The Emporers Men

by Dirk van den Boom

  “Who are you and who’s with you?” snapped the Goth, when he brought his horse to a halt before Alchimio.

  “My name is Alchimio.”

  The Goth looked to the Roman breastplate.

  “Centurion, yes?”

  “Centurion.”

  “How many men do you have with you?”

  “Enough.”

  The Goth laughed, then he shrugged and made an expansive motion to his waiting warriors.

  “Enough for this?”

  “We’ll see. But we’d prefer not to try.”

  The facial expression of the Goths changed. He seemed to be interested. “No, perhaps not. You intend to make an offer, Roman?”

  “What is your name?” Alchimio asked instead.

  “Godegisel, son of Argaith.”

  The centurion had never heard the name before, but who wanted to keep track of the complicated structures of the low Gothic nobility anyway.

  “Godegisel, I have the Emperor of the East here with me.”

  The Goth stayed calm, but the interested glint in his eyes betrayed him. “Valens himself is with you?”

  “He is under my protection,” Alchimio corrected him.

  “Imperial bodyguard, yes?” The nobleman grimaced. To fight bodyguards, also with great superiority would inevitably cause many casualties. It seemed as if Godegisel had no great desire to test his strength and Alchimio drew new hope.

  “If you grant us safe passage to Adrianople, you will not only be richly rewarded, the Emperor will consider this benevolent gesture in future negotiations with your people.”

  “Negotiations? I may be terribly wrong, Roman, but the way I see it, your great Emperor has just lost a battle, and we Goths flood your precious land like an unstoppable tide!”

  Alchimio couldn’t suffer barbarians who had discovered their lyrical vein. “You have bravely fought and won,” he admitted aloud. “I’m the last person who would deny it.”

  “Good.”

  “But the cities are not taken, a large part of our army has escaped, the garrisons are filled, and Gratian, the Lord of the West, is on the way here with his troops. How long, o noble Godegisel, do you think the people of the Goths will have the power to oppose us?”

  If the Gothic noble was impressed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he made a derogatory gesture. “I’m not sure if I want to give your Emperor safe passage,” he said thoughtfully.

  “It would be to your advantage!”

  “Yeah, maybe. I remember a scene when we had just reached the Danube and your Emperor promised us free settlement area. We crossed the river, with nothing in our hands than our swords, without belongings. The promised aid didn’t arrive, no, and the Romans demanded of us to sell our own wives and children into slavery, and they gave us dog meat. Dog meat, centurion. Have you ever eaten dog meat? Meat, captured with great efficiency by your soldiers and supplied to us?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Godegisel nodded. “I thought so.”

  “I don’t deny that major mistakes have been made,” said Alchimio weakly. The centurion knew only too well how the officials at the border had squeezed out the refugees and humiliated them to the bone, rather than to faithfully execute the commands of the Emperor. Here was the root of all evil, and it didn’t make things easier that the Goths had been victims twice: First they had fled from that distant enemy from the east, and then they had been cheated by the Romans.

  “You know, centurion, when the Romans demanded two of my sister as a slaves, so that I would receive enough meat to feed my other siblings for another day, I slowly developed a good picture of Roman civilization.”

  “Not all Romans are like that.”

  “No, no, of course not. You’re not, right?”

  “I’ve never done this kind of things.”

  “As an officer of the imperial bodyguard you surely never come into contact with this kind of profanity.”

  “And you master the Greek language very well. I have the impression that you definitely had the benefit of education. Have you not understood since, that there are always alternatives and the chance to change direction?”

  Godegisel nodded sadly. “Yes, I did, as I was full of hope, when Fritigern and Alaric put the fate of our people in your hands. So full of hope. And I didn’t like the way your people dealt with us, centurion, I really didn’t like it.”

  “Give the Emperor safe passage and past injustice should be remedied,” Alchimio offered.

  “My sisters were 13 and 14, centurion. How many Roman pricks were inserted in them against their will by now? A dozen? Two dozen? Hundreds?”

  Alchimio didn’t know how to answer this question, so he remained silent. For a while, the two men looked at each other in silence.

  Then the Goth sighed. “Oh, you know, Roman, today I’m tired of fighting. My men are also exhausted.”

  “Then let’s stop the fight.”

  Godegisel shook his head regretfully. Then he measured the Romans with a long view and added, “It’s not that simple, centurion, not as simple as that.”

  Alchimio didn’t really see the sword that killed him. Godegisel targeted well and threw the blade from his horse in one fluid motion, like a throwing dagger. The centurion slumped, and as he fell, he saw that at the behest of the nobleman a first swarm of flaming arrows came down on the farm.

  Then his gaze broke.

  17

  “Captain, we’ve got a problem.”

  Rheinberg looked up and into Becker’s face. The fact that he saw him smiling allowed him relax immediately. Life was stressful enough. The spacious atrium of Senator Urianus provided room for around 120 guests who navarch Renna had invited to this celebration. 120 men and women who had been officially invited. After Rheinberg’s good estimate as many as twice actually appeared. He had long forgotten all the names that had been presented to him, and during the last three hours he had been passed around like a piece of loot from an exotic country. Just a few faces he could remember: Symmachus, who had invited him to a four-to-one conversation later, “if the time allows,” as his words had been – and then the liking of Senator Marcus Flavius, whose nephew he had saved from the pirates, and who was obviously very grateful to him. As Rheinberg had heard that the boy was the only son of the senator’s brother, the gratitude of the old man seemed less silly than at the beginning.

  “What’s the problem, Jonas?”

  “The food here is inedible. I’ve spoken with Volkert and Neumann, and … ah, here he comes.”

  The doctor plowed his way slowly, politely, but firmly through the surging crowd of guests who ate and drank either lying or standing with plates and glasses in hand.

  “Johann, what about the food?”

  Neumann snorted.

  “This stuff is spoiled! I have tempted the roasted pork – it is okay, but stayed definitely too long in the sun!”

  Rheinberg himself had not yet found time to taste the offered food and listened to Neumann’s account with raised eyebrows.

  “Spoiled? Seriously? I can’t imagine!”

  “And this paste, which is passed with everything – unbearable. Stinks of rotten fish like the plague, comes well with the rotten meat. So this is how the Romans fed? I’m surprised that they haven’t died in rows of poisoning!”

  Rheinberg grimaced. “I read something about the sauce once. They called it garum.”

  “Disgusting stuff. What is it made of?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But fish is in there, too … ah, Africanus!”

  Rheinberg held the passing trierarch’s arm. The naval officer was willing to move into their circle.

  “Please tell us how this fish sauce is made which is served so lavishly with the food,” Rheinberg said.

  “Oh, yes – I forgot that the cooking has to be foreign to you,” replied Africanus. “Well, it’s quite simple: Garum consists of mackerel and anchovies together with their giblets, salt water and many spices. This is all well mixed and then plac
ed in the sun.”

  “Placed in the sun?”

  “In order to rot away.”

  “To rot?” Rheinberg asked.

  “But yes. Once the sauce is rotten, it has become really thick and has deployed its full flavor. Then it can be served. I remember that my mother always quoted the great Geopon. He has written exactly how garum was supposed to be produced.” Africanus set up a pose, pretending he would recite a poem. “You put salt in a vessel, add the guts of fish, and add to all sorts of small fish stuff like sardines, mullet, picarel and sea butterflies, add more salt and put the whole thing under the sun. Once it is well rotten, we pour everything through a sieve. The mass that remains in the sieve is alec; the liquid that passes through is the liquamen. Or garum.”

  Rheinberg, Becker and Neumann exchanged glances. “And … and the meat, I mean, the roast …”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  Neumann tried a wry smile to somewhat cover up the embarrassment of the question.

  “Well, I thought, maybe it’s just me, but it tasted as if the pig had also been in the sun a little bit longer than usual!”

  Africanus nodded vigorously. “But yes. A good roast, just on the edge of being rotten, only just fresh and edible, but already with the aroma of decay, is a great delicacy. If you got that taste, then the cook has done his job well.” The trierarch looked around and noticed the pained expression on the faces. “I suppose, that this kind of preparation doesn’t meet the habits of your palate.”

  “You can say that,” confirmed Neumann.

  “Well …” Africanus looked around. “How is the wine?”

  At least here the men could say nothing but good things. They had very quickly found out that everyone was drinking wine – always. Pure water wasn’t one of the usual drinks. Although the wine was usually mixed with water – to reduce the alcoholizing effect significantly – it was, even though sometimes barely tolerable and sour, without doubt the national drink. All guests had been righteously impressed, had listened expectantly to Urianus who promised in his opening talk that he would present the best wine from Greece as well as some selected Italian vineyards, and in fact, the offered product was obviously of high quality. Neumann, the only truly passionate wine drinker in the delegation of the Saarbrücken, seemed very satisfied.

  “I wish we had something like beer,” muttered Becker, who in contrast to Neumann regarded wine more as juice.

  Africanus looked at him quizzically, as Becker had spoken in German.

  “Cervisia,” Rheinberg helped out. “My friend here prefers it to wine.”

  Africanus’ face lit up, and then was once again full of doubt. “Beer is the drink of poor people and barbarians. But because my ancestors come from Africa, I know exactly what you like about it. And the Germans, with whom you are so obviously related, appreciate it very much. You will hardly find it on a feast of the finer circles, because it isn’t a common drink here, but if you really want some, I can get it. Or let’s go to a tavern, there should be no problem.”

  Rheinberg waved it away.

  “That’s a nice offer, but we don’t want to act like barbarians. Becker will be able to endure it all.”

  The infantry officer nodded, although he didn’t look very happy. Neumann, however, gathered a refill from one of the servants running around with a decanter. The medical officer had red cheeks and showed more than a little satisfaction that the circumstances might turn every one of them into wine aficionados. Rheinberg gave him a warning look.

  They went back into the crowd. Rheinberg noted that few women were present. He vaguely remembered the family structure in ancient Rome and still knew that the position of the men was even more dominant than in the German Empire of his time. Probably it was owed to a certain liberality of the upper classes that maybe 15 or 20 women were invited to this festivity, many of them obviously the wives of important personalities and a few younger ones who were probably daughters of the house or prominent guests. They all kept mostly to themselves and also only spoke among themselves, not the men around them.

  Nevertheless, Rheinberg found himself quickly back in the center of attention and curious glances were aimed at him, regardless of gender. He had been spending hours being passed from caller to caller, and his rather underdeveloped diplomatic skills had been subjected to a test beyond their limits. Nevertheless, he believed to have left a positive impression throughout, he behaved quietly and had been kind, had striven to respect highly placed dignitaries and dutifully laughed at the jokes he actually understood. If he had a problem, then certainly with the language, although he got used to the sound of ancient Greek and Latin more and more and much long-lost knowledge had been revived in his memory. He spoke with increasing fluency, although he could see in the faces of his listeners that he made many mistakes. But he didn’t understand everything, and wherever the language was still distorted by a dialect or accent, he had to rely on the translation services of Africanus, who had accompanied him faithfully. The other Germans had similar problems, although everyone tried his best. But at the same time the Romans were willing to overlook this seemingly barbaric deficits, and the openly expressed desire by Rheinberg to hire capable teachers from Ravenna was acknowledged with pleasure. Some proposals were submitted and Rheinberg had to look at them carefully.

  All in all, he felt comfortable. Many of the fears and worries he had busied himself with were gone. There were many and great challenges he was very much aware of. But the odds were now much improved.

  He looked up as the young Volkert came up to him. The ensign looked a little embarrassed and perplexed. “What is it, Volkert?”

  “Well … Captain … I don’t know whom I can ask about it.”

  “What is the question?”

  “I really have to pee, and I have no idea where the toilet is.”

  Rheinberg grinned. “Ask one of the slaves over there. He has just showed me the way. But don’t be surprised …”

  The ensign’s eyes followed the outstretched finger of the captain, and he nodded eagerly as he turned away gratefully. Rheinberg looked at the young man. He would soon discover that defecation and socializing in Rome were not opposites.

  18

  The way to the toilet wasn’t far, and although Volkert had understood only half of the directions given to him, he could ultimately identify the locality because he wasn’t the only one walking there.

  When he entered the room, three surprises waited for him. Firstly, in Roman villas there was apparently no privacy on the toilet: In a square room with marble benches a total of probably twenty holes were visible, and above them were already sitting a dozen guests. They talked animatedly. Two men in a ripe old age were bent over a document paper and appeared to discuss a business transaction of some kind. Secondly, Volkert realized that there was no separation between the sexes, at least not here. Directly in front of him were two massive matrons who groaned heavily on the toilet holes and with a strained expression in their faces, fully occupied with their excretions. Volkert decided not to get irritated, and anyway, there was no alternative, as he was already quite desperate.

  The third surprise he found when he looked into the toilet before sitting. He saw a steady stream of water splashing within. Permanent water rinse. Damn, he had to revise many a prejudice about the ancient folks and their devices. The Romans had water rinse. Just as there had been warm running water in the hall before the bathroom. This was necessary because there was no toilet paper – one obviously used the left hand to clean and then washed it thoroughly afterwards. Volkert braced himself. This was a part of the Roman hygiene habits with which he would have problems. Luckily he was here only to conduct a small business, so that this problem wasn’t so immediate. Yet.

  He pulled down his pants. The matrons decided not to look at him, remained very focused and turned inward. A lot of effort there. He sat down. The marble bench was warm, and the smoothly polished stone dispensed a comfortable feeling. As a rich senator, by
Volkert’s assessment, you could make a very comfortable and pleasant life in later antiquity. Would he ever come to such wealth, he would’ve liked to make some changes in his villa. A loo only for himself would be included, among other things.

  Volkert relaxed. Just as it began to splash, he saw the door open and someone entered.

  Every relaxation disappeared from him as he looked up.

  In came …

  No.

  In floated a young woman, certainly not even eighteen. She wore a tunic that covered her whole body, however, as it was well tied to her slender waist, her full breasts clearly loomed below the fine fabric. Her heart-shaped face was dominated by two large, dark eyes. Under a small nose, gently curved and delicate lips parted in a smile.

  A wonderful smile. Volkert couldn’t even look elsewhere. He forgot a little why he was here, where he actually was, and could do nothing more than to look at this face. His heart pounded. That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. What happened had never happened to him before.

  Completely against his will, his eyes wandered from the young woman’s face, as she pulled up her tunic casually, and revealed two slender, light brown legs with perfect calves, which were adorned with fine jewelry.

  God, he wanted to look away, yes! Really! But it just wasn’t possible!

  She turned around and sat next Volkert. As she slid back and forth to be able to sit pleasantly, the soft warmth of her hips touched his for a moment. A powerful surge seemed to blow through the young man, and now he felt exactly the opposite of relaxation.

  Volkert decided not to stand up until further notice.

  He stared with emphasis on the floor decorated with mosaics, in order to pretend that he wasn’t completely baffled by her presence.

  “I’m Julia, daughter of Michellus!” a soft voice said beside him. She spoke to him directly. No doubt about it. And no one seemed to mind that.