The Emporers Men

by Dirk van den Boom

  “What’s Renna like?”

  Africanus thought about it for a moment, as if he had to choose his words carefully. “He is a career soldier who worked his way up from humble background. He married into one of the senatorial families. Everyone says that he might have a prospect for a position at court, may probably withdraw from military service and take a civilian office. Perhaps as a prefect in the troubled provinces where military experience might come handy for a civil servant. He is an impeccable superior.”

  Rheinberg nodded. He had not expected that Africanus would wash dirty laundry. But even if only a portion of what he just had been told was true, there was a good chance that one would be able to talk sensibly with Navarch Renna.

  Navarch, the captain recalled, corresponded to the rank of admiral or at least a squadron commodore. Renna wasn’t his peer but ranked much higher. Rheinberg felt his palms getting damp. Diplomacy was not one of his strengths but a skill he needed to acquire quickly.

  Africanus apparently had a good eye. “Renna also makes me nervous,” he said softly. “He’s one of those few who hold the Empire together. This includes the right degree of harshness and cruelty. I once watched as he personally decapitated a deserter. The Navarch stood there, covered in blood, raised the sword and looked at the men, everyone in full attention, and then radiated a silent and very urgent threat. He is not easily impressed.” Africanus made a wide gesture. “But I’m confident that this ship will put his composure to the test.”

  “I’d like to impress him but without threat,” Rheinberg said frankly.

  “A big challenge.”

  “You have to help me.”

  “I’ll do what I can. But I’m just a trierarch.”

  Rheinberg had to smile a bit listening to the somewhat thickly applied modesty, but then wasn’t so sure whether Africanus was really modest or very realistic. Rheinberg didn’t know so many important things about this time, and like the historian he had to conjecture somewhat. It was something completely different to read a book and get an idea about the distant past on the one hand and having this experience personally on the other. Rheinberg repeatedly had the surreal feeling that this was just a dream and that he’d wake up soon, very soon. Only that this awakening didn’t happen and he started to get used to the idea that ultimately it was all very real.

  “Captain, three ships, ten degrees starboard!”

  The voice of Langenhagen tore Rheinberg from his thoughts. In the indicated direction three triremes were peeling from the afternoon haze. The land line was clearly visible now, and just as clearly the port of Ravenna was discernible in the distance.

  “Little speed!” commanded Rheinberg.

  “Little speed!” confirmed Langenhagen. A tense calm settled over the bridge, as more and more ships became visible. Besides the three war galleys, sailing ships of all kinds appeared on the waters – massive ships with big sails as well as small fishing boats. The closer they got to the port, the denser was the boat traffic, but the civil units apparently spun as soon as possible, as their mates recognized the approaching Saarbrücken. The three triremes held unswervingly toward the cruiser, however.

  “They have courage,” muttered Rheinberg. Aurelius looked at the captain, and he had certainly not understood him but seemed to gather the meaning.

  “They will fight, even if they suspect that they will lose,” said the trierarch in Latin. “The Augustus is among them!”

  “Langenhagen, the megaphone for the trierarch.”

  Soon Africanus had the funnel-shaped metal in his hands and led the mouthpiece to his lips intuitively.

  “Over there,” Rheinberg pointed the way. “We go outside! Langenhagen, all machines stop.”

  He didn’t hear the confirmation of the command anymore. Together with Africanus he stood at the railing, where they were joined by Becker and Neumann. Rheinberg looked around. Everywhere the men were in position, the assault rifles were ready to shoot. The lateral 5-cm gun had fixed her mouth on the approaching triremes. Rheinberg’s men had been repeatedly enjoined not to fire without the expressed command. A massacre among the Romans would destroy their chances of establishing more friendly relations.

  Africanus used the megaphone. “Augustus, this is Aurelius Africanus,” his voice echoed over to the galleys. “Vicius! Do not attack! Listen to me! No attacking! You wouldn’t survive it! The strangers want to negotiate!”

  Rheinberg squinted.

  First it seemed as if nothing had happened, but then he saw with relief that the foremost of the three galleys began to heave by. A man stood on the upper deck and waved to Aurelius.

  “How are you?” He shouted across with strong, unamplified voice.

  “I’m fine!” was the answer back from the metal funnel. “Accompany us into the harbor. There will be no fighting! Are you listening? No fighting! Inform the Navarch! Let’s isolate the pier from the public! There is no fight! They want to negotiate!”

  The man on the trireme waved back and shouted something unintelligible. All three triremes turned in, maneuvered around the Saarbrücken and took them into their midst.

  Africanus turned to Rheinberg, a smile on his lips. “They will not attack.”

  “Good.” Rheinberg turned to the bridge. “Langenhagen.”

  “Captain!”

  “We go slowly. Stay within the convoy’s protection. Keep your distance! Follow into the harbor!”

  “Little speed and following, yes,” it echoed back. The gentle, rhythmic pounding of the machines was again more noticeable as the Saarbrücken cautiously gained conceivable speed. The rowers of the triremes put in everything they had. With great difficulty they could keep up with the cruiser.

  Rheinberg watched the legionaries on the triremes. They looked grim and ready for battle, all armed and a large number of archers were ready. It seemed as Navarch Renna made tactical decisions based on the reports of the Augustus, and they were not the dumbest. The triremes were hopelessly inferior to the cruiser in all respects, but the death of Captain Krautz had proved that a well-placed arrow could find his target even on an armored marvel of engineering. Renna rose in Rheinberg’s professional judgment by a few more degrees. He made the right decision in refraining from any confrontation.

  The port of Ravenna was finally in sight. All on board the Saarbrücken took the magnificent panorama in. Until a few decades ago, before the whole Roman fleet was moved to Constantinople – with the exception of Africanus’ squadron – Ravenna had been one of the two main naval ports of the Empire. The great buildings which could be seen from the sea signified the wealth and influence of the city. Rheinberg saw extensive port facilities with numerous piers, and a variety of moored vessels. Further back, more buildings were to be seen, the ancient temples lined with Christian churches and palatial mansions as well as administrative buildings. Everything in Rheinberg urged him to plunge into this city to adore the ancient architecture, whose colors stood out clearly from the monotony of the ruins that remained in his time. On the harbor walls were the citizens of the city, marveling at the ship which sailed into its waters. Rheinberg could sense open excitement, but no panic, and the legionaries, who had taken position on the walls seemed rather confident and calm and less anxious. None of these people had ever seen the Saarbrücken in action, and the ship was surrounded by three triremes – the audience had to feel relatively safe. Renna surely had kept the report of the captain of the Augustus under lock and thus avoided rumors and panic. A smart man, without any doubt.

  The seagulls shrieked as the Saarbrücken glided over the harbor’s calm waters. Although the city had lost its importance as a naval base, Rheinberg knew that her true heyday was still approaching: As the capital of the Western Roman Empire she would be the last witness of the collapse of the empire under the pressure of Völkerwanderung. From here Galla Placidia would govern through her son Valentinian III, from here the last great general of Western Rome, Flavius Aetius, would head out to ally himself with the Burgundians on
the Katalaunian fields in order to fight Attila, just to be murdered a few years later, also in this city, and by the hands of his own emperor.

  All of which Rheinberg sought to prevent. The death of Aetius had initiated the final demise of the Western Roman Empire, and exactly this development could be halted. When he got the chance to.

  If this man over there gave him the chance. The triremes led the Saarbrücken to a completely closed-off pier, swarming with soldiers. And on the quay, in a flowing cape, stood a tall, lean man with a remarkable hooked nose and all the trappings of a Roman officer, surrounded by archers and spearmen. Rheinberg registered that two large onagers were driven onto the quay. Renna had taken all precautions he could think of. Smart, again.

  Rheinberg took a deep breath and sighed.

  “What shall we do?” He turned back to Africanus. “Let him on board or ask for permission to leave the ship?”

  “Let him decide,” was the trierarch’s laconic reply. He obviously had no intention to try to read the thoughts of his superior.

  Rheinberg could hardly blame him.

  As the Saarbrücken closed to the pier and the crew threw ropes that would be fixed by soldiers to the bollards, Rheinberg felt a strange mixture of relief and excitement – relief because it was good to be in a harbor and tension because he didn’t know if Ravenna could become a new home port for the Saarbrücken. As the gangway touched the pier, the lean man who had been identified by Africanus as Navarch Renna went without further hesitation and without accompaniment on board.

  The gray eyes of the naval officer narrowed as he let his gaze wander over the width and length of the cruiser. The motionless face of the navarch didn’t show what he thought or felt, whether and to what extent he was impressed. As Rheinberg approached him and saluted according to the custom of the German Navy, he nodded curtly and turned directly to Africanus.

  “How are you, trierarch?”

  “My ship is lost, like the majority of my crew. The survivors are on board here. They are well cared for.”

  “Are you a prisoner of the foreign barbarians?”

  “I am, but my freedom upon arrival in Ravenna was assured.”

  Renna’s eyes went to Rheinberg, who had said nothing and stared at him.

  “I’m Marcus Flovius Renna, navarch of the empire.”

  “I’m Jan Rheinberg, trierarch of the Saravica.”

  Renna made an expansive gesture. “This is the Saravica? It’s the name of a village in Germania.”

  “It’s my ship.”

  “Who is your king?”

  “We hope to serve the Emperor of Rome.”

  Renna frowned, exchanged glances with Africanus, who nodded at him. “You wish to submit yourself to the command of the emperor?”

  Rheinberg hesitated. “I want to reach an agreement with him that will be beneficial for both of us.”

  Renna seemed to understand this language. “But my question was not answered. Which king did you serve before?”

  “An emperor, far from Rome. We cannot return there, and need a new home.”

  “Refugees? In such a powerful and strange vessel? Are there more of it around?”

  “My former Lord commands many.”

  Renna looked alarmed. Rheinberg hastened to add, “The land of my former king is out of our reach. We are alone.” He hesitated. “We need help.”

  “Help? Trierarch Daker told me that the Scipio had no chance against your ship.”

  The navarch made this statement calmly and objectively, without reproach in his voice. Rheinberg took some courage. “A misunderstanding. The Scipio attacked our ship in the assumption that we are a threat. We fought back.”

  “And? Are you a threat?” Renna finally asked the most important question.

  “I don’t want to be one. We will leave our guns to be silent as long as we are not attacked, and we shall be ready to use them for the sake of the Empire if we reach an agreement with the Emperor.”

  Renna said nothing. He turned back to Africanus. “Take your men and leave the ship.”

  “Sir!”

  Rheinberg waved. Köhler had been waiting for the sign. He called a few commands, then the POWs trotted from aboard, the wounded in the lead on stretchers, carried by their comrades. Finally only Africanus and his helmsman Sepidus remained.

  “I have sent messengers to the prefect and to Treveri,” Renna said. The easy handling of the prisoner issue seemed to fill him with obvious satisfaction. “I expect a reply soon. Until then, your ship should be moored. No one is leaving without permission, and I promise my men will not try to come on board.”

  “I agree.”

  “Your weapons remain silent.”

  “Like your own.”

  “Then so be it.”

  Renna fixed Africanus with his sharp eyes. “Trierarch, you will remain on board as my ambassador. Keep Sepidus with you. You report to me every day. Is that acceptable?”

  The last question was again addressed to Rheinberg.

  “Yes,” he hastened to answer. “The trierarch is welcome aboard.”

  Renna showed something like a smile for the first time as he turned abruptly and left the ship behind the prisoners. He walked onto the pier and disappeared among his soldiers who joined the guard line at the pier in front of the Saarbrücken behind him.

  Now wait.

  “I’m happy,” Rheinberg muttered in Latin.

  “Happy?” asked Africanus.

  Rheinberg rubbed his neck.

  “My head is still sitting on the neck.”

  The trierarch grinned. “Renna had a good day. Don’t ever rely on it.”

  12

  “Richomer, you are a pessimist! The oracle cannot be wrong! Victory is certainly ours!”

  “We should wait until the reinforcements arrive, my Emperor. Then we can be sure that we will gain the upper hand!”

  Valens, Emperor of Eastern Rome, looked suspiciously at the general. The muscular man with his polished armor made an imposing appearance – more imposing than the plump emperor in his toga, who walked up and down in the general’s tent.

  “Are you for me, Richomer, or against me?”

  “My Lord, you know the answer. I have always served Rome faithfully!”

  Valens snorted. He stopped abruptly, threw up his arms. “The oracle told me otherwise. I know that conspiracies are underway. I don’t know who is behind it, but I swear that I will find out soon enough.”

  Richomer tried to hide his displeasure. “Noble Majesty, your nephew has asked me personally to support you in your preparations for the battle as well as my humble abilities allow me to. My loyalty is beyond any doubt. My career is clear from any stain, and I’m an officer because I’ve proven myself.”

  That was the maximum someone like Richomer could afford as gentle criticism. Valens was a man who became increasingly erratic. The older step-uncle of Gratian, elevated by Valentinian to his office, now became more manic in his paranoid suspicions, his confidence in the oracle, and an ever growing fear of conspiracies. It was not megalomania to which he succumbed – Valens was, despite his craziness, no Commodus or Nero – but he had already gone a long way toward lunacy. The victory against the Goths a few years ago, where the Eastern Roman Emperor had in fact distinguished himself as a general and earned the loyal following of the military, had apparently risen to his head. Since then he had allowed the Goths to cross the Danube. After his underlings exploited refugees brutally and harassed them, Fritigern and Alaric were on the campaign against Rome, and although they didn’t manage to take fortified cities, they plundered the rural areas and avoided any pitched battle so far.

  The eternal curse of Rome. Of course, the harassment had not been made by order of Valens, who had a vested interest to direct the onslaught of Goths into peaceful channels. But you couldn’t rely on all subjects, and this was true for both the civilian and the military administration. Thus, the Goths had gathered and started a war. And they were under the leadership of their
kings, Alaric and Fritigern, who refused to act stupid, and that was probably the major problem.

  Here, before Adrianople, Valens wanted to force a decision. He had mustered all his troops, but the Goths were many.

  Very many.

  As some thought, carefully, quietly, too many.

  Richomer and the other generals had implored Valens to wait for the arrival of the Western Roman legions under Gratian in order to jointly fight against the barbarians. But Valens envied the young Western Roman Emperor, who seemed in many ways to follow into the footsteps of his famous and adored father with his military successes. So Valens went with the idea that he alone would be able to beat the Goths in order to gain all the glory – and to show his perceived or real enemies that he still held the reins in Eastern Rome.

  “We have assembled the largest Eastern army that has existed in years,” exclaimed Valens. “The scouts have reported that the Goths are much fewer than expected! We will scatter them to the four winds and overwhelm them for good!”

  “Noble sir, the scouts’ reports seem to be inaccurate, and the Goths are distributed over a wide area! We cannot be sure!”

  “Coward!” snapped Valens, pulled his toga up and stood right in front Richomer, who was a head taller. “Coward! Since Sebastianus has won his last victory against Fritigern, the Goths are weak and on the run! We have driven them before us like cattle!”

  Richomer pondered what to say. Valens’ interpretation of the truth was as wrong as his imperial delusions could go. They had shadowed the Goths as they wandered looting across the country, and yes, General Sebastianus had led a successful attack against a part of those hordes, but it by no means caused the damage Valens claimed. Fritigern was no fool. He had lost to Sebastian because he had spread his troops too far. This time he has been wiser and took care to assemble the bulk of his soldiers massed against the Romans … Richomer literally smelled the disaster that had to follow inevitably.