The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  The fact that visitors from afar had come only to meet the Emperor, possibly also connected with the exquisite luxury goods from Rome and Adulis they brought, definitely hastened the process as much as possible. Everything would be handed over to the Imperial Court, either for its own use or for resale. The joy of this had been clearly visible on the officials’ faces as they heard of it, and some experts would be sent to assess the value of the goods. Neumann and Africanus had both insisted on carrying only items of real value and not trying to blind the Aksumites with rubbish. This decision turned out to be very wise.

  In the evening before the reception, the expeditionists had gathered around their own dinner in the guest house’s dining room. The Aksumitic cuisine was food for workers, heavy, with many pods and cereals, spicy and sweet sauces, as well as a tasteless dough, which was used instead of cutlery for eating. This combination led to the fact that even small portions were quickly filling and the diversity of the dishes offered couldn’t be enjoyed at all. Often enough, after the first passage through the large and flat bowls on which variations had been arranged, they were completely saturated. As tomorrow’s supper would consist of several courses, Neumann had impressed on the friends, warning them that he wasn’t going to dig in at the very beginning, and that they should be prepared not being too hungry, in order to control themselves. Köhler and Behrens, both of whom were regarded as gifted eaters, had at first dismissed the warnings of the physician, but with every new round of Aksumite cookery, the deep wisdom of the advice became more and more apparent. This evening, before dinner at the Negusa Nagast’s table, was, in a way, a rehearsal. They had agreed to chew on some food for prolonged time, and endure eating toward the end of the meal, no matter how much had already been consumed.

  They had just assembled when a dignitary entered the room. He behaved politely and bowed, but led four soldiers, which gave him a certain authority. He couldn’t say exactly, but Neumann recognized by his clothes that he might be an officer of the palace guard.

  The man spoke perfect, carefully articulated Greek. “I have the obligation to examine the gifts,” the man said. “I have heard that you will give valuables to the Negusa Nagast and other leaders of the Empire tomorrow evening.”

  “That’s our custom.”

  The officer smiled. “Nothing can be said against this tradition. But in Rome, as I have heard, one also pays attention to the danger that a gift might be associated to an evil purpose.”

  Neumann bowed his head. He could only agree. As far as he understood, the balance of power between the various regional princes in Aksum, as well as in relation to the Emperor, wasn’t always so smooth that no one would attempt to remove a Negusa Nagast by force. This hadn’t yet reached the same proportions as in Rome, where, unfortunately, it was now customary to appoint any successful military man to become emperor, in order to clarify the actual power relations later in a long-lasting civil war. Things went more quiet in Aksum and according to the established protocol.

  Neumann nodded to Africanus. The other expedition members stayed behind. Together with the soldiers, they strolled to the covered storage area, under which the goods brought along were packed in crates and bales.

  If the doctor had assumed that the soldiers would submit the gifts only to a superficial investigation, his error would soon have become obvious. With conscientious thoroughness, the men opened every single pack. They searched the materials they had brought in, looked into golden cups, and opened boxes. They were careful in this, as they were aware of the value of the goods. Neumann had the impression that these men knew exactly what they were doing and had a certain experience in it.

  Finally, only the small, richly ornamented wooden boxes that the Governor of Adulis had given them remained. One of them, with the most elaborate embellishments, was intended for the Negusa Nagast and another for his probable successor, Ouazebas. The officer ordered one of his men to carefully open the containers. The soldier took the first piece, meant for the Emperor. He searched the contents briefly, then nodded to his superiors and closed the container again. Then he took the crate for the Crown Prince, opened it, and looked into it. Neumann looked over the man’s shoulder, for he didn’t know the contents of this casket. He saw a medallion made of gold, in the middle of which was placed a remarkable gem. The soldier looked at the beautiful work with obvious admiration, then closed the box again and placed it carefully on the flat table from which he had picked it up.

  Thus, the inspection was apparently finished. The soldiers were satisfied with the result and said their goodbye politely.

  Neumann and Africanus wandered back to the dinner, which was already in full swing.

  They recognized, however, with a glance that there was still enough food left to put their endurance, as well as their ability for culinary time-management, to the test.

  And so they sat down.

  18

  And so Thomas Volkert – Thomasius – sat on a horse ready for the first cavalry attack in his life.

  Actually, “ready” was too strong a word.

  Volkert sat on his beast, which patiently stood before the men whom he commanded, together with the Centurion. He knew what they intended to do, and he had seen the confidence in his comrades’ faces. He also knew that a good part of this confidence had to do with the almost naive belief in the marvels of the time-wanderers, who had already gone into hiding on the chain of hills where Volkert had been active as a scout. It was by no means that the young German had doubts about the abilities and determination of the infantry, but he was the one who had been shaped by the attack of the Sarmatians. If this mountain people were a measure of the boldness and brutality of the “barbaric” enemies of Rome, Volkert could believe in a victory of their alliance against the legendary Huns, but not with much confidence.

  Sedacius himself rode in front. His men loved him for it. From a tactical point of view, it was nonsense. In the midst of the turmoil, the Tribune wouldn’t be able to keep an overview and risked possibly becoming a victim of poor coordination. But Volkert had thought long enough about the words of his friend Secundus to see what prompted the Tribune to lead from the front – he needed the necessary military glory, proof of manly bravery, if his probable plan to become an emperor should bear fruit. He couldn’t appear as a timid commander. Sedacius risked a great deal, as his high-flying intentions could as well end with an arrow in his throat.

  Volkert, therefore, didn’t know whether he should admire or condemn the Tribune. He contented himself with simply being afraid and using all his strength to not show that too openly.

  There were men who were much less eager to keep their emotions under control. Bertius, for example, the special protege of the German, radiated his displeasure about the fact that he had now actually to go into a fight. The unambitious legionary was sitting miserably in the saddle, constantly examining the shield, behind which he no doubt sought to hide as much as possible. Volkert didn’t expect Bertius to be a valiant fighter, but he didn’t envisage him to be coward as well.

  To resent the attitude of the legionary turned out to be difficult for the Decurion. If Sedacius would call off the attack here and now, also Volkert wouldn’t be very sad.

  Sedacius, however, apparently had no such intention.

  It was very early in the morning. The sun was just above the horizon.

  The cavalry was ready. Their allies seemed to be quite pleased with the prospect of fighting with the Romans. In any case, Volkert saw many eager faces in the dim light. Horses snorted and stamped with their hooves, as if they were as impatient as the warriors. Above all, there was an unreal atmosphere, as if it would be inthinkable that a deadly massacre was about to begin in a few moments.

  Sedacius made a sign. The Quadians then broke away from the troop and began to ride along the hills sideways to prepare the planned maneuver. The Roman cavalry remained behind. Since they were not too many, Volkert suddenly felt left alone. He hoped their allies would do their part a
s planned.

  They waited for about half an hour. There was something stirring in the Hunnish camp. Of course, the movements of the attackers had not escaped the enemy. Through the clear air one heard excited shouting, orders were given.

  “They’ve woken up,” Secundus murmured. “It’s time.” He was right.

  Sedacius had the cornicen blow into his horn. And then, like a slow but unstoppable avalanche, the Roman cavalry moved into the direction of the Hunnish camp.

  Not too fast.

  The enemy should feel provoked, leave the camp and storm toward the attackers, in order to get exactly into the firing range of the German infantry, presenting a target that couldn’t be missed.

  Despite the cold air, Volkert was sweating. It was a cozy trot, with which the Romans descended the hills. Sedacius gave a cry of war, which was answered from behind. Then he motioned the men to laugh out loud. It must sound like the ultimate insult in the ears of the Huns.

  The first part of the plan seemed to work.

  From the camp, a large cavalry movement was discernible. Volkert had now already moved too far on the plain to have a full overview, so he couldn’t guess whether it was all of the Hunnish warriors, or whether a unit had been left behind in the camp itself. Their allies would find out about this early enough. But even if the Huns held back a defensive unit, it would be numerically in a disadvantage compared to the Quadian cavalry.

  The risk was calculable. Hopefully.

  The war cry of the angry Huns was clearly audible. The hoofs of their small fast horses, almost like ponies, made the ground tremble. Sedacius once more laughed contemptuously. Volkert followed, although he felt anything but contempt for the wave of angry warriors. He had at least respect for them and certainly also fear.

  But the Huns were furious now.

  And rage was not good counsel in any battle.

  The Roman discipline held. The riders turned out, everyone had raised the shortsword, no one accelerated beyond measure.

  The Huns reached the death zone.

  The sun now threw her clear light over the scenery.

  Volkert only heard the familiar buzzing and crackling of shots fired. There was nothing to be seen, hardly a flash from the well-chosen coverings of the infantry. Volkert identified the MG position with a practiced eye, but death came if not silently, then invisibly to the enemy.

  At first, they didn’t notice it at all, when, on the brink of their advance, a horseman was swept from the animal as his skull, pierced by bullets, burst without reason. Then the horses cried.

  This shouting of the animals was what Volkert was most concerned about.

  The wide, sturdy breasts of the animals exploded into blood and bones. The riflemen on the hills couldn’t miss. The closer the Huns came, the better did those precisely matched bursts of the riflemen who, with mechanical tact, spread death among the barbarians – merciless, invisible, effective.

  The Huns noticed something.

  The shouting grew louder, orders were heard. Restlessness shivered through their advance.

  Sedacius gave the signal.

  The riders ripped their horses around, galloped back to the hills.

  Sure, the Huns saw this, but they were busy looking for the actual enemy. Disorder broke out, yes chaos. Fear, panic had taken the warriors. Individual men broke out of the crowd, tried to flee, died in the shower of bullets, clearly visible to everyone.

  And the horses. Their screams sounded almost human, like children’s.

  Volkert couldn’t shake off these sounds penetrating to his heart. Too much suffering at once.

  He stayed in the formation and didn’t look back, but one didn’t have to use his eyes in order to see what was happening.

  The infantry didn’t let go. The machine gun spoke in short, steady bursts. It was about using the ammunition sparingly. Efficiency was the goal of the men. Efficient and effective.

  They were both.

  “Stop!”

  The Roman cavalry stopped.

  “Dismount!”

  Volkert followed the order with mechanical obedience. Here, on the hillside, they were closer to the infantry. The shots were more clearly heard, the regular bursts of the machine-gun especially. Volkert looked down, recognized complete dissolution, confusion and panic.

  “In formation!”

  The legionaries, most of whom were grateful to be able to be foot soldiers once more, stood up, shield to shield, sword to sword, and the NCOs, like Volkert, in front of them.

  Then silence.

  No, the horses were still shrieking their pain, but the shooting had stopped.

  The work of the German infantry had been done, the cruelty ended for now.

  The order was given.

  Rome marched toward the Huns, the old, the tried and tested way. Normally the foot soldiers would have been an easy prey to the mobile cavalry, but in this condition, with hundreds – thousands – of dying and wounded animals on the ground, injured and thrown warriors, disoriented and shocked, it was different.

  Volkert’s palm, which clasped the shortsword, was sweaty.

  The first Hunnish warriors shouted something, pointing to the legionaries marching in stoic resolution. Then further shouting, this time from farther away. Volkert guessed it more than he saw it; their allies had commenced their carefully coordinated deployment, and apparently were already quite busy in the Hunnish camp.

  Was the leader of the enemy fallen or injured? The Hunnish warriors had finally disintegrated into chaotic circles. But then those reformed, who were still sitting on their horses. Since the invisible death was apparently over, and the infantry had no intention of accidentally killing Roman legionaries, or even their new allies, the Hunnish cavalry, which was still active, wanted to effect the traditional strength of their kind of warfare. Yes, the enemies were decimated, and many of them were really shocked, but courage apparently hadn’t left all of them.

  Unfortunately, as Volkert found.

  And then everything happened fast. Decurion Thomasius was still marching in front of his unit, and they were already among the enemies. Huns, even without horses, were determined fighters. The warriors had got rid of their bows, which didn’t help them in close combat. Now they were swinging two-edged longswords. These weapons had a much larger range than the Roman ones, but they were more unwieldy and could rarely be used for direct stabs, which were very effective in close combat. The longswords could be used in a swinging fashion and could be, if fighters were packed too tight, easily been catched or deflected. Nevertheless, the Huns were practiced in the use of this weapon. Preferably, they used the swords from the back of their horses in pursuit of an enemy. However, they were quite capable of wielding them in this rather unfamiliar situation. Still, as Volkert remarked as soon as he avoided a long sweep, and instead swung his sword straight forward and sank it into the throat of a shouting warrior, the Huns were in this battle – man pitched against man on foot – clearly in the disadvantage.

  His adversary gurgled, dropped his blade, and instinctively touched the gushing from his neck. Volkert drew his sword back, the movement followed by a surge of blood. The Hun staggered, his bladder and his intestines drained, and he fell dying to the ground. Volkert stumbled briefly, which saved his life. A blade passed over him so close that he could feel the displaced air. The young man threw himself forward, rammed his shield into the body, then the sword spoke again, this time a clean push directly into the chest.

  Volkert forgot time and space. The formation of the legionaries dissolved somewhat, many individual battles developed. A centurion shouted an order. A legionary beside Volkert sank silently to the ground, one of the brutally powerful Hunnish arrows in his forehead.

  More subconsciously, the Decurion made sure that he remained close to his comrades. Nothing was more dangerous than being cut off from the main body. As a single fighter, there was no chance of survival.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Volkert recognized how Secundus got ri
d of an enemy. The Roman fought with an almost unaffected cleverness. Volkert swung his sword with the same force, but not half so precisely and not so coldly and distantly.

  The stench of intestines swelling from people and horses mixed with the metallic smell of blood. The bodily fluids, of man as well as of animals, made the battlefield slippery. Approaching, Volkert relieved a horse of his agony, lying on the ground and suffering from severe pain. Then he had to face a Hunnish warrior who had pulled his long-sword through the side of a careless legionary and roared triumphantly.

  His triumph transformed into a cry of pain once Volkert’s blade hit him cleanly into the chest, and glided through his ribs in full length across the body. The German swiftly pulled the sword out. To get stuck in the ribs and be hit by a falling body was one of the dangers of this weapon.

  “Decurion!”

  A warning cry.

  Volkert looked around with no orientation, felt the danger more than he directly perceived it. A blade went into his direction, and although Volkert raised his own to push it aside, he knew at the same time that he would react too late. As if in slow motion, he looked at the beardless face of the enemy warrior, distorted in concentration and exertion, his eyes directed precisely at his target, the German.