The Emperor Page 12

  “We stay in position. I have to talk to someone over there. I want to know what’s going on with Rheinberg and our people.”

  The mate nodded. “But they’ll take you prisoner if …”

  “Just a moment!” Joergensen stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. Someone had stepped on the wharf, brandishing a white flag, a sign unknown to the Roman army. Then two more men appeared, also with white cloths in their hands. They ran purposefully toward an area, where still some undamaged rowboats lay.

  “That’s Renna!” The officer finally said with a mixture of relief and surprise in his voice. “Two of our men, too!”

  Börnsen nodded, pleased he had recognized the men as well. Joergensen left the bridge, beckoned to Klose, and gestured in the direction of the three comrades who were working on a rowboat. “Drop the ladder, over here!” he shouted to the corporal, who responded immediately. Impatiently, they waited until the three men had rowed over to the Saarbrücken, watching attentively at the quay wall, in case a foolish legionary would be willing to attack the unprotected oarsmen. But nothing happened, and moments later the Navarch and two crewmen climbed aboard. Joergensen recognized the two immediately: There were gunners of the cruiser, and that only they accompanied the Romans was certainly no coincidence but a planned improvement in the operational readiness of the cruiser.

  “You’ve managed all right!” Renna noted, glancing down at the slowly growing number of exhausted shipwrecked Romans lying on the deck of the cruiser.

  “What about Rheinberg?”

  The Navarch lost no time and quickly described what had happened during the race. He concluded with the words: “Rheinberg is safely trapped in the palace, with about half of our men. The other half are hidden in the city, but since you’ve so successfully decimated and demoralized the palace guard, they’re probably won’t be looking for us.”

  “How do we free everyone?”

  “I don’t know. But they will be used as hostages against us.”

  Joergensen grimly pointed to the cannons of the Saarbrücken. “We can take the whole damn city hostage!”

  “Yes, but I don’t think they’ll trust us to make such a threat,” Renna replied. “Rheinberg – all of you – have behaved much too … morally. Even the slaughter you’ve initiated right now hit mostly legionaries and only a few civilians.”

  Joergensen was relieved to hear that. He had hoped that after the first shelling of the crane, civilians would get the message and flee. Apparently he had calculated correctly. “That’s one of the few situations in which a good reputation is detrimental,” he explained jokingly, but Renna only nodded gravely. “So we’ll have to negotiate.”

  “I volunteer,” Renna said immediately.

  Joergensen trusted the man but didn’t know how to tell him that he would feel better if one of the time-wanderers also accompanied him on his mission. He missed the eloquent and shrewd doctor of the Saarbrücken, who was still somewhere in Africa. Neumann would be someone he would like to have entrusted with this task.

  Renna seemed to interpret the restraint of his ally correctly. “We invite the other side into the harbor, directly on a leftover piece of the wharf, so that you can participate undisturbed and security is reasonably assured. The men of the traitor Modestus are nowhere in the city safe from the cannons, and they should know that.”

  “I don’t think so,” Joergensen said. “We deliberately reduced the buildings nearby to rubble and ashes. Intellectually, those who are familiar with the skills of the Saarbrücken may already know that the range of the cannons is considerable – especially if they know what we have done in Thessaloniki. But that is not comparable to one’s own, direct experience. That’s why … we were forced to demonstrate this properly.”

  Joergensen made a waving gesture on the rubble in the harbor basin. Still, shipwrecked people were taken out of the water, but their numbers had already decreased noticeably, and that was not always because of the rescue effort.

  “How do we send a message to Modestus?” he asked Renna, noticing the Roman’s gaze concentrating on one part of the harbor. He followed with his own eyes and saw that his question had just been answered. A delegation of four men wandered along the rubble, apparently unarmed, and while three wore uniforms of legionaries, one had wore a plain toga. It took a moment for Joergensen to get close enough to the railing of the Saarbrücken, then he saw them waving to the cruiser.

  Renna pointed to the man in the toga. “This is Pallatius, the private secretary of Modestus.”

  Joergensen gave orders. The rowing boat, with which Renna had arrived, was put into operation again, this time manned by four crew members of the Saarbrücken. After about twenty minutes, the delegation, led by Pallatius, had arrived on the steel deck. The four visitors looked around with wide eyes. Joergensen gave them a few moments. It didn’t hurt to impress the Secretary properly.

  Then the man bowed. He was of advanced age, with greyish-white hair on the back of his head. His haggard face seemed controlled, and he made an intelligent impression. His voice was pleasant, almost gentle, as he began to speak. “My lord, the Praetorian Prefect Modestus offers you his greeting and sends his best wishes.”

  Joergensen smiled sourly. A massive attack with legionaries suggested what exactly the “best wishes” of Modestus had been. He left it to Renna to give an answer that met the mutual need for formalities.

  “Can we talk in a more private environment?” Pallatius asked. He waved to his three companions. “These are staying here, of course.”

  Joergensen saw this as an advance of trust and gladly accepted it. He and Renna led the secretary into the captain’s cabin, where they sat at the folded-down table. Joergensen closed the iron door, which undoubtedly gave sufficient impression of privacy, for Pallatius dropped any cover of courtesy.

  “Trierarch Joergensen, Rheinberg and half of your men are in our custody. After you have done my Lord a great favor, we want to talk about their release – and about Constantinople officially standing on the side of Theodosius.”

  Renna blinked. Joergensen was also confused, but he tried not to show it. “A big favor?”

  “You’ve either decimated or demoralized the loyal soldiers of certain fanatical elements in the city’s leadership. That has broadened the scope for action of my Lord. Here, this is for you.” Pallatius took something from under his toga.

  Joergensen reached for it. It was a parchment scroll. He opened it and gave Renna a meaningful look. “It’s from Rheinberg.”

  A few moments went by in which Joergensen dealt with what had been discussed between Rheinberg and Modestus and took note of the written orders of his superior. Pallatius waited patiently. He looked expectantly at Joergensen, as he laid down the letter. This time it was visibly more difficult for the German to hide his astonishment.

  “You know the contents of this letter?” Joergensen asked Pallatius.

  “I don’t know your language, time-wanderer. But the Prefect informed me of what he had agreed with Rheinberg.”

  Joergensen took a few minutes to bring Renna up to date as well. He seemed astonished at the turn of events, then angry.

  “That means, in plain language, that we did the dirty work for Modestus,” Renna said.

  “That means, above all, that we have eliminated or weakened enemies of the Empire, and that there is a good chance of teaching Maximus a severe and comprehensive defeat in the East,” Joergensen said firmly. Without waiting for another reaction from the visibly outraged Renna, he turned back to Pallatius. “My master’s letter contains clear orders that I intend to carry out. Renna, I want you to show the people who are hiding along the way to the harbor so they can man the ships properly. Then I’ll pick out a part of the troop that we will send out to free Modestus’ family. As I’ve heard, Rheinberg also will name a few candidates out of the prisoners who are officially still in the hands of the Prefect. We want to act as quickly and decisively as we can.”

  Renna just nodded. He
didn’t quite agree with the way things went, but he was intelligent enough to immediately implement Rheinberg’s easy-to-follow instructions. He knew that there would be plenty of time for discussion afterwards, and Joergensen expected Renna to take old Modestus down when it was time – or not, if he’d also realized that the Praetorian Prefect hadn’t had a better way out of his own predicament. Joergensen admired the old man for his dangerous maneuvers, which ultimately endangered his family. But that might just be a matter of opinion for a Roman politician, who was used to have blood on his hand.

  Pallatius had more information from his master, especially a meeting point where Joergensen should send his part of the liberation force. This fit well with Rheinberg’s letter, so that the commander of the Saarbrücken came to the conviction that the project had been planned by trustworthy men.

  Renna left the cruiser shortly thereafter to return to the city. Pallatius, however, offered to stay aboard the Saarbrücken, in order to offer the support of his authority to stop further attacks on the time-wanderers. Although he assumed that Maximus loyalists’ clout was no longer a threat for the massive resistance of the Imperial cannons – less quantitative, but more morally, since most of the legionaries would probably simply refuse to serve as cannon fodder again. Surely enough of the men had escaped, so that even uninvolved comrades could now be made familiar with the horrors of the failed attack in vivid colors. Any fanatical or courageous officer would have a hard time getting the discipline that was needed to launch another attack.

  Nevertheless, the crews of the four ships didn’t return to the quay walls and the sea for a moment. Eyes armed with binoculars searched carefully and consistently for all possible accesses. With some concern, Joergensen looked at the breaking night that a particularly determined officer might possibly use for a new attempt. But the ships themselves were lit up by lamps and torches, and at least the immediate vicinity of the harbor was also under surveillance. There would not be a real surprise attack. And if the Saarbrücken would only start firing light fixtures that would make the night to day – Joergensen could well imagine what psychological effect this would have on potential attackers.

  All in all, he was confident. And his spirits rose when, in the early evening, led by Renna, the escaped crew members and families of the four ships gathered at the harbor, apparently undisturbed by enemy attacks or anything else. To ensure their shipment to the flotilla, they were rowed for a hectic hour with everything that could still hold itself on the water. When the arrivals were scattered on the ships, there was an almost happy mood, only marred by the uncertain fate of those who were still in captivity.

  But that, Joergensen was sure, would soon change.

  20

  Ambrosius looked down at the man. He didn’t look like a sinner or a heretic, as far as anyone could see that from the outside. The priest’s robe was without any peculiarities, in his eyes blazed no fire and drooling in front of the mouth was completely lacking. Eusebius looked just like a normal man, and the gentle trembling of his limbs had mostly to do with both his excitement and the tight fetters he wore.

  Ambrosius sat behind a wide desk, to his right Petronius, to his left Asarius, an ambassador of the Bishop of Rome. In addition, there were two legionaries in the unadorned room who had presented Eusebius and followed the spectacle with the most stoic serenity possible.

  The bishop of Milan leaned forward. “Eusebius,” he said in a gentle voice. “Things have changed.”

  The man looked defiantly, even reproachfully, at Ambrosius. “I noticed that.” He imperceptibly raised his handcuffed hands, not as an aggressive gesture, but as an accusation.

  The Bishop gestured dismissively. “I can have your shackles removed quickly. It’s just a matter of completing certain formalities.”

  Eusebius’s body tightened. His eyes were filled with suspicious expression. “I know what you mean, Bishop,” he said firmly.

  “There are phases in the development of every human being,” Ambrosius mused, “in which you have to go inside your mind and explore yourself. It is important to find out if you were not mistaken in certain things – a stubborn, perhaps a beloved mistake that is certainly difficult to let go. But God is kind; he gives everyone the chance to return to the right path.”

  “This has very little to do with God,” Eusebius suggested. “This is about politics.”

  Ambrosius twisted his crooked face into a mask of grief. He shook his head like while talking to a naughty child. “No, it’s not politics. It’s the search for the truth that drives me, my friend.”

  “Then just keep looking, Bishop. I found it for my part.”

  Ambrosius’ eyes narrowed to slits. He heard Petronius sigh softly next to him and knew what bothered the man. This session would take a little longer, there was no doubt about it.

  Eusebius didn’t allow the men to speak. He pushed his chin forward and stood upright, looking up in the air as he said in a nearly monotone voice: “God alone is the Father. He created the world with his word. Jesus is His son. He is limited in time, knowledge and insight, because only the Father, God alone, is omniscient, omnipotent and everywhere.” His eyes focused on Ambrosius, who had been listening with a stony expression. “I don’t doubt the exalted position of Jesus at the side of the Lord, I don’t doubt that from his mouth, in true and direct divine inspiration, words of truth and wisdom, valid doctrines have come upon us. But Jesus only shared in God, he is not God but creature. Nothing and no one is like the Father, not even His own son.” Eusebius took a deep breath.

  Ambrosius could not help paying tribute to him. The priest had fairly well represented the Arianic creed in a few words, in all its heretical elements, in its dumb falseness based on pagan ideas adopted by the Greek philosophers. As catchy, as logical as it might sound, it contradicted the certain truth that the Trinity alone described the nature of God in a way human insight could properly describe.

  There was nothing to be done about that.

  Eusebius was an educated man, well-respected in society. Never in his life had he raised his hand against anyone, was a peaceful scholar, a pillar of his community. Although Ambrosius felt anger within him, he decided to try it one last time. He leaned forward and, for a moment, measured the priest with paternal sternness. “Eusebius, my friend. I have great respect for people who stand up for their beliefs. I know what it’s like when things happen that contradict your own views.”

  His counterpart made a disparaging face. “Bishop, you now have the opportunity to avenge yourself on those responsible. I can say that I have never attacked a Trinitarian or disputed his conviction. I was glad when the Edict of Tolerance was not only confirmed but also extended to the different beliefs in Christendom. I can live with the fact that there are Trinitarians. But you, Bishop, obviously cannot stand that Arians also exist.”

  Ambrosius saw the priest lure him into dangerous shallows, and his respect for the man grew. He forced himself to smile. “I tolerate you very well, Eusebius, and also those who are with you. However, I cannot bear that the Empire, in which the establishment of the state church is about to be completed, is brought into a situation in which external enemies can exploit internal discord for their own purposes. Look at the Goths, who just recently pushed the East to the brink of collapse. Arians, all, if not pagans.”

  “Arians whose homeland has been stolen by real heathens, the Huns, and who have been exploited and betrayed by their Christian brethren, after barely arriving here,” Eusebius replied with complete calm. It seemed as if he didn’t want to be provoked, which greatly annoyed Ambrosius. Inciting anger in someone usually also meant that this person started to make mistakes and to express attitudes that could be used against him. Eusebius was intelligent, eloquent and unfortunately also very much in self-control.

  Regrettable.

  Ambrosius exchanged a quick glance with Petronius, who wrote the protocol and had so far only laid down a few meager sentences. The priest shrugged a little helplessly. Th
e Bishop of Milan saw no other alternative than to embark on the path that was at the same time the easiest and the least convincing. He had to rely on the Emperor’s given orders.

  “Eusebius, there is a definite policy by Maximus, and you should know that too,” he said with a slightly sour look on his face. “The Emperor wishes for unity in Christendom, a strong state church, a union of Empire and faith, which both promotes our salvation and ensures that we meet our external and internal enemies with united strength.”

  Ambrosius wondered if his words sounded as hollow in Eusebius’ ears as they did in his own. He wiped away the thought and continued talking before the other man could reply.

  “Arians are now given the choice, and it is a sign of the Emperor’s grace as well as his endeavor to put an end to the bloodshed. He opens the door for you, he spreads his arms. Renounce the Arian way, revert to the Trinitarian creed, and acknowledge the spiritual guidance of the Bishop of Rome, and you shall be forgiven. You remain priest in your church, and you can continue to perform all your duties and services, enjoy tax exemption and all the privileges, as well as the general protection and favor of the Empire.”

  Eusebius had listened attentively and nodded. Finally, when Ambrosius looked at him invitingly, he frowned as if something was missing. “To complete the promise, Bishop, the appropriate threat is still missing.”

  Ambrosius had hoped that would be self-evident, and despised Eusebius for forcing him to pronounce the inevitable aloud – perhaps because deep within him, somewhere, a voice said that in all this was a fundamental injustice, a contradiction that Ambrosius didn’t want to accept or that he ultimately considered secondary. “Otherwise you’re going to die, Eusebius,” he said simply.