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
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 concentration of a war galley's ramming maneuver, the dromons were simply drifting.
Again, the screech:
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.
It was sheer murder, now. Pure slaughter.
Eusebius scampering.
John leaned over, bellowing:
The artificer, his hand raised just above the next gunner's helmet, ready to tap, looked up. Squinted near- sightedly at the poop deck.
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
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.
