The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  But then somebody intervened. Volkert was pushed, stumbled out of the striking arc of the attacker, almost fell to the ground. He struggled on his legs, staggering, then saw the man’s sword pass through another man’s forearm, separating him neatly from his elbow. Volkert watched the chopped half-arm fall to the ground, accompanied by a surge of blood. Then the body of his already unconscious rescuer followed.

  It was Bertius!

  Secundus stepped up from the rear, pierced the attacker with the shortsword, another precise push through the chest. Volkert threw his own weapon aside. He acted like hypnotized, grabbed the stump of the unconscious Bertius, then tore at his own tunic until he held a firm strip in his hands. With hasty movements, he tied off the arm of the fat legionary. His action was diligent, his training in first-aid had been thorough. Then Volkert thought of the paramedic whom the Germans had brought with them, and who, together with two Romans, had opened a kind of field-hospital on the other side of the hills. This was otherwise not the habit of Romans, whose most important method of treatment in cases of severe injuries was usually to redeem the injured quickly from their suffering – permanently.

  Neumann had been the first to push for reform. And it seemed as if the commander of the Roman forces, Rheinberg, had surrendered to these plans with joy.

  “Thomasius!”

  Secundus’s voice tore him out of concentration. The Decurion held out his sword. It seemed as if a bubble of relative tranquility had formed around them for a moment, for no enemy attacked. But that wouldn’t last long. Volkert took his sword and stood up. He waved a legionary, who already had several bleeding cuts, and a bad-looking but probably harmless forehead injury.

  “You!” Volkert shouted. “Take this man to the field hospital. You’ve had enough for today!”

  The soldier didn’t even try to oppose the Decurion. He put his sword away, grappled Bertius under his shoulders, and began to pull him backwards through the ranks of the Romans. By order of Volkert, his comrades closed around him, guarding his retreat.

  The young man turned around, half expecting to face another fighter, but had to realize that the focus of the battle had shifted, more toward the camp of the enemy.

  “Formation,” he yelled. “Formation!”

  He saw with satisfaction how the men around him fell in line.

  “Forward!”

  The goal was clear – the Quadians were now in the most violent struggle against the Huns, who evidently were doing everything they could to protect their camp. The Roman legionaries had to move forward to help their allies. Soon the Roman and allied attackers would meet in the middle, and with some luck divide the enemies among themselves.

  It became clear that the Huns indeed began to rally around their camp. And the Romans saw, as they came closer, that they were too late. Luvico’s men had already overrun the loosely encircled area. There was still fighting going on. As far as Volkert could see, the slaves had already been liberated, and while the battle was raging, their allies were disciplined and began to guide the frightened slaves out of the camp. The Romans and fellow Quadians among them would soon be liberated and released as agreed. All the others would exchange only one master for another.

  The Romans entered the camp into a jovial crowd, uncoordinated, and evidently some already jubilating. In spite of all the losses, about 2000 Hunnish warriors were encircled here, weapons ready. And no one would ever be able to reproach a Huns without a fight.

  The Romans therefore entered the camp, and the fighting began anew. When the Huns had noticed the arrival of the legionaries, they left no doubt about their intentions. They raised their weapons against every enemy who stood in their way.

  Again, the formation of the Romans, divided by fences, tents, huts, and large camp fires, dissolved. Volkert, too, found himself, with a few legionaries and Secundus, facing a group of Huns; these evidently had separated two horsemen from the main body. The Huns knew how to deal with horses, and their longswords killed the terrified animals with practiced skill. When they collapsed, they buried one of the riders. Desperately, the man tried to get rid of the horse’s body, but then he was hit by a stroke of a long-sword.

  The other rider had more luck. He jerked off the falling riding horse, whirled through the air with acrobatic skill, and landed safely on the ground on both feet. The Huns seemed to be grunting their respect, before they turned against the single man.

  Volkert jumped forward. His men followed him without hesitation. As they roused the attention of the Huns, more enemies invaded them from all sides. Finally, Volkert caught a closer look at the acrobatic Quadian, who was currently fighting against two opponents at the same time.

  It was Luvico, leader of their allies.

  Volkert struggled to his side, killed one of the Huns on the way there, and received a superficial cut on his own upper arm. With aching muscles and an angrily pulsating wound, he stood next to the young man.

  They said nothing.

  It wasn’t the time for conversation.

  The coming minutes became a wild crescendo of a concerted and relentless struggle. Volkert moved like a sleepwalker, without conscious consideration. It was repeatedly evident that young Luvico was perhaps a good acrobat and an outstanding rider, but in the sword-battles he was clearly inferior to the Huns. Only Volkert’s shortsword kept him safe from deadly attacks by one of his opponents. It was a narrow fight, with changing foes, and on this corner of the battlefield, numerical superiority was a fluid state.

  Volkert lost all sense of time. Finally, his arm slumped. A deep exhaustion seized him. As a last enemy approached, the German only lifted the sword arm tiredly. But the warrior stepped aside and lifted a lethal blow to Luvico, which he got out of balance with a heavy foot kick.

  Instinctively, Volkert stumbled forward, rammed the Hun with his right shoulder. The blow went wrong, hissed casually through the air. The warrior turned to Volkert with a furious face.

  And there, in his left hand, the long, slightly curved knife.

  Volkert saw it well. He turned aside, in any case wanting to avoid the slow, agonizing death caused by a stab into the stomach, a painful inner bleeding. He succeeded.

  The attack went into his left chest.

  The pain was sudden. For a second, Volkert felt light in his head, staggered back, staring consciously at the handle of the dagger that protruded from his chest. He didn’t even notice how Secundus had jumped to his aid and sent the Huns to the ground with his throat cut open.

  Decurion Thomasius followed him, gratefully embracing darkness.

  “Julia,” he stammered. How silly.

  He was all alone down here.

  How nice to finally feel no pain at all.

  19

  Was the trip uneventful?

  Godegisel had experienced so much in his young life, he couldn’t answer the question without hesitation. He didn’t know exactly how old he was, but the estimates of his relatives were all around 23 to 25 years. The escape from their homeland, the suffering at the Roman frontier, the campaign at Thessaloniki, the trip to Britannia, the flight from there – so many things, an almost hectic sequence of events that made him recall the quiet moments in his life much easier than those in which something happened. In fact, he felt that the calm and restful phases, especially his time with Pina, were more consciously in his awareness than the supposedly revolutionary things he had witnessed as a bystander as well as a participant.

  From this point of view, his journey was poor in events. He was lucky if he could ride on a cart, or, better still, with a river boatman, especially when he stopped to take him as a worker and paid a few small coins beside food and lodging. He also thought he was happy every time he had a roof over his head at night, a crackling fire, and nice company. He was out of luck when he had to make long walks with an empty stomach, and had to make camp in the open at mostly quite cool temperatures. He seemed to look run down enough to not appear a worthy victim for any robber, but hadn’t yet come do
wn enough for others to regard him as a threat. He found occasional work, here and there, mostly for some bread and soup, more rarely for money, occasionally for a worn-out pair of trousers or old sandals, when his own fell apart. He learned to be submissive and respectful to people who, in his opinion, didn’t deserve it, and then to courageously and bravely seize an opportunity. He kept himself from legionaries and avoided larger cities. Perhaps they didn’t look for him. Perhaps they did.

  He didn’t want to take any risk.

  He rarely thought of Fritigern and his people, settled in the east of the Empire.

  He often thought of Pina and wondered if he was paying too great a price for his strange commitment to a dead emperor.

  But, in the end, and this was the most important thing, he was moving fast, rode, walked and drove tirelessly, didn’t allow himself to rest longer than necessary, and took every chance to advance faster than on his feet. And so, despite all deprivation, he reached Italy within three weeks. Fortunately, Ravenna was located in the north and the base of the time-wanderers in the immediate vicinity.

  It was an early afternoon, when a filthy, gaunt figure crossed the border to the settlement of the Germans. It was a city quite different from all that Godegisel had ever seen. The residential quarters still reminded well of a Roman settlement, although the tenement houses made a more stable impression. The young Goth also noted that the distances between the houses were larger than usual, and he saw runoffs streaming along the road edges through which water flowed. The streets themselves were paved. Toward the sea, however, the appearance changed noticeably. Large halls had been built, impressive structures with chimneys. A small port closed the settlement to the coast. From the edge of a fountain that Godegisel had climbed, he could see the outline of the ship that had brought his own defeat before Thessaloniki. Everywhere there was a hustle and bustle. Metallic noises sounded from the workshop; here, everything was duly executed whatever the time-wanderers had planned. A shipyard was to be seen, in which a ship was built, as Godegisel had never seen before. Out of the wooden hull protruded a mast, but for a sailing ship the vessel seemed to be of a strangely compact shape, and the mast was made of a metal. And then, in the port itself, the Goth made out a second ship of this kind, apparently already completed. Fine steam clouds rose into the blue sky. It had to be a completely new ship construction, initiated by the time-wanderers.

  Godegisel was no friend of the sea. His interest in those vessels immediately vanished again once he saw the massive, low stone-house that stood directly on the quayside. He had been told that the leadership of the time-wanderers, if they were not on their iron ship, had found quarters there, guarded by a troop of legionaries.

  How could he get in? He knew that the settlement of the time-wanderers attracted not only curious craftsmen and but also young men and women who wanted to learn things in the schools of the city that no one else taught. Charlatans, dubious figures, crazy and fanatical fools came here.

  Some of them strived for the favor of the strangers in order to realize absurd ideas, which they themselves considered to be ingenious, and others wanted to join them, like a religious sect, because they considered them divine envoys. Others had planned to kill them as quickly as possible, assuming they were the exact opposite of divine. And then there were shady businessmen who were trying to make money from the technical achievements, and better without asking those responsible for these achievements for their permission. The city of the Germans, it was said, was a magnet for thieves. Safety measures had been tightened up everywhere, there were patrols day and night, and the most important buildings were illuminated throughout the night with those new charcoal lamps, as well as traditional oil lamps or torches.

  Godegisel, by the way he looked, would be considered a madman, a fortune-teller, or simply a thief. He had to improve his appearance and hope that one of the Germans would remember the man who had killed their leader Becker – and that memory wouldn’t cause him to be discarded as someone who couldn’t be trusted.

  Luckily, there were many opportunities here to transform himself into a quite respectable human being again, as workers were constantly being hired. The wanderers had employed slaves, but their reluctance to use them was now widely known. Wherever financial resources were available, free workers were hired. The wages were not impressive, but as some training was provided at the same time, the jobs were in demand. It might also help that everyone who worked in this settlement became part of a special atmosphere of change, a departure from the old times. There were many people who wanted to be a witness of this process, whether consciously or unconsciously.

  After some questioning, Godegisel found a foreman, who saw through the man’s torn clothes, recognized a powerful and young body behind him, and got him a job as a harbor worker. The conditions were very decent, there was half a wage as an advance and workwear made of a thick, double-woven fabric, which was to protect against abrasions. After the young Goth had washed and changed, he even got a proper shave. In his simple but clean work-clothes, he immediately made the impression of someone much more trustworthy than before.

  He was almost tired of having to deceive his employer right from the start of his professional career. But he hadn’t come here to haul boxes at the port.

  As soon as he had convinced himself that he was making a human impression, the young Goth headed for the squat stone building in which the wanderers lived. It was generally known that the Captain of the iron ship was at court in Treveri. The command was in the hands of Magister Dahms, who was something of a genius in crafts. Godegisel wanted to see him.

  As expected, this was easier said than done.

  The two bulky legionaries, who stood guard already a hundred yards from the entrance of the building, didn’t seem to take any risk. It took some minutes before Godegisel had convinced the men of his harmlessness. It was helpful that he had allowed himself to be briefly searched by the soldiers. Since he had no arms at his disposal, nothing more than clothes on his body, he didn’t seem to be very threatening.

  A second, more thorough search took place at the main entrance of the building, again by legionaries, who took their duties very seriously. Then he was led into a unadorned room, where another Roman was sitting, no soldier this time. He evidently had the task of deciding whom to allow into the presence of the time-wanderers and who not. It was a young man – the strangers seemed to employ a considerable number of younger people –, and he made a cultivated impression on Godegisel.

  “Your name is Godegisel and you’re Goth?” he began, not even unkindly.

  “That’s true.”

  “I’ve heard of a Godegisel. An aristocrat of your age, who fought in Thessaloniki.” The young man smiled. “I’m from Thessaloniki, and have joined the time-wanderers after our salvation from your people. My name is Marcus Diderius Praetus.”

  “I greet you.”

  Praetus nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but looked at his visitor.

  “I’m that Godegisel. My sword felled Becker, one of the leaders of the time-wanderers.”

  If the Goth had now expected the young Roman to be frightened or even angered, he would’ve been quite disappointed.

  “Whether or not that is true,” Praetus replied calmly, “important is that you are open about it, a fact that speaks in your favor.”

  Godegisel, now seated on a stool, moved uneasily. “It’s me, I assure you. I cannot say that I deplore the act, nor that I should be proud of it, for …”

  “Uninteresting,” Praetus interrupted. “All the Gothic warriors have enjoyed amnesty after the end of the hostilities and the signing of the treaty. This is also true for those who killed in battle, whether you are among those or not.”

  “Dahms knows me. Also the one called Neumann. Both were very angry at me. They will definitely remember me.”

  Praetus nodded again. “Who else of the time-wanderers did you meet?”

  Godegisel had been expecting the question and braying
his brain to recollect the sometimes very strange names. What he stuttered thereupon might not exactly match the actual name, but the young Roman listened and didn’t seem unimpressed. Godegisel took some courage. This turned out better than expected.

  “And your concern? What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “I convey a warning.”

  “About what?”

  Godegisel hesitated. He didn’t know how far he could trust Praetus. On the other hand, the man was obviously the guardian of any access to the time-wanderers. “It’s about a conspiracy,” the Goth finally said.

  Praetus raised his shoulders. “The Empire’s fabric is composed of conspiracies. I think that has been going on for several hundred years.”

  Godegisel forced an understanding smile. Praetus wanted to be clever. The young Goth took a deep breath. Anger wouldn’t help him now. “It’s a serious issue. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come here, especially as a man who had once been an enemy of your masters.”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you and you haven’t been sent away by the guards. But you have to be a bit more convincing.”

  “I’m not sure how far the conspiracy goes.”

  Now there was something like interest glimmering in Praetus’ eyes. “You mean you don’t know if for example I belong to it?”

  “I didn’t want to …”

  “But you did.” The young Roman rose. “You’re afraid.”

  Godegisel was about to shout something, but after a short pause, he accepted that the man’s remark wasn’t totally off the mark.

  “You came here from the East?” Praetus asked, still standing. He looked down on Godegisel and wanted to show his authority. Godegisel smiled imperceptibly. He had watched the Emperor of the East crying behind a bush, burning his butt with nettles while taking a dump. Authority had gained a different meaning for him. Praetus couldn’t know. The Goth came to the conclusion that the Roman presented a well-studied drama. The best thing would be to play along. So Godegisel raised his head a little and looked up at the Roman. “I’m from Britain,” he finally said.