“As far as I know, there is a considerable port in Spalato at this time,” confirmed Rheinberg. “I can give my maps to Africanus. There is a village called Salona. Emperor Diocletian built a palace there in which he intended to retire. At least, that was his original idea, but it didn’t quite work that way. In any case, an important building. It should now no longer serve the old purpose, but there is definitely a port. And there is a road to Sirmium, where we are likely to do well.”
“We could use the truck,” suggested Becker.
“For the material, yes. The men have to march.”
“How many soldiers do we take?”
“The whole company,” Rheinberg replied immediately. “We have to deliver a very impressive show. We get an official pass and two of Renna’s tribunes as a companions, they know the area well. In addition, Africanus will continue to serve as a liaison officer.”
“That one will leave the Saarbrücken only if forced,” Dahms said grinning. They all nodded. Africanus was without doubt the Romans with the slightest fear of the technical marvel presented by the cruiser. He tried to understand everything he was shown and sucked up explanations like a sponge. He was obviously fascinated with the ship’s possibilities.
“When do we leave?” Neumann finally asked.
“And who?” added Becker.
That was the most important question indeed. Rheinberg’s hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. Everyone knew what the problem was – or at least who. Only von Klasewitz himself seemed unaware of the hidden looks that everyone gave him. He had behaved remarkably calm throughout the meeting.
“I … we’ll worry about that later,” Rheinberg evaded the answer. In fact, there were several options that he had already discussed with Neumann. “We mustn’t forget one thing: Although Renna seems to trust us, there are plenty of others who will establish a cooperation with us. I think that this also can mean the imposition of hostages.”
The word seemed to awake von Klasewitz from his rest. He opened his eyes and said, “Outrageous!”
“No, not really,” replied Rheinberg quietly. “During these times that’s a totally normal political action. Many hostages have lived for years at the court of Rome, were trained there, lived in quite luxurious circumstances, and made great careers after their return. And it went both ways. I’m thinking about a very famous man who has been Roman hostage at the court of the Huns for many years, only to beat them afterwards during the battle of the Catalaunian fields: Flavius Aetius, the last great general of the West.”
Apparently, few had heard of this particular man, because many eyes were directed full of curiosity at Rheinberg. He decided not to reveal the little historical detail that Aetius, after decades of de facto sovereignty over Western Rome, was betrayed and killed by the hand of his own emperor, Valentinian III. The men would lose some of their illusions soon enough.
“So, I assume that we need to give hostages, and senior ones, too. Let us, therefore, talk some other time about staff issues. Once we get the green light from Renna and the Senators – and I think we will find out within 24 hours – I want the Saarbrücken ready to move so we can get started. So full readiness. All right then?”
The captain looked around. Many of these men had left behind families, beloved women, and children. All had experienced dark hours full of self-doubt, since they came here, and many more were to come as it sunk in that in all probability there would be no way back. But now he saw in the eyes of many feelings like hope and confidence, saw them making plans and developing a vision.
He ended the meeting and allowed all of them to think about the issues discussed.
As he stood alone in the mess, his eyes fell on the map. “Sremska Mitrovica.” He read the name of the local Serb community, which was in his time located where currently Sirmium was to be found. He put his index finger there. Regardless of how to finally answer the questions about any staff distribution, one answer was already very clear to him.
He would travel to the court of the Emperor.
He would stand before the face of Flavius Gratian and try to persuade him to start a revolution.
He was definitely mad.
23
“What exactly is going on in Ravenna?”
Secundus looked up from his scroll. The secretary had been so engrossed in his text that he needed a moment to notice that the question had been addressed to him. The slim man with his thinning hair wreath leaned back and looked longingly at the wine decanter. But it was highly improper to overdo it with the wine. Ambrosius had patience, much more than the secretary, 20 years his senior, would ever be able to apply in his life.
The Bishop of Milan was 38 years old; he was a man who had already reached the zenith of his life. The narrow face was decorated with a well-kept, thin beard and dominated by a large, downward nose. But most obvious was the fact that his right eye was slightly lower than the left, which the Bishop didn’t stop from throwing a questioning look at his secretary.
“Your Eminence, I only report what has been told to me. A strange ship of unknown type has appeared out of nowhere, destroyed an imperial trireme and yet has been hospitably received by the Navarch in Ravenna. Well, at least they didn’t immediately attack it.”
“Nothing is known about the origin?” asked Ambrosius to be sure, as he stroked his beard. He certainly was convinced by the decorative elegance of his face.
“The rumor says that they came from Germania.”
“Germania? That seems absurd. A ship that destroyed a Roman war galley and then enters the port of Ravenna? Guarded by the legionaries of the city garrison?”
“A ship made entirely of metal, and with demonic magic bullets,” Secundus confirmed eagerly.
“Demonic wonder weapons, yes.” Ambrosius looked thoughtfully out of the high windows of his study. The warm summer wind carried the chants from the nearby church into its walls. “Demons are always quite handy if you don’t understand something, my friend.”
“I don’t know more than you, Your Eminence.”
“I’m much more interested in what to think of the rumors that Renna has invited Symmachus to Ravenna. Symmachus hates the city, and he has held no public office for years. Why does he endure this? What’s behind it?”
Secundus knew that these questions were rhetorical. As much as Ambrosius was as Bishop of Milan famous and recognized for his firm beliefs and vast knowledge, everyone also knew that he had been a politician before his election to this high church office and had taken a civil service career. For some years, he had even been prefect of Liguria and Aemiliaand helped to govern the Empire. The bishop had, despite his move to the church, never forgotten where he came from and that the church carried political significance in the Roman Empire, and so his questions for his longtime secretary were anything but unusual.
“Should we investigate further, Your Eminence?” asked Secundus.
The bishop hesitated with an answer. His hands lay flat on a paper on which he had been working since the early morning hours. Today, he had at last roused to start with a script that once and for all should explain the dominance of the doctrine of the Trinity over the Arian heresy, yet now such issues disturbed his progress. Ambrosius secretly wished to be able to spend more leisure for the really important things, but politics caught up with him again.
“This is not what Constantine planned,” he growled and began to roll up the papers.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when he promoted Christianity, he had hoped that it would strengthen the empire as a unifying bond and secure its position forever.”
“Oh yes,” said Secundus, who got up and helped his master in the proper storage of their morning’s work. He knew what was coming, it was the litany of the bishop, since he had taken office, and it was getting worse every year. Once he was elected bishop, he was expected to show considerable religious neutrality in the dispute between the Arians and Trinitarians. Few had expected that Ambrosius would become one of the strongest and most convin
cing fighters against the Arians. Many already regretted their choice.
However, before Ambrosius could elaborate his musings about the strange occurrences in Ravenna with a monologue about the worthlessness of his opponents, a priest stormed unannounced into the study. The bishop stopped in his intended censure immediately, because the man seemed completely out of breath and in a great hurry. Something important was happening.
“Your Eminence, I just overheard a very important message in the palace of the prefect!”
“Speak!”
“Emperor Valens has fallen against the Goths before Adrianople! The armed forces of the East are in disarray.”
Secundus and Ambrosius exchanged glances.
“Is it the truth?” asked the bishop.
The priest was breathing heavily. “I got it directly from the Secretary of the Prefect. The message has just arrived. Gratian is in Sirmium. The Court seems to be in great excitement.”
“Yes – thank you, you can go.”
The monk turned and hurried out. Ambrosius went to the window and looked outside.
“Valens was a heathen. God has punished him.”
Secundus said nothing.
“At the same time he punished the entire East for its Arian heresy and delivered it into the hands of the Goths.”
Secundus grunted something.
“A just punishment, I’d say.”
Ambrosius turned. Secundus was still silent.
“You say nothing at all.”
“Your Eminence, it may be as you say …”
“But?”
“But it seems once again that we have a more political and less of a spiritual problem here.”
The bishop smiled gently. “Of course that’s true – and it will turn out to be a real opportunity for us. Gratian, an emperor with deep faith and the right attitude, now reigns in Rome. And whether he continues to govern alone, or a man of his mind will be appointed, I see that we have a very good chance to win some battles for us.”
“The fight against the Gothic hordes?”
Ambrosius waved. “With those we will deal in time. I’m talking about two different fronts: the Arians and of the remaining old cults. Have I not just talked about the fact that Emperor Constantine had made a mistake long ago?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“He made a mistake in many ways. His biggest mistake was to pass here, in this city, a decree that obliges the state to tolerance toward other religions. Jews, pagans, heretics all are still under the protection of the edict.”
Secundus saw that Ambrosius unconsciously clenched his hands into fists.
“The edict has to go,” exclaimed the bishop. “And now we have a good chance to get this done.” He seemed to think for a moment, the smile on his face grew wider. “And the fact that my special friend Symmachus has hastened to Ravenna because of our mysterious visitors might even prove to be beneficial.”
Ambrosius straightened himself. One could see that he had made a decision.
“Secundus, we must act. First, send a courier to Liberius, Archbishop of Ravenna. I want to know every detail about the foreign visitors, and I don’t mean hearsay, but the facts. He should send one of his best confidants to the strangers, and he should question them. I want a full report as accurate as possible.”
“I’ll arrange it at once.”
“But this is not enough. I have to do something myself and seize the opportunity. Let’s immediately make all necessary travel arrangements. I want to leave as soon as possible. At this hour the Emperor has the spiritual need of the counsel of the church, and I feel that God has chosen me to fill that role.”
He looked into the still somewhat uncomprehending face of his secretary.
“We travel to Sirmium, and the fastest way. We are visiting the court. We shouldn’t waste time.”
24
“I’m Fulvius.”
The Roman was in his late forties and a mountain of a man. Sure, there were also one or two pounds of excess fat on his massive body, but Dahms was not fooled. Fulvius was with about six feet height someone he didn’t want to struggle with. Dahms wasn’t a weak man. But the Roman was as wide as tall, with broad shoulders and apparently aware of his power, visible in the way he moved. His hands were like shovels, torn and scarred by hard work, and his legs sticking out under the loose tunic looked like tree trunks. Dahms took a while to get used to the fact that pants were not popular, although not unknown, and certainly not in the warm late summer of 378.
Dahms gave Fulvius his hand, and he grabbed it without hesitation. The grip was firm and strong.
“Navarch Renna said that I should sit down with you. I’m a messenger of the city guilds. I represent the artisans. I myself have been a blacksmith for over 25 years. I own the largest forge in the city, I have 22 men working for me, and I own two factories outside the city walls, which I run for the Empire.”
Dahms now knew enough about the organization of the Empire to guess that Fulvius was actually the owner of the forge, but the factories were used for weapons production, established by order of the emperor. In any case, he was the right man, if he had some knowledge of the other crafts as well. The artisans of Rome were organized into guilds and were subject to increasingly restrictive legislation that allowed sons no choice but to take up their father’s profession in order to prevent bottlenecks due to too many individual preferences for specific trades. Rheinberg had told him that this had been part of the legislative reforms introduced in order to ensure in particular the supply of the army. No one had to explain to Dahms that this benefit was ultimately bought with large losses in productivity. It was another thing they had to change when the Empire should be preserved in the long term.
Later.
“I’m glad to meet you,” the naval engineer returned the greeting. The intense lessons with Volkert and Neumann had at least significantly improved his knowledge of Greek, and Fulvius seemed to be just as familiar with this language like with Latin. “Please, follow me!”
Dahms led the man down the hatchways into the belly of the Saarbrücken. The almost reverent silence of the craftsman said it all. As they entered the engine room and stood in front of one of the impressive steam boilers, Fulvius’ mouth stood open. Dahms sat and gave the man some time to absorb all the impressions. To give explanations now would be wasted effort. It was a plus that the expansion engines were running idly at low pressure to be ready to leave the port if needed. By this he could offer Fulvius the full spectacle.
He looked into his face after the Roman sat down heavily beside Dahms.
“No magic, my friend,” said the engineer. “I’m the same like you, a kind of blacksmith. A better blacksmith only in the sense that my teachers have had more to teach than yours, but I stood at the bench, and I swung the hammer like you. No magic.”
Fulvius wiped the sweat from his brow.
“This is depressing and overwhelming,” he finally blurted out, and could not keep his eyes shut. They seemed intended to absorb every technical detail. “But it’s a machine. No doubt about it. A machine.” He now looked Dahms directly. “You built it?”
“No,” laughed the engineer. “I couldn’t do this alone. I have neither designed nor built it. I just make sure it works, and therefore I have to understand how it functions.”
Fulvius nodded sympathetically. “But you could build one given that you would have the necessary men?”
“Yes, I could. And that’s one of the reasons why my trierarch has asked the navarch to establish contact with you.”
The eager glint of barely restrained enthusiasm in Fulvius’ eyes spoke volumes. Just as Aurelius Africanus couldn’t be removed from the bridge of the Saarbrücken, the blacksmith’s interest burned intensely, almost in every meaning of the word. Over 1500 years separated them, but Dahms immediately felt a deep kinship between himself and this man, acting as they were both cut from the same wood.
No, Dahms involuntarily corrected himself. Hammered out of
the same metal would be more adequate to say.
“Say, Dahms. Ask me what you wanna know!”
The men smiled at each other, each false formality was gone. The smell of sweat, oil and steam impregnated the air. A member of the coaling-crew came in, the face smeared, the upper body completely naked and sweaty, the wild chest hair sealed with grease on his skin. Johann Meyer was more than just a man shoveling coal; he had been a journeyman to become a blacksmith in civilian life. Dahms waved him to join.
“Fulvius, this is Johann, a blacksmith like you.”
Unfortunately, Latin lessons so far yielded little success with Johann, who was otherwise a quite gifted young man. He raised a hand in a somewhat helpless greeting. When Fulvius seized his hand and the two men silently began to measure their strength, a wide grin flashed across their faces.
“We’ll get along,” said the Roman, when Johann got up and went to work. “No magic, Dahms. This man looks like me, when I have been a young apprentice of my father’s. Mages look different.”
“Even though I sometimes wished I could conjure a little magic when all the problems occur at once.”
“Yes, I know. So, again: What do you need?”
Dahms took a deep breath. “I cannot list everything and much of it you might not understand without lengthy explanation.”
Fulvius accepted this without being offended. The panorama in the engine room had convinced him that he had a lot to learn.
“It’d be nice if you could show me what you can, then I can tell you what I need,” Dahms said.
Fulvius grinned. “As if that would make things easier. I’ve heard rumors that your ship will leave soon. Otherwise I would suggest that you join me with some of your men, and I’ll give you a tour of Ravenna – with visits to all the guilds, the great workshops and such. There you could see all sorts of work pieces and ask questions. We would certainly make progress.”
“Yes, that’s true. Unfortunately, I cannot do such a thing currently, because I have to keep myself ready for departure. But the Saravica won’t be gone for long.”
The Emporers Men Page 20