Maximus couldn’t disagree. Not only that, his own career since the death of Valentinian was no longer developing with the expected speed, at least not with the speed he deserved in his view, and the general discontent in the remote provinces far from Trier was almost tangible.
“I have spoken with some of the tribunes yesterday,” Andragathius continued. “Casually, with wine and at the fire. It was late. They had drunk more than me.”
“And?”
“They would like you to take the purple immediately.”
“It’s too soon, my friend. We need the support of all officers and all British legions. Only then can we realistically enter Gaul and dare to speak out against Gratian.”
“Merobaudes sends his greetings. Yesterday came a chest with fabrics and new boots from Milan.”
Maximus was silent. Merobaudes had been one of the most successful generals of the late Valentinian, showered with the highest honors. Since Valentinian’s son Gratian was emperor, the old general had been resigned to a minor role. Among the men he continued to enjoy great popularity, though. If he would be able to pull him to his side, Gratian’s position would be weakened – he would eventually have no chance to defend himself effectively. Maximus’ grip on the throne would be crowned with success, as with so many emperors who had been elevated likewise by their armies. There were many like Merobaudes, just waiting for the right candidate.
And more often than enough those emperors quickly fell again. There were good reasons why Maximus spend his time and a lot of energy to generate loyalty among his troops. He would need it.
“What’s with Gildo?” asked the General.
“He is using his contacts already. We have very positive results. The fact that Gratian has been so successful against the Alemans on the battlefield helps us a lot. The joy about the victories of the Emperor is somewhat restrained.”
“He will help us?”
“More than expected. He thinks he’ll make troops available and that he would use his connections to the mainland in order to ensure that the Alemannic sub-tribes will join us as soon as we are set to Gaul. He also promised to keep things controlled here in Britain once the majority of border troops are with us. I think we can rely on him – for some time.”
“He was settled with his people here by Gratian’s father,” Andragathius pointed out. “Valentinian is held in high regard!”
“He is also in my high regard,” growled Maximus. “It is his son, whom with I have an issue here. I intend to continue the work of the great Valentinian.”
“Will Valens recognize you as emperor once Gratian is overthrown?”
“He will probably have no other choice. He has his hands full trying to defend the eastern part against the Goths and the Persians. If he sees that in the West a man of action has been raised through his popularity with the troops, and that he has sufficient experience of doing what needs to be done, he will accept the inevitable. Valens is weak. The consistory will vote against a civil war. Gratian has no children.”
“Valens has none as well.”
“I have no ambitions in the east. I will make that clear immediately and in no uncertain terms. I’m not a revolutionary, and megalomania hasn’t overwhelmed me. I’m a man of principle, and I will make the west strong. I will especially strengthen the neglected provinces, and I will ensure that the wars against all those Alemans who help us will end. This will contribute more to border security than any battle won.”
The rain stopped. Like following an order, the clouds tore and a promising ray of sunshine danced on their side of Hadrian’s Wall.
Andragathius and Maximus took the symbolism of the moment in with all their senses. Silently they stood side by side, both busy with their visions of the empire, and their respective role in the events that have already materialized themselves in their secret and careful preparations.
They had patience. The right moment would come. And when it was there, no one would be able to counter the legions of Maximus and prevent his ascent to the throne.
There was no doubt about it.
15
“I cannot, and I will not wear this.”
“We can, and you will.”
“This is outrageous! Silly! I look like a …”
“… a male Roman of high rank, who accepts an invitation to which you cannot say no.”
Von Klasewitz stared down at himself.
The two tailors hadn’t understood a word but gathered from the tone of their customers that their enthusiasm was somewhat limited and had withdrawn to the background after the first outbreak of open disgust.
“I’m not saying that we shouldn’t go,” murmured von Klasewitz. “I say we wear our dress uniforms! What is good enough for the German Emperor is good enough for the Romans!”
Rheinberg tried not to show his impatience as well as the way how the first officer strained his nerves too obviously. The invitation sent on behalf of Navarch Renna by Africanus was a terrific opportunity. Rheinberg had considered for a tiny moment of leaving Klasewitz behind with the command of the Saarbrücken, but quickly decided against it. For one, he just couldn’t bring himself to trust his first officer enough. For another, he knew that von Klasewitz loved such events. He had probably underestimated that he especially liked it because he could make a good impression with the female guests in the admittedly very chic navy dress uniform.
However, in the toga, which his tailor had just knocked over, he could not have this effect. Under the edge, his pale and scrawny legs were visible. Rheinberg had difficulty adjusting to this kind of clothing to as well, but he never intended to dupe his hosts by refusing this kind gesture. Becker, Neumann and Ensign Volkert – the delegation appointed by him from the Saarbrücken – had accepted the new dress code with jokes but were completely willing to wear it. Rheinberg should have known that only von Klasewitz would object.
And he had no desire for lengthy discussions. The celebration took place in four days, and there were guests of honor from Rome – senators, specifically – as Africanus had indicated. The name of Symmachus had slipped, and therefore this would be the first time Rheinberg would know a person of real, albeit tragic historical importance.
“I order you to cease complaining,” Rheinberg finally growled. “You put this on. Stop it.”
“Sir …”
“Stop it!”
Rheinberg nodded to the two tailors. “We’re ready now. Let’s continue, please,” he said in Latin. Then he spoke again to von Klasewitz and changed the subject. “Have we made progress with the study-roster?”
“Good progress,” the first officer said. “You are teaching the first hour. I have divided Neumann and Volkert. They’ve mastered both ancient Greek and Latin, at least that’s their own confession. I have flagged myself for Greek.”
Rheinberg nodded. Von Klasewitz had obviously not been paying attention in Latin class, but his Greek was passable, which secretly had surprised him. As of today, the schedules were adjusted so that each morning would begin with a two-hour language course for NCOs and enlisted men. Moreover, something had been scheduled for every Sunday, a course Rheinberg called “Roman Geography.” It should provide a general historical, geographical and political overview of the time – if Rheinberg’s memory and his modest private library could provide sufficient information. Obviously, they were still too few teachers, and should their general status improve in the course of time, tutors from Ravenna should complement the work. But he didn’t want to wait. They had to work with what they had.
“Yesterday’s battle drill?” Rheinberg asked.
“Results were not bad,” said his first officer, who looked with disfavor at the tailor dealing with him again until the toga was falling reasonably correct. “Becker’s men at least know how to follow orders, and they have sea legs by now. They do us no good on deck, but if it should ever come to fighting against boarding attacks, they know now where they should be and where not.”
“Good, very good,”
praised Rheinberg. The plan for the drills was indeed developed by Becker and Köhler, but it didn’t matter if one paid tribute and give some recognition to von Klasewitz now and again. Not that von Klasewitz was the kind of man who took notice of praise and used it draw the right conclusions. But Rheinberg didn’t want anyone to hold it against him that he hadn’t tried his best. And he had to admit, since they had reached Ravenna, the first officer hadn’t consistently acted like an asshole. Conceivably the smell of the city and the prospect of enjoying the company of Roman nobility had beneficial effects on him.
Rheinberg was distracted from his thoughts when he heard excited shouts from outside. He shooed the tailor to the side, jumped down from the stool on which he had stood, and hurried through the door of the cabin. In a fluttering toga, he ran outside and held on to the railing. Beside him were many other men and everyone looked into the harbor. The calls did not come from his people, but from pathetic looking men on a large sailboat whose sails, partially lacerated, hung on the mast and only a lucky current and a very appropriate wind had helped the vessel to make any progress. Numerous smaller boats came up to the damaged ship, and there was excitement on the wharf. A rope was thrown, and the rowing boats began to pull the stricken ship to a free space.
“What do they shout? That’s a terrible whining!” asked one of the men and looked at Rheinberg without regard to his strange appearance. Rheinberg listened closely. A word was repeated again and again.
“Pirates!” he translated for the others. “Pirates! They have been attacked by pirates.” He stepped aside as Africanus approached him, his eyes full of serious concern.
“Trierarch Rheinberg?”
“That was an attack by pirates?”
Africanus nodded sadly. “They are getting bolder. Two ships of my squadron have just received the order to leave. It’s an emergency.”
“This vessel?”
“No, a second one. It would be bad enough as it is, but the other has the young son of the prefect of Rome on board, a senator of high rank as well, who had visited his relatives in Sicily and was supposed to go to school here. He has been kidnapped. We fear a very high ransom. And all this casts a large shadow on our squadron. That this was possible, will bring a lot of problems for Renna. We need to stop these people before they are gone.”
In Rheinberg’s mind appeared a sudden thought full of clarity and logic. He touched Africanus’ shoulders. “Get Renna. Ask him and a bodyguard to come on board! And get us permission to sail! We will deal with these pirates for you – and thus prove our honorable intentions.”
Joy drove doubt and apprehension from the features of the trierarch. Without another word, he turned and ran toward the gangway.
Rheinberg waved to the bridge where Langenhagen was on his duty station. “Lieutenant!” he bellowed.
“Captain!”
“Machines under steam! Clear ship to sail!”
“Clear ship to sail!” Langenhagen yelled back. Seconds later, the boatswain whistle shrilled through the deck. Commands echoed across. Well-organized and trained activity broke out. It helped that their present situation made landfall impossible and therefore all crew was on board. Everyone was bored – and they were more than ready to finally do something meaningful.
Rheinberg looked down at himself, at his bare feet in the braided sandals.
It was probably better to get changed.
Ten minutes later, he was in uniform on the bridge of Saarbrücken, watching the tailors flee from the suddenly active ship. As Dahms reported steam in the boilers, it was already an hour later, and that was also only possible because the engineer had never completely allowed the machines to become cold.
Another thirty minutes later, Renna, accompanied by twelve legionaries and Africanus, arrived. The navarch knew the way now and joined Rheinberg next to the bridge. No sooner had the Romans entered the cruiser, and it was already cast off.
“How is the situation, navarch?” asked Rheinberg straight away.
“The culprits are the ships of Claderius,” the gaunt man replied. “He’s famous and infamous, and he’s getting bolder. We suspect that he has his base in Sicily, but so far he has always escaped us. He commands many small and very fast ships and attacks his prey with a pack mentality. He usually doesn’t take hostages, but this time he has probably noticed what kind of fish he had on the hook and couldn’t resist. The boy is worth his weight in gold, or more. Claderius is old; maybe he wants to retire.”
“How do you usually respond to such an incident?”
“We go to sea immediately, but in the wind the sailing ships are far superior to the triremes. We often search in vain. When we come anywhere close to the southern tip, he has vanished with his people to safety for a long time. Once we have seen his masts on the horizon, that was our biggest success so far.”
Renna gave a snort.
“He impresses senators and prefects. They have for so long kept a protective hand over him as many have been involved with him. But that was before taking a son of a prefect as hostage. He went too far. To plunder merchants and fishermen, that’s fine. Now they will cry for his head.”
Renna looked hopefully at Rheinberg. “This is important, Trierarch Rheinberg. You have a fair chance to prove your worthiness. A failure is also a serious flaw, of which you will hardly be able to clean yourself.”
“I know. But I’ve made the decision. And we are faster than a trireme or a sailing ship. We will take southern course. In this clear weather, and if we take some of the surviving sailors on board to help us, we should succeed. When in doubt, we head to Sicily.”
Renna looked half-incredulous, half-expectantly at Rheinberg. Then he roared his own instructions into the harbor. A few minutes later, sailors rowed from the wreck toward the cruiser. They stared at the German ship with big eyes but put their trust in it when they saw the navarch.
As Renna felt that the Saarbrücken pushed progressively further from the pier and then slowly gathered speed, he stopped and looked around. The cruiser pulled away from the dock and won open sea. Even the pirates were operating near the coast, and the raid had taken place close to Ravenna. The wind was light and blowing from the east. If the pirates wanted to escape, they had to cross into the wind, which was nearly impossible with the kind of rigging used in these times – ideal conditions for a successful pursuit.
Renna and Africanus clung involuntarily to the railing as Rheinberg gave the order to follow the coastline southwards in full speed. White foam formed before the mighty bow of the cruiser and the pounding of the machines let the body of the vessel tremble. Renna and Africanus admired with wide eyes as the coastline began to slide along them at a pace that could not be achieved even by the fastest sailing shops with most favorable winds. Rheinberg had three men armed with binoculars, both at the bow as well as positioned on the port side. On the bridge, two officers carried their own binoculars and watched the waters. An expectant tension settled over the crew.
Captain Becker climbed into the bridge and joined Rheinberg. “If we have them, what do we do?”
“We threaten them. We give them a shot across the bow. If they refuse to surrender, we sink one of them. If they are compliant, we send the steam launch and board them. We form a boarding party of your best men and some of my sailors. I think for the maneuver I take my people, who have practiced boarding, and your men give covering fire.”
Becker nodded. Already in the last battle drill his best shooters had been assigned good positions on the ship. Two NCOs talented with the gun had been given positions from which they could kill any enemy soldier within 100 meters. And Rheinberg had the intention to go close enough to use this advantage.
“Captain!”
Langenhagen indicated. “To port!”
Rheinberg raised his own binoculars and looked in the direction. A number of sailing ships became apparent. He handed the glass to Africanus, who had been accustomed to use it by now. He looked through and a triumphant grin appeared on
his face.
“Aren’t fishermen,” Africanus growled. “Offshore ships, quite far away from the coast. That’s how they are always escaping our triremes. It has to be them.”
Rheinberg ordered a slight change of course. “Köhler! Clear for action!”
The boatswain’s whistle sounded again, and the men took their battle positions with great confidence.
“I want to use a 5-inch gun. Align it and ready to fire. Wait for my command!”
“Aligning and make ready, yes.”
Von Klasewitz appeared on the bridge, recognized the situation, nodded and disappeared back to control the gun crews. Rheinberg had no objection because this was the expertise of the nobleman. He knew his guns.
Renna followed the unintelligible conversation with silent attention. He noticed very well that a carefully oiled military organization was ready to follow the orders of its officers. He understood, and he didn’t interfere. As Africanus asked him to port side and pointed to the mouth of the 5-inch gun, he seemed to guess what kind of power lay behind this ultimately inconspicuous device.
The Saarbrücken gained rapidly now that the ship had a goal. Soon the excited crew members of the pirate-ships were observed pointing toward the onrushing behemoth, obviously confused, impressed and hopefully scared. The pirates used small and sleek vessels, none longer than five or six feet, but there was a total of eighteen, and each was armed recognizably. Against this pack, a ponderous trading ship was obviously helpless, and perhaps it could also be dangerous for a single trireme.
“Navarch, it would be useful if you would ask them to surrender,” Rheinberg finally said. He looked into the officer’s face and was surprised by the transformation that was clearly visible. From the distant and noble navarch, the man beside him has changed into an avid sailor, impressed by the wonders of a ship that was technically far beyond everything he had known before. Renna nodded, his cheeks almost glowing with excitement and enthusiasm. Rheinberg knew that he had finally brought the man to his side, and be it because of his conviction that he must use this miracle for the good of the Empire.
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