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Register of persons
Dirk van den Boom
Escape
Copyright © 2018 by Atlantis Verlag Guido Latz,
Bergstraße 34, 52222 Stolberg (Germany)
Cover © Timo Kümmel
Editor: Rob Bignell
eBook Production: André Piotrowski
ISBN 978-3-86402-627-0
www.atlantis-verlag.de
1
Constantinople was a magnificent city, they said. Rheinberg stood on the bridge of the Saarbrücken and looked past the helmsman at the emerging silhouette of the mighty metropolis. He had never been here in his day, although the Ottoman Empire and the German Reich maintained friendly relations, including regular fleet visits. In his day, he recalled, the Ottoman Empire had been but a faint reflection of what had once struck down the remnants of Eastern Rome. Constantinople – or Byzantium, as it was later called – was everything that had survived the Roman Empire, until the city, ruling little more than its own walls, eventually succumbed to the onslaught of Ottoman troops. Afterwards, the metropolis enjoyed a new heyday, as Istanbul, the center of a new empire. It was a historically almost overcrowded place in many ways, and especially because of its quite checkered fate.
Now, toward the end of the year 379, Constantinople was the capital of Eastern Rome and already a proliferating settlement. It was protected by its famous fortifications that were considered invincible, was strong through its large harbor – the seat of the Roman fleet – with its own Senate and governed, in the absence of an Eastern Roman emperor, by the consistory, a kind of cabinet of ministers presided over by the Praetorian Prefect of the East, an old and experienced politician named Domitius Modestus.
Here, in the mightiest city of the East, the Saarbrücken wanted to find refuge. From here, the counterattack would be organized to corner Magnus Maximus and end his uprising. From here, the legitimate Magister Militium of the Empire, Jan Rheinberg, wanted to restore the unity of the realm and make Theodosius the rightful emperor of all Rome.
At the moment, however, Rheinberg felt only righteously tired.
The departure from Ravenna had been bitter. The inhabitants of the “German village,” the large production and training facility on the coast, had gathered to say goodbye, as far as they wouldn’t join the small flotilla. They all knew that the fascinating time of industrial revolution was over for now. The workshops had fallen into total silence when the machines and workbenches had been dismantled. Everywhere incendiary devices had been distributed. Once the village was vacated, they would set everything on fire. When the three ships – the cruiser and the two steamers Valentinian and Horatius – had left the harbor, only one ship remained in the harbor, the third of the newly built steamers, hastily renamed Gratianus. It wouldn’t leave unless Maximus’ troops were in front of Ravenna and the village would be set on fire. Rheinberg expected that the Gratianus would quickly join the flotilla of the fugitives. When they departed Ravenna, it was already known that the army of Maximus was approaching. Now that they had Constantinople in front of them, the facilities that had been their temporary home would already be little more than smoking ruins.
The three ships were hopelessly overcrowded. They had important personnel, a lot of materials, prototypes, but also the family-members of the crews, women and children. The deck of the Saarbrücken looked like a great birthday party on fine days, but on heavy swell it turned into a life-threatening terrain full of suffering civilians, most shaken by seasickness. Fortunately, nobody had been seriously injured so far. All had completed the crossing to the eastern half of the Empire with remarkable discipline. The fact that fleeing families had not been torn apart had greatly contributed to the general calm and prudence. Rheinberg thought of Aurelia, the former slave, whom he knew along with three other women in the captain’s cabin, while he himself had pitched his bedding directly on the cruiser’s bridge – like almost all the officers who had left their sheltered quarters for the passengers.
It did not look much different on the two steamers, which were in formation with the Saarbrücken. The fact that the Saarbrücken could not simply advance ahead but had to adapt to the slow speed of six to eight knots of the two new ships with their low-performance bronze steam engines led to some impatience. Of course, the two steamers were also good at taking care of themselves. Both were equipped with arquebuses, large bronze hand cannons, and steam catapults. There was no ship on the Mediterranean that could win a military confrontation with them. When in doubt, the steamers turned against the wind, fired the steam engine up and escaped an attacking war galley.
But Rheinberg was concerned with the psychological effect, the cohesion. They had to act together, stay together. And before there was also a functioning radio system for the new ships, the communication options were severely limited. In fact, the flotilla was the one means of power that Rheinberg could reliably use now. He didn’t want to split it up.
That was probably because he felt a certain awe for Constantinople. He knew none of the political actors here personally, his previous life in Rome was essentially limited to the West. He knew Thessaloniki, but that was all. He knew that this city was unparalleled in the Roman Empire. And their masters, as he had already told himself, claimed to be more than just the stewards of the East. The fact that the development of history from Rheinberg’s past had meanwhile also become known here certainly contributed to this. The awareness that Byzantium had built a new empire in Rheinberg’s reality, but that Western Rome had lost power and sunk to insignificance, had certainly reinforced the natural sense of superiority of the local powerful. In a sense, Rheinberg’s plans to save Rome as a whole threatened this particular renaissance of the city. With such reservations, he would have to deal directly or indirectly, Rheinberg quite understood.
“Captain, we’ll be ready!” Langenhagen’s voice tore him out of his contemplation. He rubbed his chin, freshly shaved, and looked down briefly. He wore the clothes of a Roman nobleman, while most of the other men on board had the usual navy uniform. Rheinberg didn’t feel very well in this setting, but he knew what he owed his future hosts.
The weather was clear and remarkably calm for the season, albeit uncomfortably cold. The port of Constantinople lay before them. The two steamers would follow the Saarbrücken slowly. Speed was minimal anyway. It would be fatal to begin the cruiser’s inaugural visit with a potentially disastrous ship accident. Börnsen, the helmsman, clutched the rudder wheel with focused concentration.
The season was late autumn and the shipping season on the Mediterranean was drawing to a close. The Mediterranean became too stormy and cold for the oars and sailing ships of the Empire, so that the shipping traffic at this time of the year mostly came to a standstill. Accordingly, the port was well filled at his numerous piers and the long quay walls. The Saarbrücken didn’t arrive completely unannounced – they had forwarded messages with fast coast
al sailors from Ravenna, as it became clear what the plan would look like –, but Rheinberg feared for a moment that they were forced to anchor in the middle of the harbor basin, so crowded was everywhere. But then a long piece of quay wall opened, apparently kept free for exactly this purpose.
Rheinberg nodded. “That’s our place, Börnsen!”
“Yes, sir!”
Rheinberg was not the Captain, it was Joergensen. And as a high ranking commander on the bridge, he wasn’t supposed to give any orders, more likely First Officer Langenhagen, who was also present. But the old habits weighed heavily, and no one dared – or even wanted – to tell the Magister Militium what he had to do and what not. Therefore, it was only understandable that he was still addressed by the Germans as a “captain,” not least because the title of “Magister” seemed very strange to all of them.
Langenhagen stood next to the helmsman and began to whisper soft commands to him. Rheinberg didn’t have to worry about the maneuver. He looked at the quay wall and saw that there was now an honor formation of legionaries deployed. More soldiers kept onlookers under control, who came pouring in from all sides. It was one thing to hear about the Saarbrücken but another one to see this marvel in reality. The news would spread in no time through the city. Rheinberg hoped that the authorities were prepared for it. His gaze wandered down the row of legionaries, and he became confident. Apparently the responsible people had gathered sufficient forces.
After a good half hour, then the Saarbrücken had approached the quay wall so far, that the ropes could be thrown and the dockers, ten to fifteen on each rope, supported the landing maneuver. After another ten minutes, the cruiser slid smoothly against the wall. A perfect display.
The two steamers had found comparable positions not far from the small cruiser. Everything went smoothly. Sooner or later, the two new ships would attract their own onlookers, Rheinberg was sure of that. But before that, the focus would be on the Saarbrücken.
Now it was also clearly discernible that the Legion’s honorary formation had been joined by a reception committee of notables, making a good impression with their noble attire and large retinue. Rheinberg knew no one here, but he wouldn’t face these men alone anyway: The senators Michellus and Symmachus had decided to travel with him to the East, as well as military prefect Renna, the former Navarch of Ravenna. Most of the other officers, however, remained in the West to assist Emperor Theodosius in his stalling tactics. Rheinberg hoped to quickly build a new staff of reliable men here in Constantinople.
“Fallreep is out!” Langenhagen reported.
“Then we should not keep our hosts waiting.”
Rheinberg left the bridge. The delegation, who was the first to enter the city, had already assembled at the gangway – Renna, Michellus and Dahms. The engineer nodded to Rheinberg in greeting. He looked gray, his face haggard. The loss of the “German village” and the fruits of all his efforts had hit him particularly hard. After all, Rheinberg thought to himself, his special protégé Marcellus and his family had found shelter on one of the steamers.
“We go”, Rheinberg said
The men walked slowly over the gangway. On the quay, the reception committee awaited. It was headed by a very old notable. He stopped in front of Rheinberg, had to look up to the much larger man. “I am Domitius Modestus, Praetorian Prefect of the East, and chairman of the consistory,” he said in a firm voice, which was surprisingly deep.
Rheinberg bowed. He had the higher rank, but seniority in office as well as in old age was highly respected in Rome. He was the younger one, so he had to pay his respect.
“You are Rheinberg,” Modestus said before he could reply.
“That is me. These are my companions – Military Prefect Renna, Senator Michellus ,and Magister Dahms from my crew.”
Modestus let his eyes rest briefly on each, then turned to Renna. “Your sister is the wife of Lucius Graecus.”
Renna bowed his head. “I hope she’s in good health. I haven’t seen her for a long time. ”
“Graecus takes good care of her,” Modestus replied.
Renna had told Rheinberg about his sister, who had married a Fleet officer and since then lived in Constantinople. Rheinberg had given him every freedom to visit them and released him from all formalities. But Renna had insisted on at least attending the welcoming ceremony before he’d discreetly say goodbye. Graecus, like Renna before, was squadron commander in the rank of a navarch. Since Constantinople had become the home port of almost the entire fleet, numerous navarchs were around. Where Renna had held a relatively prominent position in the West, his old friend Graecus went under in the throng of senior officers. At least, he always said that.
“We have a meal in the palace,” Modestus said. “Accommodations for all your men and their families. In this difficult time, we have all earned for ourselves the right to enjoy some amenities. Tomorrow, a race in the Hippodrome is planned. You are all guests of the city. The weather is dry, nothing will cloud our pleasure. Before we plan the war, let us find some relaxation.”
Rheinberg bowed again. The logic of the old man was captivating. Although the planning, albeit informal, would already start at the table and the corresponding talks tomorrow in the Hippodrome certainly would not stop, that concerned only him and the immediate staff. Nobody would refuse a day at the racetrack. The Hippodrome was a symbol of the city, a social, economic and political center. Later, in a Byzantium that Rheinberg was trying to prevent, the supporters of the various racing teams would even decide who would become emperor and who would not.
“Your invitation honors me. We’re delighted,” Rheinberg replied.
“Then let’s go. Litters are ready. The legate here will brief your people and prepare transportation to the accommodations. They are all to be found in the palace complex. I’m sure you want to stay close to your men.”
“Very prudent.”
“Here, accompany me in my litter.”
Rheinberg pushed the curtain aside and climbed into the soft cushions. Modestus, already frail, was helped by a slave. As pleasant as it was to travel in a litter, it was for Rheinberg the symbol of slavery, which still ruled everywhere in Rome. He never had a good feeling when the slaves, strong men, picked up the litter and carried it on their shoulders through the crowds, whether it was the narrow streets of Trier or those of Constantinople. In Trier, he had avoided this locomotion as often as he could, which was easy because of his position. Here, he was a guest, though. He was dependent on the cooperation of these men, especially Modestus. He couldn’t afford to proclaim world revolution upon arrival.
Modestus was not one who tended to polite talk. In fact, he seemed much in thoughts and his silence only reinforced that impression. Rheinberg was certain that the general situation and the difficult role of the East as the savior of the empire preoccupied the Prefect. Last but not least, the question must bother him as to which demands the newly arrived Magister Militium would make and what efforts would be necessary to fulfill them.
Rheinberg could have calmed him down. He was not up to date on the reconstruction of the army in the East. As far as he knew, the remnants of the Eastern Roman Army were still encamped near Thessaloniki, where the new recruits were also gathered. He would go there soon to get an overview of the situation. In addition, he had already commissioned the young Godegisel with a special mission, which should lead him to the vicinity of the city. If they succeeded, Rheinberg’s military position in the East would improve considerably in one swoop; in fact, it would make him almost invulnerable.
Rheinberg tried to relax. It was hard for him to do so.
Time was burning under his nails.
2
Potentia was burning.
The flames leapt up from the houses and the superstructures of the fortified walls. Dark smoke danced into the sky, swirling in the gentle breeze, a reminder of destruction visible from afar. From the heights, it was easy to see another black band writhing over the dusty floor like an endless w
orm. The caravan of the city dwellers who took their belongings out of the city. Potentia would not be home to anyone for a long time.
Theodosius lowered the binoculars of the time-wanderers, cursing the clarity and sharpness with which the magic glass had taught him about the destruction of the provincial town. The civilian casualties were low, with timely warnings preceding the attack. The real target was not the houses and walls of Potentia but the city’s two large granaries.
Theodosius raised the binoculars to his eyes again. He didn’t want to shirk from the sight.
He had given the order to set Potentia on fire.
Everything was all his fault. Theodosius dealt with guilt very carefully. The death of his father, but also what he himself had done in another time, again as an emperor – all this led to new and great focus in the Spaniard’s mind. He wanted to investigate if he was the same man who had rageously massacred thousands of Romans in an amphitheater, or if he had changed.
Again, he directed his gaze on the caravan of refugees slowly moving south. Many of these people would starve to death. Their grain stocks were on fire. However, even if Theodosius hadn’t conducted the attack on Potentia, it would have been no better for the citizens of the city. Maximus would have taken possession of the supplies to care for his own legions. Theodosius’ own troops were much further south, as a lure and distraction. The mission in which they had ignited the bright flames that blazed throughout the city had been the action of a handful of soldiers.
“Maximus will have to change his plans,” Sedacius said. The Tribune stood beside him staring at the blazing fire with his naked eye. He showed no emotion. This officer also knew the necessities of warfare against the usurper. Theodosius nodded and lowered the binoculars.
“That was our intention. We buy time. It will hamper him.”
“I still think we should have taken the grains ourselves. Our men, too, want to be fed.”
Theodosius looked at Sedacius. The other man was a good ten years younger than the newly minted Emperor but had seen a lot, had a good reputation and a good grip on his men. He had hunted down the Huns in the East and found that barbarian detachments were much closer to Rome than expected. Time was pressing for the Empire to unite its forces and arm itself against the impending threat.
The Emperor Page 1
