He gesticulated and shouted, too. The sea carried off his words. Beside him, silently, stood two men, clothed in dark blue, wearing white hats and golden ornaments flashing in the sun. There could be no doubt that the fisherman was either a prisoner or a traitor. In both cases, Aurelius was obliged to attack.
He raised his hand. The agreed upon signal. While the crews on the rear thwarts now sunk the rows quickly into the water under the increasingly hectic play of symphoniacus, the crews of the front benches broke away and rushed to the upper deck and, quite disciplined under the watchful eye of the secutor, to stern. On the way, they passed Maltus and his assistant, took the weapons provided, then they gathered silently close to the helmsman, who guided the glorious Scipio steadfastly toward the body of the metal vessel. The more the weight was concentrated at the rear, the more the battering ram lifted out of the water, until it gently glided over the surface, in an exact, perfect angle, ready to slit the belly of the enemy.
Aurelius threw Lucius a look. The centurion had been waiting. He gave an order.
The archers, a dozen of the best aboard the Scipio, raised their bows.
6
“I can’t believe this!”
Von Krautz, standing alongside Rheinberg and the fishermen, stared stunned across the sea, and saw a museum piece moving toward the Saarbrücken, becoming significantly faster, the battering ram easily lifting out of the water, with the clear, unambiguous intent to ram them.
A timber ship was about to ram an armored light cruiser!
Absolutely crazy! The ship would burst in the middle. The spur, severed by the hull of the cruiser, would split at best, and at worst drive backwards into the galley and cause the already weak enough looking design to fold into itself. The crew of the vessel was substantial, the upper deck of the attacker full of sailors and …
“Legionaries,” gasped von Krautz, as if he could only now fully understand, as he had never truly believed the words of the fisherman, as he had to see it with his own eyes first.
“Captain, we should commence fire!” Rheinberg said.
Von Krautz turned to Rheinberg and looked at him with total disbelief in his eyes. “Fire? One shot, and this rowing boat sinks or goes up in flames!”
“It attacks.”
“It’s a rowboat!” von Krautz almost cried indignantly.
“It’s a warship. A trireme. Those soldiers are trained killers. We must defend ourselves!”
The captain threw up his hands as in comic despair and turned speechless toward the rapidly approaching opponent, as if to move him with a mere gesture to give up his senseless endeavor. Rheinberg was not sure if von Krautz had seen it as well, but the twelve muscular men leaning over the wooden railing of the trireme had donned their bows, and with the confidence of years of practice and knowledge about their own abilities, targeted twelve lean, fast projectiles toward the cruiser. Rheinberg knew intuitively who would be the target once they shot up.
He dropped, quickly pulled the fisherman standing beside him to the ground, and grabbed the legs of the captain to unbalance him as opening his mouth to yell a warning.
But he was left to see that two arrows suddenly grew from the chest of von Krautz, long, feathered wooden projectiles, and his dark blue uniform jacket became soaked red, dark red, and the blood spread fast.
Von Krautz slumped silently to the deck, one hand clutched in vain around the shaft of the arrows, the other seeking for support, and in falling he met the eyes of Rheinberg, still full of incomprehension, and then they broke, even before he finally touched the planks.
More men cried, all hit by arrows. A second volley went over the deck, fired with the speed of thought. Now the Germans realized the danger and took cover, though too late for many.
Too late for von Krautz.
For a moment, time stood still and nothing and no one moved.
Rheinberg stared at the body of his captain, suddenly completely aware that whatever might happen now, he himself was from now on the commanding officer of the Saarbrücken – he, Jan Rheinberg, who had always dreamed of a command.
What a cold thought, given this sudden death, shooting through his head.
And his command was still under attack.
That was the reason for his lack of emotion. Focus. He needed to focus.
And then the trireme crashed with furious force into the side of his ship.
The cruiser shuddered slightly; a gentle swaying transited the ship’s body, and at the same time came the crunch of decomposing, splintering wood, and surprised, horrified screams from the trireme. Rheinberg straightened and saw how one of the 10.5-cm quick-loading cannons on the starboard side targeted the already mortally wounded galley gaining distance from the cruiser and fired a single shot.
The shot tore the rear, full of sailors, like paper. Splinters flew through the air, one penetrated his arm painfully, and Rheinberg protectively covered his face. Cries of pain, a deafening chaos of sounds, and a staccato of terror filled the air. Shots rang out, the infantrymen of Becker’s company aimed at the few Romans who still held at the rapidly sinking wreck of their ship.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” came finally the commanding voice of Becker and the banging ebbed. Rheinberg got up, spun around, let go of the hand of Marcus and headed for the bridge. Blood ran down his arms from where they had caught bigger wood splinters, but he ignored the pain. Breathless, he rushed to the bridge.
“The captain – where is Neumann?”
“On his way,” Volkert said, who was on the bridge and apparently gave the command for the cannon to shoot the trireme.
“Men in the boats. Arm everyone. I want all the survivors fished out of the water.”
The ensign didn’t ask and gave the orders immediately. A medic stormed onto the bridge, saw Rheinberg’s blood-soaked uniform and opened his suitcase.
“Not now, these are just scratches. The captain …”
“… is dead.”
That was Neumann’s voice. He had climbed the stairs to the bridge, and the way he spoke everyone could see that his statement was without doubt. “He was killed instantly. An arrow caught him right in the heart. Dead right there.”
Rheinberg stared at him, surely made a terrible impression on his friend, looking confused and exhausted and overwhelmed. Neumann wanted to say something, but Rheinberg interrupted him.
“Who else? Injured? Dead?”
Neumann shook his head. “We have some good news. Most men have either crouched or stood relatively protected.” He sighed. “Another dead. Dr. Sommer.”
Rheinberg sighed deeply. He had met the clergyman, who had been one of the newcomers on board, only briefly, and judged him to be a very silent, humble man, who was always more willing to listen than to say his mind – a very pleasant change compared to some other crew members. He didn’t know him well enough to say more, but he felt that he would feel the loss to be very painful in the future – especially in this difficult situation.
“Two slightly injured by arrows,” continued Neumann. “The rest are okay. No third salvo from the archers as young Volkert responded quickly.”
“No, the shooters were standing at the bow. As the trireme rammed us, they have been incapable to further their attack. The lucky ones were thrown into the water. They only got von Krautz and the priest.” Rheinberg gasped for air, ignoring the pain in the arms and legs. “Only those two.”
“Jan,” Neumann mumbled so quietly that only he could hear. “Pull yourself together. Don’t limp. Remember: If you are not commanding, the highest ranking officer is von Klasewitz. Consider.”
Rheinberg wiped his forehead. His already bloodied hands left a dirty red trace on the skin. Of course. With the death of von Krautz, all bridge officers had slipped a position upwards. Rheinberg was now the captain – and von Klasewitz was first officer. It could hardly be worse.
Volkert’s firm voice jerked Rheinberg from his thoughts. “Captain! A second galley, Captain. Approaches with … well, as
fast as they can, I guess.”
Rheinberg grabbed the binoculars, pointed them at the second trireme, coming closer with a fast beat.
“I set the gunners …”
“No shot without my expressed command,” barked Rheinberg. He was still shocked at the effect that a single shot from a small cannon had, despite it had been his own proposal to open fire.
Then the oars went up, the trireme turned. The captain of the ship now surely considered the chaos that had been caused upon his sister ship by the Saarbrücken. Rheinberg in his place would …
“They leave,” Volkert announced unnecessarily. Everyone saw it. The oars were lowered into the water. In fast, desperate cycles, the oars pushed the second galley away of the Saarbrücken. An intelligent man, this captain. Report back home rather than to feed himself to the fish.
“He will seek help!”
“There is nothing that can stand against us here,” came the suddenly confident, even arrogant voice of von Klasewitz, who entered the bridge and looked around, reflecting his new and absolute power. When he realized that Rheinberg was present, he grimaced and faked compassion. “You need to go to the infirmary!”
“I am fit for duty,” growled Rheinberg. “And yes, there is no one here who could effectively fight us. That’s why von Krautz is dead – because he was invulnerable. And we are alone in … in a time that is not ours and if we cannot get coal, if we have to stop greasing the machines, and if we run out of the spare parts and ammunition, we’re still invulnerable – invulnerable time travelers in a metal coffin. Don’t be too confident, Klasewitz. We have, if our luck doesn’t turn, just made ourselves an enemy of the Roman Empire.” He sighed. He recalled his own spontaneous reaction and felt confused, dizzy and sick. “And that’s not a good thing,” he added weakly.
“They attacked us,” the noble returned.
“Don’t be so shortsighted,” Rheinberg replied angrily. “It doesn’t matter who is to blame. This trireme will report to Rome that here is a metal monster ship that sinks imperial war galleys in the Mediterranean. Do you seriously believe that the question of who shot first has any relevance?”
“Then after them and sink them, too!”
“That will only delay the inevitable. We cannot hide forever.”
Von Klasewitz kept silent. Even he seemed to realize it.
Rheinberg sat down hard and allowed Neumann to remove the wet uniform, to open his case, and to tender the fortunately only superficial wounds. Someone handed the newly minted captain a small metal cup of schnapps, which he took and swallowed gratefully. The burning sensation in the stomach revived his senses, and he anxiously waited for news, for Neumann to finish caring about his wounds, and for developing any idea how to get out of this mess.
When he got up, the excitement had somewhat abated. The second galley was hardly visible in the distance. The wounded were cared for, and his boy had brought a fresh uniform. Rheinberg left the bridge, was careful to take both Neumann and von Klasewitz along and appeared on the rear deck, where the men had gathered the fish caught from the shipwreck. The rescuers in the boats had done a quick and effective work and gathered the Romans floating in the water. There had been no problems, not least because apparently only very few of the castaways were able to swim.
Köhler’s massive figure stood in front of Rheinberg as he saluted and reported as if the veteran wanted to demonstrate to Rheinberg that he knew and respected the new captain on board. Rheinberg stretched, replied the salute. Everyone should see it. All had to see it.
“How many, Köhler?”
“Forty-three survivors. Twelve of them injured. Two serious.”
Neumann needed no further invitation. He knelt beside his medics who already cared for two men lying quietly. One had burns, the other gunshot wounds. Rheinberg focused on the rest. He looked up, straightened as a dark-skinned, muscular man approached. His clothes were torn but seemed to be more expensive than those of many of the other survivors. Rheinberg tried to find a clue but only as Marcus, uninjured, joined him and whispered him a word, he knew who he was dealing with.
“Trierarch,” had been the breathy note.
The captain of the destroyed ship.
Rheinberg was stumped. The comparatively tall man, apparently originating from Africa, reached only his chin. They stared at each other, then Rheinberg saluted, slow, precise, carefully considering to avoid any too embarrassing eye contact. His opponent recognized the gesture apparently, nodded, but didn’t produce his own salute. He stared constantly at Rheinberg, as if looking for something specific in the man’s face. He didn’t seem to find it.
“I’m Jan Rheinberg, trierarch of this ship.” He searched for the right words. “Trierarch of the Saravica,” he added finally.
The bumpy Latin seemed not to disturb the man. He had probably learned to know more than people who mastered this language only inadequately.
“I’m Aurelius Africanus, trierarch of the Scipio.” For a moment he seemed to pause, as he remembered, and bowed his head. “I was trierarch of Scipio. You have destroyed my ship.”
“You attacked my ship and without reason.”
“You broke my trireme like a twig. That’s reason enough for me to accept that you are a danger to Rome. The Augustus will report. Soon the news will spread like wildfire and reach Treveri. Then you will see how it is to have the Roman Empire as an enemy.”
Rheinberg nodded. “I don’t want to be an enemy of the Roman Empire.”
“This is not your will. It is that of the Emperor.”
A sudden thought crept into Rheinberg, a question that he had wanted to ask Marcus, but had not been able to pose because of the attack – namely, to ask for the name of the reigning emperor. The reference to Treveri – or Trier – had already helped him: They must have arrived sometime after the transfer of the capital of the Western Empire from Rome – and before the transfer of the seat of government to Milan and later even Ravenna, the city, from where Aurelius Africanus had most likely set off from on his fateful journey. That limited the time period a bit, although Rheinberg was unable to remember the exact dates. But the name of the Emperor …
“Who rules in Treveri, Trierarch?”
The man made a surprised face. “You come from a faraway land if you don’t know who rules the empire. Where exactly do you come from?”
“Who rules in Treveri?” repeated Rheinberg. Currently, he was not in the mood to provide explanations. Aurelius again seemed not to want to insist.
“Gratian, son of Valentinian, rules the West. His residence is Treveri. Valens, brother of Valentinian, rules the East. His residence is Constantinople.”
Rheinberg’s mind raced. Something stirred in his memory. Historical events tumbled around in his head. Aurelius seemed to notice his dismay turned with a quizzical look to the other survivors of his ship. Some of those had joined him, including a gray-bearded veteran who looked like the Roman equivalent to Köhler. Nobody seemed threatening; everyone seemed to become more curious about the strange ship and its strange crew.
“Köhler, make sure that the prisoners receive sufficient food and drink. I want them to be treated well.”
“Yes.”
Rheinberg turned away, rushed along the railing, vanished inside the Saarbrücken and arrived, panting, his cabin. He finally realized that Neumann and Becker had followed him, when he had already taken a heavy tome on hand. The two men didn’t bother to ask for what he was looking for but glanced encouragingly at Rheinberg after he had browsed for a few minutes and read quietly.
“Ah hell,” exclaimed Rheinberg.
“Out with it,” urged Becker.
“Gratianius Flavius, son of Valentinian I, had his residence in Trier, until the year 378. His uncle and co-emperor Valens died in the year 378 in a battle against the invading Goths, the first prominent victim of what historians call the Völkerwanderung. So we have arrived sometime in the later fourth century. Let’s see … in 365 Valens was Valentinian’s … s
tepbrother, to be exact … and named co-regent. So we are somewhere between these two years …”
“We can still find out more details,” Neumann said. The three of them rushed back to the rear deck, the thick book with them. Among the suspicious glances of von Klasewitz, the Romans had apparently gathered for a meeting, which was dissolved as Rheinberg unerringly headed for Aurelius again.
“Trierarch, you might perceive my questions as very confusing, but I beg you to answer them.”
Aurelius looked at Rheinberg as if he would take him to be a little crazy. Still, he seemed to willingly expect those questions.
“Where is Emperor Gratian currently?”
“He rides against the Alemanni.”
“His campaign is crowned with success?”
Aurelius didn’t know, that much was clear, but he wouldn’t admit it. “The Emperor wins because God is on his side.”
“Without a doubt.” Rheinberg flipped a page and said in German, addressing Neumann and Becker: “Gratian led a campaign against the invading Alemans in 378. Associated with this has been a big victory in Colmar, the last historical record of a Rhine crossing by a Roman emperor. Then he took residence at Sirmium; later he moved to Milan.”
“And?” said Becker. Rheinberg looked at him.
“This means the end of the Western Roman Empire has begun. Rome is from now on only on the defensive. Gratian will appoint Theodosius co-regent after the death of Valens, and after the death of Gratian, he will die in the battle against an usurper, Theodosius will be the last ruler of the entire empire. Eighty years later, Western Rome collapses and Eastern Rome becomes the Byzantine Empire.”
“Ah,” made Becker, obviously not too impressed.
“Aurelius …” Rheinberg turned back to the trierarch who followed the German conversation with incomprehension. “… where is the Emperor Valens at the moment?”
“I don’t know. Some say he wants to quash the uprising of Fritigern. Here, we receive news from the east rather late.” Before Rheinberg could say anything, the trierarch hastily added, “He will be victorious as well!”
The Emporers Men Page 8
