The Emporers Men

by Dirk van den Boom

  The eyes of the two men followed the hand and when they saw the bobbing fishing boat, they talked again with very astonished tone, gesticulating, scratched their heads. Marcus still didn’t understand a word, but gestures and facial expressions left no doubt.

  Finally, the first man coughed. He exchanged a final glance with his companion, then came a step closer to Marcus, hands outstretched. “My name is Jan Rheinberg. I’m the second in command of this ship.”

  The Latin of the man sounded strange, as strange as his name. But Marcus understood him and he felt very relieved. This meant his statements had been understood, and that there was a high probability that Fortuna had smiled for a third time. No, surely the Lord was with him, Marcus corrected himself immediately. He smiled broadly. “I greet you … noble captain. Welcome to the waters of Rome.”

  Rheinberg looked at Marcus with searching eyes. “Explain something to me, Marcus,” he begged cumbersomely.

  The fisherman nodded eagerly and motioned for the man to ask his question right away.

  Rheinberg paused. He shrugged, half apologetically, as he finally brought forth his question: “Why for God’s sake are you speaking Latin?”

  4

  “Why for God’s sake is he speaking Latin?”

  The wardroom was full. In addition to Neumann, Rheinberg, von Klasewitz, the captain and Dahms, twelve other key officers of the Saarbrücken heeded the call of the commander. The others were busy keeping the troubled crew under control. The two ragged fishermen Rheinberg had decided to send to the galley. Becker, who also joined the meeting, had ordered a reliable sergeant to keep an eye on the two, but until now they had behaved perfectly harmless.

  “Because they claim to be Roman,” Rheinberg answered the captain’s question. “His name is Marcus Necius, and the boy is his son, Marcellus. They are both fishermen from Ravenna and have found our ship drifting in their fishing grounds, have come on board, and, as Neumann here confirms, helped our unconscious men as far as possible. Now they probably expect a reward.” Rheinberg coughed. “And this is not completely unwarranted, I might add.”

  “Filth,” came the outburst from von Klasewitz. “Underlings and liars. I take none of it seriously, Captain!”

  Von Krautz raised a hand to silence the second officer.

  “What else, Rheinberg?”

  “Not much more. They are simple people. I interviewed them several times. My Latin is passable, but I basically learned only to read and write, never to speak. Neumann here can confirm that I have made reasonable efforts.”

  “That is correct,” said the doctor. “For being only passable, the first officer made himself understandable quite well, and I had the impression that Marcus got the gist of things. And I think that I understood his answers as Rheinberg did. He says he is a fisherman from Ravenna.” He sighed. “Welcome to the Roman Empire.”

  “Completely absurd,” von Krautz exclaimed. “First this strange lull, then the entire crew thrown into unconsciousness and now … now we are where?”

  “If Marcus’ information is correct, about 23 nautical miles southeast of Ravenna, in the Mediterranean,” said Rheinberg.

  “When we fell asleep, we were close to Portugal! To the West! In the Atlantic,” von Krautz said. He shook his head. With enough space he would have restlessly walked up and down, but now he was left with nothing but drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “That’s absurd.”

  “Lies!” said von Klasewitz then winced immediately, as the commander sent him another reproachful look.

  “Condition of the engines?”

  “Everything is fine, Captain,” Dahms reported in a cool voice. It had been his very first act to scrutinize his machines after waking up from unconsciousness. “There is no visible damage to the ship. We have examined all the important sections and conducted a leak check. We haven’t found anything.”

  “Injuries?” The question was directed at Neumann.

  “A few bruises,” Neumann said. “A cracked ankle from falling awkwardly is the worst. A few have gotten a little bit too much sun. That would have been worse if our guests would not have helped. But all are doing well so far. That is …”

  “Yes? Out with it, Doctor?”

  Neumann sighed. “Physically, all are fine. But there is great unrest on board. Rumors going the rounds. A few of the cadets have listened and some of them also had Latin in secondary school. They might have passed quickly what our guests have told us. It will be necessary to speak to the crew soon. Or at least keep them busy somehow.”

  “But what to tell them?” asked von Krautz gloomily. “We don’t know anything!”

  “Right, Captain,” said Rheinberg.

  Before he could add to it, a signalman knocked and entered. He hesitated, but the first officer waved encouragingly and held out his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Rheinberg said.

  “Commander, Ensign Volkert reports that the nautical yearbook is incorrect.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The man swallowed.

  “Ensign Volkert reports that the information in the nautical yearbook does not match the measurements done by sextant. He thinks that it’s not possible to have an exact positioning of the Saarbrücken using the data laid down in the yearbook.”

  “This is crazy,” Becker blurted. He also knew that every year the German Hydrographic Institute in Hamburg published this book containing accurate information about the positions of the sun, moon and stars, which were essential for exact celestial navigation, in detail broken down by date and hour. It was re-calculated for each year and was the central foundation for navigation at sea.

  Rheinberg sighed. “Mate, you relate my sincere sympathy to the ensign.” The general chuckle broke the tense atmosphere somewhat. “Then take a look at the sky and tell the helmsman to stop the engines for a noon measurement. Very soon, we’ll have the right time. We should be able to learn from it.”

  “Yes, Commander!”

  With luck, this would define the navigational positioning. The noon calibration was only possible at the highest level of the midday sun, in order to give at least approximate information about their location.

  For a moment, stunned silence fell over the assembly before a pandemonium broke out. The captain allowed his officers to discuss the issue for a few minutes so the tension could deflate before he commanded peace.

  He had an ashen face when he finally spoke again. “Irrespective of all possible explanations, we cannot sit here and do nothing. We will go under steam and turn West. This fishing boat didn’t have a long journey to come here. We can verify the story of Marcus without much effort.”

  “We were under steam all the time,” Dahms responded.

  Von Krautz squinted. “Explain.”

  “When we lost consciousness, the Saarbrücken has made little speed. Then the slack and the fog bank … and, well, nothing more. When we woke up, the engine was still on little speed. So we came across the fishing boat.”

  “Wait. With little speed and an unconscious crew we traveled from Portugal to Italy? That sounds even more incredible.”

  Dahms shook his head. “Nothing like that, sir. We have consumed coal for only a short time; the boilers started to lose pressure slowly – but that’s about it. We have not completed 20 miles, let alone drive around Gibraltar and sailed around the southern tip of Italy. Completely impossible. The bunkers are full, and no one was able to shovel coal. The cruiser was rudderless. No. That means either the Klabautermann has been in charge or else – the Saarbrücken wasn’t under any control and didn’t travel for long.”

  No one could dispute Dahms’ conclusions.

  “Then this Marcus must lie,” insisted von Klasewitz.

  “That may be it. But what kind of Portuguese fisherman speaks Latin and gives us his welcome in the Roman Empire?” objected Rheinberg. “No one would make such a joke with a foreign warship.”

  “Then the man is mad,” the second officer said.

  “Neith
er he nor his son give this impression,” Neumann said quietly. He had examined both of them thoroughly.

  “We …”

  Von Krautz was disturbed again. This time the soldier entering was Lieutenant Langenhagen, a young man who was already on his second trip on the Saarbrücken. He saluted half-heartedly because he knew now that neither the captain nor the first officer put too much value on formalities when things were urgent. Von Klasewitz he conveniently ignored. The nobleman would still insist on standing at attention when the Saarbrücken was on fire and the crew jumped into the water.

  “Captain, I’ve searched the fisherman’s boat as ordered.” He heaved a big bag on the table. “You have to look at this, Captain.”

  Without waiting for a command, he emptied the bag on the table. All eyes were turned on the items displayed. Rheinberg leaned forward and took the items one by one in his hands. He could feel that the others were looking at him. Everyone, even Captain von Krautz, expected him to come up with an explanation.

  He lifted a brass plate into the air.

  “This is an astrolabe.”

  “I’ve read about it,” muttered von Krautz and took it gently.

  “I didn’t,” Becker said.

  Some naval officers grinned. Rheinberg nodded sympathetically to the infantryman. “An astrolabe is basically an ancient predecessor to the sextant, which was used until the last century – that is, our last century. The position of the visible stars of the northern hemisphere is registered in planar projection on a brass plate and in a coordinate system. Connected to it is a second plate with an oval area, representing the horizon and being rotatable around the center. At the edge of both discs you see scales engraved, on the bottom the date and on the top a time scale. If the upper disc now rotates in such a way that the current time on the top scale on the actual date of the full scale come to rest, you can recognize the stars visible at this time if you look at the oval section of the upper disk. To determine the exact position of the those stars, there are those little hands, which we use on a scale declination …”

  “Well, thank you,” interrupted Becker. “This will be boring for everyone else. I understand. It’s the predecessor of the sextant.”

  “Developed by the Greeks – and also most commonly used in the Roman Empire to determine the position in maritime navigation,” von Krautz said then put the metal plate back on the table.

  Rheinberg took another item. “A wineskin.” He sniffed it and made a face.

  “Ropes and fishing net are in the boat,” Langenhagen added. Rheinberg nodded. He held a leather sheath in his hand, which he carefully opened. A bundle of parchments appeared, which he began to open up almost reverently.

  He took a long look at the writing on the parchment, frowned, looked distracted, then he smiled. He read aloud: “Of bodies change’d into various forms, I sing: Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring, Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat; ’Till I my long laborious work compleat: And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes, Deduc’d from Nature’s birth, to Caesar’s times.” He raised his head and looked invitingly into the round. “Well?”

  Neumann grinned.

  “Yes, doctor?”

  “P. Ovid Naso, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Who?” said Dahms.

  “Ovid. ‘The Metamorphoses.’ I have suffered through this in school and remember it only too well.”

  Some of the officers nodded understandingly. Neumann enjoyed the sympathy of most of them.

  Rheinberg went through the papers. “The first book, if I am not mistaken. Just the right stuff for his son in order to learn how to read after he has already mastered ‘The Gallic Wars’ by Caesar. We have here a fisherman who insists on a proper education.”

  Silence greeted his remark. The scrolls looked very real. Rheinberg dug back into the pile. The remaining items were not very impressive. A bag of olives. A few simple tools. A fishing rod with a fishhook. A bunch of carefully wrapped simple clothes, apparently intended in case they needed to change. Everything looked like the real thing in the sense that it made a very ancient impression, not what one would expect to find on a 20th century fishing boat. Rheinberg saw that the doubt in the eyes of the officers made way to growing amazement.

  Once again von Krautz allowed discussion for some time. Rheinberg quickly realized why. Noon arrived and passed, and shortly thereafter a mate entered. He didn’t get into the trouble to announce himself formally, just immediately handed Rheinberg a paper and left. Rheinberg read and passed it to von Krautz.

  “Compliments from Ensign Volkert,” he said. “As far as possible, he has been able to confirm the position of the ship and therefore to verify the information given by Marcus. We are definitely in the Eastern Mediterranean, east of Ravenna, and not too far from the coast of Italy. There is no doubt that the fisherman’s claims are correct in this regard.”

  A murmur went through the officers.

  “That said, Marcus seems not to be a liar,” stated Rheinberg. He already had been convinced that this theory had been only one of many possible explanations, and not the most likely one. Von Klasewitz pressed his lips on each other and said nothing.

  “But that’s still insane,” said Dahms. “What does it mean? That we actually somehow, God knows how, have traveled through time and arrived in the past? That’s … it sounds like someone has read too much of that French –”

  “Jules Verne,” Becker helped.

  “Whoever. Or the pulp fiction about that advanced dirigible Langenhagen always reads. Do we really want to accept this as an explanation?”

  “Presently we don’t have any explanation,” said Rheinberg. “But you might want to remember one thing, Dahms: If the current nautical yearbook does not help us to identify our correct position with the sextant – and Volkert definitely knows how to handle the instrument – then that means that the data contained in the yearbook are simply not valid because we are not in the timeline we are supposed to be.”

  “Or the ensign did indeed make a mistake,” said von Klasewitz.

  “Feel free to go to the bridge and try again,” von Krautz growled. “And then ask Volkert, as well, how it is that his noon measurement, without using the data in the yearbook, confirms the statements of our fishermen.”

  “Maybe a conspiracy,” surmised von Klasewitz, who apparently ran out of ideas. “The two are in cahoots and it is an insidious plan of the enemy to kidnap the Saarbrücken! A sleeping pill in our food and a subsequent change of course!”

  “And then they send a fisherman with a crazy story we can verify simply by sailing to the next port – rather than boarding us with a company of British Royal Marines?” Rheinberg objected. “And what, by God, should our enemy gain by ‘kidnapping’ the old Saarbrücken which doesn’t contain anything more valuable than some recently refurbished old machines?” Although he tried to deliver his words in a calm tone it became clear that the second officer walked on his nerves.

  “What do I know? The war is coming. Our fleet is strong, the British are afraid of us. One who is scared does strange things.”

  Rheinberg wanted to reply but saw in the corner of his eyes that von Krautz raised his hand and so he kept his quiet. Such discussion led nowhere anyway. Still, thoughts whirled in his head. It was hard for him to preserve his inner peace, given the importance of what now appeared so obvious. While the men around him expressed to their emotions in different ways – by anger, by rejection, by fatalism, by bordering on hysteria, nervousness – Rheinberg felt simply confused, as if someone had pulled the rug from under his feet. A journey through time? Who could blame someone like von Klausewitz for not believing it? Rheinberg himself couldn’t grasp the thought in its entirety. And the reactions of other men showed that they felt likewise.

  And the crew …

  What should he … They had to speak to the men very quickly now! They had to give some answers to questions, and had to relay this completely unbelievable story. They had to read the mood and r
eact. Discipline alone might not be sufficient to alleviate the problem.

  Rheinberg felt a bit dizzy. The excited conversations around him made him even more confused. He looked around and realized that beside him only three other men kept silently to themselves: Dahms, Neumann and the captain.

  Then Langenhagen smiled broadly. These crazy books he always read had to be gone to his head. He seemed to actually enjoy the situation.

  Any further discussion came to an abrupt end, as mate stormed back into the rooms, red-faced and out of breath. “Vessels,” he blurted without prompting.

  “Announce your message properly!” barked von Krautz and rose.

  The mate instinctively came to attention. “Ensign Volkert reports a flotilla of strange vessels with a direct path toward the Saarbrücken, from south-southwest. He asks the captain to appear on the bridge.”

  Von Krautz was already on his way, closely followed by Rheinberg. None of the other officers needed any orders, and they hurried to their stations.

  When the captain, Rheinberg and von Klasewitz entered the bridge, they immediately seized their binoculars and looked in the same direction as Volkert. For a moment, silence prevailed. Led by their NCOs, the crew was very busy. Volkert had apparently commanded combat readiness, and rightly so.

  “What is it?” von Krautz asked, and it was clear that he directed it primarily to Rheinberg.

  He looked very carefully a second time before he answered. “Triremes.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Triremes. Oared galleys with auxiliary sails. Pretty big pots. On the front there are ram bows, not unlike the one carried by the Saarbrücken, but less decorative. And if I’m not mistaken, the ships are full of armed men.”

  “In fact,” muttered von Krautz now. “I see the rows and the sails – and the soldiers.”

  “We should verify this,” muttered Rheinberg. “Mate, bring our Roman guests to the bridge!”

  “Yes, Commander!”