The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  Von Geeren looked in awe.

  An avaricious legionary of Maximus’ troop had thrown his hand grenade, which had not even come close to the positions of the Germans.

  But it had exploded. Loud and audible. Frightening.

  Von Geeren dropped into the nearest MG-hole and fixed the binoculars back to his eyes.

  He hoped the rest of the battle would be more pleasurable. Then the cannons of the traitor opened fire.

  Now at last, Captain von Geeren had the certain feeling that they were in very deep shit.

  39

  “Stop it! Hands off!”

  Von Klasewitz rushed forward, pulled the gunner backwards. The torch fell to the ground, and the nobleman trampled the fire out. The frightened legionary staggered back and didn’t know what was happening to him. A bullet whirred around their ears, and von Klasewitz tore the man into the cover behind the entrenchments. Dirt flew up, where the bullets of the German infantrymen swept the ground. Then they had looked for new targets, and it became quiet, even if only for a very brief moment. The two cannons to the left and right of the German were firing with a deafening bang.

  The gunner stared at von Klasewitz, still confused. The nobleman extended his finger, pointed to the hairline that had formed on the cannon after the last volley. The eyes of the Roman broadened, then he nodded eagerly. He understood that another shot and the gun might have exploded in his face.

  Von Klasewitz cursed as he half-straightened up to hurry to the still operational pieces. This was already the third gun that had fired five shots at the most, before it fell silent forever. The continuous use, the fastest possible shot – all this had required more from the cannons than all exercises before.

  Von Klasewitz again threw himself behind the entrenchment, looked frantically to the left and right and backwards. The guards had already had to ward off an attack by Gratian’s troops on the artillery under heavy losses. Von Klasewitz had asked Maximus for reinforcements, and he had received them. The image of the bodies of the enemy’s legionaries, which had been torn into pieced by the first volley of his cannonade, had evidently impressed the Comes. He wanted to keep the cannons. They should continue to fire.

  Von Klasewitz felt the heat of the cannon next to him, casting a sorrowful glance at the bronze construction. He would have liked to order a break to allow the pieces to cool off. At the same time, this was also a great danger: the cooling bronze could deform imperceptibly in the process. This could possibly lead to further damage once the bombardment would resume.

  If the battle lasted much longer, von Klasewitz would lose his complete unit. The higher the stress, the faster the remaining guns would fail. He rushed from position to position to control how his cannons were stressed. If they failed, that was one thing. If they exploded unexpectedly among them, it was a completely different one.

  Von Klasewitz kept his ears shut. His experiment with candle wax as earplugs hadn’t worked so well. The cannon fired. The powdered odor penetrated his nose, but he immediately, almost instinctively, scrutinized the weapon for any damage. He maintained his rapid pace of inspection.

  Von Klasewitz crawled to the edge of the entrenchment and stared at the battlefield. The massacre was in full swing. The German targeting had demanded numerous sacrifices among the invading troops. But the soldiers of the Comes had now come near enough, often flat on the ground, that they cast their hand-grenades, and a few squadrons began to throw themselves at the positions of the infantry. Von Klasewitz suspected that the men had planted their bayonets, and that they were supported by Roman guards. It was a very unpleasant, cruel melee, and the traitor was glad to be far away. He was an artillery officer. He killed from distance. There was nothing in this fight that concerned him.

  Shouting. The metallic sound of impinging blades.

  The nobleman stood up. He saw that the legionaries, who were stationed as guards for the cannons, were suddenly active again. Up to now, Gratian’s troops had not attempted to attack the artillery items for a second time.

  Another scream. Von Klasewitz nipped the gun out of his holster. He had a total of 16 rounds, the only cartridges he still had left. His gun, he had left behind; he preferred the pistol, and it was quite sufficient for any melee.

  A troop of Gratian’s legionaries had slumped and crouched near from behind, apparently unimpressed by the cannonade. The men had been in safety since the beginning of the battle.

  A scream and a soldier threw up his arms, sank to the ground, a few yards away from the entrenchment. He had been hit by a bullet, right into the chest.

  But as he had turned the back of the battle, von Klasewitz discerned that some of the German infantry were among the attackers.

  Von Klasewitz felt hot and cold. Even a handful of the infantrymen would dispatch the legionaries, if they proceeded decisively.

  Now the traitor heard their shots; they came from the nearby undergrowth, close to a group of trees, in which the marksmen were hiding. Three other legionaries collapsed. Fear grew among the guards. Then a shouting of angry voices, as more of Gratian’s men became visible from behind the trees and hurried to the cannons with drawn blades.

  “Cease fire!” Klasewitz shouted at his men. “Defend yourself!”

  The cannons turned silent, the men whirled around, took spears and swords, and prepared to defend their weapons.

  The nobleman aimed at one of the attackers.

  He had a steady hand. Pulled the trigger once. A whipping bang. A legionary falling to the ground. Safe and calm, with an outstretched arm, von Klasewitz aimed at the next target. Pulled the trigger. The gun jerked up. An enemy legionary grabbed his chest and collapsed. A new target. The bullets whipped through the air, and the rifles, apparently only a few, were seeking their victims. Von Klasewitz, however, they seemed to magically miss.

  The man was completely focused, sought his victims, aimed, shot, got them every single time, aimed again. Men gathered around him, defending him against attackers who had come near enough. They were many. Too many. The traitor shot, and he never failed, but for each fallen, two new ones seemed to grow out of the ground. And the group of his own defenders shrank more and more. Then trumpets sounded, and the ground trembled.

  Von Klasewitz looked around, recognized horsemen, who rode wildly toward the cannons. Hundreds. Alanians. The allies. The nobleman felt a sudden relief.

  Maximus had to know about their situation.

  It clicked.

  Von Klasewitz stared at his empty pistol. He fingered for the second magazine until he remembered that he had just shot it. He lowered the tired arm, stuck the pistol away.

  He raised the shortsword, which he also carried on the belt, but then he realized the attack had subsided.

  And then it was completely over.

  It took a while for a Roman officer to approach him. Von Klasewitz didn’t know the man, but he belonged to Maximilian’s liaison with the Alanians. He looked at the cannons and nodded his satisfaction.

  “We have driven the enemy away, Tribune!” he announced. “Your thunder-pipes are undamaged.”

  Von Klasewitz looked around and saw that the man was right.

  Nothing had happened to the cannons.

  But that didn’t matter. For when the traitor saw about the ranks of his men, it was also clear that the cavalry had really come at the very last moment. The artillerists had already had to defend themselves against the enemy, and it had been a bloody struggle. Everywhere, the scattered bodies of the dead and wounded were visible. Many of them were once his men.

  The nobleman shook his head.

  “You must resume fire,” the Roman officer said. Von Klasewitz made a weak hand movement toward his men.

  “I still have enough trained soldiers for two cannons,” he replied exhausted. “Report this to Maximus. Only two cannons. The rest of the men are dead or too badly wounded.”

  The officer looked around as if he hadn’t noticed the consequences of the enemy’s attack. He fell sile
nt, then nodded and stepped off.

  Von Klasewitz turned around, looking at the battlefield, on which the fight still raged, evidently with unbroken intensity.

  For him, however, the battle was over.

  40

  The hand grenade flew high. The legionary who had thrown it fell, struck down by three or four bullets, stumbling to the ground and was probably already dead when he hit the dirt. But his grenade flew directly toward von Geeren, in a beautiful curve. The officer looked at it as if in slow motion. A good number of Maximus’ grenades had proved to be crude and unreliable. They had something like an impact fuse, which didn’t work in more than half of the cases. The front line was littered with non-ignited grenades. They could be thrown back and some enterprising soldiers did, and sometimes they would even detonate at the second try. But the German infantry had their own hand grenades, not many, but much more reliable. When the enemy legionaries had approached them, the prepared order had been given, the salvoes had ebbed for a moment, and instead, each man had hurled two German hand grenades onto the advancing, crouching opponents. Where the cover helped them not to be hit by the rifles, the attackers had no protection against the grenades. When a whole front line of bodies was torn by the explosions, and the succeeding legionaries reached the dead and wounded comrades, bleeding from partial wounds, the enthusiasm of the attackers had visibly diminished. Von Geeren had even discovered first legionaries who had cautiously made their way back.

  But not all of them. And this grenade flew at him with terrifying certainty. Von Geeren didn’t know where to throw himself. An explosion would catch him anyway.

  A hard fist tore him down, a shadow fell on him. Centurion Verilius dragged him behind the large, square shield, forged from iron. Normally, the Roman army had no use for such strong shields; they were too expensive and too heavy. But when it became clear that the enemy had grenades, Rheinberg had plundered the Emperor’s honor guard, and left the great shields to Verilius and his men. They offered some protection against an explosion, especially against the flying splinters. However, a certain distance was necessary. In the immediate vicinity of the detonation, the shield would also be in danger of contributing to the generation of shrapnel.

  Von Geeren heard the warnings of his men. He reminded himself to shout as well. He opened his mouth, but then he heard the dull sound of the grenade reaching the ground, and all his muscles tightened in instinctive expectation of the explosion.

  Nothing happened.

  He peered past the edge of the shield, saw the grenade lying on the ground a few meters in front of him. The impact fuse had failed, but the weapon was a permanent danger. An unintentional touch could already trigger the detonation.

  Two large sandbags fell on the dud, expertly thrown out of the cover by two German soldiers. Sandbags, which had been used as defense against arrows. However, the attacks of the enemy archers were not half as dangerous as these duds. When the two heavy and voluminous sacks hit the grenade, von Geeren once again expected the detonation. But nothing happened. Three more sandbags were quickly piled up. If the grenade was now going to explode, it wouldn’t do much harm.

  Von Geeren had little time to relish his feeling of relief. When he wanted to turn to Verilius to express his gratitude, he was already pushed aside. Out of nowhere, an enemy soldier had appeared out of the ground in front of them. Either he had approached with greatest care, or had been so muddled in the chaos that he had escaped general attention. He was a muscular, strong man, who jumped forward with determination, the sword forward like an extension of his own body, and at once appointing the German officer as his victim.

  Verilius raised his blade, took a step forward, pulled with his left von Geeren behind himself. The blow of the attacker was powerful but hit the wrong target, bounced hard against the Centurion’s shield. Verilius threw the cover away at once, as it hindered him in the fight. Fearless, almost with contempt, the Centurion awaited the next move of his opponent.

  It didn’t come. Geeren had taken advantage of the distraction, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger. The impact threw the legionary back, he stumbled, the arm with the sword suddenly lowered. He gave von Geeren a last look, half disappointed, half confused, then he fell to the ground and died.

  The young German looked at the corpse for a moment. Then he raised his eyes, looking for more attackers. But it remained quiet. Was the enemy’s onslaught broken? The officer moved behind the entrenchment, looked at the battlefield. The traitor’s cannons were hardly firing. But the legions of the usurper pressed forward. The part of the formation, which was closest to the infantry, was grouped together. Warning calls arose. Again, the flank of the German position was attacked. Verilius raised his arm in greeting, then he had already disappeared to hurry to his men, who were now under pressure.

  Von Geeren wiped sweat from his forehead. A glance at the clock informed him that only an hour had passed since the beginning of the battle, and yet he felt exhausted. He took a sip of water from his bottle. The attack of the legionary had been very purposeful, directly against him.

  This couldn’t be a coincidence. The officer had been easily identifiable. Von Klasewitz had passed on the information about the appearance of officers so that the legionaries could identify someone like him with no doubt. The only one who had abandoned his uniform was Rheinberg, since he felt compelled to look like the Magister Militium was supposed to. He wore the mixture of “armor and skirt,” as the Germans secretly called it, which was similar to that of other Roman officers. Von Geeren was quite glad not to have to wear it. He didn’t assume that he had particularly beautiful legs.

  “They’re attacking again,” one of his men shouted. The Captain didn’t have to use the binoculars. The legionaries were well to be recognized, though they had repeatedly thrown themselves down on the ground, crouching like a flood toward the German position. Other divisions remained standing and began rapid storm attacks to direct the fire of the guns. Von Geeren bit his teeth when he took note of this kind of heroism, which bordered on complete self-sacrifice.

  The problem was that this tactic could work. The first targeted shots of the infantrymen met.

  “Save ammunition!” von Geeren shouted. “Aim carefully! No waste!”

  Even the MG shooters fired with only short bursts of fire. This was their biggest problem: After the skirmishes and fighting so far, they slowly and surely ran out of supplies. Dahms couldn’t compensate for losses through his workshops in the foreseeable future. It wouldn’t be long before they were left with only the bayonets, which had already been attached to the mouths of the rifles. For von Geeren it was clear that he would at this moment command full retreat. In close combat with the blade, his men, despite all the exercises, were far inferior to an experienced legionary. It would be a quick and very one-sided slaughter.

  A machine gun barked. A row of rushing legionaries ran against a wall and fell to the ground.

  Quick and one-sided like this.

  The Captain looked toward the place where he knew Rheinberg and the other generals. No new flags, no trumpet signals, no messages – no new orders. Rheinberg had other problems.

  Von Geeren wasn’t happy about it. He suddenly missed Jonas Becker. The burden of responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders.

  Shots fell. Victims screamed. The Captain saw another hand grenade fly, landing too short, detonating without damage. Nevertheless, von Geeren had his face in the mud again.

  He was trembling.

  He was actually quite terrified.

  41

  “We are not simply doing well, we have the advantage!”

  Rheinberg nodded with delight. The Emperor had described the situation to the point. Malobaudes grunted affirmatively. He seemed to share the judgment of his Lord.

  Just now, Gratian had given the order to use the favor of the moment. The battle had already lasted almost two hours. The extensive elimination of the enemy’s artillery had above all a very positive psychologica
l effect on the Emperor’s troops. The fact that the German infantry didn’t have the same effect as hoped for was due to the fact that Maximus threw many men against their positions, and although he had not yet overcome them, he nevertheless tied the firepower of the Germans. The lack of ammunition was also noticeable. Rheinberg sensed that this was the last great battle in which he could massively involve the infantry. And he had to talk to Dahms. No matter what projects the engineer also pursued, he had to ensure ammunition supplies.

  Gratian had ordered to throw the reserve, including some his own hand-picked bodyguard, into the battle. There was a certain irony in the fact that a good part of the Guard consisted of Alanian riders, who now fought against their countrymen. In another time, in the past, these riders had betrayed Gratian to fight with Maximus. But now everyone wanted to be on the side of the winner, so at least Rheinberg’s impression was.

  The fresh troops, boosted by the prospect of an imminent triumph and the promise of considerable loot, put Maximus’s army under great pressure. The usurper’s legionaries were brave and extremely disciplined. But it was clear that the momentum was now Gratian’s side. If they didn’t readjust now, the Comes’ front lines would soon break. And with that, this nightmare of an uprising was ended once and for all.

  Malobaudes bent over the great representation of the battlefield. Different pieces of wood symbolized the units of both sides, their position constantly updated by scouts, who had tirelessly rushed from one side of the battlefield to the other. The old general looked thoughtful.

  “Maximus doesn’t have too many options,” he said.

  “He can end the battle and seek his salvation,” Arbogast, who also belonged to their council of war, presumed.

  “Maximus isn’t stupid. He will not throw away his men in a senseless gesture,” Gratian said. “On the contrary, I expect him to send an emissary to begin negotiations.”