The Emperor's Men 3: Passage

by Dirk van den Boom

  Volkert didn’t have any further idea how to deal with him. To shout at the man helped only for the moment. He reacted by sulking for a while, then quickly rejoiced, noticed his terrible hardships and the complainant began anew.

  And he had an infallible sense of when Volkert appeared.

  “Sir, I’m not complaining at all!” Bertius defended himself with a miserable voice. He had wrapped the cloak tightly around him, for it was chilly and became even colder as they advanced further east past Panonnia. Soon their marching column, now more like an army than an expedition, would be divided into ten squadrons of about a hundred men, and sweep like a fan in various directions from northeast to southeast. They would forward riders as scouts and send regular reports by courier to a prepared meeting place. And in each century, some German infantrymen would participate.

  Volkert was afraid of that. So far, he’d managed to keep away from the other Germans. He’d watched them from afar, and had certainly been seen, but his altered appearance and the mere fact that he wouldn’t be expected to be here, especially as a Roman NCO, had so far saved him from any discovery. He’d identified some men with whom he had had a somewhat closer contact on the Saarbrücken, and to whom he shouldn’t come too close. They would, after a certain time, see through his weak masquerade.

  Volkert didn’t yet know to which of the ten groups he belonged to, nor any of the infantrymen. He knew that there were not enough German officers to be assigned to all ten groups, and the officers knew Volkert better than the lower ranks. Volkert had no choice but to hope for his luck.

  “Bertius, you’re unbearable, and if you’re not carrying your load, somebody else will put another extra duty on you, and as badly as I am, I can see the Centurion working up a proper anger. I can’t hear it anymore!”

  Bertius looked at Volkert with a look that contained all the suffering of the Roman Empire, and of course a constant, silent reproach, indicating that it had been Volkert to whom he owed all this, a mistake which the young German had began to regret bitterly.

  He hoped that Bertius wouldn’t be in his unit, and that the Germans riding with him wouldn’t recognize him. But he already knew that not all of his desires would be fulfilled. Bertius belonged to his century, and the probability was very high that the units wouldn’t break up but would serve as the organizational basis for the division.

  Perhaps the Huns were able to end Bertius’ complaints their way.

  In any case, the reprimand had helped, albeit for the moment. The legionary sulked, pressed his lips on each other like an unruly child, and stared at the military road, which the troops were still following. Volkert left it there. To continue the conversation contained the risk of getting Bertius out of his pout and encouraging him to talk again, and he had no real interest in that.

  Volkert had his horse left the formation and trot ahead. When he reached the side of Centurion Levantus, he turned around in his saddle and nodded to Volkert.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m content.”

  “It gets dark soon. We’ll make camp in about an hour, I’ve heard.”

  “Good.”

  Levantus looked searchingly at Volkert.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, everything is fine.”

  “You look thoughtful.”

  “I wonder where my trip will go once the troops will be divided.”

  “Ah. Well, we’ll know soon enough. As I was told, this is to be decided tonight. All the officers and centurions are invited to the General, and I don’t know what else could be the topic.”

  Volkert nodded to Levantus. That made sense.

  “Is it also announced how the time travelers are divided up into units?”

  “Maybe. Interesting people, right?”

  “They’re a bit strange,” Volkert said cautiously.

  “Yes, that’s true. Their weapons fascinate me. If we’d had more of them, the barbarians wouldn’t be a challenge for us. What happened at Thessaloniki could then be repeated, and they would immediately submit to our conditions.”

  “That was the one time. Don’t you think the barbarians are also capable of learning? They will adjust their tactics to these new weapons. No more frontal attacks, more attempts to bypass our lines. New weapons of their own – sure, they will fight with losses, but will they always lose?” Volkert shook his head.

  Levantus looked attentively at the young Decurion. “You’ve been thinking a lot about this,” he said with a certain undertone in his voice.

  Volkert hesitated. He walked on thin ice. If it became clear that he knew more about the possibilities and limits of the German arms than he was allowed to know, he would stir up suspicion. On the other hand, he was now fighting in an army that might react too euphorically to the new possibilities – and euphoria could claim the life of soldiers for whom he was responsible.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Of course, I could be mistaken, but I think we shouldn’t forget some lessons despite all our enthusiasm.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The barbarians don’t come to our borders because they are bloodthirsty savages who want to plunder us but because they have been expelled from their land by the Huns. They are refugees, traveling with their wives and children. They fight with the courage of despair, for they have no home, their life is all they cling to. And we mustn’t make the mistake of regarding them as foolish. Valens, with all due respect, has proven the consequences of arrogance at Adrianople.”

  Levantus looked thoughtful. “I can’t deny that.”

  “The superiority gained by the new weapons is only temporary. We must equip our legions on a large scale with them if they are to have a lasting effect. And how long will the principles of this technology remain hidden from the barbarians once we use them extensively? There are crafty men among them. They can build workshops, take prisoners and interrogate them, inspect loot. How long will it take for us to face the first barbarians with similar but perhaps not entirely equivalent weapons?”

  Levantus nodded approvingly. “There’s something to it.”

  “And now the Huns,” Volkert continued, warming to the topic. “What do we know about them? Flexible attacks on horseback, strong archers with high shot frequency, extremely fast and agile. And the Hun leaders haven’t proven to be idiots either. Yes, during the first attack against new weapons, they also will be surprised, perhaps flee, and their losses will be substantial. But what about the second? If they overcome their fear? A sea of arrows on our rifles, a few courageous attacks – and the matter will already be settled. And I’m sure they’ll adjust fastly, Centurion. We mustn’t be too confident. We must think about what we do, and carefully, otherwise our advantage will turn into a disadvantage because of our arrogance.”

  “You’re right, Decurion,” Levantus said softly. He looked sharply at Volkert.

  The German instantly feared that he’d already said too much. He bit his lip and scolded himself a fool. Not to draw attention after his surprising promotion, that has been his motto. If only he’d kept his mouth shut!

  “I’m impressed,” Levantus finally said. “You have a head on your shoulders and know how to use it for more than just carrying a helmet. You can lead men and keep your counsel.”

  “I’m just a decurion,” Volkert said.

  “Diocletian, the great emperor, began as a simple legionary, and afterwards ruled the Empire.”

  “Not interested,” Volkert grinned back.

  Levantus smiled. “But officer … that’s a way for you, my friend. Anything else would be a waste of talent in the long run. And if the Roman army needs one thing, it is talent. Especially in these times.”

  Volkert remained silent.

  Levantus looked at him searchingly. “If I had said this to another man, he would’ve been ful
l of joy or at least grateful. Do you think I’m lying to you, that I’m making fun of your prospects?”

  “No.”

  “But you look like you do.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “So what?”

  “Nothing. Nothing of importance. Your words honor me. But I’m not a volunteer in this army. I have been pressed into the service.”

  Levantus nodded. “I understand. You’d like to leave, rather than make a career.”

  “Yes. No. It is more difficult. There’s a woman.”

  Levantus raised his eyebrows. “We don’t have to talk about the relative seriousness of the marriage ban, or do we, Decurion?”

  Volkert smiled weakly. “It’s more difficult.”

  “Nothing is difficult if you put your mind to it,” the Centurion replied. “I’m serious. There are officers who have an eye on you. Show them your abilities, and a promotion is almost certain. There is no limit in that direction. Perhaps this isn’t the life that you have imagined, Decurion. But look at it from this perspective: Whatever is going to happen with you and your bride, how will the problem be solved better – with a gloriously returning legate or centurion, or a poor little decurion?”

  Volkert had to laugh against his will. The practical intelligence of Levantus hadn’t failed to impress him.

  The Centurion hit Volkert with force on the shoulder, so that he almost lost his balance. “This pleases me better, Decurion. Head up and eyes open. These are special times with special opportunities. Things are happening that nobody would ever have thought possible. Why shouldn’t you bask in these opportunities as well, my friend?”

  Volkert could’ve told the man that he was correct, and to a far greater extent than he could imagine.

  The conversation died until the evening when the camp was built. It wasn’t long before the officers were called to the commander’s tent. It was therefore Volkert’s job to help to ensure the proper construction of the camp and the necessary discipline. Before the men could wash themselves and prepare dinner, the first duty was to feed the horses. They were stripped off, rubbed dry, and fed. In groups, they were tied to suitable trees or pillars rammed into the ground. Horsewatches were set up. When Volkert and his comrades had convinced themselves that the animals were well taken care of, the soldiers were allowed to take care of themselves. Quickly there were fires everywhere, and the evening meal was prepared from the supplies. Volkert set up guards, for which the comrades would prepare the food. They were still within the confines of the Empire, but that didn’t mean much in these troubled times, as he had had to experience at his own expense.

  As he stretched out his tired bones at a bonfire and received a bowl of porridge and a wooden spoon, it was among the privileges of his rank that the food was prepared for him, even though he had nothing better to eat than anyone else. A few minutes later, Levantus came to him. Volkert nodded, his mouth already full of hot mash.

  “As I said,” the Centurion said, holding a cup of diluted wine in his hands. “The division of the ten squads. We ride under Tribune Marcus Lucius Sedacius in a contingent. Our time travelers will be under a decurion named Lehmann.”

  Volkert scratched his head. The transferability of the German ranks into the Roman nomenclature was extremely difficult. He didn’t know Lehmann and suspected that he was an able NCO. Sedacius had previously been the leader of the entire unit, and had so far proven himself in this position.

  “No German officer?” he asked.

  “No, not for us. The division was adjusted anyway. Sedacius takes 520 of their infantry. He wants to visit the Quadi and find out what they know. They are very familiar with the East. We should visit them in strength.”

  Volkert nodded relieved. The probability that he would remain undetected had just increased significantly. “Which direction?”

  “A northeastern route,” Levantus replied, who had now also received bread. Both slid closer to the warming fire. It had grown dark and became somewhat chilly. It might be spring, but the nights were not yet warm.

  Volkert said nothing. If he wasn’t wrong, they would almost run into the arms of the Huns. Opportunity for probation, of which Levantus had spoken today.

  He pushed a spoon of porridge into his mouth and chewed the tough mass patiently.

  This opportunity would come, he was now sure of it. In the face of their opponents, however, it could also be an opportunity for an early death.

  Volkert closed his eyes and tried to make Julia’s image appear before his mind’s eye. It warmed him for a moment, but then it faded.

  He felt the fear creep up again.

  An old and familiar enemy.

  23

  “Here it is.”

  Godegisel had to trust Valens in this case; what else could he do? The dilapidated walls didn’t make a particularly stable impression, and if the former Emperor hadn’t pointed him to the entrance, he would never have had the idea to enter. He looked around. The small village, not ten miles from Nemetacum, seemed as if its life had been drowned by the nearby city. Around twenty buildings had been placed at a crossroads, the most impressive of which was the hostel that in addition to a large barn offered accommodation for travelers and was at the same time a station of the cursus publicus, which was probably the main reason for the mere existence of this settlement. Here, however, and as Valens had pointed out, there were no walls and no guards to ask unpleasant questions. Godegisel had quickly realized that Valens didn’t want to visit his “old acquaintance,” as he called him, in the city, but rather looked for him here.

  Valens struck a fist against the thick oak door, whose solidity was considerably diminished by the fact that it hung obliquely in its anchors. It was late afternoon, a cool day, and the travelers felt clammy and exhausted. The journey on the ox-cart had by no means been as difficult as a foot-march but had left a few bruises, especially on their hindquarters. Also, the nights that they had spent in the open air or in windy stables hadn’t been very pleasant. The old ex-Emperor, however, had shown a remarkable degree of toughness. And the certainty with which he had steered toward this old house spoke of confidence. Godegisel looked at the roof of the building. At least a night in the dry for both of them would be a welcome change. The young nobleman was ready to show gratitude even for small graces.

  Valens’ hammering showed effect. The door opened squeakily, and a mountain of a man came to the fore. The massive body was as broad as long, and considerable amounts of bodily fat were visible under a patchy tunic. But Godegisel realized that this man had once been very strong, because on his naked arms was evidence of the muscles that were still hidden under the fat. His face was framed by a wild, unkempt beard, while on his head most of the hair had already disappeared. He blinked at the new arrivals. A sharp smell emanated from him. The usual Roman obsession with physical cleanliness didn’t seem to take for this specimen.

  Godegisel forced a smile.

  Valens didn’t hesitate. As soon as the man had appeared in the doorway, the former Emperor took a wide swing and struck the bearded man with great force.

  The majestic fist sank in the tunic with a barely perceptible sound. The bearded man stared down at the hand, which had almost completely disappeared in his masses, and which seemed to give him no discomfort of any kind. Godegisel doubted that he had perceived the blow anyhow.

  The man took hold of Valens’ wrist, and pulled it out of the carnal recess. He looked at the imperial ring with great calm, then dropped it, scrutinized Valens’ face, and shook his head.

  “You have fallen deeply, my Emperor,” he said, with a remarkably gentle, resonant voice. “Coming in rags to an old henchman who once betrayed you.”

  “Your betrayal is forgotten, Belucius. Your Emperor needs your help.”

  “How can I help anyone?” The question, with its plaintive, even miserable tone, was so starkly opposed to the
man’s massive appearance that Godegisel suddenly became very curious about the history of these two so unequal men.

  “For a start, why don’t you invite us inside?”

  Belucius sighed, hesitated for a moment. Then he took a step back and made a welcoming gesture.

  Godegisel followed Valens into the building. The house was made of stone and consisted of only one large room. To the great surprise of the Goth, it was tidy and, in contrast, to the owner of the property, even quite clean. Neatly folded blankets laid on a bed. A large, solidly built table dominated the center of the room. In a fire place, flames flickered under a kettle with water. Two walls were adorned with ancient, faded rugs that had once been very valuable. The pictures on it were no longer visible. In one corner were five large amphorae, four of them empty, as they lied on their side. The sour smell of bad wine filled the air. At the back wall was a second door that probably led to a stable. It was barely visible and could almost be mistaken for a wall.

  “Sit down, gentlemen, be my guests,” the landlord said, almost submissive, pointing to two uninviting looking chairs. He himself sat down unceremoniously on the only recliner, which groaned under the weight of his body. Apparently he had no intention of offering anything to the men.

  Once Godegisel had sat and stretched his legs, his gaze fell on the opposite wall. There was a complete legionary’s equipment, with a short sword, a shield, a metal breastplate, and a very detailed face mask, which probably depicted the face of the young Belucius, hanging neatly on the stone wall, fastened with iron hooks. Godegisel realized with an experienced glance that the owner of this equipment took it from the wall at regular intervals, cleaned and polished it, then hung it back. Although the equipment was surely very old, it could undoubtedly be used again any time. Godegisel was sure that the sword was sharpened and ready for battle.

  “My friend Belucius,” Valens told the bearded man. “This is Godegisel, a Goth. A fellow sufferer of my fate.”