The Emperor's Men 3: Passage

by Dirk van den Boom

  Valens nodded. “Yes, very clever. Loyal Roman citizens you are now, aren’t you?” He let out a soft, bleating laughter.

  “I’m not too clear about the level of loyalty and its direction,” Godegisel admitted. Valens looked at him with narrowed eyes, pressed his lips on each other. Then he set his cup aside and leaned forward in a somewhat conspiratorial attitude.

  “I thought about it. My loyalty is clear. It applies to Rome. It applies to the rightful emperor. Both I once betrayed – and myself as well. I won’t make this error a second time.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to leave as soon as possible. We are guarded only weakly, more … observed, I should think. It should enable us, especially in this weather, to escape under the cover of darkness, to bribe a fisherman and cross over to Gaul, to travel hastily to the court, and to inform Gratian about the objectives and the extent of the conspiracy.”

  “Us? We?”

  Valens looked down. “I’m old and probably not at the height of my powers,” he said softly. “I need help. Alone, I cannot prevail. What do you think, Goth? Do you want to go home or continue to kill time here – possibly even years, depending on when the conspirators intend to strike?”

  The young man turned his gaze from Valens, staring back into the hazy, Britannic day and remembered his thoughts that he had just entertained. He realized more and more that the former Emperor’s proposal was a way to solve his problems. And had the Judge not handed the prisoner over to his care? Godegisel found himself smiling at the prospect of being allowed to leave this rainy island.

  Valens interpreted the smile correctly. He leaned back and clapped his hands.

  “Bribe a fisherman, right?” Godegisel said, left his place by the window and sat down with Valens. “With what exactly?”

  Valens smiled. “Well, I certainly have no gold on me. And since my friendly hosts cater for all my needs, they haven’t found it necessary to provide me with some cash. But be honest – Your Judge sent you on a journey without money?”

  “It was a long way. And my men also needed something for the way back.” The fact that Godegisel had returned to his Gothic companions in Gaul had, in retrospect, probably been a mistake.

  Valens nodded understandingly. “As a selfless leader, concerned with the welfare of your men, you have given them all the remaining money.”

  “Well …”

  “No?”

  “Not quite.”

  “What is left you?”

  “Ten denarii.”

  “Ah, gold. For two of them, every fisherman will be quite willing to help us to the mainland and for a third to keep his mouth shut, possibly even for a while.”

  Valens gave Godegisel an inquisitive look. The young man scratched his head. Then he grinned.

  “Better than sitting around and being philosophical about it, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Philosophy leads to melancholy,” Valens said firmly.

  Godegisel nodded. “But who tells me that you wouldn’t sink back into mental slumber shortly, becoming unapproachable, and possibly won’t remember our plan?”

  “I do. Even when I appeared absent, I’ve indeed been wide awake. And for our guards, I’d like to maintain this impression of delirium for the meantime. But secretly, let us make our preparations. Here, I start immediately: I have created a detailed plan of the locations and wake cycles of all soldiers, with whom we had to do in recent weeks.”

  Valens pulled out a document. Godegisel stared.

  The ex-Emperor had not lied. He had been attentive and alert, more than even Godegisel would’ve expected. And he had planned his endeavor long beforehand.

  Godegisel bent over the paper.

  At least he was hooked now.

  And he vowed never again to underestimate a Roman emperor …

  18

  Rheinberg had a palace.

  No other word occurred to him to describe it properly. This evening, at dusk, he returned to the refuge that had been assigned to him as commander-in-chief of the Empire’s armed forced in Treveri. A large estate consisted of a main house and several outbuildings, insufficiently described by the naked word “urban villa,” at least in Rheinberg’s opinion. For him it was a palace.

  It wasn’t that he had been accustomed to bad accommodations in his past life. His father had brought him up in modest prosperity, and his family built a nice little house where Rheinberg, before he was sent to the military academy, had even occupied a separate room. Later, as part of his military career, and after passing the exam, he had enjoyed the privileges of an officer’s accommodation, always something better and more spacious than for comrades of lesser ranks. Never luxurious and large, but always sufficient, especially for Rheinberg, who had been trained in self-discipline and modesty from early childhood.

  But this was a palace.

  The house’s superintendent, the factotum, was called Felix and was an old, venerable man who organized the budget and had to ensure that his master didn’t lack in anything. Rheinberg felt uncomfortable in his presence. This wasn’t because of Felix himself, who was courtesy and politeness in person and of gentle demeanor, always attentive, friendly, officiously. It had nothing to do with the fact that Felix was an elderly gentleman, distinguished, with a neat, white beard, a venerable appearance, instinctively evoking respect – a respect that was also shown to him by the other, very many servants. Every time Rheinberg wasn’t at home, Felix was in absolute command.

  No, his apprehension was mainly attributable to the fact that Felix was a slave. Slave since birth. Owned by the state, to be precise. Rheinberg had asked him about his life and in a polite, quiet voice Felix had obliged. Born in slavery, he had come to enjoy a good education because his parents, owned by the state like him, had been scribes and tutors. He had learned mathematics and geometry and philosophy and spent some time working as a private tutor for several high government officials, especially in the training of their children. He had worked in the imperial administration, until he was assigned to the staff of the Magister Militium. As he was close to sixty years, he was granted with a more relaxed task, and all in all, according to Rheinberg’s impression, the old man hadn’t had a bad life so far.

  But he was a slave.

  Rheinberg had big problems with this fact. In the settlement of the time travelers close to Ravenna, slaves were no longer allowed. Those capable men and women who had been noticed while the dry dock was excavated, had been acquired and released immediately into freedom. The crew, especially those who were close to socialist ideas, couldn’t tolerate slavery right under their noses, and Rheinberg had agreed happily to address their grievances. It was slavery that hindered, in his view, the technical and economic progress of Rome. To abolish it completely was one of the long-term goals of his reform program.

  The biggest irritation was not even Felix, the old factotum who radiated a great degree of tranquility, confidence and thoughtfulness. Rheinberg treated him with respect, and never appeared to any of the staff rude or overbearing, and almost everyone was recruited from slaves. Felix seemed to appreciate his new master, his friendly manner, and his tendency to punish violations against the rules of the house with mildness. Since Rheinberg had occupied his residence, no one had been flogged or tied or otherwise tortured. The atmosphere was easy and pleasant, just what Rheinberg coveted after a long day in the snake pit of Roman politics.

  The biggest irritation was Aurelia.

  She was a gift.

  No, not a gift from the gods, but a gift in a literal, pragmatic sense. Prefect Renna, who owed him his promotion to his exalted position, didn’t miss to show some gratitude. He had acquired a perfect slave for his friend Rheinberg from one of the most respected slave traders of the Empire – beautiful, young, educated and naturally very obedient and well-behaved. Aurelia was born as a slave and in her ance
stry pretty all of Rome had been represented. Her father was a slave native of Dacia and her mother a slave from Persia. The father she had never met – he had been sold even before she had been born –, but her mother had told her about her own ancestors who stemmed from even more adventurous corners of the world. Growing up in the home of a Roman officer, her intelligence and beauty had been recognized and nurtured early. When her owner was in financial difficulties, he had to sell his most prized possession to make money in order to satisfy the debt collector. Aurelia had been one of the most valuable assets and was sold accordingly, at the very moment when Renna had begun to look for “something suitable” for Rheinberg.

  Aurelia’s facial features showed the Persian origins of her mother – a narrow bone structure, almond-shaped brown eyes. The slender figure was well proportioned and with her twenty-two years she was indeed a good five years younger than Rheinberg, but had spent her whole live mainly with what made her so valuable, alongside with her physical features – she had studied hard.

  She spoke and wrote Latin and Greek and a Persian dialect fluently, the latter coming from her mother. She excelled in numeracy and had received lessons in housekeeping and financial management. She had impressive organizational skills, which even old Felix seemed to recognize with some envy. She was commissioned with the administration of large funds right from start and had a hand for economics. In regard to the purchases for the house, she proceeded with an almost military strategy and seemed to use the available budget of her master in a way he wouldn’t have been able to manage himself. Anyway, he had barely looked after finances since his arrival in this period. It seemed that this was now, with the entrance of Aurelia, not longer necessary anyway.

  That in itself wasn’t irritating. It was a relief. But Rheinberg didn’t like to have a personal slave. Felix and the other servants of the house were owned by the state, but she belonged to him alone. Renna knew well why he had done that. Did he want to test Rheinberg’s convictions? Aurelia as his possession wasn’t able to resist him in anything. For all his moral and ethical beliefs, Rheinberg was still a young man. He had thanked Renna for the gift, but made clear at the same time that he intended to give the woman freedom as soon as a favorable opportunity arose so that the Prefect wouldn’t be insulted. Renna had nodded understandingly and left it to him. She was indeed in his ownership, he could do to her what he thought fit.

  Then the irritation began.

  First Aurelia was a beauty. Secondly, she was obedient and docile. And the third was that Rheinberg caught himself beginning to postpone the decision to give her freedom again and again.

  And when he thought about it, he found to his greatest irritation that the reason for this attitude was as obvious as it could only be – He didn’t want to release Aurelia, because she might take that as an opportunity to leave the house.

  To leave him.

  Rheinberg thought about this problem that night as he entered his property. Every evening the same ritual: A slave took off his heavy coat, brought a tray of chilled wine, instructed him to the fact that dinner could be provided, and asked if he had any special requests. He took note of all this with the same mental absence as always, and knew that only Aurelia’s presence would awaken him. This would inevitably arise once he had sat down to supper. He wasn’t lying down. The Roman habit of lying in order to eat he hadn’t been able to acquire. If invited, it couldn’t be avoided, but this was his house, and his slaves didn’t care.

  He could have called her every night to greet him. His aversion to enforce his will was hardly surprising. What else would have made it clearer that he was the lord and she his possession? So he preserved the appearance of her independence so that he didn’t need to constantly think about why he didn’t go to the magistrate to immediately prepare the documents for her release, disbursing a generous payment to her, or, even better, offering her a reasonable position that suited her skills. And so he lied to himself. He knew it, yet he acted as helpless as all …

  … men in love.

  Rheinberg lifted the cup from the tray, which was handed to him by a silent servant, and took a sip. Another slave handed him a bowl of warm water and a towel. He cleaned his hands and face. The water was pleasantly perfumed. The towel still in his hands, he strolled relaxed through the atrium to the dining room, which was dimly illuminated by oil lamps. Rheinberg remembered that Dahms worked at Ravenna on the production of electricity and the construction of arc lamps, one of many projects of the enterprising engineer. He reminded himself to inquire into the progress of this project. The oil lamps stank, and their light was weak. At least, they repelled annoying insects in the summer. Sometimes, however, they also expelled the master of the house, and that was not quite the intention.

  He cleared his throat, as he sat in front of the table. In the beginning, Felix, who was always attending to his matters in the background, waited if his master had a desire to enjoy table music. Rheinberg, however, who had talked all day and listened to too many voices, being beset by a multitude of people, and having to indulge in useless conflicts, never developed a special musical interest and preferred silence. The table music had been abolished as quickly as it had appeared. It was now pleasantly quiet.

  Then, out of nowhere, the graceful figure of Aurelia appeared. She bowed slightly – all slaves of the house had noticed quickly that signs of excessive servility weren’t enjoyed by their new master – and began, like every night, to cut the meat on the tray to place it on Rheinberg’s plate.

  And like every night, Rheinberg said, “Let it be, please. Sit down and eat with me. Be my company.”

  “As my lord commands.”

  “And cease calling me lord.”

  Aurelia smiled. She developed lovely dimples when she did that. Rheinberg never knew anything more to add, and once she sat beside him and waited for him to begin his meal, he just sighed.

  “You feel sorrow, my lord?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “May I massage you? Your neck is always very tense.”

  Needless to say that her competent hands, unerringly tracking the knotted muscles, were also among Aurelia’s qualities. Rheinberg had once allowed her to massage him and then never again. The emotions that had been triggered and his inner conflict between his desire and the realization that he could have her at any time had meant that he had imposed complete retention on himself. He wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror again if he’d succumbed even only slightly to this temptation. He wouldn’t be better than … than those who were not better. Those who found to slavery to be totally acceptable. Who perceived slaves as not equal to them. Those who viewed them as only pieces of furniture, fixtures and fittings.

  “Thank you, no,” he consequently said, like every night, polite and determined, and again Aurelia lowered her head. It was, he thought, the complete lack of argument that worried him. No one in this house argued with him. All were only too eager to serve. And the fact that he didn’t know if he was really a sympathetic human being for them or whether they all just smiled and were friendly because they feared punishment or because they had resigned to their fate as slaves, was certainly one of the basic reasons for his continuous irritation. This was especially true for the slave who sat next to him, and he looked searchingly at her, hoping to discern what she was really thinking about him – without false pretenses, without their relationship as owner and slave in the background.

  Rheinberg knew he could only find out once he released her, and as soon as possible. And the fear that she would take this opportunity at once to depart from Trier and go her own ways, as befitted a free Roman, was exactly what kept him from taking this step. This realization, in turn, the admission of his own moral weakness, spoiled his appetite this evening, as it did all those evenings before.

  For weeks now, he ate very poorly once he came home.

  Aurelia seemed not to understand that. Or she
pretended that she didn’t understand it. Jan Rheinberg couldn’t believe that she wasn’t paying attention to how he behaved – or acted. He pushed the plate of cold chicken away and wiped his mouth with the cloth. He had hardly taken a bite.

  “Fruit, my lord?”

  Aurelia handed him a bowl. The fruits were a real treasure in the winter, brought directly from North Africa to the imperial residence. It was an incredible luxury, and it was a sin not to take any, but Rheinberg declined.

  “Just help yourself,” he encouraged Aurelia, who did so, smiling gratefully.

  “What’s new around here?” Rheinberg asked in order not to endure too much uncomfortable silence.

  Felix, who had wisely kept himself in the background, stepped forward, as he felt himself addressed. “Everything is fine, sir,” he said with dignity. Rheinberg looked at the narrow face with its neat sideburns. As a slave of the state, Felix would only be granted freedom if Rheinberg’s great reform goal, the abolition of slavery, was achieved. He understood well that until then things could take a while, since it was necessary to overcome all manners of opposition. And he also knew that it was inevitable to eliminate this major obstacle to all progress in the Empire. At least then Aurelia would obtain freedom, by law, without any further procedure. Indeed, the German considered dryly, a nice little excuse that helped him not to take the really long overdue decision right now.

  For a moment, Jan Rheinberg stared into his goblet. What had become of him? Magister Militium was his title. But in reality he became a politician, no soldier anymore, no matter how his office was called. Had the pestilence of this existence, the intrigues at court, already taken possession of him? Was he now full of corruption, his character already infected by all those who were willing to sacrifice their principles for any slight advantage?