Destiny's shield

in fact, as no tubby sailing ship ever was-they reminded the Syrian gunners of so many gigantic wasps, ready to strike in an instant.

Long, narrow-deadly.

By the time the Theodora was halfway to the dromons, the gunners had the cannons loaded and ready to fire. They were very familiar with the process, now, due to the relentless training exercises which Eusebius had insisted upon during the weeks of their voyage.

They had resented those exercises, at the time. The Theodora's gunners were all volunteers from the Theodoran Cohort. When the posts had been opened, the bidding had been fierce. Most of the Syrian grenadiers had wanted those prestigious jobs. Prestigious and, they had all assumed, easy-certainly compared to the work of toting grenades and handcannons under the hot sun of Egypt. Lounging about on a ship, never walking more than a few steps-what could be better?

They had soon learned otherwise. Within a week of setting sail from Rhodes, they had become the butt of the Cohort's jokes. The rest of the grenadiers had lolled against the rails of their transports, watching while the gunners were put through their drills. Watching and grinning, day after day, as the gunners sweated under the Mediterranean sun. Not as hot as Egypt's, that sun, but it was hot enough. Especially for men and women who practiced hauling brass cannons to the gunports, lugging ammunition and shot forward from the hold, loading the guns, firing them-and, then, doing it all over again. Time after time, hour after hour, day after day. All of it under the watchful eye of a man who, by temperament, would have made an excellent monk. The kind of monk who vigilantly oversees the work of other monks, copying page after page of manuscript, alert for every misstroke of the quill, every errant drop of ink.

A fussy man. A prim man, for all his youth. A nag, a scold, a worrywart. Just the sort of man to drive peasant borderers half-insane.

Now, as they stood by their guns, the Syrian gunners gave silent thanks for Eusebius. And took comfort from his presence. The young twit was a pain in the ass, sure-but he was their pain in the ass.

'Knows his shit, Eusebius does,' announced one.

'Best cannon-man alive,' agreed another.

Suddenly, one of the wives laughed and cried out, 'Let's hear it for Eusebius! Come on! Let's hear it!'

Her call was taken up. An instant later, the entire contingent of gunners was shouting: 'EUSEBIUS! EUSEBIUS! EUSEBIUS!'

Startled by the cheers, Eusebius stiffened. He knew that a commanding officer was supposed to give a speech on such occasions. A ringing peroration.

Eusebius was no more capable of ringing perorations than a mouse was of flying. So, after a moment, he simply waved his hand and smiled. Quite shyly, like the awkward young misfit he had been all his life.

The smile was answered by grins on the faces of the Syrians. They were not disappointed by his silence. They knew the man well.

Their overseer. Their pain in the ass.

Above, on the poop deck, John of Rhodes smiled also.

Not a shy, awkward smile, this. No, not at all. John of Rhodes was neither shy nor awkward nor a misfit. True, his former naval career had been shipwrecked by his incorrigible womanizing. But he had been universally recognized by his fellow officers-except, perhaps, those whose wives he had seduced-as the Roman navy's finest ship captain.

He knew a fighting crew when he saw one. And now, understanding that Eusebius would give no ringing peroration-could give none-John made good the lack.

In his own way, of course. Pericles would have been aghast.

'Gunners! Valiant men and women of the Theo-doran Cohort!'

He leaned over the rail, pointing dramatically at the seven dromons some three hundred yards distant.

'Those sorry bastards are fucked! Fucked!'

A loud and boisterous cheer went up from the gunners and their wives. Then, coming from far off, John heard a faint echo. Puzzled, he turned and stared at the causeway leading to the Pharos.

The causeway was now lined with people. He could see more and more running down the Heptastadium, coming from Alexandria. Residents of the city, he realized. The news had spread, and Alexandria's people were pouring out to watch the show.

Alexandria's poor people, to be precise. Even at the distance, John could see that the men, women and children on the causeway were dressed in simple clothing. Alexandria's busy harbor area was surrounded by slums. It was the occupants of those tenement buildings who had first gotten the word and were packing the Heptastadium and, he could now see, every other vantage point overlooking the Great Harbor and the sea.

He grinned. 'Our people, those.'

Aboard her flagship, Antonina came to the same conclusion. She had come out of her cabin as soon as the four captured officers had been securely bound and gagged. Hearing the distant cheers, she studied the crowd lining the Heptastadium. Then, walked over to the starboard rail and stared at the dromon rolling in the waves not far from her ship. After disembarking the four envoys, the dromon had withdrawn some thirty yards and positioned itself facing her flagship. The oar banks were poised and ready for action. At the moment, they were simply being used to keep the dromon in position. But it was obvious to Antonina that the dromon would be able to ram her on an instant's notice.

She would not give them that instant.

She turned her head and called out for Euphronius. The commander of the Theodoran Cohort immediately trotted over.

Antonina gestured toward the nearby dromon with her head. 'I want that ship obliterated. Can you do it?'

The young Syrian officer eyed the dromon. A quick glance, no more. 'At that range? Easily. Won't even need to use slings.'

'Do it,' she commanded. As Euphronius began to turn away, she restrained him with a hand.

'I want a hammer blow, Euphronius. Not just a few grenades. If that dromon can get up to ramming speed, it'll punch a hole right through the side of this ship.'

Euphronius nodded. A moment later, using gestures and a hissing whisper, he was assembling his grenadiers amidships. The grenadiers, Antonina saw, would be invisible to the seamen manning the low-lying dromon until they appeared at the rail itself, tossing their grenades.

Hermogenes came out of the cabin. Seeing the activity amidships, he hurried to her side.

'You're not going to give them any warning?' he asked. 'Call on them to surrender?'

Antonina shook her head.

'I don't dare. That dromon's too close. If they have a warning, they might be able to ram us before the grenades do their work. And if they get close enough, the grenades'll pose a danger to us.'

Thoughtfully, Hermogenes nodded. 'Good point.' He stared out at the nearby warship. He could see several officers standing in the bow of the dromon. They were close enough for their expressions to be quite visible.

Frowns. They were worried. Wondering what had happened to their envoys. Beginning to get suspicious.

'Fuck 'em, then,' growled Hermogenes.

Antonina heard a low hiss. Turning, she saw that Euphronius had his grenadiers ready. At least three dozen of them were poised, grenades in hand. Their wives stood immediately behind them, ready to light the fuses. The fuses had been cut very short.

Casually, she gestured with her hand held waist-high, waving the grenadiers forward.

Do it.

The wives lit the fuses. The Syrians charged for the rail, shouting their battle slogan.

'For the Empire! The Empire!'

The officers on the dromon stiffened, hearing the sudden outcry. One of them opened his mouth. To shout an order, presumably. But his jaw simply dropped when he saw the mob of grenadiers appearing at the rail of the taller