by David Drake
She scrambled back outside, ducking.
Behind her, John's bellow:
"Eusebius—you idiot! Didn't I tell you to put out the slowmatch?"
"Forgot," came the mutter.
"Outside of having the memory of an olive, he's really been a great help," said John later. He took a thoughtful sip of wine. "Chemistry isn't really my strong point. Eusebius has a knack for it like nobody I've ever seen."
"Better hire someone to keep track of what he's supposed to remember, then," said Antonina, smiling.
John set his cup down on the table firmly. Planted his hands on the table, firmly. Squared his shoulders, firmly.
"We can't afford it, Antonina," he said. Firmly. "There's no point dancing about the matter." Scowl. "Procopius has been rubbing his hands with glee for a week, now. Ever since he got here ahead of you and went over the books." Fierce scowl. "He can't wait to tell you, the swine. I've gone through the money. All of it. Not a solidus left. Not one." Very fierce scowl. "And Sittas—fat cheapskate!—won't cough up anything more. He denounced me for a spendthrift the last time I asked."
Antonina's smile didn't fade.
"How many times have you hit him up?"
Sullenly: "Eight. Well—seven. Successfully."
"Congratulations!" she laughed. "That's a record. No one else has ever squeezed money out of him more than twice in a row, so far as I know."
John's smile was very thin.
"It's not really a joke, Antonina. We can't go any further without money, and I don't know where it's going to come from. I can't get anything from Cassian, either. The Bishop's got his own problems. Patriarch Ephraim's been on a rampage lately, howling about church funds being misspent. His deacons have been crawling all over Anthony like fleas on a dog. They even counted his personal silverware."
"What's the matter?" sneered Antonina. "Are Ephraim's silk robes wearing out?"
There was a bit more humor in John's smile, now. Just a bit.
"Not that I've noticed. Hard to keep track, of course, all the robes he's got. No, I think maybe he's peeved because he doesn't have as many pounds of gold on the rings of his left hand as he does on the right. Makes him list when he promenades through the streets of Antioch, blessing the poor."
The naval officer snorted, sighed. He cast a glance around the room. They were sitting in the main salon of the villa, at a table in the corner. "I'd suggest selling one of your marvelous tapestries," he muttered, "except—"
"We don't have any."
"Precisely."
Antonina's smile turned into a very cheerful grin. She shook her head.
"I should stop teasing you. I'm ashamed of myself. The fact is, my dear John, that money is no longer a problem. I have acquired a new financial backer for our project."
She reached down and hauled up a sack. Hauled. The table clumped when she set it down.
John's eyes widened. Antonina, still grinning, seized the bottom of the sack and upended it. A small torrent of gold coins spilled across the table.
"Freshly minted, I hope you notice," she said gaily.
John ogled the pile. It was not the coins themselves which held his gaze, however. It was his knowledge of what lay behind them.
Power. Raw power.
Since the reign of the emperors Valentinian and Valens, gold coin—the solidus, inaugurated by Constantine the Great, which had been Rome's stable currency for two centuries—were minted very exclusively.
There were many legal mints in the Roman Empire. Big ones, in Thessalonica and Nicomedia, and a number of small ones in other cities. But they were restricted to issuing silver and copper coinage. By law, only the emperor minted gold coin. In Constantinople, at the Great Palace itself.
"You told Theodora," he stated.
Antonina nodded.
"Was that wise?" he asked. There was no accusation in the question, simply curiosity.
Antonina shrugged. "I think so. Under the circumstances, I didn't have much choice. I became deeply embroiled in imperial intrigue while I was in Constantinople. The reason Irene didn't come back with me is because she's now—in fact if not in theory—Theodora's spymaster."
John eyed her with deep interest.
"Malwa?"
"Yes. They're developing some kind of treacherous plot, John. So far all we know is—" She broke off. "Never mind. It's a long tale, and I don't want to have to tell it twice in the same day. Anthony, Michael and Sittas will be coming for dinner tonight. Maurice and Hermogenes will be there, too. They're also both involved, now. I'll explain everything then."
She reached out a hand and began scooping the coins back into the sack. "Anyway, I think telling Theodora was necessary. And the right thing to do, for that matter. We'll know soon enough. She'll be coming here later this summer. For a full tour of the project."
"What?" cried John. "This summer?" He leapt to his feet. Waved his arms angrily. "Impossible! Impossible! I won't have anything ready by then! Impossible!" He began stumping back and forth furiously. "Crazed women! No sense of reality—none at all. Impossible. The gunpowder's still too unpredictable. The grenades are untested. Rockets aren't even that!"
Stump, stump, stump.
"Lunatic females. Think chemistry's like baking bread. There's something wrong with the way the powder burns, I know there is. Need to experiment with different ways of mixing the stuff."
Stump, stump, stump.
"Idiot girls. Maybe grind it, if I can figure out how to do it without blowing myself up. Maybe wet it first, that's an idea. What the hell, can't hurt."
Stump, stump, stump.
"Hell it can't! That moron Eusebius could blow up anything. Blow up a frigging pile of cow dung, you don't watch him. Careless as a woman."
Stump, stump, stump.
The early hours of the evening, before and during the meal, were primarily devoted to Procopius. It was not difficult. From months of practice, Antonina had developed the craft of Procopius-baiting to a fine art.
In truth, her expertise was largely wasted. By now, Procopius was so well-trained that literally anything would serve the purpose. Like a yoked and blinkered mule pulling a capstan, he could see nothing before him but the well-trod path. Antonina had but to remark on a fine horse—Procopius would scribble on the infamy of bestialism. Chat with a peasant housewife—a treatise on the ancient sin of Sappho was the sure result. Place her son in her lap—ah! splendid!—Procopius would burn his lamp through the night, producing a veritable treatise on pedophilia and incest.
So, her sultry glances at the men about the table, her veiled remarks, her giddy laughter, her sly innuendos—even the joke about four soldiers and a pair of holy men being more than any woman could handle at one sitting—giggle, giggle—were a complete waste of effort. She could have been alone at the table, in the cold light of dawn, eating her meal in silence. By mid-morning, Procopius would be assuring anyone who listened that the harlot masturbated at breakfast.
Soon enough, Procopius left the table and retired to his chamber. There was no need for Antonina to send him away on some pretext. The man was fairly bursting with anxiety to reach his quill.
"God, I am sick of that man," snarled Sittas. For a moment, the general looked like he was going to spit out his wine. But only for a moment. He reconsidered, swallowed, poured himself a new goblet.
"Is this absolutely necessary?" growled Michael of Macedonia.
Antonina made a face. But before she could reply, Bishop Cassian spoke. Harshly:
"Yes, Michael, it is. That foul creature—though he's too stupid to know it—is Malwa's chief spy on Antonina. He's the aqueduct which brings them the water of knowledge. Except that Antonina has seen to it that the aqueduct is actually a sewer, piping nothing but filth into their reservoirs." He smiled. It was quite a wicked smile, actually, for a bishop. Almost devilish. "We're not having a meeting here, plotting against Malwa. We're having an orgy!"
Then, with a sly smile: "Is it your reputation which frets you so?
"
The Macedonian glared. "All reputation is folly," he pronounced. "Folly—"
"—fed by pride, which is worse still," concluded the Bishop. His smile widened. "Really, Michael, you must develop a broader repertoire of proverbs."
Antonina cleared her throat.
"As I was saying . . ."
"You weren't saying anything, Antonina," pointed out Cassian reasonably. "So I saw no reason not to idle away the time by a harmless—"
"Stop picking on Michael," grumbled Maurice. "He's done wonders with the local lads, and their wives and parents. Even the village elders aren't howling louder than a medium-sized storm at sea."
"Well, of course he has!" exclaimed Cassian cheerfully. "He's a holy man. Must be good for something."
Antonina headed off the gathering storm.
"Tell me, Michael," she said forcefully. "What is your assessment? Michael?"
The Macedonian broke off his (quite futile) attempt to glower down the bishop.
"Excuse me, Antonina? I didn't catch that."
"The peasants," she stated. "What is your assessment?"
Michael waved his hand. It was not an airy gesture. Rather the opposite. So might a stone punctuate solidity.
"There will be no problem. None."
"More than that," added Maurice. "A good number of them, I think, would jump at the chance to join a new regiment." He eyed John of Rhodes. "Assuming there's something for them to do beside drive sheep at the enemy."
John didn't rise to the bait.
"Stop worrying, Maurice. You get your new regiment put together, I'll have weapons for them. Grenades, at the very least."
"No rockets?" asked Hermogenes.
John winced. "Wouldn't count on it. The damned things are trickier to make than I thought." He drained his cup, poured himself another. Then, grumbling:
"The problem, actually, isn't making them. I've got a good twenty rockets piled up in the workshed. Every one of them'll fly, too, and blow up quite spectacularly. The problem is that there's no telling where."
Another wince. "I had one rocket—this is the bare truth—the damned thing actually flew in a circle and almost took our heads off."
"How do the Malwa aim them?" asked Sittas. "There must be a way."
John shrugged. "I don't know. I've tried everything I can think of. Fired them through tubes. Put vanes on them—even feathers! Nothing works. Some go more or less straight, most don't, and I can't for the life of me figure out any rhyme or reason behind it."
Maurice slapped the table with the flat of his hand. "So let's not worry about it," he urged. "When the general gets back from India—"
"If—" murmured John.
"—when he gets back," drove on Maurice, "I'm sure he'll be able to tell us the secret of aiming rockets. In the meantime, let's stick to grenades. Those'll be more than enough to keep a new regiment of peasant recruits busy."
"Maurice has an idea," announced Sittas. The general beamed. "Marvelous idea, I think! And you know me—I generally look on new ideas about the same way I look on cow dung."
"What is it?" asked Antonina.
Maurice rubbed his scalp. The gesture was one of his few affectations. The hair on that scalp was iron grey, but it was still as full as it had been when he was a boy.
"I got to thinking. The problem with grenades is that you want to be able to heave them a fair distance before they blow up. Then, you face a tradeoff between distance and effectiveness. A man with a good arm can toss a grenade fairly far—but only if it's so small it doesn't do much good when it lands. If he tries to throw a big grenade, he has to get well within bow range to do it." The veteran shrugged. "Under most battle conditions, my cataphracts would turn him into a pincushion before he got off more than one. I have to assume that the enemy could do as well. Persians could, for sure."
"So what's your solution?" asked John. "Scorpions?"
Maurice shook his head. "No. Mind you, I'm all for developing grenade artillery. Wouldn't be hard at all to adapt a stone-throwing scorpion for that purpose. But that's artillery. Fine in its place, but it's no substitute for infantry."
Hermogenes smiled. He was one of the few modern Roman generals who specialized in infantry warfare. Belisarius himself had groomed the young officer, and urged him in that direction.
"Or cavalry," grumbled Sittas. This general, on the other hand, was passionately devoted to the cataphract traditions.
"Forget cavalry," said Maurice. "These lads are peasants pure and simple, Sittas. Syrian peasants, to boot. Thracian and Illyrian peasants have some familiarity with horses, but these boys have none at all. You know as well as I do they'd never make decent horsemen. Not in the time we've got."
Sittas nodded, quite magnanimously. The honor of the cavalry having been sustained, he would not argue the point further.
"And that's the key," stated Maurice. "I tried to figure out the best way to combine Syrian peasants and grenades, starting with the strengths and limitations of both. The answer was obvious."
Silence. John exploded.
"Well—out with it, then!"
"Slings. And slingstaffs."
John frowned. "Slings?" He started to argue—more out of ingrained habit than anything else—but fell silent.
"Hmm." He quaffed his wine. "Hmm."
Antonina grinned. "What's the matter, John? Don't tell me you haven't got an instant opinion?"
The naval officer grimaced.
"Alas—no. Truth is, much as I hate to admit it, I don't know anything about slings. Never use the silly things in naval combat."
"You wouldn't call them silly things if you'd ever faced Balearic slingers on a battlefield," growled Maurice. Hermogenes and Sittas nodded vigorously.
"But these aren't Balearic slingers, Maurice," demurred Antonina. "The islanders are famous—have been for centuries. These are just farm boys."
Maurice shrugged. "So what? Every one of those peasants—especially the shepherds—has been using a sling since he was a boy. Sure, they're not professionals like the Balearic islanders, but that doesn't matter for our needs. The only real difference between a Balearic mercenary slinger and a peasant lad is accuracy. That matters when you're slinging iron bullets. It doesn't—not much, anyway—when you're hurling grenades."
John started to get excited, then. "You know—you're right! How far could one of these Syrian boys toss a grenade?"
Maurice fluttered the stubby fingers of one thick hand.
"Depends. Show me the grenade you're talking about, and I'll give you a close answer. Roughly? As far as an average archer, with a sling. With a slingstaff, as far as a cataphract or a Persian."
"Cavalry'd make mincemeat out of them," stated Sittas.
Maurice nodded. "Alone, yes. Good cavalry, anyway, that didn't panic at the first barrage. They'd rout the grenade slingers—"
"Call them grenadiers," interjected John. "Got more dignity."
"Grenadiers, then." He paused, ruminated; then: "Grenadiers. I like that!"
Hermogenes nodded vigorously.
"A special name'll give the men morale," the young general stated. "I like it too. In fact, I think it's essential."
Sittas mused: "So we'll need cavalry on the flanks—"
"Need a solid infantry bulwark, too," interjected Hermogenes.
Maurice nodded. "Yes, that too. There's nothing magical about grenades. In the right combination—used the right way—"
Hermogenes: "A phalanx, maybe."
Sittas: "Damned nonsense! Phalanxes are as obsolete as eating on a couch. No, no, Hermogenes, it's the old republican maniples you want to look at. I think—"
Bishop Cassian turned to Antonina.
"May I suggest we leave these gentlemen to their play, my dear? I predict that within a minute the discussion will be too technical for us to follow, anyway. And I'm dying to hear all about your exploits in Constantinople."
Antonina rose, smiling. "Let's repair to the salon, then."
She
looked at Michael.
"Will you join us?"
The monk shook his head.
"I suspect that your own discussion with Anthony will soon be as technical as that of these gentlemen," he said ruefully. "I'm afraid that I would be of no more use in plotting palace intrigues than I am in calculating military tactics and formations."
Sittas happened to overhear the remark.
"What's the matter, Michael?" A teasing grin came to his face. "Surely you're not suggesting that the eternal soul has no place in the mundane world?"
