The Emperor Page 19

  Julia also had a role to play. She was to show up with her little daughter in her arms and pretend to be the enthusiastic as well as submissive wife, the pleasant hostess, the woman of nobility – she came from a senatorial family – and of intelligent spirit, the gentle, soft antipode to the burly businessman. Julia didn’t mind. It could be useful to get to know other people here in the countryside, and possibly even meet some who could form complete sentences and at least have basic knowledge about the world outside the island.

  Julia had become quite modest in her expectations.

  Martinus didn’t care much about all these preparations. He managed to put on the clean toga he had been given. Afterwards, after a very meager breakfast, he sat down in the shadows of the courtyard, watching the bustle with puffy eyes and obvious annoyance. Julia tried to ignore him for the most part, and to have an excuse for doing so, she threw herself into the preparations. Fortunately, she had her experience with these matters as her mother had always been a welcoming host in Ravenna. Whether she wanted it or not, Julia had learned a lot, especially about organizing. Finally, after dispensing the second meaningful advice, she was taken seriously by her extended family and allowed to join in.

  It was early afternoon and a hot one. Everywhere in the courtyard, large canopies had been set up. The wine was stored in cool amphoras in the basement and would be brought out shortly before the tap. Gradually, the invitees arrived, some on litters, some on horseback, but all well-dressed and prepared for this important social event. The provided food was praised, words of thanks found their recipients, gifts were exchanged, they drank, and all politely talked to one another. Julia walked with her daughter in her arms from one group to the next, and was welcomed then given questions about the situation in Italy, which she to their own regret couldn’t answer. She was almost ready to admit that this afternoon promised to be very pleasant – until her husband decided to wake up from his brooding silence to fight the hangover with a sip of red wine and to take part in the festivities.

  In his own unique and inimitable way.

  He started offending some of the guests. He was not very subtle, exactly what Julia expected from her husband. He made fun of a rather gaunt man with a prominent hooked nose. A rather stocky built woman with a big wart on her nose got her share of remarks. Her daughter, a young, shy girl and unfortunately not blessed with a particularly attractive appearance, he loudly praised as a good match, which was dragged by her mother in vain to any festivity, only to find a simple fool who wanted to have her. He advised her to charge a bounty that would increase her daughter’s attractiveness. The young thing, probably already struggling with little self-confidence, ran away crying. The guests were silently stunned. A few men tried to bring Martinus to his senses, but probably feeling a little bit more upset than usually, he grabbed a slave girl, who brought wine, at her breasts, and did it hard and with violent force. The tortured woman screamed in pain, which Caius acknowledged with insults. In the home of his relatives, slaves were treated decently and sexual assaults didn’t take place as a rule. The host now admonished Martinus in a much sharper tone. As a result, his face flushed, and he had a tantrum that only subsided once he was served with wine and shown the buffet.

  Julia wanted to sink into the ground. It wasn’t that she felt a particular solidarity with her husband, his grief was commonly her joy. But the many compassionate looks that were sent in her direction, especially by other women, were nothing that seemed pleasant to Julia. She didn’t want to be identified with Martinus Caius, for better or for worse, but apparently she had no choice. She looked down, took care of her daughter in a corner, and prayed once more for the grace to be reunited with Thomas Volkert, whether in a palace or a hut. If she could only run way from this drunkard.

  The rest, which had come after the retreat of Martinus, lasted only a short time. After her husband had refueled with enough alcohol in order to gather more courage, overconfidence, recklessness and venom, he reappeared. Julia knew him well enough to interpret the adventurous twinkle in his piggy eyes – Martinus Caius was ready for anything, and no one should dare to put him in his place.

  When he had uttered the first loud insults – this time against a venerable and respected veteran who had fought in the legions for 25 years and whom he seriously accused of cowardice –, the host approached him and tried a different method to bring Martinus to reason. “You’re shaming your family,” he said loudly, drawing a card that was always sticking for most Romans who were fanatical family people. “Your father! And your wife! She has to watch this terrible behavior! Do not dishonor your name and that of your loved ones by behaving like this!”

  It was exactly this kind of utterance that provoked Martinus’s anger – the fact that the man had addressed him disparagingly, and the reference to his hated father. The drunkard reacted by focusing on those who were most easily attainable to him and couldn’t fight back. “My wife?” he shouted, staggering on his legs, swinging the cup of wine so far that red splashes landed on his host’s hitherto immaculate toga. “The nasty bitch! From a good home, but she doesn’t open her legs for me! Who knows who she’s having fun with, who knows which men she receives for money?”

  For someone who preferred whores, this was a remarkable case of duplicity. Julia looked up as all those eyes turned toward her, her facial expression petrified, but her posture remained calm. This was nothing he could insult her with. She knew whose mouth it came from, and most of those present had at least an idea of the truth.

  “I spit on my wife!” Martinus howled, coming up to her. “She’s not a woman, she’s a xanthippe, a medusa! She is a curse for every man! Look what she gave me – a daughter! A worthless one has given life to another worthless one! If that doesn’t say enough about her corrupted nature and her useless body, then what?”

  Cold anger raced through Julia’s veins. She herself might react obnoxiously to insults, but her beloved daughter, who was already wryly wincing at the roar of her “father’s” bellowing – that was clearly going too far. And even among the guests the indignation was clearly visible, many expressed displeasure, from mothers to the many fathers who had absolutely no problems with daughters – if only because they could be wonderfully married to consolidate certain dynastic relationships.

  Julia had been angry many times in her life. Since her mother’s temper was bigger, more dangerous and more enduring than anything she could ever emotionally express in her life, she had learned to control herself. She lowered her head, showed embarrassment, and at least had the satisfaction that the public opinion of those present was clearly on her side.

  Then Martinus took a few steps toward her, eyes gleaming.

  She jerked up, her eyes wide. Her husband was completely out of control.

  He leaned forward, yanking the child from her arms. The girl cried out, loudly. Martinus held it up. “Look at this!” he snapped. “She gave me something like that! A daughter! What do I want with such a piece of shit? Should the dogs eat it?”

  The no longer paralyzed Julia jumped up, reaching for the baby, but she came too late. Her husband dropped the wailing bundle without comment.

  And then there was Claudia. Julia only saw her out of the corner of her eye. The slave had always kept close to her, but in the background, as befitted her station. But suddenly she was there, as if grown out the ground and lurched forward.

  Not toward Martinus, who stared triumphantly at his helpless wife.

  She threw herself on the ground in front of the raving madman, twisting in the air, impacted hard on her back, arms outstretched. The screaming child fell directly on her breasts, making Claudia herself scream in pain, but then her arms closed protectively around the bundle, and she turned to the side.

  Just in time to catch the heavy kick of Martinus’ right foot with her back. She uttered no word.

  “Slave!” Martinus shouted. “I’ll kill you!”

  Then two of the guests approached him, holding him by the arms,
pulling him back. Julia leaned over Claudia, who had tears in her eyes, but she continued to hold the screaming baby protectively, not too tight but carefully embraced in her arms. Julia helped the slave, hugged both woman and child, and glanced at Martinus Caius, who screamed raging incomprehensible stuff.

  He met her gaze and stopped abruptly.

  Did he recognize the mercilessness of Rome in the absolute cold in her eyes? The willingness to shed blood if it served the Empire? Not to take unnecessary consideration on friend and foe, and to regard mercy as softness?

  He stared at her, his own gaze watery, erratic.

  Julia took a deep breath and spoke loud and penetrating. “This is my husband, Martinus Caius,” she said without charge in her voice. “He’s drinking, he’s hurting, he’s beating, he’s no use. He doesn’t protect his family and doesn’t obey his father. He disappoints everyone he meets, except those who take his gold, because he wastes a lot of it. He is fat, bloated, arrogant, uncontrolled and incapable of anything he has set himself as a goal. He has no knowledge and no ambitions, he is known for nothing except for his feasting and his lawlessness. He is a loser as a merchant and a businessman, would be a loser as a soldier, as an official, as a senator, as a guard of the public toilets. He is a failure as a man. He has no dignity and no discipline, is beyond measure in everything that harms him and others. There is no grace and no goodness, no power, no hope and no future in him. He is a curse for his family, a disgrace for his estate and a shame on his wife. He is ready to murder his own child. I despise him.”

  Then she spat. The saliva struck his toga and mingled with a wine stain. The liquid ran down the fabric before it was absorbed. There was a complete silence. In everyone’s eyes, contempt for Martinus but compassion for Julia and joy over the courage of a slave girl were visible.

  Martinus started at her. The two men beside him remained alert. He wouldn’t get another chance to attack, and he knew that. He also knew that he had died on this island, among his father’s friends and relatives. And as soon as the news of what had happened here reached Ravenna, his social death would spread. The words of Julia would go around, that was for sure, and everyone here looked forward to it with joy and satisfaction.

  Martinus Caius stared at Julia. He still had one last act, which was his right and against which no one could do anything, his right as head of the family, as a husband and as a Roman.

  Julia braced herself and so it happened.

  32

  “Tribune Thomasius. You have come far.”

  Sedacius smiled at Volkert. When they had brought the body of Andragathius to the camp, many men could confirm the identity of the dead. The prisoners, who had been brought along, also testified that the Magister Militium personally participated in the scouting mission. There was no doubt that Thomas Volkert had killed the highest military dignitary after Maximus, even without knowing who he was facing.

  Theodosius didn’t miss a chance to exploit a success for propaganda. Regardless of whether Thomasius’ deed was indeed as glorious, extraordinary, and grandiose as it was now portrayed, it uplifted the men’s morals and made them feel good – and would either provoke or intimidate their enemy, both of which was equally well because it would likely result in rash mistakes.

  So there had been a great ceremony in the center of which Theodosius had Thomasius promoted. Volkert didn’t feel well, especially because of the looks of the other German soldiers. But by now his desertion was almost forgotten, and no one, in spite of a certain resemblance, would seriously assume that this young, aspiring Roman officer was a deserter of the time-wanderers. Volkert felt increasingly confident. His decent beard and the Roman uniform did the rest.

  Then Sedacius invited him to a private meal in his tent. It was an informal meal, and that was what disturbed Volkert. When the powerful became informal, one either belong to them or was about to be used by them. Volkert was quite sure that Sedacius saw the newly-promoted tribune as a suitable tool for his plans. He still felt very uncomfortable. If his career went on like that, he would soon no longer need Sedacius to receive Imperial pardon and, he hoped, being reunited with Julia.

  “Thank you for the kind words,” Volkert said noncommittally, sipping his wine. He didn’t have the appetite to eat much of the food, but it wasn’t wise to ignore it. He ate a little of everything but without enthusiasm. He was focused and attentive. He had to watch what Sedacius said to him – and how –, and he had to think carefully about what his answer would be.

  “The day will come soon, Thomasius,” the man said, glancing thoughtfully into his wine, his eyes narrowed as if he had discovered something inside that didn’t belong in it. “The fact that we move to Africa has caused further developments. During your mission we consulted again and came to the conclusion that there will soon be a good opportunity to overthrow Theodosius and gain command of the army. I have many friends in Africa who will support me.” He looked at Volkert, smiling. “The plan is for the army to gradually transfer and for Theodosius to leave with one of the last contingents. I’ve made sure that in this last troop, my most loyal soldiers are the overwhelming majority. Nobody will be able to stop us from taking the decisive step. The troops will make me Emperor. The governors in Africa will do likewise, bringing the units that have already landed to our side, whether out of conviction or grumbling. Then we will inform the East. Rheinberg has no other choice than to embrace us if he doesn’t want to fight Maximus and me at the same time.”

  Volkert nodded slowly. In his opinion, Sedacius had calculated correctly. Rheinberg would never endorse a tripartite division of the Empire and an even longer and more bloody civil war. And he would by no means join Gratian’s murderer, who also pursued such an intolerant religious policy Rheinberg wouldn’t be able to accommodate. Yes, despite this action, the German would side with Sedacius to bring this internal conflict to an end as soon as possible.

  Volkert wondered whose side he was on.

  Sedacius talked and talked, and Volkert listened, grunted in agreement, ate, drank, nodded. He was not expected to give a response. And his own thoughts revolved around the question of whether to warn Theodosius.

  Was that for his own good? Was that in the spirit of Captain Rheinberg? Would it be of benefit to all of them as well as for the rehabilitation of Thomas Volkert? Or would he only trigger a dispute during which he would most certainly end his young life? Volkert hated that kind of decision. And yet he found some guidance in the question: What would Jan Rheinberg do in his place?

  What was the right thing, in God’s name?

  When dinner was over, he trudged off into the night, trying to remember what had actually been said. By himself? Not much and nothing of importance. By Sedacius? Many promises of office and riches, yes, even the unobtrusive hint that he would have the need to refill many governor positions when it was all over. Thomas Volkert, Comes of Britain or Belgica? What an absurd idea!

  Perhaps it was these very serious promises that had given the decisive boost somewhere in Volkert’s subconscious. They seemed so unreal, though he had to admit to himself, especially after his recent promotion, that absolutely nothing seemed impossible and that his notions of reality might have lagged far behind events. Still, all of this somehow had nothing to do with him anymore, like a book he read, in which he played and acted as the lead actor, but in the end he was uninvolved in shaping the plot. The question was: Did he want to be carried away by the flow of events and being whirled around, or was it not time to make his own decisions?

  Volkert felt the need to slam the book shut and take care of his own life again.

  When he arrived at his accommodation, he found Bertius still awake and pretending to work. Bertius bowed and pointed to the bedstead of the new tribune. “Lord, it’s all ready for the night’s sleep!” Bertius could be very formal if he wanted to, but it didn’t really suit him.

  “What do you think of my promotion?” Volkert asked, as Bertius helped him to take off his uniform. Usually he
preferred to do that himself, but he was too tired to fend off the eager man. Since Bertius could use only one arm correctly, the procedure took almost longer than if he had done it alone.

  “You have earned it, noble tribune,” Bertius said. “You have a great future ahead of you!”

  “What’s that – a great future?” Volkert asked.

  Bertius paused and looked at him in confusion. “A high position in the Empire, reputation. The rank of a senator is certain to you, the office of a comes, a quaestor, the gift of large estates. Your own latifundia and many slaves!”

  Bertius’ eyes shone. He was probably already sitting in the sun among giggling young girls, doing the assignment that was his real promise and enjoying the life he had always wanted. Volkert had to smile involuntarily at the thought. Of course, Bertius interpreted this in his own terms.

  “Yes, sir, you like that too! You will accumulate glory and honor, and people will speak of you throughout the Empire!”

  Volkert shook his head.

  “That’s the outer appearance, Bertius.” He raised his hands defensively before the man could reply. “No, don’t get me wrong. Nothing against a latifundia or office or wealth!” In regard to slaves he had a slightly different attitude, but that wasn’t something he wanted to discuss with Bertius now. “But is that the only thing you promise me?”

  “What else, sir?”

  Volkert nodded to himself. “That is the question.”

  “Of course, it’s important for a person’s character to do the right thing,” the plump man then said. “If you have the opportunity.”

  He shyly raised his stump. Volkert’s eye rested on the mutilation. Yes, if you had the opportunity, despite all the possible negative consequences, then you should do the right thing. “How do I know what’s right?” Volkert asked.