“Lecius, Lecius, Lecius,” Marcellus heard the veteran mutter. “I’ve always known that no good end awaits you.”
“Keep a close eye on him, Rufus!” ordered the decurion and threw the prisoner a cold look. “We will interrogate him alone. Who were the other two?”
“Guido and Oliver, a German and Gaul. I didn’t trust them from the beginning,” Rufus said and spat on the ground. “I know their whores, and I know their taverns. Give me a few trusted men, and I grab them for you, Decurion.”
“No, they will be smarter and leave the city this night. Lecius here is sufficient for us. He will tell us everything we want to know.”
“More than that,” Rufus growled promising.
Was there sweat visible on the forehead of the prisoner? Marcellus could not quite see.
“Do we want the Saravica to talk to us?” asked one of the men.
“We do nothing without Renna’s command. Send a messenger. I want to make sure that we get someone with authority here. We keep quiet.” The decurion took a deep breath and turned to throw a direct view at the calm cruiser. “I don’t want anyone shooting at us.”
20
“Prefect?”
“Anything new?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then we do it, as discussed.”
Centurion Marcus Tullius Salius didn’t show how he felt. Renna had known him for ten years, had taken him along with every new posting, and therefore made sure that the man remained in his vicinity. Salius was not just a veteran with his good 15 years of service, he was Renna’s man for all seasons, the one he’d send, if there seemed to be no way out. Once Salius had, with his men, hand-picked legionaries, overwhelmed an Alan chieftain, behind the lines of his soldiers, and abducted him from his own camp. He had rescued the wounded Renna from a barbarian ambush without getting much as a scratch himself. He had escaped from Persian slavery and had brought the head of his former lord.
Salius didn’t really look like a feared warrior, he was rather lean, almost too slim for the power that resided in him. His harmonious face was close to beautiful, and his curly hair was often a target of good-natured ridicule. Making fun of Salius was no problem, as he seemingly took every humiliation in stride. That was certainly connected to the fact that the centurion knew absolutely what he was worth. Renna had never known him to be other than totally self-controlled, and always of cold, disciplined precision. Sometimes he had the impression that the centurion was absolutely soulless, a killing machine, feeling no joy in his actions. Salius had no great leadership qualities – his promotion to centurion had happened more pro forma; Renna never would have transferred the command of more than 20 or 30 selected men to him. But this centuria, although well below nominal strength, was the private command of the dreaded man, directly responsible to the prefect. No legate or tribune dared give Salius an order. The centurion followed Renna, and he obeyed exactly. If he had any doubts in a matter, he expressed them once and at the beginning but never showed any trace of defiance.
This time there had been no criticism at all. Salius had thrown a look at the quiet Saravica from the third floor of the Harbor Master’s office and had accepted Renna’s order to retake the ship with stoic composure. He knew that he would be left with the details, and from the moment he had been instructed, the precise mechanics of his mind had fallen into gear.
He looked again at Renna, but the prefect had no further instructions. Without a greeting, Salius turned around and walked down the stairs. In a large room 22 selected men waited for him. They had a lot in common, were disciplined, trusted the centurion, all excellent fighters with and without weapons. They all wore nothing but a towel wrapped around the loins. All of them were rubbed with a black paste that would stick to their skin even for weeks, no matter how much they bathed. All wore no more than a thin, long-drawn knife in their hands, Persian style.
And all of them could swim.
“You know everything,” Salius said instead of a greeting, while his assistants put away his armor, placed all clothing aside and began methodically and thoroughly to rub him with pitch. Jovius Clavus, his decurion, handed him his knife, a specially manufactured item like all weapons of this team. Clavus was the only one who had not been smeared with pitch, and that because of the fact that his skin was of a natural, deep blackness. When he smiled at his centurion, one saw that he had blackened his teeth as everyone else.
They would have a very bad taste in their mouths for days.
All watched in silence until Salius was ready. The bitter cold didn’t seem to bother anyone. Then the diversion began.
The city garrison marched on.
In they marched with discipline, under the noise of the trumpets and pipes, in glittering armor, all armed with glowing torches, the plumes of the officers a red shimmer in the flickering light.
A mighty uproar, the good one thousand legionaries taking position and officers barking orders, the harbor filled with warriors. Everywhere, windows opened, and the curious watched what happened down there, only to frantically barricade themselves thereafter.
On the Saravica , more and more lights went on, and whistles could be heard. Salius saw men armed with their wondrous weapons in position. He saw one of the large metal pipes threatening, slowly moving toward the marching soldiers.
Renna was taking a horrendous risk. But it was necessary. Salius also risked his life, and he had to get his chance. Even Renna himself appeared in full gear, accompanied by a dozen torchbearers, walking to the wharf and loudly demanding to be allowed on board. Salius and his men had by now left the house and slid through dark alleys, circumventing the fanfare and finally reached the impenetrable blackness of the harbor basin. Here were fishing boats, forming a deep black tangle of bodies in the water, and slowly, using their ropes, without making any waves, the men were in the water.
No word was exchanged. Like fish, the men swam, mostly underwater, only briefly orienting themselves on the surface, and with eyes only opened to slits, to allow no reflection from their otherwise jet-black faces. All 23 men glided toward the Saravica , approached the starboard side of the cruiser slowly in an invisible procession. During a brief look out of the water, Salius could see that all men paid attention to the other side of the ship, anxious and ready to fight, observing the parade of the legion, shouting at themselves for courage, their weapons aligned, all pressed to the rail.
Two men stood at the starboard side. But they did nothing else than to look to the wharf through the superstructure of the ship. The noise reached a crescendo because Renna’s martial speech was always accompanied by rhythmic beats of the soldiers on their shields. Renna didn’t want to talk to von Klasewitz. Once the conspirator they had captured had confessed all and everything under torture, for him there was no doubt that he had to do everything in his power to save Rheinberg’s command.
Salius’ task.
The centurion didn’t consider the two lonely starboard guards with contempt. His strategy for success had a lot to do with the stupidity of his opponents. Stupidity was useful. It should be respected in his opponents.
He was sincerely grateful to them for that and promised them, now that he came closer and closer to the bow of the cruiser, a quick and painless death.
They reached the front starboard anchor chain. Loud noise continued to resound from the shore. Salius was the first who took the metal chain and began to pull himself up. Like all his comrades, he had his hands bandaged well for this purpose. The damp cloth helped him to get a firm grip and avoid injury.
The strangers would have been very surprised if they had witnessed the exercise area of Salius’ men. Shortly after the arrival of the ship, the centurion had taken the cruiser thoroughly in inspection from afar and the practice site was redesigned accordingly. There was a long metal chain, which hung in a water-filled basin, at its upper end connected to a rough replica of the bow of the Saravica made of wood. Two days after the arrival of the ship, Salius’ men had begun to rehear
se the boarding of the cruiser.
The centurion appreciated it very much to be properly prepared.
And it paid off once more, as black bodies climbed up the anchor chain in a strange, silent procession.
When Salius swung over the rail, he made no noise with his bare feet. When he had bridged the few steps to the first starboard watch, the man looked up with a slightly bewildered expression. And as the long-drawn dagger went cleanly through the chest in the heart and the man slid with open eyes to the ground, everything continued to proceed in silence.
Jovius killed the second man, who had hardly turned round. He also died a quick and clean death. Salius approvingly nodded at the decurion. The guards had received their deserved reward.
It took a minute, then all his people were on board.
Then a violent bang, a trembling of the ship, many voices shouting. The sudden clutter of arrows on the metal deck of the Saravica . Riot, noise, hoarse commands.
Salius allowed himself a glance.
The mutineers had used one of their smaller fire tubes. On the quay, there was aimless chaos. Shredded bodies of a bunch of legionaries who had been directly hit by the powerful cannon were scattered everywhere. Salius caught a glimpse of Renna, who held his bloodied right arm and was carried away by men of his bodyguard. Archers covered the Saravica with volleys but then a second blast, a renewed shaking out of the cruiser, and with infernal crash one of the city buildings standing near the pier was hit. The shouted commands of the legionaries mingled with the desperate cries of the residents who fell with the debris on the road, more shattered bodies, helpless wounded, a massive cloud of smoke danced across the flickering torchlight.
A brutal scene, a senseless massacre. The centurion observed it with cold measure.
Salius made the sign.
Twenty-three men slid across the deck of the Saravica , everyone of the rebels in sight. The mutineers didn’t look behind themselves, laughed at the panic in front of them; only the priests remained serious. But the centurion’s men made no difference. Twenty-three blades flashed, twenty-three victims were in their blood and dead yet before they touched the ground. When the remainder turned around, proclaiming surprise, the attackers had already identified the next targets and then the daggers shot forward. This time they met first defense, raised arms, an isolated blade, those smaller fire tubes that the strangers held and directed at the new threat. Salius saw blood spray from the stomach of one of his men when he was felled by an invisible hand, but then the Romans walked about them and their blades had rich harvest.
“The deck is ours!” Jovius reported, the body sprinkled with blood but none of his. Salius saw an imperious movement on the quay. Amid the chaos was his second decurion, Clodius, with twenty other men in full armor. They couldn’t swim, but they could run up the now unguarded gangway, with a drawn sword and grim determination to judge those responsible for this massacre. With them was Marcellus, who knew where the crew was and could show them the way. He was wearing a much too large breastplate and a helmet. Two legionaries, including Rufus, went with him alone for his protection.
“Through these doors!” the boy cried in a clear voice. Salius came forward, then Jovius, then other men. Priests who stood in the way became victims of blades, went down, gasping and spitting blood. Marcellus was scared, trembled, observed the carnage with frightened eyes. Rufus picked him up, hugged him to his chest.
“Marcellus,” he said loudly to the shocked boy. “Marcellus! Your Master! Let us save him!”
That helped. The eyes of the fisherman’s son cleared. Coarse came his instructions. Behind them, they heard the clatter of other legionaries on deck; one tribune must have noticed that something had to be done. Salius grunted. There were actually officers in the Roman army who used their head to more than just to hold the helmet.
Truly a time of miracles and revelations.
Then two of the strangers appeared, with open eyes and fire tubes. The passage was narrow, no more than two men could stand side by side. Jovius threw his head back when a fire tube spoke and tore his throat, the fountain of blood hiding Salius for a moment. A second man went to the ground, and a violent, burning pain shot through the leg of the centurion. He shoved his dagger, cut throats with effortless speed, and the gurgling stifled the cries of pain when the strangers went to the ground.
Salius was bleeding profusely, but he ignored it. He looked behind himself, saw his men climbing over the corpse of the decurion, then he saw Rufus, the boy now on his back, guarding him with his massive upper body and holding a shield in front of him.
“There, down there!” the boy yelled.
Salius plunged ahead. Men with fire tubes turned up, but this time not fast enough. The centurion jumped the last few steps, threw himself forward against to the men who responded like they were attacked by a demon. The centurion didn’t hesitate, hurled the helpless defenders to the ground and moments later they were dead.
“The bulkhead … the door! Let me down, they have to open it from the inside!”
Rufus lowered the boy. He ran to the bulkhead, pounding on it, shouted a few words in the language of the strangers. It took only a short time, then the hatch swung open, and fire tubes appeared. But Salius recognized from the facial expression of the boy that these were friends.
“This is Magister Dahms,” Marcellus said excitedly. “He’s a tribune, at least. He knows his stuff.”
Dahms and Salius regarded each other in silence. Langenhagen came out, saw the carnage, then stared at the arm of the centurion. Without many words he reached for bandages, and it took only a few moments until the wound was cared for. Salius eyes fell on a similar application to Dahms’ arm, and this was first time he allowed himself something of an emotional expression and smiled.
“We have to overpower the remaining mutineers and free the captives,” Marcellus said, and as if he was the trierarch, the men followed his recommendation.
The men of Clodius had swept way the priests. Some of the mutineers had surrendered, and the order was to spare them. As Salius came on deck, Clodius told him that only a small group resisted in the room the stranger called the “bridge”.
From there, they had a pretty good field of fire for their fire tubes and the entrances were easy to defend. The oh-so-attentive tribune, whose bloody corpse they had just transported away, experienced that on his own body
“I’m doing this!”
Salius stared at Dahms, who wanted to push him aside. “You are injured.”
“You too, Centurion.”
Dahms didn’t shy away from the Roman’s stare. Salius had to accept that this was the territory of the stranger.
“You have a fire-tube?”
“A little one,” Dahms said and raised his gun.
“Can you talk to the mutineers?”
“I’ll try.”
But when the men wanted to approach the bridge, shots whipped at them immediately.
Salius drew Dahms back into cover and looked at him questioningly. “It seems as if the rebels are of the opinion that they have no choice than to fight to the death,” the centurion said. “Is that so? In the Roman legion mutiny is punished by death without mercy.”
“We commonly do the same, but I would be ready, if you consent, to offer some grace and therefore imprisonment.”
“Slavery?” Salius spat. “I would prefer death.”
“No slavery. Detention. Prison.”
The centurion shrugged. “It should be possible to arrange that – but I don’t understand why you want to waste able workers.”
Dahms had no interest to explain the fine points of the difference between detention and possibly forced labor and slavery, not least because the politics of the German Empire in the colonies didn’t differentiate between those two with much attention. But it was in any case an unbearable thought to think of crew members as Roman slaves.
“Köhler!”
The burly boatswain appeared immediately next to Dahms.
>
“The megaphone!”
“At once.”
Moments later, Dahms had the tube in his hands and led it to his mouth.
“Men of the Navy,” his voice boomed over the deck as the legionaries behind him helped freed loyalist up. “I’m Navy Chief Engineer Dahms. Next to me are Lieutenant Langenhagen and Chief Petty Officer Köhler. We have regained command of the Saarbrücken . The mutiny failed.” He paused for effect. “I call on all mutineers to lay down their weapons. Anything else would be pointless because we are in the majority. Every fight would become a massacre, with most of the victims on your side. I’m ready to give the order to commence attack. But I have another suggestion. I’m also ready, on behalf of the Roman authorities, to assure those who voluntarily surrender now fair treatment, which, I say expressly, excludes the death penalty or any kind of torture. I repeat: Those who give up and lay down their weapons won’t die and won’t be treated brutally. For that, I give my pledge as an imperial officer.”
Dahms paused again. He knew that discussions would now erupt on the bridge. Maybe dispute. Could he sow discord within the mutineers, like von Klasewitz had tried it when they were trapped in the engine room, that would be a success as well.
“Let’s give them some time to consider,” Dahms said softly to Salius.
The centurion nodded, but then grimaced. “Also, no torture? How do we identify the people behind the uprising?”
Dahms laughed joylessly. “Ask a priest named Petronius about that.”
Salius frowned. “The same Petronius I know? The right hand of Liberius?”
“The very same.”
“That won’t please Renna.” Salius looked like Renna’s reaction had potential for amusement.
“That’s why we take care of it later.”
A few minutes elapsed, then the mutineers came out – seven crew members of the Saarbrücken , who had laid down their arms, and some remaining priests.
The Emperor's Men 2: Betrayal Page 14