The Emperor's Men_2_Betrayal

by Dirk van den Boom

  “Cavalry is particularly vulnerable,” said a voice beside Becker.

  The captain turned and saw Secratus who looked stoically at the actions of his men on the battlefield.

  “Horses are great targets and their death causes confusion. They throw the rider off, trample on those who are already on the ground and are no longer controllable. You don’t even need to aim at the men; the horses are perfectly adequate. The rest can be done by a normal warrior.”

  “That’s right. But in this case, it wasn’t even necessary to target someone particular. The Goths were riding in a tight bunch and wanted to overwhelm your men by the sheer force of their attack. We just aimed into their direction generally. They had no chance.”

  “My men were very afraid.”

  “They behaved very disciplined.”

  “Now they are full of confidence. That was good for morale.”

  Becker said nothing. His own morals were not quite as good, and he judged the results of this carnage not half as positive as Secratus. His picture of this battle had much in common with a mass execution, a merciless extinction in which the victims had no chance of resistance – or to surrender when no other escape was possible. They had succumbed them like a force of nature.

  The captain tried to imagine what would happen if 30,000 Goths came marching toward them. Given sufficient time for preparation, his men would be able to accomplish terrible things. And when after fifteen or twenty minutes of continuous fire, the Roman troops began to take revenge for Adrianople, the completely demoralized Goths would suffer a terrible defeat.

  That was the plan.

  Why, Becker thought, as he listened without comment to the tactical interpretations of the Roman, did he almost wish that Fritigern would take the reports of those who had escaped very serious?

  “Becker!”

  The voice of Arbogast interrupted his thoughts.

  “It’s getting late, we should establish a real camp now and see that we continue to march in the morning.”

  “We should leave the immediate vicinity of the battlefield.”

  The general grinned sympathetically. “Yes, it will start to stink soon. We will call the men to assemble and then march for a few miles. It should be possible to find a more comfortable spot.”

  Arbogast wanted to turn away, as a centurion with some legionaries climbed up the hill. The men carried a limp form and were accompanied by the medical corporal of the German infantry.

  “Lord, we have the desired prisoner,” announced the centurion and told the legionaries to let the wounded down to the ground, whereupon the paramedic, shaking his head silently, began to take care of the man. Becker stepped closer and saw that the prisoner had a nasty bullet wound in the right arm but otherwise appeared to be unharmed.

  “We have pulled him from under his horse,” said the centurion. “The dead animal has protected him from the carnage, but he wasn’t able to extricate himself. He refuses to give his name and accuses us to be in an unholy covenant with demons.”

  The veteran spat contemptuously on the floor. “Barbarians. Cannot differ the invention of modern scholarship from curses and spells.”

  “How is he, Corporal?” Becker asked and knelt beside the wounded man, who was staring at him warily and somewhat anxious.

  “Captain, I’ve cleaned the wound, stopped the bleeding, applied a proper bandage. The shot has penetrated the arm and has shattered the humerus. Actually, he may have to undergo surgery. It will eventually heal, though not very nicely. He will have complaints in the future, but an infection is obviously not visible. A tough guy who can endure something, he wasn’t unconscious for a second.”

  “Thank you. Can we move him?”

  The corporal frowned. “Our Roman friends don’t really care, Captain. I’d like to let him rest for 24 hours, but we don’t have this option obviously.”

  “Provide transport on the truck. Make him as comfortable as possible, give him food and wine. When we set up camp, he should get his rest until tomorrow morning. I can’t control our Roman friends to put the screws to him for much longer.”

  “For what did I patch him up again?”

  Becker nodded. “Be nice to him. Maybe he realizes that you are not in league with the demons and is ready to tell you something. Then maybe I can prevent them from torturing him.”

  The Corporal nodded and rose. Two legionaries grabbed the injured and carried him down the hill.

  Becker followed them with his eyes, then he sat himself to descend too, in the hope that with increasing distance the still persistent whining and complaining would fade from the battlefield. It wouldn’t erase itself from his memory as fast, that he was sure of.

  Soon the troop was back on the road. Far and wide, there was no one to see. If there were civilians in the area, they remained fearfully hidden in their homes. The fact that the Romans began, apparently in high spirits, to sing marching songs was certainly not helping to spread a sense of security. Becker was glad when an hour later they had discovered a good camp location, near the walls of a smaller town. When the camp was built, he came back to look after the prisoner. There were things he wanted to know – about the size of the Gothic army, Fritigern’s plans, mood and morale among the Gothic warriors. He knew he would probably learn nothing too specific, but every bit of information he could obtain might later prove to be beneficial. When he saw the depressed face of the medical corporal, he already knew that his hopes in this respect could not be fulfilled. “What has happened? Did the Romans already take care of him?”

  The young man shook his head.

  He was called Brockmann, that much Becker knew about him. Normally, he wouldn’t give a paramedic too much attention, but in this century – and after what he had just witnessed on the battlefield – this man was of particularly high importance. Another annotation on Becker’s ever growing list.

  “The Romans have had us in good view all the time, sir. I don’t know exactly what they were talking, but the Goth has obviously listened well to them. I guess they have specially imagined loud and clear what they would do with the prisoner once they get him ready for interrogation. Anyway, the prisoner didn’t look very happy.”

  Becker knew what was coming, but he just nodded to Brockmann.

  “I’ve left him alone only for a brief moment. When I came back, he was already dead. He killed himself. Suicide. That he preferred to torture apparently.”

  Brockmann swallowed and visibly struggled with his emotions. Becker put a hand on his shoulder.

  “How could he kill himself?”

  “He had a knife hidden in his boot. We haven’t searched him very thoroughly. He brought it out and cut his throat. A fast and precise cut. He must have applied an insane willpower to do this – or he was simply too terrified of what the Romans would do to him.”

  Brockmann visibly struggled to keep his composure. “It’s not your fault, Corporal.”

  “I would –”

  “So far we have only been shortly in this time and still don’t know our way around. We learn. Unfortunately, our gaps in knowledge are punished quickly and often brutally. It will not happen a second time. And it wasn’t your fault.”

  Brockmann tried a nod, wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes. His jaws worked silently.

  “Go to sleep. I will ask the Romans to clean up the mess. No self-reproach, Brockmann. When one has to be blamed, then it’s me and my lack of precautions. Take a rest, drink a cup of wine. We won today. Remember, though, that we do our work here.”

  The corporal didn’t look as if the words of Becker actually had a comforting effect on him. But he saluted, turned on his heel, and disappeared in the direction of the fires, around which the soldiers had gathered. Becker added another item to his shopping list. He had to take care of the mental health of men more than he had hitherto done. No one would come to commit suicide in fear of torture – at least the captain fervently hoped so. But the strain would produce more and more consequences. Bec
ker felt it himself, especially today. He had to take care of this.

  Someone handed him a cup of wine. He quickly poured down the thin swill.

  He would have to exchange a serious word with Sergeant Behrens. To bring a distillery in motion became quite urgent.

  Very much so.

  17

  Especially at night, one could tell how much Ravenna stank. It was this mixture of excrements – human and animal – and the generally rather dubious hygiene of the city that mingled, close to the harbor, with the stench of less than fresh fish. There were moments in which Seaman Jens Kempner wished to be allowed to stand next to a steel mill or a coal power plant, just to perceive an odor that was not only familiar but reminded him of civilization as he knew it.

  But right then, at night, and without a breath of fresh air from the sea, Ravenna stunk. One of the most important cities of the Western Empire smelled like a one-horse town. Kempner had his problems coping with this, and he was glad that the ship’s officers did everything to keep the Saarbrücken alive because the light cruiser was all the seaman could cling to. The ship, the peace of mind generated by its steel, the powerful guns, the chimneys, the exhalations of oil and coal – everything that Kempner had left many centuries behind him was united here. The fact that the odors that normally exuded the cruiser were now covered by the town was mainly related to the fact that they wanted to save coal and the machine had to be shut down. Until a new source of fuel had been established, they had to use the supplies sparingly, as Kempner knew very well. Nevertheless, he would give a lot to see the smoke rising from the chimneys as soon as possible.

  There wasn’t much more to do than to indulge in these and similar thoughts, because Kempner had night watch, the worst shift from midnight, and he hated it. One was either too tired or not really awake, and on the quay, Roman legionaries shared his lot with obviously little enthusiasm, and this didn’t ensure that Kempner’s spirits were awake. He’d have liked to have a coffee, but again the inventories have already been strongly depleted, and the general dismay that the ancient Romans had never heard about this wonderful drink had been great. Kempner had once asked Dr. Neumann if one couldn’t something to introduce coffee to the Roman Empire. Neumann had told him that an expedition to Ethiopia was necessary for this purpose and placed the idea promptly on the long, long list. The thought didn’t let go of Kempner, and he pictured himself to equip such an expedition as soon as the status of the Saarbrücken was secured. He had already informed himself about the Ethiopia of his time, called the Kingdom of Aksum, a Christian state, if he had understood it correctly. The Romans knew that kingdom and stood in a loose contact, so it shouldn’t be impossible to travel there. Kempner’s plan took shape during every guard shift. He knew he was going to find supporters for this project, and he imagined that with success he could have a coffee roasting, being the one who will introduce the drink to Rome … the seaman had learned well during the weeks of his stay in this time that a bag of solidi in Rome was at least as a good thing as a bag full of Reichsmark in his own time – of both of it one could basically never have too much.

  Oh yes. Kempner smiled softly to himself. It would open a coffee house in Ravenna, and while he still was on duty on the Saarbrücken , teach Romans to do the work. To build a coffee roaster should not be so hard, and all he had to do was to ensure the supply of coffee beans. The idea became more attractive with each new planning detail.

  “Sailor! Are you asleep?”

  The harsh voice interrupted Kempner from his dreams. Involuntarily he snapped to attention, raised his lantern. With horror, he recognized the sight of von Klasewitz, who was looking at him moodily. Kempner got a dry mouth. He hadn’t known that the first officer was on night guard! Had not Tennberg been on the bridge when he himself had taken position at the Saarbrücken’s bow? Perhaps the first officer had been drinking too much coffee, as for him the rationing apparently did not apply.

  “Commander! I didn’t hear you coming! I was paying attention to the quay!”

  “Haven’t heard me, ah, yes. Is that your conception of duty during guard service, Sailor? Since everyone could have sneaked up on deck over the railing, you wouldn’t have heard that too, huh?”

  “Yes, yes, no, I mean …” Kempner turned red, which thankfully couldn’t be seen in the darkness. At least he was now wide awake.

  If only for a moment.

  What he really didn’t hear, as he was focused entirely on von Klasewitz, were the faint footsteps behind him. What he felt was the sharp pain on his skull, and then he collapsed with a groan, unconscious, directly into the officer’s outstretched arms.

  “Nice work, Schmitt,” growled von Klasewitz and lowered the unconscious man to the ground.

  Stoker First Class Josef Schmitt, a beefy man, prone to obesity, grinned with his mostly toothless mouth. He pushed a residual chewing tobacco back and forth, weighing a stick in his hairy fist. “The next one?” he asked.

  “There is no one else up here. On the bridge with Tennberg, we have to take care of someone, then the deck is ours. The rest of the cruiser is in line once all our men are gathered.”

  Schmitt spat over the side. A curse on Latin followed. The stoker looked down into the darkness and made a silly face.

  “Stop to stare, let the rope ladder down,” von Klasewitz said hoarsely. “Then to the bridge, Tennberg will show you who needs your attention. Below, there are our allies!”

  Schmitt grunted and did as he was told. He disappeared into the darkness. Von Klasewitz raised his lantern. The first Roman who swung himself over the railing was Petronius. His feverish eyes gleamed in the reflection of the weak light. He said nothing but immediately made room for the following men. The stocky, powerful figures silently climbed on board and filled the bow section. From the bridge Tennberg made a sign – the last deck watch that didn’t belong to the mutineers had been rendered harmless. Von Klasewitz raised his lantern in response.

  Petronius had gathered his fellow believers, they all wore monks’ robes. But their muscular arms with the calloused hands proved that they were used to a different life than just blissful contemplation, and the way one or the other held stick or baton gave room to interpretation what kind of profession these men had pursued before they had dedicated their lives to the church.

  Petronius had no doubt chosen people who could be of the most efficient service tonight. The two men nodded at each other. One night before the nobleman had made the conspirators familiar with a floor plan of the Saarbrücken . What kind of fear these men might have had in regard to this demonic device, it was undoubtedly outweighed by the willingness to put all effort in this holy and godly deed. And if it was necessary to crush some skulls, this was certainly a sin for which one would find immediate absolution in subsequent penance.

  There was no need for further discussion. From the darkness two burly figures emerged, two other crew-members belonging to von Klasewitz’s mutineers. They had been commissioned to accompany the monks down.

  The group disappeared. Von Klasewitz immediately rushed to the bridge, where Tennberg and Schmitt waited for him. Both received him with a decidedly triumphant smile.

  Von Klasewitz held out his open hand. “The keys to the armory,” he demanded.

  There were three keys for this important room. One he had. One was carried by the second officer. One was in the key box on the bridge, so that the guard on duty could hand out weapons in an emergency. As Tennberg only dropped one into the hand of Klasewitz, the officer wrinkled his forehead.

  “Where’s the third? I told you that we must avoid at all costs that Langenhagen …”

  Tennberg looked confused at von Klasewitz. “But I thought you had the key! I immediately sent men into the cabin of the Second, but they haven’t found it! I thought you had already taken care of him!”

  Von Klasewitz cursed. He drew his gun, knew how to handle firearms. It was the first thing his father had taught him on their estate, and it was the only thing he
had really understood. “Come with me, Schmitt,” the nobleman hissed.

  The stoker shrugged. Von Klasewitz overlooked this lax attitude for the moment. Probably the man thought that their shared conspiracy would make them something like equals. The thought alone to be on the level with a creature like Schmitt caused his bile to surge upwards. Schmitt was at the top of the list of scapegoats to be punished in a show trial after he had completely assumed command. Very, very much on the top.

  Von Klasewitz rushed down the stairs, Schmitt in tow. Then noises reached his ears, muffled cries and screams. There was a fight! A real fight! That hadn’t been planned!

  Von Klasewitz stormed through the narrow corridors and stairways in the interior of the Saarbrücken . He climbed over unconscious crew members who had been surprised in their sleep by Petronius’ people, just as planned. Blood ran from terrible-looking but ultimately harmless lacerations on the face. The men of God were anything but squeamish. The first officer had told them to kill only as a last resort. He needed an operational crew once he had taken command. And martyrs he couldn’t afford as well.

  Then he met a martyr. The twisted posture and blood-soaked cowl of the priest said it all. Von Klasewitz bent down. A stab wound, right in the chest. Knives were the only weapons that should have been available to the loyalists and someone had the presence of mind to defend himself. This had to be expected. No omelet could be made without breaking eggs.

  The din of battle grew louder. Shots were fired. That was unexpected. The nobleman clutched the handle of his weapon. When he climbed through the next bulkhead, he saw a group of his rebels. He tore one around at his shoulders.