The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  Lucilla, it seemed, liked the fresh sea air.

  When the galley departed, Julia took a last look at Ravenna.

  She wondered what the city would look like once she returned.

  And then she wondered if she’d ever come back here at all.

  43

  Late in the evening Rheinberg arrived in his villa, sweaty, tired and very depressed. He let Felix and the other slaves of the house take his armor without comment. He stank terribly, but the slaves didn’t flinch. They had all heard the bad news, and all of them sat on packed cases and boxes. The major-domo had correctly assumed that the whole household of the Magister Militium had to be moved to Ravenna, and the preparations for the journey had commenced immediately as soon as the first messenger had arrived with the news of the battle’s outcome.

  Tomorrow morning they would leave at once. Parts of the administration were already on their way to Ravenna. Relatives of those who wanted to fight Maximus moved as well. All those who basically didn’t care who’d be emperor or who had hopes for new benefits and posts from the new man remained. There were no criminal courts and no official decrees. If at Ravenna the advance of Maximus could be brought to an end, it was inevitable that the Empire would have two parallel administrations, at least for some time. The situation in the East was still unclear. How would the military hierarchy decide? This depended not least on the negotiating skills of the new emperor, who was to follow in Gratian’s shoes. The name of Theodosius had spread like a wildfire. Everything seemed to gear into his direction. Theodosius himself, it was said, had already arrived at Ravenna.

  But what most disturbed Rheinberg was the fact that he had heard rumors that there were more aspirants to the mantle of office than expected. It was, of course, not surprising in such a situation that some adventurers smelled an opportunity. Nothing could be done, but Rheinberg’s agents reported at least one serious candidate, who had secretly convinced powerful senators and had sympathies in the East. The young German had noticed these reports with increasing frustration. He felt overwhelmed. The political machinations, the ruthlessness with which one was struggling for positions and power, all this was foreign to Rheinberg, and he didn’t have the necessary experience to deal with it appropriately. He felt, deep in himself, not as a politician, not even a mediocre one, and that was very painfully obvious now.

  Not only that. Everything was painful. Especially his butt.

  Toasted, full of thoughts swirling around in his head, Rheinberg was almost irresistibly led into the bathing area of the villa. This house had only the best facilities. A large bathroom with three different basins, of different temperatures, a massage area, and a sauna were of course included. Rheinberg was undressed and finally sank with a pleasant groan in the hot water of the small basin right next to the massage table. The heat encompassed him and almost immediately released the cramps in his muscles. His body ached with every movement, and almost more than the endless rides, it was the inner tension that had spread to his muscles. Rheinberg closed his eyes and wished that he would be able to remove his giddy thoughts as easily as the pain in his limbs. But as much as he endeavored, his spirit remained active, even hectic, and the image of the fallen Gratian, the bitter feeling of treason, the retreat of the imperial troops, all returned with stubborn regularity. For a moment, Rheinberg thought about simply drinking away the tension with a considerable amount of wine. But he knew he had to make decisions tomorrow morning, and a hangover wouldn’t help him very much with that.

  And so his body rested without his mind relaxing. He noticed that this inner unrest also spread to his limbs, that he was moving in the water, although he wanted to remain calm. He opened his eyes, gazed at the steam rising from the hot water. Through the refraction of the liquid he saw the blurred image of his hands, with the roughened skin, slightly reddish due to the warmth, sullen and not too vigorous. He could still feel the pistol’s handle squeezing into his palm, drawing a pattern on his skin, and pulling the trigger, again and again, until the magazine was empty. The picture of the dying soldiers in front of his eyes, stifled by his striking shots, bloody and fading, intermingled again and again with that of Gratian, cut down by a sword. How secure the Emperor had felt after he knew that the future, which had once led to his early end, now no longer existed – only exchanged, as Rheinberg bitterly thought, by a much earlier demise. Hubris, that was what he had to accuse himself of. The assumption that with a handful of men, a ship, and sparse knowledge of the past, he could change the course of the world in the face of all emnity, even like a messiah, and could do everything so that all would be so much better.

  What foolishness.

  The bitter thoughts engulfed Rheinberg again, and he felt the sudden need to cry. He knew that his depression had much to do with the leaden fatigue that gripped him, but even this rationalization didn’t help. It was not that he would wake up tomorrow morning and the world would look quite different. The problems marched toward him a very literal sense. The fact that he could retreat to the Saarbrücken at any time, and escape with the cruiser from the confusion, held only a temporary consolation. He wouldn’t be able to look into the mirror again if he didn’t try to save what could be saved. And yet, in spite of all the comrades and friends who would support him, he had been very much disturbed by Jonas Becker’s death. He knew how someone like Gratian must have felt, young, inexperienced, surrounded by people of whom he never knew very well whether he could trust them or not, equipped with power of which he was more a tool than anything else. Yes, Rheinberg came to the conclusion that it was probably this feeling of being driven, which was particularly nagging at him, the painful realization of being a toy in someone’s game, which he had for a while considered to master.

  Bitter. Very bitter.

  There was a rippling sound beside him. Rheinberg looked up. Tanned skin, a slender leg sinking into the water, followed by a female body. The young man recognized the shape, moistened by steam, of a beautiful woman, slim, with full breasts, a wide, inviting hip. He saw her face and recognized Aurelia. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised.

  The former slave, who had been his guest at dinner ever since their renewed encounter in the archives of the palace, slid beside him on the hot stone bench. He felt her hip touching his, soft and compliant, and her hand, as if by chance, on his thigh. She didn’t say a word, and he didn’t talk as well.

  For a few minutes they just sat there. Rheinberg didn’t move. Whether from fatigue or shyness, he couldn’t tell. He looked at Aurelia, a little cautiously from the side, wondering what he should say, and saw in her face something like determination, as if an important decision had been made, which had to be put into action. Rheinberg’s gaze then fell on the thin leather sheath, which lay between the breasts, down the slender, long neck of the woman. From there the grip of a thin blade protruded, a knife often used in assassinations. Whatever heat Rheinberg had felt, now it was suddenly very cold. He stared at the blade. Aurelia followed his gaze. Then she talked.

  “I was promised a lot,” she said.

  “What exactly?” Rheinberg asked hoarsely. He didn’t know if he should look at the breasts or the knife. It was a combination that allowed somehow the heat return to him.

  “Freedom. A livelihood. Some land. Slaves.”

  “For what?”

  “To use this blade to kill you.”

  Rheinberg stared into the water, shocked and rattled to the bone, feeling very weak and sad.

  Aurelia, there was no doubt, was part of the network of betrayal and intrigue that had been woven around Gratian and himself. She had been a gift to Renna. Did the military prefect, who together with Richomer organized his second line of defense, also belong to the conspirators?

  And why did she tell him all this?

  “You’ve had your chance. I didn’t hear you enter the bathroom. You decided against it,” he said quietly.

  Aurelia reached behind her neck, loosened the ribbon on which the blade hung, rolled it
around the leather case and handed it to Rheinberg. He automatically reached for it, weighed the light blade in his hand, then placed it casually on the edge of the basin.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. I reconsidered,” she said.

  “Why? It was a clear assignment. I was an easy target.”

  Aurelia nodded. “Too easy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve already given me most of what I’ve been promised. Freedom. Some gold.”

  “That was all?”

  “I’ve found a good position, difficult enough for a freed slave. I could never have had this opportunity before.”

  Rheinberg frowned. “I’ve released you. You weren’t so happy at first.”

  “Oh, I was perhaps a bit uncomfortable. And it would have been much easier to kill you if I had remained your slave. It was important to me at the time.”

  “What’s important to you now?” Rheinberg wondered that he could ask this question so calmly. He was struck by a wild confusion of feelings that pushed the political and military situation into the background. Such an wild storm of emotions, all at once, could be overwhelming. He felt the sudden need for a sip of Köhler’s brandy.

  “That I do the right thing,” Aurelia said. She played with the index finger, curling the short hair on Rheinberg’s thigh. But she didn’t look at him, just at the steam of the bath.

  “You have decided not to kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Aurelia hesitated. “That might sound silly now, my lord.”

  “Do not call me that. You have already freed yourself from addressing me that way.”

  The former slave girl smiled. “There were many reasons to kill you. Some have lost any meaning. Others are no longer so important. I cannot at the same time be grateful to you for giving me my freedom and then kill you. I’m not a doll in the hands of those who want you ill. Also, I like you.”

  Rheinberg sighed. Should he be satisfied with this explanation?

  “You have trouble believing.”

  Rheinberg nodded. He was very tired.

  Aurelia’s hand wandered slightly. Her search found what she was looking for, and to his own astonishment, Rheinberg noted that he was not as exhausted as he thought.

  Without thinking about it, he leaned over to Aurelia. His lips found hers in a gentle, almost hesitant kiss, followed by a second, not so hesitant anymore.

  His mother, remembered Rheinberg at the most unfavorable time, when the palm of his left hand closed around Aurelia’s breast, a damp, cozy feeling of soft warmth, had always warned him about such girls.

  He kissed Aurelia again, intensely, long-lasting, almost breathlessly.

  Who gave anything to the warnings of a woman who wasn’t even born yet?

  Jan Rheinberg sank into the heat that surrounded him in so many ways.

  He decided not to have any further doubts for the moment.

  44

  The military headquarters in Ravenna was full of vigorous activity. A seemingly undisciplined mixture of officers ran around the premises, orders were given, messages forwarded. The chaos was actually well-structured. In the middle stood four men to whom all the different threads seemed to flow. General Richomer, Military Prefect Renna, the Spaniard Theodosius, and Johann Dahms, who was present as the official representative of the Saarbrücken. On a table beside them, a mountain of messages lay; numerous scouts kept them up to date with the latest news.

  “When Rheinberg arrives with the remnants of Gratian’s army in two days,” Richomer said, “there is not much time left to unite them with our troops. We will keep them separate, and only use them in a unified movement if we cannot do otherwise.”

  “Maximus will appear a few days later, if he keeps his marching speed,” Renna said thoughtfully. “There really is no time.”

  “And it doesn’t look good,” Dahms said finally.

  They all looked at him. In the discussion of the last half-hour, the engineer had increasingly perceived that the Roman officers were trying to hide some unpleasant truths or didn’t want to make a point. For this he had no sympathy.

  “We are doing very well, and your leadership is exceptional,” Dahms said in one of his rare approaches to diplomatic expression. “But the situation is as follows. First, the remains of Gratian’s army are exhausted and demoralized after their defeat. The losses are considerable, there are still deserters, discipline is therefore questionable. I guess we can count on maybe 15,000 men. Secondly, the relief troops assembled here in Ravenna are miserable. There are a few recruits, a few reinforcements from the East, we are talking about 10,000 men, and I don’t want to speculate how well and disciplined they can fight. Third is the mood in the population. Nowadays the Church, under the careful guidance of the Bishop of Milan, is very effective in fomenting the unrest among the population and against the time-wanderers. They put the blame for the entire fiasco on us. The people are restless, are rightly afraid of a siege of the city or a house-to-house fight. The spies and agitators of the insurgents are hardly kept in check. Right now, after Gratian’s death, Maximus is brought into play as the guarantor of stability and, above all, of religious righteousness. The Trinitarians call him their man, and that is not a coincidence. Moderate voices are silent or aren’t heard. What happens, gentlemen, if Maximus attacks Ravenna and at the same time a popular uprising is organized? Do you expect us to direct the guns of the Saarbrücken to the city and inflict a massacre among the citizens? This is a very different situation from Thessaloniki! And finally, fourthly, if the reports don’t deceive me, Maximus has more than compensated for the losses he suffered in Belgica by means of defectors and new auxiliary troops. We are talking about an army close to 40,000 men, well-motivated, a victory on their scorecard, and convinced of the legitimacy of their own actions. Is Gratian’s death not correctly to be interpreted by the Trinitarians as the finger of God, who indicates to everyone who he prefers and whose contemptuous, fickle, overbearing attitude toward heretics he condemns? Four points only, gentlemen, and I could continue the list: The ammunition supplies of our infantrymen, for example, are almost exhausted. We must use the guns of the cruiser during an attack. However, the prospective battlefield lies much further away from the ship than at Thessaloniki, which makes misses inevitable. I repeat: If we, the time-wanderers, cut away the civilian population of Ravenna, then our future in the Roman Empire is doomed. We’re not going to do that.”

  Dahms paused, a little exhausted. It had been a long speech for a man who was more likely to hold back with verbal utterances. Thoughtful silence of the three addressed Romans was the immediate reaction.

  Renna sighed softly. “The issue of agitation among the population is well described. And it is not limited to the civilians. I see how the priests approach my men. If I get them, they say that they will only bless the soldiers, so that the Lord will protect them in the coming battles. What should I say? At least I cannot forbid the Christians among my men to speak with priests. This would tend to increase disquiet and mistrust, and at the same time be detrimental. There are also Arian churchmen. I’m not sure what we can do to solve this problem.”

  “What you say, Magister Dahms,” Richomer added, “is that our plan to make Ravenna the second line of defense is already doomed.”

  “Those are hard words,” the addressee replied. “I don’t doubt there are many among us who will fight bravely and honorably against Maximus. But yes, I think that the matter is gradually slipping out of our hands, and we are in a most unpleasant situation.”

  Theodosius, who had hitherto been silent on the discussion, cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I have seen senators and other officers for supper last evening,” he said in a low voice. “There it was discussed that I should be appointed the successor of Gratian, all to be done in front of the legions and the Senate after the arrival of the retreating troops.”

  None of the men were surprised. Everyone knew that this step had become inc
reasingly unavoidable.

  “As soon as I am Emperor, I can make decisions. Dahm’s words convinced me. I believe that we cannot hold Ravenna. Instead, we must retreat to the East, to Constantinople. The city is impregnable. From there, with the human potential of the East, we can fight Maximus.” The Spaniard looked at Dahms and smiled. “I’ve learned that I did something similar in another time, your past.”

  Dahms nodded. “That’s true. It took quite a long time, but the conditions were different. I have sympathy for your proposals. But I fear that it is already too late to realize your plan to move the troops assembled here successfully to the East, to use them as a base for the army, with which we can then proceed against Maximus.”

  “Why?”

  Dahms pointed to the map, which hung behind them on the wall.

  “Maximus is too close. Even if we march today, the usurper would get wind of it. He would change his direction and cut off our path. For a large field battle, our troops are too few, badly trained, too little experienced, without the important tactical advantage of the German infantry because of the ammunition deficit already mentioned. The likelihood of Maximus killing us without the cover of the Saarbrücken’s cannons and without the protection of the city walls is relatively large. We simply have not enough lead to run away from him in that direction. We also do not have enough ships to move larger units. The fleet is in Constantinople. We should have made such a decision much earlier. Now it’s too late.”