The Emperor's Men_2_Betrayal

by Dirk van den Boom

  Becker had noted this with some relief and mock regret. He couldn’t use a navy guy interfering in his work. It was hard enough to deal with the suspicious Victor.

  But even that would not last much longer.

  Because the Goths were ready, there could be no doubt. Since they had arrived in the cold of the Greek winter – which was still very mild and therefore could hardly impress especially the Germans – two days ago, they had put their warriors in position. The convoy with the covered wagons and the women and children had remained about two miles away from the city and was certainly well protected by some units. Becker gave no thought to attacking the civilians. He wanted to break the fighting capacity of the three-peoples-alliance and transform them, according to the plans of Rheinberg, into well-mannered Roman citizens. A slaughter of women and children wasn’t one of the measures that would promote this goal.

  There was no need to have recourse to so perfidious means of war once their plan developed nicely. The quiet, nagging feeling of doubt that filled Becker during those two days had nothing to do with Victor’s forehead crumpled with questions, but it disturbed his concentration. He didn’t show – he had to be the confident counterpart of Victor, especially in front of the Roman officers. But it was this kind of intuition that he had learned to use in the past on numerous occasions and to rely on it.

  “The time has come,” he finally muttered. Africanus looked at him quizzically, as if he wasn’t sure if he had heard the answer to his question. Becker stretched, looked in the midday sun and nodded.

  “It’s time!” he said loudly and firmly. The cornicen next to him had only been waiting for this signal. He raised the horn to his lips and blew a particular signal. The clear sound echoed over the city wall and was recorded and multiplied by other buglers. Becker raised his binoculars to his eyes, saw the leaders of the enemy listening attentively, gesticulating, apparently not aware of the meaning of the signal. That wasn’t surprising, because it was new.

  Less than five minutes later, a chorus of screams came from the invaders. For now the attackers saw that the city gates were opened and the formations of Roman legionaries began to march to the battlefield. Becker saw with great satisfaction that there was no fault to find in the discipline of the Roman soldiers. With a firm step, the armor and metal parts of their shields polished to a sharp gloss, the cohorts poured out in exact alignment and with no obvious rush. They formed in a classical position, a slightly retracted center, two wings, auxiliaries, cavalry and archers, and with erected signs. Arbogast himself led the troops, their banners bore witness to his high rank and the authority of his position.

  A perfect spectacle.

  The Goths were properly impressed. Becker watched in amusement as their leaders held back excited warriors who wanted to storm the marching legionaries. No doubt they wanted to give the Romans a chance to move all their troops out of the city to repeat the massacre of Adrianople. Every soldier who remained within the city walls would make the subsequent conquest of Thessaloniki all that more difficult. Thus, the Goths practiced patience and watched as an only half as strong Roman army flowed in a procession from the west gate and positioned itself with provocative composure in front of the hostile troops. The arrogance expressed in the whole maneuver was reflected in many details. The Gothic observers surely saw that Arbogast as well as all other high officers didn’t pay attention to them for even one second. Every now and then, it seemed as officers gathered for a cozy chat in the middle of the field, a centurion handed around an amphora, joking with his subordinates. All this was part of the plan, and it didn’t miss its effect. The wave of insults and mockery from the Goths grew stronger, but they were not returned as, the Romans brought themselves into position like they were planning a mass picnic, which made it worse for the Goths to watch.

  “They’re fucking angry,” Africanus commented and grinned broadly. Even with the naked eye, the psychological effect was clearly visible. The trierarch obviously enjoyed himself.

  “That’s what we want,” Becker confirmed. “They should become enraged to incandescence. How far are we?”

  One of the Roman observers came running and handed a note to Africanus. He took one cursory look and then nodded to Becker.

  “The formation is complete. Arbogast is –”

  “He’s already on his way,” Becker interrupted the trierarch and handed him the binoculars he accepted with the greatest self-confidence. In fact, Arbogast, under a flag of truce, and accompanied by several officers, had made his way to the Goths. With measured dignity the Romans trotted to the howling mob of the invaders and moved with straight faces. It was a risky venture, because despite the formal protection enjoyed as negotiators, it was always possible that someone’s patience had run out. But Arbogast had specifically asked for this task himself.

  This included throwing selected insults, dressed in fine Roman rhetoric, at Fritigern. Among other things, Arbogast would call him for immediate submission, of course in an appropriate tone and with a wrinkled nose. Also, some hints regarding Fritigern’s origin and his relationship with the animal kingdom had been pre-formulated.

  As much as Fritigern was willing to show reason and insight, he would be urged by his subordinate commanders who waited impatiently for an immediate offensive. Hopefully, they would allow Arbogast to leave unchallenged.

  Africanus handed Becker the binoculars. “He has passed the Gothic lines and is now apparently led to the judge. It cannot be long.”

  Becker took the glass and swung his gaze around, especially along the towers and walls on which he had stationed his gunners. They were not to be seen, which was his intention exactly. They would look tensely at their non-commissioned officers who, at this moment, were in turn waiting for the sign from von Geeren. He stood on a different tower, also with binoculars, and waited patiently for Becker’s command. The wait was a nervous ordeal, but choosing the right time was of utmost importance.

  “Arbogast has finished,” Africanus muttered. In fact, the angry roar of the attackers, now clearly on the verge of losing self-control, resounded up the city walls. The Roman general had apparently done his job well. Accordingly, the return of the delegation was a little hasty, the officers galloped, and the companions of Arbogast shielded the general with their bodies from as close as they could.

  But no Goth wanted to give the Romans the satisfaction to brand them as completely dishonorable. Arbogast reached the Roman lines unmolested, and that the insults reaching him from behind would cause serious psychological damage was hardly to be expected.

  Becker sighed with relief. He wanted to say something but was interrupted in his effort by the many voices from the Gothic side. And this time the uproar had a different quality. These were not shouts of scorn. This was the prelude to attack, the angry cries of warriors getting ready, reaching for courage. It was the menacing noise of the impending storm. The deep emotionality also took Becker; nobody could shield himself from it. And although the Roman legionaries were still in perfect and completely motionless formation, he imagined that down there many a soldier’s heart slipped into his boots.

  Even if most of them didn’t wear boots.

  Becker made a mental note to ask about the corresponding Roman expression, as soon as time and opportunity allowed for it.

  This was now definitely not the case right now.

  The Goths were ready. And the flood began. Like a black, moving carpet, a good 40,000 Gothic warriors, accompanied by their numerous cavalry, ran toward the stoic wall of the Roman legions. The tramp of feet and hooves on the battlefield accompanied the war cries with a dark, threatening sound. For a second, Becker was very happy to be standing up here. Just for a second.

  He nodded to the cornicen. The man pressed the horn to his lips, gave the instrument all the power to drown out the noise. Again, the signal was taken up by the other trumpeters and eventually spilled over to the horn players down, who readied themselves on the battlefield below. What the Goths probabl
y interpreted as a Roman signal to counterattack, as they responded with expectant roar.

  The Roman troops melted away, though. It was a remarkable maneuver. The super-strict, precisely calculated formations broke up like ice in the sun. The legionaries threw themselves around and ran as fast as they could toward the city walls. The initially diminishing distance between the front lines became wider again, and the shouts of the Goths turned into sneering because for them it had to look like a headless panic. The Romans, strengthened by their exercises and relieved to get away from the mob, rapidly gained ground, only the Gothic cavalry was able to close fast. Becker observed the maneuvers through his binoculars with cold calculation. There were some running legionaries who stumbled and were swept away by the mass of onrushing Goths, pierced by riders.

  It was time.

  Becker raised his hand for the agreed sign.

  The almost immediate staccato of gunfire was not half as frightening in its effect against the Goths as during their first encounter.

  First, nothing remarkable was to be seen.

  It was as if no one could stand in the way of the onrushing barbarians, who closed with the city walls.

  The Roman legions withdrew already through the gates into the interior of Thessaloniki.

  But then one realized it, and the Goths felt it. They saw dozens of their comrades being swept away, they saw whole bunches of bawling warriors as if struck by thunder, their bodies savaged and blood spurting through the air. No sword, no arrow, no spear – and yet collapsing men, screaming horses having their throats torn open by an invisible hand. A man threw his neck back when on his forehead a red mark appeared. Red dots punched on the broad chest of a mighty warrior, pulling him down. Where the magical weapons strafed only, they pierced limbs, torn skin and bones, not always fatal, but causing pain and despair, and others died of shock. Warriors who had fought battle upon battle, beat wildly around, as if to seize and crush invisible spirits. There was fear in the eyes of wild Huns, whose horses went to the ground with opened ribcages, burying their riders more than once. The first, the very superstitious, already turned to flee. Where leaders shouted commands, the such identified officer was killed within seconds. Heedlessness began to spread, sometimes in the truest sense of the word, when a machine-gun burst perforated a skull and left nothing but a bloody mess behind. A half-decapitated fighter, the body cramped on the back of a panicked horse, hurled himself toward the city walls. Senselessly moving, aimlessly expending any strength, they were like a speeding, deadly symbol of futility.

  The triumphant, jeering roar turned into screams of fear, pain and panic. Becker closed his eyes, dropped the binoculars, and wished he were deaf, for it was all this that would follow him in his nightmares forever. Not even one hundred assault rifles and a handful of machine guns, and then the few hand grenades some cheeky infantry threw down from the walls and towers to increase the confusion, yet the effect was not to be overlooked. Becker forced himself to open his eyes again.

  Not even ten minutes had passed since the Gothic attack commenced, and it already had faltered. It wasn’t the amount of dead that was decisive. Becker wasn’t able to make a full estimate, but ultimately the shots of Germans couldn’t have caused more than maybe 500 or 600 casualties – and with a little good will maybe double the number of wounded. It was, as he had expected, the psychological effect that broke the invaders and dissolved order and discipline.

  Becker wanted to raise his hand and thus command the fire to cease, as an unexpected odor penetrated his nose. It smelled of fire, coalified wood, and a fine, dark smoke began to dance before his eyes.

  He turned around and stared wide-eyed at the gatehouse of the west gate which was in flames, and he saw the Roman legions, roughly half of them are still outside the walls, as they began to back away from it. The orderly retreat of the Romans came to a halt, followed by a slow reorientation, and then …

  “Becker!” Africanus shouted and tipped the German on his shoulder.

  The captain raised his binoculars. An admirable, yes surprisingly disciplined group of Hunnish, Alanic and Gothic cavalry came up from the rear ranks of the invaders. They didn’t ride in a bunch but fanned out, with large distances from each other. They rode crouched behind powerful shields, shod with metal. They ignored the panicked compatriots and galloped with precise aim toward the burning gatehouse.

  When the Germans directed their fire on them, only a few fell. But Becker saw that lateral incoming shots were deflected by their shields, saw that the falling riders were ignored by their comrades, observed how long sheaves of gunshots partially went into nothingness because of the distances and how the attackers continued their run completely unperturbed to the burning gatehouse, the wide open gate, from which the Romans had already been removed – removed from the outside and the inside.

  “Africanus!” Becker cried. “Africanus, whatever happens there, it can only mean one thing!”

  The trierarch looked at him half blankly half understanding.

  “We were betrayed,” Becker said, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. “They have prepared themselves, and … they have some of their own within the walls.”

  Bilimer tripped and fell into the outstretched sword of the legionary. The man, as surprised as the Goth, sank the blade to the hilt into the massive body of the doomed warrior.

  Bilimer grunted, got up, took the hand of the soldier who was still holding the handle of the short sword tightly clasped, and yanked. With a smacking sound, the moistly red blade slipped out. With the ease of a man knowing his end has come, Bilimer turned the hand of the Roman who cried when his arm broke and gurgled as his own sword went into his throat. Then Bilimer let go and took another few steps, but his body became heavy and he squatted slowly down to the floor, suddenly breathing very deeply. His eyes lifted, and he looked at the sign of a tavern in front of him, a large wooden board that creaked in the wind. It showed am impaled animal sizzling over a fire.

  Bilimer smiled and died.

  “Forward!” Godegisel shouted, his own sword arm tired and tense from fighting. His remaining crazies gathered around him, some injured, all splashed red with Roman blood, all caught in various stages of their own madness. For a moment, they had rest because of the increasingly dense smoke from the fire they had laid in several places. Breathing was difficult, and Godegisel coughed, a linen cloth pressed to his mouth. His muffled voice almost failed, but he turned his sword tip at the tavern, and his men understood. All picked themselves up, stumbled forward, pushed the door open, saw a tap room with a few guests who were staring at them horrified.

  The Goths ignored the onlookers, rushed to the back side of the building and remained completely undisturbed. No heroes in Thessaloniki who wanted to confront a handful of bloody and wild Gothic barbarians.

  The back door led into a courtyard and the court in an alley. No legionaries to see. Godegisel saw the fountain, gesticulated, took a breath. Blades drove into the water, clothing became wet, blood smeared with soot discolored the liquid. It took five minutes, then the blades were covered, the clothes looked dirty, but the all too obvious traces of the fight were hidden from the cursory glance.

  “Quiet now! Look like frightened traders! We are poor refugees! No word on your lips! If you have to cry, cry!”

  The smoke certainly contributed to letting their tears seem real. Wailing and howling, the Goths wandered into the alley, slowly disappeared in the narrow corners of the city, and the Legion, finally sent by the host of the tavern on their trail, found no one.

  And then there were other things to do.

  The hooves of the riding Goths were suddenly heard by the burning gatehouse. Ahead of them a man in black clothes rode, like a wisp, with a fury that was powered solely by thoughts of revenge for what had just been done to his people.

  Fritigern, the judge, had arrived in Thessaloniki.

  And he wanted to dispense his judgment.

  35

  “The Goths are with
in the walls!”

  “Damn!”

  Rheinberg stared at the piece of paper which he had been handed over. The noise of the battle could be heard well into the harbor, but Rheinberg had not been sure if something had gone wrong. The message dispelled his doubts. Now was no time to think about the why and how; they had to react.

  He looked up, picked up the binoculars and observed the part of the city wall he was supposed to look at. A column of smoke rose in the murky winter day – of red color.

  “Are the guns ready?” he asked Langenhagen standing expectantly beside him.

  “Loaded and aligned.”

  “Give fire solution one of the gunners. Execute on my command.”

  “Fire solution one, Captain!”

  It took only a few moments before the 10.5 cm quick-loading cannon on the portside and 15 cm guns at the bow and stern got ready. The mouths jerked slowly upward into position, with the exact degree calculated in cooperation with Becker’s people by Rheinberg’s gunners.

  “Guns in position,” Langenhagen reported.

  “Give the warning!”

  The ship’s horn began immediately with a long, plaintive sound. The Romans were prepared for this signal and knew what would happen. Aware legionaries would now avoid certain parts of the city to the west. The civilian population would be driven out of the houses. For all that remained less than a minute, but Rheinberg couldn’t permit more time. Others would have fired without any warning. Interestingly, it was the Roman officers themselves who had spoken out against this unnecessary procedure. In their eyes, civilians were, as long as they were not senators and rich men of influence, of little concern.

  Rheinberg purposed to set a different tone. He held his clock in his right hand, watching the seconds counting down carefully. Langenhagen, in turn, kept a close eye on Becker’s position.