The Emperor's Men_2_Betrayal

by Dirk van den Boom

  Once the second part of the maneuver begun, it dawned to him.

  A bugle sounded. Godegisel knew it was usually the sign of an attack. But instead of approaching the imaginary enemy with resolute steps, something unexpected happened. With narrowed eyes, the Goth observed as the formerly flawless and impeccable Roman formation suddenly broke up. The apparent chaos turned out to be a well-orchestrated withdrawal movement: The troops were not rushed to the city gates directly. First they ran in a broad front directly to the city wall.

  For Godegisel, they were lost from view, but when the soldiers streamed in two columns through the gates into the city, he immediately knew what they had done: Only once they had come up as flat as possible against the city wall, they had moved to the gates. Along with the stories about the strange weapons, that meant only one thing: This was a maneuver to enable these weapons to have a clear shot without the legionaries falling into the danger of being hit by whatever it was the strangers hurled against their enemies.

  Godegisel persevered on his observation post. In the hours that followed, the Roman troops repeated the same maneuver four times, each time with greater speed and accuracy. Only then the commander appeared to be satisfied, allowing the end of the exercise. As the Goth marched down the stairs thoughtfully, he was quite clear about in what kind of trap the Romans wanted to capture the advancing Goths and what consequences this would have for his people. If he did nothing, then the attacking Goths would be mowed down like grain on the field, no, even faster, more effective and very bloody. Godegisel could vividly imagine what terrifying effect that would have on the mass of warriors, especially to the survivors. The Goth saw Fritigern already on his knees before the Romans, begging for peace, yes, begging for mercy. A bitter taste rose in the mouth of the nobleman, as he imagined that and while he turned his steps through the evening streets of the city to the hostel, he tried to imagine how he would be able to prevent this disaster.

  When he had arrived at the narrow place he shared with three of his comrades, and ignoring the range of expectant to disinterested looks of the men, an outline of a plan had formed in his head already. He was now suddenly happy to be traveling with crazy men, because for what he was about to do, he actually needed absolutely insane comrades.

  He took his dinner in silence. Then he sat brooding for a few hours on his bed of straw, with eyes closed, but not asleep. Around midnight he opened his eyes, blinked, lit a tallow candle, and gently woke the men.

  Then he gave his orders.

  31

  “And that’s just the beginning,” Dahms made clear. He pushed the cap slightly to the side, scratched his head and looked with Rheinberg from the bridge of Saarbrücken over the port of Thessaloniki. With gentle slowness, the cruiser glided into the harbor because a vast number of vessels scurried back and forth across the bow of the Germans. The maritime trade had ceased with the onset of winter, so that the harbor build by Emperor Constantine, safely located within the fortifications, was packed. Predominant were the coastal cargo ships of the Navicularii, a mixture of shipowners, traders and captains who supplied the entire coastal region with goods that arrived from other parts of the empire in Thessaloniki or were produced here. These wide boats were rowed, not sailed, and now rested at anchor, as they couldn’t navigate the increasingly rough seas of winter.

  Spectators lined the quays, and the occasionally visible legionaries seemed to have great trouble to keep the onlookers reasonably under control. On the forehead of the helmsman, a fine film of sweat shimmered, and one could see the attention in his face. Rheinberg didn’t interfere. Börnsen was an experienced man and knew exactly what he had to do. His most urgent task was not to sink any of the fishing boats that came quite dangerously close before and alongside them. Many of the boats were overloaded with spectators who stared at the cruiser as a wonder of the world. Rheinberg could hardly blame them – although they had sent a messenger on land to Thessaloniki to inform the city of their arrival. This had probably fired the curiosity up, although it had helped, without doubt, to prevent possible panic.

  “We really need to have a proper basis to build on,” the Navy Chief Engineer drew Rheinberg’s attention back to their conversation. “We’ve been here for weeks in this situation. We haven’t used a lot of coal, because we were most of the time stationary, but a few tours more and we must re-stash – and I would love to use something better than wood. In addition, the very salty water of the Mediterranean …”

  Rheinberg raised his hand. Dahms was silent.

  “I know all that,” the captain reassured the man. “And I promise, as soon as this crisis is mastered, we’ll take care of it. The top priority. But now we have other worries.”

  Dahms knew when he had to accept temporary defeat. He nodded curtly and disappeared without further formalities back down. Rheinberg’s eyes sought the quay walls.

  “There!”

  Langenhagen had discovered them first. For a brief moment, Rheinberg felt a lurch. He recalled his long watches with Thomas Volkert and the high hopes he had had for the young man. The ensign had disappeared, and the visit he had received of his bride, the Roman senator’s daughter Julia, just before their departure, didn’t bode well for his fate. Volkert was a deserter, but he wasn’t a mutineer, and he deserved the clemency like those who had opposed the legitimate captain. But where Volkert was staying and whether he was still alive … Rheinberg had to leave and couldn’t promise Julia anymore than Dahms did – first this crisis, then everything else. After all, he had sent a message to Renna, with a request to look into this matter. A response had not reached him.

  He would have to punish Volkert but knew that sooner or later members of his crew would wander out of service – and when he forbade them to do so, they would desert. They’d be looking for brides on land, and some would want to start families. Many possessed valuable skills that could quickly turn into hard cash with some ingenuity and adaptation. The plans for building a charcoal-fired Roman Imperial distillery hadn’t escaped Rheinberg – and he had already given them, and many other likewise endeavors crafted by the crew, his silent blessing.

  But now the matter at hand. Only that.

  “It’s him!” Langenhagen’s voice brought him back to the present. There, in a crowd of legionaries, Captain Becker stood on the wharf, waving at the incoming Saarbrücken just as enthusiastically as many of the citizens of Thessaloniki. Next to him, Roman officers stood in ornate armor, including an elderly man Rheinberg assumed to be Flavius Victor, the highest officer of the East. He would keep this post for a while, because Theodosius marched with borrowed troops of the West and new recruits against the Sarmatians. His arrival in Thessaloniki was not expected in the near future.

  There was a nice little irony that was so characteristic of the Roman Empire, Rheinberg remembered at that moment. Flavius Victor, the military chief of Valens, was also Sarmatian. How little nationality and origin were ultimately decisive in Rome was one of the experiences that Rheinberg regarded as quite refreshing, especially in contrast with the policy of the German Empire – and that gave him a lot of hope in spite of all pending challenges.

  “Börnsen, you are doing very well!” Rheinberg praised the mate, who took it with an imperceptible nod. To close toward the quay without the help of tugs so that they didn’t ram the cruiser into the stone wall or damage the ship otherwise – and at the same time thereby preventing a slaughter among the most careless rowing and sailing boats required outstanding skill and foresight.

  “Cast the ropes!” Köhler roared on deck, and the sailors at the bow threw the ropes to the waiting German infantrymen who immediately grabbed them and began to pull the cruiser toward the quay.

  “Stop the engine,” commanded Rheinberg.

  The Saarbrücken crunched gently against the quay wall. Börnsen twisted his face imperceptibly, but Rheinberg patted him on the shoulder.

  “Well done,” he muttered.

  The rear ropes were thrown and about 20
infantrymen pulled the stern of the cruiser closer. It took five more minutes, and the Saarbrücken was firmly moored in the port of Thessaloniki. No sooner the gangway had been lowered than Becker marched over already, accompanied by the older Roman officer, without giving Köhler time to organize a guard of honor.

  Rheinberg hastened to meet them. “Captain,” he greeted Becker with a broad grin.

  “Lord Commander,” the officer grinned back and seized the outstretched hand. “May I give you Master Equitum Flavius Victor Tullius, commanding officer of the Eastern Army.”

  “It’s a pleasure and an honor at the same time to get to know you,” Rheinberg said truthfully. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “In your historical records, I have to believe,” Victor said with a smile. “I’ve heard that there are not too many reprehensible things written about me.”

  “Mainly known is that you were the general who tried intensively to dissuade his emperor to fight alone against the Goths.”

  A little sadness clouded Victor’s forehead, as he was reminded of the tragedy.

  “Also, I read that you served Emperor Julian faithfully and you had a central role in the appointment of Jovian.”

  “I had a modest share in this.”

  Rheinberg shook his head, smiling. “Your modesty honors you, General. But let us put historical discussions aside for a moment. I think there are now things before us that are not mentioned in our history books. And because of that, our apparent knowledge doesn’t help us anymore.”

  Victor seemed quite pleased to hear this. Probably the eerie, prophetic statements of the time travelers had him more worried than he had to admit. That they were now like him, without any foreknowledge, made them equal.

  Rheinberg didn’t have any illusions in this regard. The deeper the Germans intervened in the course of things, the more the historical development removed itself from what they knew from their records. Soon more and more events would occur that would shrink the matches to zero. And this time was certainly not far off, especially if it was possible to finish the Gothic invasion in another and more decisive manner than the historical Theodosius did.

  “I suggest that we immediately sit down to a meeting,” Becker said. “The Goths are only a few days away from the city, and we don’t have much time. In fact, the Saarbrücken could be our trump card, so I am extremely grateful for your timely arrival.”

  Victor agreed immediately, and Rheinberg escorted them to the wardroom. Victor duly admired the surroundings and glanced the image of Wilhelm II , still hanging on the wall. After observing everything in silent astonishment for some moments, he sat directly below the portrait. The fact that the strange time travelers came from an era in which there was also an emperor seemed to have had a calming influence on him.

  Rheinberg presented Roman wine, German brandy and coffee, to which Becker attended immediately with shining eyes. Rheinberg observed it with both a laughing and crying eye; except for a small supply the cook watched with diligence, the stock had long been on the decline. Also, black tea was barely to have. It was one point that had to be worked on – and as soon as possible.

  There was so much to do.

  “Becker, what’s your plan?” Rheinberg asked, now relaxed. If Victor was surprised about the confidentiality between the men, he didn’t show it. On the contrary, he leaned toward them like a common conspirator.

  Becker spread the battle plan before Rheinberg. The captain listened in silence, nodded now and again, but didn’t make any comments. Only once Becker had reached the end and looked at Rheinberg expectantly, he voiced his opinion.

  “That’s a good idea, but it is based on too many uncertainties for my taste.”

  Victor nodded. “We are aware of that, Trierarch Rheinberg. There are many things that we cannot calculate.”

  “This unfortunately includes the behavior of the Goths,” Becker added. “When in doubt, we will fail, but the only thing that can happen is that the Goths run their heads against the city walls.”

  “That doesn’t help us much,” Rheinberg said. “We need victory. A decisive, brutal victory. It should leave such a lasting impression on Fritigern that he becomes willing to conclude any peace with Rome.”

  “Perhaps he is already!” Becker said. “If he thinks about what his survivors told him …”

  “What he thinks is secondary,” Victor interrupted him. “He is no emperor; he’s temporary leader of the Goths. Alaric and others also have an opinion, although the old man’s death certainly is a lot closer than mine. Fritigern is not completely master of the decision-making, and he has enough battle-thirsty lieutenants who would denounce his leadership if he suddenly surrenders after the victory of Adrianople! No! Fritigern himself may be willing to negotiate, I will not deny him sufficient intelligence, but the Goths – the Gothic elite – are not. Yet.”

  Rheinberg could only agree with the generals.

  “It is indeed fortunate that we have arrived here in time,” he said. “I think that the Saarbrücken can make the small but subtle difference if the plan shouldn’t develop as conceived. Do we have a map?”

  Becker reached into his bag and pulled out a paper. As it lay spread out on the table, Rheinberg wrinkled his forehead, then he nodded.

  “We should take the following precautions …”

  Bilimer heartily bit into the pastry, so that the juice from the coked meat ran down his double chin. He didn’t mind, and the violence with which he stuffed the massive piece into his mouth was astonishing, while he grunted, smacked his lips and belched, keeping other onlookers away from them. Above all, it distracted from Godegisel, who had watched the entry of the giant iron ship with narrowed eyes. He did not share the joy and euphoria of the citizens of Thessaloniki but concealed his adversity. If anything symbolized the absolute technical superiority of the strangers, then this powerful blend of metal and wood, which seemed to tower with its ominous presence above everything else in the harbor of the Greek provincial capital.

  Godegisel was not just impressed, he was troubled. He was scared, really scared. The maneuvers and tactical games of the Roman army, wonder weapons or not, had been ultimately comprehensible for him. This monster of iron was far beyond his imagination. Roman triremes were already mighty ships for the Goths, who knew little more than barges. But the cold presence of this ship that looked like a monster from an ancient Greek saga seemed, despite the fanciful embellishments on the bow, to be something else entirely. Godegisel felt a strange mixture of desire and disgust – desire to possess this powerful instrument, to subdue and break every Roman resistance with it, and disgust, as if he understood instinctively that this ship was in the wrong place and the wrong time, was an abnormality that didn’t belong to Thessaloniki or to Rome or to his world. The strangeness that emanated from the monster seemed to be palpable, but the citizens of the city cheered the cruiser as a savior, and once, in addition to the foreign flag of the visitors, ostentatiously a cloth with the inscription “SPQR ” was hoisted at the stern of the ship even louder cheers broke out.

  Godegisel swallowed his contempt. Strangers who traveled through times like demons said the rumor, and they dared to run their vessel on behalf of the Senate and people of Rome. Gratian had to be very desperate when he allowed this and that reminded the Goth that the cause of this despair was only a few days’ march from Thessaloniki.

  What distressed the Goth the most were these large structures on the ship from which protruded long dark tubes, stretched apparently harmlessly into the air and yet so full of an indeterminable threat that Godegisel didn’t dare imagine how matters would develop with these machinations in action. He had never seen the wonder weapons of the strangers spewing death and only heard vivid descriptions. But in any case there had been descriptions of the metal weapons being carried around by the foreign soldiers, similar to bows or spears. Hand weapons whose concept might be foreign to the Goths but not as alien to them and therefore within the grasp of common knowledge.


  But as alien as the elaborate and gigantic siege machines of the Roman army were, whose art to master his people never had been able, looking at the guns of the Saarbrücken hardly roused any understanding. Godegisel saw, but he did not realize, how hard he even tried, to imagine what this ship might ultimately have of a military significance.

  As Bilimer had devoured his pastry and wiped his thick lips on his sleeve with a satisfied grunt, this was the signal for Godegisel to begin. Dismissing his fat fellow’s longing glances toward the sizzling food on the grill, he drew him like a small child through the slow dissolving amount of gawking onlookers toward their hostel.

  There were many new things to consider. He would have to send another messenger, as long as one could still leave the city. This would reduce his small force again, but that couldn’t be avoided.

  Time was pressing. And he didn’t know what he should report Fritigern aside from what he had just observed. And about his plan, which suddenly seemed like a wild risk.

  Godegisel felt confused and helpless.

  He hated it.

  32