“Patient. Gratian’s death has not caused much sadness, nor great enthusiasm. Theodosius is as unknown to us as Maximus, although Fritigern has tried to please him. You were not completely uninvolved in that, I’ve heard.”
“It was a mistake.”
“One of the reasons why Fritigern doesn’t speak for us anymore.”
“Then I too fell out of favor?”
“You have proven to be quite independent. I want to hear from you.”
Godegisel shook his head and lifted the paper in his hands. “My independence goes that far, Engus.”
“I think your career is impressive.”
“It’s more depressing for me.”
“What’s Rheinberg’s offer?” Engus came to the point.
Godegisel sighed. “I’m not so sure myself. I can tell you what he hopes for. He hopes for a Goth army to turn on Maximus as soon as possible. He wants to march with the troops from Thessaloniki into our settlement area and take as many Gothic warriors as he can. He wants us to fight for the Empire.”
“For him. For Theodosius.”
“He sees it differently.”
“He’s a strange man.”
“That’s right.”
Engus said nothing, looked out of the window again. “And his offer?”
“What is your wish?”
“Ha!” the man said, returning to his guest and sitting down. “That amuses me. We have already received a great mercy from his hand: He didn’t obliterate us when he had the opportunity. He gave us what we came to Rome for: land. He didn’t punish us. He has also taken away our liberty, for we are now Roman citizens.”
He almost uttered the last words like an insult. Godegisel had difficulty assessing what Engus was serious about and where he had become sarcastic. He decided not to inquire further.
“Everything has its price. Your house doesn’t seem like a prison to me, Engus. As I’ve heard, the Roman authorities not only leave you alone, they also regularly consult you on all the important issues. Wasn’t there talk of giving you the title of Dux and making a Roman knight out of you?”
Engus smiled. “You are well-informed, my friend. Yes, the attitude of the Romans has changed toward us, and yes, Gratian and indirectly Rheinberg are responsible for it. Is that enough to send my men into battle?”
“Maximus is an orthodox Trinitarian. We all know what the consequences will be once he becomes Emperor of all Rome.”
Engus pursed his lips and wiggled his index finger. “I know that Theodosius is also an orthodox Trinitarian, Godegisel. For both, the Arians are little more than heretics.”
“Theodosius has changed a bit. He is assisted by the time-wanderers. If he becomes Emperor, I do not believe there will be any persecutions or pogroms, Engus. In the case of Maximus, I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“I show you your options, Engus.”
“You threaten me with consequences.”
“Consequences of your actions, not consequences of those I speak for. Rheinberg is nobody who tends to revenge. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be alive anymore. I killed his friend and deputy.”
Engus looked at Godegisel and sighed. “I have to think about it. You will stay overnight?”
“If I’m welcome?”
“Do not rate my critical words as a lack of hospitality or indignity, Godegisel. I have no official authority, but many still look at me with the expectation that I will give them guidance. But there is a difference in regard to issues of daily life and dealing with Roman authorities than when I call for a military campaign. Many Goths are quite glad to tend to their fields and not to have to go to war anymore.”
“I would be happy about that too. But it’s the way it is.”
“Yes.”
Engus closed his eyes. “Welcome to my house, Godegisel.”
14
Joergensen had the watch.
When it came to assignments for the watch, he volunteered. There were three reasons for his eagerness. For one thing, he had always been someone who agreed to take on unpleasant duties if it freed comrades whom he saw needing some rest. Had he not reported for duty, Langenhagen would have stayed here, and the man had already made an exhausted impression. Secondly, Joergensen was happy to be responsible for the cruiser, enjoyed the authority, because that’s what he had volunteered for. All the possible assignments on land, however necessary they were, he wasn’t interested in. He didn’t envy Rheinberg for his new duties. He refused any task with hands and feet that had nothing to do with the Saarbrücken. Third, he had to get over Laetitia, whom he had met in Ravenna and lost sight of during the turmoil of the departure. He had actually arranged a spot on one of the steamers for her, but when the time came to leave, she didn’t show up at the wharf. He didn’t know what happened, whether it was simply that something came in her way, or her desire to stay in native Ravenna, where she was born and raised, or perhaps even her opinion about him, who might have expected too much in too short a time. He had met her only two months before their escape to Constantinople, the eldest daughter of one of the artisans trained and commanded by Dahms. Joergensen had never been very good with women, they were more a source of confusion for him, and if the topic arose among the crewmates, he would rather stay away from the usual boast. He had not been a child of sadness, but he was too serious a man to be content to sail from one to the next, as some of his friends seemed to enjoy – or at least claimed to do so.
And so he used the time of his watch to reflect on this topic in peace. The fact that he didn’t think much of horse racing had also helped to stay away from the hippodrome. What disturbed him most in antiquity was horses. They were tall, stank and moved unpredictably. They were moody and you could fall off them. When Rheinberg had given the order that all officers should learn to ride, Joergensen had approached this task with the necessary restraint. His riding instructor had been less than enthusiastic about the achievements of the German officer. At some point, they both gave it up; there was more than enough to do elsewhere. Watching the animals as they ran in circles was devoid of any appeal. And he kept his pay together and didn’t want to waste his gold with gambling. And who knew, maybe it was, by chance and fate, still possible to start something with Laetitia. It would not hurt to have enough coins in one’s pocket to afford a small house. Fathers paid attention to these things, both Roman and German, there were no differences over the centuries.
The guards on the wharf also looked quite relaxed. There were a good twenty legionaries standing near the gangway. On the side of the Saarbrücken, four sailors watched, armed with rifles. Since the attack of the priests in Ravenna, there were always strict security measures enacted on the Saarbrücken. Joergensen had a total of 25 men available to take care of that. Two other armed men stood at the bow and stern, the last two were with him on the bridge. An overseer and three other men kept a cauldron busy, as it was a permanent order to keep the ship ready to go, at least as ready as possible. But the biggest trump in Joergensen’s hand was First Gunner Schmitt with his crew of two, who had occupied one of the 10.5 cm fast-loading cannons, directed to starboard, because if there was a danger, then in all probability it was coming from land. Even if a shrewd attack approached from the seaside, the men could easily switch over, as their port side counterpart was prepared to be used at any time.
The Hippodrome wasn’t so far away. You could hear the loud cheering and blaring from that direction and could get an idea of what was going on there.
Joergensen was glad not to be there. He stayed on the bridge of the cruiser and leaned against the lashed wheel, casting a half-bored, half-attentive gaze …
The officer’s eyes narrowed. He reached for the binoculars in front of him in a fluid motion, raising the instrument to his eyes.
He didn’t imagine things. There was movement in the alleys that led to the pier. In many, yes all who gave access to the dock. A lot of movement. Coordinated movement. Joergensen changed on the focu
s of the glass, let his eyes wander.
“Börnsen!”
The helmsman, sitting behind him and drinking a coffee, jumped up.
“Run to the guard, move in the gangway. Do not yell, no noise at all.”
Börnsen nodded and disappeared. Joergensen reached for the mouthpiece that connected him to the engine room.
It didn’t take a minute until the tinny voice of Boilerman First Class Frank could be heard. “Captain?”
Joergensen smiled at this. Actually, Langenhagen was the captain. But now that he was in charge … he thought it to be nice to be addressed in such a way. “Pressure on all boilers, do what you can. Give me enough power to leave, Frank.”
The boilerman was a veteran. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. “We shovel like devils, Captain.”
Joergensen nodded to the two guards on the bridge, who looked at him in alarm. They hadn’t noticed anything yet.
“Tell all men. Silent alarm. Everyone is to be armed. I’m talking to Schmitt.”
The two soldiers grabbed their rifles and raced away. Joergensen immediately followed them, running the few yards to the position of Schmitt, who sat with his men behind the cannon and aimed it at the wharf. He looked at Joergensen expectantly. “There’s something going on, Sir?”
“You’re too smart for a gunner, Schmitt.”
“If I were stupid, I wouldn’t hit anything.”
“We have visitors. Load and ready to fire. You’ll wait for my order.”
“I’ll send Feldmann to the other side, Captain. He should be able see if a nasty comes from seaward, and load the cannon.”
“I’ll fire it myself if necessary.”
Schmitt just nodded, then whispered to his loading gunner. They began to ignore Joergensen’s presence and made the cannon ready. That’s what the officer wanted.
He heard a clatter and saw how the gangway was pulled up. The legionaries on the quay wall became attentive, shouting something at the men of the Saarbrücken, who contented themselves with taking cover behind the railing.
Boatswain Klose met him as he hurried back to the bridge. “Silent alert, Captain. Distribution of weapons in progress.”
“Grab some sailors and get rid of the ropes.”
“Leash off, yes.”
“Make sure that there is fire protection. Keep cover. I don’t want to see arrows in any limbs.”
“No arrows in limbs, yes, Sir!” Klose grinned, saluted and ran away. In the absence of Köhler, he was the longest-serving NCO aboard the cruiser, an extremely reliable man whose decision to stay aboard was greatly appreciated by Joergensen.
He ran to the bridge, saw Börnsen unleash the wheel. He nodded approvingly, picked up his binoculars and measured the quay with his eyes.
The legionaries were now quite agitated. Then what Joergensen had expected happened: From the alleys, soldiers of the city guard ran forward, shields raised, and behind them archers, getting into position.
“Captain!”
Börnsen pointed to port. The officer crushed a curse between his lips. Two galleys were moving and rowed, full of legionaries, toward the Saarbrücken.
“Börnsen, you’re in command now!” he told the mate, who turned pale and nodded cautiously. “As soon as you have enough steam and the ropes are off, take off. You can do this. If one of the wooden barges breaks, it doesn’t matter. Call a signal mate to tell the steamboats …”
“They’ll know already!” The helmsman replied, pointing forward, toward the three new constructions moored there. There, too, planks were drawn in and ropes thrown away, and there, too, the preheated boilers of the bronze steam engines were already pushing fine clouds of smoke into the sky.
Joergensen thanked the Lord for not recruiting the steamboat crews out of idiots but of men who took their watch seriously. “You …”
A crash sounded. The steamship Horace had fired the arkebuse at the galleys. The shot was too short and there was just some splashing in the brackish harbor water, but with that something had started, which Joergensen would like to have prevented: They had fired the first shot. He reconsidered his praise for the professionalism of the men.
He couldn’t blame anyone for having lost their nerve.
“Börnsen, I rely on you! Bring us out of here!”
“Captain, will you …”
“I learned how to fire a cannon. And I’ll see if I remember it.”
No sooner had he said that than he hurried off the bridge. To defend a ship the size of the Saarbrücken with a handful of people was basically insane and hopeless.
Moments later, the officer swung himself into the gunner’s seat. Feldmann, a young, lanky fellow, looked at him calmly.
“Loaded and ready to fire, Captain,” was his serene message. Joergensen felt his own pulse calm down.
Insane? For sure. Hopeless? Maybe not.
15
Rheinberg got a quite decent accommodation. A residual honor of being a – former? – Magister Militium seemed to be still attached to him, because he was treated with a certain respect. The premises were in the imperial palace, apparently some guest quarters, and while not luxurious, they were well-furnished. He had no balcony, just two windows to the outside, up in the building, making any escape almost impossible. At the door of his lodgings were four guardsmen who only let through the occasional servant, bringing food and fulfilling other, simple wishes. Rheinberg had been disarmed and otherwise left with his clothes. Nobody had wanted to speak to him so far. They were probably involved in catching and imprisoning the other refugees. Rheinberg hoped that at least some of them would succeed to disappear. His greatest hope, however, rested on Joergensen aboard the Saarbrücken. He held in his hands the most convincing instrument of power with which something could be achieved.
Rheinberg had no illusions about his own fate. He would probably be faced with one choice: either suicide, which was considered honorable in Rome, even among upright Christians, or death by execution. He doubted that he would be offered alternatives such as exile to a desert island. On the other hand, it was to be expected that his death would entice the crew of the Saarbrücken even more in their opposition against Maximus – and was that a risk that the usurper was ready to take? The more Rheinberg thought about it, the sooner he came to the conclusion that Maximus would only finish the Captain once at least captured the cruiser physically and – probably – handed it over to von Klasewitz. If this failed, a kind of stalemate would emerge. And so it made sense that Rheinberg sat here in relative comfort, was neither tortured nor threatened with death, since the perpetrators of this betrayal couldn’t be sure how the dice ultimately fell. Or the other way around: If one would pick him up and put a sword through his neck, the Saarbrücken had most likely been successfully boarded. If he continued to eat and drink and be treated well, the situation was still in limbo.
Rheinberg decided to be satisfied with this idea. It was the best he could hope for. He trusted Joergensen and his prudence and ability. If someone could save the situation, then it was him. There was nothing Rheinberg could do himself unless there was an opportunity for a conversation that would allow him to sow doubt in the hearts of his captors. But no one spoke to him, and his requests to speak with Modestus had been rejected by the guards with a stony expression.
Rheinberg had almost come to terms with it and prepared for a long and grueling waiting time when the door opened, and the Praetorian Prefect, accompanied by two legionaries, entered the room.
Rheinberg approached him, looking at him encouragingly. The old man looked tired, almost emaciated, with deep shadows under his eyes. He didn’t make a triumphant impression, Rheinberg observed, more like someone who bore a heavy burden he was trying to get rid of.
Modestus waved and the two soldiers disappeared. The door closed.
“I assume you will not strangle me with your bare hands,” the old man said with a joyless smile, sitting down without being asked.
“That’s not really my style,” R
heinberg replied. “But I want to admit that your behavior causes me to have a certain desire for revenge.”
“I understand that. That’s why I’m here.”
“You want to explain yourself? To ask for understanding of your actions?” Rheinberg couldn’t prevent a certain bitterness from creeping into his voice.
Modestus pressed his lips together for a moment. “About that.”
Rheinberg sat down opposite the Prefect and said nothing more.
“I have nothing against Theodosius,” Modestus began. “He is a good man. I have nothing against you, Rheinberg. Many of the reforms you have suggested are wise and farsighted. I’ve served the Empire long enough to realize that. And I am a friend of your tolerance in religious matters. You have no enemy in me.”
Rheinberg raised his eyebrows. “Arresting me and my men can hardly be considered as an act of friendship.”
“This is true.”
He looked at the old man. The answer had been very sincere. Not really defensive, not even with the undertone of a “Yes, but …” It had just been a sincere approval. Rheinberg remembered his despair, his anger, the conviction that there were nowhere respectable men to be seen, no one capable of genuine loyalty. But now a small glimmer of hope developed in his heart. Maybe he had judged too hastily, let himself be carried away by the mood of the moment. Maybe it wasn’t that bad after all. There was something behind it. “So what made you decide to turn against me?” he asked.
“Maximus’ henchmen kidnapped my wife and daughter.” Modestus said this without passion. Nearly. There was a feeling in the voice, but carefully under control. The flash of pain and despair.
Rheinberg blinked. “What?”
“Already a few weeks ago. The Comes has prepared this in the long term. He isn’t a fool.”
“I would never call him that,” Rheinberg admitted. “That means you were blackmailed?”
“That’s right.” Modestus sighed. “Sir, I’m an old man. I don’t have too many years left to live. One wonders, what is the important thing in one’s life? Is it the office, the power, is it the glory, is it the personal honor? Or do you not end up concentrating on things, on those who are really important, on your own family, for whom you have at least as much responsibility as you do for everything else, and whom makes you immortal in your own way? I had to ask myself these questions over and over again. You are young, so this may seem strange to you, but wait until you reach my age – then this a real consideration.”
The Emperor Page 9
