The Emperor's Men 3: Passage

by Dirk van den Boom

  And that would guarantee a good number of sneers from those who had always known that this was insane.

  Aurelius Africanus, officially the captain of Valentinian, felt itchy. His years of seafaring experience didn’t help much because this ship was unusual for him. There had been a few shipyard sea trials that the Trierarch had embarked on to familiarize himself with the seaworthiness of this unusual construction, but it was this maiden voyage on which the ship and hence the commander had to prove themselves for the first time.

  Africanus could rely on Köhler’s support, as the NCO held the exalted post of first officer. Nevertheless, the German was not allowed to put himself too much on display, for that would probably undermine Africanus’s authority. It had been a conscious decision to make a Roman captain of the new ship. The inferiority complex of those who realized how far the technological development of the time-travelers was ahead of the Empire had to be actively attacked so that the Germans and their role found widespread acceptance. Africanus was the representative of all the Roman navy captains, and great expectations had been laid on his shoulders. Everyone who knew him was aware of this pressure, saw immediately that something was bothering him deep under his seemingly self-controlled appearance. Köhler wasn’t irritated. He had always been of the opinion that a good officer needed some solid acting talent, as he had to manage to instill confidence and stamina in the crew even under adverse circumstances. Merely leaving the port with no wind should belong to the smaller exercises.

  “Cast off!” Africanus bellowed hoarsely.

  “Ropes are free!” a polyphonic answer came both from the pier as well as the crew of the ship. With a barely perceptible movement, the steamboat left the wall. Köhler kept a close eye on the process but saw no reason to intervene.

  Africanus sighed, heard only by those who stood with him on the upper deck. The old gubernator of Africanus’ sunken trireme was also responsible for the steering of this ship and had become familiar with the far more comfortable mechanism. The Trierarch pulled the mouthpiece of the communication tube toward his mouth, blew through and ordered: “Engine – quarter speed ahead!”

  Köhler could imagine how Forstmann grimaced. Quarter speed with a bronze steam engine that couldn’t build up proper pressure was a ridiculously low acceleration.

  But the stoker obeyed the command without further grumbling. The steam rose rhythmically from the chimney, and the upper deck, located right above the plant, began to shake gently with the movement of the drive shaft. Köhler closed his eyes and felt how the steamboat began to gather its strength.

  The Valentinian awoke.

  Meanwhile, the crew had pushed the ship with long sticks away from the harbor wall. The helmsman didn’t need any instructions to do his job. He spun the wheel once he felt, just like Köhler, that the ship began to respond to the rudder. The bow of the steamer swung toward the center of the dock. The ship slid gently through the smooth water.

  Viewers watched the process with reverent silence. Even the musicians had stopped playing. The notables had risen from their seats under the canopy. Some of them had already seen the Saarbrücken in action, but this was something special. No marvel of an abstract, distant time, but the work of Roman naval workmanship – with some help, yes, but a ship they could understand more easily than the metal colossus of the light cruiser.

  This ship really belonged to them. A Roman, one of theirs, was in command, and another one steered it. That it was a German mechanic who made sure that inside the ship the steam engine worked properly couldn’t be seen and was properly hidden from many onlookers. Köhler allowed himself a smile. Rheinberg’s decision to allow the Valentinian’s immediate passage with a predominantly Roman crew and Africanus as a commander had been spot on. The spectators on the walls of the harbor radiated pride and admiration, where they had been looking at the Saarbrücken rather with fear and intimidation.

  Triremes and small sailing-boats swarmed the Valentinian, escorted the ship from the dock and gave her an escort. Colorful flags and pennants hung from the poles and on the ropes, people waved enthusiastically. Köhler heard a joyful cry, and he looked at the young Marcellus, the first Roman member of the Saarbrücken’s crew, who excitedly stood at the rail and bounced on his toes while he waved vigorously. Köhler took a step forward and realized that among the many ships that accompanied the Valentinian was also the fishing boat of Marcellus’ father, who had given his son with obvious pride in the care of Chief Engineer Dahms to become more than a fisherman. Dahms took the job very seriously, and the almost 13-year-old boy had begun to moan quickly about the intensity of lessons. But since he had become something like a ship’s mascot, not least because of the role he had played in the failed mutiny, he had been selected for his first real assignment. His first big trip as an assistant to Forstmann was a reward and a test at the same time. Dahms had actually slightly moist eyes after he had agreed that Marcellus was allowed to go on board. Of course, this was only due to eye irritation, as he had assured everyone. No one had believed him.

  Dahms had left a family behind, a wife and a son he would probably never see again, living in the distant future. Everyone knew that he treated young Marcellus with the benevolent sincerity of a father and less with the ruthless discipline of a superior, and no one had ever scolded him for that.

  Köhler had to promise twice to take care of Marcellus. It was clear that he would remain on board the steamer and wouldn’t join them to Aksum, although the boy still hoped otherwise. Dahms himself had given him multiple warnings along the way, and the small bag that he had given him to bring his belongings on board was a gift. Marcellus had received it with obvious pride. The chief engineer of the Saarbrücken had added a number of exquisite Roman sweets to it, something Marcellus would probably only notice once he opened the bag on board. No, this was far removed from the strict discipline of a supervisor and instructor. But Köhler enjoyed these small gestures that warmed his heart, like a few days ago, when they had given the assembled slaves in the tavern their freedom, an enterprise whose shares Behrens and he had bought and taken full control before their departure. All former slaves had received an offer of paid employment. Everyone had accepted.

  There had been wet eyes. Köhler felt that things changed, and that he could achieve more than he could have ever imagined in his life. He touched the lives of many people and did things differently. Better. Just as Dahms had touched the lives of fisher-boy Marcellus, who was jumping up and down at the railing and waving to his father, bursting with pride.

  He would take care of him, he promised Dahms in silence for a third time.

  “Full speed ahead!” Africanus ordered, and Köhler could imagine vividly how stoker Forstmann heartily laughed in the belly of the Valentinian. But the man did his duty, increased the pressure, and the pounding noise of the machine became clearly audible through the wooden planks. The light breeze that had started wasn’t sufficient for the sailing boats to keep up with the steamer, and Köhler heard the noise from the two Roman triremes as they were dipping the oars into the water, trying to match the speed of the steamboat.

  Africanus waved from his position beside the helmsman at the triremes. For a short time, the rowers could keep the acceleration with their experienced, muscular movements, especially now that the sea was as smooth as glass. But it took only another five minutes until the trierarchs decided to let the oarsmen rest, and the triremes disappeared slowly out of sight to the Valentinian’s rear. Finally, they turned away to return to port. If anything proved the superiority of even such a crude steam engine, then it was this maneuver, and the returnees would report in Ravenna how the new Roman warship reliantly entered the open sea, without sail or oars, and increasingly far from the coast, like no trierarch who was of his right mind would dare. It was a new quality of seafaring, there was no doubt. Köhler smiled contentedly, and his eyes met with Africanus, discerning an enthusiastic glimmer. The other
Roman crewmen aboard quacked like little girls, beating themselves on their shoulders, and joking in their excited and boisterous state. Africanus apparently didn’t intend to that, and there was no need for it anyway. The hazy but quiet morning didn’t offer any further challenges in store, and the Valentinian now headed westward, directly to Alexandria. The large, round compass was the birthday gift of the Saarbrücken, although the men of Dahms were already busy manufacturing similar equipment. But the chief engineer had personally taken the device, covered by a sheet of glass and installed it next to the big steering-wheel. In addition, quite accurate maps were available, Roman as well as copies of the German ones, as well as a spare sextant from the light cruiser. Dahms had it placed on his list of priorities to manufacture sextants with and had been happy to learn that the quality of Roman ironwork was quite sufficient to provide what was desired, once one had told the craftsmen what was expected of them. But the production had just started, so their instrument had been plundered from the inventories of the light cruiser.

  The haze lifted, and a radiant but unfortunately not too warm winter sun blazed. As the sea roughened up, the Valentinian moved stronger, but held up well in the water. Köhler nodded toward Africanus.

  “We should relieve Forstmann of his misery,” he said to the commander. “Ten minutes at full power and he surely fears for his life.”

  Africanus grinned and gave the order to reduce the machine to half speed. Forstmann’s confirmation came suspiciously quickly and held undoubtedly a relieved tone.

  “We start with the maneuvers!” Africanus ordered. “We need to know what this ship can do!” He fixed Sepidus, the old gubernator with the weathered face, clutching the steering wheel with almost childlike enthusiasm and looking back at him expectantly. “Toward starboard, and hardly!”

  Sepidus let the wheel twirl. The steamboat creaked. Africanus really wanted to test its limits.

  “Oh shit!” Weinkamp muttered.

  10

  Freiherr von Klasewitz groaned ostentatiously. The foreman, nominally head of the factory, looked at him with a steady gaze. Certainly, the time traveler was in his right to give him orders, and he was therefore willing to endure a certain amount of moodiness. But this on one side so knowledgeable, on the other side quite unbearable man strained his patience and his nerves to extremes. The Roman was convinced that they would come to the expected results more quickly if that man would keep his distance and let him do his work. He had even toyed with the idea of complaining to Maximus about the German, but the Comes seemed to think the world of the stranger. And he didn’t want to offend Maximus, as sincere admiration was all the foreman felt for him – the leader who was responsible for all of their future, the one to become emperor. So he had no choice but to endure von Klasewitz and his moods.

  And he actually learned a lot once you put all the tirades, unjust rage, and arrogant remarks aside. The science that the nobleman called “ballistics” he found particularly fascinating. Not that it was too strange for him – the foreman was very experienced in building catapults, onagers and other long-range weapons for many years – but the manner in how von Klasewitz described new materials, new manufacturing techniques, and how to properly calculate their operation, all linked to each other, and were indeed thrilling.

  Very promising also. If they would only succeed in their plan that at least one of the pieces could shoot without breaking into parts or cracking and could fire a shot with some accuracy. The foreman, Bulbius by name, had to admit that there was still room for improvement with respect to these aspects.

  That von Klasewitz called him and his men repeatedly barbaric, incompetent morons, however, didn’t particularly help with the needed development.

  The nobleman had clearly not improved his personal skills during the last weeks. On the contrary. For him, based on his viewpoint, this was all beneath him. A necessary evil, a duty he had to fulfill to achieve a higher goal.

  He stared at the gun barrel, a compact, elongated form of good five feet in length, made of cast bronze. While the Empire still had difficulties building a suitable furnace for steelmaking, it was known to von Klasewitz that Dahms and his men had already proceeded relatively far, and the production of iron and the first puddle furnace would soon begin operation. For von Klasewitz, these challenges were so much higher. He could not utilize the diverse skills and resources of the crew of the light cruiser. The ensign who had escaped with him had been given another task. Von Klasewitz was quite knowledgable as an artillery officer, with expertise in ballistics and the technical parameters of modern naval guns. But everything else, especially the production of the guns and the necessary tools and skills he had to painstakingly piece together from his memory, and often even that wasn’t sufficient.

  The gun barrel in front of him was telling example of his dilemma. The fine, barely visible hairline crack would be fatal when firing the first shot and would tear the metal, making the cannon already now totally useless.

  “Melt it down,” he said hoarsely. “Melt it down and repeat!”

  The foreman bowed his head. He found that his men were making progress. The last two attempts before had been complete failures, where everyone realized at first glance that the experiment had failed. With this one they had to do further examination and for a while even assumed that they had been able to produce a working cannon. But the nobleman was apparently in no mood to acknowledge this progress and to praise anyone for it.

  Actually, he was never in the mood to do that.

  Bulbius nodded again and turned without a word. He let von Klasewitz alone, immersed himself in the hot and noisy factory floor of this top-secret facility near London, to do exactly what he had been assigned to. It took a minute, then three strong workers came and rolled away the useless pipe under the scowl of the nobleman on a handcart, directly to the oven, to be melted down. The fact that they were in a hurry, because the artillery was supposed to be ready for the big attack, was something they were all well aware of. Nobody wanted to disappoint the Comes.

  Von Klasewitz turned away, climbed a wooden staircase at the edge of the factory floor, and entered the study he had set up. It consisted of two rooms, separated by a wooden wall – a combined work room and meeting room in which he tried to produce meaningful design drawings, and a living room, which, on his insistence, had its own small latrine. The notion to have contact with hundreds of talkative Roman workers using the big facility just outside the factory had instilled horror in the nobleman.

  He longingly glanced at the door to the living room, which he had, as far as it was possible, tastefully decorated, with thick carpets, some statuettes, a large fireplace, several couches, and of course a wide bed, covered with skins and blankets. He enjoyed that luxury, which in some ways surpassed even the way of life on board of the Saarbrücken. And unlike Rheinberg and his followers, he was also of the opinion that to abolish slavery wasn’t that urgent. The fact that Maximus himself had graced him with two Scythian girls, just 16 years old, to fulfill uncomplainingly their role as servants and playmates, had convinced Klasewitz of the fact that there were simply some people who had to be served, and those who were born to serve. What else should these illiterate creatures, conversing in a strange gibberish, do with their lives? The face of the man showed a glimpse of anticipation. Currently, the slaves were held in the appropriate quarters. The workers on the factory floor were almost all free men, many of them soldiers, and only simple, manual labor was left to the few slaves. The other work, cooking, washing clothes and, as von Klasewitz relished, the more relaxing moments were reserved for slaves. He was aware that even formerly convinced Roman slave owners, inspired by Christianity, started to reject the use of female slaves for carnal appetites and held morality very high. But von Klasewitz, despite the fact that he surely supported the unity of the Church and the elimination of apostates, allowed himself a certain amount of liberal attitudes. This was booty from
Roman attacks beyond Hadrian’s Wall. In the end, the barbarians were little more than animals and would never play a role anywhere in the world.

  So being engrossed in these thoughts, he had at first completely overlooked the figure who sat in a chair in front of his desk. A man who rose now and unfolded to considerable size. Maximus, the Comes, had come to see himself how things progressed. Von Klasewitz straightened. He wasn’t always sure how he should behave in the presence of the future emperor. The Comes was an important, influential man, and he was the one to whom von Klasewitz had to be thankful for his position. But he also was, in his eyes, not more than many others in this time: barbaric savages who didn’t deserve to benefit from his knowledge.

  But well considered … an interesting train of thoughts unfolded suddenly in the consciousness of the nobleman. He paused imperceptibly, gave Maximus a noncommittal smile. His gaze went for a moment into the void.

  If events moved the right way, they should actually let him, von Klasewitz, as the superior mind from a superior time, take command and initiative. The nobleman had to concede that this was currently unlikely. Nevertheless, deep in his heart he knew that ultimately only things could go well if he took the lead, and in these days that could only mean …

  Von Klasewitz breathed heavily, ignoring the questioning look of the Comes.

  It could only mean, yes, ultimately, that he wore the purple himself. This idea, so inappropriate and unreasonable, appeared in view of the presence of another man who currently had much greater chances to gain this office, but he forced him to think in sudden clarity. He smiled broadly, and although Maximus clearly interpreted that smile as directed toward him, he would have reacted angrily if he had guessed the real reason for the nobleman’s joy. The German exilant, here, at this moment, in a room of a factory building near London, no more than a glorified engineer with dubious success, suddenly felt that he was planning the right steps and everything seemed to make sense, to become the logic of his existence. Ultimately, the failed mutiny had been a good thing, he thought as he reached for Maximus’s arm in greeting. Having failed as captain of the Saarbrücken, he would succeed triumphantly as Emperor of Rome, someone before who Rheinberg would bend his knee.