Destiny's shield

ship.

He never said a word. Simply watched, agape, while the volley of grenades soared into the air. Then, along with all his fellow officers, crouched down and ducked.

He must have thought the objects coming his way were stones. He never learned the truth. The six grenades which landed in the bow blew him into fragments, along with the bow itself.

Grenade explosions savaged the dromon down its entire length. The warship's orientation-faced toward Antonina's flagship, with its ram forward-was the worst possible position in which to avoid a grenade volley. Some of the grenades missed the ship entirely, falling into the water on either side. But in most cases the grenadiers' aim was true. And if one grenadier threw farther than another, it simply spread the havoc. The dromon stretched almost a hundred feet from bow to stern. Most of the grenadiers were easily capable of throwing a grenade across the hundred feet of water which separated Antonina's ship from the target. Many of them could reach halfway down the length of the craft, and some could heave their grenades all the way into the dromon's stern.

The grenades landed almost simultaneously, and exploded within three seconds of each other. Dozens of bodies were hurled overboard. Precious few of the men who remained in the ship survived, and they, primarily in the stern. The middle of the warship, where at least a dozen grenades had landed in the midst of two hundred men, was a mass of blood and shredded pieces of flesh.

The warship's hull had been breached, badly-outright holes, or simply planks driven apart. The sea poured in, pulling the dromon under the waves. Some of the surviving sailors began diving off the stern. Others, not knowing how to swim, simply watched their death approach, too stunned to even cry out in despair.

Without turning her head, Antonina spoke to Hermogenes.

'Rescue the ones you can,' she commanded. 'Put them under guard in the hold.'

Antonina's eyes searched for the other dromons in the mouth of the harbor. The warships were stirring into motion. Already she could see the oar banks begin to flash. But, after a moment, she realized that only four of the dromons were heading toward her. The other three were moving to intercept the Theodora, bearing down on them from the northwest.

Trying to intercept the Theodora, that is to say. Even to Antonina's inexperienced eye, it was obvious that the gunship would pass across their bows with at least a hundred yards of searoom.

'I'm counting on you, John,' she murmured. 'Smash up some of those dromons for me.'

On the Theodora, John was issuing new orders.

'Ignore those three heading for us, Eusebius!' he bellowed. 'Concentrate your fire on the ones heading for Antonina!'

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