The Emperor

by Boom, Dirk van den

  Bertius obviously saw that his master was dead serious, and his face was suddenly filled with a puzzling, thoughtful expression that was seldomly to be seen in his eyes. “I think …” he said, as if trying to remember. “I think, Tribune, that it is the first impulse, the one that you have not pondered before for a long time, that usually turns out to be the right one. The thought given to you by some event or circumstance, one, you didn’t develop studiously.” He waved his arm, his smile a little painful. “I have not thought too long about this, sir.”

  Volkert nodded. He looked into the little watchfire in front of his tent and tried to remember. When, for the first time, Sedacius had told him his plans for the overthrow, his plans to seize power, what had Thomas Volkert felt, what had been the first impulse?

  Volkert didn’t realize that Bertius left the tent, so absorbed was he in his thoughts and memory. He came quite soon to a clear result. And he imagined how he would feel if he told Theodosius about Sedacius’ plans.

  Relief came over him. A certain peace. The feeling of doing the right thing. Yes, there was no doubt.

  Thomas Volkert had to become a traitor – or a patriot.

  The winner would decide how he would be regarded.

  33

  They reached the coast of Thessaloniki late in the morning in excellent weather. The big city was already clearly visible from the bridge of the Saarbrücken. The three steamers stomped backwards from the direction of the cruiser in the sea and gave the mightier ship the precedence – not only because of the effect, but also, in order to be able to oppose any eventual danger with the strongest weapon.

  The crossing itself had gone smoothly. The weather had been very pleasant throughout, and apart from the occasional merchant ship, which had always kept a respectful distance, they hadn’t encountered anyone. But now there was excited expectation among all passengers and crew members. Thessaloniki promised the excitement of a big city without the deceptive betrayal of a powerful political camarilla. Their stay would take longer than planned, they all knew that by now.

  Rheinberg entered the bridge after a late breakfast. He had sat with his officers and planned and discussed it until late in the night. They had all gone to bed well after midnight without any satisfactory results. It was very hard to make good decisions when you lacked the necessary information. Perhaps they would be able to compensate for this deficit in Thessaloniki.

  “It’s strange,” Joergensen muttered, holding out a pair of binoculars to greet Rheinberg. He took it and looked questioningly at the Captain.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Look through the glass, the whole area in front of Thessaloniki,” Joergensen told him.

  Rheinberg did so, spent a good minute, then put the glass down and frowned. “Nothing.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Something is wrong here.”

  “Not a single ship. No coasters, no transport galley, nothing. The summer season has got off to a good start. We had a lot of traffic in Constantinople when we left. The trade is there, the travelers come and go. Thessaloniki has a large port and is an important trading center. And what do we see?”

  “Nothing. Not a single ship,” Rheinberg muttered. “Reinforce the observation posts. We’ll coast a bit before we enter the harbor. I want us to get an idea of the matter.”

  “Very good,” Joergensen confirmed. Silently, they stared at the shoreline, while the little flotilla changed course a bit, stopped heading straight for the metropolis, and glided across the calm waters parallel to the shore. Many binoculars rose as the city came nearer.

  “They must have discovered us now anyway,” Joergensen said. “There are ships in the harbor, but there’s no … but, there!”

  Rheinberg had also spotted it. A small sailing ship broke away from the harbor and obviously headed toward the approaching Saarbrücken.

  “We’re waiting here,” Joergensen decided, placing a hand on the helmsman’s shoulder. It only took a few moments, then the order was also transmitted to the escorts. The machines died, the four vehicles began to drift in the gentle current. The gaps were large enough that this wouldn’t be a problem for the foreseeable future. The wind was favorable, the sailing ship from the city came quickly closer. It was clear that there were only three men in the small boat: one at the helm at the stern, one who seemed to care about the single mast and the sail, and one standing at the bow and through his clothes and posture seemed to be an official, at any rate an emissary of importance, not a simple fisherman.

  The sailing ship finally came alongside. However, it made no attempt to get so close to the Saarbrücken that a translation would have been possible. Instead, they kept a respectful distance, just enough to communicate with a loud shout. Rheinberg and Joergensen exchanged a look, left the bridge and went to the railing. The messenger patiently waited, and when he saw the two men, waved to them.

  “I’m Livecius, envoy of the city administration. I greet you, my lord Rheinberg!”

  Rheinberg shouted back a greeting, then: “What happened? Is there a problem in the city?”

  The Roman nodded vigorously. “Lord, you mustn’t approach the harbor. Remain outside the roadstead and jetty. Better yet, turn away and look for another destination!”

  “Why? We want to go ashore and organize the fight against Maximus!” Rheinberg retorted.

  “That won’t be possible. The city gates are closed. Even shipping traffic was banned.”

  “What happened?”

  “The plague!” Livecius shouted. “The plague has broken out!”

  Rheinberg stared at the man. He shook his head slowly, as if that helped to understand the implications of the message. Livecius saw this as an invitation to continue.

  “Many thousands have fallen ill, my lord, including many of the legionaries stationed here! We burn the corpses and their houses, but it doesn’t lead to anything, the plague continues to spread! It also started in the surrounding area! You mustn’t come to Thessaloniki, or you will fall prey to the disease!”

  Livecius made a sweeping, at the same time resigned, movement with both arms. “If you know a solution, any that helps, then we ask you for help. If you don’t know anything, stay away. Travel to Constantinople and warn the government there. What has broken out here can spread rapidly, although we will do our best to contain it. But stay away from us if you don’t know any miracle cure that will protect you from the plague!”

  It was Joergensen who shook his head. “Should we simply believe you, Livecius?”

  The messenger nodded resignedly. “I hope so!” He grabbed his toga, dropped it and raised his arms. Rheinberg and Joergensen stared at his naked body, littered with plague on the neck, groin and armpits. Livecius himself was infected, and that he had taken it, despite the illness, to sail out here and act as living proof to deter further mischief from the travelers was remarkable.

  Then the man bent down and put the fabric over again. He waved again, had delivered his message, delivered the proof. The two sailors set sail, and the small boat turned to return to the harbor. As if destiny wanted to get rid of the danger of infection as quickly as possible from the Saarbrücken, the wind had turned favorably and a light breeze filled the sail.

  Rheinberg felt dizzy. He took a deep breath.

  “Bring the medicus! And Landmann!”

  Joergensen obeyed immediately. The two men to whom Rheinberg had sent for were very different in many ways. However, they shared a strong passion for medical science. The Medicus was Salvanius Tullius Reta, a man who had worked as a doctor before the arrival of the time-wanderers, a graduate of the famous Gallic medical schools. Neumann had found him a very eager and understanding pupil, who had absorbed the new knowledge like a sponge. On the other hand, Landmann was a member of the company of von Geeren, one of two paramedics and an intelligent and studious one. A good twenty years younger than Reta, Landmann had proven himself to be Neumann’s assistant. Together with Reta, he had been the best st
udent of Neumann’s short-lived medical academy, and both of them expected to become full-fledged doctors in the modern sense in no time. In Neumann’s absence, the duo manned the small hospital on board the Saarbrücken.

  Rheinberg returned to the bridge, his face pale, his brow furrowed. He felt, for a short moment, the need to run away, but he pulled himself together. If he flopped down now and allowed himself to be overwhelmed, his crews’s trust would dwindle. No matter how he felt, he had to look as if he was totally undisturbed.

  Landmann and Reta arrived, and on their faces, the concern was clearly visible. Before Rheinberg could say anything, Reta, the Roman doctor spoke. He was a compact figure with a receding hairline, around the age of fifty, and thus a very old man in comparison to the local life expectancy. Landmann was a real contrast – tall, lanky, with a thin, almost gaunt face and a prominent nose, for which he often had to endure ridicule. He was just 22 years old and politely allowed Reta to speak first.

  “Sir, that’s a disaster!” Reta said loudly, leaning against the wall, panting. “Neumann warned us about that. He warned us again and again. The rats, he said, we must exterminate, and keep the cities clean. Remove the waste. Cleanliness. The best weapon against the plague.”

  Rheinberg was not a medical expert, but he knew as much. “That doesn’t help us now. Once the plague is out …”

  “If we want to prevent it’s spread, we must isolate the afflicted, fight the rats, eliminate the waste.”

  “I’m sure much of this is already done,” Rheinberg said.

  Reta sighed and nodded. “Yes, we have our experiences with the plague.”

  “What can we do to fight it?”

  Reta and Landmann exchanged a puzzled look. “Neumann didn’t have an answer when we discussed this topic,” the medicus said sheepishly, and Landmann nodded. “You can control the spreading by resolute action, but whoever is ill …”

  “Some survive by themselves,” Landmann said. “One doesn’t necessarily die from it. But the death toll is immense.”

  “Garlic,” Reta said. “We always give plague sufferers plenty of garlic to eat. For some, this seems to increase the likelihood of recovery.”

  “How do we heal the plague in our time?” Rheinberg asked Landmann.

  The man just shrugged. “We really don’t, Captain.” For the time-wanderers, Rheinberg continued to be not primarily the Magister Militium but the Captain, even if Joergensen had officially taken that position. “We prevent its outbreak. Dr. Neumann said there was research into new remedies that some scientists think could help with such and other infectious diseases.” Landmann furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. “He mentioned a man named Paul Ehrlich. He didn’t know much about it, but at least that many had high hopes for these new medicines. But seriously, if the plague were to spread across the German Empire, many people would die, because there is no such thing as a true cure.”

  Rheinberg stared at Landmann. He had hoped for another answer. The plague was a thing of the past for him, a scourge of the Middle Ages, not modern times. He had firmly assumed that medical science had found a cure. “Then … then we can do nothing,” he muttered.

  “We can help with prevention,” Landmann explained. “Fight the rats, as Master Reta said. Generally high standards of cleanliness. Isolation of the patients. And then hope that the infection rate remains low enough for the disease to fade away by itself.”

  Rheinberg ran his hand over his forehead. “All of this makes sense if we had a functioning and efficient state to enforce all the important measures. But we have a civil war, and the bad thing is, wars are known to promote the spread of disease.”

  “There is no question of a military campaign from the east to the west,” Joergensen said. “Not only will many legionaries soon be unable to travel and fight anymore – they will also carry the plague throughout the Empire. We may want to fight Maximus, but it’s not our goal to eradicate half the population.”

  Rheinberg nodded. “This is quite obvious.”

  He looked at Reta and Landmann. “You’re both making sure that our four ships are cleaned thoroughly. All ships are to be searched for rats. I wish that everything is scrubbed with hot, boiled water – the ships, the crew members, the passengers. We’re not going ashore in Thessaloniki, because the miracle cure the messenger hoped for doesn’t exist, or at least not yet.” He looked at Reta. “Garlic, yes?”

  Reta nodded, albeit helplessly.

  “Then we’ll go back to Constantinople and warn the authorities. At least in the East, all measures should be taken that are necessary. And we will bunk garlic. If it helps …”

  Reta nodded again, this time harder. “We’ll stink, but the effect is proven.”

  The two men turned away and disappeared. Joergensen gave orders. The Saarbrücken began to slowly pick up speed and to strike a wide arc. Once again they were on the run, this time not from the enemy’s weapons, but from an invisible foe, against whom there was no protection, at least nothing else than another attempt to escape.

  First to Constantinople, Rheinberg thought.

  But where to after that?

  34

  Godegisel realized that something was wrong when the big cart approached him. He couldn’t yet see Thessaloniki, but he’d already noticed that there was little traffic on the military road – and the few travelers hurried away from the city and not in its direction. The cart jerked slowly across the street and then turned right. It was steered by a hooded figure on the coachman’s box. Not far from the road stood a small church and right in front of it a fire burned. Godegisel restrained his horse when he perceived a smell he unfortunately knew all too well – burnt human flesh. He watched silently as the cart came to a halt in front of the fire and as more masked men came out of the church. They pulled a tarp from the cart and extracted wrapped, elongated objects, which they dragged straight to the blazing fire and threw atop. The flames faded, then became stronger again as they caught the dry cloth and shot up.

  The fact that it evidently was church people disposing of the dead in such a completely unceremonious manner – at least it was assumed that they silently prayed for it – indicated that the speedy elimination of the dead was more important than compliance with any piety. An uneasy feeling came over the young man. He slowly rode toward the working men until one caught sight of him and raised his hand in warning. Involuntarily, Godegisel stopped the animal.

  “Who are you?” he heard the muffled voice of the hooded man whose face was almost completely covered by a cloth.

  “I am Godegisel, a Goth and in the service of the Empire,” he replied truthfully.

  “Where are you going?”

  “My way leads me to Thessaloniki.”

  “Better not, Goth. The plague rages in the city.”

  Godegisel stared at the man for a moment, then understood. The activities of the men here fit well into the picture. It was common practice to remove dead bodies so they wouldn’t cause further disease in population centers – whatever the cause of the plague was. The hooded men were either agents of the city or merciful churchmen who had placed their own destiny in the hands of God.

  “Then I should stay away from there,” Godegisel replied. “What about the surrounding properties?”

  “The plague continues to spread, though slower than feared. The city administration as well as the generals of the troops immediately took strong measures. The legionaries stop all traffic and control anyone leaving the city. But we ourselves come from a village south of the metropolis and there we have already started our work. Stay away from us, Goth. Two of us are already ill and will soon follow into the fire.”

  Godegisel looked down at the man who might well be one of the two sufferers. The laconic, even fatalistic way in which he talked about his fate or that of his friends touched him. He was looking for a suitable response, but he couldn’t come up with anything. So he only nodded, wished him God’s blessing and good luck, turned his horse around and rode ba
ck the way he had come.

  If it was as the man had said – and Godegisel had no doubt about his words –, Rheinberg wouldn’t travel to Thessaloniki either. He would probably return to Constantinople to warn the local authorities and take action against the spread of the disease.

  He himself, Godegisel decided, would return to Engus and tell him about the plague, so that their people would do their part to keep the spreading of the illness under control as much as possible. This also reduced the likelihood that the Goths would participate in the war against Maximus, because there was no longer an effective army of the East, as the plague had invaded their camp. Whether ill or not, no general who was in his right mind would command the departure, as it would quickly infect the entire route.

  Nothing came of the second front against the usurper. Rheinberg’s strategic plan had just vanished.

  Godegisel sank into tribulation as he indulged in this thought. He hoped that the Magister Militium would find a solution.

  He scratched absently as a flea bit him.

  35

  They had stopped him from killing her right away.

  That wouldn’t have looked good: the daughter of a senator. Not that he would’ve been wrong in doing so, but it wouldn’t have made a good impression.

  As the gates closed behind her, Julia looked down the dusty street and smiled. She had just been rejected by her husband, along with her daughter and a rogue slave who had dared to save the baby’s life.

  Claudia smiled too. It was a warm, sunny day and they carried only a few belongings, essentially a bag of clothes. Her host’s wife had given them some coins. No one except Martinus Caius could match that decision, but although half of the island knew by now what a lousy bastard he was, he was her husband, enjoying rights.