Dirk van den Boom - The Emperor's Men 8 - Stormy Heavens

Köhler remembered that the first two weeks of their trip had been absolutely trouble-free and peaceful. They had entered the Atlantic, and it seemed as if their expedition had started under a good star. Favorable winds had accelerated their progress, the ships had stayed together without any problems. The mood among the men had been excellent, full of curiosity, a great desire to explore and discover. When the skies closed and the storm announced itself, nobody had expected such a catastrophic and constant change in the weather. Nevertheless, they had endured it all with great confidence. Weren’t they the best seafarers in the Empire? Weren’t their ships the best of the entire fleet?

But now the mood began to change. Köhler hoped that Langenhagen – who actually had the rank of Navarch, but liked to see himself primarily as the captain of his ship – would be correct with his forecast.

“Go below deck!” Langenhagen shouted. “I want to know if everything is okay. And eat something. Aedilius’ drink really helps. You need strengthening. Hot wine, slightly diluted. Something solid on it.”

Köhler only nodded. Now that the herbal potion had taken effect, he felt a different kind of rumbling in his stomach. Hunger. Clearly recognizable desire for food for the first time in three days. He immediately followed the order.

He was grateful when he closed the companionway. It was a little quieter down there than on deck, the roar of the storm fading somewhat into the background. He saw sailors looking at him, nodding, often sitting tired against the wall or curled up in hammocks, in different phases of exhaustion, boredom or illness. But there was calm, a little fatalism, and only a few conversations. No dice game. No noise except the muffled roar from outside. A certain discipline in exhaustion. Good enough for Köhler, good enough for the ship.

He entered the galley. The ship’s cook, called Smutje in the language of the time-wanderers, looked at him expectantly. It was significant that the only man who was completely unaffected by the storm was of all people the master of supplies. He showed his gaps in his teeth when he grinned at Köhler and gestured at his supplies with a sweeping gesture. The man was his best customer and always chewed on something. Even now, his mouth moved not only according to his words, but also to work on food. This sight had recently made Köhler nauseated, but now it triggered something like anticipation in him.

“A fresh start, sir?” The man was dripping with hypocrisy.

“Still an iron stomach, Vitelius?”

“Bronze, like our brave machine. Some wine?”

“Water and rusks.”

“The very big risk, sir. You are a brave man, an ornament of the fleet, an image of Roman masculinity.”

“Stop talking rubbish.”

The Smutje grinned and handed him what he wanted and watched with a certain lurking look what was going to happen. He was genuinely impressed when Köhler ate the food with methodical chewing and then pecked some soaked crumbs off his coat. The Smutje smiled knowingly. “Our dear Medicus’ herbal drink.”

“Clever man.”

“I swear on the stuff. Haven’t drunk anything of it yet.” The cook patted his stomach. “Bronze, as you know.”

Köhler gave the man a disparaging look, but was as happy as a child that the rusk in his stomach made no move to reappear.

“Are you all right down here?”

If anyone could answer that question, it was the Smutje. He was one of the few who still looked at everything with open eyes. And very much amused in most ways.

“With drawbacks. I think some are almost bored.”

“As soon as the wind subsides, we set sail again to save coal. Then there will be more than enough to do.”

“But that doesn’t apply to legionaries. Not only are they sick, they absolutely don’t know what to do with themselves.”

“There’s a lot of cleaning up to do upstairs. We will put together work details. They’re going to be busy, too.”

Vitelius nodded and scratched his ear. Apparently he found something, looked at it for a moment before immediately put it between his busy jaws. Köhler was reasonably certain that behavior like this couldn’t be healthy.

“How long?”

“The Navarch thinks no more than two days.”

“And are we heading further west?”

“Indeed. I prefer not to say anything about whether the storm has broken the fleet apart. We have had no contact with the other ships since the winds started. Only noise on the shortwave. We’ll have to wait here too, and see what the end of the wind will bring us.”

“Two days?”

Köhler smiled.

“Is it getting too much for you? Despite a bronze stomach?”

“I haven’t cooked anything decent in three days. I am filled with pity and care for my starving comrades. They have to get some proper food between their teeth.”

Köhler agreed. However, he assumed that the Smutje did consider primarily his own teeth with his remark.

“Just be patient.”

Köhler raised his hand in greeting and turned away. A short passage below deck confirmed the cook’s statement. Everything was quiet, as far as one could really speak of calm with these violent waves. He answered a few questions – roughly the same ones he had just discussed – and spread more confidence than he felt.

But he was an officer. Always smile and wave.

When he finally struggled back up, he closed his eyes, almost blinded. The beam of light that had briefly shone down on them through one of the thick cloud banks had disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared – but his heart leapt when he saw the light dancing over the violent waves.

A good sign.

Langenhagen nodded to him, grinning happily. Even the helmsman looked relaxed, although he was still clutching the steering wheel as tightly as when Köhler had last seen him.

The wind didn’t let up. A deep wave trough made Köhler’s stomach go up again, but this time everything was under control.

It got better.

Everything was getting better now.

Of course, he had to make an example.

It was no different.

The former king of Saclemacal was no longer very pleased. The main reason for this was that Inugami had separated the man’s head from his torso with his sword, with a quick, targeted and powerful stroke of the exemplary sharpened weapon. The body had bled to death in a red pond, and the head from which the feather headdress had fallen rested a little further.

The man had behaved appropriately, and Inugami was able to show respect for that. When they had conquered the city – after a short but fierce struggle in which the defenders quickly realized the hopelessness of their situation –, the King had subjugated himself to the conquerors. Inugami didn’t know if he had hoped for mercy. But he hadn’t been in the mood to let this wonderful opportunity for a symbolic act pass away. He certainly didn’t have to kill every king he got hold of, but it was a necessary, useful sacrifice at least for the first time.

So the head fell. The King had immediately recognized his fate and accepted the judgment without complaint. Therefore Inugami had left him the headdress, the sign of his dignity. It had only made the act of killing stronger. The crowned head fell before the eyes of everyone, the conquered as the conquerors. The Mutalese cheers had been loud and contained real enthusiasm. For them, Saclemacal was a haven of treason. The just punishment had been pronounced and executed. The messenger of the gods had taken the King’s head, and his wondrous sword had described such a beautiful, clear bow and had carried out his work so smoothly and quietly that the magic of this weapon had made the warriors’ hearts beat faster.