The Emperor

by Boom, Dirk van den

  The old helmsman was also amused. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, while Volkert felt an icy lump in his stomach. He glanced at Porcius, who was clutching the rudder with both arms and watched the pirate galley with narrowed eyes. He was probably very sure of himself.

  Time passed quickly. Then the galleys were approaching. There was no more evasion now, no turning away.

  “Pull oars!” Porcius yelled. Volkert heard a similar order from the pirate ship.

  The legionaries worked with hurry. Those on the foremost benches jumped up immediately and ran backwards.

  A violent jolt went through the ship as the ram spur hit the enemy vehicle. Wood splintered, cries of pain could be heard. Volkert held on to the rail so as not to fall to the deck. Other legionaries were not so wise, skidded across the deck.

  Porcius laughed. Volkert stared at the pirate ship. The gubernator had been playing poker like a knight on a tournament, shifting his lance slightly at the last moment, hoping a little that his opponent would do the same and then …

  The spur broke into the entablature close to the bow, as did the pirate ship’s. Within seconds, the ships drilled into each other, until they were so entangled that even the inevitable counter-movement of the momentum could no longer move them apart.

  The difference was, as Volkert was allowed to discover, that not all pirates had left the bow section. He saw injured, and two men had even gone overboard.

  “Annaeus!” Porcius called, waving to his captain. The transport galley had stopped its backward movement, now rowing lazily back in the opposite direction, pushing itself closer to the scene.

  Volkert nodded. “Stay behind, men! On the quarterdeck!”

  The legionaries stormed backwards. They would not try to climb the enemy ship to seek close combat. Should the pirates come – or not. Their ships were either lost or in very poor shape. Volkert had no interest in unnecessarily risking his soldiers.

  “Annaeus! Archers!” he shouted out loud. But the Trierarch had already thought along, because even before Volkert could complete his command, it was apparent how the men with the short bows stood up and placed themselves in firing position. The slightly elevated position and a total of more than 50 archers would ensure that the pirate’s desire for further conquest quickly passed.

  Shouting ensued. The pirates waved. Volkert turned to Secundus. He didn’t want to misunderstand what was said.

  “Do you hear what I hear?”

  His comrade nodded. “They give up.”

  “We wait until the archers are in position,” Volkert decided. He waved to Annaeus and shouted a few orders. The Trierarch made a doubtful face. As someone who had spent his life in the Mediterranean and for whom a pirate was nothing but a constant threat to his own life and that of his men, he obviously didn’t think much of leniency. Annaeus, Volkert was sure, would’ve ordered his own people back aboard and left the pirates and their crew to their fate.

  More likely, he would have executed them all at once, for which he had every right as an Imperial officer.

  Volkert shook off the thought. He was fed up with slaughtering. He had experienced enough unnecessary deaths and had been responsible for too many. He realized that he was walking on a tightrope there and knew his soft side would never be properly respected by any decent Roman officer. Even Secundus had no sympathy for the self-doubt of his friend.

  Volkert didn’t care. If he could allow it, he would prevent senseless bloodshed. There wouldn’t be too many opportunities for leniency anyway.

  This time it was different.

  The pirates saw their hopeless situation.

  More shouting came over the water. They began some difficult maneuvers, carefully coordinated. The two wedged pirate ships began to draw water slowly and had to be evacuated quickly. Men streamed over the ships, connected by boardwalks, took prisoners to the big grain transport, as well as supplies. Everything was thoroughly searched at Volkert’s behest. Nobody should be left behind, no valuables, no sack of wheat and no amphora. They also had to be able to take care of the prisoners who they’d carry along until they reached Africa. After all, they could also make use of the remaining pirate galley, so it would be tight, but ultimately well to endure.

  The legionaries celebrated their victory, praising Volkert as their glorious commander. He dreaded the stories that would spread after their arrival in Africa. He recalled the veteran’s statement back when they discovered that Andragathius had been killed by Volkert’s sword – he would gain more fame than his shoulders could carry.

  Volkert thought that the burden was already quite depressing.

  The mood among the prisoners was somber and fatalistic. All of them would end their lives as slaves if they were not given special grace. Many had once been slaves, fled, and committed themselves to brigandage. They knew what their life would become. They were hard men, capable of any cruelty, and yet the drooping heads, the despondency in their attitude, were pitifully reminiscent of the impression of just lost freedom.

  “Tribune!”

  Secundus came to Volkert’s side, who stood again on the quarterdeck of the transport ship. “The pirates had slaves. Some of her oarsmen were in chains.”

  Secundus pointed to a ragged group of men, unsure if the turn of their fate meant only serving new masters, or if that was indeed a liberation. The oarsmen were emaciated, fed only the bare necessities, and their bodies were flayed, flogged in the futile effort to increase their efficiency through pain.

  Volkert looked at them and shook his head. The new laws of the Empire were relatively clear, and Volkert was also quite in line with Rheinberg. “Give them enough food and water. See if the pirates have enough clothing for the men in their supplies and distribute them. Wounds, as far as we can care for them, should be treated. Tell them that from now on they are free and don’t have to expect further enslavement. We drop them off in Africa. What about money?”

  Secundus shrugged. “In the trierarch’s cabin we found a box full of coins. No big treasure, but apparently the flotilla’s cash in case of a landfall.”

  “Distribute the money equally to these men so they will not be left destitute.”

  Secundus nodded. He didn’t care much for his companion’s charity, Volkert knew. If it was up to him, they would put the men ashore and that was it. But he had known him for long enough better than that to try to talk Volkert into something. He would faithfully execute these commands.

  Volkert saw some of the transport’s sailors begin to take care of the liberated at the behest of Secundus. When food and fresh clothes were handed to them, they seemed to realize that their situation had actually improved. When Secundus told them they were all free and that they would take care of them, some of the men suddenly burst into tears. They had long suffered in the service of the pirates.

  “Tribune!”

  Volkert looked up again. A legionary greeted him.

  “Lord, we’ve found someone there, in a corner in the storeroom of the pirate’s galley. I think he is very ill. What …”

  “Take me to him,” Volkert ordered.

  As he ducked below the galley in the very dirty, low-ceilinged room to meet the crowd of people lying there, he knew the legionary was right. The man’s haggard body testified to scurvy, the chains on his arms of his status. He had been carelessly left to die by the pirates once he could no longer row. The man’s narrow face was full of wounds. He was conscious but just so.

  “We’ve given him water,” the legionary said in an almost apologetic tone, as if he was responsible for the man’s condition. “We can carry him upstairs.”

  “Bring a stretcher to put him in,” Volkert said. He leaned over the man whose eyelids fluttered as he looked at Volkert. At first there was fear, but when he looked closely at Volkert’s uniform, his face relaxed, and he produced something like a faint smile. He was completely at the end of his powers. Volkert feared that …

  “Thank God – it’s a Roman!” the man whispered. Not in
Latin. Not in Greek.

  In English.

  Then his eyes broke, and he died.

  41

  Clodius lived alone in little hut. It stood on the latifundium of Senator Caracellus, for whom Clodius had worked for twenty years as a foreman. As his back became crooked, his bones began aching, and his voice turned hoarse, Caracellus had given him freedom, a small piece of land on the very edge of the latifundium, a little material and the help of two slaves to make himself a modest house, just a stable and decent hut to build. He got the right to grow food on this land until his death, and if he was too frail, the senator promised him an annual donation, which would be enough to provide him with the essentials. Senator Caracellus was said to be against the Emperor’s plans to abolish slavery. At the same time, he had been a gentleman who hadn’t abused his slaves. And when they got old, they lived their old age as freed men if they wanted to stay close. Clodius had never taken a wife – he had children, but they had been sold long ago, and the old man didn’t know what had become of them. It was one of his dreams that the new laws of the Emperor might lead to them being released and living an independent and God-fearing life.

  God’s fear was very important to Clodius. He wasn’t one to whom the subtleties of the Church were important. Arians, Trinitarians, who else – it didn’t matter. Here in the East, Arian teaching was widespread, and the priest to whom Caracellus had built a small church on his possessions was an Arian. But that was not an issue when service was celebrated, and Clodius didn’t miss a single one. His old bones carried him the five kilometers to the church, with all the power left in them, and Clodius was the first to come and the last to leave. He had the privilege of knowing how to read, and had used his modest income to buy some of the scriptures, bad copies made by scribes whose knowledge of written language was not much better than his own. Some of the scrolls were in Greek, some in Latin, and one or the other was missing. But he treasured what he had, and he read in it every day when he was not working or sitting on a simple wooden bench in front of his hut, relaxing his muscles in the warmth of the sun. He was now well known in the church through his knowledge of the scripture, and again and again the priest invited him to read to the congregration. Clodius saw this as a great honor, therefore he always accepted the offer with humility. One could say that in his retirement he was a respected member of society. As a foreman, he had held a prominent position, as a client of Caracellus, he enjoyed the prestige of a privileged man, and as a Christian who could also read, even had his own copies of important writings, he had earned additional respect. If Clodius was sitting on his bench, looking back on his life, there was only the regret that he knew nothing of his children, of what had happened to them. When this form of melancholy came over him, he began praying for their benefit, and with a great fervor he listed all the good things he asked God for his children: health, happiness, prosperity, peace and, of course, their own children; grandchildren he would never see. But that didn’t stop him from praying for them too, every day, every evening, every morning.

  Clodius was, all in all, quite satisfied with himself.

  For the past three days, he hadn’t had much opportunity to care about his peace of mind. Because he had a guest, and a difficult one.

  A moan emanated from inside the hut, in front of which Clodius sat, legs stretched in the sun. He got up with difficulty and stooped inside. On his bed lay the figure of a young man, littered with the swellings and wounds of the plague, sweating, delirious, or at least not entirely master of his senses.

  Clodius had found him by the side of the road, robbed and feverish. He hadn’t worn more than the clothes on his body. Apparently, bandits had taken the chance to relieve a seriously ill person of everything he would soon no longer need anyway because the plague was hardly survived by anyone.

  Clodius smiled bleakly, as crouching beside the man. He dabbed a linen cloth in cold water and moistened the forehead and neck of the sufferer. Yes, actually the plague did cost many lifes. Clodius was one of the exceptions. He’d gotten the sickness at the age of twelve, the last big wave in the area, and he’d survived it. God’s blessing? Yes, sure. And so he had laboriously dragged the man to his room, cleaned and dressed him, laid him down, and cared for him the past three days, as Jesus had instructed the Christian to be of service. It was not too cumbersome for Clodius, and he knew no fear. He paid back what the Lord had once given him. It helped that the young stranger was as old as his son would be now, and all the care he had never been able to give his children was now flowing into this sick man, as if he was his own flesh and blood.

  He dabbed his feverish forehead. The patient rolled his eyes and groaned. He was awake, but he always recognized his surroundings only for brief moments. Clodius hoped he understood he was being looked after here. Fear, he knew well, didn’t help cure diseases, it only made them worse. Clodius was not a doctor, and he was also convinced that even a medicus wouldn’t be able to do more than him. But if he managed to take care of the puffiness and wounds, and at the same time give the man a sense of security, so that he could concentrate fully on his recovery, that was more than many suffering from the plague received.

  Clodius was not afraid of getting infected again. He had once survived the illness, and he trusted in God that all this was not a coincidence but a reliable fate. And even if it caught him, that was no problem. He was old and for a long time quite ready to come before the Lord. If he did this in the service of a fellow human being, it was a good death, both honorable and blessed. The old man was at peace with himself.

  The patient reared, staring directly at Clodius for a moment. His lips formed mute words whose meaning the old man couldn’t fathom.

  “Quiet, my friend,” Clodius said softly, moistening his face with cool water. “You’re safe here. Nothing happens to you. I take care of you. Get well again and we will share wine and bread and praise the Lord. But do not be scared. It’s peaceful here.”

  Clodius didn’t know, as he had many times before, whether he had been heard or not. But it seemed to him that the man’s body was relaxing for a moment, the inner struggle easing. Clodius looked at the jug of water and decided to scoop fresh water from the rain barrel behind the house in the shadows.

  When he fetched water, he picked up a plate and a wooden spoon and tried to infuse the patient with some of the thin chicken soup that he had kept warm on the hearth. For the past three days, he had given water to the man, but he also had to eat so that his body would find strength to fight the plague. With an angelic patience, he led the spoon over and over again to the trembling lips of his patient, often enough its contents were spilled and he had to cleanse the man. But then, one after the other, he almost gulpily swallowed the warm liquid and seemed to want more. It took a while, but in the end he had spilled a bowl of soup, but had taken another. As if the broth would awaken his spirits, the man looked at Clodius with a clear eyes, and there, a fine, weak smile appeared on his face. Clodius leaned forward, brushing the sweaty hair out of his patient’s forehead with his hand, and nodded to him, trying to return the smile with the utmost warmth and friendship.

  Again the young man formed words, and this time Clodius heard, “Gode…”

  Nothing else.

  The patient closed his eyes again and fell into a gracious sleep.

  Clodius guessed that he had tried to tell him his name. Maybe his name was Gode or his name started with those syllables. Maybe he just called for his mother or his loved one. Or he had called his father, or even had mistaken Clodius for him. For a moment, the old man allowed himself the latter thought. No matter what the young man meant, the word was a gift to him and he would call his previously nameless sick henceforth Gode until he knew better.

  He pushed his hand gently under Gode’s head and lifted it. With his other hand he changed the folded cloth, which served as a pillow. It was sweaty and dirty with spilled chicken soup. Then he looked down at the young man, who was sleeping soundly, without pain on his face.
He nodded to himself.

  Time to wash clothes again. He would need clean towels, no doubt about that.

  He stood groaning, but in spite of the pain in his back and in all his joints, he felt comfortable and calm, with inner peace and confidence.

  He thanked God for this grace. And he would do whatever was in his power to help Gode, as the Lord commanded him, as if the sick man were his own son. His eyes fell on the garlic cloves on the wall, and he remembered his mother’s stories about his own experience with the plague.

  First the laundry, he decided. Then a decent garlic soup.

  Clodius set to work.

  42

  Salius looked up from the watchfire and fixed the big tent in which the commander of the camp resided. It would be some time before he was trustworthy enough to be assigned to the watch for this part of the camp, but things were on the move, though not in the literal sense. The order to stop pursuing Theodosius’ troops and instead prepare everything for departure at a later date had been welcomed by all the legionaries, for it meant a time of leisure.

  The old champions who had accompanied Maximus out of Britain were as happy about this breather as all the new recruits who, as soldiers of the Emperor, were in search of fame and reward. Many of Gratian’s retinue who had changed their loyalty over time were included. Time and again legionaries appeared in full gear who basically did nothing but report back to duty, choosing the army of Maximus. If they had their papers with them, the assignment was easy, while others tried to look for clues in the archives for correct identification. Often a good reputation was enough to get back into the service of the Empire.

  Salius had everything: a proper documentation of his career and a good reputation. The spies of Theodosius in the opposing forces had provided for this in due course. Salius, of course, was no longer the same, and his work for Renna had been too well-known to convincingly portray a sudden change of heart. Salius was now called Vitellus Procopius, was no longer a centurion, but only simple decurion, and just like his three comrades who had reported back with him to the service, his appearance had undergone changes. Those who had previously been bearded now walked around clean-cut, and one of his men had even inflicted himself with a facial scar that looked ugly, but was ultimately a harmless injury. It served only to distract critical questions. The four men had been on the legion’s scrolls as battle-hardened veterans and had adapted accordingly to the new structures.