“You! What’s going on? What are you standing here?”
The man winced and glanced around, seeking help, but all of his comrades were thankful that they were not in the focus of attention.
“The Chief Engineer –”
“What? Speak clearly!”
“The doors to the engine room are closed. Langenhagen and Dahms have weapons, and some enlisted men and officers as well. Köhler is with them, he is also armed. They locked all bulkheads from the inside. We can’t enter!”
“Damn!” von Klasewitz exclaimed and let go of the mutineer. He stared at the massive bulkhead in front of him and cursed again, perseveringly, hard. Some men threw themselves meaningful glances. They seemed not to have expected that the posh toff used such a vocabulary.
“Burn!” the first officer finally blurted. “Burn the cursed door!”
No one moved.
“What? Are you deaf?” von Klasewitz shouted.
“All welding torches are in the tool room. And the tool room …”
The nobleman stared at the bulkhead and reminded himself where he stood. Of course. Dahms was a degenerate idiot, but he knew his craft. He had blocked access to his kingdom, because it was where the tools were stored. No welding torches for them.
The leader of the mutineers thought feverishly. He wasn’t left with many options. He could besiege the loyalists and hope their supplies would run out soon. He could even clog the air supplies and ensure that they ran out of the air. Yes, that was an excellent idea! Excellent! He would do just that! This situation would only take a few hours, then the nightmare was over!
A wide grin crossed the face of the nobleman. “We do things differently,” he said confidently. “Bring a guard on and erect a barricade in case they want to attack. Then secure the rest of the ship, I don’t want any other unpleasant surprises. Leave this problem here to me.”
The men hastened to carry out the officer’s instructions. The look in the eyes of the nobleman made them almost as fearful as that crazy monk who had stormed the ship.
One or the other began to doubt whether he had done the right thing. But no one dared to show it openly.
18
“Let’s see!”
Dahms suppressed a groan as Langenhagen gently but firmly pushed his hand away with whom he had kept the wound on his upper arm covered. The young officer looked critically at the flesh wound.
“I’m not a doctor, Sir …”
“Johann.”
Langenhagen took the first-aid kit and tore off a piece of clean bandages.
“I’m not a doctor, Johann, but that needs to be sewn. I can see the muscle, and it’s bleeding like hell. Here, hold this!”
Dahms took the bandage and winced as Langenhagen pressed the wound together to dress the injury firmly with quick, confident movements.
“It will keep the bleeding somewhat under control, but it must be sewn,” he repeated. “And keep your arm still. I’m improvising a sling.”
Langenhagen proved that he had been observant during the first-aid training. He took care of the wound, and moments later Dahms rested his left arm in a makeshift sling. Fine beads of sweat stood on the engineer’s brow.
“Lie down for a moment, feet up. We can’t do a lot at this time anyway. We can’t get out, they can’t come in. We have some weapons, and they have many. They need to take care of prisoners, but we have no more than 18 combat-capable men at our disposal.”
Langenhagen’s glance fell through the semi-darkness of the engine room. He saw the shining faces of the loyalists in the reflection of the carbide-lamps. In all of them, he read a mixture of determination and despair.
“We have to inform Renna,” Dahms groaned. “He’s the only one who can still put an end to this outrage!”
“That would be nice, but I don’t know how will do that,” Langenhagen retorted. “And we will not make it for too long here. If von Klasewitz cuts of the ventilation, it’s all over anyway.”
“What harm can we wreak?” Dahms asked silently, and let his eyes wander. “We can’t just put our hands in our lap …”
“You will do exactly that!” Langenhagen said forcefully and pushed the engineer gently back, who wanted to sit. It was already a miracle that they had made it this far. Although the mutineers had obviously had a plan, they didn’t handle it very professionally. Moreover, the officers who had been filled with suspicion by von Klasewitz fiery speech had become very alert and had made preparations. When the first signs of the uprising had become clear they had armed themselves immediately and tried to organize a defense. Ultimately, this had deteriorated into a decent retreat into the engine room. That von Klasewitz had mustered the support of fanatical monks, allowing them on board even critical officers hadn’t thought possible. He had exceeded their worst fears.
But what now? When they had begun to organize themselves, they had been around 30 men. In the engine room remained 18. And the majority of the crew was either overwhelmed or belonged to the mutineers.
A massively built man sat down in front of Dahms and nodded to him. He seemed indifferent, as all of this didn’t affect him. He put his paddle-shaped hands on his knees. Just a few minutes ago, he had cracked the skulls of two successive priests with these hands. Fulvius, the Roman blacksmith, had been found on board when the mutiny broke out and immediately took the side of his new friend Dahms. For him, there was no question where his loyalties lay. The world that had opened itself to him in recent days through the teachings of the engineer was fascinating and full of possibilities. He wouldn’t trade this for anything and especially not against the fanatical babble of the priests. It might help that the blacksmith was a follower of the ancient Roman gods and had little more than contempt left for the Christians and their focus on what would happen after death.
“Either we wait here until the mutineers think of something, or we risk to break out,” Langenhagen finally summed up the situation.
“If we just open a bulkhead, they will wait behind it and stifle any attack. We have a few weapons, but they have more, and they have the fanatics of the boarding party. I don’t think that all of the crew belong to the mutineers but I’m sure a couple of them are on their side. Against which we can’t do much now.”
Langenhagen nodded toward Dahms. “What will happen to us if we surrender?”
“Von Klasewitz will spare the normal crew members as well as the NCO s, with the notable exception of Köhler. For both of us he will either conduct a fake trial, or we will experience an unfortunate accident – or we will be handed over to Petronius and his henchmen. For we are demon messengers or something. I think they can imagine an appropriate method of execution, probably involving a lot of firewood.”
“Renna will hardly allow that,” Langenhagen said.
“When he learns of it in time, certainly not,” Dahms admitted. “But where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“However, I’m out of ideas.”
For a moment, all were silent. From outside, no sounds penetrated the door. There was no indication of what would happen next.
Then a voice was audible. It came through the internal communication system. It was von Klasewitz, quite unmistakable. Langenhagen and Dahms immediately recognized the mixture of anger and triumph in the tone of the first officer.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention! You are trapped below and already have certainly made plans. I can tell you that all your efforts are already doomed. There is no way to escape for you. Therefore, I have an offer – Surrender, put down your weapons and I promise that no one will be hurt. Of course, the officers will be treated differently, but the enlisted men only followed their orders, and I can’t blame them for that. I’ll give you half an hour to think in peace.”
Langenhagen threw Dahms a long look. “That perfidious asshole,” he murmured, trying not to look too carefully at the faces of the lower ranks. “He hopes that the guys will overwhelm us and present us on a silver platter. Von Klasewitz is smarter th
an I thought.”
“We all underestimated him.”
“So … what do we do now?”
The answer to this question consisted of silence.
19
Marcellus was afraid of many things, though not really any more than any other twelve year olds. These included sea monsters whose existence was denied by Magister Dahms, but this didn’t change the fact that they actually existed. If the Master had not yet seen any, then because the Saravica was such a mighty ship that any reasonably minded monster changed its opinion three times before attacking it. On top of that, Marcellus noticed that Dahms, once he thought no one would listen to him, spoke with strong profanity of a hobgoblin 4 , who, as it seemed to Marcellus’ mind, had to be classified into the category of sea monsters. In any case, he was afraid of them and was usually very happy that thick metal was between them and the sea – and the monsters living in it.
Marcellus had initially also feared Magister Dahms. The man could sometimes be quite grumpy. But he had taken his promise to his father very seriously. Unlike the other oil monkeys with which Marcellus quickly had befriended himself – they were only a little older than himself but had evidently no interest in further education – he was seen as more than just a nimble worker who hurried with the oil can through the machinery and refilled the slow, dark liquid everywhere he was told to. Dahms had drafted a plan for him. The boy had begun to learn the language of the visitors – although his progress so far was rather modest – and the Master had begun to teach him some basic concepts of a science which he called “mechanics.” When he had to cut a piece of a paper in hours of painstaking work, previously filled tediously with graphics in as many hours, only to have two circles, one bigger, one smaller, applied with larger and smaller spikes, he certainly had doubts about the reasoning behind these tasks. Magister Dahms had been relentless in his lessons, sometimes very strict, sometimes very loud.
He had never raised a hand against him.
He always made sure that he got to eat.
He made sure that he slept enough and wore clean clothes.
Over time, Marcellus had gotten the impression that Magister Dahms’ gruffness was not arbitrary, but considered, and when he saw a piece of a black rectangle lying beside his bowl of thick soup one evening that tasted sweet and bitter at the same time – chocolate, the other oil monkeys called it – he knew that to respect Magister Dahms was possibly a good idea, but he actually had no reason to fear him.
At this moment, the son of a Roman fisherman was not afraid of the Magister.
He was afraid for him.
And he was afraid of the narrow, dark and stuffy air in the narrow tool cabinet, in which he sat. The tip of a small file he had pressed in such a way against the door frame that the cabinet door was almost closed, but not quite completely, and as long as no one came up with the idea of looking at the gap and to close the door with the latch, he could jump out at any time.
But there the mutineers sat. He had escaped them in the whole mess, had been hiding, had seen, filled with horror, as one of the rebels had mutilated Magister Dahms, had almost cried out and would have run to him, and yet …
He was not even sure what had inspired him to stay out here. When the swearing first officer had disappeared, two of the mutineers and two monks remained with grim faces. They didn’t know anything of the boy in the closet, were focused on the bulkhead, hammered on it every now and then, stared at each other from time to time, half suspicious, half-frustrated, since they couldn’t talk with each other.
Marcellus had already resigned to indefinitely remain in this most uncomfortable environment when a fifth man showed up and asked the two Germans to follow him. This left him with the two priests. When they started to get bored, they did what was their most obvious pastime.
They began to pray.
Very fervently.
They were really good Christians.
And as they sat there on her knees, in a truly demonic environment and begged for the purity of their souls, they didn’t notice how Marcellus slowly opened the door, crept out of the closet and slipped with nimble movements through the open bulkhead leading upwards. He pressed himself into a corner when two men marched past him, but either they hadn’t seen him or didn’t regard the boy as important enough.
It was still very dark once he finally reached the deck. The mutineers hadn’t improved the lighting so as not to attract the attention of the loyal harbor guards. Everything seemed to be calm. Most fighting had been inside the ship, barely noticeable from the outside.
Marcellus’ heart pounded. He pressed himself against a steel wall, looked hastily left and right. Shadows moved on deck. Under the dim light of a lantern, he recognized one of the mutineers, a baton in his hand. The man looked around vigilantly. Marcellus’ gaze wandered to the gangway, about three feet away from him. Directly opposite the ship, there were two guards, standing there as if nothing had happened. He wouldn’t be able to pass them.
So only one possibility remained.
Marcellus took a deep breath. The idea of having to jump into the harbor with its cold, brackish water was appalling and frightening. But even more frightening was the prospect of remaining on board with the mutineers and possibly having to witness the death of Magister Dahms. Marcellus had grown up on and around the sea and knew stories of mutiny and piracy. He knew that as a rule no one involved acted squeamishly. He himself might be overlooked and ultimately only sent away, but Magister Dahms would certainly not be treated so friendly.
Marcellus had to act. He narrowed his eyes, looked at the harbor guards who walked back and forth on the quay. Most of them he didn’t know, but the broad-shouldered guy with the beard who was standing there with the torch in his hand, staring into the dark harbor water, was well known to him. Rufus was his name, a burly veteran who spent his last years before retirement in the urban service, not particularly bright, but a trustworthy man, a loose acquaintance of Marcellus’ father.
If someone would protect and believe him, then Rufus!
Once the idea had formed in Marcellus’ head, there was no stopping him. He pulled away from the wall …
“Stop! Who’s there?”
… and passed the few steps to the rail in no time …
“Stop! Stop immediately!”
… and jumped.
An eternity seemed to pass before he hit the water’s surface, and a cold shock ran through his body as he entered the fluid. Almost instinctively he began to swim, pulled upwards, and once his head broke into the open, his eyes fixed on the torches on the quay. The shouting had become noisy, both on the cruiser as well as on land. With powerful strokes Marcellus slipped to one of the landing sites, pulled himself to the bottom step of the stairs carved into the stone, trembling and panting but full of confidence.
Then he heard something popping and whistling as stone splinters rained down on his wet hair. He almost fell back into the water.
They had shot at him!
Marcellus’ knees buckled, as he grabbed onto the stairs. They shot at him! They shot! He hadn’t thought of that!
But then he heard the angry shouts from the Saarbrücken and knew instinctively that there would be no further shooting. And immediately he felt himself pulled up by strong arms. A man had come down the stairs, grabbed the boy’s body and threw it over his shoulder. At the top, on the quay, he let Marcellus down again.
It was Rufus.
“What have you done, that the strangers shoot at you?” he barked at Marcellus. The boy stared in disbelief, but rallied himself quickly.
“I have escaped, Rufus! You have to call the Navarch!”
“The Navarch is now Prefect, and why should I wake him? Because a boy has shirked from his duties and has jumped to avoid a deserved beating?”
Marcellus searched for words, while another legionary threw a blanket around his narrow shoulders. “No, Rufus, it isn’t like that! Mutiny, there was a mutiny! Priests are on board and have overwhelmed t
he crew! There are dead and wounded!”
Rufus frowned and glanced over at the Saarbrücken , where seemingly peace had returned. Still there was nothing to see from the outside in regard to any change of command on board. “You’re serious?”
“Rufus, I don’t lie!”
“I’m risking life and limb!”
“Believe me! I don’t make it up!”
The legionary exchanged a look with his comrades. “Well, it’s certainly unusual for them to shoot in the middle of the night at a little boy who jumps overboard,” growled another man. Marcellus saw that others guards suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Of course! Someone had to have looked the other way if anyone sneaked aboard! It was only possible with allies on land! He had to be terribly careful now. “Decurion, what do we do?”
A slim young man raised his head, shrugged. “We don’t take any risks and inform the Prefect. We have orders to immediately report anything unusual – and this is definitely unusual.”
Murmur of assent rang. Marcellus saw some of the legionaries pale.
The decurion immediately sent a messenger. Then he looked at Marcellus. “You said priests have come on board the Saravica ?”
The boy nodded eagerly. “They have overwhelmed the men loyal to Trierarch Rheinberg in their sleep. Von Klasewitz has been made the new trierarch, he united himself with those priests.”
The eyes of the decurion narrowed to slits. “How will people have come on board? We have –” The young man interrupted himself, raised his head and glanced around. Then three of his men turned around and sprinted off.
“Rufus,” the decurion barked.
Marcellus looked wide-eyed as the veteran presented a rope with weighs attached to both ends, took a sense of the situation and hurled it. Hissing, the rope whirled through the air, and then it was wrapped around the legs of the slowest runner, throwing him to the ground.
Rufus trotted leisurely to the man, seized him with one hand and pulled him roughly to his feet. He dragged him mercilessly back to decurion, while the two accomplices disappeared in the darkness.
The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal Page 13