The Emporers Men

by Dirk van den Boom

  Africanus handed him the megaphone, which Renna took immediately and rushed to the front deck. Rheinberg gave Becker a wink and a nod just before he followed the Roman. Africanus preferred to remain on the bridge.

  Renna stood at the bow as the Saarbrücken slowed and slid parallel to the pirates through the water. Apparently, the pirates had not yet realized that the metal monster was after them officially and on behalf of the Roman navy. When Renna yelled his surrender request and was clearly recognizable in his armor, it finally dawned to the crooks.

  Renna’s call was answered with a half-hearted arrow attack. One of the missiles landed powerless on deck; the remainder hit against the ship’s side or went swimming.

  “I take that as a ‘no’,” muttered Rheinberg. “Shot across the bow!”

  The well-oiled machine of the cruiser, both technology and crew, responded with disciplined precision … Messages poured in, and then the 5-inch gun barked hoarsely. A moment later, a fountain spurted high among the leading pirate and spray flung over his railing.

  “Well targeted and shot well, my commendation to the gunners!” Rheinberg said with a satisfied grin. Everyone was righteously impressed.

  Renna roared again something into the megaphone. This time some yelling came back. The navarch threw up his arms in mock despair, the megaphone still in one hand, and then trudged back to the bridge. “This is silly. Fools,” he cursed as he stood beside the helm.

  “Can you determine which ship has the hostage?” asked Rheinberg.

  “Not really. But the sailing ships have no lower deck. There is not much place to hide someone. That ship over there seems to be filled only with pirates.”

  “Then we have a target.”

  It all happened very quickly. The 5-inch turned its mouth and orders were given. Von Klasewitz himself was on deck to command the fire. Again the gun bellowed, but this time there was no fountain of water but the crashing of splintering wood, a ball of fire, screaming men thrown into water, and a very fast, very effectively sinking wreck. It was gone in an instant, without a great roar of attack, without further warning. There was nothing left where a pirate with a good twelve men on board had been – only foaming sea, a few planks of wood, and one or two desperate swimmers.

  Renna stared speechless, amazed, but also fascinated by the spectacle. Now he had seen what he had been reported by Africanus and could appreciate what the cruiser was capable of. The navarch seemed to be very impressed.

  Through his binoculars Rheinberg could see the terror in the faces of the pirates. He had left a lasting impression there as well. “Good, very good,” he said. “Navarch, may I suggest that you renew your call one last time?”

  “Sure,” Renna, still shaking his head. He seemed now to truly grasp what kind of power had destroyed Africanus’ trireme.

  And what it meant when one opposed the Saarbrücken. Rheinberg hoped very much that Renna was not afraid. Caution yes – but fear was a bad counselor. He needed the man as an ally, not an enemy.

  The navarch marched back to the foredeck. He picked up the megaphone, but before he could say a word, he was yelled at by one of the sailors.

  “They finally surrender,” Langenhagen announced excitedly.

  In fact – the pirates turned in, dropped the sails. Weapons flew over the railing into the Mediterranean. These men had lost all courage, and Rheinberg could not blame them.

  “Little speed,” he said. “We circle the flotilla. I want us to keep an eye on each ship. Köhler!”

  The NCO ran to the bridge. “Captain?”

  “The steam launch. Ten-men landing company, under your command. Take Sepidus along. I want the hostage. If someone doesn’t behave, you shoot without warning. No false indulgence. You understand?”

  “The pinnace to water, allow ten men under arms. Take the hostage. No games.”

  “Wait until we are in position!”

  “Waiting for message, yes.”

  Köhler stormed to the stern, where the men stood on the winches to allow the large pinnace to water. Rheinberg himself had previously selected the ten most experienced soldiers. When he saw the eagerness with which Sepidus now joined Köhler, a satisfied smile played around his lips. Sooner or later, when he had established a safe haven for his Saarbrücken, he would have to take on board Romans as regular crew members.

  He had no doubt that enough volunteers would be found.

  It was not long before they knew on which of the hostage had been held. He was on the largest of the ships, together with the leader of the pirates, Claderius. Rheinberg gave the command to bring the pirate captain and soon deposited between the surrendered ships the pinnace bobbed toward the flagship of Claderius. The menacing 5-inch guns were sufficient to stop the crooks from any attempt to attack the pinnace as this would be associated with their immediate and complete demise. It took about 45 minutes, then Köhler was back, and he brought a maybe thirteen-year-old boy who entered the Saarbrücken with big eyes and was immediately led into Neumann’s hospital ward. Africanus joined him. The burly, tanned giant of a man who came on board as a second didn’t have to be introduced. The word “pirate captain” was figuratively written across his forehead.

  Two men of the boarding company took him into their midst. His hands were already tied up on board the pinnace. The giant seemed to be scared and overwhelmed and looked up only when Renna placed himself in front of him.

  “Claderius,” he spoke to him triumphantly. “I’ve long waited for this moment. With this hostage you’ve gone too far.”

  Claderius ignored the admiral and looked at Rheinberg, who had joined them. “What is this vessel?” he exclaimed in Greek.

  Rheinberg said nothing.

  “It is a new ship of the Roman navy,” Renna said instead. “It’s the ship that brought you and your men down. You will be executed as soon as we have reached Ravenna. With any luck, we’ll just sell your men into slavery.”

  Claderius spat on the floor. “No one executes me. You may have the upper hand now, Renna, but I have powerful friends.”

  Renna patted the railing with a hand. “Me too. What do you think, which are more powerful?”

  Uncertainty crept into Claderius’ face when Rheinberg ordered him led to the brig. Renna looked at him, suddenly very thoughtful.

  “Of course he’s not wrong, Trierarch,” he said quietly to Rheinberg. “Claderius has invested a lot of money in his connections to the mainland. I’ll have to execute him quickly if I really want to get rid of him and his menace. But in any case, the gratitude for the liberation of the young one will be great. We should experience a lavish party in three days. You’ve introduced yourself well, Rheinberg!”

  “Thank you, navarch. How do we want to deal with the prisoners?”

  “We’ll bind the ships together and tow them. Will that work?”

  “We’ll be slow.”

  “There is no more reason to hurry.”

  “Then I’ll give the orders.”

  Renna was satisfied. As he walked away, Rheinberg immediately gave the necessary instructions. With luck, they would be back in Ravenna at sunset, and their return would be a triumphant one. A happy twist of fate had helped them. This mission had been easy for the men of the Saarbrücken, just the right action to present their skills to the test in front of an appropriate audience.

  Now it was necessary to forge the iron while the fire was still hot.

  16

  It was a farm. It was a typical small farm, as there were hundreds of them in the area of Adrianople, and more or less they all looked the same: half-collapsed, with devastated granaries, looted store rooms, the living spaces in exactly the pitiful state the pillaging Goths had left them. It was these small farms the Roman army vainly tried to protect, and it was therefore quite close to the great ironies of history that Valens had, with his small band of scattered bodyguards, found refuge here.

  He sat with trembling hands on a stool, which apparently had escaped the looters, and mutter
ed to himself. He already sat there for a good hour, and centurion Alchimio looked at the state of his men with growing concern. Valens appeared broken, did his retreat as well as the army of the Eastern Empire, which had faced the massive attack of the Goths in the Battle of Adrianople. For hours the battle had swung from one side to the other, and the memories became blurred in Alchimio’s mind. The Goths had been far more numerous than the scouts had reported. Valens’ wrong decisions, especially the premature use of cavalry, waiting too impatiently under their forceful commander, who was eventually slaughtered, had contributed to this unprecedented defeat. The Roman phalanxes eventually collapsed under the onslaught of the enemies, and their arranged retreat was lost in chaos. The bodyguard and the emperor quickly had lost contact with the main army, were headless, and fled almost blindly, without paying attention to the direction. The centurion didn’t know how many of those who had started fighting the battle have been left alive to leave, but it couldn’t be more than a third. The East was defenseless before the Gothic hordes. With the field army in dissolution and morale broken, there was no one left outside the fortifications of cities and the border troops in their garrison forts that the Emperor could send against the barbarians.

  If he would ever be able to do anything. Most recently, he was hardly capable to lead his own horse.

  Pietus, as was decurion next to Alchimio, the only surviving man with command experience. He gave him a flask of water, and the centurion drunk thoughtfully. Tribune Marius Vitelius Tiberius had been slain on the run. Alchimio now carried the command of about 40 bodyguards who remained with the Emperor. A puny force. And since they didn’t know exactly where they were and darkness fell quickly and everyone was aware of the fact that tens of thousands of Gothic warriors roamed about, the prospects were dim.

  The meaningless murmur and the bloodshot eyes of the devastated emperor did not make things easier. Since he had lost all contact with Sebastianus – rumor had it that the general had been killed in battle – the Emperor was completely self-absorbed. This was interrupted only by an occasional mutter, and he also refused all food.

  Alchimio took another sip. No need to follow the example of his master. “How are things, Pietus?”

  The decurion scratched his beard. He was a veteran of 22 years’ service, about to be honorably discharged. He had surely hoped to make his last years of service differently. “The property can be defended quite well. It is surrounded by a stone wall and from the roof of the main building we have a good all-round view and clear shots. I have placed guards everywhere and told the rest of the men to rest. We don’t have food here, because the Goths have been here weeks ago, but there is a well, and the water is fine. If we can get through the night undisturbed, we can decide tomorrow if we continue our ride or remain – or whether the Goths make that decision for us.”

  Alchimio put a hand on his shoulder. “Well done. Find some rest; I’m keyed up too much to think of sleep. In addition, someone should have an eye on the Emperor.”

  Pietus threw a furtive, almost shy look at the crumpled figure on the stool, then made a telling gesture. “You think he’s completely nuts?”

  “Does it make a difference? We have sworn to defend him with our lives. And this we’ll do.” There was no sharpness in Alchimio’s words. His sentences hadn’t been more than just a normal statement of facts and the decurion nodded.

  “I sleep. There in the corner, Centurion, if that is …”

  “Go on.”

  Pietus withdrew. Alchimio rose, took the cloak that Valens had carelessly laid aside and put it around the Emperor’s shoulders. He wanted to turn away even as he heard the Emperor whispering his name.

  “Sir?”

  “What do you think, Centurion?”

  “We are safe for the moment.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What do you think about me?”

  Alchimio hesitated imperceptibly. “You are my master, the Emperor. I have sworn to serve you and to protect you. That’s all I need to know.”

  Valens laughed dryly. “Well done, Centurion. Very well behaved. Your Emperor and Lord has brought you destruction and death.”

  Alchimio decided not to comment on this. Valens also seemed to have expected no answer.

  “Centurion, I was a fool. A great fool. An especially old fool, seeking to avoid any glory for his nephew and no victory for him. Ah, the great god in his wisdom thought otherwise, don’t you think?”

  Alchimio wasn’t a Christian like Valens. Again, the centurion kept his silence.

  “So I’m going to be punished, Centurion. Sorry, that you ended up with me in this. Sorry.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for,” said Alchimio. “We will form a new army and pushback the Goths. Rome is eternal, my Emperor.”

  Valens made a weak gesture. “Yes, yes, Rome is eternal. The problem is that, unfortunately, I’m not. And neither are you.”

  For a moment, Alchimio waited if the Emperor wanted to add something, but he was lost in brooding silence. The centurion put some water, a hunk of bread and some fruit in front of his master –a meager meal, but the best he could offer.

  He withdrew quietly.

  The air was pleasantly cool on the roof of the farmhouse, which he had climbed by a ladder from the inside. The house was built fortified, with a kind of balustrade around the flat roof, from which one could hurl missiles at attacking enemies. This eventually happened, because there were some unused, roughly-made arrows lying around, and the balustrade itself showed signs of impacts. The Goths were remarkably unable to attack fortifications, were impatient and undisciplined in sieges, and absolutely none of them was able to design the complicated siege and attack machines available to the Roman army. The property here was simply too small, and though the lord of the courtyard also has used his servants and slaves as defenders, their resistance had obviously been useless. The building was ultimately a civilian, not a military one, and even Goths had not likely spent more than an hour or two to conquer it. And though that was already weeks ago, the trail of destruction and looting was clearly visible. The residents of this property had either been enslaved or killed, the flight hardly would have been successful. Alchimio made himself believe that a few of the brave had still managed to escape to Adrianople, to see safe shelter within the mighty walls. Even now, with the Eastern Roman field army in complete disarray, the city was safe. It had a garrison and probably more supplies than the Goths, and a wise leader like Fritigern knew that his warriors would be able to do something against mighty city walls and towers only with treason – which had succeeded one time or another – otherwise the city wouldn’t be threatened for long. What remained under threat was the rural area, and the long-term food supply of the big cities. If the whole Eastern Empire consisted only of cities and the country was left to the Goths, then there was no Empire left worthy of the name. Alchimio hoped and prayed that Valens would succeed in restoring his powers. If he just could bring the Emperor to safety …

  Tomorrow morning, before sunrise, he would suggest leaving with his fairly rested and cared for horses. He knew in which direction Adrianople had to lie but didn’t have any idea how many Goths they had to dodge. But he had to try it anyway.

  Instinctively, he flinched when he heard a noise in the distance. At first he thought he had made a mistake, but then it became clearer and it could be by no means an illusion.

  Horses. Many of them. The Roman cavalry was almost completely wiped out during the battle, so it could hardly be the miracle of a rescue. Refugees had, when very lucky, a donkey cart, but never horses, and certainly not this many.

  It could only be the Goths.

  Below the guards stirred, muted warning cries were heard. Curses penetrated to Alchimio’s ear, when the men who had just found some sleep, rose and took up arms.

  “Pietus!”

  “Sir?”

  “The archers on the roof. Barricade the doors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alchimio
climbed down the ladder and saw how Valens straightened. The Emperor’s face was haggard and dejected. He was no one to give his troops inspiration and courage in this situation.

  “The Goths.” Just an observation, and the centurion could only nod.

  “What shall I do, Centurion?”

  Just don’t stand around in the way, Alchimio thought to himself, but he had to be polite. “Stay in the middle of the room, sir. We will create a protective belt around you, should it be possible for the enemy to enter here.”

  “Maybe they want to negotiate?”

  Alchmio had to admit that this was an option, although not very likely. Capturing the Emperor was an interesting prospect for the Goths, and especially when it came to negotiating the settlement area on Roman territory. On the other hand, since what happened to Valerian everyone knew what could be the fate of captured emperors, and the Persians were, in contrast to the Goths, at least somewhat civilized.

  No, it wasn’t an option. The Goths probably didn’t know that Valens was staying here, and only expected a straggling troop of abandoned Roman soldiers.

  The centurion rushed to the roof again. The sun hadn’t yet entirely disappeared, and he could see the approaching fighters quite well. There were in fact enemies, and there were certainly 300, if not more. Alchimio’s heart sank.

  The Goths reined their horses just before the property, as if they had only now realized that it was inhabited. Without hesitation, the centurion grabbed a torch and climbed down. If there might be an opportunity for negotiations, then this would be now.

  He stepped outside, unarmed and without escort, brandishing the torch above his head. With measured steps he walked across the yard, climbed the low stone wall and presented himself to the Goths. Then he left the compound, walking slowly toward the enemy. One of the horsemen rode ahead, and Alchimio could see that he was at least of low nobility. He had apparently caught the horse of a dead Roman cavalrymen; at least the bridle was of Roman making.