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- Herausgeber: Atlantis Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Drunken from their triumph at Adrianople, the Goths set to the conquest of Eastern Rome and threaten the city of Thessaloniki. While the men of the German Cruiser Saarbrücken are still trying to prove their usefulness to the Roman Empire, the resistance against the time-travellers grows stronger. Mighty clergymen scheme against the growing influence of the Germans, and on the Saarbrücken itself the seeds of treason are planted ... and not only there.
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Dirk van den Boom
Betrayal
1
Once they entered the large encampment that housed the Western Army, Rheinberg got a first impression of the size and power of the Roman Empire. Gratian was able to lead 25,000 legionaries into battle, strengthened by auxiliary troops and a small entourage. Here in the camp, which the Emperor had set up nearly two weeks ago, something resembling a small town has developed inside the picket fences that the soldiers had rammed into the ground as a demarcation. The trek of the German infantry, guided by the roaring truck, was witnessed with silence by the masses of the Roman soldiers. The approximately 160 infantrymen looked like a very small, very lost column that marched through the wide path toward the giant tent of the Emperor, at any time in danger of being crushed by the overwhelming number of surrounding Roman soldiers.
Rheinberg almost developed claustrophobic anxiety at the thought. He pushed the emotion aside with care, focused on riding next to Aurelius Africanus and the two tribunes, progressing somewhat gracefully on top of his horse. From the corner of his eye, he scrutinized the glances of Roman soldiers. He hoped he didn’t look too bad.
When they had reached the tent of the Emperor in about two hundred yards, the column stopped. From here on, only Africanus and Rheinberg were allowed to proceed. They dismounted from their horses, which were led away by members of the imperial bodyguard. After they had walked to the large linen canopy, four guardsmen who stood in front eyed them suspiciously from under their gleaming helmets. Finally, a curtain was thrown to the side, and an old, bearded man in full armor stepped out. Africanus and Rheinberg stopped before him.
“I’m Arbogast, General of the Emperor,” the muscular man with a weathered face said. “My Lord ordered me to lead you. You are Trierarch Africanus?”
The officer confirmed this and presented the letter Renna had given him. Arbogast accepted it but stuck the paper carelessly into his belt. Then he fixed his gaze on Rheinberg. “And you are the leader of the strangers, of whom we have heard many fantastic tales?”
Rheinberg tried to smile, but the old warhorse didn’t seem to notice. “I hope they have been nice tales, and nothing too negative.”
“People talk a lot,” replied Arbogast. “I hear you’re German.”
Rheinberg hesitated. Arbogast’s name suggested that it was one of the numerous German officers in the Roman army. A predecessor of the legendary Stilicho, who would be a great man and a great failure in the not too distant future. Or maybe not anymore.
“I do come from the area, but –”
Arbogast uttered a sentence in a hard, completely incomprehensible-sounding language. Rheinberg was sure that it was one of the numerous German dialects. The Germans were still centuries away from any resemblance of unity.
“I don’t understand you, General.”
“You are not a German,” said Arbogast.
“I’ll explain it to the Emperor,” Rheinberg dodged.
This seemed to satisfy the general, for he turned abruptly. “So follow me.”
The interior of the tent was more like a hall. Thick carpets were laid out on the floor and dampened the steps. Close to the tent walls were guards who watched the visitors with attentive eyes. Furniture was distributed seemingly at random, and a rear part of the large room was separated by curtains, most likely this was the private area of the Emperor. Clamped up between two support posts of the imperial tent was a large, colorful and very artistic map of the Roman Empire. Before it, a mighty marble table stood that was completely overloaded with documents, maps, and other material. Next to the table, two men waited. One of them Rheinberg recognized immediately: He was young, barely more than 20 years old, and he wore a richly embroidered toga under a purple cloak. It could only be Gratian, the Emperor of Western Rome. The look from the eyes of the young Emperor seemed awake and curious and Rheinberg regarded that as a good omen. The other man was much older, safely around his 50ies and just like Arbogast wearing full armor. He had to be a military in high position.
From the corner of his eye, Rheinberg saw Africanus settle on his knees. He immediately followed his example. No sooner had their knee touches the ground than he heard the soft voice of the Emperor.
“Arise. Later we have time for formalities. Arbogast, these are our guests?”
“It seems, my Emperor.”
“Then offer them seats.”
Servants appeared from the background and pushed chairs to the front. Out of nowhere, wine carafes and bowls with simple food appeared on the small table placed next to them. Arbogast, who appeared not to be too enthusiastic about the extent of hospitality, grunted and made a welcoming gesture, once Rheinberg and Africanus had risen.
“You have already met my faithful General Arbogast.” The Emperor presented him again. “This is Malobaudes, King of the Franks and another highly respected counselor in military as well as civil matters.”
Rheinberg gestured to the older man with a slight bow, which he silently took note of. The captain felt insecure. He had once attended an audience with Emperor Wilhelm II, along with 28 other young naval officers. It had been a very brief encounter, but the courtly ceremony had been reduced to the bare essentials for the Emperor’s favorite soldiers. Wilhelm had appeared in a navy uniform and tried to treat its guests more like comrades and less like subjects. If Rheinberg remembered correctly, it all went like a bad operetta, although the spectacle surely had impressed at least some of his fellow officers. But there was a difference between Wilhelm and Gratian: While one dreamed of the war and the military, with its ceremonies, its pomp and splendor worshiped, the other, since his youth, had led an endless war for the safety of his realm, lived more in field camps than in imperial residences, and was under the constant expectation of his people to oppose any threat. As much as the imperial West and the Eastern Empire were dominated in time of peace by courtly ceremonies of almost oriental proportions, so every Roman emperor also had to be a pragmatist and learn to do without these things if it was necessary. Marcus Aurelius, the famous philosopher-emperor, had spent the last years of his reign only on military campaigns, and this had no doubt contributed to his stoic beliefs. So young as Gratian might be, he had been influenced by life as a commander for a long time.
Africanus took it then to introduce himself as well as Rheinberg. They had both agreed that at the beginning the trierarch would be the one that would describe the past history of the arrival of the Saarbrücken, since the Emperor more easily would believe one of his soldiers. Africanus held his description short, closely following the facts and refraining from unnecessary embellishments. He also gave no judgment on the character traits of the new arrivals in order not to be suspected of wanting to influence the Emperor and his assessment unduly.
Gratian’s face was expressionless, as he listened to the lecture. He was a picture of concentrated attention, and it was not discernible if he judged the accounts of the trierarch as credible. Arbogast’s features, however, darkened with each progressing minute. The veteran seemed to hold little regard for this story, though Rheinberg could not see why – maybe he considered Africanus or himself as not trustworthy, the first probably seen as unduly influenced. Rheinberg had to always keep in mind that magic and sorcery in this era was regarded as something absolutely real, and a corresponding charge was done very quickly and would lead to a trial and a mostly deadly judgment.
When Africanus finished, there was no immediate reaction of the Emperor. Arbogast snorted but didn’t express his opinion before Gratian spoke.
The Emperor turned his attention to Rheinberg. “It seems like you can perform miracles.”
“No miracles, Your Majesty. I have some technical means that are unknown to you. But I’m human, mortal, and would be struck down by your generals here, if we should take up the sword against each other.”
Arbogast’s expression led to the conclusion that the general didn’t consider this possibility as something bad.
“If I have understood Africanus correctly, you claim to have traveled through time.”
“Yes, Emperor. But not on purpose. We don’t have this power.”
“So others have taken care of this?”
“Others or one other. We do not know.”
“With what intention?”
“We do not know.”
“And what are your plans now?”
Rheinberg took a deep breath. “My Emperor, we are castaways, if you will. We are looking for a home.”
“My empire?”
“That would be convenient.”
“What can you offer us?”
“Our technical achievements and knowledge.”
“What do you ask for?”
“Security.”
Gratian frowned. “Security? Who could be more secure than you with your mighty ship?”
“This will last only for a short time. Like any machine, ours will only work if properly maintained. For this, we need a base, raw materials, workers. Our security would melt away fast without all this.”
“So why don’t I allow you to melt away and collect what’s left afterwards?”
Rheinberg nodded. “You can. Probably we would try to escape and ask someone else to support us. Your ships cannot stop us. The Persians may possibly have more interest.”
Gratian’s eyes narrowed, and Arbogast seemed to be alarmed by these words. “You threaten us?” the Emperor said.
“I want to survive. I would very much prefer to do it in your empire. I can help you to save it.”
“Save it?”
“There’s a lot we can do. An important historical development has begun, only to be presaged by the Goths. The empire is facing an abyss, especially the West, and you yourself will face death in a short time.”
Gratian exchanged a look with Arbogast. “You can see into the future, can you?”
“I know the past, because I come from the future.”
“And you want to share your knowledge with us?”
“In exchange for security.”
Gratian sat back and looked pensive at the tent roof. Arbogast could no longer restrain himself now. “We need a proof of your good will,” he growled.
“We have brought down the pirates,” said Rheinberg.
The General made a derogatory gesture. “You attacked a couple of sailing ships and captured a criminal. Fine. I mean a real challenge.”
“What are you thinking?”
“You say that the Goths were just the beginning?”
“They are harbingers.”
“Harbingers of what?”
“Numerous other peoples who will flock to the borders of the empire and ultimately crush the West in less than a hundred years,” said Rheinberg.
“And you know what we can do about it?” Arbogast said.
“I have some ideas.”
“Show us what you can do now. You know how it looks in the East?”
“Valens fell, the Goths plunder everywhere, and two-thirds of the eastern army is dead.”
Arbogast hesitated. “Two-thirds.”
“About 22,000 deaths,” affirmed Rheinberg. “Only one supreme commander has survived.”
“Which one?”
“Flavius Victor.”
“Sebastianus is dead?” Gratian seemed to be hooked.
Rheinberg nodded. He had reread everything just before he had come here. Each of his “predictions” had to be right.
“Good. Then show your superiority and the power of your knowledge and fight against the Goths!” Arbogast demanded.
“I will.”
Stunned silence followed Rheinberg’s outspoken and quick response.
“With your … how many men?”
“One hundred and sixty.”
“But the Goths are –”
“Maybe 20,000 or 30,000. Who knows.”
“This is absurd. You’re a phony.”
“Come with me.”
Arbogast opened his mouth and closed it again immediately. When he saw an amused smile on Gratian’s lips, he was at once more embarrassed than angry.
“Yes, Arbogast. Accompany him. Take a unit of legionaries, but also horses and carts with you and then it goes to the East. I wish you to travel over land; I don’t want to provoke any great stir through the miracle ship. In addition, the strangers should get used to our soldiers and vice versa. Unite with Flavius Victor, and maybe you can discern if something is to be achieved against the Goths.”
“You make me the general of the East?”
“No, this will be Theodosius. I decided it yesterday. The son of the old general, a Roman of high blood. I have already sent a messenger to Spain. He will meet me here as fast as he can.”
Gratian’s attention was back on Rheinberg. He agreed with the commands of the Emperor. To travel over the land, as an extended trust-building measure, was not a stupid idea in order to fight mistrust and fear. It took time, but they were not really in a hurry. Theodosius had spent years fighting the Goths, and it would surely not take that much now.
“Theodosius is in your past?” Gratian asked.
“He became emperor of the East.”
Gratian didn’t seem surprised. “A good emperor?”
“Could have been worse,” Rheinberg said cautiously. “But there were also better ones.”
The Emperor waited for an explanation, but Rheinberg decided to stick to it for now.
“But a good commander,” asked Gratian.
“A thoroughly capable leader,” Rheinberg admitted. “But he didn’t manage to defeat the Goths.”
“What is the result? The East lost?”
“No. He will offer the Goths the status of Foederatii and allows their king to rule. They will not be subjects of the empire but may settle within its borders, and they will not accept orders by the Roman administration, only being required to accept counsel.”
Gratian didn’t seem very happy about this answer. “That seems risky,” he muttered.
“Very risky,” Rheinberg agreed. “And it constituted a precedent. It leads indirectly to the dissolution of the empire, especially in the West, because your followers will take the same, simple and convenient solution in other cases.”
Arbogast looked thoughtful. Malobaudes, who had not said a word, nodded. As Frankish king, he could very well appreciate what kind of reasoning led to the solution Rheinberg mentioned. Gratian also seemed to recognize the importance of such a development almost intuitively.
“You’ll have to tell me more about this, Rheinberg,” Gratian finally said.
“I’m at your disposal. But maybe you and the revered Arbogast are interested in a demonstration of what we want to impress the Goths with?”
Arbogast’s eyes glittered. “A demonstration? Indeed.”
“A good idea,” said Gratian. “What do you need?”
“Targets. And an open field.”
“Malobaudes …”
“I will provide everything,” the general replied immediately.
“Then may I invite you all to attend a small display of our prowess!” Rheinberg said with satisfaction.
The men rose.
On the way out, Rheinberg told Malobaudes what Becker had described in their joint preparation. The general seemed a little confused at first but promised to get to it at once. As they all stood in the sun in the late morning and only the Frank hurried to give his staff orders, Rheinberg waved Becker. After a sign by Gratian, he was admitted to the small group.
“That’s Legate Becker, commander of my small cohort.”
Becker bowed deeply.
“He’ll demonstrate the power of his weapons. The Emperor has consented to the presentation. It is all prepared.”
Becker smiled and asked to be allowed to withdraw, which was granted. No sooner had he reached his men than he shouted commands, and the infantrymen jumped up to unload three machine guns from the truck. Gratian and Arbogast looked at the vehicle with undisguised interest.
“I invite you and your guardsmen to come along to the site of the demonstration in our car,” Rheinberg offered spontaneously. “Your guardsmen can accompany us so they can punish me if anything happens. Take it as another presentation of our technical achievements.”
Arbogast tried to dissuade his Emperor of a quick decision, but Gratian had already given his consent with barely concealed enthusiasm. The general had no choice but to shout to a centurion, who immediately came trotting up with two dozen guardsmen.
“Here we go!” Rheinberg helped both Gratian and Arbogast into the cab, before he took his seat behind the wheel. Then he heard the guards entering the emptied truck bed behind him, while one German helped them to put the narrow benches down and secure them. They were surely squinting suspiciously at the now orphaned MG on the roof above their emperor.
Rheinberg started the engine. The rattling and shaking of the heavy diesel shook the car and Rheinberg noticed that the fingers of the Emperor involuntarily clutched in the barren upholstery of his seat. He decided to drive very, very slowly.
“Where to, dear General?”
Arbogast looked pale through the windshield and it took him a while to finally show Rheinberg the way.
Rheinberg released the handbrake. The truck rolled on softly. In a careful curve, the captain moved the vehicle slowly around until it bumped over the uneven, just mashed “main street” of the camp. From the corner of his eye, Rheinberg saw that they were followed by a troop of cavalry. On this terrain, he would never be able to escape them, and Rheinberg didn’t even think of trying.
The truck rumbled through the main gate where the guards didn’t know whether to stare at their emperor in the cab or bow down in a hurry. Under the direction of short instructions by Arbogast, they reached a field in front of the camp where the car came to a halt.
Rheinberg turned off the engine and looked invitingly at Gratian.
“Well, Your Majesty?”
The Emperor looked a bit pale around the nose, but otherwise he was in good spirits. The speed could not have impressed him, as each horse could compete. The fact, however, that the car had been into in motion without a draft animal …
“And you are sure that it wasn’t magic?” Arbogast asked.
“Magic that is so loud and stinks?” replied Rheinberg. “Come, I will show you something!”
The men climbed out and Rheinberg opened the hood. Gratian and Arbogast and stared blankly into it.
“This is a machine that we call a car-engine. It drives the wheels of the car by burning alcohol.”
“Burn alcohol?”
“At least something like that,” Rheinberg admitted. “No magic anyway. Invented by people, built by people, and it needs human hands to repair it and keep it working.”
Gratian touched a hot cylinder gently with his fingertips. “Can we build it? I mean, let’s assume I present you the best craftsmen of my empire, and give you all the materials that you desire – could those people build it?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Gratian asked.
“We lack the tools to build the right tools that are necessary to develop the engine. But we can build a similar, simpler machine that also can drive a car or a boat. We call this a steam engine.”
“In it also burns alcohol?”
“Wood. Or coal. It works with steam.”
“Steam?”
Rheinberg nodded.
“And my people could build one?”
“From bronze, yes. We could instruct them. Afterwards, they’d no longer need our help, and can do it alone. Your galleys would not depend on weather anymore and would dominate the seas with a higher speed. No pirate and no enemy would dare challenge you.”
“The Mediterranean is ours, and who wants the rest?” snorted Arbogast, still full of doubts.
“Once the Vandals conquer North Africa and thereby the granary of the empire, you will judge differently.”
The general and Gratian looked at each other. “When shall these things happen?” asked the Emperor.
“It starts in fifty years and ends not even ten years later.”
Again, the two men exchanged glances. They knew the catastrophic economic consequences of such a blow.
Arbogast cleared his throat. “Your demonstration, Rheinberg.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The legionaries of the encampment had now joined the onlookers. Men had built targets of high variety, lots of old wood, straw dolls, exercise machines, boxes and all kinds of other garbage, sometimes low, sometimes piled high, and all on a straight line of maybe 200 meters in length. Becker had left his men in the camp, suspiciously observed by Roman guardsmen, and brought only nine of his soldiers: three per machine gun. They took position next to each other, each about ten feet apart, and put their mighty guns on three legs.
Becker joined Rheinberg. “Over there are also some trees, in a good range.”
“We deforest this place” whispered Rheinberg. “Today, we don’t skimp on ammo. We only have this one chance. It must be very, very impressive work.”
“Impressive, yes,” Becker said with a grin. He rejoined his men who had completed their preparations. Rheinberg pondered for a moment to explain the Emperor what to expect in detail, but then decided against it.
“Your Majesty, you now see the capabilities of the most powerful guns that we carry with us. They will destroy, in a very short time, all the targets your men have generously built. In addition, we should consider that little group of trees over there.”
“Consider?” echoed Arbogast.
“It is pretty loud,” Rheinberg continued his explanation. “Do not frighten. We begin when you give the command, Emperor!”
Gratian nodded measuredly. Rheinberg could hardly blame him.
“Then begin!”
Rheinberg gave Becker a sign. The captain barked a command.
The guns fired.
The MG 08 with its more than 70 cm-long barrel was a formidable weapon. It had a caliber of 8 mm and was fed with a cartridge belt, which could be easily replaced. A belt grabbed 250 cartridges that could fire the gun with a cadence of 500 or 600 rounds per minute. With an effective range of fire of nearly two and a half kilometers against ground targets, the reference to the near end of the group of trees had been anything but showing off. It was a heavy weapon that required a mount to set it up and straighten. Ideal to sprinkle a whole battlefield from a secure, elevated position.
Rheinberg had exactly that in mind when it was time to confront the Goths.
The guns’ sudden, unmediated chatter echoed across the plain, and Gratian flinched visibly. Almost simultaneously, the target dissolved into shredded wood, and chips and bigger wood parts flew through the air, as the three MGs methodically swung from left to right. It took less than thirty seconds, and nothing remained of the man-sized targets except rubble and scraps. For a small moment, calm descended over the field, then the shooters had new targets, and again the staccato of bursts shook joints and marrow. The distant tree group consisted of six low-grown cedars. An invisible fist shot through branches and trunks, and as the three machine guns merged their fire on the trees, the dry plants shattered under the whirlwind of destruction.
Then the guns were silent.
Everyone stared in silence at the stumps and debris. For a moment, some wood particles flew around lazy in the summer air, and at last the view was free to the countryside beyond.
Rheinberg let the image impress for a moment, then waved Becker. “Who of your men can disassemble the machine gun fastest?”
“Corporal Lehmann is the man you are asking for.”
“Then may I ask.”
Becker turned and yelled.
“Your Majesty, if you order for a table, I show you that even in this case no magic is involved.”
Gratian and Arbogast looked pale and shaken. Malobaudes shook his head incessantly. Finally, the Emperor nodded.
Zealous servants brought a sturdy wooden table from the camp, made their way through the staring Legionaries under which an incredulous, gripped murmur had spread.
Lehmann arrived and started with his gun, heaved it on the table at the behest of Becker. They waited a short time to give the heated weapon the opportunity to cool slightly. With flying fingers the soldier began to disassemble the mechanism. After three minutes, the machine gun was broken down into its essential components, and the Emperor and his two generals bent over it.
“You see, noble gentlemen, that this is a mechanical construction,” said Rheinberg. “It is surely superior to weapons your craftsmen can produce, yet ultimately it is only a logical development out of weapons which are not unknown to you.”
Gratian ran his fingers over the now cooled metal parts and nodded. “It is true,” he muttered. “This is not magic, but superior craftsmanship.”
He looked up. “Arbogast, predict for me what we can do with these weapons on a battlefield chosen by us? What’s in it for 20,000 Goths if we have three good positions from which the field can be controlled? We would commence a bloodbath, without having to bring one of our men in danger!”
The officer might be an ungracious and suspicious man, but this demonstration hadn’t missed its effect on him. “Yes, my Emperor. We would have to use our legions only as decoys to bring the enemy to the right position.”
“For the remaining troops of the East, this should be enough,” Rheinberg said. Gratian and Arbogast crossed their looks in silent agreement. The Emperor straightened up and observed the shredded targets. “Trierarch Rheinberg, I’d prefer you to become a friend of the Roman Empire and not our enemy.”
“My preference as well.”
“Then we should go back to my tent and discuss the details.”
Gratian turned away, headed toward the camp, deliberately bypassing the truck. His guards hastened to bring him a horse. Becker, Rheinberg, Arbogast and Malobaudes looked after him.
“Very well,” growled the German general. “But I’ll keep an eye on you, I promise.”
“I look forward to your counsel,” Rheinberg said with a smile.
The man snorted and stomped back to his master.
“Forgive my comrade,” said Malobaudes and stroked his stomach with satisfaction. “He’ll not cause any problem. The only real goal he has is to serve his Emperor.”
Rheinberg nodded thoughtfully. When he persuaded the grumpy old man he would also convince the Emperor, of that he was now certain.
2
The mulio – the mule guide – hadn’t asked many questions. Trade in the Roman Empire was sparse enough because of falling production, and those who had surpluses hoarded them. More and more producers were focused on their own needs and only sold the required weapons for the army to the state and food for the maintenance of urban centers that otherwise would cause great unrest, especially in Rome itself. And so was the overland trade, once one of the lifelines of the Empire, oppressed by the levy of government regulation, the harassment of the ever-expanding bureaucracy, and the lack of products. The carts were only half-filled. When the young woman had put two gold pieces in his hand, which had apparently not been stretched by lower metals, he had willingly offered a place in the cart. Her companion, a young man who clearly felt uncomfortable in his new and rather fresh patched tunic, silently stood by. Both young people each carried a large bundle, and they were dressed for a long trip but looked a little too neat for frequent travelers. The fingernails of the young woman had been carefully manicured, as it was noticed by the mulio immediately, and although her companion didn’t look as if physical work was completely alien to him, he didn’t seem to be a day laborer or craftsman.
But two gold coins were two gold coins, and as long as the travelers behaved quietly and made no trouble, he wouldn’t bother.
The column of four donkey carts started one early morning from Ravenna. The roads were good, but the donkeys slow, and the traffic impressive. Northern Italy was still one of the economic and political centers of the empire, and this was reflected in the density of the population and the extensive transportation systems between the many urban settlements in this region.
Around noon, when the sun was high in the sky, the foothills of Ravenna had just disappeared from their sight. Their first stop took place in Milan, another important city. From there, they would make it to the east, moving along the shoreline, make station in Sirmium and ultimately end in Constantinople. The foreman had dismissed as scaremongering rumors that the Goths would dominate the flat land of the east. If this was indeed his earnest opinion or just an attempt to convince himself that nothing was wrong, neither Julia nor Volkert could surmise. Volkert knew what was happening in the east of the empire, but he was sure that the situation would have calmed down as soon as the slow carts had traveled the long and arduous way up to Sirmium.
The ride was slow and monotonous. The driver of the cart, on which Julia and Volkert had found space, was a taciturn old man who sat with bent back behind the donkeys and – except for an occasional smacking – made no sound. Sometimes he dismounted and walked beside the animals, patted their heads and clucked. The donkeys seemed to accept this as confirmation of their good services; at least they made no apparent trouble. Volkert had the impression to see a good team.
So he and Julia had only to sit back on the cart and talk. Julia had made it her task to supplement Volkert’s rather crumbly knowledge of Latin and Greek, and she went to work with a certain zeal. As practice material, they had nothing else than just their lives, and they asked each other questions and described what they had experienced in their respective eras. Julia didn’t like much of what Volkert reported, and with a large frown took note that the position of women in society many hundreds of years in the future hadn’t really improved. She showed little interest in his portrayals of technical achievements but was much more in the medical advances and, interestingly, in political structures. As Volkert tried to explain the function of the Reichstag, she had few problems understanding this – the Roman Republic was still quite strongly anchored in the historical consciousness of the Romans, and her father was a senator. The descriptions of the political situation, the emergence of social democracy and its rejection of the monarchy, found some sympathy with her, because ultimately there was a historical counterpart in the struggle between plebeians and aristocrats in her own history, although certainly in a different guise. It seemed to disappoint her that not much had changed. Apparently she had nurtured the hope that the people of the future were more advanced on many more issues than in her time, but the descriptions of the international tensions and wars apparently reminded her very much of the history of the empire and their own present.
After they had talked all morning about these things, they discussed other issues. Volkert understood how the privileges of a senator’s daughter had at the same time cramped Julia’s life. A golden cage despite two loving parents. For Julia, this trip was more than just an act of defiance to the rejection of her lover by her parents, it was a very essential liberation. Basically, she said bitterly on one occasion, she should have been born a man, because the life of a woman in Rome was restricted beyond measure. Both talked at length about their families, and Volkert remembering that he would probably never see his parents and siblings again made him sad and silent for several minutes. It spoke for Julia that she recognized it immediately, and instead to press the issue, she just took him in her arms, while he considered wistful memories.
When evening came, they reached one of the many hostels on the side of the street. It was a sprawling, low-rise building with stables, consisted of a large common room and an adjoining building with accommodation in different price classes – dormitories with simple straw bags as couches for the less well-off, single rooms with proper furniture for the more affluent traveler. Volkert and Julia would be theoretically able to afford a slightly better accommodation with the gold carried by the senator’s daughter but had decided not to attract attention. So they pushed together two straw mattresses and after a rather frugal supper lied down exhausted on their uncomfortable sleeping place. The hall was filled to only one-third, and the travelers were spaced as far as they could. The nightly snoring, sneezing and coughing wasn’t new to Volkert, as the sleeping halls of his navy-training had a similar noise-level, so he quickly fell into a deep sleep. Julia, however, quite accustomed to a little more privacy and a more luxurious night’s sleep, wavered between disgust, fear and nervousness back and forth. Finally, she wrapped her arms around Volkert’s body and pressed against him. Covered with their roughly woven blankets, one could hardly make out the contours of her body in the dark. Playfully Julia let her hand slide down Volkert’s chest, slipped over his abdomen in direction of …
Julia giggled.
“Mentula tua iubet, amatur!”1 she whispered in Volkert’s ear. He opened his eyes, and although he hadn’t quite understood what Julia had said, the massaging movements of her delicate fingers circling around the top of his penis needed no further explanation. He suppressed a groan, as he wanted to avoid unnecessary attention to their actions, but it was hard, and the harder it became, the more intense Julia’s massage.
Her lips pressed on his, demanding, dominant. He himself started to squeeze the young woman who plied him incessantly below. A sigh from her lips reached his ear, then a whisper, “Immanis mentula it!”
Whatever that might mean – Volkert wasn’t able to focus on vocabulary – it definitely had to do with his hard penis, which pressed almost painfully against his now much too tight pants. His own hands explored Julia’s body, held the firm breasts of the young woman who let out a strangled moan and replied his caresses fiercely.
Then, with slow movements, Julia pushed her body over his. With a hand clamped firmly around his shaft, she fumbled it out of his pants, and then she squeezed his cock tight against her pussy. The rough hair scratching at the tip of his penis, and then she enveloped him with warm, wet tightness.
“Lente impelle,” Julia whispered hoarsely. This Volkert understood. Push slowly! He didn’t ask twice, forgot his surroundings. He didn’t care who heard or saw what happened, as he was overcome with unprecedented passion, the delicious combination of desire and love he had never encountered in his life before. He felt his penis pushing deeply forward into Julia’s body and started gently with circling movements, demanding her hip to respond until all self-control became an illusion. With a weakly suppressed, hot gasp, he poured into the young woman, felt her hands clawing at his neck and Thomas was, for this happy moment, not of this world.
Slowly his vision cleared, and despite the darkness, he saw dimly the smiling, sweat-drenched face of Julia. He knew he would have to endure longer in the future, but he saw no blame in the eyes of his lover, but only a deep, contented expression of shared happiness.
On the neighboring bed there was a dirty giggle and a man’s voice said, “Filius salex, quod tu mulierorum diutuisto!”2
Volkert became deeply red. Less because he understood but rather because Julia looked embarrassed.
“What did he say?” asked Volkert just to be sure. Julia nodded and smiled and told him. The young man decided not to react. At another time he would reveal his lover that this had just been the very first sex in his life.
Julia pulled away. Their sleeping place was sticky and sweaty, but they didn’t care. And had the senator’s daughter still suffered from insomnia, now it didn’t take long before the weariness overcame her. Her sleep was deep and only a loud noise would wake her up.
Well after midnight some more than just unusual sounds brought them out of their sleep. Oil lamps lit the dormitory and loud curses echoed through the room.
“Cacator!”3 shouted an older man, than a foot nudged and forced him to turn around. Julia opened her eyes and pressed herself against Volkert, who sat up sleepily.
Four legionaries in full armor had entered the dormitory. They were led by a fat man in civilian tunic, carrying a heavy bag at his belt, from which a clicking sound came anytime he moved.
“Men!” His voice echoed through the hall. Meanwhile, he had the undivided attention of all guests. In many faces Volkert acknowledged fear. He had no idea what was going on.
“Men of Rome!” said the fat man in his remarkably penetrating voice. “The Emperor calls you up! The Empire is exposed to serious threats! Valens, our Divine Emperor of the East, has fallen against the marauding hordes of Gothic barbarians! A shame, Romans, that affects us all! A shame that can be extinguished only by the blood of the barbarians on our swords! Men of Rome! I give you now the opportunity to rush to help your Emperor and fulfill your duty to the Empire!”
The fat guy paused and looked around. Despite the dim lighting, it looked like he scrutinized each and everyone of those present. Volkert also felt unpleasantly examined by him, especially since he now had a good idea of what was going on.
The man in the tunic was here to recruit new meat for the Roman army. At his belt hung a bag of gold to pay each volunteer the entry money, if anyone would accept the man’s offer. Volkert knew this kind of men, as he had met some of them in Germany not too long ago … just then … The ensign was trying not to muddle up the various levels of time but finally failed. In any case, the basic skills and methods of recruiters seemed to have not changed over the centuries.
“Gold for everyone who writes his name!” the voice boomed now. “Regular wages, land and property by the end of the service period. Anyone here who still has no Roman citizenship? You’ll get it at the end and even earlier for your children. Glory and honor – and riches – if the enemy army is defeated and once its treasures are up for distribution. For those who want to become more than a simple soldier, many paths are open. Double pay for good craftsmen. For a blacksmith, even thrice the amount! For those who have proven themselves, rise in the ranks. Hasn’t our divine Diocletian himself risen from a simple soldier to become an emperor? Highest honors and offices for the successful! Honored back in your villages, exempt from all taxes and duties! There is no better life, and there is no greater adventure!”
The man’s voice was doubtlessly a well-tuned instrument. He joined pathos with facts, looked convincing, amusing, serious, ironic and honest, depending on what was currently required. The man mastered his business, and Volkert was sure that he would receive a corresponding amount of gold for each volunteer successfully recruited.
But no one in the dormitory seemed too impressed. At least not in the way as the fat guy would have liked. There was the fear in the faces of the woken, as they sat silent in their beds and avoided direct eye contact and did everything not to draw attention to themselves.
The recruiter sighed and gave a nod to the four legionaries. Volkert tensed, but the soldiers did nothing more than to march down the aisle between the resting places and look around. Then they turned and stood with a composed face behind the uninvolved civilian.
“Very well,” he finally grunted. “But when the barbarians are in your house, take your wives and daughters to rape them, pillage your belongings, burn your property, and abduct you into slavery, don’t beg the Emperor for help, because then it’s your own fault, as you left the Empire down in its hour of need.”
Surprisingly nimble, the man turned on his heel and left the room. The soldiers followed him. With them went the lights. Darkness returned to the hostel, relieved whispers filled the room for a short time, until all laid down again and the ubiquitous snoring returned.
Julia had cuddled with Volkert and stared for minutes with restless eyes into the darkness. Then also her eyelids fell, and she returned to sleep.
She jumped up again as rough hands grabbed her and pushed her to the side. She screamed involuntarily, pressing the thin blanket on her body. Screams, shouts, roars were heard in the hall when a group of grim-looking legionaries trudged through the space, isolated men, pulled them up, reviewed them briefly and then drove them together in the middle of the room.
“Damn,” Volkert shouted in German, as a mountain of a man grabbed him and put him on his feet. Ignoring his protests, he was flung against the group of now seven or eight men who were held in check by three legionaries with spears. Wide-eyed, Julia watched the spectacle. There could be no doubt about what was going on. After the peaceful and voluntary recruitment attempt had failed, they had resorted to other means. The men here, as far as the short examination judged them useful, were recruited by force.
Julia had heard of it, and as they were far removed from the reality of her existence, she had viewed the stories as regrettable and rationalized the need to provide the armed forces with the necessary personnel. But now she was flooded by the chaos of horror and growing despair. She tried to hold back the tears when she saw Volkert’s helpless glances. The legionaries had the “recruits” now roughly tied and began to lash the cords together with another long rope. There was no chance of escape.
“So!” The voice of the fat permeated the room. “I have good news for you, men, you shall serve the Empire and your Emperor. Maybe not entirely voluntary, but that doesn’t matter a lot.” A bleating laughter that had nothing to do with the rhetorical brilliance of his first appearance came with the jab. “Just to let one thing be clear: Whether voluntarily or not, you are henceforth soldiers of the emperor. That means 25 years of service and all the wonderful amenities that I have promised you. And of course the laws: On desertion follows death. Who helps deserters, also dies.”
The nagging look of the man seemed to fix each on the recruits. “That’s clear? Shall I repeat it? Who runs away, will be executed! Whoever will help or hide you, dies as well! I hope no one develops any ideas. Arrange yourself with your destiny, and you can probably make something of it. Fight us, and you won’t be happy anymore in your life. Once the training is over, write your letters and get in touch with your family. Once you’ve completed a certain period of service, you may even marry. Anything goes, no problem. Whoever is already married, reports to his decurion, and if you keep up well, you might receive visits.”
Volkert threw Julia a long, hard look. In it was a silent but very intense message. She immediately understood and nodded. It almost seemed as if the young man could even smile now.
Whatever had just happened, it was certainly one of the most appalling proposals of marriage in human history.
“And now we leave!”
A legionary pulled on the rope, and the recruits, still dazed by the overwhelming events, followed more or less willingly. The occasional encouragement of the soldiers finally got the column to move, and as fast as the nightmare had begun, it was over.
Remaining was the chaos of rumpled straw bags, bewildered travelers, a terrified-looking innkeeper who ran around desperately and helplessly, not knowing what to say or do.
And a silently weeping Julia.
3
“Rheinberg was right.”
“I hear that phrase too often.”
Gratian threw Arbogast a mildly reproving glance. The grumpy general bowed his head in apparent submissiveness, but he couldn’t hide his true feelings from the Emperor.
Richomer refrained from any comment. He had just arrived in camp when Rheinberg and Becker had already finished their demonstration, but he had received vivid reports especially by those comrades who had witnessed the spectacle up close. The Emperor seemed to be inclined to accept the strange trierarch and the not less strange legate or tribune, and that was sufficient for him. Arbogast, however, with his habit to stir things up against the foreigners, had apparently no intention to change this behavior.
“Anyway, it’s true,” Richomer confirmed. “An estimated 22,000 dead, 8,000 survivors, a number of them wounded. Of the 8,000 around 2,000 are officers and NCOs, less than 6,000 normal legionaries. We therefore have eight legions, but each of them with more than the required number of officers. Flavius Victor took over the supreme command, and the troops are still gathering at Adrianople. This is not a good staging area, because the Goths still hold on in the area.”
Richomer leaned over the large map of the Eastern Empire, which was spread out on the huge marble table in Gratian’s tent. On it, one could place more easily little figures as symbols for units and cities than on the stretched version in the background of the tent. “Flavius proposes Thessaloniki as a rallying point for a new army.”
“The idea isn’t bad. But do we want to wait in peace to give the new general-to-be the chance to organize himself in the east?” Malobaudes asked. “The arrival of Rheinberg has changed the situation. The trierarch is of the opinion that there is no reason for a long wait and an excess of caution. He suggests the Tribune Becker sends his men at once to Thessaloniki to unite there with the survivors and to use the remaining legions as bait. No new army. We use the old one.”
Richomer looked from Malobaudes to Arbogast and back.
“As what?”
“As bait, as I said. They should pretend to be looking for another battle. Fritigern should feel attracted, because if he was successful against 30,000, he will probably be able to beat even 8,000.”
“He’s absolutely right,” muttered Arbogast.
“In fact, the legions have to keep a prepared battlefield and act seemingly ready but then withdraw from any attack and leave the ground in order to give the miraculous weapons of Becker the chance to teach the barbarians a lesson that they will never forget.”
Richomer looked at the map again, as if by studying it he could understand fully what Malobaudes had just told him.
“But I get this correctly – this Becker hasn’t even as much as a full cohort with him, yes?”
“He says he doesn’t even need all of his men. It requires no more than a good position to align his shooters so that they have a clear shot but remain in cover. He doesn’t expect many losses but wants to use our men as his bodyguard for protection, should some stray Goths break through. For that they should still be capable enough, or are they, Richomer?”
“Morale has fallen,” the officer considered. “But I believe that I simply don’t understand properly what these men can do with their weapons. Anyway, this attack is yours to command, my Emperor; I’ll do anything to support this man Becker.”
“Good,” said Gratian, who had previously followed the discussion silently. “I will also send Arbogast; he should take command from Flavius Victor, who is still injured. A few legionaries I can send as well, but I need to march westward again as soon as possible, because the borders are not safe if I don’t take care of them.”
“What about Theodosius?” Arbogast inquired. “He’s still the candidate to become commander of the East?”
“He is. He will make his way to the East as soon as the message has reached him. If Becker fails, he’ll hopefully pursue the war with vigor. If Becker is successful, we’ll have to worry about a lot of quite new ideas in many areas afterwards.”
“I think so, too!”
All heads turned around. In the entrance of the tent stood a figure, dressed in simple traveling clothes. He needed no introduction and no legitimacy. Each of rank knew the man with his crooked face.
Gratian rose. “Ambrosius!”
“My Emperor!”
“What a surprise and delight!”
“I am welcome?”
“You are always welcome! Elevius, a seat for the bishop. Bring wine and something to eat. You must be exhausted!”
“I’m tired, but I’m fine.”
