“Agreed,” said Cneius Afranius. “Our new Rome, met here on board the Batavia, invests Cinna with the dignity of Dictator.”
“I accept your jest as of good augury,” replied Nerva. “Our new Rome is indeed in the hour of its birth, and it is our part to see that it shall thrive and grow. Good! Now, Dictator, summon the troops.”
Cinna’s orders were soon issued. All the oarsmen were armed; those who were rowing, as well as those who were resting below till their turn came at the oars. Nor did the trireme lose ground while these preparations were being made; a sword and a small round shield were laid at the feet of each rower, without stopping him in his pull; they could not yet give up all hope of escape. If it became hopeless, the rowers were to cease at the word of command, to rest till the enemy was close upon them, and then pull again till the Charybdis was within grappling range. At the instant when the enemy’s boarding-planks were thrust across over the grappling-hooks,[72] the men were to seize their arms and await the commands of Ulpius Trajanus, who would lead them on deck.
Nerva himself, stepping from bench to bench, issued these instructions to the rowers. Dimly lighted by the ruddy gleam of a flickering lamp and by the twilight of dawn, the tall, majestic figure, with long silver hair, made a singular impression on the crew.
These men, who sat and steadily dipped their oars, were for the most part of Teutonic origin, natives of the Rhine provinces and the north-east of Germany—rough and primitive creatures, hardly understanding the Latin tongue—indeed Magus had to interpret to them their illustrious commander’s orders. But one thing they perfectly understood, their beloved master, Caius Aurelius, was in the utmost peril, and the proud but gentle old man, who passed down their ranks, was a friend of Aurelius and a partner in his danger. This was enough. They glanced down at the weapons, and were almost glad to think their strength would be tested at some other toil than pulling their oars. And then it was for Caius Aurelius! Was there in all the Roman Empire a knight, who treated his people with so much kindness—nay, with so much friendliness? What a jolly time they had just spent at Ostia! The long voyage from Trajectum, to be sure, had been a severe pull, but how handsomely he had rewarded them, and what perfect liberty they had enjoyed while the Batavia lay at anchor. Well, he took after his worthy father—stern when duty was to be attended to, but, though strict, never hard; open-handed, and never without a kind thought for the humblest of his slaves. That was what the old merchant had been, and his son was the same....
While the rowers were indulging in these reflections and expressing their views in whispers, the men off duty were posted ready for action on the forepart of the deck, with Cornelius Cinna himself at their head. He desired the Batavian to remain with the ship’s servants in the cabins till the moment of attack. Nerva—and this was unanimously agreed to by all the conspirators—in consideration of his advanced age—was entreated to remain in the hold of the vessel, till the battle was decided. But the old man stoutly refused; he still had vigor enough, he said, to wield a blade, and a man was never too old to die for freedom by the side of brave comrades. So Cocceius Nerva was told off to the division under Aurelius—only as a private soldier, for he positively refused to command. Cneius Afranius and the old, one-armed centurion took their places by Cinna, somewhat as his adjutants or lieutenants.
All this time they had rowed steadily ahead. To the east, over Latium, it grew lighter every minute. The elaborate rigging of the imperial trireme was now distinctly visible, for its sails, like those of the Batavia, were close-reefed, the wind being contrary. The three ranks of oars on each side rose and fell like broad black wings. There was no longer any doubt. She was gaining on them. Her oarsmen outnumbered those of the Batavia, not by twenty only, but by thirty or more. Aurelius measured with his eye the fast diminishing distance between them, not without a feeling of apprehension. On board both vessels there was absolute silence; nothing broke the stillness of the dawn but the splash of the oars’ blades in the water and the hammer-strokes of the time-keepers. Not another vessel was to be seen on the calm lead-colored waste. In all this vast and desert expanse the only living thing was that embodiment of stealthy and vindictive hatred!...
It was a ghastly thought, and he shivered.
Another quarter of an hour went by, and the most persistently hopeful could no longer dream of escape. Cornelius Cinna gave the word; the Batavia turned round and the oars ceased to lash the waves. The Charybdis immediately slackened her tremendous speed, evidently in order to put on a final spurt for a killing thrust She came nearer and nearer, till within about three hundred paces. Then the rowers suddenly fell to with all their force; the ship made a half-turn and rushed with furious might on the Batavia, which was lying still. But Chrysostomus, her steersman, was an experienced seaman. With five or six strokes she turned sharply round, and the Charybdis shot by, close to along-side but harmless.
She turned back at once; the Batavia was again lying to in watchful expectation, her gleaming rostrum threatening the foe, and the Charybdis was not far enough off to repeat her attack with any effect. She now took another line of action. She pulled slowly and peacefully to within a speaking distance of the Batavia. The city-prefect’s captain came to the bulwarks with the ship’s commander and roared out to them, in the tone of a conqueror, to give up their useless resistance and return to Antium.