To be the closest confidant of Liberius of Ravenna helped in all this. When the messenger from Milan had retired and the old archbishop humbly contemplated the message of Ambrosius with obvious confusion, Petronius just waited to be asked for advice.
Liberius was old, in fact not far away from his very final days. He was without doubt a pious man of high standing and with a firm faith, even if he, as his adviser silently thought, confronted the heresy of the Arians with too much indulgence and a mild manner, a behavior Petronius explained with the advanced age of the Archbishop. In addition, Liberius was in worldly things … the word that Petronius preferred not to use was “helpless.” Liberius loved the early hours of prayer he celebrated despite his age, embraced profound worship and he knew the scriptures like no other. He was well educated, spoke and read Hebrew beside Greek and knew many of the scriptures in the original text. Ambrosius, himself a highly educated man, had a long and fruitful relationship with Liberius and learned from his knowledge, and so a very good connection had been established between the men quite early. Petronius respected the high education of his master, but he knew that the message from the Bishop of Milan would lead to puzzlement within the old man.
So the inevitable happened.
“Petronius, my friend,” groaned Liberius, waving the parchment in the air. “What am I supposed to think? The city senate has assured me that the aliens are neither risk nor threat, and that they have freed the area from the scourge of bloodthirsty pirates. I heard the senate considered all this and left dealing with them to Navarch Renna, and they intend to ask for the Emperor’s word on the matter, which seems like a wise counsel. Now why this sudden interest of my brother Ambrosius?”
Petronius put quite a bit of acting talent in a facial expression of deep contemplation before answering. “Your Eminence, I don’t presume to be able to follow the thoughts and reflections of our brother in every case. Between him and me are worlds, and as much as I take after him, so far I’m still beneath him. Still, if I may say this: Ambrosius has always been able to focus special attention to a problem that has later proven to be worrisome, and he acted accordingly.”
“Hmm, probably true, probably true,” murmured Liberius. “But my brother has never lost his secret passion for politics, and it seems to me that he has once again succumbed to temptation.”
Petronius had to control himself in order to act righteously surprised by this sudden brainstorm of his bishop. He reminded himself not to underestimate the old man too much. Complacency, he told himself, should be on the list of deadly sins, and would make number eight easily.
“Quite right,” he said submissively and inclined his head. “I think there has to be someone in the church who at least sometimes pays attention to these horrible but necessary worldly affairs. As long as the Empire and the church are divided between those of the true faith and the heretics of Arianism, no man of god can disconnect himself from secular considerations completely.”
“Yeah, well, maybe,” muttered Liberius. He hated to talk about this topic. He was very convinced of the Trinitarian doctrine, but at the same time reluctant to oppose the heresy with all the necessary power, which sometimes also required sacrifices. He probably assumed that the Arians would eventually die out by themselves, a view that couldn’t be further from the truth as strong Arian bishops dominated the east of the Empire. Petronius was convinced that a good dose of fire and iron should be used against all the enemies of the Church – Arians included – but was careful not to say this too loudly. The ear of Liberius was a valuable asset, it was important not to unnecessarily put this at risk.
The old bishop sighed. “Petronius, you go and take care of this. I charge you with this task. You’ll report to Ambrosius; you will know what is important and what is not. For me this is all too much, and you have my trust. Go, take this burden from me.”
Petronius hid a smile of triumph behind a deep bow, as he left the audience room of his bishop, the letter of Ambrosius held tightly to his body.
He wasn’t going to miss this wonderful chance of making himself known. Liberius was old, and would retire or die. The flock of Ravenna would have to choose a successor in a few years. The word of the bishop of Milan, should he make a recommendation, had great weight in Ravenna.
Petronius smiled as he hastily left the seat of his Lord and approached the harbor.
Bishop Petronius.
Yes, that was something.
28
The crossing was uneventful. The sea was calm, the Saarbrücken progressed without problems. Rheinberg stood on the bridge when the landline of Spalato, or Salano, as it was called during the Roman era, emerged on the horizon. Diocletian, the great reforming Emperor, who had made the last comprehensive albeit flawed effort to reorganize the Empire in order to secure its boundaries, had built a palace here. In his own time in the future, as Rheinberg recalled, this palace had transformed itself into the entire old town. Diocletian had intended to build this gigantic building as a place of retirement. In the assumption that the Empire was put in order by his efforts, he left it divided into equal parts for his sons. Immediately after the resignation of their father from his office, they had nothing better to do than to fight each other. Diocletion remained to be the only Roman emperor who ever had abdicated voluntarily. But he was forced to intervene as an arbitrator for several times. The system created by him eventually fell apart and it was Constantine, called the Great, who ultimately reintroduced complete autocracy. Diocletian also failed in his determined and brutal persecution of Christians and couldn’t stop the rise of the new religion, so that ultimately his successor Galerius proclaimed the famous edict by which the existence of Christianity was in fact recognized and which often was wrongly attributed to Galerius’ co-emperor Constantine.
The edict was still in force, and if Rheinberg couldn’t change history, Gratian would lift it in a few years – although to very specific ends: As a prelude to the pursuit of heretical Christian movements and the complete suppression of all other religions which would lead to civil strife, a struggle that would weaken Rome massively, and this at a time where the Empire couldn’t afford this kind of infighting and the associated loss of substantial resources.
The list of challenges seemed to grow longer and longer each time Rheinberg thought about it. He’d have to try to handle one problem after another. And at first he had to prove his usefulness for the emperor.
When the Saarbrücken sailed into the harbor of Salano, curiosity was high. The residents of the city gathered at the harbor wall and stared in amazement, but not without fear, at the mighty ship, which came in very slowly. The first thing after the cruiser was moored was for Africanus and the two tribunes to disembark. The fact that Roman officers left the ship seemed to soothe the anxieties of at least the port authorities, and as senators and their servants went ashore, armed with letters of recommendation and orders, the fearful amazement turned more into something like a carnival atmosphere.
For the crew of the cruiser, there was no time to lose. Even before the falling dusk, Becker ordered his people to heave chassis and body of the truck to the pier where mechanics immediately began to assemble. Port guards and infantrymen Becker secured a wide circle around the landing site, but generally behaved passively. If the port guards were nervous about the presence of the strange, foreign soldiers, they couldn’t show it. The collaboration seemed to function fairly well.
When it got dark, the truck was assembled and ready to go. Rheinberg ordered to keep him guarded until the next morning and to retain the valuable cargo on board. In addition to the equipment of the infantry a box of 10,000 Goldmark would accompany them. Gold was in short supply in the Empire, no matter in what form it was coined. Rome was chronically broke, especially the West, and it didn’t hurt to take some change along, as Neumann had sarcastically remarked.
Rheinberg and Becker shared their cabin alternately so that everyone theoretically got five hours of sleep. Practically, both lay awake
most of the time. Too many things had to be considered in order to prepare for too many contingencies. Ultimately, both realized independently that it made no sense to consider all possible developments in advance. It was simply not possible to mentally prepare for everything – or even to imagine what could happen.
It was no wonder that all were awake early. At 6 o’clock in the morning, the infantry was ready to leave. Sergeants barked commands, and the proper formation for a long march was taken. The port guards as well as any early observer of the ceremony were neither impressed nor surprised: if one army in this world could march in formation, it was the Roman one. Rheinberg had to admit that the field-gray infantrymen behaved not half as impressive with their backpacks and rifles slung compared to a similar Roman formation.
The truck was loaded quickly. In addition to the gold and three MG 08 in the load, one machine gun was set ready to fire on the roof of the truck. All sorts of other stuff as well as ammunition completed the equipment. Becker, who had slept the second half of the night, joined Rheinberg yawning. The captain of the Saarbrücken would provide the naval contingent together with Neumann and Köhler. The cruiser remained under the command of second Officer Joergensen and would return to Ravenna after two days – another condition laid down by Renna. A sailing-ship of the Roman fleet would arrive in Salano soon and break the news of their eventual return to Ravenna, once they arrived back in Diocletian’s cozy place of retirement
If they returned here. If all went well – and it was strange to speak of it as something good – the Emperor would send his new ally into battle against the Goths. Rheinberg was quite confident that they would eventually come back to the Saarbrücken. But he wasn’t sure how many would return.
“You sit with the driver, Jan,” Becker mumbled as he watched his officers and NCOs counting the infantrymen before the march began. “You can doze off a little. I will march with my men the first few hours, which is good for morale. Also, I have a feeling that the time on your luxury cruise ship has made me a little rusty.”
“Thank you,” sighed Rheinberg, stifling a yawn. “I won’t turn down the offer. Also, I certainly don’t tell you anything new when I say that marching isn’t part of everyday life within the navy.”
Becker smiled. “Yes, it’s good for once that real soldiers call the shots.”
Rheinberg sat next to the driver, a very young corporal, and shook his head. The young man nodded hesitantly.
“Corporal?”
“Maszcak, Captain.”
“Good. Just ignore me.”
The young soldier looked at him as if he couldn’t imagine exactly how he could accomplish this, but nodded again and started the engine. The truck awoke to life with a roar. Soldiers of the port watch as well as spectators jumped aside with startled faces as a gray-blue plume hovered over the pier.
Rheinberg heard Becker’s order to march. The captain had made it clear that he would obey Rheinberg’s commands in all matters of fundamental importance, like political issues and overall strategy, but had asked not to be questioned in regard to everything that had to do with military matters on the ground. Rheinberg had agreed without hesitation. His infantry training had been a while. This was Becker’s profession.
The truck jerked loose when Maszcak released the clutch. The shouting was great once the vehicle began to follow the two tribunes and Aurelius, who rode on horses ahead. The animals reacted visibly nervous in the presence of the unknown and frightening vehicle, but the riders had them reasonably under control.
Behind them, someone broke into a marching song. Rheinberg wanted to close his eyes, but he was curious about the Palace of Diocletian, the city Salano and everything else that was there to see. He had to learn to get used to this time and even thought to change to one of the spare horses during the journey. After all, he had learned to ride quite early, as it was expected of a cavalry officer’s son.
His gaze fell through the windshield of the car, wobbling after the horse before him. He looked at the tribune sitting on the animal and riding it slowly and frowned, pulled out a notebook in which he had grown accustomed to note sudden ideas. He set the pencil down and wrote only one word: Stirrup.
“Captain?”
Rheinberg hadn’t noticed that he had voiced the word aloud. He put the notebook away and smiled at the corporal.
“Look yourself, Maszcak. No stirrups.”
The driver frowned.
“You can’t ride?” asked Rheinberg.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“It is essential. You’ll have to learn it.”
Rheinberg listened to the chatter of the truck’s engine. “To refine gasoline will present us with considerable problems.”
From the corner of his eye he saw how the corporal shifted restlessly back and forth in his seat as if he wanted to say something but wouldn’t dare. Rheinberg frowned. He knew the common soldier had been trained to have one hell of respect for officers, but too much respect didn’t help him here in the Roman Empire. He was dependent on the knowledge of everyone. And everyone had to be aware of it.
“You know, Corporal, what happens when we all keep our mouth shut with our proposals and ideas?” he asked abruptly.
“Um … I …”
“If no one dares to address one of the officers about something he has learned or just came to his mind, to simply express an idea or make a suggestion – no matter whether it actually makes sense at the moment or not?”
“Well, I don’t know …”
“Exactly. That’s the problem. I don’t and no one else does. And then we may have a problem and a solution, but both don’t know each other, because the one who could make the connection doesn’t feel like talking. This affects us all. I need each and every idea. And what we can’t do now, maybe later we can.”
Rheinberg showed Maszczak his notebook.
“This is my memory, Corporal. I have just written down that the Roman cavalry knows no stirrups. Stirrups secure the rider in the saddle. He can more easily swing his sword, he can push a lance and hurl it free, he can control his horse better. He could fire a rifle or a musket and throw grenades. Without stirrups this would be difficult. So what do we need to improve the Roman cavalry?”
“Stirrups.”
“Exactly. And when do we need them?”
Masczak shrugged.
“Exactly. I don’t know either. But I wrote it down. And as soon as the opportunity arises, I’ll conjure the idea up from my notebook. And now it’s your turn!”
The corporal was pale and focused on the road. But there wasn’t much that called for his attention: The road was free, legionaries guarded the track, and the speed of the truck was barely faster than the brisk marching Becker had ordered. Enough opportunity to think about other things.
“Well … Captain, what you did you say about gasoline, well, that isn’t true.”
“Explain!”
“My father works at Opel in the machine design-shop. He once told me that the first engines were run with salad oil. I mean … our truck swallows diesel, but I guess …”
Rheinberg squinted. “Who among the crew can know more about this? We don’t have a fucking chemist among us. And our library also won’t give up too much.”
The corporal shrugged. “I can’t say, Captain. I just had an idea. Probably not much help.”
But Rheinberg had already opened his notebook and scribbled something into it eagerly. When he had closed it again, he nodded to the driver.
“It’ll not help us now maybe, that’s true. But it may in the future. And if you or one of your comrades have a good idea – you tell me or Captain Becker. We have an open ear. We listen to everything and there are no stupid ideas – only those that we can’t use now. Tell that to every comrade, everyone who seems to have something of an idea just on the edge of his mind and maybe doesn’t dare to express it.”
The corporal nodded hesitantly.
“You promised me, Maszczak.”
The driv
er cleared his throat.
“Yes, Captain.”
Then he stared back on the road, as if at any moment the Roman pavement might explode in their way.
Rheinberg smiled and leaned back.
They made slow but steady progress. While the morning sun climbed up the sky, more onlookers accompanied the marching column. Rheinberg saw faces in which curiosity struggled with fear. He looked at stony expressions and at parents who ushered their kids off the street, priests in long robes, who kept clutching their cross. He saw young men who got bright eyes at the sight of the truck, and artisans, squinting their eyes at the slowly turning wheels with their tires, like they’d be able with no more than mere inspection to improve their own designs. It was all remarkably quiet, and whether it was the fact that many were intimidated by the noise of the diesel engine, or just didn’t know if they should applaud or express their fear, couldn’t be seen from the cab of the truck. But the range of emotions and reactions observed by Rheinberg gave him cause for optimism as well as fear. He noticed, beyond the protective hull of the Saarbrücken, just how much he needed the help of the local authorities, and how little their superior technology meant out here.
After two hours, they had left the town and followed a good road toward Sirmium. Traffic on the road was slight – a few horsemen, a few carts, a few pedestrians – and they all respectfully gave way as the column approached. After three-and-a-half hours of moderate march, Becker ordered a break. The men sat on the grass by the roadside. The captain had deliberately chosen an area where only a lonely farm was discernible from far. Thus, the safety of soldiers was easier to ensure.
Rheinberg left the cab groaning. When he joined Becker and Africanus, who were talking quietly, the infantry captain handed him a metal cup of coffee.
The Emporers Men Page 22