give his orders as Emperor. Clean up with the remnants of the troops of Theodosius. To witness the beginning of a new era. Who would have thought about something like this, when … in the future … they left Wilhelmshaven? His biggest goal at the time had been to become an admiral, a senior officer, as befitted someone of his lineage. And now he had exceeded those expectations by far. The nobility in him had prevailed. No officer, no mere nobleman, not one among many, but one of highest nobility, the climax, the epitome of par excellence, equal to the person to whom he once swore the oath of service as a young ensign.

  What a wonderful and infinitely satisfying feeling.

  He would enjoy it all of his long, long reign.

  It was finally clear that his assessment of being simply someone better than most other people in the world was absolutely justified. No arrogance. No presumption.

  It was just the truth.

  Von Klasewitz stretched. A servant was already about to open the entrance to the tent, but the Emperor raised a hand, admonishing the man to wait.

  Johannes I took a deep breath.

  Then he stepped outside.

  43

  That was it.

  With burning eyes, Rheinberg stared at the battlefield below. The remaining officers had gathered around him, many of whom he only knew the names. A small group of infantrymen had also saved themselves on this hill. All were silent, filled with bitter helplessness, resignation. Rheinberg didn’t have to look anyone in the face for a long time to capture the general mood. There was hardly anyone to give their cause a chance, not one who still expected them to turn the tide of events.

  Nothing. No chance. Rheinberg felt a deep disillusionment in itself. So many victims. Twenty men of the company of infantrymen may have survived the massacre, many weapons were lost with the dead. And the legions – they behaved amazingly brave. Rheinberg had heard that many officers and NCOs had gathered around “the Tribune,” which he had identified as Thomas Volkert. The young man seemed to have earned a legendary reputation, and the men seemed to trust him to do wonders. He commanded locally, along with several other leaders, but ultimately nothing more than an attempt to retire in an orderly manner.

  The men of Maximus didn’t want to allow that. They wanted an absolute victory, either by complete surrender or annihilation. They were obviously angered by the continuing resistance they had to fight.

  Rheinberg didn’t command any army anymore. He felt that things were slipping from his hands. He felt lost. What else was left to do? Save lives. Prevent another massacre.

  He had to surrender. Only then could he prevent the senseless killing from continuing.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice a bit brittle, in search of the old firmness, an expression of his emotional state. “Gentlemen, we must surrender.”

  No horrified looks, no incredulous amazement. There was no one among the officers here who didn’t see this as the only possible consequence of the situation. Nobody harbored illusions about his personal destiny. With luck, the simple legionaries and NCOs would suffer no further harm if they surrendered peacefully. For the higher ranks was either the career at its end or possibly even their life.

  “You have to run, my lord,” one of the men advised, knowing that Rheinberg’s days in captivity would inevitably lead to his inglorious death. “Escape to Hadrumentum.”

  “Yes,” a soft voice inside him said. She sounded female, reminded him of Aurelia. “Fly while you can. Escape to the Saarbrücken!”

  Rheinberg quarreled with himself. Cowardice. He had many mistakes to blame himself for, numerous weaknesses that had ultimately led to this disaster. But cowardice? That wasn’t a tactical retreat, that was … panicking. Could he do that?

  Did he want to do that?

  Rheinberg took a breath, struggling for an answer.

  “First surrender,” he said hoarsely. “Call that Tribune to get ready to lay down his weapons. He has to give up, so that the men will not uselessly follow him to death.”

  Faces showed mourning when Rheinberg said that. Everyone felt the utmost respect for the young Thomasius, and everyone was saddened by the realization that by capitulating he would finish such a promising career and possibly his life.

  “Sir!”

  Rheinberg turned around. A rider slid off his horse in front of him, his face sweating with sweat.

  “What is it?”

  “My Lord, Maximus is dead!”

  As if thunderclapped, Rheinberg stared at the man. He was among the band of scouts who, armed with binoculars and operating off the battlefield, watched the goings-on around the enemy Emperor in the hope of obtaining information that would prove important.

  Like this one.

  Important. But really crucial? Reason for hope?

  Rheinberg controlled himself, fought down the wild feeling. Maximus was dead, but his army victorious. What happened?

  The scout seemed to have foreseen the question, for without being asked, he continued.

  “The observers don’t know the details, sir. We only know that the body of Maximus was carried out of the tent. Then there was some turmoil and a lot of walking around. Finally, the purple cloak of the dead was carried back into the tent. We can safely assume that a successor who was appointed Emperor is already in place.”

  Rheinberg nodded. A terrible thought took possession of him. Von Klasewitz was the Magister Militium of Maximus, and he was a man of betrayal and intrigue. What if he was behind the surprising death of the usurper in order to put himself on the throne? To make this possible, however, he needed numerous allies, and there were certainly competitors. Rheinberg knew too little about the background and details, but the idea that the traitor would now call himself Emperor of Rome, was terrifying – not only because now, in the case of inevitable surrender, it’d certainly sealed his own fate.

  Of course, that didn’t change anything. So much was clear: Cowardice or no cowardice, he wouldn’t expect other men to die for him if his cause has become hopeless.

  “Anyway,” Rheinberg emphasized slowly. “We surrender, no matter in front of which man I’m forced to throw my sword to the ground. We will …”

  “Lord, there’s something else.”

  The scout was respectful, but his voice had that an urgent undertone that put the content of the message far beyond the personal well-being of its deliverer – so he dared to interrupt a general. Not that Rheinberg was so petty as to complain seriously – and the tone made him sit up and take notice.

  “Speak, my friend,” he said, smiling as warmly as possible.

  “We’re under attack … I think.”

  Rheinberg noted the hesitation, but he just shook his head. “I’ve noticed that we’re being attacked. We’re on a battlefield too.”

  The messenger turned red.

  Rheinberg was immediately sorry for his remark. It really wasn’t a good idea to make fun of the unfortunate choice of words of a legionary. He sighed, took a deep breath and said, “Sorry, friend. Report exactly what has been observed.”

  The man didn’t have time to be offended. Something burned on his soul. “An army,” he gushed.

  Rheinberg closed his eyes, collecting his patience. “Yes?” he said slowly.

  “It’s marching toward us. I mean, all of us. To this position. From the south.”

  Rheinberg’s eyes widened.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The advance departments are clearly visible with the binoculars. It is an army. A big army. Many riders. You will be here in minutes, master.”

  “Banner? Signs?”

  The man shrugged.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it before, sir.”

  44

  Sassmann let out a breath.

  45

  “Tribune, we are finished!”

  Volkert turned to see the legionary who had appeared beside him. He had just bowed over the dead body of another tribune, felled by a blade, and with that the group of o
fficers who held the remaining units of Theodosius under control had shrunk by another valuable member.

  “What are you talking about?” he snapped.

  “The Magister Militium prepares capitulation. When the signal comes, we should lay down our weapons. Be ready!”

  Volkert didn’t doubt the veracity of this statement. But he doubted if he would be able to implement that order without resistance. God, what had they been fighting for all along? But he immediately called himself a fool. The signs were obvious. The collapse of the formation was imminent. The only thing left was to prevent a slaughter. So he would do what he had to do.

  Even if it hurt his soul.

  “I understand,” he told the man. “Tell the Magister Militium that we’ll obey the signal.”

  Volkert turned away, didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He took one last look at the dead officer at his feet, then raised his eyes, his gaze fixed on the faces of his hopeful-looking centurions and optios, the backbone of his army.

  Ha, that was funny!

  He had actually thought of “his army.”

  Volkert wiped away the thought. Nothing and nobody here belonged to him. Many of the men obeyed his orders, and he had made a contribution to ensuring that not everything had fallen apart hours ago. But his energy was exhausted, his resources became more and more limited, and he lost hope as well as the raging fury that had driven him both forward. Resignation spread. Even though Rheinberg didn’t stand a chance and was willing to put his life in the hands of the Maximus – which in all likelihood meant his death –, everything was indeed lost.