When he looked back at the fire, his eyes fell into the young woman’s eyes. It seemed as if she had had similar thoughts and had come to a comparable conclusion.
“What’s your name?” she finally asked.
“Godegisel.”
She grimaced. She had a small snub nose, which she could curl nicely. It contrasted with the hard look of her gray eyes. “What is that for a name?”
“Gothic.”
“Goth, yes?”
She glanced at the fire, set down some twigs. “We don’t have many Goths here. Franks, yes, but Goths … You are Romans?”
“Yes, very recently.”
“Freed?”
“No, I never have been a slave.”
She nodded, obviously satisfied with the answer. “My parents were freed. They have since lived worse than in times of their slavery, but they were glad about it.”
The Goth didn’t answer.
“I’m Pina.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Godegisel said. She nodded again. “What are you going to do now?” He made a gesture toward the pile.
“Right now? Finish work, sell charcoal. And then I have to look for a man. My father said that I should have done that long ago – at least in his view. But out here …”
A shrug. A glancing, weighing, quite calculating, in Godegisel’s direction. No, he corrected himself. The look of a fox, taxing a hare. He took another sip of wine.
“What is your craft?” Pina asked casually.
“I am … a warrior.”
“Legionary? You are too young to have completed the service.”
“No, not with the legions. I fought until recently against the Romans. Then there was peace, and now I am a Roman. I have not fought since then.” This wasn’t quite true, but Godegisel saw no point in spreading the whole story.
“What kind of work are you planning to do?”
Godegisel looked down at himself. He was now quite dry under the protective barrier and in front of the flickering fire. He felt better, with a warm meal in the stomach and wine to it. But he had no illusions about his outward appearance.
Pina glanced at his eyes, unconsciously tweaking her hair. Then she smiled. “Where are you going? Are you looking for a job?”
“I want to go south, to Ravenna.”
If Pina was disappointed with this answer, she didn’t show. “You have work in Ravenna?”
“I don’t know that yet. But I have to meet someone. It’s very important.”
The woman seemingly accepted this explanation, however weak it sounded. She threw a meaningful glance at the charcoal. “The coal is ready in two days,” she said abruptly. She turned her head and looked at Godegisel meaningfully.
He didn’t reply.
Pina pushed the bundle with her right foot in his direction. “My father’s dry things. I cannot wear them.”
The Goth took the bundle, held it for a moment, then pulled out the fresh tunic. “I …”
“There is hot water and soap in the hut.”
For some reason, Pina always seemed to guess what he was going to say. Godegisel was in dire need of both. He rose quietly and followed the path to the hut. Visibility was better than imagined, because the moon was nearly full and the clouds had vanished. He reached the building and entered it. A single, simple living room that reminded him of the fisherman’s family in Britain who had helped him and Valens cross the Channel. A fire spot in the middle, still generating some heat. Godegisel rekindled the fire. Above the fire, a heavy, cast-iron kettle full of water hung, which was still lukewarm, but soon began to heat again. On a small table on the wall, soap and a wooden bowl lay, as well as some cloth rags, which were probably used for scrubbing.
Godegisel got rid of his clothes, poured hot water into the wooden bowl, and began to clean himself thoroughly. It was a wonderful feeling to be able to rub the encrusted muck of a battered march from his skin, and he didn’t ration the water. When he had finished and even eliminated the dirt under his fingernails, he looked for a beard scraper or a knife. He found some small blades and examined them, attacking his wild beard with the sharpest one. He hoped to look a little manly afterwards and not like an animal anymore. He threw his filthy clothes in a wooden wash-tub, pouring the rest of the hot water and brushed them with some soap. He would soak the clothes overnight, and maybe he could then persuade Pina to wash them thoroughly if he guarded the charcoal.
At this point, Godegisel noticed that he had decided to stay for some days.
He paused for a moment, thinking about it, a little surprised by his own resolve. Meanwhile, he dressed in the dry clothes of the deceased father, who had had roughly the same stature. The fabric was coarse, and the pants and shirt were of a very simple cut, but it was a nice feeling to wear clean clothes on clean skin. Godegisel closed his eyes and enjoyed it for a moment. After all the hardships, he felt like newborn. He took a deep breath, then took some of the things he thought useful – especially food – and set off on his way back to the pit.
As he entered the clearing again, he stopped involuntarily. Beside the shed, Pina squatted, to be seen clearly in the pale moonlight and the fire. She had exposed the upper body, washed herself with the water from a leather tube and a rag. She hadn’t noticed his return. The young Goth couldn’t help but notice her small, pointed breasts, whose warts had hardened in the cold. Her belly was slender, thin, and he could see her ribs as they peaked under the white skin. She washed herself with precise movements, as if she had memorized every step of the process, and once a slight shiver ran through her body, as the wind rustled through the forest and hit her wet upper body. Then, after a minute, she pulled the dress over her head and squatted close to the fire.
Godegisel consciously stepped on some branches in front of him and pretended he had just arrived. Pina looked up and directly at him. Her face was also free of dirt and soot, and when she smiled, as she did now, her snub nose was even more charming than usual.
The young Goth smiled back. Yes, he would definitely stay for a few days.
8
The Quadians knew the area and what to look for. Luvico, the son of the King, proved to be less bitter and distrustful than they had all assumed or that his father had so clearly expressed his order to cooperate fully that the son had buried every reservation in his mind, in order not to spoil the mission. He was almost thirty years old, a giant of a man who had grown at least one head above his own father, with muscles that made Volkert appear as slim and almost thin. He had served five years in the Roman frontier legion, the limitanei, and had left service once treason had been committed to his father’s predecessor. He spoke good Greek and broken Latin, but above all, he understood how a Roman force was functioning; he had a definite idea of what questions Sedacius would ask to prepare the attack on the advance division of the Huns.
It didn’t take two days until the Quadian-Roman armed force was ready. The approximately thousand men under Tribun Sedacius were strengthened by more than 4,000 fighters. Normally. the barbarians would be used as auxiliary units. They were relatively lightly armed with spears and arches. Only nobility carried swords, which were usually longer than the rather short arms of the Roman legionaries. Even fewer were properly protected; it was only the handful of tribal leaders who carried metal armor on their bodies. The average warrior had only what he would wear as everyday clothes, maybe supplemented by a helmet or cap, rarely made of metal, much more often from leather. Some wore leather straps around particularly vulnerable places, such as joints or the crotch, knowing that a well-executed stab with the sword would destroy this protection fast. The Quadians were not used to the strict organization of the battle and the discipline of the Roman soldiers, but they were obviously willing to defend their native country, and, if necessary, side by side with the truly hated, treacherous Romans.
Volkert had begun to like the tribal warriors, to whom some of his comrades were quite contemptuous. They were simple men, hardly anyone could read or write
. If they were not warriors, they earned their livelihood as peasants or craftsmen. Professional soldiers in the sense of a standing army they were not, their military threat to Rome had been, as with all barbarian peoples, in their great numbers and the wildness of their attacks. The men who most closely corresponded to the ideal of the Roman professional soldier were those who had once served in the legions – which, as Volkert had to discover, were not too few – and the small group of warriors acting as the King’s bodyguards, maintained by his purse. It wasn’t surprising to either Volkert or Sedacius that Luvico had appointed the deserters from the legions, many of whom had served with him, and who left together, to be his officers, not quite unlike the status which Volkert had as a decurion. This didn’t mean that the tribal men would fight with the same organization and discipline as the Romans, but their leaders would understand the tactical instructions, immediately grasp their meaning, and try to implement them as best they could. That was all they could expect at the time.
In addition, almost all of the Quadians were mounted. Together with the mounted Romans, this constituted a considerable cavalry unit, even though Volkert harbored no illusions. The Huns, who were able to fire from the backs of their horses with their almost magical arches, were superior to their own riders.
For this, the Romans had the infantry.
Volkert had been able to keep himself away from the troop. But he had not escaped the demonstration by which the barbarians had been made familiar with the special abilities of German weapons. As was to be expected, the presentation, especially of the machine gun, didn’t miss its purpose: Luvico and his followers were impressed by the fact that they were far more secure than before. Probably they would have assumed that the weapons were magical and their bearers wizards, if Sedacius hadn’t introduced them with quiet and clear unambiguousness as Roman soldiers with special equipment. Volkert was aware of the fact that the demonstration had a further side effect: If their new allies turned out the be treacherous, or if they were secretly planning a campaign against Rome, the demonstration of this power would surely teach them to reconsider.
At least this, quite obviously, was the hope of Sedacius.
It was an early morning, the mist still deep in the trees and the meadows when the mixed troop finally departed. The barbarian riders took front as they knew the surroundings better than the Roman ones, and an advance party had already started the night before to explore the way to the camp of the Huns. It was now expected, during their progress, to receive timely warning of any impending danger from them.
Volkert rode next to the Tribune. He wondered why. There had been so much work to do, that he hadn’t really noticed when Sedacius had asked to join him in his work, sometimes even with the centurions and other officers. Was Volkert, in the eyes of the Tribune, such an extraordinary, even promising man that he wanted to keep him close, to train and to promote him for higher tasks? Or was it an expression of mistrust? It belonged to the paranoia of a deserter who felt like a fugitive that he saw the negative and the menacing in everything. Volkert was well aware of this. Again and again he told himself that there was no point in judging the now, the moment, just from the experience of the past, instead of seeing it as what it was. This rather impassionate distance, which he believed to be a prerequisite for many successful leaders, helped to avoid misjudgment. By considering a situation as it was, and not disguised by the fears and bad experiences of the past, which would lead to false assessments and wrong decisions, a clearer view could be obtained. Volkert wanted to be so calculating. But the thought that execution by rifle or the sword was waiting for him, should his true identity be revealed, forced him to look at everything through a spectacle of fear. This distorted reality, he realized. But he couldn’t help it.
He had an easy way out – to execute the orders given him by the Tribune. In doing so, he only postponed the discussion of his anxiety, but at the same time it remained to him to do the things that were to be done and to think about the consequences another time.
But the privileges given him by the Tribune had not escaped others. As always, Decurion Septimus Secundus, his old comrade, emerged as a valuable source of information. On the evening before the departure, sitting at the camp fire, when they had both gazed silently into the half-empty wine cups, Secundus, abruptly or not, had shared some information, and Volkert couldn’t quite discern why his comrade offered them.
And even without any consideration for compensation.
The young German became quite suspicious.
“You are often with the Tribune.”
“He’s calling me and giving me orders.”
“Sure, but I think you should know who you’re dealing with.”
“Sedacius? What is there to know about him?”
Responding to such a question, Secundus typically showed a particular facial expression of “know-it-all” that had become his trademark. The immediate reaction was usually that everyone around the fire collapsed and urged the Decurion to share his freshly acquired news.
“Sedacius is related to the Emperor.”
Volkert nodded. He had expected a bit more. So many Roman nobles and officers were in some way related to the current and probably over the centuries to a whole bunch of emperors. As marriage policy was an important means of establishing personal networks of power and influence, such a network of relationships seemed almost inevitable.
“There are many,” was his only comment.
“But Sedacius is one of the few who didn’t take advantage of it. That is why he is a tribune.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He is a tribune, because he has chosen a military career made on his own strengths, and has come as far as he could have done without the protection of the Emperor. And he is a tribune, because everyone thinks that the Emperor somehow supports him, though this is not true – which his superiors, however, don’t know or don’t believe.”
“Secundus, you’re talking rubbish.”
The Decurion sighed and took a sip of wine before answering.
“Sedacius is under pressure to prove that he is his own man and able to make the career he wants without wiping anyone’s butt.”
“Good, but he isn’t alone in this. Any officer who wants to be something has to show what he can do if he wants a successful military career.”
This was a subject Volkert knew better than he wanted to confess. However, he knew that the same problems – namely, protection from higher positions for officers who simply had the right background – hadn’t been uncommon in the Imperial Navy of his time.
“No, he’s not alone in this,” Secundus admitted. “But it forces him to gather people around him who, in his opinion, make it possible to quickly achieve the necessary successes – and from whom he expects to continue to participate in his successes. So, in short, he builds his own group of clients, loyalists he promotes and who promote him, irrespective of everything that his proximity to the imperial house could add to it or not.”
Volkert narrowed his eyes. “Secundus.”
Just the one word after a long break. The Decurion had meanwhile drunk off his wine and stared at the empty cup with an expression of regret. He looked up and grinned. “Thomasius, my friend.”
“I guess I know why you’re telling me that.”
“Is that so?”
“You have two reasons.”
“Two at once? You overestimate me.”
Volkert knew that Secundus wasn’t an outstanding soldier, and had too many illegal businesses running to bother too much about climbing the hierarchy of the armed forces. This was less connected with the nature of these transactions than with his unwillingness to share the profits with his superiors. He preferred to try to multiply his earnings or lose them in gambling. But dumb he was not.
“The first reason is that if Tribune Sedacius adds Thomasius to his retinue, and with the desire that said Thomasius will distinguish himself, the good friend of Thomasius, who until now has be
en largely undisturbed by promotions, may profit from it.”
The face of Secundus lit up. “Ah, how beautiful. You call me a friend.”
Volkert grinned. “I just tell you your own thoughts.”
Secundus waved his hand. “That is to complicated for me. And the second reason? It doesn’t seem to be quite as obvious to me as you have just assumed.”
Secundus was definitely not stupid. Volkert became serious. “The second reason is that you can tell yourself that Sedacius, before long might try what many have tried before him, and many have also succeeded, in attaining the purple and proclaiming themselves as emperor.” Volkert had whispered these sentences. It was not advisable to express such speculations too loudly.
Secundus looked at him in astonishment. It was obvious that the content of what had been said wasn’t surprising for him, but the fact that Volkert himself had come to this conclusion. “Thomasius, I can see that I am right.”
“Do not expect too much. Sedacius would fail.”
“You are too sure.”
Volkert couldn’t tell him where his confidence came from. At the same time, however, he wondered whether this categorical assessment was still justified. Had not already changed too much in the history he knew? But no one had ever heard of an emperor or even of a usurper named Sedacius!
“I … have it in my mind,” he said weakly.
“Levantus is more confident.”
“The centurion?”
“He is one of those who voluntarily or involuntarily serve the plans of Sedacius.”
Volkert shook his head, took a sip of wine, and made a mouth because of its sour taste. Then he put the cup on the floor with a determined gesture and stretched. “The conversation leads to nothing.”
“These are speculations, but they are not unfounded.”
“We’ll see what’s happening. Now we have to fight the Huns. Who knows who of us still lives in a few days?”
The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising Page 5
