The plan was that the ship, after it had delivered the infantry company and Rheinberg to Spalato, should return to Ravenna. In particular the idea of letting the cruiser touring around in the Mediterranean without any supervision didn’t sound too attractive to the Roman authorities. Rheinberg and Dahms both knew well that they were all still moving on very thin ice. It would only become thicker and therefore more resilient when the emperor was on their side.
“Once the Saravica is back, we’ll get back in touch, and we’ll do it the way you suggested,” Dahms said. “And now I give you, if you do not mind, a tour of my empire … and you can look at some of my problems.”
Fulvius got up and made an engulfing motion with his arms.
“This, Dahms, is the greatest piece of work I’ve ever seen in my life. And I tell you, I want to build something like this one day!”
Dahms stood beside him.
“That’s what I want, too, Fulvius. And I promise you, we will succeed.”
25
“So this is supposed to be wine. I call it piss.”
The fact that Sergeant Behrens could utter these words clearly and without caution had primarily to do with the fact that no one understood him. He sat with Köhler in a tavern, which was frequented by dock workers, sailors, fishermen, craftsmen, and legionaries, a beautiful hodgepodge that not only led to vociferous disputes, but also to occasional brawls. The latter lead to the permanent appearance of two strong slaves who had apparently been acquired only for the purpose of being visible, to act as a deterrent. They were huge guys who looked fatter than muscular, but both were almost two meters tall and in Köhler’s perception nearly as wide. Apparently, they were preceded by a reputation, because as soon as they took on one of the revelers with a watchful eye, who was too loud or whose cries sounded too aggressively, the observed were quickly subdued. That the looks alone were enough, spoke for itself, otherwise the two just sat at a small table in the middle of the taproom and ate. Of all the slaves in Ravenna, these two certainly enjoyed the best of all possible fates, and the fact that some of the dispensing maiden changed clearly ambiguous glances with the guards, also pointed out that it was not the food alone they cherished.
Köhler and Behrens did get these looks too, and it was the boatswain who remembered the teachings of Rheinberg that in pubs like this the border between female prostitutes and waitresses was indiscernible. Until further notice, the two men, however, did not feel the need, remembering the vivid descriptions of Neumann about rampant STDs. Another time perhaps. If they both were desperate enough.
Until then they desperately drank the wine, and as Behrens pointed out so correctly, the drink tasted like rotted grapes, and that it contained alcohol was probably the only reason why it still was popular among revelers.
“What is missing here is beer.”
“It exists; cervisia it’s called,” Köhler taught his comrade. “I would advise against it. Limp and barely digestible. In contrast, a good glass of wine is easily available.”
“It would be more drinkable if accompanied by a shot,” muttered Behrens. He stared at the pot in front of him, who had been served recently, and poked morosely with the wooden spoon in it. The soup was doubtlessly hot, but that decreased Behrens’ distrust little.
“Yes, I find it odd that they offer nothing stronger here,” said Köhler and waved the wooden cup back and forth sulkily. “Actually, to turn the wine into brandy shouldn’t be that difficult.”
“I know enough companies who operate their own distilleries, mainly in the colonies. It’s not that much of a challenge,” muttered Behrens. He pushed the bowl with the stew careful away, as he would fear that the brew would rise from its container and attack him.
“Since you say that,” Köhler muttered suddenly with a very thoughtful expression on his face. “We would need a few metal pipes and a few other materials, but some of the men of Dahms’ department might give us as a hand …”
“What are you thinking?” Köhler had the full attention of the infantryman.
“Well, I guess if you offer the audience here an alternative to this swill, they will not say no. Some of the guys here look as if they are willing to drink plenty, and they all seem to have money for that.”
“I see. Half the people here are professional drunkards. And they have a lot of silver to invest in wine in order to achieve a decent level of bliss.”
“Yes?” Köhler grinned. “One can achieve this faster and cheaper – and with more flavor. Perhaps, then, even the beer might suddenly taste well.”
“Not to talk about medical appliance,” Behrens emphasized with exaggerated seriousness. “Disinfection is sorely needed here. A few shots might work wonders.”
“Nothing is closer to the truth,” confirmed Köhler. He looked pensively at the innkeeper, a broadly built man who stood behind a rough-hewn bar and observing the clientele all at the same time with his piggy eyes. Köhler’s attention wandered from the man to the half-open door, behind which he suspected the kitchen. He saw a woman who carried food back and forward again and placed it on the bar where the waiters picked it up. She was about the age of the innkeeper and didn’t give the impression of an employee, especially when she insulted one of the waiters loudly. Kohler suspected that she was the wife of the host. Every now and then young ones could be seen peering curiously into the tap room, before they were chased back by their father. After ten minutes, Köhler had identified five different faces.
“This innkeeper here has a full house and a big family,” he said, and bowed his head toward the counter. “The prices are moderate and I don’t think that the customers always pay. The man can write, you see? He keeps a tab.”
Behrens nodded. The landlord clearly maintained a list at the back of the counter where the names of regulars were written on a blackboard. Although he didn’t know exactly what the cryptic abbreviations behind the names meant, one could surmise that the accumulated debts were not negligible. The fact that the innkeeper sometimes directed very clear words to one or the other of the regulars and consequently smaller amounts reluctantly changed hands, confirmed this. Afterwards, the man changed the entries behind that name, but didn’t wipe them away, which indicated that only a portion of the debt had been settled – just enough to move the innkeeper to honor a new order.
“The pub needs better customers, and more of it. An extension of the range of products could help,” Behrens said, observing the surroundings with open eyes. “There is no back room. This is bad, because where do you meet undisturbed to gamble for the high stakes?”
Köhler nodded.
“How good is your Latin?” he finally asked.
“Crappy.”
“Then we’ll get us a translator. Someone from the crew. And we return before the Saarbrücken will leave. We should have a serious conversation with the innkeeper.”
“What do you suggest?”
Köhler grinned. “A partnership that could prove to be extremely lucrative for everyone involved. Are you in?”
“Definitely. Don’t you think we will encourage evil by this?”
Köhler made an innocent face. “Evil?”
He lifted the emptied wine jug and waved it.
“This is not a prerequisite of evil; we expand the technological base of the Roman Empire for the sake of our mission and for the benefit of all Roman citizens. We do civilization building!”
A barmaid came over to their table and smiled shyly. From Köhler’s assessment, she was barely 15 years old.
The filled pitcher stood before them, and they poured on.
“Then for the sake of civilization!” said Becker, raising his cup.
“You got it,” Köhler said, smiling.
They toasted.
26
Decisions flowed like water down the Tiber. When the Saarbrücken finally left, the military authorities, as far as they could have been contacted, entrusted Navarch Renna with the management of the new challenges – not least because he h
ad promised to put all of his decisions in front of the Emperor for scrutiny as soon as possible. The personnel on board of the Saarbrücken had increased again: Both Senator Symmachus and Michellus had decided to make the trip to Sirmium, Africanus and two officers of the staff had also embarked. To find accommodations for extra guests was remarkably simple: As expected, one of the central demands of the Romans was that the Saarbrücken had to give hostages. Rheinberg had taken the opportunity to get rid of Klasewitz elegantly, while also giving the impression of doing him a favor. Von Klasewitz, reassured of his importance as a highly prominent hostage, stalked the ship like a general after his triumph. He was accompanied by some men, who Rheinberg couldn’t really do without, but he had to put together a suitable group at least for appearances. Volkert was among them, though he had provided impeccable service since his reprimand, two non-commissioned officers, including Sergeant Behrens, one of Becker’s most experienced men, who’d provide with one of his corporals something like an unofficial bodyguard, and finally Köhler. All hostages were allowed to remain armed, which was a leap of faith on the part of the Romans, and Rheinberg had impressed with all of them, especially von Klasewitz, that he expected proper behavior. The first officer, apparently delighted with the prospect of further public receptions and festivities, had solemnly promised to do the Saarbrücken honor. Symmachus and Michellus were quartered in the cabins of Rheinberg and von Klasewitz, while Rheinberg would now bunk with Becker in another cabin. The crossing to Spalato would take a day to complete, so the possible inconvenience was limited.
It was this early August morning, when the Saarbrücken finally got ready to sail when Rheinberg was approached by someone he had almost forgotten.
“Trierarch!”
Rheinberg stood at the rail, watching the bustle on the quay when he heard the voice. He turned around and saw the fisherman, Marcus Necius, and his son Marcellus, both in fresh tunics. They had actually left the Saarbrücken when the cruiser entered the harbor for the first time, and Rheinberg had almost forgotten the two Romans, but the fact that the guards had let them come on board, reminded him that he still owed both of them.
Rheinberg greeted them warmly. “I am delighted that you visited me. Unfortunately, we’ll leave soon and I don’t have much time.”
Marcus waved. “I don’t want to take your time, trierarch. I’ve heard that you have done a great deed by defeating a notorious pirate.”
“We tried to be of service,” replied Rheinberg.
“Well done,” said Marcus and Rheinberg immediately felt that negotiations had begun. He suppressed a smile.
“What can I do for you, Marcus?” he asked right away. “Since our first encounter there hasn’t been much time to talk to each other.”
“There is in fact something that I want to ask of you,” continued the fisherman. Since his hands, which he had placed on the shoulders of his son, pressed Marcellus’ bones while saying that, Rheinberg already knew that Marcus had no wish for himself.
“Speak!”
“I have seen many wondrous things on your ship, trierarch. Very wondrous things I don’t understand and I won’t understand in my life. I have the feeling that a new era has dawned.”
“I’m not sure yet. Much will depend on what we’ll achieve in the near future.” Rheinberg remained vague. That they left to meet the Emperor hadn’t been a secret in the strict sense of the word, but at the same time also not a piece of public information.
“However, I feel that way,” insisted Marcus. “I would therefore ask you to take my son Marcellus as a cabin boy on your ship. He is hardworking and intelligent. He can work and needs little sleep. A corner and a blanket will suffice as a place to rest. He doesn’t eat much. Please, I want him to learn from you, and from your men. These … machines, these tools, all this is more than we Romans ever knew. I want Marcellus to learn all of it.”
Rheinberg nodded slowly. “You understand, Marcus, that this is a warship in the first place and all the crew are soldiers?”
“Yes, Trierarch. I understand that well.”
“And we are, at least until now, neither Roman citizens nor official members in the armed forces of the Empire.”
Marcus smiled gently. “My feeling is that this will change soon.”
“The opposite also can occur.”
“The benefits outweigh the risks.”
Rheinberg then looked at the boy, who had followed the conversation with a straight face. “What do you think, son?”
“I’ll do what my father says.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Marcellus looked questioningly at his father, who apparently didn’t mind that his son spoke openly and honestly.
“I’m afraid, Trierarch,” Marcellus said finally. “But I want to be more than a fisherman.”
The way how the pride in Marcus’ eyes sparkled revealed that his ambition was quite the same like his father’s.
“And I don’t want to be a soldier either,” he added firmly. Marcus’ eyes asked for an apology. But Rheinberg liked the boy. He looked forward to an uncertain fate on a strange ship with even stranger men, and yet he had enough courage to express his will.
“You’re anyway too young to be a soldier,” said Rheinberg. Before the disappointment in Marcus’ face was too strong, he raised a hand. “But you’re not too young to go with us and be properly trained. You are ready to work and sweat?”
A rhetorical question. Marcellus had during his stay at the Saarbrücken visited the engine room in every free minute and admired the great machines. Dahms had even accepted him like a kind of mascot. And Marcus had quickly made friends with the other ship’s boys, who worked mostly in the engine room and ensured the continuous lubrication of the big machine. They were about his age.
Rheinberg would fulfill his desire because of his own considerations. Marcellus was a chance and he wanted to spare him just to work as a helping hand. Recently, he had already told Dahms that the ship’s boys had to undergo a stronger learning regimen, as they now had to consider each crew member as a precious and irreplaceable resource. Unlike the Romans, the boys knew the cruiser already. One could train them well, but they had to be released from their duties more than before.
And that had to apply to the young fisherman’s son right away.
“You will be hired as a ship’s boy,” Rheinberg said. “You shall serve at Dahms’ department; he and his men will teach you about machines. You start at the beginning. You have to learn mathematics and geometry. That’s pretty exhausting.”
Rheinberg immediately realized that he had underestimated Marcellus. His father waved his hand. “Sir, I have sent my son to the best teachers I’ve been able to afford. He couldn’t go to school too long because of the money, but he has learned a lot of mathematics. He can count up to 10,000, and he can read and write. He knows a lot, he just needs some encouragement to learn now and then.”
“Not here, Father. Here I’ll learn voluntarily,” the boy said eagerly.
“I hope so,” growled Marcus.
“He will be well,” Rheinberg reassured him. “He has to learn, but he won’t become a soldier. He will be a machinist. The first Roman machinist. I offer him a three-year term on the Saarbrücken. Then he can disembark with all that he has learned. I pay in food, clothing and lodging, and once we should get any money he will receive some payment. Also, I promise to do everything I can to ensure his safety. That’s all I can offer you … Marcus … Marcellus.”
It was clearly evident that he met both the expectations of the father as the son more than enough. Rheinberg waved Köhler, who immediately joined them.
“Mr. Köhler, this boy here is added to the crew.”
The older man nodded and smiled calmly at Marcellus. The boy looked up at the massive bulk of the NCO and returned the smile rather timid.
“You’ll see if we can tailor an outfit for him and find a hammock. He will be registered as a cabin boy and civilian apprentice, not a soldier. D
ahms has to find someone who takes care of him and set up a training plan, Neumann has to give him a safety briefing. Bring him to Neumann and tell him my regards, he should examine the boy properly and create a record.”
Köhler tapped his index finger against his forehead and rested a broad hand heavily on Marcellus’ shoulder.
“Marcus, of course your son will be allowed to go ashore, when we are back in Ravenna. Do not worry!”
“I don’t,” replied the fisherman, though his eyes didn’t hold quite the same determination like his voice.
“Köhler, go ahead!”
Marcellus left without resistance. Rheinberg pointed to the quay.
“I’m sorry, Marcus, but we’ll actually leave soon.”
The fisherman swallowed hard. “Thanks,” he finally said quietly. “Thank you.”
“He’ll make you proud. He’s a good boy.”
Marcus nodded and turned away. Rheinberg watched him and wondered how quickly the news of Marcellus’ hiring would make the rounds in the city. He smiled. At least for the more adventurous, the curious, those who were willing to try anything and to do something new and different, this news would hit like a bomb.
Rheinberg looked at the bridge and waved. Only Köhler had to leave the ship, then they were ready to go.
Commands echoed across the deck, as the lines were prepared to be cast off.
They embarked toward Spalato.
To the Emperor.
27
Petronius Ascellus had everything he could wish for. Three things filled his life with joy and great satisfaction: The knowledge that he had found the true faith, certain that this knowledge would prevail over all other opinions on that matter and the fact that he had the ear of the Archbishop, something which was of no insignificant importance. These three things filled him especially with satisfaction because they enabled him to achieve his three main goals in life: to clean his soul from impurity so that he could face final judgment with joy and anticipation, to clean the lives of others so that they could also be saved, and to ensure that his pure life would be most comfortable until judgment would be spoken.
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