by Eric Flint
Eusebius did not bother to look up. Preoccupied with helping a guncrew lay their cannon, he simply waved a hand in acknowledgement.
Finally, satisfied with the work, he looked up at the enemy. Already they were crossing the bows of the three warships who had peeled off to intercept them. The nearest of those ships was two hundred yards away—much too far to be able to get into ramming position, even given the greater speed of the dromons.
Eusebius turned his attention to the other four ships. The nearest of those was still three hundred yards distant. Estimating the combined speed, Eusebius decided they would be within firing range in less than two minutes.
"Fire on my command!" As always, Eusebius tried to copy John of Rhodes' commanding bellow. As always, the result was more of a screech. But he had been heard by all the gunners, nonetheless.
Again, he screeched:
"No broadside! Fire each cannon as it bears! On my command!"
He scurried forward to the lead cannon. For a moment, he almost pushed the chief gunner aside. Then, restraining himself, he took a position looking over his shoulder. Sighting, with the chief gunner, down the barrel of the cannon.
Two hundred and fifty yards, now.
Two hundred.
They would cross the nearest dromon's bow with a hundred yards to spare. Good range.
Eusebius blocked everything from his mind but the dromon looming ahead. As near-sighted as he was, the ship was not much more than a blur. But it didn't matter. His decision would be based on relative motion, not acute perception.
He and the chief gunner moved aside, so as not to get caught by the cannon's recoil. The effort did not distract Eusebius' attention in the least.
The moment came. He tapped the chief gunner lightly on top of his leather helmet.
"Fire," he said, quite softly.
The cannon roared. Bucked; recoiled. A cloud of gunsmoke hid the target.
But Eusebius wasn't looking at the target, anyway. He was scampering down the line to the next cannon. By the time he got there, the chief gunner had already stepped aside, clearing a space for the cannon's recoil.
He gave a quick, myopic look. Again, all he saw was a blur. Relative motion, relative motion—all that mattered.
He tapped the chief gunner's helmet. "Fire."
Down the line; next cannon.
Blur. Relative motion; relative motion. Tap. Fire.
Down the line; next cannon.
Blur. Relative motion; relative motion. Tap. Fire.
Down the line; next cannon.
Blur.
Blur.
No motion.
He looked up, squinting. Suddenly, the noise around him registered. Cheers. Syrian gunners cheering. Syrian wives shrieking triumph. And then, above it all, John of Rhodes' powerful bellow.
"Oh, beautiful! Great work, Eusebius! She's nothing but a pile of kindling!"
The chief gunner of the last cannon in line was grinning up at him. "That dromon is still floating," he said. "You want I should smash it up?"
Eusebius shook his head. "No, save it. There's more of them."
He squinted. Everything was a blur. He thought he could make out two ships clustered together, but—
Years later, the young artificer would look back on that moment and decide that was when he finally grew up. All his life he had been sensitive about his terrible eyesight. Yet, too proud—too shy, also—to ask for help.
Finally, he did.
"I can't see very well, chief gunner," he admitted. "Am I right? Are the next two ships lying alongside each other?"
The Syrian's grin widened. "That they are, sir. Bastards almost collided, shying away from the gunfire. They did get their oars tangled."
Eusebius nodded. Then, straightened up and screeched: "Gunners! Are the cannons re-loaded?"
Within seconds, a chorus of affirmative answers came.
Screech: "Prepare for a broadside! Aim for those two ships! Fire on my command!"
He leaned over, whispering, "Help me out, chief gunner. Tell me when you think—"
"Be just a bit, sir. Captain John's bringing the ship around to bear. Just a bit, just a bit."
The Syrian studied the enemy. Two dromons, a hundred yards away, just now getting their oars untangled. A fat, juicy target.
He tapped Eusebius on the knee. "Do it now, sir," he murmured.
Immediately Eusebius screeched:
"Fire! All cannons fire! All cannons—"
The rest was lost in the broadside's roar.
When the smoke cleared away, a new round of cheers went up. True, the broadside had not inflicted as much damage as the earlier single-gun fire had done to the first dromon. It hardly mattered. The rams of war galleys were braced and buttressed, but the hulls of the ships themselves were made of thin planking for the sake of speed. Those hulls had never been designed to resist the impact of five-inch diameter marble cannonballs.
One of the warships had been holed in the bow. Not enough to sink it, but more than enough to send it scuttling painfully back to shore.
As for the other—
The bow was badly battered, though not holed. But one cannonball, by sheer good luck, must have caught the portside bank of oars just as they were lifting from the water. Many of those oars were shattered. What was worse, the impact had sent the oarbutts flailing about in the interior of the galley, hammering dozens of rowers like so many giant mallets. Objectively speaking, the warship was still combat-capable. But its crew had had more than enough of these terrible weird weapons. That dromon, too, began heading for the Great Harbor, yawing badly with only half a bank of oars on one side.
On the poop deck, John was bellowing new commands. The four ships which had been heading for Antonina's flagship were effectively destroyed—one sinking, two fleeing, and the last floundering about with indecision. Antonina could handle that one on her own. John had his own problem, now.
The Rhodian brought the ship around to face the three dromons which had tried to intercept him earlier. The war galleys had chased after him and, with their superior speed, were rapidly approaching.
Not rapidly enough. By the time they got within range, John had brought the ship's port side to bear—with its five unfired cannons and fresh guncrews.
Eusebius was already there, prepared. John was a bit puzzled to see that the artificer had brought one of the chief gunners from the starboard battery along with him. He saw Eusebius and the man confer, briefly. Then, Eusebius' unmistakeable screech:
"Broadside! On my command!"
John smiled. As he often had before, he found the young artificer's boyish voice comical. But, this time, there was not a trace of condescension in that smile.
Comical, yes. Pathetic, no.
Again, he saw Eusebius and the chief gunner's heads bobbing in urgent discourse. The three dro-mons were two hundred yards away, their oarbanks flashing, their deadly rams aimed directly at the Theodora.
Again, the screech: "Fire! All cannons fire! All—"
Lost in the roar. A cloud of smoke, obscuring the enemy.
Screech: "Reload! Reload! Quick! Quick!"
John watched the guncrews racing through the drill. He gave silent thanks for the endless hours of practice that Eusebius had forced through over the Syrians' bitter complaints.
They weren't complaining, now. Oh, no, not at all. Just racing through the drill. Shouting their slogan:
"For the Empire! The Empire!"
The smoke cleared enough for John to see the enemy. The three dromons were only fifty yards away, now. He flinched. No way to stop them from ramming.
Except—
Their forward motion had stopped, he realized. None of the ships were sinking, true. Only one of them, judging from appearance, had even suffered significant hull damage. Still, the shock had been enough to throw the rowers off their stroke. The men on those galleys were completely unprepared for the sound and fury of a cannon broadside. Instead of driving forward in the terrifying concent
ration of a war galley's ramming maneuver, the dromons were simply drifting.
Again, the screech: "Fire! All cannons—"
Lost in the roar. Cloud of smoke. Enemy invisible.
John leaned over the rail, ready to order—
No need. Eusebius was already doing it.
Screech: "Cannister! Cannister! Load with cannister!"
The smoke cleared. Enough, at least, for John to see.
One dromon was sinking. Another had been battered badly. It was still afloat, but totally out of control. Yawing aside, now, its deadly ram aiming at nothing but the empty Mediterranean.
But the third ship was still coming in. Not driving for a ram, however, so much as clawing forward with broken oars and wounded rowers. Desperately seeking to grapple. Anything to get away from that horrible hail of destruction.
No use. John could see Eusebius at the middle cannon, fussing over the guncrew. The dromon was only ten yards away—close enough for the artificer's myopic eyes.
John saw Eusebius tap the gunner on his helmet. He saw his lips move, but couldn't hear the words.
An instant later, the cannon belched smoke. Cannister swept the length of the dromon like a scythe.
John of Rhodes was, in no sense, a squeamish man. But he could not help flinching at the sheer brutality which that round of cannister inflicted on the dromon's crew. Firing at point-blank range at a mass of men seated side-by-side on oarbanks—one oarbank lined up after another—
He shuddered. Saw Eusebius scamper down to the next cannon in line. Aim. Tap the gunner's helmet.
Another roar. Another round of cannister savaged the dromon. Blood everywhere.
Eusebius scampering. Aim. Tap. Fire.
It was sheer murder, now. Pure slaughter.
Eusebius scampering.
John leaned over, bellowing: "Enough, Eusebius! Enough!"
The artificer, his hand raised just above the next gunner's helmet, ready to tap, looked up. Squinted near-sightedly at the poop deck.
"Enough!" bellowed John.
Slowly, Eusebius straightened. Slowly, he walked to the rail and leaned over. Looked down into the hull of the dromon, which was now bumping gently against the Theodora's side. Studying—for the first time, really—his handiwork.
Under other circumstances, at another time, the artificer's Syrian gunners—country rubes, the lot of them, coarse fellows—would have derided him then. Mocked and jeered, ridiculed and sneered, at the sight of their commander Eusebius puking his guts into the sea.
But not that day. Not then. Instead, Syrian gunners and their wives slowly gathered around him, the gunners patting him awkwardly on the shoulder as he vomited. And then, after he straightened, a plump Syrian wife held the sobbing young man in a warm embrace, ignoring the tears which soaked her homespun country garments.
Above, on the poop deck, John sighed.
"Welcome to the club, lad. Murderers' row."
He raised his head, scanning the sea.
Victory. Total. Four ships and their crews destroyed. Three battered into a pulp. The only unscathed dromon racing away.
He looked toward Antonina's flagship.
"She's all yours, girl. Alexandria's yours for the taking."
Aboard her flagship, Antonina studied the situation. Studied the pulverized enemy fleet, first, with satisfaction. Studied the wildly cheering mob on the Heptastadium, next, with equal satisfaction.
Then, all satisfaction gone, she studied the city itself. Beyond the harbor, looming in the distance above the tenements and warehouses, she could see Pompey's Pillar. And, not far away, the enormous Church of St. Michael. The Caesareum, that edifice had been called, once—the temple of Caesar. Its two great obelisks still stood before it. But the huge pagan structure, with its famous girdle of silver-and-gold pictures and statues, was now given over to the worship of Christ.
And, of course, to the power of Christ's official spokesmen. The Patriarchs of Alexandria resided there, as they had for two hundred years. A hundred years after they took up residence, in the very street before the Church, a brilliant female teacher of philosophy named Hypatia had been stripped naked and beaten to death by a mob of religious fanatics.
"Fuck Alexandria," she hissed.
Chapter 29
SUPPARA
Autumn, 531 a.d.
By the end of the first hour, Kujulo was complaining.
"What a muck! Gives me fond memories of Venandakatra's palace. Dry. Clean."
Ahead of him, picking his way through the dense, water-soaked forest, Kungas snorted.
"We were there for six months. As I recall, you started complaining the first day. Too dull, you said. Boring. You didn't quit until we got pitched out of the palace to make room for the Empress' new guards."
Another Kushan, forcing his own way forward nearby, sneered:
"Then he started complaining about the new quarters. Too cramped, he said. Too drafty."
Kujulo grinned. "I'm just more discriminating than you peasants, that's all. Cattle, cattle. Munch their lives away, swiping flies with their tails. What—"
He broke off, muttering a curse, swiping at his own fly.
Ahead, Kungas saw the small party of guides come to a halt at a fork in the trail. The three young Maratha woodcutters conferred with each other quickly. Then one of them trotted back toward the column of Kushan soldiers slogging through the forest.
Watching, Kungas was impressed by the light and easy manner in which the woodcutter moved through the dense growth. The "trail" they had been following was nothing more than a convoluted, serpentine series of relatively-clear patches in the forest. The soil was soggy from weeks of heavy rain. The Kushans, encumbered with armor and gear, had made heavy going of the march.
When the woodcutter reached Kungas, he pointed back up the trail and said, "That is it. Just the other side of that line of trees begins the hill leading to the fortress. You can go either right or left. There are trails."
He stopped, staring at the strange-looking soldier standing in front of him. It was obvious that the woodcutter was more than a little afraid of Kungas.
Some of that fear was due to Kungas' appearance. The Maratha fishermen and woodcutters who inhabited the dense forest along the coast were isolated, for the most part, from the rest of India. Kushans, with their topknots and flat, steppe-harsh features, were quite unknown to them.
But most of the young man's apprehension was due to more rational considerations. The woodcutter had good reason to be wary. Poor people in India—poor people in most lands, for that matter—had long memories of the way soldiers generally treated such folk as they.
The woodcutters had agreed to guide the Kushans to the fortress for two reasons only.
First, money. Lots of money. A small fortune, by their standards.
Second, the magic name of the Empress Shakuntala. Even here, in the remote coastal forest, the word had spread.
Andhra lived, still. Still, the Satavahana dynasty survived.
For the woodcutter, Andhra was a misty, even semi-mythical notion. The Satavahanas, a name of legend rather than real life. Like most of India's poor, the woodcutter did not consider politics part of his daily existence. Certainly not imperial politics.
Yet—
The new Malwa rulers were beasts. Cruel and rapacious. Everyone knew it.
In truth, the woodcutter himself had no experience with the Malwa. Preoccupied with subjugating the Deccan, the Malwa had not bothered to send forces to the coast, except for seizing the port of Suppara. Isolated by the Western Ghats, the sea-lying forests were of little interest to the Malwa.
But the coast-dwellers were Maratha, and the tales had spread. Tales of Malwa savagery. Tales of Malwa greed and plunder. And, growing ever more legendary with the passing of time, tales of the serene and kindly rule of the Satavahanas.
In actual fact, the woodcutter—for that matter, the oldest great-grandfather of his village—had no personal memory of the methods of Satavaha
na sovereignity. The Satavahana dynasty had left the poor folk of the coast to their own devices. Which was exactly the way those fishermen and woodcutters liked their rulers. Far off, and absent-minded. Heard of, but never seen.
So, after much hesitation and haggling, the young woodcutters had agreed to guide Kungas and his men to the fortress. They had not inquired as to Kungas' purpose in seeking that fearsome place.
Their work was done. Now, the woodcutter waited apprehensively. Would he be paid the amount still owing, or—
Kungas was a hard, hard man. Hard as stone, in most ways. But he was in no sense cruel. So he was not even tempted to cheat the woodcutter, or toy with the man's fears. He simply dipped into his purse and handed over three small coins.
A huge smile lit up the woodcutter's face. He turned and waved at his two fellows, showing them the money.
Kungas almost smiled himself, then. The other two woodcutters, still waiting twenty yards up the trail, had obviously been ready to bolt into the forest at the first sign of treachery. Now, they trotted eagerly forward.
"And that's another thing," grumbled Kujulo. "I miss the trusting atmosphere of the Vile One's palace."
The Kushans who were close enough to hear him burst into laughter. Even Kungas grinned.
The noise startled the woodcutters. But then, seeing that the jest was not aimed at them, they relaxed.
Not much, of course. Within seconds, they were scampering down the trail toward their village ten miles away. Being very careful to skirt the five hundred Kushan soldiers coming up that trail.
Kungas strode forward.
"Let's take a look at this mighty fortress, shall we?"
Twenty minutes later, Kujulo was complaining again.
"I don't believe this shit. Those are guards? That's a fortress?"
Kungas and the five other Kushan troop leaders who were gathered alongside him, examining the fortress from a screen of trees, grunted their own contempt.
They were situated southeast of the fortress. The structure was perched on top of a small hill just before them. Two hundred feet tall, that hill, no more. On the other side of the hill, still invisible to the Kushans concealed within the trees, stretched the huge reaches of the ocean.
