The Emperor's Men 3: Passage

by Dirk van den Boom

  The tribune nodded. “We protect ourselves as well as you.”

  Erminius looked at him for a moment. Then he caught sight of Lehmann, the commander of the German infantry, who had also joined them. Volkert found himself hiding behind the broad shoulders of Levantus, although he couldn’t remember ever talking to Lehmann. He would certainly not even recognize him when he was standing in front of him.

  And yet …

  “You have a time wanderer with you,” the King observed.

  Volkert concealed his surprise. Although this time neither knew the telegraph nor a modern postal system, had no trains and no cars, some news clearly spread.

  The Tribune couldn’t hide that he was impressed that Erminius seemed to be so well informed. “You’ve heard of the events.”

  “We’ve heard stories about what’s going to happen.”

  Whoever was responsible for secrecy in the Empire had obviously failed in important points – if the version of the future, which the Saarbrücken crew knew, had already spread so widely, then … Volkert felt a thought hitting him like a lightning bolt. Huns, apostates, but nevertheless Huns, had fought before Adrianople and had fallen before Thessaloniki.

  If the main host of these people knew as well, was aware about what could happen in the not too distant future …

  Volkert got headaches at the thought of the possible consequences.

  Sedacius remained calm. For him, the matter was clear – if the Quadians knew that within a few decades their territory would be under the Huns’ supremacy and the independence of their kings would be swept away, then that was ultimately an advantage for him. He waved and a legionary brought cups and wine. “Shall we not sit in my tent, King?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Erminius stepped forward then stopped for a moment. “Tribune.”

  “Noble King?”

  “In what direction do you wish to go once you have crossed my territory?”

  “To the northeast.”

  Erminius shook his head. “The Huns are in the East.”

  “We can’t count on that.”

  “You don’t understand, Tribune. The Huns are only a good 200 Roman miles away. They have already sent an ambassador.”

  Sedacius stared at the man. “An …”

  “I brought him with me.”

  The king made a commanding movement toward his retinue. Someone handed him a large cloth bag, saturated with blood. Erminius threw it to the ground, it opened and the severed head of a Hun rolled out. He had a wide-eyed stare, but his features didn’t show any fear.

  Just anger.

  Great rage.

  Erminius looked at the Tribune.

  “They are near, Romans. Closer than you thought?”

  “Much closer.” Sedacius was very pale.

  “Now we’re drinking wine,” Erminius said, taking a big step over the head.

  The Tribune followed.

  Volkert couldn’t help but stare at the face of the dead, the angry expression of a man who knew that he was going to die, but with a vow of revenge written in his deadly features.

  All this developed definitely too fast, he decided. That mustn’t be. That couldn’t be true. And in the eyes of Centurion Levantus, he saw the same astonishment and disbelief.

  They turned away in silence.

  26

  They came in the night.

  They knew their way.

  Thus, they had two essential advantages on Rheinberg and Dahms, who had finally gone to bed after a long evening. Hours they had talked about plans and scrawled drawings of how they were to produce the iron from the primitive iron smelters and coal mines in this area, which was to become the Saarland. With a steam engine, they could achieve a lot, such as a professional underground construction, but also on the surface. Energy was the magic word and the prerequisite for a comprehensive production process. The potential was considerable because there were enough local workers who had shown themselves open to the ideas of the visitors. It would be necessary to plan more precisely and establish a permanent representation, but these weren’t insurmountable difficulties. On the contrary; Dahms had pointed out that three crew members of the Saarbrücken had already worked as miners before their enlistment. They had begun to think about the logistics of such a company, the necessary workforce, the transport routes, but also the transfer of necessary technology. Dahms’s progress in the construction of a puddle furnace for steel production might not be impressive yet, but it was less due to his lack of skill, but rather to the fact that he had too many things to do at the same time.

  Then they were tired, and yet satisfied with the day’s work, and went to bed. A small wing of the Summer Palace had been set up for them, torches and lamps burned, the servants hustled until late. The rest of the large facility was covered in complete darkness.

  There was nothing here, and no adversary was to be expected. A sleepy, quiet corner of the Empire. Sure, the appearance of the strange Magister Militium had caused some excitement. But that was it.

  No reason to worry.

  What a fatal error.

  It was a good dozen, dressed in black cloth, light-footed on wrapped sandals. They knew the palace – its official as well as its unofficial approaches. The guard posts at the main gate didn’t notice anything, nor did the two soldiers on patrol through the empty halls of the estate. A slave, who watched the high guests’ lodgings, to be ready should one of the honorable gentlemen need something, raised his head briefly, frowned.

  Wasn’t there a sound?

  The last question of his life. A thin rope slung around his neck, was tightened forcefully. The slave’s hands went up, but any energy left him quickly. A powerless rattle, barely audible, escaped his tormented throat, then he lost consciousness, died, strangled by an experienced hand. The carelessness with which the assassin dropped the dead body to the ground, without giving a last look to the swollen face, already showed clearly that there was someone at work for whom killing represented a nothing more than a trade.

  And one that he mastered well.

  They stopped in front of the large entrance doors leading to the bedrooms. Listened for a moment, gave themselves signs. No one had noticed the death of the lonely slave. No sound to hear, no commotion, no steps, nothing. Everything went according to plan.

  They had been prepared for everything, like for suddenly appearing guards, even the possibility that someone would beat an alarm prematurely. What they hadn’t expected was the chronic insomnia of two men who knew they were going to change world history – and couldn’t take that lightly.

  Rheinberg had thrown himself left and right on the bed. He heard his friend moving in the next room, maybe feeling thirsty, pouring himself water from a carafe. Problems and questions whirled in his head.

  Rheinberg sat up with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes. All would’ve been easier if there would still be coffee available. He thought of the expedition to Aksum and wished Köhler and his comrades all the best. As a high official of the Empire, he was not lacking in quality of life, but there were certain things that were simply irreplaceable. Gratefully, the Captain remembered the fact that he wasn’t smoking.

  No coffee and no tobacco.

  Many on the Saarbrücken had to endure a lot. And to try, like many Romans, to smoke dried cow shit instead, hadn’t been too popular.

  What did Dahms do there?

  He seemed not to feel well, maybe something from dinner. He gasped as if he was fighting with his stomach. Rheinberg paused, rubbing his own. No, he was tolerating Roman food quite well, and he had only eaten lightly tonight in order not to get too tired too quickly.

  An animal maybe?

  Rheinberg decided to look for his friend. He swung himself out of the bed, automatically took his trousers, and put them equally fast on. Just as automatically, without thinking abou
t it, he pushed the pistol into the belt holster. Movements that he unconsciously performed every time he got up and dressed. It was part of him …

  The door. Somebody was at the door.

  Rheinberg was awake now. He scurried to the wall, which separated him from Dahms’ room and knocked a short staccato with his knuckles. Morse code. DANGER. He didn’t know whether he was exaggerating or whether his nervous mind was playing a trick on him – or whether a slave was about to see if the pisspot needed to be replaced. In any case, it was good …

  Somebody opened the door. Now Rheinberg’s heart beat hard. A servant would never enter without knocking. This was absolutely unthinkable. And the sounds – hadn’t they come from the area outside the door, by no means from the direction of the connecting door to Dahms’s quarters?

  Rheinberg slid behind the massive bench that dominated the room together with the bed. A strong jolt would suffice to overthrow it, a good defense against everything that would be directed at him from a distance. Rheinberg almost felt the approaching danger physically.

  The connecting door opened, Dahms’s head looked through, along with the barrel of his weapon. He saw Rheinberg behind the desk, nodded, and then saw the other door open.

  A shadow slid in. He could hardly be seen in the pale twilight of the two small oil lamps, which illuminated the room only inadequately. And then, with a slight squeal, the door to Dahms’a room opened from the hallway as well. The engineer’s face disappeared from the doorway. Everyone obviously had to deal with his own visitor first.

  Rheinberg’s weapon aimed, the safety released. A second shadow came in, but both seemed uncertain.

  They had certainly expected the occupants of the room somewhere else.

  And they were unclear as to what the metal thing in his hand meant.

  “Who are you?” Rheinberg barked loudly. “What do you want, and who sent you?”

  Three questions.

  The answer consisted of a jump.

  As if shot by a cannon, the first shadow rushed forward. Rheinberg had the fraction of a second to admire the acrobatic act and the underlying strength, then he lifted the barrel and pulled the trigger. The pistol barked, a sound that finally tore the stillness of the night. The attacker, still in the air, was hit, whipped to the side, lost his balance. He fell flat on the ground. Something slipped over the polished marble. A kind of garrote, as Rheinberg immediately noticed. Assassins, shot through his head.

  He hadn’t hit the attacker mortally. But blood flowed to the ground, discolored the white marble red. A gasp came out of his throat, but he straightened himself, a blade flashing weakly in the light of the lamps.

  A shot, a falling body, this time from next door. Dahms had acted.

  Rheinberg couldn’t care for it. These men were not easy to impress. Despite the clear language his weapon had just spoken, the second attacker jumped forward. A third pushed through the door. Rheinberg began to worry. His 08 loaded eight 8 mm cartridges – and now only seven were left. Rheinberg had two spare magazines, but these were foolishly left with his other items in the big chest at the other end of the room, near the door. Seven targeted hits were not to be expected, and when several attackers came at the same time …

  He had to be fast, to hope for the demoralizing power of his weapon, and to make sure that the shots quickly attracted the soldiers of their retinue.

  A second shot broke from Dahms’s room, almost at the same time as Rheinberg himself fired again. This time the bullet sat, hit directly into the chest of the mute, hurled him back. He fell to the ground, motionless, not even shrugging. Rheinberg had immediately killed him.

  The first assassin had stood up, the blade of a short sword glittered in his hand. Rheinberg’s weapon turned to the new old threat, as two more black dresses jumped through the door. Rheinberg moved his hand back to the right, the two men were already on the go.

  From outside, shrieks, frantic steps, the clanging of swords. The bodyguard had awakened, at last.

  Again the 08 barked. A body fell. The second was on Rheinberg. He didn’t have time to shoot again when a practiced hand struck the gun away, and then Rheinberg stumbled back, struggling for balance. The shadow in front of him stood broad-legged, then a blade flashed in his hand, and he took a short, powerful stroke. Rheinberg sensed the direction of the sword more than he saw it, instinctively twitching, feeling the hot cold pain as the iron penetrated through his skin and descended deeply into his side.

  Rheinberg screamed. His opponent gave a triumphant grunt, pulled the blade from the deep wound. Blood splashed on the black robe, leaving shining spots. Rheinberg looked down at himself. The sword had not hit him in the stomach, so he could survive this if he got help in time. He staggered back, felt his strength linger, pressed both hands on the wound to stop the flow of blood. Pain and weakness threatened to overcome him.

  Again the blade ready, the assassin continued. Then a barking sound, the attacker was whirled around, fell, the blade slipped out of his hand and dropped toward Rheinberg. He let himself fall, grabbed the sword, got it right, drew it to himself, gasped, when his sight grew black. He saw legionaries of his bodyguard stream into the room, heard screams, pangs of pain, dying men, saw Dahms standing with his raised weapon in the connecting door. Another shot, another one. With mechanical precision, the engineer sought out his goals, shot, didn’t pay any attention to the victims, sought the next, shot, shot again. The determination of the assassins faded, one tried to escape, ran right into the sword of a soldier.

  Rheinberg closed his eyes.

  Just a little rest, a little moment.

  Then in front of him a sound. He tore open his eyelids, saw the assassin, his hood removed, sweating. He had lost his weapon, half a dozen blades were aimed at him.

  “Do not … kill …” Rheinberg said. Dahms had heard him, gave the order, but when the man noticed that the soldiers were restrained, he cried aloud and threw himself into one of the opposing blades, clutching it with both profusely bleeding hands and driving it with force into his own chest.

  The helpless soldier let go.

  The assassin fell to the ground with a gurgling sound.

  Then an almost unnatural silence fell over the room.

  That was the last.

  Rheinberg saw Dahms crouching next to him, the first-aid kit he had taken with him from the Saarbrücken beside him, slowly loosening the cramped hand from the wound.

  “Clean cut, Jan,” he muttered. “Clean cut. We’ll get you back on your feet.”

  Rheinberg tried to smile.

  Then everything went dark.

  27

  “It is time.”

  Valens rose and nodded to Godegisel. The idle wait had an end. Belucius opened a shutter and peered into the darkness. The sounds of arriving riders had awakened them from their lethargy.

  “Men,” the former legionary observed. “Maybe five or six, not more.”

  “Good, no unnecessary commotion,” Valens said. “Godegisel, the back door. Go.”

  The young Goth left the room. He carefully closed the door behind him, but remained close, observing through a gap as agreed. Valens waited a moment, then instructed Belucius to open the front door and let the visitors in.

  The bullish man nodded and moved surprisingly light-footed to the door, pulled the latch aside, and opened it a little. Someone stood outside, and spoke, quietly, hastily, but not urgently. Valens saw Belucius nod, then open the door further, and five men in wide dark coats came slowly inside.

  Valens’ face lit up recognition. He smiled and walked toward one of the new arrivals.

  “Malobaudes,” he exclaimed, handing an arm to one of the arrivals, an older man of squat stature. This one replied the smile.

  “Valens! My Emperor! Who would have thought! We were all firmly convinced that you were killed at Adrianople!”

 
; “I thought so for a while,” Valens replied, and laughed. “Let’s sit down. How is my nephew?”

  Malobaudes followed the invitation. The remaining four men, now visibly relaxed, stood attentively and said nothing. It was, in Valens’ assessment, the general’s bodyguard. It was only natural that they didn’t lose their attention. Belucius had assumed a similar attitude. He was now, indeed, something like the bodyguard of Valens, as in the old days.

  “Gratian is doing well,” Malobaudes answered the question, stretching his legs. “He grows in his office, more than we ever thought possible.”

  “Great challenges sometimes wake unimagined abilities,” Valens agreed, pouring wine for his guest. “I’ve been very stupid, and I didn’t want to understand Gratian’s good intentions. There should never have been such a catastrophe as before Adrianople.”

  Malobaudes winked his hand. He took the offered chalice, raised it toward Valens, and took a sip before he spoke again.

  “That’s the past, Emperor!”

  “Don’t call me so, my friend,” said Valens. “I may now be the Emperor’s uncle, but I won’t demand the office back from him.”

  “He’ll give it back to you!”

  “I wouldn’t expect that. In the present situation, it may seem advisable not to divide the Empire. I’ve heard that strange things happened.”

  Malobaudes nodded and took another sip of wine.

  “Yes that’s true. The arrival of the time wanderers has changed a lot.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “How come you are still alive, Emperor?”

  Valens accepted the title without further fuss and began to tell his story in concise terms. He didn’t mention either Godegisel or his role in his liberation. He described it in a way that he had received help but left the details behind. Belucius had vowed not to mention the existence of the Goth. Thus, the role of the young man was to be hidden, and thus any suspicion of a possible deceit by his people should be avoided.