“In addition to the coal we will soon experience lack of other consumables,” Dahms explained further. “Oils and fats are the next problem. Then all sorts of parts wear, depending on how much we will test the machines. The good news is that our storages were filled to the maximum upon our departure. The question is how to refill.”
Rheinberg’s gaze fell into the void. About the facts, there was no doubt. The discussion about the stocks hadn’t left much room for interpretation. With strict rationing and avoiding all wearing exercise for man and machine, they would be able to operate the Saarbrücken for a few weeks without problems. After that, the lack of this or that would be painfully noticeable.
“We need to establish a base,” Neumann said.
Von Klasewitz nodded eagerly. “Very good. We are in a time where our weapons will not meet any resistance. We capture a port and force the residents to subjection.”
“To achieve what?” asked Rheinberg quietly. He knew that the newly appointed executive officer was not the only one on board who was playing with fantasies of power and wealth. For many, the naïve notion of plentiful female slaves played a part as well. This had to be discussed.
“Well, it would be a start …” Klasewitz’ sentence trailed off.
“It wouldn’t,” Dahms intervened. He still hadn’t developed any sympathy for the new first officer. “We need coal. Technology. Except for food, we can’t expect much, and the Saarbrücken will be like a metal corpse in an enemy port. Finally, once the ammunition is finished and the Romans or whoever learn about that … I don’t know much about military history, but I can hardly imagine how we … with our sabers and bayonets against a well-organized and professional body of … I don’t know the proper name for such a unit.”
“A cohort would be sufficient to attack us,” helped Rheinberg.
“A cohort then,” Dahms said. “Sure, before that we would be able to inflict one or another massacre, but as soon as someone realizes that we are out of ammunition – and I don’t assume for a moment that we are dealing with idiots here – we’re history.” He bared his teeth. “In the truest sense of the word.”
Rheinberg said nothing, didn’t want to widen the gulf between himself and von Klasewitz, but he could only agree with the navy-engineer. Dahms had analyzed the situation in short and clear words and very aptly.
“Captain, you are obviously the best expert,” said Langenhagen. “Can we keep the Saarbrücken alive at all – I mean, at this time?”
Rheinberg paused for effect, before he answered. “Well, certainly not by conquering a port and exploiting the population.” He could not resist now and looked past von Klasewitz’ deeply red face. “I can’t answer this question in a simple way. Coal may be the least of the problems – the Saarbrücken can be fired, although with diminished effectiveness, with wood or charcoal, and in this time exposed coal seams were known in some areas of the empire. We can certainly produce charcoal by ourselves. For this we need more than just one port, of course; we must have access to the facilities and roads of the Roman Empire. It becomes more difficult in regard to fats and oils, but I guess that we can identify practical substitutes that will help us for some more months. The spare parts will be very difficult. There are without any doubt many skilled craftsmen in this time, and we have a well-equipped workshop with many well-trained people in our crew. But it lacks the tools to build the tools with which we can produce even most necessary spare parts.” Rheinberg nodded to Dahms, who was very thoughtful. “Ammunition is another problem. Here, too, we lack the industrial base. We will have to be very carefully and use it sparingly. The technical problems are endless. We can’t produce steel easily, especially in necessary quantities, so we have to resort to inferior metals or alloys. The consequence for us is therefore quite clear.” Rheinberg sighed, looked into his coffee cup and sighed again. “Coffee, gentlemen, should also be rationed, as it has been completely unknown in the Roman Empire.”
A suppressed “Damn!” made the rounds on the table. For some men, this was as serious a problem as the spare parts. Rheinberg decided to leave the wider crew ignorant of these little details until further notice, especially keeping in mind that the local beer would unlikely meet the quality expectations of the Germans, and spirits were largely unknown as well.
Rheinberg put his hands flat on the polished ebony finish of the table.
“Either we try to manage as long as possible, and then somehow abandon the Saarbrücken and survive otherwise. We won’t be able to keep the crew together, our technology base will be lost, and eventually everyone will have to take care of himself on his own.”
A look around showed that this alternative was not received enthusiastically.
“Or we can align ourselves with the Roman Empire, became part of and help the imperial state, use the resources of the Empire, transfer our knowledge and create a stable basis in order to keep the ship functional as long as possible, maybe on a lower level. We can keep the crew together and establish a power-base, but not against the Empire, but for and with it. So we have a chance for survival – and for a meaningful survival, exploiting our potentials and opportunities effectively and efficiently.”
Their faces brightened. Only Klasewitz looked distraught. Rheinberg looked at him invitingly.
“With all due respect, Captain,” he said, “but we are Germans! If it is really true that we are lost in the here and now, shouldn’t we travel home and offer our own people, the Germans, the services of the Saarbrücken?”
“The question is valid, indeed,” replied Rheinberg to von Klasewitz’ recognizable astonishment. “But whom do we want the ship to support? Franconians? Alemans? Burgundians? Vandals? Tervingians? Greuthungians? Or one of the many smaller tribes? In the area of Wilhelmshaven, the Frisians rule, if I’m not mistaken. And then, if we go to war, we do fight against the Germans who are in Rome’s services? Against the numerous German generals and German legionaries? And what kind of technological base do you expect from our ancestors, Lieutenant Commander? Which state are we talking about? Which great German port exactly should be the home of the Saarbrücken?”
Von Klasewitz said nothing, pursed his lips, was alternately red and pale when Rheinberg fired his questions calmly and persistently.
“No, that’s absurd. It’s pointless. We would demise fast. The ship would be a wreck shortly. We would not even survive before our supplies are running low. In this time the Germans – the Germans outside the boundaries of the Roman Empire, I mean! – have nothing to offer us. On the contrary. We may have to fight them. They are the barbarians.”
“Fight?” echoed Becker.
“Yes. It is the time of the Völkerwanderung, the great migration of the peoples. If we want to survive, we must keep the Roman Empire alive. So we have to help the most sophisticated civilization, and it is here where we find it.”
“One issue should be raised,” said Neumann. “What about our efforts to return to our own time?”
Approving nods came everywhere, and then the eyes turned to Rheinberg.
He raised his hands in a gesture of despair. “I’m all for it. But how do we do that?”
“Let’s go exactly the same way back from where we came,” suggested Becker.
“We’ve already done that when I gave the order to increase the distance from the coast. We can’t know exactly because we have been unconscious, but the waters and the weather has returned to normal, no fog, now quite a strong wind – and we can’t look for that strange phenomenon forever.”
As if to confirm, the Saarbrücken bowed slightly in the waves and everyone was automatically gripping their cups.
“It can be of our advantage when we work together with the Roman Empire in this case as well. When we receive reports by the Roman ships about a similar phenomenon, they might encounter, we can search specifically. Until then, we grope around in the dark.”
“So what are our next steps?”
Rheinberg scratched his head. He knew that this
was the crucial question, and for him there was only one possible answer to it. “We are heading for the nearest port – which is probably Ravenna – and return our prisoners of war. We contact the government. We prove our worth.”
“We’re doing what?”
“We have to prove ourselves. Valens will fall. He’ll be dead before we can make a difference. Gratian will make Theodosius Emperor of the East, and that one will be the last Roman Emperor ruling all of it, for Gratian will soon die, victim of an usurper. We must prevent that. Indeed, we must prevent Theodosius, if we want to save the Roman Empire. He may have been a legendary figure, but he has made too many mistakes.” Rheinberg looked around, looked at faces full of incomprehension. “Gentlemen, Rome is facing a desperate situation. The nation is forced to ask for exorbitant taxes to maintain the army. There is a massive shortage of labor. The Empire is under threat at four or five border areas. A civil war is imminent. The schism and fanaticism of many bishops consumes energies that should be focused on far more urgent tasks.”
The captain paused. Most of the officers looked at him with polite interest. He suddenly realized that these “details” were of limited interest for many. They expected that Rheinberg kept their lives and the ship operational. Was it necessary to start a revolution, a struggle for power? That was the job of the captain.
Rheinberg closed his mouth. His eyes met with those of Becker and Neumann. Here were the only men at this table, with whom he could possibly discuss the political and economic consequences of their decision. More he could not expect.
The captain felt a great desire to delve into his books. He needed to know more about this period, evoke memories of books he already read. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he knew that he would cause upheaval once he’d start to serve the Roman Empire. Once he started to make history. To change history.
Rheinberg rose. “Set course to Ravenna,” he said softly. “Small speed ahead. I’m in my cabin. Double crew on lookout. I want two men ready with binoculars. Immediate combat readiness, if something is seen. Oh yes … and no shots without my expressed command. I expect absolute discipline.”
He looked around. No doubt in their eyes, no contradiction. Even von Klasewitz seemed content for the moment.
So far, so good.
9
It was warm that morning and sunny. Gratian looked from the back of his horse across the troops, who filled the plain before him. The center of the Roman legions, organized by cohorts, had taken a roughly rectangular area in the middle. The lines looked like they were drawn with a ruler. Officers rode along the front, shouting commands if one unit was still not a hundred percent in formation. The center contained the elite troops of the Roman West, comitatenses, fast moving legions of the field army. These were supplemented by limitanei, the border troops, and too many of them, as Gratian was painfully aware of. For each new campaign he led against invading barbarians, more troops had to withdraw from the garrisons, to compensate for the high death toll of eternally recurring battles. One day the carefully planned and elaborate border security system with troops located in staggered frontier fortresses, which Diocletian had once built, would crumble simply due to a lack of personnel.
The auxiliary troops were a little bit distanced at the left and right of the center line-up, including Gratian’s preferred unit, the Alan cavalry, with which he himself had tried his abilities in fighting games again and again. Then there were archers and the quotas of laeti, tribes living in the boundaries of Rome who, due to their own fighting style and weaponry, were specific units. This was reflected by a less rigid formation than in the center, but one could be mistaken: The officers of the auxiliary troops knew exactly what was at stake and which plan to follow, and they knew the value of discipline. There would be no individual action, no anarchy in the Roman army.
The left block of the auxiliary troops was a little further from the center than the right. The generals had a good reason to choose these tactics for this battle.
Further ahead, Priarius has gathered the rubble of the opposing forces. It was an impressive amount of warriors who shouted themselves hoarse to gather courage. Their sheer quantity seemed overwhelming as they surged over the hill and threatened to sweep away the compact formations of outnumbered Roman troops at any time. But Gratian had seen this many times before. At 15, his father had taken him along on his campaigns and taught him what he could before he himself had unexpectedly died. Barbarians were always in the majority. But the soldiers of Rome were well-trained professionals – a majority of them also barbaric, often of German origin – but here quality won over quantity, and the Emperor was sure that this principle would also remain valid this time.
They were also much more spearmen and archers on the Roman side. The men of Priarius might be all brave warriors – Gratian was always ready to bear witness to this, since his own army consisted largely of soldiers recruited from barbarians – but their way of fighting had a preference for direct confrontation with the sword, where physical strength and endurance would be put to use to the fullest advantage. The Roman legions were quite willing to avoid putting a valuable fighter in danger when a continuous shower of arrows and spears could carry chaos and death to the enemies, with no one on the Roman side hurt.
About fifty passus before Gratian and his bodyguard rode the two Roman Frankish generals, accompanied by messengers and signalmen, which were prepared with trumpets and drums to relate the commands to the legions. The whole parade already took an hour, and the men of Priarius stood idly by. Sure, it meant more prestige for the barbarian prince to beat a fully established Roman army – but even a notorious ruffian like Priarius couldn’t be so stupid as to wait until the Romans were fully prepared for battle.
On the other hand, who was Gratian to unnecessarily muse on a happy coincidence? He might be a committed Christian, but he felt nothing wrong by sending a secret thank you to Fortuna. And the multitude of gods that were worshiped by his soldiers down there would receive numerous messages as well.
Horns sounded. Gratian’s eyes narrowed. Priarius had called for the attack, and a roaring, surging mass of people rushed down the hill. Then all of a sudden a cloud of missiles covered the sky, as archers fired their arrows. The roar of the attacking warriors mingled with the cries of pain by the wounded, but the barbarians were not impressed and stormed on. A second cloud soared toward the attackers; this time it was the spears thrown with force. Screams rang out again, then more whoops and cries. Gratian saw with pride that the legions remained completely motionless and seemingly ignorant of the onrushing warriors, absolute discipline ensured by the centurions, whose plumes clearly loomed within the formations. No one would dance out. Even the most timid recruit knew that his chances of survival were much higher in the lineup than with a meaningless escape, which also would likely to end up with his execution. The comrades and their cooperation was the best insurance for survival in a battle like this.
Then again, the horns were blown. The slightly removed positioned left phalanx of legionaries began to march forward, raised their shields, swords ready, stomping with smooth, controlled steps. The center and the right flank halted. The further the Legionaries advanced, the more they oppressed the onrushing wave of barbarians. War cries grew louder when the barbarians broke against the shields of the legionaries, their bodies impaled with the blade protruding, and chopped down in the methodical strikes. Centurions brandishing their swords on the bodies of the barbarians, fighting on the front line, next to them the carriers of the cohort’s banner, symbolic figures of each century, whose protection was the most honorable task of each legionnaire.
A good hour passed in this way until Gratian saw how the left flank drilled into the mass of warriors and recoiled in a slight angle toward the center.
The hoped-for effect ensued, and the storming hordes were pushed against the waiting center. The barbarians fought desperately, visibly unable to react coherently in face of tactical maneuv
ers. Some time passed, then the horns sounded again. The right flank marched forward, slowly closing the trap. When the barbarians saw that they were squeezed into the valley simultaneously from three sides, the first tried to escape the established funnel – only to find that the cavalry and archers had been waiting for such an escape. The men running uphill or laterally along the slope were easy prey for the waiting archery or zooming Alans and Moorish cavalrymen who dispatched the fleeing warriors in short time. Few opponents managed to escape from the encirclement. The war cries of the barbarians turned increasingly into panicked shrieks, spiced with the angry roar of the chiefs and war leaders who were desperately trying to organize their disintegrating force. But all efforts were in vain. Half an hour of battle passed, and when the Roman legions had been combined into a single unit, entrenched and slowly forming a marching front up the hill, wave after wave of barbarians had disintegrated into a wild-roaming bunch, some still doggedly fighting, others seeking their safety in flight.
Gratian nodded approvingly. The day belonged to the Roman Empire. Priarius was beaten, no matter how long the remaining fighting would drag on now. The Roman Emperor threw a searching glance at the sky. It was close to noon. The battle, as effectively and efficiently it developed, lasted around three hours, a period that passed in a flash for the young emperor. He had learned and both Malobaudes and Nannienus had proved to be worthy teachers.
He turned around when he saw one of the generals approaching him. It was Malobaudes, almost cheerfully swinging his sword.
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