In the Heart of Darkness

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?'

The monk gazed on the general like a just-fed eagle gazes on a mouse. Current interest, mild.

'You and yours,' he said softly, 'will bring to the battle weapons and tactics. Antonina and Anthony, and theirs, will bring to the battle knowledge of the enemy. But in the end, Sittas, it will come to this. All the gifts you bring will be as nothing, unless the peasant boy to whom you give them has a soul which can face Satan in the storm.'

He rose.

'I will give you that peasant.'

On his way out, Michael bestowed a considering look upon Sittas. Like a just-fed eagle considers a mouse. Future prospects, excellent.

'Always a bad idea, baiting a holy man,' murmured Maurice.

'It's true,' he insisted, in the face of Sittas' glare. He drained his cup. 'Ask any peasant.'

The next morning, the two generals accompanied John of Rhodes out to the training field, eager to experiment with the grenades. Maurice was waiting there for them, with a dozen peasant volunteers. The Syrians were quite nervous, in the beginning. Even after their prowess at grenade-hurling earned them the praise of the generals, the young men were abashed in the company of such noble folk.

Soon enough, however, Michael of Macedonia made his appearance. He said nothing, neither to the generals nor to the peasants. But it was amusing, to Maurice, to watch the way in which the monk's presence transformed the Syrian boys. Into young eaglets, in the presence of giant mice.

By mid-afternoon, the eaglets were arguing freely with the giant mice.

Not over tactics, of course, or military formations. (Although the Syrians did have some valuable advice on the practical realities of slinging grenades. Most of it concerned the pragmatics of fuses, and their length.) The young men were not foolish. Uneducated and illiterate, yes. Stupid, no. They did not presume to understand the art of war better than such men as Sittas and Hermogenes. (Or, especially-they had their own peasant view of such things-Maurice.)

But they had quite strong opinions on the question of barracks, and the nature of military camps.

Their children would not like barracks, though they would probably enjoy the tent life of camps. Their wives would like neither, but would tolerate the camps. They were simple women. Practical.