In the Heart of Darkness b-2

by Eric Flint

  Irene turned her head, looking to the south.

  "Sittas and Hermogenes should be in position at the Harbor of Hormisdas. I'd better leave now and tell them where your forces stand."

  Antonina nodded. Maurice ordered a squad of cataphracts to escort the spymaster.

  A commotion drew Antonina's attention.

  A mob of grenadiers and their wives were pouring out of the monastery's doors, heading toward her. All of them were staring at her, their faces full of worried concern.

  "You told them," she said to Maurice, accusingly.

  Maurice chuckled.

  "Told them? I sent ten cataphracts over here this morning, to regale them with the tale. Every last gruesome, gory, grisly great moment of it!"

  Antonina sighed with exasperation. Maurice edged his horse next to her. Leaning over-all humor gone-he whispered harshly: "Listen to me, girl, and listen well. You're at war, now, and you're the commander. A female commander-the first one in Roman history outside of ancient legends. You need all the confidence you can get from your soldiers. And they need it even more than you do."

  Antonina stared into his gray eyes. She had never noticed, before, how cold those eyes could be.

  "Do you think I'd let an opportunity like this pass?" he demanded. Then, with a harsh laugh: "God, now that it's over, I'm almost ready to thank Balban! What a gift he gave us!"

  He leaned back in his saddle. "Antonina, my toughest cataphracts are in awe of you. Not one in ten would have survived that ambush-unarmored, with no weapon but a dagger-and they know it. How do you think these Syrian peasants feel? Now-about their little woman commander?"

  It was obvious how the peasants felt. The grenadiers and their wives were surrounding Antonina, gazing up at her silently. Their expressions were easy to read. A mixture of sentiments: relief at her obvious well-being; fierce satisfaction in her victory; pride in their commander-and self-pride that she was their commander.

  Most of all-it was almost frightening to Antonina-was a sense of quasireligious adoration. The simple Syrians were gazing at her much as they might have gazed at a living saint.

  She was blessed by God's grace.

  Just as the prophet Michael had foretold.

  For a moment, Antonina felt herself shrink from that crushing responsibility.

  Then, drawing on the fierce will which had always been a part of her-since her girlhood in the hard streets of Alexandria-she drove all hesitation aside.

  "I am quite well," she assured her grenadiers loudly. She began dismounting from her horse, but immediately found a dozen hands were helping her down. The same hands then carried her toward the cathedral. Hurriedly, monks and priests appeared to open the great doors. Among them, she saw the plump figure of Bishop Cassian.

  As she was carried through the doors, her eyes met those of Anthony. He returned her smile, but his gaze was filled with concern.

  She was carried to the altar and set back on her feet. Turning, she saw that the grenadiers and their wives were rapidly pouring in behind. Within two minutes, the great cathedral was filled. All the Syrians stood there, silently, staring at her.

  Many years before, as a young woman, Antonina's mother had given her some brief training as an actress. In the event, Antonina had never pursued her mother's career, having found a different one which-though just as disreputable-was considerably more renumerative. But she still remembered the lessons. Not her mother's meager talents as a thespian, but her skills at projecting her voice.

  All the grenadiers in the room-as well as the cataphracts who had joined them-almost jumped. Such a small woman, to have such a great, powerful voice.

  I have little to say, my soldiers. My friends.

  Little needs to be said.

  Our enemies are gathering. You can see their bonfires. You can hear their coarse shouts of triumph.

  Do not fear them.

  They are nothing.

  Nothing.

  Assassins. Street thugs. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Pimps. Gamblers.

  Nothing.

  Nothing!

  She paused, waited. The grenadiers-one or two, at first-took up the chant. Softly, at first. Then, louder and louder.

  "Nothing. Nothing."

  We will shatter them back into their nothing. We will drive them back into their sewers.

  "Nothing! Nothing!"

  We will hound them into their burrows. We will follow them into their ratholes. We will savage them till they plead for mercy.

  "NOTHING! NOTHING!"

  There will be no mercy.

  For nothing, there is nothing.

  The shouts now shook the cathedral itself. Antonina pointed to the cataphracts. The shouts died away. The grenadiers listened to her with complete attention.

  Our plan is simple. The traitors are gathering their forces in the Hippodrome. We will go there. The cataphracts will lead the way, but we will be God's hammer.

  We will hammer nothing-into nothing.

  She strode forward, heading down the aisle. The grenadiers parted before her and then immediately closed behind. She moved through that little sea of humanity like a ship in full sail.

  As she reached the door, Anthony Cassian stepped forward. For a moment, she embraced her old friend.

  "May God be with me," she whispered.

  "Oh, I believe He is," replied the Bishop softly. "Trust me in this, Antonina." With a quirk of a smile: "I am quite a reputable theologian, you know."

  She returned his smile, kissed him on the cheek, and strode past.

  By now, a large crowd of onlookers had gathered in the street. Not even the glares of cataphracts could hold back their curiosity. But then, hearing the sound of many approaching horses-heavy, armored horses-the crowd eddied back, pressed against the houses and fences which lined the boulevard.

  Down that street, in a prancing trot, came two hundred cataphracts. The remainder of the Thracian bucellarii, returning from their own triumph.

  When the cataphracts reached the cathedral they drew to a halt. The cataphracts in the lead tossed the residue of their vengeance at Antonina's feet.

  Gasping and hissing, the crowd of bystanders plastered themselves against the walls. A few, timidity overcoming curiosity, scuttled hastily into the houses and fenced yards.

  Twenty or so severed heads, rolling in the street, can chill even the most avid onlooker.

  The grenadiers, on the other hand, seeing the grisly trophies, erupted with their own savage glee.

  " Nothing! Nothing! Nothing !"

  Antonina moved toward her horse. Maurice, with two cataphracts in tow, met her halfway.

  "Put these on," commanded Maurice. "I had them specially made."

  The cataphracts with him extended a cuirass and a helmet.

  "The helmet was easy," commented Maurice. "But the cuirass was a bit of a challenge for the armorer. He's not used to cleavage."

  Antonina smiled. With Maurice's help, she donned the unfamiliar equipment. The smile vanished. "This stuff is heavy."

  "Don't complain, girl. Just be thankful it's only half-armor. And be especially thankful that we're in Constantinople in the winter, instead of Syria in the summer."

  Antonina grimaced at the thought. Then, with a sly little smile:

  "Don't I get a sword, too?"

  Maurice shook his head.

  "I've got something better."

  He drew a scabbarded knife-a large and odd knife, judging from the sheath-and handed it to her.

  Antonina drew the blade out of the scabbard. She could not restrain a little gasp.

  "You recognize it, I see," said Maurice. His voice was full of satisfaction. "The shopkeeper drove a hard bargain for it, but I thought it was fitting."

  Antonina stared back and forth from Maurice to the cleaver.

  The hecatontarch's lips twisted into a grim smile.

  "Ask any veteran, Antonina. They'll all tell you there's nothing as important in a battle as having a trusty, tested blade."


  Suddenly, the feel of that simple cooking utensil in her hand filled Antonina with a great rush of confidence.

  "I do believe you're right, Maurice."

  She sensed, from the murmuring voices around her, that the cataphracts were passing the news to the grenadiers. Seconds later, the grenadiers began a new chant:

  "Cleave them! Cleave them!"

  With Maurice's help, she clambered into her saddle, suppressing a curse at the awkward weight of the helmet and armor. Once securely seated, she raised the butcher knife over her head, waving it.

  The grenadiers roared. The cataphracts joined their voices to the cry:

  " Nothing! Nothing !"

  Antonina suppressed a laugh.

  For all the world like a warrior of legend, waving a mystic sword of renown!

  Which, though she did not know it yet, she was; and which, to her everlasting surprise, that humble cleaver would become.

  Chapter 25

  When John of Rhodes saw the approaching dromon, he began cursing bitterly.

  Some of his curses were directed at Irene Macrembolitissa. The spymaster had not warned him that the traitorous General Aegidius had obtained a war galley to clear the way for his troop transports. John could already see the first of those transports, bearing the lead elements of the Army of Bithynia. Four of the tubby sailing ships were just now leaving the harbor at Chalcedon, heading across the Bosporus toward Constantinople.

  But most of his curses were aimed at life in general. He did not really blame Irene for the failure in intelligence. In all fairness, the spymaster could not be expected to know everything about their enemy.

  "That's just the way of it," he muttered. "War's always been a fickle bitch."

  "Excuse me?" asked Eusebius, looking up from his work. The young artificer's face seemed a bit green. He was obviously feeling ill at ease from the rocking motion of the galley. Especially since he was standing upon the fighting platform amidships, engaged in the delicate task of opening firebomb crates. The platform was elevated ten feet above the deck, which only accentuated the ship's unsteadiness.

  "Hurry it up, Eusebius," growled John of Rhodes. The naval officer pointed to starboard. "We're going to have to deal with that before we do anything else."

  Eusebius straightened, peering near-sightedly toward the war galley approaching from the south.

  "Oh, Christ," he muttered. "I can't see it very well, but-is that what I think it is?"

  John nodded gloomily.

  "Yeah, it's a dromon. A hundred fighting soldiers and at least a hundred and fifty rowers-good ones, too, judging from their speed. And they've already lowered the sails."

  Eusebius paled. Dromons were the fastest ships afloat-at least, during the period before their rowers tired-and by far the most maneuverable. Pure warships.

  John of Rhodes scampered down the ladder to the main deck and scurried aft, where he hastily began consulting with his steering officer. In his absence, Eusebius began unpacking another crate of firebombs. The artillerymen on the platform offered to help, but he refused their assistance. He was probably being too cautious-once the battle started, the artillerymen would have to do their own loading-but Eusebius knew better than anyone just how dangerous those bombs could be if they were accidentally ruptured.

  Besides, it gave him something to do besides worry.

  And there was a lot to worry about. Eusebius was no seaman, but he had picked up enough from John of Rhodes over the past months to understand the seriousness of their predicament.

  The artificer glanced at the two scorpions set up on the ship's fighting platform-the "wood-castle," as it was called. Then, more slowly, he studied the ship itself.

  It was not a happy study.

  A full-sized dromon, like the one approaching them, had a crew of two to three hundred men. A two-banked galley, that ship had 25 oars in each bank-100 in all. Fifty rowers were permanently assigned to the lower bank, one man to an oar. The rest of the crew, who would number at least 150, were assigned to the fighting deck. A hundred of those would man the upper bank of oars, two men to an oar, while the rest served as archers and boarders. In the event of a drawn-out pursuit or engagement, the upper rowers would switch places with the soldiers, thus keeping the men from becoming exhausted.

  Technically, Eusebius knew, their ship was also classed as a dromon, an oared war galley. But it was the medium-sized type called a pamphylos. They only had eighty oars, twenty on each bank. And there was only room for a single rower on the upper oars.

  A hundred and fifty rowers versus eighty. Despite the greater weight of the approaching dromon, it would still be faster than their own galley. And they were further handicapped because of the modifications which John had made in their warship.

  John had known he would be heavily outnumbered in the coming battle-one ship against twenty, probably more. So he had decided to use his single ship as a pure artillery vessel, bombarding the enemy fleet at long range with his firebombs. For that reason, they only carried twelve fighting men-just enough to operate the two scorpions. They would be hopelessly outmatched in the event of a boarding.

  True, they also carried a double crew of rowers. If John's battle plan worked, his men would be rowing for long periods. So he had loaded the ships with relief rowers. That would give them a greater endurance than the crew of the approaching dromon, but the weight of the extra rowers would also slow them down.

  Not to mention-

  Eusebius studied the fighting platform he was standing on. The wood castle was larger and heavier than normal for this size war galley. It needed to be in order to provide the necessary support and room for the two scorpions which John had placed there. But that extra size also added weight. As did-

  Eusebius lowered his gaze to the deck of the ship itself. Normally, Byzantine war galleys were of the modern design called aphract-"unarmored." Since modern naval tactics called for boarding as well as ramming, the rowers/soldiers on the upper banks were protected by nothing more substantial than a light frame rigged along the gangways to which they attached their shields.

  But John, since he had no intention of boarding, had refitted the ship to the older cataphract design. He had attached solid wooden projections to the gunwales, with overhanging beams, to protect the rowers from archery. The armored projections resembled the rowing frames of ancient Hellenic galleys, although the rowers themselves were still positioned inside the hull. The end result was to enclose the rowers in solid, arrow-proof shelters. A bit stifling, perhaps, despite the ventilating louvers, but far better protection than mere shields hanging on a light frame.

  And-much heavier.

  Their ship was still faster and more maneuverable than the tubby square-rigged sailing ships which the Army of Bithynia was using for its transports. But it was a sluggish turtle compared to the approaching dromon.

  John had not expected to face a real warship.

  "Hurry up!" snapped the Rhodesman, clambering back onto the wood-castle. "No-never mind. We'll just have to make do with the bombs you've already uncrated."

  "There's only eight of them," protested Eusebius.

  "Then we'll have to shoot well," snarled John. "We don't have time, Eusebius! That damned dromon is coming on like a porpoise. Move."

  As John and Eusebius began loading the two scorpions with the first of the firebombs, the ship's steering officer bellowed orders at the crew. Though the men were every bit as grim-faced as their captain, they set about the tasks without hesitation. Those sailors were Rhodesmen themselves. John had handpicked them from the ranks of the Roman naval forces stationed in Seleuceia. Their officers had not even complained-not, at least, after they saw the letter of authority from the Empress Theodora which John carried with him.

  The pamphylos began coming about, facing this new enemy approaching from the Sea of Marmara.

  John peered intently at the oncoming dromon.

  God, those rowers are good!

  Several cataphracts were standing on
the fighting platform in the bow of the galley, staring back at him. Their features were obscured by the helmets on their heads.

  Well-used helmets, thought John gloomily. Just like their damned armor. And-oh, shit-don't they hold their bows with a practiced, casual ease? Just great. Just fucking great!

  He stared at one of the cataphracts. A huge man, he was.

  God, I don't even want to think what that ogre's bow pulls. Two hundred pounds, probably.

  He began to turn away, heading for one of the scorpions. An idle thought caused him to pause. He glanced back at the huge cataphract. Then, he stared at the cataphract standing right in the prow of the galley.

  A tall cataphract.

  The tall cataphract removed his helmet. His face was no longer obscured.

  John of Rhodes had excellent eyesight.

  A moment later, Eusebius and the entire crew of the pamphylos stopped what they were doing. They were transfixed-gaping, goggling-by the sight of their commanding officer.

  John of Rhodes leapt and capered atop the wood-castle, howling like a banshee. He sprang upon the port wall of the fighting platform and gestured obscenely at the fleet of transports bearing the Army of Bithynia across the Bosporus. Then, apparently unsatisfied with mere hand gestures, John unlaced his trousers, pulled out his penis, and waved it in the face of the still distant enemy.

  "He's gone mad!" exclaimed Eusebius. The artificer hopped back and forth, torn between the urgent need to load the scorpions and the still more urgent need to restrain John before the maniac fell into the sea. The wood-castle extended two feet beyond the hull of the ship itself.

  Fortunately, the naval officer's sealegs were excellent. A moment later, John laced up his trousers and sprang down upon the fighting platform. He bounced over to Eusebius, grinning from ear to ear.

  It suddenly occurred to Eusebius that there was an alternate explanation for John's apparent insanity. The artificer turned his head and squinted at the dromon. The galley was now less than fifty yards away.