The Emporers Men Read online

  “No matter if soldiers or pirates,” the captain went on softly, “I slowly have to reconcile with the idea that this is indeed no sick trick the British have been playing on us – because they surely wouldn’t go so far. But that doesn’t really improve our situation. If it is true – and I still stress the ‘if’ – that we have traveled to the past, then the question remains, how we got here and how we can return to our time?”

  Rheinberg lowered his glass and nodded gravely. In the corner of his eyes he saw von Klasewitz opening his mouth with astonishment and disbelief, still staring through his eyepiece. That should convince even the old conspiracy theorist, Rheinberg thought a bit amused.

  “Captain, I agree with you,” von Klasewitz said. “But I am afraid that we have a more pressing concern. I counted two triremes, each loaded with soldiers to the fullest. And it doesn’t look like they want to pay us a friendly visit. I highly recommend to prepare the guns for battle.”

  Von Krautz was about to open his mouth when the mate entered with Marcus and his son. Rheinberg talked to the fisherman, who was visibly intimidated. He smiled kindly. “Marcus, we need your help.”

  “I like to help, sir!”

  “Take this. This device allows you to see things in the distance closer than they are. It is completely safe, and I want you to take a look in this direction.”

  Marcus hesitantly took the binoculars and turned them in his hands. Then Rheinberg showed him how to use them. Finally, the fishermen held them to his eyes, anxiously watched by his son, who then, as von Krautz handed his glasses to the boy, stared through it with sudden eagerness. It didn’t take ten seconds and Marcus lowered his binoculars again, looking pale and agitated.

  “Well?”

  “Imperial Navy,” the fisherman exclaimed. “They don’t do many patrols in these waters anymore, but this must be one of their occasional efforts.”

  He himself seemed not to know whether to be happy or distressed about this encounter. “We may get lucky and meet someone who asks first and then attacks. But given your ship and …”

  Rheinberg knew what the man wanted to say, as he stopped talking just in time. For him the Saarbrücken and its crew would have to be more than just “strange.”

  “Fighting us won’t be quite that easy,” Rheinberg said soothingly. He looked questioningly to von Krautz.

  “I’ve seen enough,” replied the captain to the silent question and turned around. Orders were barked. Combat readiness achieved, the 15-cm guns were moved into position. The triremes approached at considerable speed.

  “Dahms,” von Krautz shouted into the mouthpiece, which linked him to the engine room, “I want full steam!”

  “Full steam, yes!” The voice sounded faint. Down below, deep in the body of the cruiser, the men shoveled the coal into the combustion chambers of the engine. Rheinberg felt almost immediately the return of the usual vibrations. The cruiser became alive!

  5

  Aurelius Africanus has been captain of the Scipio for five years and though he loved his job at least as much as the sea, he boiled with deep dissatisfaction. It might have to do with the fact that since the Roman Mediterranean fleet had been moved to be stationed in Constantinople – with only two squadrons remaining in Ravenna – the presence and significance of a posting there was falling very short of how it had been before in the Classis Ravenna. At those times, a command in the fleet in Ravenna would have been only slightly minor to one in the Classis Misenesis, and the prospects for an able officer’s career would have been excellent. This career was not simply what his family had always hoped for him. It was, ultimately, the goal of his grandfather, who had at that time, still bearing the name of his Nubian ancestors, entered the fleet as part of the Egyptian contingent and had ended his career as proreta, the assistant of the gubernator, the helmsman. It was quite a career for a farm boy from the African hinterland. His son, Aurelius’ father, with his name already romanized, followed in the footsteps of his grandfather and had risen to the position of the secutor, responsible for discipline on board and being the direct voice of the captain, the trierarch. And here Aurelius stood on the bow of the Scipio staring over the mirror-like surface of the coastal waters alongside his proreta Lucius, the quiet sea quite atypical for the Mediterranean with its usually strong winds. He had made his father happy by achieving the rank of a trierarch, commanding a mighty trireme of the Roman Empire, and he would, if he survived his 26 years of service, bring honor and respect back to his home village. But he wanted more, had dreamed of a significantly higher position than even his father had wished for him and had worked hard on himself, achieving his current post in his early years. But now Constantinople was far, and only there he could really make a career, rising to the staff of the prefect, find his ear, give expert advice, and then after a few years hope for a promotion to navarch, the rank of squadron commander, the place to which Aurelius Africanus really belonged.

  Others said that the Grand Fleet was lying largely rotting in the harbor of the capital of Eastern Rome and that it was better to have two fairly intact squadrons in Ravenna than to have a large fleet of wrecks in Constantinople … or even commanding one.

  But Aurelius still aspired for an additional challenge and felt that he could only achieve his aspiration where the center of power had moved quite some time ago: to the east.

  But how to achieve this? For eight years he had been trierarch, and for eight years his career had not moved a step forward. He was stuck. Everyone on board knew about the frustration of their commander, and especially Sepidus, the old gubernator. The helmsman held his office for almost ten years, being perfectly content with his position, and without doubt one of the best helmsmen in the fleet. Sure, the two squadrons were located near the seat of government of the Western Roman Empire, but it wasn’t necessary to be a senator, a courtier, a magister militium, the supreme military commander, nor a navarch or prefect, to see how the power of Rome had moved to Constantinople. The relocation of the entire Mediterranean fleet at the time of Emperor Constantine was only an indication, and everyone knew how important it was that the Emperor of Eastern Rome formally recognized the emperor of Western Rome and supported him – while conversely, no one in Constantinople could possibly give a shit about what the one in Ravenna, Trier or wherever the Western Roman emperor resided, was thinking about them. And all that was true, unfortunately, for the frustrated trierarch of the Scipio, and he had to seriously restrain himself, especially his bad temper, in order not to make his men suffer from it and to be able to zealously perform his duty.

  Not that there was much to do. From below, from the helm deck, he heard the sounds of the symphoniacus, who by playing his flute gave the rhythm of the beat frequency for the oarsmen, always under the supervision of the pausarius, who was responsible for the correct work on the thwarts. Aurelius had once sat there himself during the first two years of his military service, had been, like any other recruit, initially not more or less than a rower. Roman law never allowed slaves to be used in the defense of the realm, and although many freedmen were in the ranks of the armed forces, never anyone unfree. Those who wanted a career in the fleet and had no connections to nobility began where the hardest and worst paid jobs were available: on the thwarts. Sometimes, if Aurelius was in the mood, he sat with his men and rowed an hour or two, and this did good for his massive biceps and muscular chest. Anyone down there sweating and lurching the mighty Scipio against wind and waves felt what it was like to be a Roman citizen. He sat with those from Pannonia and Africa, from Spain and Gaul, on the bench and the tangle of curses from different languages reflected the origins of the seafarers. Eventually they were all Romans, also former Nubians like Aurelius Africanus, though he wore his origin in his name, perhaps more than any other.

  Today only a little rowing has been necessary. The Scipio had been in no hurry.

  Aurelius looked to port, where he could identify, during the fine mist of the horizon, the east coast of Italy. No galley e
ver voluntarily left the protective area near the coast, and only the remarkable calm weather of the day had induced the trierarch to dare leaving the vicinity of the shores to such an extent that the coast had diminished to a fine, dark line. Closer, about a mile landward, the vague silhouette of the Augustus, the sister ship of the Scipio, was discernible. Today it was on patrol with them and on board her trierarch, Africanus’ old friend Vicius Dacians, who was not quite as keen to go further away from the coast than absolutely necessary. As impressive as ships like the Scipio were, they were a disaster in rough water, didn’t cope well under high waves, and had the nasty tendency to break apart under heavy weather.

  Unlike many of his comrades, Aurelius knew how to swim. And he knew he could make it from here to the coast, especially when he got hold on a piece of driftwood. But they were in no danger at all: Such a lull like this he had never encountered, the water was smooth as glass, and was only ruffled by the slow, almost deliberate stroke of the oars, which pushed the Scipio forward sluggishly.

  “Sir …”

  Aurelius looked thoughtfully on the calm sea. He had obviously not heard Lucius. The proreta cast a helpless glance across the Scipio’s elongated deck. Sepidus, who stood behind the rudders, twitched his shoulders and made a characteristic movement with the right leg. “Kick him in the ass!” the veteran said, but Lucius was sure that it wasn’t wise to take this advice literally. Unlike the old gubernator, who had 24 years of service at sea under his belt, the younger Lucius still wanted to become someone, and if you had aspirations, it was advisable not to kick one’s trierarch …

  “My Lord!”

  “Yes?” The somewhat more pressing undertone woke Aurelius from his thoughts. “What is it?”

  “A ship, seaward, perhaps ten miles!”

  The eyes of the trierarch followed the outstretched hand of his proreta. He narrowed his eyes. Seaward it was a bit hazy, like a fog which just cleared away. The weather was crazy today.

  But Lucius as proreta of a ship had to have remarkably sharp eyes, because he was the lookout directing the helmsman. It was his job, from the bow of the ship, to watch the way the galley sailed and to provide the gubernator with guidance for the course of the ship. He was rarely wrong, and he was never wrong when it affected his powers of observation. Aurelius might be a frustrated trierarch, but he knew exactly why he had promoted every man in his crew to a particular position.

  Aurelius’ eyes were not as good as those of Lucius, but could recognize the black dot with a little bit of concentration.

  “What is it?”

  “A single ship. But big. A trireme – or larger.”

  “A grain transport?” The massive freighters transporting grain from Africa to Italy were the largest ships the world has known. Against these giants even a quinquereme seemed small, and quinqueremes were impressive warships. They were stationed in Constantinople, so Aurelius Africanus hardly saw any. But a grain-ship this far east?

  “I’m not sure. It moves slowly.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Smoke rises to the sky.”

  “A fire?”

  Two disasters could befall ships outside the vicinity of the safe shores, even in this quiet weather – a fire could have broken out on board and be consuming the ship, or it could have been attacked by pirates, looted and set afire. Both would explain the smoke plume that Lucius had seen.

  Aurelius gathered himself. Whatever it was, there was something to do. He cast a searching look at the bright blue, totally cloudless sky, turned and hurried to the rear deck, where Sepidus already looked at him expectantly.

  “Sir?”

  “Expect directions from Lucius. We head toward the alien ship.”

  Sepidus nodded. He gave his men at the two powerful rudders clear orders, and the Scipio turned gently in the right direction.

  “Increase the number of strokes. Secutor, wine for the rowers. Flavius!”

  Flavius Calvinus, the ship’s centurion, appeared out of nowhere and approached the trierarch. He was formally the same rank as Aurelius, but at sea a subordinate. He was not a sailor but commanded the small group of infantrymen the Scipio had on board – and in boarding combat he was in charge of the entire crew of the trireme, because as soon as the fight began, all rowers turned immediately into marines, seized their swords, and belonged to Calvinus. This also applied to any necessary land expeditions.

  “Trierarch!”

  “Flavius, prepare your men. Prepare the bridge. I want to use it immediately if needed. Get the best archers of the thwarts. I want them to stand ready and await my command!”

  The centurion had no need to hear the commands twice. Even as he turned away, he called for his optio. The deck shook as the soldiers moved into position. The crew was excited but not in an uproar. The secutor had a watchful eye on every move. The Roman fleet was a disciplined fleet, and the Scipio one of the best ships.

  “Sepidus, you care about the course. I go back to the bow. Watch for my sign!”

  The gray-bearded sailor nodded.

  Metus, the nauphylax or armorer of the Scipio, entered the deck. He had heard the centurion giving his orders, and together with his assistant he carried the weapons to be issued to the rowers. The bows were kept ready for those who Flavius would choose immediately to perform as archers; swords and spears he lined up for the event that more rowers would be reassigned and armed. Flavius had already gathered a dozen Marines in full armor at the bow next to the bridge entrance, and held them in readiness. He carefully made sure that they didn’t cover the line of eye contact between the proreta and the helmsman Sepidus, because Lucius was the one who had to give exact orders for the course to the rear.

  The trierarch joined Flavius, having armed himself along the way. The short sword hung at his side. He stood next to Lucius and saw the excitement in the face of the young man.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I really don’t know.”

  Lucius’ confusion and perplexity were so obvious that it involuntarily filled his captain with worry. The proreta knew every class of ship, any wooden silhouette on the Mediterranean, and no one could delude him. The fact that he couldn’t give a definite answer to the question spoke for itself. Aurelius leaned forward, eyes narrowed. The flute playing on the rowing deck had become more hectic, the beat rate had increased. Water splashed up as the oars dipped in faster and the mighty Scipio drove ahead. On port, the Augustus was signaled. With luck, she would follow her sister with increased speed.

  With each passing second, the exact image of the alien ship became more visible. With each passing second Aurelius began to understand the perplexity of his proreta more and more. Whatever kind of vessel it was now approached with constant speed; he had never seen such a thing in his life. An excited murmur rose on the Scipio, the Marines looked at each other and pointed forward, the sharp-eyed began to report in a whisper what the short-sighted didn’t see properly. Aurelius allowed this lapse in discipline for a few seconds, as he was also almost stunned by the strangeness and menace emanating from the alien ship, the anguish which appeared with every stroke to become larger.

  But he was the trierarch.

  He turned around and threw the secutor, who was himself standing at the railing and staring forward, a distinct look. The man got the message and immediately barked sharp commands across the deck. Discipline returned, and Flavius ordered his soldiers to remain silent. It was like the calm before the storm, but this time there was a danger that was inexplicable.

  From the coming ships stubby masts, smoke billowed as if from chimneys. It had to be made of metal, of iron or bronze, as some shimmered in the sun, and it had a powerful battering ram, of such great force that Aurelius was absolutely sure that the Scipio would be broken by this monster in a single attack. He resolved to deny the adversary this opportunity and called commands, heard the cries of confirmation by Sepidus, saw the nod of his proreta, who understood the tactics of his trierar
ch. The trireme then gave the other ship less exposure by turning front directly to the side of the metallic body, which was now more and more visible to all of them. The ship was moving slowly, but with no visible rudder or sail, and Lucius shouted more instructions. The Scipio would reach the enemy amidships, bow forward, her own battering ram directly pointed toward the body of the alien vehicle. Soon it would be too late for the metal monstrosity to turn and bring its own spur into position.

  And now one could see people on deck. No demons or sea monster, as some had cursed under their breath, no diabolical figures, but men, tall, many dressed in white or gray or blue cloth, which stood and watched as the men of the Scipio. Whoever commanded this ship and from wherever it came from, the crew was not made of metal but of flesh and blood, and the encouraging comments of the marines became louder. Bows and arrows were at the ready, because a well-aimed arrow would kill these sailors just like everybody else.

  That was good news. Aurelius felt the fear disappear a bit. However, he didn’t waste a minute thinking to make peaceful contact with this monstrosity – it looked every bit as threatening, very alien, very … wrong. It was almost like a reflex, and a look into the faces of his men showed that it wasn’t only him who felt that way. Whatever this ship was, it could only be a danger, a threat to the Scipio and Rome, and therefore it was their duty to engage that threat.

  Excitement became visible over there. Aurelius smiled faintly as he watched the chaos on the deck of the stranger. Roman discipline was something those men could still learn. And Roman tactics as well: Instead of turning their ship quickly in order to align the battering ram in the direction of the Scipio so to be able to attack if their enemy would make an error, they continued to present his highly vulnerable broadside. Only small houses with long tubes protracting from it turned slowly toward the trireme.

  Men stood at the railing of the giant. They waved and shouted in an incomprehensible language. Aurelius could identify a man who differed significantly from the odd stranger: He almost looked like a simple Roman fisherman.