The Emperor

by Boom, Dirk van den

  The messenger from Italy had brought a long report from Theodosius, which was essentially about the plan to transfer his troops to Africa, there to rebuild the army with the loyal governors and to seek the decision at a later date. Theodosius had at least heard rumors about the problems in Constantinople and had made the right decision – because the promised relief by the Eastern army was not to be expected anymore. Only the remnants of Gratian’s army, now commanded by Theodosius, remained at his disposal, and it took some time to form them into a powerful force.

  Rheinberg had therefore announced to Modestus his intention to depart with the flotilla to Africa in order to reunite with the Emperor.

  “We must exercise all necessary care,” he told the Prefect. “We’ll run out and remain close to the coast for a few more days to see if anyone has been infected with the plague. We do not want to carry the disease to Africa. If everyone is healthy, we’ll continue on our way. Together with the steamers we should need not more than three weeks from here. We’ll probably be there before Theodosius has completely transferred his army.”

  Modestus nodded. “I will hold the position for Theodosius as best I can. When the plague moves west, Maximus will think twice about marching east. Otherwise, my main focus will be on controlling the disease. That’s the bigger and more deadly enemy now.”

  Rheinberg felt a little guilty about leaving the old man in the lurch. But after he learned that there was no cure for the plague, he also knew that he wouldn’t achieve anything, no matter how long he stayed in Constantinople. He wanted to turn to the problem he was trying to solve, and that was the military situation in the West.

  That his well-tuned strategic plans had vanished and that he had rushed from one corner of the Empire to the other, without making any great progress, continually in the defensive, always on the run, gnawed at him. He wanted to take the initiative again, that was important, if only not to be regarded by his loyalist as someone who was eternally driven by circumstances.

  He discussed some details with the Prefect before he said goodbye and returned to the palace. Rheinberg stood for a few moments at the railing of the Saarbrücken and watched the reconstruction work on the destruction that had caused their last visit. They were almost finished. The wounds soon wouldn’t be visible anymore. Rheinberg hoped that he wouldn’t have to cut new ones anytime. It tired him to have to fight against people with whom he should actually struggle on the same side against very different challenges – ignorance, superstition, inner strife, backwardness, oppression. And the Huns lurked out there waiting for their chance. They were closer than expected, that had been one of the pieces of bad news received before leaving Ravenna. But why were they still hesitant?

  And why were they closer than assumed?

  Rheinberg sank into pondering when a call from the quay wall tore him out of his thoughts. He looked up. Two guards, a German and a Roman, manned the gangway, controlling the access to the ship. The crewmate waved to Rheinberg. He looked closely. Two people stood there with the soldiers, obviously women.

  Curious, he walked down the reep. Already halfway, he paused in surprise for a moment. He knew one of the two young women. It was Julia, the daughter of Michellus, the Senator, who was currently in the Imperial Palace for meetings, planning to take the flotilla to Africa as soon as the time came. When he had last heard of Julia, that had been indirect: Michellus had married her. To whom, he couldn’t quite remember.

  Julia, the flame of Thomas Volkert, the deserter. Rheinberg sighed, then went on. This story touched his heart a little bit. And when he saw that Julia had a baby in her arms, which slept peacefully despite the excitement, he suspected the worst.

  He stood in front of the women and bowed. “Julia, daughter of Michellus, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Trierarch Rhein… no, Magister Militium Rheinberg,” Julia replied, quickly correcting herself. “We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”

  “I’m glad you’re fine,” Rheinberg said politely. “You surely want to talk to your father. He’s staying in the palace, but he’ll soon return to the Gratian, where he’s lodged.” He gestured to the nearby steamship.

  Julia’s eyes followed his finger only for a moment, then they returned to Rheinberg.

  “Thank you, my Lord. I will gladly visit him.”

  “You’re here with your husband?”

  “My husband abandoned me and my daughter.”

  Julia revealed this fact to him in an unemotional voice, as if the events had been part of a completely natural process that one should always have to reckon with. Rheinberg, however, felt alarmed. An old, forgotten problem arose from the past and knocked on his door, almost literally.

  “But I want to have a few words with you, my Lord. If you allow it. It won’t take long.”

  Julia looked straight at him, with the courage of … no, not a desperate, but a very determined woman. Her companion, probably a servant, watched the conversation silently and with wide eyes.

  Rheinberg cleared his throat and made a welcoming gesture. “Be my guest!” he said, giving her the lead. The two soldiers exchanged meaningful looks, but grimaced immediately when Rheinberg looked at them icily. They were immediately busy with something else.

  Rheinberg showed Julia the way to the captain’s cabin. Along the way they met Langenhagen, who recognized the senator’s daughter immediately and raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Aurelia, who knew Julia only from hearsay, and her questioning look testified that Rheinberg, after the conversation, would have to explain a bit.

  But one after the other, he reminded himself, and once everyone had entered, closed the door.

  The ladies sat down. Rheinberg was grateful that the little child was still asleep. He was just imagining a situation where the Senator’s daughter felt it necessary to clean the baby on his desk. At least the crew of the Saarbrücken would find that very funny when they heard about it – which would be absolutely unavoidable.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that your husband has violated you as well as his child. Something serious must have happened,” Rheinberg began the conversation somewhat awkwardly.

  “I said he abandoned me and my daughter,” Julia corrected him gently. “There was no talk of his daughter.”

  Rheinberg stared at her, and the feeling of threatening calamity was intensified. “He’s not the father of the child?”

  “No, and I’m very happy about it. My former husband is a drunkard with no decency, honor and dignity. My daughter’s father, on the other hand, has all three qualities.”

  “I understand.”

  Julia allowed herself a gentle smile. “You certainly do, noble lord. But you want to avoid the topic, if I judge correctly. Yes, the father is Thomas Volkert.”

  Rheinberg nodded weakly. “I thought so. Why are you here? Do you know where the deserter is?”

  The last question had an unintentionally harsh sound, perhaps he should have avoided the word “deserter.” Julia frowned but otherwise didn’t show if she was angry about Rheinberg’s choice of words.

  “I last saw him in Noricum, that was a few months ago,” she said frankly. “He was drafted into the Roman forces, pressed by force, to be exact.”

  Rheinberg said nothing. He learned something new, and he didn’t want to interrupt the flow of information.

  “He was most recently a decurion in a unit operating in the East,” she continued without hesitation.

  Decurion, thought Rheinberg. A fast promotion. That suited Volkert. Although he had his problems dealing properly with loyalties, he had always been an excellent and dutiful soldier.

  “I’m assuming that he has now, in spite of all the upheavals, acquired a higher rank,” Julia explained casually.

  Rheinberg smiled at the confidence she placed in Volkert. But she probably wasn’t wrong with her prognosis. “The question is, which side in the current civil war he is on now,” he interjected.

  Julia nodded anxiously. “I don’t know that. Cont
act has broken off. But I don’t think that, despite all the … events, he would ever oppose his own people, and their preference is well-known.”

  Another assessment that Rheinberg could only agree with. No matter what deficits Volkert had, the tendency to take a fool for a lover was certainly not one of them. “So what should I do?” Rheinberg asked.

  Julia looked at him firmly. “It’s not about what you can do now, my Lord. It’s about what you will do once Thomas is presented to you, as a member of the Roman forces, as an NCO or officer, and will ask you temper justice with mercy, so that we may have a decent life together – and my daughter might have a father.”

  The baby chuckled in its sleep for confirmation, a sound that for a moment focused everyone’s attention.

  Rheinberg had already come up with Julia’s question many times without finding a definitive answer – or more how to admit that there was only one logical way. But he was tired of plodding around, tired of shameful acts and his own powerlessness in the face of facts presented to him. He could actually do something now, if only to give hope to someone and reduce a concern.

  He wouldn’t need to diminish his prestige.

  He took a breath and nodded slowly. “Good. It is like this. I may … have reacted a little harshly when I so categorically forbade him to meet you back then. It was a difficult situation; Senator Michellus was one who acted sympathetically toward us – I didn’t mean to upset him.”

  It was left unsaid that it was more about the annoyance of Michellus’ wife Lucia, which would have, in one way or another, transferred to the senator. The result would have been the same.

  “I’m ready to see that and make amends for this mistake, especially since you’re so open about Volkert,” he said. “If one day he should appear before me and if I have the power, I will grant him pardon. I promise this, provided that he has not since been involved in new troubles that make such a decision difficult for me.”

  With Volkert one never knew, he thought. Decurion, after a few weeks. God alone knew what the young man had done in the meantime.

  Julia smiled. It was not a false smile, and it was not radiant, but it relieved Rheinberg’s heart and apparently hers too.

  Rheinberg rose. “I’ll have you brought to the Gratian. If you want, there will be small but adequate accommodation for you. As soon as your father comes back, you can talk to him.”

  Julia also rose, bowing her head respectfully.

  “Thank you, Magister. You won’t regret this decision.”

  With that she turned away, opened the door, and left. Rheinberg hesitated for a moment before following her. Would he really not regret it? He searched inside and found satisfaction in solving an old problem. His conscience wasn’t troubled at all.

  No, probably I won’t, he thought. Probably not.

  39

  Von Klasewitz wasn’t a shipbuilder. But he didn’t have to be one. The numerous plans and records of Engineer Dahms, which they had found in the rubble of the “German village,” relieved him of the tiresome duty of having to make drawings for everything and everyone, especially in an area of expertise where his knowledge found its limits. He looked with great satisfaction at the numerous slaves who, under the supervision of two experienced shipbuilders, were busy assembling the two big transports. A few other factors helped them: Not all workers had fled with Rheinberg to the east or had otherwise disappeared. Many came out of their holes, lured by the tune of a good job with decent pay, shook off old loyalties and accepted new ones. Their experience in building the three steamers, which had departed together with the Saarbrücken, now benefited him. The two ships that lay on keel here were about twice as large as Dahms’ prototypes. Above all, they were to be able to transport the numerous cannons that von Klasewitz had built day and night in his newly established foundry. And one of the two transports would have a steam engine – thanks to the fact that under the transverse support beams of a workshop they had found important prefabricated items of a bronze steam engine, which had escaped the overall destruction. The big ship would be inadequately powered with the small machine, but it would help to cruise against the wind and deliver important goods – like the cannons – quickly and efficiently to Africa. All this was necessary to make the evil surprise for Theodosius’s troops as devastating as possible.

  Von Klasewitz yawned. He didn’t spare himself. He slept as much or as little as his workers. He threw himself into the tasks that confronted him and found no peace until the next steps had been decided, planned or started.

  He finally wanted a decision.

  And he learned to do better. He understood now that he needed a power base, a loyal following, for his own ambitions. He could no longer rely solely on the goodwill of Maximus. So he had begun to treat his people more decently, no longer snooping on them for every little thing that didn’t work out. He began to show respect for the abilities of his subordinates, he praised, he granted special leave, he showed sympathy for injuries. He no longer just sat in his office and planned, but he took part in everything, whether during daytime in the yard or at night in the lamp-lit foundry. He could not quite put off his deep-seated arrogance, not least because much of what was expressed in his changed behavior was sheer hypocrisy. But he found that the men began to behave differently toward him. They made jokes, sometimes even good ones. Now and then he found himself invited to a cup of wine. He had made it a principle to accept about every second of these invitations. He wasn’t allowed to overdo it, but he needed to connect.

  He also plunged into molding the artillery soldiers into a unit that regarded him alone as the rightful superior. He trained with the finished cannons until he fell over, and when exhaustion overwhelmed them all, von Klasewitz was among them. He sat by the fire with the legionaries in the evening and shared the disgusting porridge, which the Roman soldiers didn’t want to do without. He drank the wine, which tasted like vinegar, slept on a hard camp, renounced the tent of an officer, a personal servant, special treatment. He was as dirty as they were, cursed like them, treating his own and their burns, teaching them the basics of artillery, step by step, tirelessly and patiently. He blamed but didn’t shout; he explained without being condescending, at least most of the time. He made progress with each exercise and didn’t pretend that it was just his merit.

  It took a lot of self-control. Sometimes he was almost sick of his own falseness when he wanted to turn a stupid peasant boy into a load gunner who was ultimately worth nothing more than the dirt under his boots. But von Klasewitz knew discipline. And he inspired loyalty, yes, even admiration. He enjoyed fellowship, more than he wanted to admit. And at the communal services, he showed a fervor that fascinated and calmed both priests and believers alike.

  This was accompanied by a constant expansion of the artillery units. It wasn’t long before he was already closing to 2,000 men, including all the auxiliary troops and observers, a complete legion. A unit that he developed into an oiled, effective weapon, one he forged to an instrument that would prove itself in the battle. A unit that emanated power and that blindly trusted and obeyed his orders.

  Von Klasewitz smiled at the thought. Next week, according to the plan, he would stomp a second artillery legion out of the ground. And von Klasewitz would be elevated to the rank of Dux, with a special task, a general like no other in the Roman army would ever be.

  He looked again at the two ships under construction. He had convinced Maximus of the need for them to be subordinated to his legion. He had thus for the first time an unexpected mobility directly under his command.

  Von Klasewitz took a deep breath.

  It was really a beautiful day.

  “Sir?”

  He turned and fixed the man who had joined him at the quay. He wore the insignia of an imperial messenger. Certainly new orders from Maximus. Von Klasewitz sighed. That would involve more lengthy discussions about the feasibility of miracles. “A message from the Emperor?”

  “Yes, my Lord. I am to give you thi
s and I should tell you that the Emperor expects your presence in the palace. As soon as possible.”

  Von Klasewitz frowned as he received the parchment scroll. The exchange of messages was not unusual, but again a meeting in the palace? On the one hand, Maximus usually came here personally to inspect progress, and on the other hand, there had just been a meeting of the General Staff two days ago, in which the German had also taken part.

  This meeting had been particularly difficult. The death of Andragathius had hung like a dark cloud over the conference.

  The messenger bowed. Deeper than usual, with more awe. The German’s frown deepened.

  He unrolled the parchment and read. Read it a second, then a third time. His Latin was not bad, and he had been able to perfect it through daily use in recent months. But he wanted to be sure, very sure. He read it a fourth time, his lips silently forming every word, testing the meaning, tasting the grammar.

  Yes, there was no doubt.

  Magnus Maximus, Emperor of Rome, informed him that he, Freiherr von Klasewitz, had been appointed with immediate effect as Magister Militium, Commander-in-Chief of all military forces, second only to the Emperor.

  Von Klasewitz felt a sudden heat seize him that had nothing to do with the summer temperatures. He smiled, tightly, barely visible, but triumph glinted in his eyes. Maximus had realized that only a time-wanderer was able to win over the time-wanderers. Maximus understood that the new weapons and tactics were the future of Rome’s military machine. Maximus had realized he needed to make that important decision now.