Definitely not.
Certainly.
Yet the thought gnawed at Julia that her Thomas, due to a wild twist of fate, had been able to attract the attention of his superiors and now also belonged to that expedition. After all, he had been promoted …
And the expedition was probably already on its way.
Her trip to Noricum came perhaps too late.
Fear overcame Julia, fear of futility of her endeavor, in which she had placed so much hope. The cart lurched. Her spouse cursed. Julia didn’t care.
She was in a hurry now.
Very much so.
12
Bertius was actually too small for a legionary.
But since they now took almost everyone, soldiers of his height were no longer an exception in the Roman forces. He was among the few who had volunteered and had spent more than ten years in the legion. During this time, in spite of all challenges, his belly had grown bigger, his hair thinner, and his eyes thicker and somewhat watery. The former was due to his fondness for candied fruit, in which he invested part of his pay, the second was due to his age and his tendency to baldness, and the last was due to his fondness for wine, in which he invested the remaining part of his pay. The fact that he hadn’t been promoted above the rank of a simple soldier in spite of his ten years of service had a lot to do with the fact that Bertius had developed an excellent instinct of avoiding potentially lethal activities. Narrowly below insubordination, he always found someone he could blame for his own negligence, always ready to hide when it came to the crunch behind the backs of others, which his short stature was helpful to a considerable extent. But he gladly and often talked about his alleged glorious deeds, especially if someone else bought him booze. His simple Germanic descent from a village near the Lahn he embellished mostly with large-scale epics in which he was an outcast prince’s son, who had found refuge within the borders of the Roman Empire, driven by his many enemies.
In short, Bertius, the Teuton, was a talker and a quitter, and Thomas Volkert had the joy to stand guard with him for the night. For a decurion that was a little bit more comfortable – he had to make the rounds and check all duty soldiers, whether they slept or otherwise neglected their duties. Once he found a man doing so, the legion called for draconian punishments, which could lead to the death of the unwary. Since Bertius refused to die – in fact, he had wanted to prevent this throughout his military career with great zeal – he was vigilant and, unfortunately, also required the attention of his superiors. The moment Decurion Volkert arrived during his nightly round at his post, the more solid figure of the legionary stretched, a shining glow crossed Bertius’ face, and he began to annoy Volkert with all sorts of speculation, rumors and stories. He did this primarily to escape the deadly and soporific monotony of guard, and Volkert was quite aware of that. This monotony was exacerbated by the fact that here, in the middle of a garrison town, nothing of note was expected to happen despite the proximity to the border. The biggest challenge might be legionaries who wanted access to camp after a bout of drinking in the city, although the gates were closed at sunset.
That night, not even that happened, and therefore Bertius was full of desire to communicate interesting topics he had heard somewhere. Volkert either had listened to these a dozen times or he simply wasn’t interested.
Rank had its privileges, so he could snub the legionary and march on, hoping that ultimately fatigue would conquer Bertius, and he would fall silent during their next encounter. Volkert told himself that he wouldn’t even punish the man for dozing off, if he could just shut up.
But Bertius had much to say.
As Volkert passed him the third time that night, shortly after one in the morning, the chubby soldier was obviously awake. And before the Decurion could tell him to keep quiet and simply carry on with his vigilance, he had started to address him. The enthusiasm with which Bertius followed his urge to communicate made for someone of a generally friendly disposition like Volkert difficult to interrupt.
“You know, Decurion,” Bertius began eagerly, as kneading his sausage fingers. “I heard that the great expedition will go to the East. I heard tomorrow the troops will be mustered for the last time.”
Volkert couldn’t help but to listen. That the scouting mission was to leave for the East he was well aware of as, he had been assigned to participate. And the fact that a troop of German infantrymen would accompany them bothered him since he had learned of it. But had Bertius actually for once snapped an important information?
The portly fellow seemed to notice Volkert’s sudden interest and hastened immediately to exploit the opportunity.
“It is true, Decurion,” Volkert said with a portentous tone. “Tomorrow we will all meet the time travelers. A demonstration of their thunder-weapons is planned to help the soldiers who march out with them to get used to them. And then, a few days later, the expedition will begin.”
Bertius lowered his voice almost conspiratorially. “I’ve heard you’ll join as well, Decurion!”
Volkert nodded absently. He already pondered how he could wriggle himself out of the expected quandary. Sure, they didn’t know him here under his real name. He had grown large arched whiskers and the months with the legion had certainly changed his appearance in many other ways, so none of the infantrymen would recognize him at first glance. Fortunately, he had only superficial contacts with them while he was still on the Saarbrücken. He only interacted regularly with Captain Becker.
Who, as the rumors had it, was dead.
With luck, he could hide the fact that he spoke German. With luck, he would be able to stay as far as possible away from the infantry. Volkert threw Bertius a searching look. Perhaps he could even learn something from this specimen about hiding.
Bertius interpreted the Decurion’s glance wrongly and took a step back. “Of course,” he stammered, “it would be a great honor to be selected for this glorious and very important mission. But I’m really unworthy. Experienced men, who represent the spirit of Rome much better than I, should be preferred in my place, to ensure the endeavor's success.”
Volkert grinned.
“Believe me, o Lord,” Bertius misinterpreted Volkert’s facial expression again. “I’d be a burden. Look at me! I drag myself through my duties in my desperate attempt to make a pitiful contribution to saving glorious Rome. Don’t get me wrong – the idea that I protect the peacefully resting children of the Empire gives me great satisfaction, and it’s not that the prospect of a perilous mission in which I would fail without a doubt makes me very afraid – but the idea that I won’t do justice to Rome and shame my ancestors does indeed.”
Volkert shook his head. Bertius’ years of practice as a quitter had trained his rhetorical talents quite impressively. “Your ancestors are but wild Germans, who would be happy about every threat Rome has to endure,” Volkert considered.
Bertius paused for a moment, then he licked his lips to gain some time. “That’s true, but German bravery and decency prevail and the desire to serve the legitimate sovereign with utmost loyalty …”
“That reminds me: Didn’t you tell me that in your escape from the captors who wanted to kill you after the murder of your glorious father, you rode for days and nights until you found safety in the Empire’s borders?”
Bertius swallowed. “Um, well, I was still young and full of despair. Afterwards and getting older, I surely slipped in my efforts to keep certain abilities, if you know what I mean, noble Decurion.”
“The noble Decurion will ensure that you are tested on a horse tomorrow, o brave Bertius,” Volkert announced. The slightly stern undertone of his statement signaled to the legionary that this wasn’t part of any jocular banter. Volkert had much understanding for the peculiarities of his fellow soldiers and left them in peace in this harsh surroundings as much as it was possible. But Bertius overdid it with his attitude to perform his duties within the
armed forces by making it a cozy life. And what was aggravating the issue: He was a volunteer. Volkert knew that those pressed into the service did their duty with less than the required motivation, and understandably so – but a volunteer with ten years experience under his belt?
Bertius said nothing, turned and stared into the darkness, like he expected to be attacked by wild Sarmatians at any moment.
Volkert continued his tour. The conversation with Bertius had distracted him from his real problem long enough to regain some inner peace. To keep a cool head was the real challenge now.
He felt a certain sadness when he thought of the infantrymen who would arrive tomorrow. They represented a piece of home. They were actually like him. But he couldn’t reveal himself to them. The risk was too great that he would be arrested and brought to Ravenna in shackles. The death sentence would surely follow.
He couldn’t allow that, not for his own sake and not because of his love for Julia, which had become for him a constant reminder of his existence and purpose. He didn’t want to and wouldn’t give up hope.
And if it meant to ride against the Huns, then it should be.
As Volkert returned to the guard fire, two other officers joined him; like him, that had been doing laps to other sections of the large fort to oversee the area. Volkert knew them only by sight, as they served in other parts of the legion, with which his own unit had rarely anything to do. Silently, they sat by the flickering fire, enjoyed the short break, which allowed them to warm up.
An amphora with pesca made the rounds, water mixed with vinegar water, the standard drink of the Roman soldiers. During the guard service, any form of alcohol, even the usually highly diluted wine, was absolutely forbidden. Pesca tasted as could be expected, sourly to inedible, but the water, most likely infected with germs, was only made palatable by adding the vinegar. Volkert had initially had his difficulties getting used to the drink but had to concede that it was refreshing, even if the refreshment was the result of having a shiver of revulsion driving through the body. For nighttime, there was the usual meal, the puls or porridge. Although this certainly was available in different variations – and in the one the men had cooked for the night pieces of beef had been added – Volkert had never developed a great passion for it. Many of Rome’s enemies called the legionaries “porridge-eaters,” an insult accepted with equanimity. Porridge was easy to make, the ingredients were easily procured also during a march, and it quickly saturated even the worst hunger. The meal, as Volkert knew by now, was especially helpful to provide the necessary energy needed by the men during marches, and therefore meat dishes were mostly reserved for camp life when the replenishment worked reasonably. Here, in a garrison town, the choice was of course much greater, and the fact that the watchkeeping officers had carried a pot of porridge without much discussion showed that this was a habit deeply ingrained in all legionaries. Ultimately, Volkert couldn’t help himself, after he scooped a plate of the warm mash, to appreciate the pleasant feeling of a properly filled stomach and the energy that this feed gave him. Fortunately, gaurum wasn’t inflicted in puls. He wouldn’t enjoy this form of seasoning throughout his life, that he was sure of.
So the night passed. As Volkert had resumed his round again and observed Bertius, the man appeared to be busy, his view always directed toward any possible area of approach, spooning cold puls from a plate. The best way to end the comprehensive presentations of the legionary was, as Volkert knew, to give him something to eat. That Bertius was only allowed to drink pesca was a real ordeal, but he was enduring it with pride. The joy and the zeal with which he stuffed the cold porridge in his mouth and the sound of cracking once he encountered not properly mashed grains with his teeth, showed his determination. This night, Volkert was sure, wouldn’t transform Bertius into a slim and presentable first-class soldier.
A multi-week ride, on the other hand, could do miracles.
Volkert smiled, as he went on.
He hadn’t forgotten his announcement. Tomorrow Bertius would sit on a horse. And then they shall see.
13
There were several reasons why the Valentinian had set course in late winter. An important reason was the fact that this time of year the navy largely came to a standstill on the Mediterranean; in general, the authorities banned even the trips of larger vessels in the period between November and March. The heavy seas of an already unpredictable Mediterranean constituted a major challenge for vessels of the Late Antiquity, but here the steamboat had two important advantages. Firstly, they wouldn’t even come across cheeky pirates, because also for them this time of year was for hibernation, and secondly, because being outside the regular season, their passage to Alexandria would be a public event of outstanding proportions, thus reinforcing the propaganda effect that they intended to achieve with the trip.
In addition, since a constant, fresh northern wind came up shortly after their departure, the ship was progressing well even without the use of the steam engine. The strong wind resulted in a stormy sea, which would have been the undoing for any rowing boat, and also many of the antique sailing vessels would have had massive problems – especially those who intended to travel from south to north, as to intersect in the wind was still a largely unknown procedure. The upstanding and very stable Valentinian with its mighty keel made the face of trierarch Africanus glow radiantly, which showed that he was more than satisfied with her behavior at sea. For the captain, this was a completely new experience of navigation, an unimagined security and stability, felt by all of the ship’s officers and even without using steam power. Once the wind died and turned for a short time, the joy was even greater as the Valentinian slowly, but with great persistence, steamed against upwind and was not to be driven back toward the Italic coast. Despite the disparaging opinion of stoker Forstmann, the steam engine, made of good bronze, worked properly and reliably. The young Marcellus helped below deck in servicing the technical marvel, and as Köhler learned, his understanding of the mechanics of the machine grew with every hour he spent with it. Any superstition, every timid fear that might still be felt by other crew member of the steam sailor was completely alien to the boy. He absorbed the fascinating technical knowledge like a sponge. Perhaps Dahms’s desire to make the boy Rome’s first real engineer would actually come true.
Another crew member, who replaced every fear and apprehension with almost childlike joy, was old Sepidus. For the gubernator, Köhler felt a strong kinship, as he was unwilling to retire from his duties, slept only sparingly, and took over the helm at every opportunity. As a gubernator, who had grown up with cumbersome and shaky triremes, the Valentinian had to be something like a revelation to him. He was probably more excited about the new toy than Africanus, and the trierarch was already grinning like a cheshire cat.
And so the Valentinian made good progress. With a good wind, they made eight to ten knots, in adverse conditions still four to five, driven by the tireless and charcoal-fired steam engine. Köhler was pleased that the winds were generally gracious, as charcoal wasn’t half as effective as coal, and although they had the steamboat filled to the brim with inventories, the NCO doubted that the ship could have reached Alexandria with continuously running machine at full power. Coal, he knew, was on the list of priorities of commodities to be procured, not least because the inventories of the Saarbrücken were almost depleted and the light cruiser threatened to become immobile.
For the trip to Alexandria, they needed about seven days at their current speed. Köhler had been able to calculate the distance, given the experience of Africanus and their quite accurate maps. The coastline was different in the 20th century, as some parts had been conquered from the Mediterranean over the centuries. A freshwater lake, which was far from the coast inland and currently Alexandria’s largest water reservoir, still existed in the 20th century but was linked to the sea and therefore salty. And there were some additional changes, although these ultimately were only of margina
l nature. It was one of the tasks of the Valentinian to explore how far the German maps differed from the reality of today.
Time passed without major incidents. The sea was rough, and the wind moody, but they were spared from a real winter storm, and it became warmer by the day. At the end of the sixth day, as a starry sky stretched over the crew of the steamer, Marcellus recognized with open eyes a glow in the south.
“That,” Africanus said, “is the lighthouse of Alexandria, the Pharos. It is one of the wonders of the world.” Köhler, despite a rather limited formal education, knew that his time the lighthouse lived only in legends and drawings, as it had been destroyed long ago.
The night passed quickly. The light of the Pharos was, in a clear night, visible from up to fifty kilometers, and the Valentinian had reduced her speed to arrive in the harbor at dawn. As the sun rose, the whole splendor of Alexandria unfolded in front of the crew, and Africanus observed with amusement that the Germans, just as Marcellus, enjoyed the sight with open mouths. There was of course the lighthouse, stretching more than 130 meters upwards, at least by Köhler’s conservative estimate, divided into three floors. They also realized that the famous and impressive lighthouse wasn’t alone. A smaller one faced the sea, sitting on a cape, and was, as Africanus explained, called the Pharillon. It was a little less massive than the symbol of Alexandria, but offered, at night and during fog, a clear demarcation of the harbor entrance. Now, at this fresh and sunny morning, they stood there as stony witnesses of an ancient building technology, impressing everyone. Africanus and Sepidus, who both already had been here several times, didn’t disturb the prayerful stare of the observers. For Africanus, this was a homecoming, as his family hailed from a fellahin village further south along the Nile.
The Emperor's Men 3: Passage Page 11
