The man coughed explosively. Then, gasping: “Those dromons have orders! If we don’t return within an hour, they’re to assume that hostilities have commenced!”
” ‘Hostilities have commenced,’ ” mused Hermo-genes. “My, that sounds ominous.”
He glanced at Ashot, leaning against the opposite wall in an identical pose.
” ‘Hostilities have commenced,’ ” echoed the Armenian cataphract. “Dire words.”
With a little thrust of his shoulder, Ashot stood erect. He and Hermogenes exchanged a smile.
“Dreadful words,” said Ashot. “I believe I may defecate.”
The officer who had issued the threat snarled.
“Make light of it if you will! But I remind you that those are eight warships. What do you have, besides those grain ships and that horde of corbitas? Two dromons—that’s it!”
“Not quite,” murmured Ashot. He swiveled his head, looking at Antonina.
She nodded. Ashot walked out of the cabin. Seconds later, his voice was heard:
“Send a signal to the Theodora! The blue-and-white flag! Followed by the red!”
A moment later, he ambled back inside the cabin.
“That means ‘hostilities have commenced,’ ” he explained to the four arrested officers. Then, grinning:
“In a manner of speaking.”
The captives were so busy staring at Ashot that they never heard Antonina’s little murmur:
” ‘Cross the T,’ to be precise. And ‘fire broadside.’ ”
Aboard the Theodora, John of Rhodes and Euse-bius were standing on the poop deck. Seeing the blue-and-white pennant, followed by the red, John whooped.
“Yes! At last! Now we’ll see what this beautiful bitch can do!”
“Wouldn’t let the Empress hear you say that, if I were you,” muttered Eusebius. The artificer was standing next to John, clutching the rail. His face was drawn and pale. The Theodora’s tacking against the wind had awakened Eusebius’ always-latent seasickness.
“Why not?” demanded John cheerfully. “The ship’s named after her, isn’t it? Isn’t the Empress a beauty? And isn’t she just the world’s meanest bitch?” Gaily, he slapped Eusebius on the shoulder. “But she’s our bitch, boy! Ours!”
John pointed to the ladder leading to the deck below. “Get on down, now, Eusebius. I want you keeping a close eye on those overenthusiastic gunners.”
Making his way gingerly down the ladder, Eusebius heard John bellowing to his sailors and steersman:
“Head for that fleet of dromons across the harbor! I want to sail right across their bows!”
When Eusebius reached the gundeck, he headed to the starboard side of the ship. On the Theodora’s new heading, northwest to southeast, she would be bringing the five cannons on that side to bear on the enemy.
Soon enough, Eusebius forgot his seasickness. He was utterly preoccupied with the task of preparing the cannons for a broadside. He scampered up and down the gundeck, fretting over every detail of the work.
For once, the Syrian gunners and their wives did not curse him for a fussbudget and mock him for an impractical philosopher. This was not an exercise. This was the real thing. They would not be firing at empty barrels tossed overboard. They would be firing at front-line warships—which would be attacking them.
True, those warships had no cannons. But the word dromon meant “racer,” and the sleek naval craft positioned at the entrance to the Great Harbour lived up to the term. Beautifully designed—elegant, in fact, as no tubby sailing ship ever was—they reminded the Syrian gunners of so many gigantic wasps, ready to strike in an instant.
Long, narrow—deadly.
By the time the Theodora was halfway to the dromons, the gunners had the cannons loaded and ready to fire. They were very familiar with the process, now, due to the relentless training exercises which Eusebius had insisted upon during the weeks of their voyage.
They had resented those exercises, at the time. The Theodora’s gunners were all volunteers from the Theodoran Cohort. When the posts had been opened, the bidding had been fierce. Most of the Syrian grenadiers had wanted those prestigious jobs. Prestigious and, they had all assumed, easy—certainly compared to the work of toting grenades and handcannons under the hot sun of Egypt. Lounging about on a ship, never walking more than a few steps—what could be better?
They had soon learned otherwise. Within a week of setting sail from Rhodes, they had become the butt of the Cohort’s jokes. The rest of the grenadiers had lolled against the rails of their transports, watching while the gunners were put through their drills. Watching and grinning, day after day, as the gunners sweated under the Mediterranean sun. Not as hot as Egypt’s, that sun, but it was hot enough. Especially for men and women who practiced hauling brass cannons to the gunports, lugging ammunition and shot forward from the hold, loading the guns, firing them—and, then, doing it all over again. Time after time, hour after hour, day after day. All of it under the watchful eye of a man who, by temperament, would have made an excellent monk. The kind of monk who vigilantly oversees the work of other monks, copying page after page of manuscript, alert for every misstroke of the quill, every errant drop of ink.