There stood the altar of Victoria, the goddess of victory. He was dominated by a golden, winged female figure holding a palm branch and laurel wreath in her hands. She had stood here ever since the statue was captured in the Pyrrhic Wars, and it was custom to make a smoke sacrifice before each of the senate meetings. The altar was a symbol of the ancient religions, a symbol of both the great past of Rome and the religious dispute that had long swept the Empire. Trinitarians like Arians agreed that he was to be removed, indeed destroyed. Since the Senate now consisted mostly of Christians, the altar had fewer and fewer advocates, and the most famous of them, Symmachus, had chosen to escape on Rheinberg’s side.
Maximus intended to remove this symbol. Siricius would watch the procedure closely. It was necessary, indeed important, to communicate the kind of state church the Emperor had in mind –and that, if only for a short time, the dispute between the various versions of the faith would be masked by the common rejection of the old religions.
Maximus turned to the gathering. He raised his arms. Silence returned. “Senators, today is a truly historic day. Today I, Maximus Magnus, Emperor of Rome, break with a time-honored tradition. Some may accuse me of sinning with our ancestors. But the real sin is to preserve the symbol of a long-gone and no longer living religion, instead of focusing all our energies on praising and serving the one, the true, the living God. This is not about tolerance. This is not about the question of tradition. Here it is about, ultimately, not less than our salvation. It’s about the question of what kind of state we want. Do we want a kingdom of arbitrariness, an Empire whose only coherence is made of weapons and power? Or do we want an Empire that holds together through other ties, the bonds of a common faith, of one faith, of the one and only, of the truly blissful truth that most of us have long recognized for themselves and that the state can no longer deny?”
Maximus paused to look at the faces of his audience. For most, he recognized joyful anticipation or approval, with a few who followed his speech with a stony gaze, more fatalism than aversion or even opposition. He almost regretted that Symmachus wasn’t here. He would have opposed the Emperor, eloquently, not rude or without respect, but convinced of his cause. It would have been interesting, a soothing change from always resolving a conflict with the sword.
Symmachus was in Constantinople. Maximus allowed himself a faint smile. If all went well, he would soon meet the Senator again, albeit for less fortunate circumstances.
Maximus waved two sturdy legionaries who had been specially selected for this work. Instead of swords, they had been equipped with powerful hammers.
“Now, senators, let’s do the deed!” Maximus shouted.
A centurion barked an order.
The two soldiers stepped forward, swinging the hammers and dropping them on the altar of Victoria. Again and again the heavy tools hit. The statue’s arms broke off, the head fell, the torso. Altar objects rattled to the ground. Debris covered the marble. After only a few minutes, the sacred site erected more than 150 years before was no more than a pile of rubble.
Maximus nodded to the centurion. The golden statue would be carefully picked up and melted down. The Empire needed the money.
Maximus turned back. The eyes of all senators were focused on the completed work of destruction. The Pope looked particularly satisfied.
“It’s done!” Maximus said simply, bowing respectfully to the venerable Senate, adjusting his toga, and hurrying out.
Outside, the rejoicing of the Romans who had waited a long time for this act awaited him. The Emperor accepted the homage with a smile. He paused to wave to the crowd. A good day.
Maximus Magnus walked over the Forum with the awareness of a man who just now had buried an important part of Roman history.
11
Someone stepped over the body of the legionary over whom Rheinberg had almost stumbled a moment before. Rheinberg looked up and nodded to one of the soldiers. He just shrugged.
The Magister Militium gripped the gun, though the magazine was long since empty. It was as if he had to stick to it, if he didn’t want to completely lose his mind.
“Here!”
A shot, and Langenhagen had struck down another legionary, who had ventured forward cheekily. The screaming and protests of the spectators, who were brutally driven out of the Hippodrome by soldiers, was a loud background music. The box was secured and in the hands of the time-wanderers. The surprise attack had had a major flaw: The soldiers in far-off Constantinople hadn’t understood what handguns could do in confined spaces. On the ranks, outside, was still some fighting. But it was clear that the soldiers of the city had to deal with a lot of fear.
But it was also clear that they were trapped here. At some point, the attackers would gather their courage and dare the storm. Rheinberg’s empty magazine already symbolized their sure demise, should this happen. The treachery of Modestus would be successful sooner or later.
The old Praetorian Prefect, among others of his entourage, had escaped in the turmoil of the attack. There were corpses everywhere, from legionaries to dignitaries. The long access to the imperial palace had been barricaded. The Hippodrome was in the hands of the enemy legionaries, except for the area where Rheinberg’s men had repulsed the first attack. There were only a few bullets left. The Germans saved on ammunition.
Rheinberg wiped the sweat from his forehead. His knees shook. Aurelia, her long, deadly blade still in her hands, her torso slightly bent forward, her gaze concentrated on searching for surprising opponents, had been right with her doom calls. Rheinberg made a fool of himself. He should have known that betrayal and intrigue were the elixir that had filled Roman politics with ominous life for centuries.
He had been naive.
Or just tired.
Rheinberg pulled himself together. Their situation seemed hopeless. They were surrounded. Maybe he could at least negotiate better conditions for his men. He had no doubt about his own fate. Von Klasewitz alone would see to it that he didn’t escape his “just punishment,” and Maximus wouldn’t hesitate for a second to eliminate a potential threat.
But nobody had wanted to talk to him until now.
“Rheinberg!”
Rheinberg came up, surprised. He had not expected the voice. He looked around and saw the face of someone who was not supposed to be here – and about whom he couldn’t even guess how he got here.
“Renna!”
The man grinned at Rheinberg, pointing back. Under the most magnificent seat of the Emperor’s Lodge, a trapdoor had opened and other men, armed with swords, appeared.
“You don’t seriously believe that a lodge has no second, most secretive escape route, right? We are in Rome! Emperors always need an alternative!”
Once again, Rheinberg scolded himself a fool. Of course! And probably the attackers had already considered why they hadn’t long used this passage to escape – and would wait for them at the end. Maybe that was why the vehemence of the attacks had diminished.
On the other hand … Renna was here.
“Is the escape route safe?” Rheinberg asked.
“No. We came … through a shortcut.”
Renna stank. Rheinberg guessed what this shortcut meant.
“As …”
“No time for long explanations,” the officer interrupted. “I visited my family and was warned by relatives that this would happen. I put together a small troop of my brother-in-law’s followers and came this way to do what I could do.” He looked around, his eyes falling on the dead. “You have done well.”
“Thank you. What now?”
“We go where we came from.”
“Legionaries will wait for us in the end.”
Renna made a negative gesture.
“Not at the end we took. The corridors are old. Half of Constantinople is tunneled. There are illegal accesses to this escape route. He leads us to the river.”
“River?” Rheinberg echoed.
“Through Constantinople’s underground, several rive
rs flow that come to the surface outside the city. They are connected in part to underground cisterns that ensure the city’s water supply. Once we reach the river, we have many alternatives available.”
“Modestus will foresee that.”
“For sure. But hopefully too late.”
Rheinberg stepped to the balustrade. His men had entrenched themselves on the nearby stands and still held the upper hand.
“The men of Modestus will notice if we pull the people up here,” Rheinberg said. “We cannot disappear secretly. At the latest, if we don’t come out at the right end of the tunnel, the city-wide search will begin. So what do we do afterwards?”
Renna joined him, probing the situation before answering. “We can hide both in the city and outside. We can escape the city and travel to Thessaloniki, where we have many friends and sympathizers.”
“Thessaloniki sounds good,” Rheinberg confirmed. “But we need the Saarbrücken.”
Renna frowned. “The harbor and especially the ship are sealed off. They don’t dare to board because they are afraid of the cannons, but they won’t let us near the cruiser.”
“Of course not. We are escaping the city by road, as fast as possible. The Saarbrücken must depart, if possible even the steam boats. The big problem is that the families we rescued from Ravenna can be used as hostages.”
“Modestus is not a cruel man. He will not get carried away to commit such acts. Not even if Maximus orders it.”
“Why is he following the instructions of Maximus?”
Renna shrugged. “I have no idea. Is that important now?”
“No. We have to inform the men of Saarbrücken. That is the urgent task at hand. And if we cannot get to the ship from the land side, then from the sea.”
Renna thought for a moment, then nodded. “There will be a tunnel exit to the sea, in fact very many, especially for sewage. Someone would have to be a very good swimmer if he wants to do that, and the water is very cold. I don’t think it will be possible to cover very long distances.”
“Then a rowboat.”
“We can organize one. But now we have to decide who should go where. Because then we have to choose different paths quite early. We flee into the city with most of the men. The messenger has to go to the port, or near the harbor, to get a boat. I’ll send him one of my men who knows his way around.”
Rheinberg didn’t think long. “I’ll do it myself.”
Renna looked at him doubtfully. “It’s very dangerous. It would be better if you were in the protection of the men …”
“No!” Rheinberg decided categorically. “Everything depends on the Saarbrücken. I have to take care of the cruiser. Everything is nothing without the ship.”
Renna looked at Rheinberg’s expression, then slowly nodded.
The German turned around, his eyes met those of Aurelia. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and there was no need for further explanation.
“We’ll meet in Thessaloniki,” was her simple answer.
Enough words had been exchanged. If their plan had a chance of realization, they needed to take immediate action. Rheinberg trusted Renna, then thought maybe even that was a mistake. He had also trusted Malobaudes. He had trusted Modestus. Rheinberg brushed away the thought. Naivety or not, if he saw behind every familiar face only the traitor, he wouldn’t find a quiet minute and become a suspicious, withdrawn, manic loner – like many powerful emperors of Rome, something that testified the fundamentals of the political system of the Empire … and what was wrong with them.
There was still so much to do.
“We’re on our way!” Rheinberg ordered loudly. “Renna leads. Follow his instructions.”
The Prefect appeared with a slender, dark-skinned man beside Rheinberg. He wore simple but neat clothes and a long knife in his right hand. He wanted to bow to Rheinberg, but he raised his hand.
“No. We have to survive together. I’m bleeding like you. Your name?”
“Georgius,” came the soft reply.
“You know your way?”
“I was born and grew up in the city and worked for years as a fisherman and a docker. I should be able to help.”
There was more sparkle in the eyes of Georgius than there had been visible at first. Rheinberg smiled. “I will not promise you great wealth and princely rewards right now, Georgius, but by God, if you help me and everything works out, it will not hurt to befriend the Magister Militium of Rome.”
Georgius returned the grin. He probably expected that too.
Rheinberg liked that. He got on well with this kind of honesty. “Let’s go!”
While Renna and his men helped to get the people from the ranks into the imperial box, Rheinberg and Georgius climbed through the trapdoor into the tunnel below. In a niche stood three oil lamps that emitted a flickering light. Georgius armed himself with one and showed the way.
Rheinberg noted that this was more than a roughly knocked down tunnel. Stonemasons and civil engineers had done a great job here. The passage was quite high, almost two meters, and wide enough for three men to run side by side. He was protected by carefully placed arches and was lined with smooth-hewn stones. At regular intervals there were niches for lamps, along with information on the direction and distance traveled. When they came to a turn, Rheinberg stopped involuntarily and looked questioningly at Georgius.
He shook his head. “We’d better not go along that way, the corridor leads underground into the imperial palace. The final door can only be opened from the outside, so we won’t get far. We have to continue along this way!”
Rheinberg took one last look into the corridor before he followed the man. The tunnel was slightly downhill. It took about twenty minutes for the monotony of the smooth walls to break again. In a curve, a narrow gap had opened in the wall.
Georgius stopped. “The corridor continues now, as planned, to Constantine’s Forum,” he said softly. “There’s the official exit from the escape tunnel, and there the men from Modestus are already waiting for us. But we will disappear here.”
And with these words Georgius was already squeezing himself into the gap. Rheinberg was quite happy at that moment that he was slim and relatively small in shape. He imagined some of his crew members crowding in, hoping it would work out. When he was in the gap, he realized that it was wider than expected. He could not go all the way through, but with the upper body still a little laterally oriented it finally worked out without problems.
“This corridor leads us to a house near the Caenopolis. It belongs to a trader. He is a friend of the family.”
Rheinberg didn’t want to know what a trader was doing with a separate underground access to the imperial palace. Georgius didn’t seem to care about that. “There we will change our clothes and walk to Julian’s Harbor, where the Saarbrücken lies. It will take a detour to avoid the guards. But I hope we’ll be there in the late afternoon.”
Rheinberg let out a grunt as an unhewn stone pierced his ribs. His injury, which he had suffered during the fight in Valentinian’s summer palace, made itself felt again. “And then?” he asked as they worked their way through.
“Then we’ll see. I’ll try to organize a boat. Then we can approach the harbor from the sea side and hope that the guards won’t discern us.”
Rheinberg nodded. “We do it at night.”
“That anyway. It’s impossible during the day.”
“There will be watch boats.”
“Yes. It’s risky.”
“You won’t accompany me. That’s my job alone.”
Georgius looked at Rheinberg for a moment, as if doubting his state of mind. “It would be riskier to act alone.”
“I’ll have to swim a certain distance,” Rheinberg suggested. He now noticed how the gait rose slightly. They came to the end of their underground odyssey.
“I can swim,” Georgius replied.
“No, you won’t accompany me. But I need your help. Not only do you have to get me a boat, but also some fat with which
I can rub myself. It will help me to endure the cold of the water better. I do not want to swim far, but it will take me to my limits.”
Georgius didn’t oppose him anymore. If someone wanted to risk his life without getting all the help he was offered, that was ultimately his problem.
The corridor ended at a wooden door. Rheinberg watched as Georgius knocked three times against it. Then it was opened. It led into a cellar vault, and light became visible. Three men were waiting for them, one dressed in expensive clothing, with a well-developed belly and a fat face – and a worried look on his face.
Georgius stepped forward. “We’re the first,” he said.
The trader, as Rheinberg surmised him to be, nodded. “When will the others come?”
“Soon. We were the first to leave. This is the master of the ship, he has to go to the harbor.”
The fat man gave Rheinberg a dismissive look. “I don’t think so,” he said coldly.
Rheinberg took a step back. It happened fast. Legionaries filled the basement quickly, as they had been hiding behind barrels and boxes. Weapons were drawn, blades held threateningly toward him.
Georgius turned, gave Rheinberg an apologetic look, a wry grin. “I’m sorry, sir.”
An officer stepped forward, his face full of triumph.
“Time-wanderer, if you will follow me, please. My job is to bring you back to the palace.”
Rheinberg took another step back to the open wooden door, down the steep corridor. The officer raised his sword, two spears jerking in his direction.
“You shouldn’t try that,” the man said. “I have orders to kill you in the event of another escape attempt.”
Rheinberg cursed loudly and stomped theatrically with his foot, also very loud, then he lowered his head defeatedly and made a few steps forward again. In the darkness of the hall, unnoticed by the guards, there was something left on the ground.
“Close the door. Let’s wait for the rest!” the officer ordered. Rheinberg was seized by hard fists and dragged toward the basement exit. He tried to turn around but was moved on.
The Emperor Page 7
