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In the Heart of Darkness(134)

By:Eric Flint & David Drak




"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.