Call me Aide.
A lady and a rogue
“Ready?” asked Maurice.
Antonina and John of Rhodes nodded. The hecatontarch knocked out the pole bolt with his mallet.
The arm of the onager whipped forward, driven by the torsion of the twisted cords which held its base. The arm slammed into the cushion of hair-cloth stuffed with fine chaff resting on the crossbeam. The clay jar which had been held in the sling at the tip of the arm flew through the air.
The three people standing to the side of the artillery piece followed the trajectory of the jar. Within two seconds, the jar slammed into a stone wall some distance away and erupted into a ball of flame.
“Yes! Yes!” howled John, prancing with glee. “It works! Look at that, Antonina—spontaneous eruption!”
She herself was grinning from ear to ear. The grin didn’t vanish even after she caught sight of Maurice’s frown.
“Oh, come on, you damned Cassandra!” she laughed. “I swear, you are the most morose man who ever lived.”
Maurice smiled faintly. “I’m not morose. I’m a pessimist.”
John of Rhodes scowled. “And what are you pessimistic about this time?” The retired naval officer pointing to the wall, which was still burning hotly.
“Look at it! And if you still don’t believe, go and try to put it out! Go ahead! I promise you that fire will last—even on stone—until the fuel burns itself up. The only way you’ll put it out is to bury it under dirt. You think an enemy is going to march into battle carrying shovels?”
Maurice shook his head.
“I’m not contesting your claims. But—look, John, you’re a naval officer. No big thing for you, on a nice fat ship, to haul around a pile of heavy clay pots. Carefully nestled in cloths to keep them from breaking and bursting into flame. Try doing that with a mule train, sometime, and you’ll understand why I’m not jumping for joy.”
John’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing in reply. Antonina sighed.
“You’re being unfair, Maurice.”
The hecatontarch’s scowl made John’s look like a smile.
“Unfair?” he demanded. “What’s that got to do with anything? War is unfair, Antonina! It’s the nature of the damned beast.”
His scowl faded. The hecatontarch marched over and placed his hand on John’s shoulder.
“I’m not criticizing you, John. There’s no doubt in my mind you just revolutionized naval warfare. And siege warfare, for that matter. I’m speaking the plain, blunt truth, that’s all. This stuff’s just too hard to handle for an army in the field.”
The naval officer’s own scowl faded. He looked down and blew out his lips. “Yes, I know. That’s why I made sure we were all standing back and to the side. I wasn’t sure the impact of hitting the crossbeam wouldn’t shatter the pot right here.”
He rubbed his neck. “The problem’s the damn naphtha. It’s still the base for the compound. As long as we’re stuck with that liquid, gooey crap we’re not going to get any better than this.”
Maurice grunted. “What did you add this time?” He nodded toward the distant flame, still burning. “Whatever it was, it makes one hell of a difference.”
John peered at the flame. His blue eyes seemed as bright as diamonds, as if he were trying to force the flames into some new shape by sheer willpower.
“Saltpeter,” he muttered.
Maurice shrugged. “Then why don’t you try mixing the saltpeter with something else? Something that isn’t liquid. A clay, or a powder. Anything else that’ll burn but isn’t hard to handle.”
“Like what?” demanded John crossly. With a sneer: “Brimstone?”
“Why not?” asked Antonina brightly. As usual, she found herself cheering the naval officer up after another long effort had fallen short of its mark.
John made a face. “Give me a break. Have you ever smelled burning sulfur?”
“Give it a try,” said Maurice. “Just make sure you stand upwind.”
John thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not?” Then, with a smile: “As long as we’re at it, why not make it a regular salad? What else burns easily but doesn’t make old soldiers grumpy?”
“How do you feel about coal, Maurice?” asked Antonina. (Brightly, of course. Men were such a grumpy lot. Like children with a permanent toothache.)