The Emperor Read online

  The priest nodded again, more to himself, for a moment pretending to consider the Bishop’s offer, even though Ambrosius knew perfectly well that no further consideration was needed. Then the Arian sighed, less out of self-pity, but rather with a certain fatalism in his voice. “So be it, Bishop of Milan. Anyway, judgment day is not far away, so it doesn’t make much difference at what time I step in front of the Lord. I’m confident that he will ultimately have little understanding of our dispute. On the other hand, I have always been a very stubborn man. At any rate, I don’t intend to take back anything of what I’ve said or renounce my beliefs, just to save my life or to remain in office and dignity.” He looked inquiringly at Ambrosius. “I’m just wondering if you would do the same in my situation? And I wonder if it could be that the leniency expressed by the Edict of Tolerance would apply to you as well – for I believe that does not cover state murder.”

  Ambrosius waved to the legionaries. They grabbed the Arian and dragged him out of the room without further comment.

  The Bishop rose and went to the window that opened the view to the courtyard. He looked out. Eusebius was dragged out, the face of the Arian, in spite of his bold words, full of fear. He spoke silent prayers, as one could see from the movements of his mouth, and for a moment Ambrosius considered giving him the opportunity to say a proper one.

  On the other hand, he thought, Eusebius was truly no longer anyone whom he wanted to call a Christian, no one to whom special attention or indulgence was required. He had sidelined himself, though a door to salvation had been opened wide for him. He was, after all, to blame for his own fate.

  So reassured, Ambrosius watched as the priest was being held by two men, trembling all over, then being pierced by a sword, fast, clean, professional. The corpse sagged bloodied to the ground.

  Ambrosius turned to Petronius. “The protocol can be closed,” he said softly.

  And: “Let’s call the next one on the list.”

  21

  Twenty men from the Saarbrücken, so Rheinberg had agreed with Modestus. A few had been selected from amongst the prisoners, in order to give the followers of Maximus no cause for mistrust. Most came from those who had now found shelter on the four ships of the small flotilla. Renna was the only Roman who would accompany them, apart from the five servants of Modestus, silent men in wide cloaks, who made a very suspicious impression on von Geeren. The infantry captain would have command, he had selected the soldiers, and he would ultimately be responsible for the well-being of the Praetorian Prefect’s family. He wasn’t comfortable with this responsibility, but he recognized a necessity when it appeared and accepted the task without complaint. Rheinberg himself would remain in the custody of Modestus until the action was over, a small pledge of trust perhaps, but certainly a continuation of the charade for the eyes of Maximus’ followers who should continue to believe, until the very last moment, that the old man did as he was told. Von Geeren had heard that there was a list of all the known allies of the usurper and that Modestus, as soon as he’d hear of his family’s liberation – or death – intended to work through this list with the help of the time-wanderers. This kind of “work” displeased von Geeren even more. It was too political for him, sounding like ambush and stealth, cleansing, the smell of dishonor. He hoped the Prefect’s men would do most of the dirty work. He wanted to involve his people as little as possible in this matter.

  To free an old woman and her adult daughter from the hands of kidnappers was comparably a job much more to his liking. And so it filled him with a certain zeal.

  It was dark, and they had already left Constantinople. The Captain sat in a carriage, a large, closed cart, lit by two oil lamps hanging unsteadily from the ceiling as the vehicle was slowly pulled across the bumpy road. No one traveled at night, at least normally. You had to be very careful, especially at a time like this, where the stars and the moon were covered by clouds, and you could hardly see the hand in front of your eyes.

  Corporal Sassmann didn’t mind that. The lanky man with the mustache sat cross-legged in the middle of the cart, only watched by his superior, who had taken his seat at the head of the car behind the driver’s seat. Although it rattled and swayed heavily, Sassmann had dismantled his rifle on a blanket in front of him and cleaned it with meticulous care. Much, as von Geeren summarized, was very valuable here. There was the life of the corporal, the best shooter in his slowly-shrinking company, a man with an extremely steady hand and a keen eye. There was the rifle for which there were no spare parts, which was one of the reasons for the constant care the soldier exercised. And there was the ammunition, the supply shrunk to a minimum after all the battles. Only once Dahms could start his manufactures again, there was a chance of replenishing it. But until then a lot of time would pass, and so each remaining cartridge had to be cherished as very valuable. Von Geeren hoped that in Sassmann’s possession the bullets would even increase in value, and so the corporal, as one of the few soldiers in the company, had no shortage of ammunition.

  Von Geeren said nothing, he just watched. Sassmann was very focused, his slender fingers busy. There was no better-maintained rifle in his unit, the Captain was sure of that. All his men exercised care, and there was rarely any cause for complaint. But Sassmann was almost obsessed, married to his weapon in a most unorthodox way. Von Geeren sometimes wondered what the man would do if they suddenly ran out of ammunition or if all rifles were damaged irreparably. By then, as he predicted, Dahm’s muskets would be mass-produced, and Sassmann would find a new toy.

  The corporal reassembled the weapon with methodical movements. He didn’t want to set a speed record, instead worked carefully. When the rifle was in working condition, he filled the magazine. He examined each cartridge one at a time, holding it in the dim light of the oil lamps before inserting it. Then, with a satisfied smile, he put down the gun, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  Moments later, the regular lifting and lowering of the chest and the relaxed expression on his face showed that the man had fallen asleep. Von Geeren had no doubt that he would instantly be wide awake the moment his subconscious perceived a potential danger. It was the same with all of them now.

  The Captain closed his eyes as well, but he didn’t find sleep that easy. He listened to the rumble of the cart, wondering how long they had to travel, and startled as the movement came to an end.

  He must have dozed off. He climbed out with a groan. It was fresh outside; and wet, as if it had just rained. It was still very dark. Von Geeren looked at the clock. Sunrise in about an hour. They had to hurry.

  Lucian, one of the men chosen by Modestus approached him. He didn’t say anything, just gestured in a direction. The group had arrived behind a hill, where the horses were tied to each other and rested. Von Geeren followed Lucian up the hill until he pulled him behind a tree, then pointed his arm out into the valley. The Captain blinked, then he made out the glow of some lanterns. A latifundia stretched out in the valley before them, as far he could make out any details. The main building was relatively small, surrounded by a whitewashed wall that shimmered softly at night.

  “That’s it?” he asked unnecessarily, just to make sure.

  Lucian just nodded. The Captain took out his binoculars and looked through. The property was illuminated by several lanterns, which hung at regular intervals on masts or were hinged on walls. Their light was dim, but it was enough to give orientation to the searching gaze through the binoculars. Von Geeren made out some guards who shamelessly shuffled across the courtyard. At the gate, there were also two men, more slumped than upright. Everything gave a rather sleepy impression. A pretty good starting position for an attack. The Captain estimated the distance from the hill to the wall at about 1500 meters. On the way, there were numerous chances to take cover – small walls, bushes, trees. The gate was turned away from the hill; it was not directly in the field of vision of the guards standing outside. The wall itself was man-high but had no battlements or tower on which more observers could stand
. If they behaved cautiously and quietly, they would be able to approach the property completely unnoticed.

  “The fireworks!” von Geeren whispered.

  He heard someone come up the hill and crouch beside him.

  Sergeant Kretschmann was one of the two fireworkers of the company, an irreplaceable expert with a penchant for explosions and extensive destruction. He silently took the binoculars and studied the bleached wall for a good minute before returning the glass. “A handful of hand grenades are enough,” he whispered. “I connect the detonators, then big, big hole. We have to make sure we don’t get hit by pieces of rock, but that’s all. No problem.”

  Von Geeren nodded. If Kretschmann thought it wasn’t a problem, he trusted the man. He was in charge.

  Another glance at the watch. The sunrise was approaching. All were still sleeping down there. It was time.

  “Give the signal!” he whispered. Kretschmann nodded and hurried down the hill again. The Captain followed him, then gave a short briefing on the terrain, indicating the agreed course of action. There were no questions. The time-wanderers wore gray uniforms, which made them almost invisible under these light conditions, and the men of Modestus, armed with long daggers, handling them with professional serenity, had wrapped themselves in dark cloaks – not for the first time in such a situation, like von Geeren suspected without saying it out loud. They were very silent men, and it was to be hoped that they would continue to submit to the Captain’s orders.

  A few minutes later, in a long, loose column, using every cover, they approached the estate, well out of sight of the gatekeepers. Von Geeren had first considered sending forward only a small group with the fireworker, but then decided against it. If something went wrong, they would be easily overwhelmed, and he couldn’t risk it.

  Von Geeren eyed the wall with great attention, but there was no one to be seen. Soon, the attackers had reached the building, pressed in a line to the white surface, and Kretschmann had his moment. With the serene nonchalance of a man constantly living in danger of losing limbs due to unforeseen explosions, he placed the bundle of hand grenades in one spot. The men retreated, ducking behind trees and shrubs, or just laying down as flat as possible on the ground. Kretschmann unrolled a fuse and walked off to von Geeren’s side. He crouched in a kind of shallow trench, feeling his boots filling with liquid. He ignored the wet, saw Kretschmann sitting down next to him, the fuse with the trigger in his hand, and how he looked at the Captain.

  Von Geeren nodded.

  Seconds later, there was a deafening bang as the tethered shells exploded together. Great shouting could be heard from the inside, full of fear and confusion. Von Geeren had already jumped up and was swinging his pistol toward the man-sized, two-meter-wide hole that had been broken up by the detonation. An armed man staggered out of a building, still sleeping, his sword half-raised. Von Geeren pointed the barrel of his weapon and squeezed the trigger. The shot hit the soldier in the middle of his chest, he collapsed and fell silently to the ground so that von Geeren could climb over him. The screaming grew louder. Behind von Geeren, the men poured into the courtyard. Sassmann squatted next to the hole, raised his rifle. As the other men moved to the right and ran toward the main house, the barrel of his gun pointed to the left.

  From the gate, three of the kidnappers ran toward the hole in the wall with their blades drawn. Sassmann aimed, his face impassively, pulled the trigger, reloaded, pulled the trigger, reloaded, fired a third and last time, lowered his weapon, his eyes fixed on the courtyard, the small gatehouse, the outbuildings. His eyes ignored the three motionless bodies for whose death he was responsible, and the fact that they were indeed dead, and not just injured, was beyond dispute for the corporal.

  He squatted, his rifle lowered. Whoever dared to venture outside was already a dead man. A second time-wanderer joined the position beside him as his personal bodyguard. The others, meanwhile, had reached the main building, the door of which was wide open. Two more of the guards had run out and shared the fate of their fellow men. Blood mingled with the white gravel of the yard, and a not-so-clean shot caused loud cries of pain. Not everyone was as good of a shot as Sassmann.

  If the injured survived the skirmish, they would be cared for, just like everyone else, these were von Geeren’s orders. No mercy shots, no executions. They were soldiers, no criminals.

  The main building was of quite considerable size and consisted of two floors. Von Geeren himself stormed the stairs with some men while a second group tried to secure the ground floor rooms as fast as possible. The surprise effect began to fade. Shots were fired when guards confronted the invaders with their unfamiliar weapons. Then a sharp scream, definitely from the mouth of a woman.

  Von Geeren stumbled into a room and saw two men grabbing the hostages, an old lady, well over 60, and a relatively young woman, maybe 25, both with deep edges under eyes wide open in fear. There were blades at their throats and the captors held them in an iron grip. Despair and determination was visible in the eyes of the two men, a combination that was potentially deadly for everyone involved.

  Von Geeren raised his hands. The two sailors from the Saarbrücken who were with him lowered the rifles. The Captain slipped his pistol into the holster with slow motions and showed the two excited guards his empty palms. “We can talk,” he said slowly, clearly. “I am Tribune von Geeren, by orders of Magister Militium Rheinberg. I have the authority to negotiate and conclude agreements.”

  The blades at the women’s necks trembled. The two men exchanged a quick glance. One, a bearded, muscular middle-aged man, took the floor.

  “The women will die if you attack.”

  Von Geeren nodded. “Yes. I’d like to prevent that.”

  Shots, screams of pain sounded from below, then Sassmann came up the stairs, stood in the doorway, surveyed the situation, lowered his weapon, and in Greek said, “All secured, Captain!” He gave the guards a long look, then turned and went.

  “You heard my man,” von Geeren said. “We either have your men under control, or they’re dead. Some may be injured, but we cannot take care of them until this is resolved.”

  That was a lie, but Geeren wanted to appeal to the bearded man’s sense of honor. He did not get very far, because he grimaced.

  “This is about me and my friend, Tribune!” he explained. “I’m going to die if I kill the women, I know that, but I’ll drag them both with me into the abyss. So what do you offer us?”

  Von Geeren was hopeful. The man was apparently ready for business.

  “I offer you safe conduct. You can both leave the property unarmed and go your own way. You won’t be pursued and not bothered in any way.”

  “What are our guarantees?”

  The Captain shook his head. “My word as an officer. But what else can I offer you as a guarantee?”

  “We’ll keep the women and release them only when we’re far enough away.”

  Von Geeren had feared this answer. “Instead, I offer you to take me as a hostage, plus 100 gold denars for you, which I carry with me. Maximus won’t be pleased if the women are released. The gold will allow you to start somewhere new and out of the Emperor’s attention. Such a chance doesn’t come every day.”

  The bearded man’s friend seemed to be biting, for he gave the spokesman an almost imploring look. His friend considered and weighed the possibilities. The way out that opened for him was all that remained to him as an alternative to death, even at the risk of von Geeren’s lying to him.

  On the other hand, here, too, the good reputation of the time-wanderers worked. They were not known as liars or dishonorable scoundrels. Evil heretics and demon-worshippers, perhaps, but no liars. You had to work with what you had.

  “All right,” the man finally decided. Von Geeren dropped the holster with his pistol to the ground, raised his hands and took a step forward.

  “No action!” he commanded the two soldiers with him. “I’m a hostage now!”

  They nodded hesitantly.
r />   The guards looked at each other again, then the blades disappeared from the women’s throats. Von Geeren took another step forward, now standing directly in front of the daughter of Modestus, who, he remembered, bore the name Lucia. She stared at him with dark eyes. There was exhaustion, fear and gratitude in her eyes. Von Geeren gave her an encouraging smile, then she was pushed away, stumbling toward the other two soldiers, while a fist grabbed him and he found himself whirled around. Moments later, he felt the warm blade on his neck, heated by the woman’s skin, and he closed his eyes in anticipation of an uncontrolled reaction.

  But his captors were not without self-control, though. They single-handedly pushed the Captain out of the room, past the two women, who had sunk into the arms of their strange saviors with considerable relief. For them the agony was finally over.

  Men rushed toward von Geeren. He raised his hands defensively, motioning for them to lower their weapons. Then they stepped outside. If the two guards had had doubts about what had happened to their comrades, it would now be clear to them. The estate was firmly in the hands of the liberators. The dead kidnappers were already gathered in a corner of the yard, and the injured were taken care of. Some of the men had surrendered and sat tied in one corner, not far from the hole blown into the wall.

  “Horses!” the bearded man shouted. Von Geeren repeated the order. Two of the animals that had kept by the kidnappers in a stable were brought.

  “Up with you!” the bearded man ordered. Von Geeren climbed the horse, the blade of the man with gentle pressure on his crotch. He made no moves that the man could misinterpret. Then he felt the kidnapper leaning on the animal behind him and picking up the reins. Moments later, they rode out through the open main gate.

  Von Geeren braced himself. Now a lot could go wrong. The bearded man who sat behind him and continued to press a blade against the German’s body with one hand was a massive, muscular man. He wore metal armor on his chest, like a legionary, and on his back as well. With luck …