“Of course,” confirmed Rheinberg and turned away. He stuck his head together with Becker and Neumann and waved von Klasewitz.
“Gentlemen, I’m now pretty sure that we are at some point in the year 378, more in the summer according to the temperatures we encounter. In the West rules Emperor Gratian, who fights against the Alemans, and he will be victorious indeed. He still officially resides in Trier. In the east rules Valens, who will be defeated in August this year by the Goths at Adrianople, where he himself also dies.”
“He was defeated,” corrected Neumann.
Rheinberg sighed. “Don’t confuse me. Valens will die – or died – and Gratian, as the new emperor of all, will give Eastern Rome to Theodosius, the son of a victorious commander of the same name, and that shortly thereafter because he felt overwhelmed with the government of the whole empire. Völkerwanderung has begun.”
Von Klasewitz jerked his thumb at the prisoners.
“And this one?”
“Roman navy, and in all probability from Ravenna.”
“What does all this mean for us?” asked Becker.
Rheinberg pondered the question. He himself had no clear answer.
“We will have to discuss this. But it is clear now that this is not a dream, not a trick and not a delusion. We are in the year 378. We have traveled through time.”
Rheinberg let the words sink for a moment. Even Klasewitz was no longer able to hide from the truth. And he looked almost happy about the fact that only von Krautz had been killed and not Rheinberg, so that he didn’t have to answer any difficult questions like those of Becker.
Rheinberg suddenly felt a weakness consuming his body. All the excitement, the rush of the attack, the unnecessary death of the captain, the knowledge about their situation, the new responsibility and, not least, the slight but painful injuries had their impact at once. Rheinberg sighed and crouched down, tried to fend off Neumann’s supporting hands, but lacked the strength.
“Captain, you need to rest,” insisted the doctor. “The first crisis is over and we cannot afford an exhausted commander on the edge of his powers.”
Becker nodded. Von Klasewitz looked rather confused as he realized that he was the master of the Saarbrücken while Rheinberg rested, and this seemed to bring him some discomfort. Rheinberg couldn’t refute Neumann’s argument. He felt exhausted, and thoughts tumbled in his head now that the first tension subsided. His wounds ached, and the death of the captain lay like a demon upon his consciousness. He pulled himself together, rose with Neumann’s help. “I will rest. Six hours. In the meantime, these are my commands.”
He summarized clear instructions, and one could see the relief in von Klasewitz’ eyes, a relief greater than his displeasure about the fact that these orders were given to him by Rheinberg. “The prisoners will be well cared for. The corpse of the captain will be cleaned and prepared for burial. We will do that tomorrow at dawn. We change course to the east, away from the coast, because no galley will follow us there. Slow speed; we do not have a specific course yet, we just have to win some time. The quartermaster will create a complete list of supplies on board, including all that has been brought by the infantry. We may soon have to ration certain items. After the funeral of the captain, there will be an officer’s meeting, to define our common strategy. I expect proposals. Did you understand everything?”
With emphatic clarity, von Klasewitz repeated the commands. He was aware of the presence of Becker, Neumann and Köhler all too well and Rheinberg was somewhat reassured that the new first officer wouldn’t start issuing unauthorized orders.
At least not yet.
He finally was helped by Neumann to his cabin, got rid of his uniform jacket and sat on the edge of his bunk. Neumann was silent, helped him to undress the pants and then swung the legs of the captain on the white linen. With pain did his chest finally come to rest on the thin mattress and Rheinberg looked at the gray-white painted ceiling above him.
“In six hours,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry. Go to sleep.” And then Neumann disappeared from the cabin, closing the door behind him.
Rheinberg stared for some minutes at the ceiling trying to displace the swirling images of the shattered galley, the dying captain, and the knowledge about what has happened from his mind – but without success.
They were in the past. They had traveled almost 1500 years through time by some freak of nature.
What, for God’s sake, he asked himself, should he do now?
7
“Lord, Nannienus and Malobaudes ask for an audience!”
Flavius Gratian, the Western Roman Emperor, looked up from his papers. It was already dark, and the torch and oil lamps spread an unsteady light. It seemed to carve deep furrows in the face of the emperor, even though he was only 19 years old. For three years, he has been master of the Western Roman Empire, and for three years he had not come to rest. On the shoulders of the one person ruling a vast empire sat a great responsibility, and the fact that he was not in Trier, but resided in the camp of his legions in Argentovaria was a sign of the kind of challenges he had to face.
Gratian sighed. Not that he would have had his rest in Trier. Many forces tugged at him. The constant submissions of Senator Symmachus craved for his attention as well as those of Bishop Ambrosius, and it was in times like these that the young man desired the advice of his old teacher, Ausonius, who had already supported his father Valentinian. But Ausonius was Prefect of Gaul and helping the emperor by protecting his back, so that he could lead the war. And there was his young wife, Constantia, whom he married when she was thirteen, and who hadn’t bore him a son yet. Nevertheless, the young emperor had to admit, there hadn’t been that much time to try. Constantia had taken a liking to the ritual pomp and ceremonies of the court and therefore refused to accompany her husband to the camp, where these ceremonies were much less important. And there was always a war to fight these days.
This war was the very reason why two men, ushered by Gratian’s manservant Elevius, entered the emperor’s tent. Their breastplates, meticulously polished, threw back the flickering light of the torches. Gratian got up, set his pen to the side and motioned the two men to sit around a table.
“Elevius – wine, bread and cheese!”
Nannienus wanted to throw up his hands defensively, but Gratian charged him with a gesture to stop. “While we’re discussing things that have to do with killing, we should ensure that we stay alive!”
He eyed the two Franks, men who could hardly be any different. Both stood in the service of Rome for many years, and had worked their way up in the military hierarchy. From Frankish nobility, Malobaudes even being a Frankish king, but proud Roman citizens, the strenuous service at the border had made the two generals’ faces hard-edged. But where Nannienus was thin, almost gaunt, and seemed to nearly disappear behind his metal breastplate, Malobaudes’ shape was wide and expansive. Where Nannienus seemed silent and reserved, you could hear his comrade often blustering loudly, laughing and striding through the camp, wanting to be close to the simple legionaries. Common to both was a sharp mind, a great tactical understanding, that they knew the border regions and, what was at the moment the most important issue, the Alemanni. They knew King Priarius, the Lord of Lentiensians, and they had followed his path throughout the year. In February, the enemies had invaded the empire across the frozen Upper Rhine, just as Gratian wanted to march his men to the East, to his uncle Valens, the emperor of Eastern Rome, to stand against the Goths of Fritigern. The border troops had been assembled otherwise, and Priarius, who was among the most rowdy of the Alemanni, had collected his warriors and had advanced with more than 40,000 men into the Alsace. And now that they were at Argentaria, Gratian stood before them, and his hopes rested on these two Franks to lead them to victory. Valens’ situation in the east was still difficult, and his uncle could use any support – but as long as Gratian was bound here, the East was alone in his fight against the Goths.
“So, gene
rals, how are things?” the Emperor began.
The two older men exchanged glances. Both had learned not to underestimate the young emperor. Gratian had already been made Augustus in 367, still a child, but the comprehensive training bestowed by his teacher Ausianus and the fact that Gratian was forced to grow up very fast had left their mark. Both generals felt the threat, the danger that hung over the empire. The Goths in the East had asked for settlement areas because they had given way to an even bigger, almost unimaginable threat. Something was going on there in the far east, far away from the borders of Rome, and yet closer than anyone wanted to admit. Both were convinced that what happened here, at Argentaria, was just a first taste of things to come. They expected that the young Emperor saw this threat as seriously as they did.
But now it was necessary to devote to the actual danger.
“Priarius is a bully, and he is a fool,” Nannienus opened the discussion and saw from the corner of his eye that Malobaudes nodded approvingly. “He is thus both an easy target as well as a great danger to himself.”
Gratian said nothing.
“He positioned his troops like a wild bunch, and I’m a bit surprised. I know that among his subordinates are a number of Roman veterans, and I also know that these have a fairly accurate idea of how to place troops in a proper formation and discipline them. But Priarius doesn’t like to listen much to his advisers, and therefore he is doomed.”
“How many men follow his orders?”
Malobaudes spoke. “We estimate about 45,000, Sire. Some more are around, but those are the women and children and the traders. The warriors – I’d say 45,000. Because he does allow such a chaos in his camp, the scouts can hardly make out details, but we have the usual collaborators and they have given us a very realistic picture.”
“Our own final strength?”
“Eight legions each with 3,500 soldiers, sir. Some auxiliary troops, a lot of lightly armed cavalry and infantry. All in all, we come to almost exactly 32,000 men.”
Gratian slipped back and forth on his stool. Military decisions made him uneasy. No, he corrected himself immediately: To be dependent on the experience of old generals made him nervous. There were moments in which the small number of his years meant more burden than pleasure.
“That will be enough?”
“If Priarius is the fool we believe him to be, he will run into our trap,” Nannienus replied confidently.
“And the tribes he persuaded to join him? They are all still loyal?” asked Gratian. With this question, he moved back into familiar territory – politics.
“The deserters report that the nobles still follow the king – although his last defeat didn’t go down well,” said Malobaudes. “One additional disaster, and they will run away from him and we can deal with them individually.”
“Rather, the frontier garrisons,” added his companion. “Direct involvement of your person won’t be necessary anymore.”
The Alemans, like the Goths, didn’t have as firmly established a state as the Romans, and their loyalties and hierarchy were often difficult to comprehend. A lot had to do with prestige, with corruption, and with the prospect of booty. Constant intrigues were common, and they could easily lead to murder.
Not that the Alemans would differ so fundamentally from Rome in regard to the latter point, thought Gratian bitterly. Nevertheless, Rome just functioned better, and the emperor wanted to use this advantage as long as he was able to.
“You’re so confident?” he said.
The generals nodded in unison. “Lord, the victory will be ours if Priarius is not suddenly overwhelmed by reason and tactical understanding,” added Malobaudes. “Our troops are well equipped, trained and disciplined.”
“We have Alemans amongst our men,” stated Gratian.
“And they become more, not less, because the number of defectors increases with each hour. This is a problem for the Lentiensians, less for us. There are certainly a few spies among them, but they will see nothing Priarius doesn’t know already. He knows our positions and our strength; all border peoples pretty much know the Roman garrisons. The problem of Priarius is not that he lacks knowledge about his enemy; his problem is that he is a reckless ruffian, surely of great bravery, but not a general.”
Gratian lowered his head, played with the jug of wine in his hand for a moment. “Does he have a general?”
“He would have candidates. He doesn’t want one. He needs the prestige of leading the fight, as he wants to transform a victory into political power. If he gives the command to a subordinate or listens too much to the advice of his veterans, who definitely know better, he will have to share a victory. For the Alemans, this means that a shift within the internal power structure could occur. Priarius definitely wants to avoid that. So he does it his way.”
Malobaudes looked very pleased. “It can’t come any better, my lord.”
“Very well.” The Emperor rose, stretching the muscles, felt the fatigue of a long day and the incessant camp life. “Now the last question: We attack or do we wait for his first move?”
“I advocate offering Priarius battle at dawn,” said Nannienus. “He will reject us maybe once, maybe twice, but then his people will become restless.”
“An additional factor is that he sits on a hill,” added his companion. “He will regard this as an advantage and won’t turn down the offer.”
“Isn’t it an advantage?” persisted Gratian.
“It only seems. It surely gives the fierce attack of the warriors more impetus. And it will be harder for them to escape when they realize that they have run into our trap. When the first waves are broken by our men and they start to run away, they will run up the onrushing comrades and uphill. A glorious mess.” Full of anticipation, Malobaudes beamed, and Gratian could hardly suppress a smile in view of this vivid description.
Nannienus nodded. His comrade had said everything.
“Then it’s decided. Gentlemen, I’m not a king of the Alemanni, I am the emperor of Rome. You lead this battle and make all tactical decisions. I’ll be constantly informed, but I won’t intrude.” Gratian paused. “I’m going to learn. Be victorious teachers, so that the instruction is worthwhile not only for me but also for Rome.”
Gratian saw the proud glint in the eyes of the generals, as they formally bid him farewell and left the tent. He saw that he was alone, sat down on his nearby bed, and yawned openly. Elevius scurried in, cleared away the barely touched food, and took one quick look at his master, staring pensively at the flickering light of the torches and oil lamps. Gratian was not one of those who appreciated any help in getting ready for sleep and preferred to undress by himself. Nevertheless …
Once again, the young emperor had to think about what it meant to be the son of the great Valentinian. His father had been declared emperor by the army and had crowned, against all good advice, his stepbrother Valens as ruler of the East – and in fact, Gratian’s uncle had been found to be a procrastinator. Valentinian had been famous for his military prowess. Gratian’s father had saved Britain from being overrun by the barbarians, had crushed a revolt in Africa, and repulsed an earlier invasion of the Alemans behind the Rhine. Eventually it wasn’t astonishing that the powerful and active emperor had been killed by a stroke after a fit of fury during negotiations with a stubborn German envoy, leaving his young son to the throne. And so everyone spoke of the example of his father, whom he had hardly known, and whose power was Gratian’s only legitimacy if he failed to gain his own.
Ultimately, the young emperor thought, his own position was not so different from that of Priarius, only that the Romans had covered everything with a shell of civilization and rules that crumbled quickly when any legion in any province decided to appoint its own emperor. Gratian hoped he would never have to face such a rebellion, as those had already cost too many “legitimate” emperors their life.
“Sir, any wish?”
“Oh yeah, Elevius.”
“What can I bring?”
Gratian raised his head and looked unspeakably tired. “A few more years of life, Elevius. Bring me only five or eight more years of life, so that I finally know what I have to do.”
Elevius returned the gaze of his emperor and put a hand on his shoulder. He served Gratian since he was a boy, and was able to afford this kind of confidentiality. “You’re doing all right, sir.”
“I doubt sometimes.”
“I do not.”
Gratian saw his servant with gratitude and sighed. “I go to sleep. Tomorrow I want to learn how to defeat barbarians.”
Elevius smiled. “You will be an excellent student, and in the not too distant future be a master among the masters yourself.”
Gratian pursed his lips. “Do you know what is the worst thing about being an emperor?”
“You will surely allow me to participate in your wisdom immediately, my Lord!”
Gratian grinned. “It is so difficult to distinguish between genuine praise and flattery.”
The servant bowed. “You are a man of great insight, oh my Emperor.”
“Elevius.”
“Sir?”
“Go to sleep as well.”
8
“Well, gentlemen, this is the situation. I’d like to hear your suggestions.”
Jan Rheinberg leaned back and looked expectantly at the others. Neumann had let him sleep a whole of seven hours instead of the prescribed six and had declared him fit for duty after a further examination, the replacement of the bandages, and a hearty breakfast. Rheinberg had accepted the administrations of the doctor half-grudgingly and half-grateful.
The meeting of the top officers of the Saarbrücken had begun with a long account given by the quartermaster and the chief engineer, who had both prepared a thorough inventory of perishables and consumption forecasts. Within the next four weeks, lack of certain provisions would emerge, depending on the way the cruiser and its crew would be used. Coal was the most pressing problem, but also food, especially now that the Saarbrücken was overstaffed, with the infantry and the prisoners of war, as they were now called – although Rheinberg rejected this notion. He didn’t want to start a war with anyone. The cruiser couldn’t survive in the long run. There had to be another way.
The Emporers Men Page 9
