"Forget cavalry," said Maurice. "These lads are peasants pure and simple, Sittas. Syrian peasants, to boot. Thracian and Illyrian peasants have some familiarity with horses, but these boys have none at all. You know as well as I do they'd never make decent horsemen. Not in the time we've got."
Sittas nodded, quite magnanimously. The honor of the cavalry having been sustained, he would not argue the point further.
"And that's the key," stated Maurice. "I tried to figure out the best way to combine Syrian peasants and grenades, starting with the strengths and limitations of both. The answer was obvious."
Silence. John exploded.
"Well—out with it, then!"
"Slings. And slingstaffs."
John frowned. "Slings?" He started to argue—more out of ingrained habit than anything else—but fell silent.
"Hmm." He quaffed his wine. "Hmm."
Antonina grinned. "What's the matter, John? Don't tell me you haven't got an instant opinion?"
The naval officer grimaced.
"Alas—no. Truth is, much as I hate to admit it, I don't know anything about slings. Never use the silly things in naval combat."
"You wouldn't call them silly things if you'd ever faced Balearic slingers on a battlefield," growled Maurice. Hermogenes and Sittas nodded vigorously.
"But these aren't Balearic slingers, Maurice," demurred Antonina. "The islanders are famous—have been for centuries. These are just farm boys."
Maurice shrugged. "So what? Every one of those peasants—especially the shepherds—has been using a sling since he was a boy. Sure, they're not professionals like the Balearic islanders, but that doesn't matter for our needs. The only real difference between a Balearic mercenary slinger and a peasant lad is accuracy. That matters when you're slinging iron bullets. It doesn't—not much, anyway—when you're hurling grenades."
John started to get excited, then. "You know—you're right! How far could one of these Syrian boys toss a grenade?"
Maurice fluttered the stubby fingers of one thick hand.
"Depends. Show me the grenade you're talking about, and I'll give you a close answer. Roughly? As far as an average archer, with a sling. With a slingstaff, as far as a cataphract or a Persian."
"Cavalry'd make mincemeat out of them," stated Sittas.
Maurice nodded. "Alone, yes. Good cavalry, anyway, that didn't panic at the first barrage. They'd rout the grenade slingers—"
"Call them grenadiers," interjected John. "Got more dignity."
"Grenadiers, then." He paused, ruminated; then: "Grenadiers. I like that!"
Hermogenes nodded vigorously.
"A special name'll give the men morale," the young general stated. "I like it too. In fact, I think it's essential."
Sittas mused: "So we'll need cavalry on the flanks—"
"Need a solid infantry bulwark, too," interjected Hermogenes.
Maurice nodded. "Yes, that too. There's nothing magical about grenades. In the right combination—used the right way—"
Hermogenes: "A phalanx, maybe."
Sittas: "Damned nonsense! Phalanxes are as obsolete as eating on a couch. No, no, Hermogenes, it's the old republican maniples you want to look at. I think—"
Bishop Cassian turned to Antonina.
"May I suggest we leave these gentlemen to their play, my dear? I predict that within a minute the discussion will be too technical for us to follow, anyway. And I'm dying to hear all about your exploits in Constantinople."
Antonina rose, smiling. "Let's repair to the salon, then."
She looked at Michael.
"Will you join us?"
The monk shook his head.
"I suspect that your own discussion with Anthony will soon be as technical as that of these gentlemen," he said ruefully. "I'm afraid that I would be of no more use in plotting palace intrigues than I am in calculating military tactics and formations."
Sittas happened to overhear the remark.
"What's the matter, Michael?" A teasing grin came to his face. "Surely you're not suggesting that the eternal soul has no place in the mundane world?"
The monk gazed on the general like a just-fed eagle gazes on a mouse. Current interest, mild.
"You and yours," he said softly, "will bring to the battle weapons and tactics. Antonina and Anthony, and theirs, will bring to the battle knowledge of the enemy. But in the end, Sittas, it will come to this. All the gifts you bring will be as nothing, unless the peasant boy to whom you give them has a soul which can face Satan in the storm."