The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  Richomer shook his head. “My Augustus, your Majesty, I’m quite aware that Ambrosius is an important and influential personality, but that is why he is so dangerous. He has made unmistakably clear how he thinks about our alliance with the time-wanderers, and we should take that seriously. Maximus is known as a faithful man, even a fanatical Trinitarian; he has always belonged to Ambrosius’ camp. They know each other well. The fact that the priests now hold rebellious speeches and make accusations fits too well into a picture of a carefully prepared insurrection, it can’t be a mere coincidence.”

  “That’s true!”

  All heads turned to the door. An exhausted, dust-covered Rheinberg entered the room, put helmet and coat aside aside, and stepped toward the table. Gratian just nodded at him. Rheinberg smiled at the visibly relieved von Geeren, then he leaned his fists on the table without sitting down. He looked into the round. “I guess you all have already discussed the right strategy for a counterattack.”

  “We are at odds. Richomer and Malobaudes favor a defensive strategy to gain time and strengthen our legions, Arbogast and I are for determined and immediate action,” the young ruler summarized.

  “You are the Emperor,” Arbogast reminded Gratian with a slightly blunt tone.

  “The Emperor would like to hear the opinion of the Magister Militium,” Gratian replied, looking at Rheinberg.

  “My opinion is clear: We must attack, and as soon as possible.” He looked at Richomer and Malobaudes.

  The younger man, freshly promoted, shook his head gently, but seemed to agree that the mood had shifted away from his proposal. Malobaudes, however, wasn’t beaten yet. “With all due respect, Magister … But you have not led a Roman legion into battle. You know little about our tactics. Your strength may be the superior power of your weapons, and I’m the last one to deny their advantages. But we’re talking about a regular, traditional campaign, with proven strategic rules our ancestors …”

  “But the problem is that it’s actually no longer a traditional campaign,” Rheinberg interrupted him impatiently. “What the ancestors have taught is only of limited value. Maximus obviously understood this quickly and took the right measures by assuring himself of the services of the mutineers.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Malobaudes said. “Reports …”

  “Are full of holes and ambiguity. But we know with certainty that von Klasewitz is with the insurgents. I know him well. With all his faults, he is an excellent artillery officer with great expertise in his field. He will have given this special knowledge to Maximus, probably in exchange for the promise to return at least to the command of the Saravica. He can build cannons. That he knows. He has the necessary resources and materials. He surely has been cooperative. And if I were Maximus, I would have hid my weapons as good as I could, before I put them into action on my first battle – to accomplish that his enemies will underestimate him and his military power.”

  If Malobaudes was angry at the silent reproach contained in Rheinberg’s words, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed to be carefully considering this argument. After doing that, he finally sighed and laid the palms of hands on the table in a gesture of capitulation.

  “Then it is decided,” Gratian explained, and he obviously felt satisfied.

  “When can we leave?” he asked Rheinberg.

  “I’m not quite up to date. Klaus?”

  Von Geeren had expected this question. “We have an army of 24,000 men at our disposal, the core of the field army. In addition, there are 200 German infantrymen with full equipment. On our planned approach to the north, we plan to collect a further 15,000 limitanei, so that we will end up with almost 40,000 men. The main force is ready to leave.”

  “I’ll lead the legions myself,” Gratian decided. “This is about me and my claim to the purple. I must defend it.” He looked around. “You all will accompany me, except for Richomer. He remains in Treveri and sees how he can organize additional troops from the east. I would like to avoid the mistake of my uncle, and therefore have an emergency plan, if Maximus should be victorious. Richomer will rebuild a line of defense toward the direction of Ravenna; I will give him all necessary authority. We will try to get the enemies within reach of the Saravica’s guns where they will be hit hard. Their cannons will have to fight an uphill battle.”

  Rheinberg bowed his head. He didn’t believe in this duel. On the one hand, everything that von Klasewitz was able to produce was totally inferior to the modern guns of the cruiser. On the other hand, Maximus would never allow himself to even get near the Saarbrücken without preparation. He had learned from Thessaloniki what effect the ship’s cannons could have. He wouldn’t take the risk, neither personally nor for his troops.

  But he left Gratian this illusion. If they couldn’t stop the advance of Maximus, he was certain that the Saarbrücken had only one remaining function: to enable them to run away.

  While the generals began to debate anew about strategic and tactical details, the eyes of Rheinberg and von Geeren met. The Captain nodded to the Captain. It was clear that they had similar concerns.

  Rheinberg tiredly closed his eyes.

  31

  Noricum had changed, Volkert thought. When the troops returned, the messengers had long since left the Legion’s camp with the latest insights on the advance of the Huns to rush to Treveri. At the same time, messengers from the capital had arrived to confer what Volkert had secretly feared: The uprising Rheinberg had attempted to prevent had started anyway.

  Volkert hadn’t yet fully recovered, although he made good progress. He therefore observed the preparations for the immediate departure of men, who had just mastered the arduous return. Almost the entire legion had been ordered to Ravenna to serve as the core of a second defensive line, strengthened by units from the east. Volkert found the preparations equally disturbing and soothing, for on the one hand they showed that Rheinberg wasn’t afraid to consider his total failure as a commander, and on the other, they showed foresight and a rational risk assessment.

  In his new rank as a centurion, he hadn’t simply been given additional responsibilities. As a confidant of Sedacius, he was increasingly involved in an inner circle of a conspiratorial group, who was to help the Tribune to become emperor. Although Volkert was aware that his fate was closely connected with that of this hidden, second usurper, he had strong doubts about his plan. He came from a time when the Emperor’s violent overthrow would have been a completely inconceivable step, aside from the abstruse plans of some anarchists and communists. He had been a naval officer for the opportunity to fight with the elite of the Reich. Not being of noble birth, he had not had it easy, but in the end it was clear to him that his induction into the ranks of the fleet was a distinction of a special kind. Now to be involved in something which would lead to the fall of an emperor, filled him with deeply ambivalent feelings.

  His conspirators didn’t have these doubts. In current times, the violent overthrow of the current emperor “out of the barracks” was an absolutely normal and usual process. Since that time when Maximinus Thrax, the first soldier-emperor, had opened the way for this kind of political career planning, every military careerist was distrusted by reigning emperors. Men like Sedacius had to hide their ambitions carefully, because otherwise they would very quickly be the victim of countermeasures.

  Countermeasures, which, as Volkert knew, would be initiated not least by Rheinberg as Gratian’s supreme commander. If he did not want to do one thing, then it was fighting against his German compatriots. It was fortunate that Sedacius also tried to avoid this. The use of the infantry in the battle against the Hunnish camp had clearly shown him the military potential of only a handful of these men.

  The Germans, so his conclusion, had to fight on his side.

  The Tribune probably didn’t know how to achieve this. In any case, Volkert didn’t propose any promising strategy either. He stood in the courtyard of the fortress and watched as the soldiers were driven to prepare for the
ir imminent departure. Volkert and a group of about 50 other injured comrades would follow as soon as they were fully operational again. They remained until further notice with a skeleton troop in the fort.

  Among those who would leave for Treveri were the German infantrymen. The soldiers piled up their belongings. They were also not overly pleased to be faced with an additional military confrontation and its highly uncertain outcome.

  Volkert was lost in thoughts. It was not until the man was almost standing in front of him that he came to recognize his presence. In the last few weeks, he had almost forgotten his stupid faux pas after his injury had been treated, but the sudden presence of the young man brought the memory back with force. He involuntarily straightened himself and strained his muscles, as if to defend himself against someone.

  Private 1st Class Feldmann, on whom the hardships of the past weeks were still clearly visible, looked tired. He had saved many lives through his tireless commitment beyond his limits – and still had to concede defeat for just as many he couldn’t help anymore. This was evidently his first experience in combat, and although he had kept himself upright with exemplary discipline, it was clearly visible how suffering and pain had afflicted him. Volkert saw that the man departing from here would be different from the one who had arrived – more quiet, more self-conscious, thoughtful. For the physicians of the legion, so far as the men could be described with this designation at all, Feldmann had become something of an idol, although he was much younger than most of them. Neumann’s medical school had not yet been able to provide enough training for medical professionals in such a short period that the effect would have been felt throughout the Empire. That would take years. Feldmann’s equipment and his understanding of the treatment of wounds, his efforts to keep clean, wherever possible, all of this was partly observed critically, partly respected. However, once a few wounded, who would otherwise have been relieved from their suffering as hopeless cases, were recovering – not least a certain decurion with a sword in his chest – the critics had gradually fallen silent. The more intelligent among the so-called physicians had come to the conclusion that it was possible to learn something here. And since then, they had not left Feldmann out of their eyes and assisted him wherever they could.

  The time was now over. The medic would leave with the infantrymen and be integrated back into the company, as long as this unit would continue to exist.

  Volkert looked expectantly at the man. If he wanted to say something, he wouldn’t encourage him unnecessarily.

  Feldmann cleared his throat. “You … you are better?” he asked in Greek.

  “Thanks for your help, yes,” Volkert replied. “Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have made it.”

  Feldmann nodded. Volkert’s gratitude had obviously not been registered by him. The question was only the prelude to the real issue.

  “You speak German,” he said suddenly, in German. He could not bring Volkert out of balance if that was his intention. He had expected something like that.

  He nodded measuredly. “I speak German.”

  “How come?”

  Volkert looked at Feldmann’s eyes. The young man had indeed been a witness to the events of the recent past, but perhaps he didn’t have paid too much attention to the details of some of those occurrences. The mutiny had surely surpassed the desertion of an ensign who fell in love. However, it was just this kind of story which gave wonderful occasion for endless gossip.

  “What do you think?” Volkert asked.

  Feldmann looked down. “Are you one of the mutineers?”

  Volkert had not yet gotten that idea. But perhaps it was only the officers who had escaped with von Klasewitz. And the infantrymen were ultimately still passengers, at least for many of the sailors. They wouldn’t have told them everything. “No I’m not. I have nothing to do with the mutiny. Von Klasewitz is an asshole.”

  Feldmann nodded. “Then you are the enamored ensign.” He had heard of it.

  Volkert was struggling to make a statement. He tried to remain composed, appropriate to his status as centurion and Roman veteran. So he just nodded, gave the man a moment, then asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

  Feldmann didn’t have to think long. “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

  “Why not?”

  He pointed to Volkert’s injury. “You’re not a normal deserter. I’ve heard what you’ve done. You are not a coward.”

  “I hope not.”

  “You have fled because of the girl.”

  At the thought of Julia, a sudden stab passed through Volkert’s heart. He pressed his lips on each other and nodded.

  “You will be able to return one day,” Feldmann said. “You are not like the former First Officer. They will pardon you.”

  “That doesn’t solve my problem.”

  The medic grinned. “Another promotion, and you’re a good match for a senator’s daughter.”

  Volkert relaxed. It became clear that the young man didn’t want to do him any harm.

  And he realized that the man’s utterance wasn’t stupid at all! As a centurion, he was already a highly respected member of the military hierarchy and would be considered promising indeed, not least because of his youth. The old ban not to marry during the time of duty had long since ceased to be meaningful. Legionaries, which had been stationed for a long time in a place, had long-lasting relationships and families. For a senatorial family, a centurion was perhaps still somewhat below the social level that was acceptable; on the other hand, the gap has diminished considerably now, he was of rank and status, and a wedding would be much more easy, and another promotion would indeed bring him quite close to the status of a Roman noble.

  “What are you going to do?” Volkert asked.

  “I will keep it to myself.”

  “And then?”

  “I will keep my ears open, and if it turns out that Captain Rheinberg is ready to pardon you, I will try to inform you.”

  Volkert looked at Feldmann in surprise. But there was no deception in the eyes of the young medic. He looked openly and honestly at Volkert. He seemed to be serious. “I … do not know …”

  Feldmann shrugged. “You fought well and are a respected Roman officer. It may not be my business, but that’s what I’ve witnessed, so I’ve decided to act accordingly. I have to live here for the rest of my days. At some point, the German units will be fully integrated into the Roman forces. We are already citizens of the Empire.” He looked at Volkert grinning. “It cannot hurt to know someone in higher places who owes me something.”

  Volkert replied the grin. He understood this language only too well. With all the sympathy Feldmann had shown, a considerable measure of slyness was connected to it. Feldmann would be good friends with Centurion Secundus.

  They chatted a little more, then the paramedic took his leave and devoted himself to his preparations. Volkert was about to turn away when he heard a raspy throat behind him. He turned and saw legionary Bertius. The man wore, with dignity, a wooden arm, masterly created by a craftsman of the fortress, with an extended, carefully carved hand at the end. So far, he had done quite well as his personal orderly, at least better than Volkert had expected. And the gratitude for this opportunity to remain in the service was apparent and persistent. It was indeed questionable what would have become of him, had he been dismissed.

  “Yes, Bertius? What can I do for you?”

  “That reminds me of what I wanted to ask you during my time at field hospital, but I have always slipped away into slumber before I could.”

  Volkert raised the eyebrows. “What would that be?”

  “Well …” Bertius cleared his throat again, then his gaze fell on the group of German infantrymen, who finished loading of their equipment. The legionary too had a very positive remembrance in regard to the medic. “How is it, o Centurion, that you speak the language of the time-wanderers?”

  Volkert stared at Bertius in silence. Naturally. He should have thought of that.


  Before he could open his mouth to an answer – or rather a bad excuse –, Bertius raised his healthy hand defensively. “No, I’m not really interested. I’m glad to be at your service, Centurion. You have a great career before you. It is good to serve someone who is destined for higher positions.”

  And so he turned away.

  The legionary had simply understood what Feldmann had instinctively recognized. In these times, the only thing one could rely on was the relationship with other people.

  And as long as you could be part of a good one, you didn’t ask too many questions.

  32

  “I thank you for this proof of confidence.”

  Magnus Maximus held out his hand to the old centurion. The man had to be just before the end of his time of service, a strong soldier with gray hair, slightly bent forward. Although he had obviously polished his breastplate for hours, it looked repulsive and stained. Some years ago, the man’s career had abruptly fallen into a dead end, either because he was not sufficiently politically linked, or simply because he was not capable of a higher command. From then on, he had been faithful to his service, despite all adversities. He looked like an honest man, a veteran of endless skirmishes with barbarian tribes, one who had witnessed many small victories and defeats. Von Klasewitz suspected that he had won the trust of his men, who shared the same resume and who had grown old with him.

  The centurion wanted to bow, but Magnus put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No bows, my friend. You have taken a great step, which will lead us all to further greatness. I am the one who respects you, because we could have faced each other as enemies. You chose Rome. It’s not about me. Rome is at stake. And my respect is yours, Centurion. Return, in the neighboring tent wine and a meal has been prepared for you and your officers. Enjoy. I will join you at once.”

  The centurion smiled delightedly. He had obviously expected another treatment, more distant, a cool gratitude. But that was not the way of Maximus, as von Klasewitz had observed. It was especially interesting to him because it was not his way either. The strength of the Comes was that he looked after his men and was seriously interested in their well-being. If food was lacking, he gave out his own supplies. He ate what the simple legionaries were eating. In regard to wine, he shared it generously. If there were wounded, he visited them, each and everyone. If someone was brave and courageous, there was no lack of personal praise in front the assembled troops. When the most simple soldier had been noticed, had saved a life, held a tight position, he could be sure that he wouldn’t be overlooked in the next round of promotions. The Comes didn’t make any difference.