The Emperor Read online

  A few soft commands, a lot of nods and confirmations, Volkert then saw himself with his sword drawn on his horse, the quiet step transformed into a furious gallop, the hammering of the hooves on the ground in harmony with that of his heart, as the adrenaline shot through his veins. All doubt, all brooding had been wiped away for this moment when his animal quickly moved him toward the group of opposing riders who now became aware of the oncoming wave of their nemesis.

  He heard screams and warning calls. He saw how weapons were at the ready. He also saw that it was more than the estimated 40 men, rather 60 or 70, apparently led by a bearded veteran, who quietly, as in slow motion, put on his helmet, closed under the chin and then raised his blade. The calm of this man seemed to be transferred to his troop, for though they were looking forward to certain destruction in the form of a superior force, Volkert didn’t perceive panic, no wild, pointless escape, only bitter determination.

  What a waste, he thought, as his sword sank down for the first time, targeting directly between the breastplate and the rim of a man’s helmet, cutting his throat so that the bright red blood spurted out and the legionary fell with a low moan, not even capable of weak defense. What a waste of courage, discipline, determination, knowledge and experience, Volkert thought, as he rode down the second man, who hadn’t made it onto his horse, and whose body was crushed beneath the pounding front hooves, so loud, so right in front of him that he heard the crackling and crunching of the shattered bones exceedingly loud.

  God, Volkert thought, when he saw all his men approaching and doing the grim work of the reaper, what am I doing here?

  No time, no pause. His sword arm rose as an enemy blade struck him and he deflected the blow. For a moment there was only him and his helmeted, anonymous opponent, the swords met each other, both of them groaned hard, tore the horses around, lashed out, beat each other. Volkert was hit, but the breastplate stopped the blow, and then he made the move himself. The enemy dodged, but not far enough, Volkert’s blade went deep into his arm, severed tendons and stuck in the bone. There was a nauseating noise, accompanied by the fierce scream of pain from his enemy when Volkert pulled the sword away tightly. Blood splashed in his face. He tasted the metallic smell in the air. His opponent let go of him, weakened, unwilling to continue the fight.

  Volkert looked around.

  The group of Maximus’ loyalists had shrunk to a small number, but the men didn’t give up. They had jumped from their horses, looking for cover to make it hard for mounted men to attack them. Volkert leapt from his beast, his soldiers following him, Secundus leading the way, and he trudged on to the remaining dozen of the fighters, dogged, grim, and determined to put an end to this, so that this carnage would finally cease, one way or another.

  He looked into the faces of the adversaries, into the bloodied face of the bearded veteran, who was still upright, and saw that there was only one way, and he felt sick.

  Waste, indeed.

  And yet, it needed to be done.

  Volkert remembered every detail, every trick, every blow, the desperate determination in the eyes of the enemies. He remembered standing in front of the leader himself, already clearly weakened as he gave him a moment’s rest, the chance to throw away the blade and ask for mercy, which Volkert would have granted him at any time. But it didn’t happen, and so the man lay at his feet, his eyes wide and unseeing.

  Volkert stared down and felt nothing. His movements to put the sword away were mechanical. Three others of the opposing legionaries had finally surrendered and were immediately spared, their wounds were already bandaged and they were given wine to drink. Then Volkert felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked around. He saw the face of Seminus, one of his own veterans, whose gray-black beard barely differed from that of the dead man before him. Seminus looked pleased, surprised, and looked at Volkert with great awe.

  In view of this all too easy victory, that was very inappropriate, as the German found.

  “That will bring you promotion to tribune!” Seminus said loudly, loud enough for everyone to hear. Secundus came up.

  “Thomasius had this well planned, but this skirmish isn’t worth another promotion right away,” Secundus said instead of Volkert, who just shook his head. Seminus usually didn’t tend to crawl into the ass of a superior. The heat of the fight must have gone to his head.

  “Ah!” Seminus said, and sudden understanding was visible on his face. “You two don’t even know who that is, right?” And he pointed to the bearded dead at Volkert’s feet.

  “Who is it?” Secundus asked curiously.

  Seminus grinned widely. “I know this man well, I have served under him several times during my 22 years of service,” he said slowly. He clearly enjoyed the situation and obviously wanted to savor it to the brim.

  Volkert, who had a scary foreboding, had no interest in this game. As harsh as necessary, he snapped, “Who, Seminus?”

  The veteran made a solemn gesture. “You, Centurion Thomasius, have slain Andragathius, the Magister Militium of Maximus!”

  Suddenly, an almost unnatural silence descended on the scene. Volkert found himself staring. He couldn’t think of anything better than to look at the corpse, as if by doing so he could confirm the seminal message or bring the dead back to life.

  “Why did not you …” he began clumsily, but Seminus raised his hands defensively.

  “I don’t have binoculars, and for once, I fought a bit later today.”

  Volkert nodded. Seminus had belonged this time to the rearguard. It wasn’t his fault.

  Secundus patted Volkert on the shoulder. “I’m afraid our friend here is right, dear Thomasius,” he said softly. “That brings you the tribune, and more glory than you’re ready to shoulder.”

  Volkert said nothing; he still couldn’t think of any suitable words.

  What a crappy day, he thought finally, before he turned away.

  And what a terrific waste.

  28

  Godegisel rubbed his cheek. Something in the bread had not been properly grounded, and when he bit into it, a strong pain twitched through one of his molars. The pain just ebbed slowly. The young Goth was not too self-pitying, had already suffered one or the other injury through fights or the circumstances of a hard life, but toothache belonged to the category he wholeheartedly hated and least of all could bear. The pain, so close to his head, was overwhelming like no other, able to cloud his thoughts, weakening mind and attention. He also led to irrational outbursts of rage – as if the ability to bruise someone would help alleviate the pain. In the best case, one became ill-tempered in a way that was very hard to bear for other people.

  The young man closed his eyes and gathered himself. He had several reasons to be in a bad mood. In addition to the not very well-baked bread, this included the fact that he had by now spent considerable time in the house of Engus, and the long inactivity and the nerve-wracking nature of the conversations exhausted his strength. Certainly, one treated him with courtesy and respect, much more respect than commonly given to a man of his not very advanced age. He had a decent place to stay and lacked nothing – nothing but a measurable progress in his mission.

  Engus was a smart man. Prudent, his followers said, always thinking. Godegisel didn’t want to contradict this, but there were situations in which he tended to perceive this rather as hesitancy and a lack of willingness to make decisions. Engus didn’t say yes and not no. He listened to the opinions of all the elders and nobles, making everyone talk, and he was good at not letting opposing views degenerate into an open exchange. When opinions clashed, he looked reassuring, like a rock in the surf. Everyone took him seriously, but most of all because he never committed himself, and everyone had the hope that he would choose his point of view. Thus, he maintained the informal network of mutual loyalties and dependencies alive, and he assured his unofficial position as leader of his people.

  But it didn’t lead to anything. Godegisel became impatient. He talked his mouth dry, repeated arguments
many times. And again and again, Engus consulted with his followers, who turned every word three times and asked absurd questions that everyone knew Godegisel couldn’t answer. It was so terribly tedious in its predictability and so sobering due to the complete lack of vision among most of the participants, Engus included.

  It was as if the victory of the Romans at Thessaloniki and the subsequent surprisingly favorable and graceful peace settlement had provoked lethargy and complacency among them. Maybe that was the intention of the Romans, Godegisel thought. In the end, it was all about averting the danger of the Goths and turning them into diligent and obedient settlers and Roman citizens. From this point of view, Gratian’s plan – and Rheinberg’s plan behind it – seemed to have worked out.

  That didn’t help Godegisel at all.

  He sat down on the all-too-familiar chair, which had now become something of his regular place. As always, they took care of your physical well-being. It wasn’t that he was fundamentally opposed by rejection and mistrust; it was more a matter of constant yielding and back rowing, an endemic indecision that seemed to have an increasingly crippling effect on all those involved.

  And Engus, who was considered by all to be a leader, didn’t do exactly what Godegisel expected from someone in that position, whether officially appointed or not.

  Rheinberg was probably already waiting for him in Thessaloniki. And Godegisel wasted his time.

  This time they were gathered in small groups. In addition to Engus, only a few of his closest confidants were present. Godegisel had quickly realized that the men had no real function. They were more like walls on which Engus threw his words and then reflected. Engus picked up on this reflection, rephrasing it and throwing it back, creating the illusion of a conversation, while all the while, only the words of Engus wandered back and forth, without gaining substance. These people could hang around forever; it was a wonderful tactic to simulate a decision-making process without actually showing any results of decision-making. There had to be an intention behind it. Did Engus want to make the envoy of Rheinberg grumpy? Was it about checking his steadfastness and stamina? Or was it an expression of perplexity and indecision, a wavering between the need not to dupe Rheinberg and, on the other hand, not settling down in a path that later proved fatal? Godegisel didn’t understand. And he didn’t even care if someone duped Rheinberg or not. The fact was that everything was simply annoying.

  A few minutes later, after the introductory polite phrases had been mastered, it became clear that this round of talks would be the same as always. Engus spoke. The others answered without adding anything of importance, and Engus said something again, with slight variation, commented in the same way by his followers. Godegisel found himself shaking his head and anger starting to boil inside him.

  He had enough.

  Definitely enough.

  He took a deep breath and raised his hand to attract attention. The conversation fell silent immediately, which was another indication of how unimportant even the discussants had regarded their exchange. Besides, they were accustomed to objections from their guest. To let him speak, it seemed, was part of the strategy of stalling.

  “I’ll leave and tell the Magister Militium that the Goths aren’t going to support him,” Godegisel said in a friendly tone. “My lord will certainly draw his conclusions from this, especially as to whether leniency and mercy are appropriate for our people a second time, or whether those who were not with him when the need arose, should be remembered in due course.”

  Then he got up.

  “Thank you for your hospitality. But now I’m in a hurry to return to my lord and tell him exactly what you have offered me. Thank you for your patience with my request.”

  The last sentence sounded like a mockery not only in Engus’s but also in his ears, and that’s what it meant. He read in the faces, quite with satisfaction, surprise, a little regret and a hint of fear.

  Without another comment, he turned away and went through the room to the door, behind which he had his room. In preparation for his action, he had already packed his belongings ready for travel last night. His horse he knew well rested and cared for in the stable of Engus. The immediate departure was now nothing to delay further.

  He took his pack and threw it over his shoulder. Then he was already out the door again. Engus and his friends were still sitting in the main room, talking in angry words. They fell silent as Godegisel came back. One of the men got up and started to address him, but the young man marched past him with a polite smile and a hint of bowing, as if he didn’t expect more than a nice farewell.

  He stepped outside and immediately walked to the stable. No sooner had he entered the building, he was already busy saddling his horse. The animal pawed its hooves impatiently when it beheld its master. Obviously the waiting had become too much for the horse, and it was glad of the prospect of finally being able to leave. Godegisels’s practiced hand movements were interrupted as Engus finally met him in the stable.

  He watched Godegisel for a moment, then cleared his throat. The young Goth turned and looked questioningly at the unofficial leader. If Godegisel had had hooves, then some pawing would have been visible.

  “I expected that to happen,” Engus said. “We pushed it a bit, did we?”

  “Quite so. My patience is at its end.”

  “My situation is difficult.”

  “The situation of the Empire is also difficult. We all have our problems, we just have to decide which ones are more important and which ones we have to pass over.” Godegisel knew exactly why he had to think painfully of a young woman somewhere in Belgica right now. The small prick in the area of his heart only spurred him not to retreat now.

  Engus looked at the horse as if the animal could help him solve his dilemma.

  “I cannot do what the Magister Militium expects me to do.”

  “He doesn’t expect more than from any other Roman citizen,” Godegisel replied coldly. “The Goths accepted the citizenship, didn’t they?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t help us now.”

  “Sarcasm keeps me from simply beating my dear compatriots, one by one,” Godegisel replied with a corrosive tone. “I waited long enough. You don’t want to help, Engus? Your people don’t want it? Fine. And maybe you’re right. Maximus will be pleased if the Goths stay neutral. He will certainly reward you with additional posts, you and your friends. So it remains to be hoped that the usurper wins. But if this isn’t the case, there could be problems.”

  “You threaten me? I thought revenge was not one of the well-known traits of the time-wanderers.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But Theodosius is known for his tantrums. Who knows against whom he is directing them once the time comes?”

  Godegisel grabbed his horse by the bridle and led it out of the stable. Engus followed him silently.

  As the young Goth swung himself on the animal, the Goth leader looked up at him. “I’m not even a judge, Godegisel,” he said, half apologetically.

  “You’re even less than I expected,” the younger one replied. He bowed his head in farewell and lost no other word. He didn’t wait for a final comment of the Engus, but rode off.

  He felt the man’s eyes on his back, but he didn’t turn for a final glance.

  Now, he knew, the negotiations would begin in earnest, though without him present.

  He hoped the right outcome would come out of it.

  However, he didn’t feel very confident.

  29

  Maximus couldn’t hide his triumph.

  He looked with great affection at the Roman who stood before him. Lucius Gaudentius was a tall man of an ancient Roman noble family which had long resided in Africa. He was the successor of the notorious Romanus as Comes Africae and thus the governor of the most important granary of the Empire. Unlike his predecessor, Gaudentius was considered less corrupt, which had given him a certain popularity among the population.

  But much more important to Maximus: Gaudentius brought a message from
the governors of the six African provinces, and the content was most enjoyable.

  Maximus dropped the paper. “My good friend,” he said with a smile. “I’m very glad that the governors have decided this way.”

  Gaudentius bowed his head. They sat in the residence of the Emperor in Rome. It was a small, rather cozy room, not one of the expansive rooms where one felt easily lost and where every privacy was inappropriate. Nobody was present except for Maximus and Gaudentius, even the men poured their wine themselves. Maximus wanted the Comes to respect him as a senior officer. Until recently, he hadn’t been more than a comes himself, and he didn’t want to give the impression that he immediately thought he was something so much better than his guest.

  Maximus picked up the paper and waved it lightly. “All six governors are secretly loyal to the new Emperor,” he summarized the contents of the letter. “I can rely on that?”

  Gaudentius allowed himself a wry smile. “As far as one can rely on such a thing. The fact is, we discussed the matter calmly, Augustus. We have agreed that a civil war must end as soon as possible. We have heard that Theodosius wants to come over to Africa. Our plan is: Let him come to rest, and we’ll pretend to honor him. He continues to believe that the provinces are on his side. If we pull together the African forces and you also bring enough units, we will destroy him in a final battle. Then you just have to tidy up in the East. With the death of Theodosius, however, there is no one who could even have any claim to the throne. Rheinberg himself won’t get the necessary allegiance for any claim of his own. He’s still too foreign to us. Your victory is certain, Augustus.”

  Maximus hid his approval so as not to show it too premature. He shared the views of Gaudentius and saw therein the opportunity to consolidate his rule in no time. “What’s your plan?”