The Emperor Read online

  “As soon as we’ve secured Constantinople, yes. However, the capital of the East must declare itself openly and convincingly for Theodosius. The symbolism of such an action is enormously important,” Rheinberg insisted.

  “Then it’s decided,” the Prefect said, as nodding.

  “I’ll get a list of those who are suspected of being loyalists to Maximus?” Rheinberg asked grimly. He was not comfortable with this “list.” Rome had had its experience with such, in which the names of enemies of the state were written on walls, and those written more or less declared outlawed. Often these were not at all “enemies of the state” but only opponents of those who thought themselves to be in power. It was this continual inner disruption that had repeatedly weakened Rome at crucial moments in history. At the moment, the Empire couldn’t afford such a thing. But Maximus seemed to have disagreed and so he had to deal with it.

  “I’ve already put down the names,” Modestus said, looking at Rheinberg. “You are not so happy, Magister. Do you suppose that I take the opportunity to settle a few old bills, regardless of whether the person really is for Maximus or not?”

  Rheinberg pressed his lips on each other for a moment before hesitantly nodding. “Forgive me, Prefect. We don’t know each other well enough to make such a suspicion right from the outset a clear absurdity.”

  “Forgive you for what? You’re absolutely right!” the old man replied with disarming candor. “There are plenty on this list who advocated for Maximus, not least because they have old bills unsettled with me – ignored in promotion, given ungrateful duties, not sufficiently praised, over-blamed – everything. That certainly caused anger, and that drove some of them into the arms of the usurper. And now they’re paying for it.”

  Modestus took a deep breath. “Magister, your new laws have some qualities. I enjoy the reforms that you have initiated, the new vision of an Empire that is more civilized in many ways than the one we are currently living in. But you are also naive, too good-natured in many ways, soft and restrained. You have to get out of this if you want to stay in the position you have, Rheinberg.”

  If I want to, Rheinberg added quietly in his thoughts but said nothing.

  “These men were not forced to oppose Theodosius,” Modestus continued, his voice calm and cool. “Well, they may not like me. I am Praetorian Prefect and have long been in public service, having held many high offices. A damn many people cannot stand me! I lost track of them for a long time! But you can make a difference between personal aversion and loyalty to the Empire. I don’t like some, but if he turns out to be a faithful servant of the Emperor, why should I have my grudge turned into irrational action? No, dear sir: Each of these men had the choice – to be against me, but in favor of the stability and the law of the Empire, and they made their choice.” He looked at Rheinberg inquiringly, then nodded. “You are not convinced, Magister.”

  “I may actually be too good for this world,” Rheinberg replied with a slightly sarcastic tone.

  “If we act skillfully, none of these men has to die. If they allow themselves to be arrested without complaint, no one should be executed. If anyone vouches for one of them with good repute, I will have mercy,” Modestus said.

  “And if he is one of those who are secretly in for Maximus?” von Geeren asked.

  Modestus smiled sadly. “Then I was unlucky.” He focused his gaze again on Rheinberg. “But my ally’s conscience might be easier.”

  Perhaps, Rheinberg thought, and he listened to von Geeren and the Prefect discuss the details of the planned arrests. The soldiers of the small flotilla would play an important role in this because their loyalty was not in doubt.

  Or perhaps not, he thought.

  26

  “Then take it away.”

  Von Klasewitz watched as the man’s broken body was seized and dragged across the dusty ground. A bloody trail dragged behind him, the metallic scent of his spilled vitality hanging in the air. The man uttered a mournful whimpering sound as the two legionaries grabbed him by the dislocated arms and mercilessly pulled at them. His suffering would be over soon, von Klasewitz was sure of that. Somewhere back there, in the prison camp, a sword would end his life.

  When the tortured disappeared from his horizon, the nobleman had already forgotten him. He turned to Tribune Lucius Sempronus, the commander of the remains of what the inhabitants of Ravenna had once called “the German village.”

  “So we can assume that there really is not a secret storage or a hidden workshop that has escaped our attention,” he summarized the survey’s results. Actually, they had already known that, after all, the ruins had been thoroughly searched at the behest of Maximus. And the man who had just been tortured, who had once worked in the workshops, was the third person who had confirmed this information. But von Klasewitz wanted to be sure, because any undisturbed facility would’ve help him to fulfill Maximus’ orders faster.

  Although he was not on his own, not everyone was a help. Tennberg, whom they had found some time ago, may have been restored to health, but the imprisonment had left entirely different marks on him. Von Klasewitz looked with disgust on how the young man gave himself up to the drink, was often unresponsive for days, paid attention to the rules of personal hygiene only when requested, and was altogether useless. Any ambition seemed to have vanished from him, and the mere fact that von Klasewitz held his protective hand over him prevented him from being thrown out of his quarters. Tennberg was the only piece of history the mutineer still had, though it was not a very enjoyable one. He felt a strange gentleness for him, coupled with disgust and contempt, and as long as the mildness in his feelings prevailed, the former ensign would be left alone. As soon as all would be accomplished, the nobleman had decided that it was necessary to deal with Tennberg. Someone had to put him back on the track, he thought. But right now he had other worries, and more urgent ones.

  After all, he had been able to ward off Ambrosius’ suggestion that he might find another place for the facilities to be rebuilt. Maximus was quite subtly being pushed in a suitable direction. Not that the deserter had to make an extra effort. Maximus thought much of the Bishop, but he didn’t think he was talented in military matters. And so for the “German village” it had been decided that it would be resurrected from its ruins. In exactly the same place. Ambrosius had not shown his dissatisfaction, which he certainly felt. He was too smart for that.

  But von Klasewitz kept his eyes open.

  He had to put effort in this, the reconstruction, the reorganization, and had to go the tedious way, something that pleased the mutineer not at all. It was by no means so that his staff lacked diligence and the approximately 1,000 soldiers who served him didn’t do their job. Every day they worked hard, tidied up, rebuilt. The progress had been considerable. Most of the ruins had already been removed. The large workshop that Dahms had had under his wing was almost back in business. Also, some of the smaller buildings were undergoing a rapid process of reconstruction, many of the needed housing and utilities already existed and were soon ready to be used. The shipyard, where the steamships had been built, was nearing completion. Here, the fire had not destroyed everything, so you had made faster progress. Of course, all plans and prototypes had been destroyed, but von Klasewitz was more than just an artillery officer: The basic principle of the steam engine was by no means alien to him. He intended to come up with his own design very quickly and then the step to his own steamship would not be far. Most importantly, the area in which he was particularly under pressure was the production of cannons.

  Von Klasewitz had learned from the battle against Gratian. He had a good idea about the weaknesses in the design of his pieces and worked out numerous suggestions for improvement. Day and night he had bent over the plans with the craftsmen from Britain he had brought along, and had corrected them while the necessary manufacturing facilities had been set up outside. There was no time to lose, and that was entirely in the mutineer’s interest. He was very satisfied with the new plans.
The new cannon still didn’t fulfill the ideal he was pursuing. The needed steel production would take a while to come. But the bronze alloy had been refined, the casting process professionalized, the molds met high standards and, importantly, his people from Britain were at his disposal, with experience and the ability to endure the amount of suffering needed to work for the German.

  The latter, of course, was nothing to which von Klasewitz wasted even one thought.

  One thing was clear: The new generation of cannons would have a wider range, be easier and faster to reload and, at least that was his hope, wouldn’t break into pieces after a few salvoes. In addition, the design of the mobile frame, the carriage, was also improved. The new guns would be more mobile, faster to transport and deploy, and thus more flexible to use in battle. And, if the nobleman’s production plans went up, there would be many. Once the factory floor was ready, and provided that the Empire gave him with all the materials he needed, his goal was to produce at least ten guns every week. He also intended to form more artillery companies, as he knew them from his future –independently operating units under their own military leadership. Of course, there was no doubt about whose.

  Supplying the materials was the biggest challenge, but von Klasewitz had clearly told the Emperor that it wouldn’t work without it. And so the Emperor had decreed that von Klasewitz gain access to everything and anyone who could help him organize the needed material. The entire area controlled by Maximus and its resources was at his disposal. It worked quite well, because everyone who didn’t work properly ended easily like the man whose blood trace was still visible on the floor.

  And that was quite motivating.

  Von Klasewitz left the backyard, which they had used for the interrogation, crossed a street and entered the factory building. Here a large number of workers, slaves and soldiers alike, were busy building the casting lines for the gun barrels. They were overseen by craftsmen from Britain, who had already gone through all this. The installations in Britain itself were on ships en route to Ravenna and should arrive these days, weather permitting. At the latest then, the nobleman would start immediately with the production.

  Sempronus joined the time-wanderer and looked contentedly around.

  “We are making good progress. Everyone is very busy.”

  “That’s what I’ve guessed,” von Klasewitz said, growling. He pointed to a section of the workshop that was separated from the rest by a thick wall. There, the production of simple hand grenades should be resumed. They had proved to be very effective in the battle against Gratian, although not always reliable. Von Klasewitz wanted a decent fireworker at his side, then he would make much greater progress. But those who had traveled back in time with the Saarbrücken had proved themselves faithful followers of Rheinberg.

  Rheinberg.

  Von Klasewitz pushed the thought of this man aside by force. He didn’t want to spoil his already not too good mood.

  “You are dissatisfied?” Sempronus asked.

  “I’d like to move much faster,” von Klasewitz replied, staring at the large engineering drawings he had attached to one wall of the hall. Toward them he pointed with his right hand. “The steam engine. The double-barrelled musket with magazine. Explosives. There is still so much to do, but resources are not enough to begin with most of it.”

  “I’ve heard that’s the reason for the failure of the previous owners of this settlement,” Sempronus said. He had attended almost all interrogations, giving him a fair overview of what had happened here and what kind of progress had been achieved. “To want too much at once is not efficient.”

  “I won’t make that mistake,” von Klasewitz said grimly. “I’m focused on the cannons. If there are still opportunities, we’ll make more hand grenades. But first, just cannons, as many as possible, as fast as possible, and as good as possible.”

  Sempronus nodded, satisfied. “That’s what I wanted to hear, because those are the orders of Maximus.”

  “I know the orders of the Emperor,” the nobleman said sourly. “It’s not necessary to remind me.”

  “It’s my job to remind you. The Emperor has clear ideas. I’m assigned to enforce them.”

  The nobleman’s expression darkened suddenly. Sempronus, in turn, seemed to be dawning that he had said a bit too much at the wrong time. He clapped von Klasewitz jovially on the shoulder and boomed, “The Empire is relying on you! Together we will overcome any resistance! Keep it up!”

  Then he turned away hastily, just to avoid any additional thoughtless remarks. Von Klasewitz watched him bitterly. Of course, it was no surprise that Maximus placed a watchdog at his side. But that he expressed his mistrust so openly and showed so clearly who was running on whose leash, he hadn’t expected. Von Klasewitz felt the bile rise in his throat. Yes, he was still the traitor, even if the betrayal had been in Maximus’ best interests. But once a traitor, always one. One just didn’t trust someone like that.

  Von Klasewitz allowed himself a fine smile. Ambrosius would go to Ravenna again next week. There would certainly be an opportunity to talk privately to the Bishop.

  The traitor considered how put him and the Emperor against each other.

  27

  “There are only thirty or forty horsemen,” Secundus muttered, lowering the binoculars. Since the advance party of Theodosius’ army had been equipped with one of the valuable instruments, the movements of the enemy could be made out much better without being in immediate danger of discovery. “That isn’t much.”

  “They want to find out how far we are going. They are all mounted, as you say. If we let ourselves be seen, they’ll go up and go, or even lure us into an ambush.” Volkert took the instrument from his comrade and put it in his leather bag. “But we now know where they are and how many and can think of something in order to get all of them. If they disappear and never report back to their troop, it will cause confusion, and that would be enough for me.”

  Secundus nodded and rolled to one side. The branches in the undergrowth cracked under his weight. The edge of the woods, where they had taken cover, was swarming with their fellow soldiers, who were currently doing nothing but waiting for their superiors to plan.

  Volkert pulled out the map. It was incomplete, painstakingly created on the basis of spy expeditions and the existing Roman maps. The biggest problem was still the lack of scale. Volkert was sure that the correct measurement of the entire Empire would be one of the countless projects that Rheinberg would tackle once Maximus had been defeated. Until then, however, they scribbled down their own records and had to settle with them.

  Volkert was a decent cartographer. He didn’t show it too often, so that he didn’t stand out, but Secundus had long since silently acknowledged the skill and written it on the long list of extraordinary talents which he now associated with this rising star.

  “We can handle them,” Volkert said after a brief study of the map. “If we stay out of the clumps of trees and span a wide arc, we may need a little longer, but we’ll cut off their escape route – that is, we’re coming from the direction they least expect them: that of their own legions.”

  “Risky,” Secundus muttered. “If there are more advance units in the area, or if the main army has moved here, we might get caught in the middle and be crushed.”

  “No crushing. We are all mounted. As soon as we realize that we’ve bitten off too much, we make a run. We are flexible, have predefined meeting points. We divide into small groups and melt like water on a stone in all directions. Then we gather again and come up with something new.”

  Secundus nodded. “You are in command. If you say we do it this way, let it happen.”

  Volkert wondered. Secundus, though cunning in person, had an almost religious belief in his ability to make the right military decisions. He didn’t feel well with that. It was almost inevitable that one day he would be wrong.

  One day, but hopefully not today.

  Volkert traced the way he wanted to lead the men on the map. He exp
ected an objection from Secundus, but none came. Only a nod. Volkert sighed.

  “Then we’ll be on our way. The faster we are, the better”, the German said.

  It took a few minutes for the orders to reach the last of the legionaries, but then they led the horses out of the forest and took the prescribed route. Volkert rode ahead and away from the troops, constantly armed with binoculars to save the men from surprises. Although they didn’t ride fast and avoided unnecessary noise, the unit wasn’t suited for a stealth attack because of its size. They had to keep some distance between themselves and their victims, long enough to make the attack possible.

  Volkert wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming battle. But if the balance of power remained as he judged it, it would be a short and hard struggle. However, it was inevitable that he would lead from the front, stupid as it might be from a tactical point of view. He was only a centurion, not a general. From him exemplary behavior was expected, and for a Roman soldier this meant being at the front of the battle lines splitting the enemy’s skull.

  These were the moments in which Volkert fundamentally considered whether he had chosen the wrong profession when he had decided – in the future – to become a soldier. In the meantime, he even doubted that the war that was coming in his time would have become as glorious and easy as they all thought. He had seen too many bloody intestines of dying men to associate this sight with fame, honor and bravery.

  They moved, slowly, with great caution, and their Centurion in front, stopping again and again to probe the situation with binoculars. The weather was clear, the sky without a cloud, the visibility was fine – not only for them, but also for their opponents, who didn’t have binoculars but certainly men with sharp and trained eyes.

  The maneuver worked. Soon they were in the planned position and ready for a quick attack. Volkert and Secundus had finally opted for a pincer movement, because their troops were numerically superior to the enemy, and they could afford the luxury of attacking from two sides. It was now also necessary to act rather quickly, for the loyalists of Maximus seemed in turn ready to leave.