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  Rheinberg laughed and shook his head.

  But he didn’t fail to give the man credit for his feelings. He was also suffering the herbal teas as well as the abundance of wine. A real breakfast was only possible with coffee, and he would send Köhler and Behrens with pleasure on this trip.

  His face darkened as he thought that his own path would soon lead him back to the imperial court.

  Sighing, he emptied the wineglass in his hand and waved one of the slaves who stood ready with filled jars.

  Köhler and Behrens were to be envied.

  2

  Volkert was hoarse from screaming. He coughed, felt the leaden pressure of something cold on his lungs, hoping that he hadn’t caught any inflammation. Wrapped in a thick coat, he trudged through the knee-deep snow and tried to get the most out of his voice. The men assigned to his command did their best and dug a wide swath into the snow, from the fortress to the nearby river. Once the water was free of ice, the Legio II Italica awaited reinforcements. If the riverboats reached here, the men needed free access to the fort, and it was the task of Decurion Thomas Volkert – or Thomasius, as he was known by everyone – to ensure that his men just did that. With big shovels and a lot of muscle, they had already cleared a path from the main gate, a good hundred meters long and ten meters wide. That was quite an achievement for a morning. The critical glances thrown to him from his Centurion standing at the ramparts of the fort, however, spoke a different language. That Volkert had received only fifteen men for his hard work, delinquents who were supposed to be punished for a number of small infractions of discipline, was none of the concern of the young German’s direct superior. As always, miracles were expected from those who obeyed. Volkert was used to that; in the armed forces of the German Reich it had not been fundamentally different.

  And having been there, it wasn’t fun at all.

  While the cold crawled up his legs, he thought of how far away his time in the German Empire appeared now – although since his fatal decision to desert, for the love of senator’s daughter Julia, only to be pressed into the Roman army, not too much time had passed. He hadn’t seen Julia for months, but the mere fact that his love still deeply blazed in his heart, almost painfully burning, he felt as a confirmation that he had ultimately made the right decision. And if it was not the right one, then at least one anyone with a heart could understand.

  Not that the pain of separation had subsided. It had become a silent companion, constantly growing, always admonishing, a source of anxiety as well as a reliable friend. It gave Volkert orientation and stability and helped him to endure the rigors of a service in the Roman army as well as the omnipresent fear that someone will discover his true identity and would hand him over to the captain of the Saarbrücken.

  According to the news which had traveled even to Noricum, Rheinberg was now the commander of the Roman forces and began to rebuild the Empire with the blessings of the Emperor. The official confirmation of the edict of toleration had been only the first step. What happened now was a permanent part of the conversation at the evening campfire and Volkert, despite his origin, felt actually not much smarter than his new comrades. He was very careful in these discussions not to prove too much knowledge of the strange foreigners who now were Roman citizens and held highest offices. Desertion lead to death, and Volkert wanted to live. That he was in a very difficult situation seemed to be quite obvious. In some ways, he was very grateful for assignments such as his present, because they helped him to postpone important decisions. Eventually this would have to end.

  “This has to go faster!” Decurion Thomasius cried hoarsely, trying to look grimly. The poor legionaries who laboured under his supervision didn’t even try to murmur. Since they were all reassigned to punitive duty, no one would behave unpleasantly in order to get punished worse. In these times, it was very easy to get acquainted with the whip. Although Volkert was no slouch, the idea of having to flog soldiers didn’t fill him with anticipation. Many of these men, forced into the service like him, he had become to know as basically decent fellows, victims of a bad fate. Despite his surprising promotion, emotionally he had more in common with them than with the non-commissioned officer corps of the Legion, which he was now formally a part of. He didn’t want to flog anyone.

  But he did also not want to draw the displeasure of Centurion Levantus toward him, an irascible man who was known to distribute his sentences with silent, grim cruelty. Volkert could deal with an angry screamer who got loud seizures once something wasn’t going well. It was much worse to work with someone who was able to issue the deadliest commands with a straight face, as if all this didn’t concern him at all. Levantus was a strange man, enigmatic and always very attentive. The man’s eyes, which never turned away from Volkert and the other men, were always on the lookout for a flaw.

  What Volkert most craved at the moment was his pipe. He had left it, like so much else left from his old life, on the Saarbrücken. He didn’t know whether the tobacco’s low stock was now at least as valuable as the coffee on board of the ship. He came more and more to the conviction that tobacco was probably unknown in the Empire. He had seen enough pipes among the legionaries and met a man whose craftsmanship in carving such devices was known and who produced pipes for a few coins. Volkert had tried to place a commission, but had refrained when he had determined what the legionaries actually smoked – mainly herbs such as lettuce or marjoram. Some of the men praised even dried ox dung as particularly delicious. They didn’t puff their pipes, as Volkert was accustomed to, but inhaled the smoke deep into their lungs, usually accompanied by a sip of wine. Volkert had decided not to want to try this, and therefore pretended to have no interest in smoking, which had been generally accepted. If it was true what the young man suspected and the only tobacco could currently be found in unknown America, then it was probably due time to say adieu to this vice. When in doubt, he could still get drunk with the bland wine which was served in the fort.

  Stunning perspectives for his life, indeed. Volkert folded his arms around his torso and croaked more encouragement toward his men. It was not yet time for cena, Roman lunch, where warmed and spiced wine was served in the winter to relax the cold bones. As decurion, he had not sufficiently risen in the hierarchy of the troop to excuse himself while his men toiled, therefore the former ensign resorted to warm thoughts and stayed where he was.

  If it served to make him look better in the eyes of Centurion Levantus, perhaps it was even worth it. He could use every bit of good will he could take hold of.

  Through the open portal strolled Septimus Secundus. He was decurion and took it up, motivated more by esprit de corps but genuine sympathy, to introduce the newcomer to his duties, so the tesserarius – or company sergeant major – wouldn’t have to too much to complain about them, quite apart from Levantus. Secundus was a career soldier, body and soul, but not ambitious enough to ever grow beyond his current rank. He had served for ten years in the legions, four of them in the Legio II Noricum, and no matter what might be said of him he knew his stuff.

  And he was a source of news, because his brother was one of the scribes of the commander. If someone wanted to know what the rumors said, he turned to Secundus, who was generally willing to share his wisdom with the world if provided with a jug of wine. Comrades who carried the same burden like him – to be forced to deal with unwilling and incompetent legionaries and to justify their failure upwards – he told everything immediately and without the necessity of bribery. Volkert was surprised that Secundus so casually strolled through the snow, wrapped tightly in his cloak, with a warming leather cap instead of the metal helmet on his head. But then he realized that Levantus had found other things to do than to watch him. The sense of opportunity Secundus had was second to none and spoke volumes about his skills in dealing with superiors. Volkert could still learn much from him.

  Secundus joined his comrade, looking around, as if planning to sell somethi
ng that no one should see, then opened his coat with conspiratorial gesture and took a tightly sealed, small pitcher with a narrow opening out and handed it to Volkert. With greedy hands, the German grabbed. The pitcher was warm, almost hot, and when he untied the small cork, the pleasant smell of spiced wine immediately evaporated toward his nose, which reminded him of the Christmas wine in his elusive homeland. To immediately distract himself from the ascending melancholy, Volkert put the opening at his mouth and drank deeply. The pleasant effect of the warm liquid and the alcohol contained in it was immediately noticeable. With a suspective look at the ramparts of the fort, he swallowed a second time before he put the cork back and returned the flask to Secundus.

  “Thanks,” he said sincerely, patting the decurion on the shoulder. “Thank you very much!”

  “You’re welcome,” his comrade parried. He ignored the envious glances of simple legionaries just like Volkert did. Rank did in fact has its privileges, however small they might be. “I have news.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My brother has noticed that new commands have been received from Treveri. The generals are obviously not very enthusiastic about it, but probably primarily because they simply don’t understand what this is about.”

  “The campaign will start?”

  Everyone knew that an attack against the Germanic people of the Sarmatians was imminent. Volkert himself was a victim of a recent attack by those warriors, where he had earned both his promotion as well as lost his friend Simodes. The Sarmatians were living in a land Volkert knew from his time as Switzerland. Like all mountain peoples, they were particularly stubborn when it came to the domination of the Romans, and they probably thought to use the current weakness of the Empire after what happened at Adrianople for an uprising. Theodosius, the new commander of the East, had been busy trying to raise another army to resolve this issue, when he was dismissed a few weeks ago and ordered to Trier. Volkert and his men were then returned to their garrison in Noricum and waited for further instructions.

  “No, it has nothing to do with the campaign,” Secundus said. “It looks like as they prepare a large-scale Eastern reconnaissance mission. Anyway, all legions lying near Germania were invited to nominate staff for this project.”

  “An exploration?”

  Secundus nodded, acutely aware of his own importance. He enjoyed to divulge information and required the sincere admiration of his comrades for them to draw the interesting pieces out of his nose. In addition, as apparently it was cold, it seemed appropriate to take a deep gulp of hot wine before talking.

  “It’s probably the Huns. The rumor is that the strange visitors have given the Caesar the idea that all the problems of recent years, up to Adrianople, had a single cause – a people from the Far East, exerting pressure in wild conquest, who will ultimately invade Roman territory.” Secundus leaned forward. “They call it the Great Migration. Did you hear something like that before?”

  Volkert had, but he was careful not to show that. Instead, he frowned in surprise and shook his head. “What else did you hear?” he encouraged Secundus, who nodded, quite pleased with himself.

  “It will be a strong reconnaissance troop, advancing into the East, and mounted, in order to find out how far the Huns have penetrated and where their path could best be blocked. It seems that the Emperor would prefer to beat them outside the Roman frontiers in order to relieve the pressure. I personally think all that is absurd nonsense. But I’m only a lowly decurion.”

  Volkert nodded, but his mind raced. He was unable to escape the logic of this plan. In his own past, the Empire would, even if all the necessary information would’ve been available, not been able to put this kind of campaign on its feet. However, with the reform of the whole apparatus in full swing and with the superior technology that was now introduced piecemeal by the crew of the Saarbrücken, it might succeed. When the Huns could actually be pacified somewhere in Eastern Europe, a key reason for the collapse of Rome would be eliminated. The originally settled nations of that area would see no reason to push westward. Rome would have received an important historical respite. This plan smelled like Captain Rheinberg, so bold and far reaching as it was. There was no other explanation.

  “You know more,” Volkert said.

  Secundus smiled. It was clear that he needed additional motivation to come out with the rest.

  Volkert didn’t hesitate. “You’re broke, my friend!” he said flatly, grinning knowingly. “You lost at dice yesterday, half the legion knows about it.”

  The face of his comrade became long. Obviously Volkert had hit the mark. “It was scamming,” Secundus hastened to say, the usual excuse of the luckless. The decurion was a passionate player, and as fast he sometimes managed to make a small fortune from the pay of the less fortunate, as quickly he lost it again because he never knew when it was time to quit. Last night must have been particularly bitter. Decurion Secundus was broke, and at the same time full of ambition to enact his revenge on those responsible for this predicament. Volkert was sure that he would be able to get satisfaction – there were examples for his accomplishments in this area. Everything the decurion needed was some seed money.

  “I’ll lend you something,” the German said. “Just a few coins, but enough to enter the game this evening.”

  “You’ll get it back tomorrow. With interest!” Secundus assured radiantly.

  “I’m not interested in interest,” Volkert parried. “Tell me the rest of the news. You’re still holding something back!”

  Secundus smiled and nodded. “This will make you very happy.”

  Volkert was fighting for his patience.

  “You’re on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The list of soldiers the general intends to send to the imperial court. Thou shalt be with the great expedition.”

  Volkert looked at Secundus with wide eyes. The horror that threatened to overwhelm him was hard to control. A trip to the East, on a fact-finding mission? It could take months, perhaps even years, and it meant that he had to forego all hope to see Julia in the foreseeable future. In his head, fatalism and resignation alternated with rebellion, even anger. Should he desert again? Then there was definitely no place left where he was safe. Should he ask to be excluded from the selection? On what grounds? All this seemed hopeless.

  Secundus wasn’t able to interpret the feelings that were evident in Volkert’s face correctly. “Hey, I gave you more news! You stick to your word, right? You’ll give me a few coins for tonight?”

  Volkert nodded and turned without a word. He trudged to his people, took one of the spades lying around and began to participate in the work. This or the wine, he thought, but he had to numb his mind and wanted nothing more than total exhaustion.

  3

  Martinus Caius, the son of a rich trader, was disgusting.

  There are many ways to describe a person. One can hold forth on his character, describing his appearance, analyze his relationships with other people. The way he moved or spoke as well as important attributes such as his body odor. Preferences, vices and habits might help to illustrate someone in his entirety so that even a third party had a picture of him. Then it depends on the observer how he – after looking at all these aspects related to each other – comes to a final evaluation.

  Martinus Caius was corpulent, with pale skin and watery eyes. His hair was a fading reddish-blond although he wasn’t even 30 years old. He moved slowly, almost sluggishly, and his sausage-like fingers resembled whitish maggots of considerable size that peeped under the edges of his robe. Marcus Caius, the father, sent caravans and ships to all corners of the Roman Empire and held considerable shares in two other companies who sailed the Mediterranean with their ships. The biggest problem was that Martinus was the only natural son of his father and thus sole heir and basis of all the hopes and ambitions of his parents. He was spoiled, he was greedy, he dra
nk like a fish, he knew every whore in Ravenna, he splashed his father’s money all over the place, and while he came from a prestigious house, his friends were the dregs of Roman society. In his few sober moments, Martinus’ favorite activity was to avoid any work and to escape the snares of his father who desperately wanted him in his offices to learn his craft and to increase the company’s fortunes. When his escape successfull, he celebrated his spectacular feat with more wine, more disreputable friends, and even more easily available women. He was, at least in the eyes of Julia, the daughter of Senator Marcellus and his wife Lucia, really disgusting.

  The worst thing about all this was that she was engaged to him.

  While Caius the Elder sat with Senator Marcellus sharing the latest rumors from the imperial court in the courtyard of the senatorial villa, Julia remained with her sister Drusilla and her mother Lucia at a table in the dining room, staring gloomily into her beverage. She found it hard to maintain a friendly and noncommittal mask, because aside from the members of her own family said Martinus also was present, already with wine stains on the festive toga, as well as his mother Claudia. Claudia, the wife of older Caius, was the exact opposite of Lucia. Where Julia’s mother was as wide as high and her massive body radiated with the dignity and arrogance of a queen, Claudia was a withered skeleton that threatened to disappear in the vastness of her clothing. Where Lucia left no doubt that her husband, senator or not, ultimately did what he has been told to do, Claudia remained submissive, very submissive, and was ready to be the lowest slave to her husband’s wishes.

  The connection between Martinus and Julia was a family agreement. Lucia was determined to ensure that her daughter never again wasted any thought to a scandalous connection with this strange time traveler who was now hunted as a deserter throughout the Empire – although probably with relatively modest zeal, as she had to admit. The elder Caius hoped that the marriage would lead Martinus to a better way of life, and he was furthermore not lost to consider their own social advancement through connection to a senatorial family, not least the chance that once a purified Martinus would have a chance to be appointed senator. So it seemed like an agreement that would lead to everybody’s satisfaction. And while Martinus didn’t even pretend to be pleased with the connection, Julia’s duty as a daughter of the house was not to show her feelings in public.