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Dirk van den Boom

Escape

Das Titelbild fehlt!

 

Atlantis



Copyright © 2018 by Atlantis Verlag Guido Latz,
Bergstraße 34, 52222 Stolberg (Germany)

Cover © Timo Kümmel
Editor: Rob Bignell
eBook Production: André Piotrowski

ISBN 978-3-86402-627-0

www.atlantis-verlag.de

1

Constantinople was a magnificent city, they said. Rheinberg stood on the bridge of the Saarbrücken and looked past the helmsman at the emerging silhouette of the mighty metropolis. He had never been here in his day, although the Ottoman Empire and the German Reich maintained friendly relations, including regular fleet visits. In his day, he recalled, the Ottoman Empire had been but a faint reflection of what had once struck down the remnants of Eastern Rome. Constantinople – or Byzantium, as it was later called – was everything that had survived the Roman Empire, until the city, ruling little more than its own walls, eventually succumbed to the onslaught of Ottoman troops. Afterwards, the metropolis enjoyed a new heyday, as Istanbul, the center of a new empire. It was a historically almost overcrowded place in many ways, and especially because of its quite checkered fate.

Now, toward the end of the year 379, Constantinople was the capital of Eastern Rome and already a proliferating settlement. It was protected by its famous fortifications that were considered invincible, was strong through its large harbor – the seat of the Roman fleet – with its own Senate and governed, in the absence of an Eastern Roman emperor, by the consistory, a kind of cabinet of ministers presided over by the Praetorian Prefect of the East, an old and experienced politician named Domitius Modestus.

Here, in the mightiest city of the East, the Saarbrücken wanted to find refuge. From here, the counterattack would be organized to corner Magnus Maximus and end his uprising. From here, the legitimate Magister Militium of the Empire, Jan Rheinberg, wanted to restore the unity of the realm and make Theodosius the rightful emperor of all Rome.

At the moment, however, Rheinberg felt only righteously tired.

The departure from Ravenna had been bitter. The inhabitants of the “German village,” the large production and training facility on the coast, had gathered to say goodbye, as far as they wouldn’t join the small flotilla. They all knew that the fascinating time of industrial revolution was over for now. The workshops had fallen into total silence when the machines and workbenches had been dismantled. Everywhere incendiary devices had been distributed. Once the village was vacated, they would set everything on fire. When the three ships – the cruiser and the two steamers Valentinian and Horatius – had left the harbor, only one ship remained in the harbor, the third of the newly built steamers, hastily renamed Gratianus. It wouldn’t leave unless Maximus’ troops were in front of Ravenna and the village would be set on fire. Rheinberg expected that the Gratianus would quickly join the flotilla of the fugitives. When they departed Ravenna, it was already known that the army of Maximus was approaching. Now that they had Constantinople in front of them, the facilities that had been their temporary home would already be little more than smoking ruins.

The three ships were hopelessly overcrowded. They had important personnel, a lot of materials, prototypes, but also the family-members of the crews, women and children. The deck of the Saarbrücken looked like a great birthday party on fine days, but on heavy swell it turned into a life-threatening terrain full of suffering civilians, most shaken by seasickness. Fortunately, nobody had been seriously injured so far. All had completed the crossing to the eastern half of the Empire with remarkable discipline. The fact that fleeing families had not been torn apart had greatly contributed to the general calm and prudence. Rheinberg thought of Aurelia, the former slave, whom he knew along with three other women in the captain’s cabin, while he himself had pitched his bedding directly on the cruiser’s bridge – like almost all the officers who had left their sheltered quarters for the passengers.

It did not look much different on the two steamers, which were in formation with the Saarbrücken. The fact that the Saarbrücken could not simply advance ahead but had to adapt to the slow speed of six to eight knots of the two new ships with their low-performance bronze steam engines led to some impatience. Of course, the two steamers were also good at taking care of themselves. Both were equipped with arquebuses, large bronze hand cannons, and steam catapults. There was no ship on the Mediterranean that could win a military confrontation with them. When in doubt, the steamers turned against the wind, fired the steam engine up and escaped an attacking war galley.

But Rheinberg was concerned with the psychological effect, the cohesion. They had to act together, stay together. And before there was also a functioning radio system for the new ships, the communication options were severely limited. In fact, the flotilla was the one means of power that Rheinberg could reliably use now. He didn’t want to split it up.

That was probably because he felt a certain awe for Constantinople. He knew none of the political actors here personally, his previous life in Rome was essentially limited to the West. He knew Thessaloniki, but that was all. He knew that this city was unparalleled in the Roman Empire. And their masters, as he had already told himself, claimed to be more than just the stewards of the East. The fact that the development of history from Rheinberg’s past had meanwhile also become known here certainly contributed to this. The awareness that Byzantium had built a new empire in Rheinberg’s reality, but that Western Rome had lost power and sunk to insignificance, had certainly reinforced the natural sense of superiority of the local powerful. In a sense, Rheinberg’s plans to save Rome as a whole threatened this particular renaissance of the city. With such reservations, he would have to deal directly or indirectly, Rheinberg quite understood.

“Captain, we’ll be ready!” Langenhagen’s voice tore him out of his contemplation. He rubbed his chin, freshly shaved, and looked down briefly. He wore the clothes of a Roman nobleman, while most of the other men on board had the usual navy uniform. Rheinberg didn’t feel very well in this setting, but he knew what he owed his future hosts.

The weather was clear and remarkably calm for the season, albeit uncomfortably cold. The port of Constantinople lay before them. The two steamers would follow the Saarbrücken slowly. Speed was minimal anyway. It would be fatal to begin the cruiser’s inaugural visit with a potentially disastrous ship accident. Börnsen, the helmsman, clutched the rudder wheel with focused concentration.

The season was late autumn and the shipping season on the Mediterranean was drawing to a close. The Mediterranean became too stormy and cold for the oars and sailing ships of the Empire, so that the shipping traffic at this time of the year mostly came to a standstill. Accordingly, the port was well filled at his numerous piers and the long quay walls. The Saarbrücken didn’t arrive completely unannounced – they had forwarded messages with fast coastal sailors from Ravenna, as it became clear what the plan would look like –, but Rheinberg feared for a moment that they were forced to anchor in the middle of the harbor basin, so crowded was everywhere. But then a long piece of quay wall opened, apparently kept free for exactly this purpose.

Rheinberg nodded. “That’s our place, Börnsen!”

“Yes, sir!”

Rheinberg was not the Captain, it was Joergensen. And as a high ranking commander on the bridge, he wasn’t supposed to give any orders, more likely First Officer Langenhagen, who was also present. But the old habits weighed heavily, and no one dared – or even wanted – to tell the Magister Militium what he had to do and what not. Therefore, it was only understandable that he was still addressed by the Germans as a “captain,” not least because the title of “Magister” seemed very strange to all of them.

Langenhagen stood next to the helmsman and began to whisper soft commands to him. Rheinberg didn’t have to worry about the maneuver. He looked at the quay wall and saw that there was now an honor formation of legionaries deployed. More soldiers kept onlookers under control, who came pouring in from all sides. It was one thing to hear about the Saarbrücken but another one to see this marvel in reality. The news would spread in no time through the city. Rheinberg hoped that the authorities were prepared for it. His gaze wandered down the row of legionaries, and he became confident. Apparently the responsible people had gathered sufficient forces.

After a good half hour, then the Saarbrücken had approached the quay wall so far, that the ropes could be thrown and the dockers, ten to fifteen on each rope, supported the landing maneuver. After another ten minutes, the cruiser slid smoothly against the wall. A perfect display.

The two steamers had found comparable positions not far from the small cruiser. Everything went smoothly. Sooner or later, the two new ships would attract their own onlookers, Rheinberg was sure of that. But before that, the focus would be on the Saarbrücken.

Now it was also clearly discernible that the Legion’s honorary formation had been joined by a reception committee of notables, making a good impression with their noble attire and large retinue. Rheinberg knew no one here, but he wouldn’t face these men alone anyway: The senators Michellus and Symmachus had decided to travel with him to the East, as well as military prefect Renna, the former Navarch of Ravenna. Most of the other officers, however, remained in the West to assist Emperor Theodosius in his stalling tactics. Rheinberg hoped to quickly build a new staff of reliable men here in Constantinople.

“Fallreep is out!” Langenhagen reported.

“Then we should not keep our hosts waiting.”

Rheinberg left the bridge. The delegation, who was the first to enter the city, had already assembled at the gangway – Renna, Michellus and Dahms. The engineer nodded to Rheinberg in greeting. He looked gray, his face haggard. The loss of the “German village” and the fruits of all his efforts had hit him particularly hard. After all, Rheinberg thought to himself, his special protégé Marcellus and his family had found shelter on one of the steamers.

“We go”, Rheinberg said

The men walked slowly over the gangway. On the quay, the reception committee awaited. It was headed by a very old notable. He stopped in front of Rheinberg, had to look up to the much larger man. “I am Domitius Modestus, Praetorian Prefect of the East, and chairman of the consistory,” he said in a firm voice, which was surprisingly deep.

Rheinberg bowed. He had the higher rank, but seniority in office as well as in old age was highly respected in Rome. He was the younger one, so he had to pay his respect.

“You are Rheinberg,” Modestus said before he could reply.

“That is me. These are my companions – Military Prefect Renna, Senator Michellus ,and Magister Dahms from my crew.”

Modestus let his eyes rest briefly on each, then turned to Renna. “Your sister is the wife of Lucius Graecus.”

Renna bowed his head. “I hope she’s in good health. I haven’t seen her for a long time. ”

“Graecus takes good care of her,” Modestus replied.

Renna had told Rheinberg about his sister, who had married a Fleet officer and since then lived in Constantinople. Rheinberg had given him every freedom to visit them and released him from all formalities. But Renna had insisted on at least attending the welcoming ceremony before he’d discreetly say goodbye. Graecus, like Renna before, was squadron commander in the rank of a navarch. Since Constantinople had become the home port of almost the entire fleet, numerous navarchs were around. Where Renna had held a relatively prominent position in the West, his old friend Graecus went under in the throng of senior officers. At least, he always said that.

“We have a meal in the palace,” Modestus said. “Accommodations for all your men and their families. In this difficult time, we have all earned for ourselves the right to enjoy some amenities. Tomorrow, a race in the Hippodrome is planned. You are all guests of the city. The weather is dry, nothing will cloud our pleasure. Before we plan the war, let us find some relaxation.”

Rheinberg bowed again. The logic of the old man was captivating. Although the planning, albeit informal, would already start at the table and the corresponding talks tomorrow in the Hippodrome certainly would not stop, that concerned only him and the immediate staff. Nobody would refuse a day at the racetrack. The Hippodrome was a symbol of the city, a social, economic and political center. Later, in a Byzantium that Rheinberg was trying to prevent, the supporters of the various racing teams would even decide who would become emperor and who would not.

“Your invitation honors me. We’re delighted,” Rheinberg replied.

“Then let’s go. Litters are ready. The legate here will brief your people and prepare transportation to the accommodations. They are all to be found in the palace complex. I’m sure you want to stay close to your men.”

“Very prudent.”

“Here, accompany me in my litter.”

Rheinberg pushed the curtain aside and climbed into the soft cushions. Modestus, already frail, was helped by a slave. As pleasant as it was to travel in a litter, it was for Rheinberg the symbol of slavery, which still ruled everywhere in Rome. He never had a good feeling when the slaves, strong men, picked up the litter and carried it on their shoulders through the crowds, whether it was the narrow streets of Trier or those of Constantinople. In Trier, he had avoided this locomotion as often as he could, which was easy because of his position. Here, he was a guest, though. He was dependent on the cooperation of these men, especially Modestus. He couldn’t afford to proclaim world revolution upon arrival.

Modestus was not one who tended to polite talk. In fact, he seemed much in thoughts and his silence only reinforced that impression. Rheinberg was certain that the general situation and the difficult role of the East as the savior of the empire preoccupied the Prefect. Last but not least, the question must bother him as to which demands the newly arrived Magister Militium would make and what efforts would be necessary to fulfill them.

Rheinberg could have calmed him down. He was not up to date on the reconstruction of the army in the East. As far as he knew, the remnants of the Eastern Roman Army were still encamped near Thessaloniki, where the new recruits were also gathered. He would go there soon to get an overview of the situation. In addition, he had already commissioned the young Godegisel with a special mission, which should lead him to the vicinity of the city. If they succeeded, Rheinberg’s military position in the East would improve considerably in one swoop; in fact, it would make him almost invulnerable.

Rheinberg tried to relax. It was hard for him to do so.

Time was burning under his nails.

2

Potentia was burning.

The flames leapt up from the houses and the superstructures of the fortified walls. Dark smoke danced into the sky, swirling in the gentle breeze, a reminder of destruction visible from afar. From the heights, it was easy to see another black band writhing over the dusty floor like an endless worm. The caravan of the city dwellers who took their belongings out of the city. Potentia would not be home to anyone for a long time.

Theodosius lowered the binoculars of the time-wanderers, cursing the clarity and sharpness with which the magic glass had taught him about the destruction of the provincial town. The civilian casualties were low, with timely warnings preceding the attack. The real target was not the houses and walls of Potentia but the city’s two large granaries.

Theodosius raised the binoculars to his eyes again. He didn’t want to shirk from the sight.

He had given the order to set Potentia on fire.

Everything was all his fault. Theodosius dealt with guilt very carefully. The death of his father, but also what he himself had done in another time, again as an emperor – all this led to new and great focus in the Spaniard’s mind. He wanted to investigate if he was the same man who had rageously massacred thousands of Romans in an amphitheater, or if he had changed.

Again, he directed his gaze on the caravan of refugees slowly moving south. Many of these people would starve to death. Their grain stocks were on fire. However, even if Theodosius hadn’t conducted the attack on Potentia, it would have been no better for the citizens of the city. Maximus would have taken possession of the supplies to care for his own legions. Theodosius’ own troops were much further south, as a lure and distraction. The mission in which they had ignited the bright flames that blazed throughout the city had been the action of a handful of soldiers.

“Maximus will have to change his plans,” Sedacius said. The Tribune stood beside him staring at the blazing fire with his naked eye. He showed no emotion. This officer also knew the necessities of warfare against the usurper. Theodosius nodded and lowered the binoculars.

“That was our intention. We buy time. It will hamper him.”

“I still think we should have taken the grains ourselves. Our men, too, want to be fed.”

Theodosius looked at Sedacius. The other man was a good ten years younger than the newly minted Emperor but had seen a lot, had a good reputation and a good grip on his men. He had hunted down the Huns in the East and found that barbarian detachments were much closer to Rome than expected. Time was pressing for the Empire to unite its forces and arm itself against the impending threat.

Here, he was in agreement with Sedacius.

Otherwise, he quite distrusted the aspiring officer.

“We managed to blame the arson on Maximus,” the Spaniard said quietly. “If we had looted Potentia, we would have been the culprits. We have to incite emnity between Maximus and the people and constantly expand on that. We have to make sacrifices in this regard. The refugees will be spreading exactly the kind of message throughout Italy that we want to hear. That is the central point of our action.”

Sedacius didn’t reply. He often contradicted Theodosius, but he accepted it with equanimity to be put in his place. For some reason, this behavior only furthered the Emperor’s suspicions.

Theodosius let his gaze wander the horizon. The usefulness of the binoculars he had been convinced of immediately. And he quickly found what he had been looking for – on a hill, far away from their present location, appeared small black dots, apparently mounted soldiers. It had to be the scouts of the Maximus. It was highly unlikely that they would likewise discover the Spaniard’s small troop. They didn’t have binoculars.

“Let’s leave.” With that, Theodosius turned away. They walked down the hill, where a few more men were waiting with the horses.

Theodosius remembered another fire, one that had been far more painful, apparently turning the future of the Roman Empire into ashes. Shortly before the troops of the Maximus had reached Ravenna, just before the army of Theodosius, consisting of the remnants of the lost battle against the usurper and hastily recruited reinforcements, had gone south, the “German city,” the settlement established around the dock of the Saarbrücken, had also been set on fire. The cruiser, of which they hadn’t heard anything since then, had shortly before left to Constantinople together with two of the now completed steam sailors.

They had been allowed to last longer than expected, as early winter had slowed down the advance of Maximus a bit. Supplies had been collected, allies in Italy had been contacted, march routes planned and scheduled. When Maximus finally reached Ravenna with quite a delay at the end of winter, the retreat had already taken place. Ravenna had fallen without a fight, as well as Rome and many other northern Italian cities. But the south of the Italian boot was sometimes more, sometimes less under the control of the usurper, and especially less so once the troops of Theodosius approached. Now that the first signs of spring were visible, military activity would increase in intensity.

Knowing that the traitor von Klasewitz was at Maximus’ service, they had tried to knock out the self-proclaimed new Emperor of the tools he could use to easily build new weaponry. And so, before leaving Ravenna, the factory halls and classrooms had been set on fire. Theodosius had a number of German-trained foremen in his entourage, but the massive loss that the Empire had suffered as a result of this unfortunately necessary act was hard to describe. Once Maximus was defeated, everything would have to be rebuilt.

Or he did it himself. In fact, everyone assumed that von Klasewitz would try to do just that.

But this took time.

Theodosius swung on his horse. “As soon as we get to the legions, we need to decide about where we’re going,” he told the waiting men, all officers of his staff. “Maximus will not be stopped for long. We are a bad thorn in his flesh. On the other hand, we cannot continue to run around in Italy forever. There must be a way out for us.”

Sedacius leaned forward in the saddle. “I stick with my suggestion that we continue to make pinpricks against multiple targets at the same time, that the legions themselves are not engaged in a major battle. We have to force Maximus to split his troops, so we can attack the pieces one at a time. That’s how we can wear down his resistance.”

Theodosius nodded. The proposal had something to say for itself. Not everyone in his staff, however, found the Tribune’s idea worthwhile. The rebellion of Maximus had triggered in many of his men the reflex of immediate counterattack, born the idea of a second, great field battle. But although the Emperor had a small detachment of German infantrymen with him, it was clear that these could only provide limited assistance, not least because of the shortage of ammunition they were suffering from. The time hadn’t yet come for a final showdown with Maximus.

“We’re waiting for news from Constantinople. If Rheinberg succeeds in reorganizing the Eastern Army and leading it to the West, our chances are greater,” he said.

Sedacius did as usual: He didn’t argue, bowed his head, apparently accepting that the Emperor had to make the decision.

Theodosius looked ahead, at the dusty path, which they now slowly rode along. The discomfort that befell him in the presence of Sedacius took on physical proportions in such situations. He knew he had to take care of it. But everything in him was reluctant to have to deal with possible internal dissent in this situation.

Theodosius’ gaze fell on the Centurion Thomasius, a close confidant of the Tribune. He was in his vicinity all the time, but silent, and the Emperor didn’t know if that silence had anything to do with respect for his imperial person or simply with the character of the man. When he spoke, then only a few words and often softly. It seemed as if he didn’t want to be heard, nobody should notice him, and yet he aroused interest and curiosity. What had been heard about the young man was very promising, and Sedacius wasn’t known to surround himself with incompetent sycophants. He challenged the views of his officers, was ready to hear suggestions and change his own opinion. With that, he had, according to what was known, much resemblance with Maximus.

Maybe that was the reason for Theodosius’ distrust.

The Tribune was similar to the usurper in many ways, above all in some positive traits that his opponents wouldn’t deny. And it pointed to his own, often uncontrolled and harsh way, with which the effervescent Theodosius sometimes dealt with his subordinates. Although this was commonly accepted as a privilege of the Emperor – some might even expect it –, it didn’t help much to build loyalty.

And loyalty was a precious commodity in these times.

Theodosius continued to look at Thomasius. He raised his head, met the imperial gaze, lowered his eyes almost abruptly. The Centurion didn’t have anything on him to be critical of and offered no clue for someone to really form an opinion about him.

If anything, that was the most likely way to reinforce Theodosius’ discomfort.

3

“We’ve got two options,” Sedacius muttered, poking a branch in the campfire to rekindle the glow.

Levantus pushed a log into the flames and made sure that their only heat source didn’t fade. Volkert held out the palms to the fire. It was a cold night, and the ground became frozen – and that in the southern half of Italy. It would be a severe and relentless winter. Secundus, the fourth in the group, looked into the flames and held a cup of hot wine in his hands. Nobody said anything. They had chosen this watch fire a little away from the camp to speak undisturbed. Nevertheless, their voices were muffled, and they all looked around involuntarily. Caution was appropriate.

They talked about high treason.

Volkert felt uncomfortable. But he didn’t know what alternatives were left to him except to follow the orders.

Sedacius continued. “Winter will limit both the mobility of Maximus and us. Theodosius has developed a good plan to keep the usurper busy, and I support him. Once the action starts, and the men are on the road, we should have made a decision. Either we attack Theodosius immediately and pronounce a new Emperor, or we wait until Maximus is done. What is your opinion?”

Volkert knew that the Tribune was serious about this last question. Sedacius wanted advice. He had a habit of tossing ideas around. He respected the opinion of others. He was not half as bossy and ungracious as Theodosius when someone contradicted him.

Still, it took a while for someone in the group to speak.

“I’m in with the first option, sir,” old Levantus said, who was not promoted beyond his current rank because of his lack of dutiful service. Volkert, who has just been promoted, would never presume to claim the same authority as the veteran. Levantus refused promotions. He didn’t want to become a general, he always said. “If we manage to overthrow Theodosius with our allies and instantly install you, Sedacius, as Emperor, the change will go smoothly. Rheinberg will have to recognize us, because he has no other option if he wants to defeat Maximus. Besides, Theodosius, if having first gotten rid of Maximus, would be in a much stronger position than presently. Not only will it be harder to overthrow him, his fall will also cause much more resistance. If we act decisively now, we act at a time when he still lacks sympathizers, loyalty and his own power-base.”

With that, the old man had said everything. He wouldn’t make much effort to defend his position, as Volkert knew him well. Levantus believed that his word was either convincing or not and that in both cases it didn’t require any additional efforts on his part.

Secundus felt visibly uncomfortable as the eyes turned toward him. He, like his friend Volkert, had recently been promoted and had not yet properly set himself up as a member of the closer conspiratorial circle. In contrast to Volkert, however, he wasn’t as much troubled; the longtime gambler, who financed his risky investments with all sorts of little ripoffs, saw a possibility when it opened up to him and was always ready to take a risk for it. If the plan of Sedacius succeeded, Secundus would fall up the ladder, whether at court or in a province. This would give wonderful opportunities to make quick money and spend it even faster for many a great enjoyment, and this prospect alone made Secundus a loyal ally.

Volkert envied him for his simple world view. He sometimes wished to develop something similar.

“I’m for the second solution, sir,” Secundus finally said. “If we overthrow Theodosius now, Maximus will consider that a weakness of his adversaries, and he wouldn’t be wrong. It will bring great unrest to the legions and cause uncertainty, perhaps even desertion. We might then be unable to succeed in the central task that remains: to defeat Maximus. Of course, later on it will be much harder to overthrow Theodosius, but we would also have more time to find allies and prepare properly.”

“Or to be discovered and executed,” Volkert said involuntarily.

Sedacius looked at him. “Speak, Centurion. Do you follow the view of Levantus?”

Volkert made a negative gesture. “No.”

“So you speak, despite the risk, in favor of Secundus’ suggestion?”

“No.”

Sedacius smiled, as if he had expected something like that. “I hear.”

Volkert sighed deeply and poked for a moment in the bright and warming flickering fire. “We cannot overthrow Theodosius immediately, because Sedacius would be regarded as a wicked traitor. Theodosius is currently a personality that is seen with great hope, and he represents these hopes with a certain dignity. No matter how many supporters we have now, Sedacius would only have one thing on taking office: blood on his hands.”

Silence answered his words. Sedacius looked serious, thoughtful. Levantus had narrowed his eyes and nodded softly at Volkert’s last words.

“On the other hand, we cannot wait too long,” Volkert added. “If we beat Maximus, Theodosius may not be unassailable, but we will certainly provoke another civil war – and Rheinberg might come up with the idea of proclaiming his own emperor in the East.”

“Himself,” Secundus suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Volkert replied but didn’t elaborate on his expressed certainty. He was glad that no one asked him the reasons for his assessment, because he would have had great problems to explain them without revealing his true identity.

“If so – and I don’t doubt it –, what’s the right course of action?” Secundus asked.

“It’s about timing. The Eastern Army must be ready to march against Maximus, but he should be beaten yet. It has to be on the edge. Then Theodosius can be eliminated quickly. His followers will face an important choice: Either you start a civil war in another direction now and play into Maximus’ hands, or you will be with us and you will remain in office and with dignity. I would like to assume that a good portion of Theodosius’s loyalists will be prepared to seriously consider there options.”

Sedacius nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Levantus, who pushed his lips back and forth. “Young Thomasius is right,” the veteran said finally, and looked appreciatively at Volkert. “If we bide our time now and expand our own base of supporters with great caution, we increase our chances and minimize the risk. We just have to be careful that we don’t neglect to look out for the right moment to act.”

Sedacius smiled and patted Volkert on the shoulder. “I know why this man rides by my side.”

Volkert looked into the fire and said nothing. Pride and shame were in balance with him. Once more, he wished for the same pragmatic greed Secundus mastered so convincingly.

“What is your desire, Thomasius, once Sedacius is emperor and defeats Maximus?” Levantus asked.

“It may seem a long way to you, but things sometimes turn out to be faster than expected. You should think about it.”

Sedacius struck the same tune. “Levantus is right, young friend. If we have victory, many ways will be open for you. Promotion to Tribune? Would you like to be Dux or Comes? You might also do well outside the army, as a high administrative official! Or you stay at court and serve in a prominent position in my immediate circle. Member of the consistory? Praetorian Prefect?”

“Sir,” Levantus said. “I don’t want to be anything like that.”

“Me neither,” Volkert replied. “If possible, we should persuade Rheinberg to keep his post.”

“Smart man,” Sedacius praised. “Yes, we must bring the time-wanderers to our side, and to achieve this, Rheinberg will be the key. Too sad that circumstances forced us to abandon your mission to get in contact with them. We have to reconsider our approach. But, still, what is your desire?”

Volkert sighed. “The province sounds good, Tribune. But there is another thing that I will ask you when the time comes. It is of a private nature. You will have the power to solve this problem for me. I’ll bring it up when the time comes.”

Secundus smiled knowingly. He was the only one who knew exactly about Volkert’s private concerns with Julia. And he also guessed what his friend’s request would be: to divorce the marriage with Martinus Caius by imperial decree, thus opening Volkert’s opportunity to openly have a life together with the woman of his heart – and her child, born as it by now had to be.

Sedacius took Volkert’s shoulder. “Make your petition, Centurion, and I will grant it, that is my promise. And if it’s a quiet provincial position, that’s what you will receive as well.”

Volkert felt better now. He didn’t care what kind of office he eventually got. If Sedacius lived up to his promise to help him with his problem with Julia, it was incentive enough for him to join in his coup d’état.

By far enough.

4

Von Klasewitz remembered Ravenna well, he had left the city, albeit a bit hasty, but not so long ago. His return was that of a victorious man, but it lacked triumphant feelings. Once he had trudged through the charred remains of the “German village,” as far as to the long pier on which the Saarbrücken had once been moored, his joy was very limited.

Britain was far, very far. And Maximus, now Emperor, demanded more cannons. It was an understandable desire; the batteries of the German had caused considerable damage during the battle against Gratian’s troops. And von Klasewitz had to deliver cannons, because among other things, these depended on how far he could keep himself in the Emperor’s favor in order to await and seize his own chance.

His hope had been to be able to take over at least some of Dahms’ facilities to restart production. This hope had now been shattered. The traitor admitted that he had underestimated his former comrades. On the other hand, there had been other plans for the crew of the Saarbrücken, a poison attack had been prepared. Until that day, he had not been able to find out why this plan had failed. The fact was that the cruiser had left undisturbed, accompanied by now a total of three of the new steam ships. The last one had struck white clouds of steam into the sky the moment Maximus’ troops had already invaded Ravenna. The ship would by now have delivered the news of Ravenna’s fall safely to Constantinople.

Von Klasewitz allowed himself a smile. Not that Rheinberg could do much now. Maximus had once again proved to be a far-sighted strategist. If all went well, taking possession of the cruiser would only be delayed by a few weeks, at best months.

Von Klasewitz respected the work of his adversary Dahms. In particular, the development of steamers had been an excellent performance. Although the fires had destroyed much, the attackers had been able to lay their hands on some documentation, apparently from an earlier planning stage, so that they had been inadvertently overlooked in the campaign. For the traitor, this was an excellent foundation for his own work. Maximus had given him command of the smoking ruins and the job of doing what needed to be done. He himself was busy securing his position in the East – as far as one could speak of a security, because aside to a few very fast sycophants, no one had openly declared himself for Maximus yet. Especially to chase of the “counter-Emperor” Theodosius remained to be a challenge. And that turned out to be a deciding matter, especially in the burgeoning winter, which would be tough, hard and long. No good conditions.

Therefore, Maximus wanted more cannons.

And the traitor had a problem. He could, of course, disassemble the manufactory in Britain and then have it brought here. In fact, he had already issued appropriate orders. But just waiting here, until the weather allowed the transport ships to cross the channel, wouldn’t cause his Emperor much pleasure. And at least for the time being, anything that Maximus didn’t enjoy had to displease him, too, whether he wanted it to or not.

Von Klasewitz still stood at the pier, looking at the churning Mediterranean, as someone joined him. The wind was fresh, almost stormy, and it was cold. The nobleman felt for a moment the indefinite longing to leave all this behind to once again feel the staggering metal plates of a ship, a real ship, underfoot.

He looked around as he heard the steps of the newcomer. No, there were several, but they didn’t pose any threat, at least not in the physical sense. There were three priests, one of them very special: Ambrosius of Milan, the man with the crooked face, whose careful manipulation of the citizens of Rome had helped make Maximus’ conquest of Gaul and northern Italy so easy.

Von Klasewitz always felt a little smaller than usual in the presence of this man, who was revered as a church father and saint in his day. Other Romans, even Maximus, were opposed to his silent attitude of superiority, even though he didn’t always show it. Ambrosius, however, intimidated him.

The Bishop stood beside the time traveler, looked out to the sea and took a deep breath. His two companions remained at a respectful distance.

“A sad sight,” Ambrosius said softly. “The ruins give an idea of the potential lost here. But it has something good to it.”

“Yes?” von Klasewitz asked.

“We have kept our promise and cleansed the unholy sites of the time-wanderers with fire. In fact, we have even driven the outlaws to do it themselves. It’s good, because it’s a joke in favor of Maximus, a clear sign that God is fighting on our side.”

The German preferred not to speak. For all the reverence he felt in the Bishop’s presence, he knew that much of what Ambrosius was doing here was ultimately just superstitious stuff. He also assumed that the Bishop himself didn’t believe half of what he said but did everything to promote the consolidation of his interpretation of the Christian faith in the sense of a future state church. If someone or something had to burn, this was to be accepted.

Since this way, among other things, promoted von Klasewitz’s office and reputation, he had basically no objection against this procedure. Still, he faced the monumental task of rebuilding the industrial center that likely would keep him busy throughout the winter.

Ambrosius seemed to have read those thoughts on his face. He smiled soothingly. “My friend, do not despair. All I’m saying is that it might be better not to set up your own witchcraft manufacturing facility in that location, but somewhere else, in a secret place, more difficult to access and not so open to the public that their existence could lead to … misunderstandings.”

“I understand,” von Klasewitz replied, bowing his head. He indeed understood quite well what the man was about to say, though it suited him less than he wanted to admit. He had to stay as close to the sea as possible because he was aiming for an extra avenue of mobility for the cannons. And despite the destruction that had been done here, it was much easier to set up a new production facility on these remains than to start somewhere completely new. The stone foundations of the most important buildings were unaffected. Von Klasewitz intended to use them for reconstruction.

“So I’d look for a suitable place for you,” Ambrosius went on. “I’ll be happy to help, if you wish.”

“Maximus will have the last word.” And the German would make sure it didn’t work out in the Bishop’s favor.

The bishop smiled. “The Emperor is busy. He will gladly agree to a well-worded and prepared proposal.”

Von Klasewitz turned around so that he directly faced Ambrosius. He knew he had the ear of Maximus regarding the expertise he represented. This was also known to the Bishop. “That’s for sure,” he said carefully. “Where did your sudden interest in these things come from?”

Ambrosius still smiled. “I have to think far, Klasewitz. Maximus will win over Theodosius, no doubt about that. After that, I have to make sure that everything that the time-wanderers introduced into our lives does not carry the smell of heresy. I have to make sure that the church officially approves and sanctions what we take from the future into our present. It would be for the good for the peace in the Empire and of course …” He gestured indefinitely.

The German understood. If the Church succeeded in gaining the authority to interpret the right and wrong use of technology from the future, it could not only unite the apparent and propagated contradictions – even if only through complex and wordy justifications devised to hide everyone’s eagerness to harness the knowledge for one’s own good – but would also strengthen the Church’s general position of power. The nobleman suppressed a smile. He needed the help of the Bishop, but he had no intention of becoming his vicarious agent. In fact, he would much prefer rationality to be superior, especially in regard to issues of power. After all, von Klasewitz’s plans were quite ambitious.

“In the future, noble Bishop,” Klasewitz said, “not so many years from here, in an epoch which the scholars of my time call the Middle Ages, the Church could resort to its own armed forces, knights, who were commanded by the leaders of the Church regardless of the will of many kings and emperors, in order to enforce the policies of the Holy See.”

Ambrosius nodded. “The Holy See, yes. I also consider this as very important. Maximus will be in touch with the Pope, and I wholeheartedly support it.”

The idea of the papacy had to appear consistent and natural for him, the German thought. Perhaps the process to cement the power of the Pope would now accelerate in comparison to what had happened in the past he knew. The current Bishop of Rome, a man named Siricius, already bore the title but so far didn’t have the outstanding position his successors would enjoy in the entire Church. Interestingly enough, Siricius had stayed very covered during the developments of recent months. Von Klasewitz suspected that he secretly supported and encouraged Ambrosius, yet maintained a seemingly neutral position to be prepared for the dangers of political change and not accidentally bet on the wrong horse. The nobleman made a mental note to give Siricius a closer look when it was time. Rumor had it that Maximus wanted to stay during winter with his army near Rome, as the conduct of a proper campaign against Theodosius became increasingly difficult due to weather conditions. If the Emperor remained in the vicinity, the Pope most likely would move more into the center of events. As far as von Klasewitz had heard, Siricius had so far exerted his influence mainly in matters of internal significance, developing a more binding version of liturgy and baptismal regulations.

Ambrosius was the politician here, not the Bishop of Rome.

“Thank you for all the help you want to give me,” von Klasewitz said. “If you have any further advice for me, I want to hear it.” He hoped that he had sufficiently signaled to Ambrosius that he would continue to be the master of his own decisions without being too rude.

“You have settled remarkably well in our society. This strange mixture of subversives and bigots is not always easy to bear,” Ambrosius replied abruptly with a smile.

Normally, the Bishop was ironic only if he could turn this against his opponents. The German felt like being tested. “Whoever is a subversive and who represents the lawful order is always decided according to the outcome of the dispute. The winner writes history.”

Ambrosius made a dismissive gesture. “We’re in Rome, and chaos reigns. Here, emperors are now almost overthrown at will. Who legally came to his office and who didn’t is almost incidental. In one aspect, Rheinberg is quite right: Our stability depends on the common idea of the Empire, not so much on who ties this band. The idea, not the man, is important.”

“And the Church,” von Klasewitz emphasized. “After all, it must be the Church that keeps everything together through faith.”

Ambrosius nodded. “That’s the way it is. Everything is nothing without the Church. Then we would be barbarians. We wouldn’t be better and of no more significance than the Parthians or any Germanic chieftain.” He looked at von Klasewitz. “Sorry, if I should have offended you.”

The German raised his hands defensively. “But no. My ancestors would do well to focus more on the Empire, thinking, acting like Romans and …” He wrinkled his nose. “ …take some lessons in cleanliness and appearance.”

Ambrosius laughed and clapped his hands.