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Register of persons
Dirk van den Boom
Uprising
Copyright © 2018 by Atlantis Verlag Guido Latz,
Bergstraße 34, 52222 Stolberg (Germany)
Cover © Timo Kümmel
Editor: Rob Bignell
eBook Production: André Piotrowski
ISBN 978-3-86402-609-6
www.atlantis-verlag.de
1
“That is your proposal, Mr. Engineer?”
While it was quite unusual for Rheinberg to emphasize formality in his closest circle, the slightly disbelieving undertone, accompanied by an amused headshake immediately took the severity out of the salutation. Dahms grinned at Rheinberg. They sat in the narrow messroom on board the Saarbrücken. The cruiser was moored at the pier of the “German City” specially built for the ship, a settlement that had now developed into a veritable city district of Ravenna.
Dahms with his finger painted a circle in the small wine pool that clumsy Langenhagen had caused. The first officer of the Saarbrücken looked at the engineer somewhat irritated, but, like all of the others, noticed the twinkle in the man’s eyes. Was the proposal not meant to be serious? “Oh yes, Captain, Sir,” Dahms paid back with the same coin, and his grin broadened. “That’s the suggestion.”
“I wish Köhler was here,” Langenhagen muttered. The boatswain would have expressed his displeasure about the idea of the engineer with most well-chosen words.
“I want to repeat as I understand it,” Rheinberg said now, slowly, raising a pointing finger. “You have the intention of setting up a strategic collection of shit!”
Dahm’s face grew serious. “It’s exactly like that. Actually, I’m less concerned about the shit, if you allow me. I am concerned with saltpeter.”
“Which do you want to get from shit?”
Dahms raised his shoulders. “We haven’t found a natural saltpeter source yet. I’m sure there is such a thing in the realm – perhaps somewhere in Asia, at any rate there were some existing in our time. But we can’t wait so long, especially not in the current situation. We have to get away from the steam catapults and build proper cannons, and we need black powder. What we have gathered so far is sufficient for the experimental part of our work. But if we want to go into a real mass-production, this won’t be enough. We need saltpeter, and much of it. The best source is cow shit. Properly deposited, saltpeter crystals form on the underside of the dung. We need that. I don’t want the crap itself. What I want is an organization of people who are trained by us roaming all latifundia and courtyards, and with a suitable tool …”
“… rip through the shit,” Langenhagen completed the sentence. “Imperial shit.”
Dahms nodded. “Exactly. In the short term this is the best source for a substantial saltpeter reserve – at least until we have found a natural one. I hope this will soon be the case. But until then …”
Rheinberg looked for a moment doubtfully at Dahms, but then lowered his head and resigned to the inevitable. “All right,” he said softly. “I will confer your request to the Emperor. He’ll be irritated.”
“We’ve been doing a lot of things that have been irritating since our arrival,” Langenhagen said dryly.
“I can’t contradict you,” Rheinberg replied, reaching for his wine glass, without lifting it to his mouth. “Gratian is used to us. This will certainly not bother him too long, even if it is very peculiar.”
“I’m responsible for the peculiar,” Dahms reminded his superiors. “I stamp an industrial revolution out of the ground here. And this is based, at least in the field of weapon technology, on a nice heap of shit.”
Rheinberg frowned, smiling. “I’m sure I’ll chose a different wording for my conversation with Gratian.”
“It will be better,” Dahms confirmed. “But to return to the seriousness of the situation, I’m now in a dead end with the development of weapons. We are so far as to produce smaller pieces with drilled barrels and also successfully fired one as a test. But if all this is to be of military sense, it will be time to set up a proper artillery company. It has to be trained, very carefully. And I need a good measure of black powder. Before I have a reliable source for saltpeter, we are really stuck. I have now advanced to the refinement of the steam catapults, but we must clarify this question soon.” Dahms leaned back. “I expect large saltpeter deposits in the Nile mud. I also know that there have been sources in Hungary in our time. However, we still need time to develop the appropriate course of action. We should certainly involve Gratian. But for the immediate needs, the solution proposed by me is certainly the best and fastest.”
“As I said, I’ll bring it to the Emperor,” Rheinberg said. “He arrived in Ravenna the previous day, although only for a short visit. Since he is here, he is easier to reach. I’ll meet him at court tomorrow, and then I will discuss it before he leaves for Trier again.”
Rheinberg looked for a moment out of a porthole. The Saarbrücken was not alone in this newly established navy facility – even if the latter was at present not much more than a long pier and the dry dock still under construction. Visible in the waters was the Valentinian, the first steam-war ship of the Roman fleet, recently returned from northern Egypt, without Köhler and Neumann on board, who were both painfully missed by Rheinberg.
But with an unexpected guest.
It was an officer, a young man, the closest follower of the traitorous former First Officer von Klasewitz, about whom they hadn’t heard anything since that disastrous night. Until now.
Rheinberg took a deep breath. His injury was still noticeable, a pain that had accompanied him since the failed assassination attempt on his life in the summer palace of the Emperor near Saravica. He wondered how he had managed to recover so quickly. It must have been a combination of a good bodily constitution, a competent doctor, and the unconditional will to be cured. Although the wound had now healed completely, he felt its existence; sometimes surprising, but sometimes when he expected it. The pain also reminded him that his enemies were everywhere and were not afraid of anything. Up until then, the failed assassins had not been linked to a specific source. The men had all died on the scene and hadn’t carried any traitorous hints.
Ever since the incident, Rheinberg suddenly would awake at night, his hands clenched around the pistol, which he always carried with him. Small movements, sudden noises, all that was enough to tear him from sleep. He didn’t want to raise the issue with anyone, but the mental wound that the assassination attempt had torn was obviously deeper and more lasting than the physical one.
Rheinberg had to deal with a lot of anxiety lately.
He closed his eyes. Where had he begun to digress? Ah, yes, von Klasewitz and his supporter, the young ensign …
>
“What do we do with Tennberg?” Langenhagen asked, as if he had guessed the Captain’s thoughts.
Dahms made a contemptuous grunt. Rheinberg knew what the engineer had in mind as to the fate of Tennberg. It had something to do with a fixed rope dangling from high. “We will proceed with caution,” Rheinberg replied. “I’ve made up my mind to conduct the interrogation myself, now that he has been knocked around for a while by his comrades. I’ll see him this afternoon.”
“I want to be there,” Dahms growled. “And if he doesn’t bend, I’ll beat his soul out of his body.”
Rheinberg smiled and shook his head at the same time. “No beating, at least not yet.” Before the engineer could reply, Rheinberg raised his hand and signaled him to keep quiet. “I once made a mistake with another ensign. I haven’t properly understood what it means for some of us to enter this new world. I’m very sorry now.”
Dahms wasn’t entirely convinced. His regret for Thomas Volkert seemed to be within narrow limits.
“We cannot compare Volkert’s case with that of Tennberg,” Langenhagen said.
“Both are deserters,” Dahms murmured.
“Both are deserters,” the First Officer confirmed. “But Volkert we have driven more or less toward it, and he is a young fellow who acted out of love. Tennberg was not compelled to do so, and he became a deserter because he was a failed mutineer. And that we have forked him up under certain circumstances in Egypt at least shows to me that he continued his betrayal without any remorse.”
Rheinberg smiled. He was delighted that his new deputy had the degree of human compassion that he himself had lacked in the past.
Dahms growled again but didn’t contradict. Rheinberg knew that the engineer missed Volkert and that he was basically willing to forgive him. But far and wide there was no trace of the ensign, and it was to suspect that he went underground somewhere in the Empire. And, last but not least, there were political reasons that didn’t allow an all too hasty amnesty.
“I’ll handle Tennberg carefully,” Rheinberg said. “He should get his chance.”
“He deserves nothing,” Dahms replied emphatically. “Volkert, yes, all right. But Tennberg? No way!”
“I won’t accept him back into the crew,” Rheinberg conceded. “But I’ll give him the prospect of an honorable exile. If I give him no perspective, the success of von Klasewitz is his only chance of a normal life, and he will not voluntarily pull out of the conspiracy.”
“Oh no. Let me spend a few hours with him alone. Or let our Roman friends do the ‘talking.’ I have heard that they are not too squeamish.”
This was indeed correct, as Rheinberg knew. Torture was a common and hardly questioned interrogation method. But the young Captain didn’t think anything of it. For him, such an approach was indisputable.
This attitude must have reflected in his facial expression, for Dahms let it rest.
Again his gaze wandered out to the Valentinian. Two other ships of the same type were already under construction, and Dahms was busy day and night building the two bronze steam engines needed for the new crafts. Rheinberg should be optimistic and proud. They had reached a remarkably great amount in a very short time. But since Tennberg had reappeared, something nagged at him, a dark premonition.
He finally rose and looked at his comrades.
“See you tomorrow evening,” he said. “Then we’ll know more about Tennberg’s intentions and the chances of collecting shit from the whole Empire.”
Dahms grinned. “I only need the saltpeter crystals. Raise the shit, scrap off crystals, leave the shit behind.”
Rheinberg raised his hands.
“Spare me the details, Mr. Engineer!”
2
Tribune Sedacius sat in front of the crackling camp fire. Everyone was grateful for the dancing flames, as it had cooled down in the evening. Erminius, the leader of the Quadians, squatted close to the Roman officer and was silent. The mood between Rome and the Quadians was not good. Only a few years earlier, Rome, largely unprovoked, had killed the king of the neighboring tribe and thus created a military conflict finally won by the Empire. Erminius, the successor of the murdered king, knew that his people were full of a deep and truly justified hatred against the traitors. But he also knew that there was a much greater danger approaching from the East – and that this threat had come very close, even closer than the Romans had assumed.
Thomas Volkert, although no one knew him under this name, rested at the fire as well. Sedacius had insisted, though Volkert’s rank was little more than that of a simple legionary. But the young man’s watchful intelligence had not escaped the Tribune’s attention, nor the story that had led to the sudden promotion of the soldier, who had once been involuntarily pressed into the service. At that time, he had led a column of green recruits in a surprise attack by the Sarmatians to an unexpected victory, after the actual officers had fallen. Volkert didn’t think of it as a feat. His friend Simodes had died in that battle. And it was hard to make friends here.
Erminius was silent because he had talked for a long time. In every detail, he had listed the previous encounters of his people with the Huns. Their attacks, quick, from the small, fast-paced horses, who had little work with the Quadians. Their courage, their unreservedness, their determination, the abilities of their leaders, who knew exactly how and where the tactical advantages of a mobile cavalry army could be put to proper use. The fact that the Quadians still existed depended on the fact that the main body of the Huns was relatively far away, and so far only smaller rutting group had been involved in fighting – as well as those groups of apostate Huns who refused to be subservient to the current leaders of their people and had sought their luck on their own.
But still. When the Quadians had succeeded in making some prisoners, it was clear that something was wrong, at least for Thomas Volkert, who knew a version of the story in which the great mass of the Huns appeared close to the Roman borders some decades later. This led to the Battle of the Catalaunian Fields and the legend of Flavius Aetius, the last great Roman general, who had been able to turn fate away from the possible ruin of Rome, only to be subsequently murdered by his own emperor.
Erminius had credibly told them that the main force of the Huns was now moving steadily toward the West and would be reaching the borders of the Empire much earlier than had been thought. It was highly probable that in a few years the Empire would suffer serious attacks. The Quadians didn’t have a proper idea of the extent of Eastern Europe, and Volkert felt that the speed with which the Huns knew how to travel was still underestimated, despite all their experiences.
The young German felt hot and cold listening to the descriptions.
Rheinberg’s elaborate plan to prevent the attack of the Huns against Rome by a counterattack threatened to collapse like a house of cards. If what the King gave up in bitter open-mindedness corresponded to the truth, the great exploratory mission, to which Volkert belonged, was only of limited use. The advance warning had rapidly diminished. The enemy was nearer than everyone thought and instead of continuing into the depths of the East, it was necessary to put the Empire in a state of readiness.
Volkert had to smile involuntarily at the thought. He hid the potential cause for misunderstanding behind a wooden mug of beer from which he had already drunken too much.
The Empire has been in that state for decades. But that wouldn’t be sufficient, as history had proved. But perhaps the Germans could make the difference, the difference between the tragic overthrow of Western Rome and its survival as a state. In Volkert, everything was urging Sedacius to send a message back to the authorities as soon as possible. But he was only a decurion. So he remained silent, waiting for his opportunity.
The Tribune said nothing. He, too, held a wooden beaker with beer in his hand, turned it slowly between his fingers, and looked at the reflection of the crackling fire in the murky liquid. He had proved himself as a good diplomat, and he drank the beer, although everyone knew he prefer
red wine. But insulting Erminius and questioning his hospitality, even to a certain extent, didn’t even occur to the Tribune.
It was an ability for which Volkert was quite grateful. The Quadians were in their heartland, deep in their territory, and the Roman column was very vulnerable, despite the presence of German infantry.
Volkert always had to shake off the feeling of being watched from the darkness. He felt uncomfortable since they had entered the great camp of Erminius, but he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, despite all his attention. Nor were the Quadians of a threatening demeanor, against which his intuitive mistrust could have been directed. They were reserved, defiant, grumpy, but just because of this they were honest, and the motivation for their willingness to cooperate was credible.
There was something different.
Volkert hid his face again in the cup. After all, the drink was quite enjoyable.
“So what are you Romans doing?” the King finally asked.
Sedacius hesitated visibly. He was only a tribune, and could scarcely anticipate the Emperor’s decisions. Nevertheless, he had to find an answer, because the good will of Erminius needed an adequate reaction if one didn’t want to recall the horrors of the past. The predecessor of Erminius had paid his trust with his life. Sedacius surely cursed those responsible. Volkert was certain that the Tribune wouldn’t repeat that same mistake.
“I can’t say what my lord will decide. Nevertheless, we were sent out to explore the danger posed by the Huns and to find out their exact distribution. Your help is very important to us. Rome will fight against the onslaught of the enemy as soon as possible.”
“What about us?” Erminius replied. Volkert knew at once what the Quadian wanted. Rome might be arming itself – and where in this game was place for his own people?
“I’m sure there is a solution. Perhaps the status of foederatii and a joint defense here at the border? I doubt less about the possibility of such an offer from our side than your willingness to accept it.”
Erminius grimaced.
The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising Page 1