He tried to stay awake but had no chance. Darkness and dizziness took both pain and consciousness away from him and he slumped in a final, semi-controlled movement alongside the others to the ground before darkness engulfed him.
Silence fell over the leaderless Saarbrücken, as the cruiser rode with slow speed onwards and slipped through the fog.
* * *
Marcus Necius looked thoughtfully into the dancing waves. He should have preferred to pay attention to what his twelve-year-old son Marcellus did at the stern of the small fishing boat, because for sure the boy had other things in mind than to control the fishing net that the small boat with its single mast pulled lazily through the water. But Marcus had other worries. Due to the adverse weather conditions, fishing in front of the Italian west coast has become increasingly difficult, and only last week his brother Drusus wrote a letter in which he asked him again to finally immigrate to Sicily. Drusus had had luck – he’d married a rich woman, and fathered many sons, inherited a fleet of 30 fishing boats that did all the work for him. Marcus remained in the vicinity of Rome, had married a simple but hard-working and loving wife, had one son, Marcellus, and toiled for him and his future. Drusus offered Marcus to join his business as a supervisor of the small fishing fleet and Marcellus would probably have his own boat in no time. But Sicily was quite far away from Rome, and even further away from Ravenna. Marcus had great plans for his son, and those plans went beyond the command of a fishing boat. He could read and write and had taught his son all this through hard work, and this year he had saved enough money to send him to the school to become a rhetor, at least for a year. Who knows? Marcellus could prove to be talented, he might get a scholarship, either from Marcus’ patron, Senator Virilius, or even from Drusus, who might respond to the suggestions of his brother and put Marcellus in the care of his sister in Rome – if only for his son to escape the misery of being a fisherman and get a chance to become something else, maybe enter the administrative service of the Empire. With a little money, one also could ensure that the legal obligation for a son had to take his father’s profession was implemented … less restrictively. His wife, Emilia, supported him, and for that he was grateful as Drusus’ constant insistence had become annoying. Marcus guessed that behind the seemingly generous offer something else lurked: Drusus, who had become fat and lazy and had for years held no rudder in his hands, wanted someone who did all the paperwork, grappled with the crews on the various ships and their demands, organized the sale on the market, saw to it that the necessary repairs were carried out, and so on – so that Drusus himself could retire permanently to his beautiful patch of land, which he had bought in order to drink, eat, and in the absence of his strict spouse to indulge in the pleasures of his female slaves.
Marcus loved his brother; he was, next to his sister Letitia, the only of the former eight siblings still alive. His other brother, Arcellus, had gone to the Legion and had made it to decurion, after which he had died in Germania against the barbarians. That was three years ago, and although Marcus was a devout Christian, he prayed secretly at every of Arcellus’ birthdays to the ancestors and asked them to be gracious to the dead soldier. Arcellus always protected him and Drusus in their youth, and although Marcus was now just over 30 himself he often longed back to those times, especially when he lacked everything and felt the burden of life resting heavily on his shoulders.
No, Marcellus should not endure this. A job as a writer perhaps, maybe for a senator. He could praise a patron and write eulogies or work as an assistant to a curator or censor – a place in the imperial administration, so low it might be, was a better place to create income than on a ramshackle boat, sailing through the waves of the Mare Internum and catching fewer and fewer fish. Or to run a rented boat for a playboy like Drusus, doing his dirty work. Marcus loved Drusus, but he also knew what would become of his gracious offers once his son would aspire for more – Drusus’ business was undoubtedly a dead end and he was just looking for someone who relieved him of tiresome work.
Not his only son.
His attention was now completely focused on his boy, who knew nothing about the thoughts of his father, sitting comfortably in the sun wiggling his bare toes. Next to him was an already half-empty tube with diluted wine and in the wicker basket an already heavily gnawed loaf of bread could be seen, which has been packed for her men by Emilia in the morning. She earned a little extra money as a baker and baked bread for a small booth on the street. But one loaf was always available for them when they went to sea early, and every time Marcus saw the silent sorrow in her eyes, because often enough fishermen never returned to shore. They were victims of the waves, or of one of the sea monsters the rumors talked about. Gracious nymphs who protected the fishermen had never been seen in his time.
They existed, of course. No one doubted it. Like all sailors, Marcus was superstitious to the bone. It was this belief in the strange creatures of the sea, the good and the resentful, which made him to calculate the risk to go out into the water with his boat every morning.
For the moment, there seemed to be no danger. Yes, it was too calm, because the sea was very silent and the boat had lost any momentum provided by the winds. The sail hung limply on the single mast. Marcus frowned. A trawling net did not provide anything if it couldn’t be trawled and he cast a glance over the now cloudless sky from which the sun increasingly burned down mercilessly. The alternative was rowing, and that was not only laborious and sweaty it was also dangerous because if they spent too much time in this weather and the doldrums remained, they might finally be too weak to return to port.
“Marcellus!”
The boy woke up from his daydream and looked guiltily at his father. Almost automatically he groped for the nodes to which the trawl at the stern of the boat was moored and found them tight and intact. Noticeable relief crossed his face and he relaxed.
“Yes, Father?”
“The wind.”
Marcellus took a hard look at the sail and nodded. This was his third year at sea, and he knew everything almost as well as his father, or so he claimed. The prospect of grueling rowing was clear to even the untrained eye, and now the bitter expectation of tormenting work showed on the boy’s face. He sat up on his bench and looked behind him into the water, but the net lay low and there was no telling how far and if at all it was already filled. Then he looked up and squinted. He seemed to be surprised.
The boy had better eyes than his father, Marcus was ready to admit at any time, and so he drew near and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “What is it?”
Pirates were not rare here – the power of the Imperial Navy had waned considerably in recent years and only the grain ships from northern Africa still had significant escorts. Small fishing boats usually were not the preferred prey of brigands, but one never knew.
Marcus followed the gaze of his son to the horizon and could account for a tiny black dot, albeit blurry.
“A galley?”
Marcellus shook his head. “From the size, it could fit to a grain ship … but … no, I see no oars rowing and they should in this weather.”
“Is it coming closer?”
“Yes. And it seems to be burning. Smoke is rising into the sky.”
“A fire?”
Marcus’ interest was piqued. A merchant ship could use some help with problems, and the captains were, at least in his experience, quite a thankful and generous lot and proved it with hard cash. A bag of coins would sweeten all the rowing and afterwards maybe a trip in the wake of a galley, without further effort, and all for a little help. It would not be the first time in Marcus’s seafaring life that something like this happened.
“I cannot see the details, Father. But it’s coming toward us!”
“Bring the net in,” Marcus said. His son set to work without any ado and within minutes the net was in the boat. The yield was pathetic enough. What fidgeted there was hardly worth the trip to the open sea. But perhaps today’s fate still turned out well.
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Now he could see what his son had made out with his better eyes. A ship, and a big one indeed. But the shape … and the color … the clearer the picture became, the more the hopes of the fisherman vanished and fear spread through him.
Marcellus was quiet. Very quiet. His eyes were wide, his mouth open. He clung to the side and wiped his hand twice over his forehead, as if to dispel an illusion. Marcus couldn’t blame him.
This was something he had never seen before. He’d never heard of anything like it. Even the wildest stories in the pubs had never spoken of such a ship. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t possibly exist. God had his fun with him and for a moment Marcus forgot his good Christian sentiment and asked Neptune why he allowed himself to joke with this poor sailor.
But Neptune kept his silence. Meanwhile, the ship had come within about 200 passus of Marcus’ fishing boat. It was big, bigger than a grain transport, but it felt more powerful, more threatening. It seemed made entirely of iron, and though it had masts, Marcus saw no sail. There were long metal tubes sticking out of the middle of the hull, and from this dark, regular plumes drifted in the windless sky. The ship did not burn, Marcus decided immediately with unerring intuition. The fire burned possibly within the huge trunk, but this was intentional, no threat, and help was not needed here.
Or was it?
Marcus squinted. He couldn’t see anyone from the crew. Not a soul moved on the deck of that monster, which was already so close that Marcus could hardly see anything up on the planks anyway. Again fear took possession of him. Was it a ghost ship, a messenger of the underworld, a curse that plagued sailors at sea and tried to lure them into the darkness?
“Father, there is someone!”
The strange tone of his son’s voice – he seemed to be less frightened than curious – disturbed his brooding thoughts. He looked closer. The distance was reduced more and more. Yes, Marcellus had been right: The crew was there – at least he now saw two men leaning on a railing, motionless, as if dead, and he saw a few more, as if they had fallen in the middle of the movement, struck by a sudden enemy. But nowhere the signs of a struggle were evident, no damage, no weapons or arrows – nothing indicated an attack.
“Father, what should we do?”
Marcus looked his son in the eye and concern for his only child threatened to overwhelm him. But then cool calculation prevailed. For a fisherman, life normally wasn’t filled with too many opportunities. Whether this was divine providence or the smile of Fortuna, he couldn’t simply row away. He felt a strange fascination that emanated from this mighty ship, and as the sailors on the deck were dead or asleep, he didn’t have any real sense of danger.
Finally, curiosity won out. And greed. It was basically the same. The decision was obvious.
“We row over, my son,” ordered Marcus. “Look there, a rope hanging down to the waterline. Dare you to climb up to it?”
Marcellus nodded eagerly.
“And there, that looks like a rope ladder, rolled up and ready.” Marcus pointed at a different area of the railing. “If it is really a ladder, you can let it fall, and I’ll tie our boat to it and come on board. Then we can look at what we’ve got here.”
“Yes, father,” his son agreed, remarkably obediently and eager. The fascination of the new and unfamiliar had wiped out any fear or doubt from his consciousness.
They went as planned. Soon the fishing boat had reached the rope and Marcellus’ slender body, full of power nurtured by his hard work at sea, climbed the rope like lightning. Quickly he had reached the railing, then paused, admiring the strange and inexplicable structures on the big ship, and for a moment seemed to have completely forgotten his waiting father. Marcus called him finally and Marcellus rushed to the rope ladder, threw it down and let it rattle to the waters.
In less than five minutes, Marcus stood next to his son on the planks – which were no planks, but more sheets of iron – aboard the strange vessel and both were amazed in silent harmony. Truly, this was a miracle, and it seemed that it was a man-made miracle, because the sailors lying on the deck were just normal people, dressed in strange clothes that reminded of the uniform clothing of soldiers, and all quite remarkably large – but men, living and breathing …
Living and breathing!
Marcus bent over one of the fallen. Indeed! The man’s eyes were closed peacefully, but he breathed and the fisherman could feel the beat of his heart. He examined another, then a third. All lived. Some had swellings, often on the head, as they had fallen on something that had inflicted superficial injury, but no one looked to be seriously harmed. There was in fact no sign of a struggle.
“You know what that means, my son,” Marcus muttered, while he looked at a metal structure from which stretched a long iron pipe, which made him somehow afraid. “If these men sleep, they will wake up soon.”
“What kind of misfortune has affected that they all fell into unconsciousness?” asked his son.
“I do not know. But maybe they’ll show their gratitude when they wake up and realize that we’ve helped them.”
Marcellus saw his father full of energy. “What do we do?”
Marcus looked around.
“Those are resting in direct sunlight, which will do them no good. We pull them into the shade. Do you see that cloth? We span a sunscreen. There is bleeding from a head wound. We pull some of his white clothes and bandage his skull. There, those two are dangerously close to the railing. We pull them into a safe position. Those fell on each other. We free the one underneath. There is much to do. Let’s show them that we were willing!”
Marcellus didn’t try to discuss his father’s decision but rather set out with zeal to implement them. Silently father and son toiled and cared for all on deck who they had found in a precarious position.
“More will be inside the hull,” Marcellus postulated. A sudden fear took hold of his father, as he thought about the prospect to probably descend into the interior of the iron monster. What might await him down there?
It was once again divine intervention – or Fortuna’s smile – which relieved him of a decision. A distinct groan resounded from the throat of one of the men, followed by an unconscious movement.
It had begun.
The sleepers awoke.
There was nothing more to do. Now they had only to hope for the grace and gratitude of these strangers. Marcus sent a prayer to heaven. He had done what he could. Now it would be proven whether he had acted wisely or foolishly.
Father and son stood at the railing. They kept close to the ladder still swinging from the iron hull and tied to the fishing boat. But if it would be possible to flee in time, if it should prove necessary – Marcus had his doubts. Involuntarily, his hand sought his son’s, and his fingers clasped those of Marcellus with almost painful reassurance.
One of the men opened his eyes.
Another swore something in an unknown language.
A third moaned, groaned, spat and muttered to himself.
Other voices joined them. Muffled groans became language, although incomprehensible to Marcus, and after curses he heard exclamations, and the tone of it, however, he knew quite well: commands.
And then someone saw them and commotion started. Marcus and his son were immediately surrounded by large, powerful, wild-looking men and strange, metallic things were targeted in their general direction – not swords, also not bows and axes, rather dark tubes that were wider at one end and had all kinds of hooks and whose function could not be explained by Marcus. He accepted, however, that these were weapons, because the men targeted the mouths of the tubes in a clearly threatening move on them. It was probably only a total lack of any threat emanating from the fishermen that prevented the strangers from rushing at them. Or there was something else. The hoarse, barking language of some other men, dressed in blue robes, close to the body and oddly shaped. Two approached the couple and the semicircle of men parted as they arrived. Then another command, and the tubes were lowered. Just another word
in that foreign language, and most of the strangers turned away, though not without throwing the fishermen enigmatic glances.
Finally one stepped in front of them, a wiry man of impressive size and with brown eyes and short cropped hair. He looked inquisitively at the two fishermen, but without any threat, just curious. He talked to his companion, a stocky, somewhat slovenly guy, also dressed in blue, who was of comparatively advanced age.
A first question was addressed to Marcus, formulated in the incomprehensible language. For a moment it seemed to the fisherman that he heard a familiar term, but before he could grab it, it disappeared in the concert of foreign words, and their diversity covered the brief flash of understanding immediately.
Marcus knew nothing else but to respond in the language of the empire.
“My name is Marcus Necius, and this is my son Marcellus. We are simple fishermen and intend no harm!”
The response was amazing. Both men exchanged surprised looks, as if they hadn’t expected that Marcus could speak at all. Both conversed again in their barking language. They seemed perplexed, puzzled. Marcus took that as a good sign. Maybe he and his son would survive this encounter unscathed.
He decided to speak again. “We’ve discovered your ship floating on the sea. Your men seemed to feel quite unwell, without consciousness. We came on board and helped!” Marcus pointed to the tarp that he and his son had stretched as sun protection. Many of the formerly unconscious men under it were already awake. He raised his hands. “We wanted to help. We haven’t stolen anything. You can search us and our boat!” He pointed over the railing.
The Emporers Men Page 5
