The Emporers Men

by Dirk van den Boom

  “The victory is ours, noble Augustus,” he shouted from afar. Gratian waved to him. “Priarius has fallen! The enemy is in disarray!”

  “Priarius is dead?”

  “He is and was a roughneck, Augustus! His bravery has become his undoing. Too close to the fighting, he turned to flee when an arrow hit him in the back. His men are running.”

  “I see. You have lived up to your good reputation, General. The Emperor is thankful.”

  Puffing Malobaudes came to a stop next to the emperor. His horse shook with the effort. The general was not spared in the effort of this battle and had traversed the battlefield from left to right, shouted commands, sent messengers, accompanied by the bugler, who had converted his instructions immediately into signals. The carefully lubricated machinery of the Roman legions was working perfectly. “Now they run like rabbits. Your orders?”

  “Whoever gives up should be spared. Those who fight will be killed. We won’t follow the refugees, because there are more pressing things to do. I want accurate figures about our losses, General. My uncle fights in the East against the Goths, and he needs help. Once I’m sure that the barbarians here leave us alone, we must turn to the East!”

  Malobaudes tilted his massive head. “As you command, Augustus. The camp …”

  “Allow plunder by our men. They should take the women as they wish. All valuables should be distributed fairly. Tomorrow night, I will muster the troops. Summon the centurions and legates and collect reports about the brave ones, those we have to consider for promotion or commendation. I liked the third century on the left flank, Malobaudes. An optio there seemed particularly eager.”

  “Ah, young Telmachus. One of my best!”

  “See if you can make him a centurion.”

  Malobaudes grimaced. “Telmachus appointed to become an officer? Who’s then left to do the real work?”

  Gratian grinned at the General. “This is the fate of the successful, my friend.”

  Malobaudes bowed in the saddle, jerked the reins and rode back to his troops. The battlefield was finally lost in chaos. Chasing the fleeing barbarian was now left for the cavalry. Horns sounded signals, then the soldiers made their way to the camp of Priarius to collect their reward.

  Gratian hoped Priarius had left enough to loot.

  Nothing was more dangerous than a disgruntled soldier. In the past, one or the other Telmachus had been decorated with the purple by his men, because he had promised them more pay and booty than what had been offered by the Emperor.

  This, Gratian knew, had to be avoided.

  “Elevius!”

  “Lord!”

  “Back to the camp. We’re done here.”

  Cries were heard from the battlefield. The soldiers had begun to redeem the seriously injured among the barbarians from their suffering.

  10

  “No one would have been more worthy, and I recognize with great pleasure that our Emperor has given this high office to someone who is known as a man of good will and great skills like you. I hope that you will soon thereafter have the opportunity to return back to a proper private life, because just as no one can be prevented to hold an honorable office, no one should be prevented to leave again. I write this so that you realize one thing. Much as we thank the Emperor for having you to receive this honor, we thank him in the same way, if he declines to give you another one.”

  Quintus Aurelius Symmachus paused for a moment and read the last few lines for a second, then a third time. He lowered the pen, nodded, dipped it in the ink again and expanded the letter with a few more sentences, a farewell formula and a signature. Then he let the feather fall and laid the paper aside. It was always a joyful burden to maintain the friendship with his senatorial colleagues; it was a necessary part of dealing with equals of the same cultural refinement. Amicitia has firmly established rules of courtesy, respect to all social differences in status, and the principle of complete and unswerving focus on the care of relations. It was part of his life, and he admitted to himself that writing these letters were to him both joy as well as a burden.

  The senator rose from his desk and looked through the window into the atrium of his villa in Rome. He hated the city, the confrontation with the mass of its people, and avoided them when he could. Normally he preferred to dwell on one of his estates, or in his house at the lake, away from the crowds and chaos of big cities, let alone such a massive metropolis as Rome. But every now and then he could not help but walk this behemoth, especially when the Senate convened. Symmachus was a senator with conviction and passion, and in contrast to the old senatorial families who usually made up the power among themselves; in his case, it has been only two generations since his family arrived at this exalted rank. It was not his more humble origin that made Symmachus’ work so hard – it was the fact that he along with his supporters, led by his father’s friend Pretextatus, had to defend their values against the growing influence of the Christian senators. The latest rumor caused him particular concern: Cheered on by the fanatical Bishop of Milan, Ambrosius – tacitly supported by Ausonius, the teacher of the emperor – the Christians pressed the Emperor to order the removal of Victoria altar from the Senate, the traditional symbol of Roman power and at least formal supremacy of the Senate in all state affairs. Symmachus did not consider himself a Republican – even when he had to, as a Senator actually, at least pretend to be – and he recognized that Gratian had, after the death of his father, started to improve the relationship between the throne and the Senate. But young Gratian, not least just under the influence of Ausonius, a devout Christian, seemed to succumb increasingly to the bishop’s whisperings.

  Symmachus sighed. He knew for a long time that the time of the ancient religions drew to a close. The charismatic preachers of the Christians surpassed each other in order to increase their influence, as well as they rushed to pounce on each other at every opportunity. Arians, Manicheans – and how all these trends were called, each claimed to know the only truth, and they were always ready to shed the blood of their own as well as the blood of followers of other faiths. They only agreed in their opposition to the old religions, those gods who had made Rome great and to whom Symmachus was still praying. As much as the attraction of the old gods disappeared, the senator didn’t acknowledge that he should give up the fight, at least the fight for a certain role of ancient cults and the preservation of the ancient temples. No one had ever taught him how to give up.

  The senator rolled the paper with his letter to a fellow senator, who had just been awarded a vicariate by the Emperor in Gaul, and sealed it. Tomorrow, he would fill a second sheet, this time with the juicy details and political news from Rome that he would really like to address.

  “Sir, a visitor!”

  Harich, his majordomo, had approached almost silently. Although the slave stood for more than ten years in the service of the senator, he had never been able to present the same level of obsequious devotion showed by other servants. His quiet announcement sounded more casually interested. Symmachus had appointed the stocky man, who had come as a sold prisoner of war to his house, nonetheless as the manager of this property very quickly. Harich, who had held high office at the court of a German leader before his capture, showed great skill in the organization of the other servants, and had a knack for trading, an unmistakable sense for exotic flavors in food and the ability to discern the right time to purchase them on the markets of Rome.

  “Who is it?”

  “His Excellency, Senator Marcus Gaius Michellus.”

  Symmachus frowned. Michellus was an example for the fact that there were Christian senators, who could endure a man of his status and with his pagan inclinations, if they otherwise met the social and political obligations of senatorial rank. He wouldn’t count Michellus among his closest friends, but he also belonged to a family that had only achieved senatorial dignity a few generations ago, and like Symmachus’ ancestors, his family called from the provinces. This common fate, especially the way how long-es
tablished Roman families sometimes regarded the upstarts, had something quite connecting. Apart from that, Michellus was a rigidly conservative senator who didn’t like the way many Christian Senate colleagues lived. And he was a friend of literature, just as Symmachus. There was more that bound than separated them.

  “Tell him to come in.”

  Michellus soon entered the room. He looked a little sweaty and exhausted. Symmachus realized immediately that the senator had not come to discuss current literary developments. The corpulent man with the beginnings of balding – and he had just turned 45! – sat down without being asked. Symmachus didn’t blame him. It was clear that his friend was upset.

  “Harich – let’s bring wine.”

  “Yes, yes,” exclaimed Michellus. “Wine. This is really a good idea.” He groaned and sighed. A bit too theatrical for Symmachus’ taste, but it served its purpose: The visitor had the undivided attention of the host.

  “My friend, my friend, how are your sons?” began Michellus after the wine had been served and the slaves had withdrawn.

  “Very well. I assume that they will continue to make their way. And your daughters?” asked Symmachus.

  Michellus grimaced. Now it was the host who controlled himself so as not to sigh openly. It was again about his daughters. No, not quite right, the senator corrected himself. It definitely was about a certain daughter.

  “My Drusilla is the star of my life,” Michellus opened his speech with the inevitable conclusion, “full of grace and obedience, as befits a daughter. She recognizes me as the Lord of the family without restriction. Pious, and she cultivates good manners. She will soon be married to a young man. I’m still looking, but yes, some are on the shortlist. I’ve had offers by suitors of elevated standing.”

  Symmachus nodded. His sons didn’t belong to the applicants, as both were already married, and with two daughters from esteemed families. Children didn’t generally get a chance to make that decision themselves, and daughters even less than sons. Offspring were a tool for the senatorial families to cement social relationships and mutual obligations. Symmachus couldn’t find anything wrong with that. Michellus neither. Julia on the other hand …

  “Julia, however …” His guest sighed now, casting a reproachful look at the sky. “… Julia, however told me today that she wouldn’t marry Julius Aenius under any circumstances. ‘Over my dead body’, she said. Rather she would eviscerate. We yelled, Symmachus. My daughter yelled at me, her father! I may kill her for that!”

  Symmachus smiled understandingly. As pater familiae, Michellus indeed was free to do so. The biggest problem was that Julia, like her sister Drusilla, was charming, impressing everyone with her beauty. Her beleaguered father was therefore burdened with a 17-year-old daughter, who in addition to an extremely attractive appearance also had an extremely stubborn mind he couldn’t cope with. The problem was compounded by the fact that the senator’s noble wedded wife, Lucia by name, behaved in matters of family like she was in charge, so that the poor Michellus was blessed with two women who claimed to have to think for him. Symmachus didn’t envy his colleague for this problem, and of course he always felt something like glee when he listened to the complaints of his friend.

  “What have I done that the Lord strikes me with such a daughter?” Michellus asked half rhetorically. Symmachus grunted politely and made a gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know how to find a husband for this girl! Anyone who asks for her hand must be completely insane!”

  “Maybe you should dress her up as a man, and send her to the Legion,” joked Symmachus. “After what you have told me, she might make a good tribune.”

  “Oh yes,” replied his host with a tired twinkle in his eyes. “If Julia would’ve been born a man, I would’ve a glorious, heroic son who contributes to the family’s honor. Instead, I have a permanent offense sitting on my back.”

  Michellus sank into brooding silence. Symmachus knew the routine. He would break into loud swearing a couple of times, then drink another cup of wine and leave for home, somewhat reassured, but surely just as desperate. The central reason why he appeared regularly with this matter at Symmachus’ doorstep was not due to their particularly close relationship, but the simple fact that Michellus’ town house was not twenty yards away on the other side of the street and his colleague therefore offered an easy escape route.

  Symmachus suspected that aside from that, the well-known and excellent wine cellar of his house also radiated a certain attraction, especially as Michellus’ complaints were dampened somewhat through consumption of the fine grape juice. On the other hand, who would seriously believe that Michellus came only to have a drink in peace?

  “Why, o my friend, why am I punished in such a way?” The lamentation of Michellus began again, and he turned the empty cup in his hands. “Why, Symmachus, tell me!”

  “I’m not an expert for your God,” he replied, raising his carafe.

  “More wine, my friend?”

  Michellus handed him the cup.

  11

  In retrospect, Rheinberg didn’t really know what he had expected. Panic? Horror? A desperate assault? Perhaps he had simply done the right thing: As the Italian coast appeared in the distance, he had asked Aurelius Africanus to be on the bridge. Meanwhile, his men had been given food and the still bewildered trierarch had watched with obvious appreciation as Neumann and his helpers had saved the most severely injured survivors’ life and thereby also some limbs. The Roman’s good mood increased furthermore because of his continuing amazement at the technological marvel that the Saarbrücken constituted. After a short tour of the engine room, Africanus had proved, after showing utter astonishment, a stunning technical understanding. When he made a reference to Archimedes at one or two places during the tour, Rheinberg had definitively concluded that this man had a remarkable educational background and was definitely more able than just to command an oversized rowboat.

  The only thing he hadn’t shown the trierarch were the guns. Africanus had experienced at firsthand what these powerful weapons were able to do. Rheinberg wanted to impress but not frighten him. The man was his ambassador, and he had apparently believed the assurance that Rheinberg would free him and his men in Ravenna immediately after their arrival. The captain of the Saarbrücken had considered it absolutely necessary to show confidence. The Saarbrücken needed the Roman Empire more than he had told his officers.

  “From here, trierarch, I command my ship,” Rheinberg said. Africanus glanced at the wheel. Along with him a gray-bearded man with a weathered face had appeared on the bridge. Africanus had introduced him as his helmsman Sepidus. The older man with the wide scar on his right arm had the word “veteran” virtually tattooed on his forehead. He might come from a time in which the Saarbrücken was an inexplicable miracle, and his ship might have never presented a serious threat, but as he entered the bridge and looked around, standing steadfast with both feet on the slightly swaying deck, the significantly younger Rheinberg could feel the same aura of authority that surrounded Köhler as well.

  “This is the helm. It is connected by a mechanism to the rudder of the ship. This allows the control to be built at any location of the ship, and it only takes one to serve it,” Rheinberg explained and saw the quartermaster exchange a furtive glance with his guest. Börnsen was now a good ten years at sea and far from being a rookie, but he felt the personality of the gray-bearded Roman as much as Rheinberg.

  “Börnsen, how is your Latin?”

  “No way, sir. I left school in the upper sixth, Captain.”

  “Show it to him anyway.”

  Rheinberg gestured and the helmsman took half a step aside. Sepidus gripped the helm first awkwardly then noticeably more confidently, and Börnsen led his movements.

  “Request for permission to be allowed to demonstrate a bow,” Börnsen asked now self-conscious.

  “Permission granted, Börnsen. Let him do it.”

  “Passing control as ordered.”

  Sepidus held
the spokes a bit too tight, but after the German showed him how to turn the well-oiled wheel with gentle pressure, the Romans realized how elegant the Saarbrücken followed the order of the rudder, and soon he didn’t need any more assistance. The face of the Roman showed an enthusiastic smile that flashed through the thick, wild beard. Some of the enthusiasm seemed to transfer to Africanus. As the Saarbrücken had driven a complete circle and lay on the old course, the trierarch told Sepidus to return the helm gain, and Sepidus let go reluctantly.

  Whatever the old veteran thought about the strange foreign crew, he was thrilled by their vessel recognizably.

  Aurelius Africanus turned to Rheinberg. “Soon my squadron will be on us, because the Augustus will have informed headquarters by now. May I ask you not to attack them?”

  “I won’t, if they behave peacefully,” Rheinberg replied.

  “They will, if I can talk to them.”

  “I’ll make sure you get the opportunity.”

  “If we enter Ravenna, there are various ways to contact the government,” continued Aurelius. First he had reacted with disbelief to Rheinberg’s suggestion not to continue the fight but instead to initiate official contact with the Empire. Afterwards, he started to take the idea seriously. Finally he agreed to be, as far as he could, a moderating influence on any hotheads and therefore making it easier to communicate – should Rheinberg fulfill his promise to release him and his crew.

  “The first contact will surely be with the Navarch who commands the naval contingent in Ravenna. His name is Marcus Flovius Renna, my immediate superior. The port is under his command in all military matters, and he is a very assertive man. He will surely report to the city administration, but I’m assuming that he will immediately send messengers to the imperial court as well. All this is too important for our pay-grade.”

  Rheinberg had found some time to refresh his knowledge of the Roman Empire and its management in his books. Since the reforms of Diocletian, civil and military authorities were strictly separated. The arrival of the Saarbrücken, it was assumed, was viewed as primarily a military matter. Before any higher-ranking officer was present, Renna would be the man who would have to deal with Rheinberg.