The Syrian studied the enemy. Two dromons, a hundred yards away, just now getting their oars untangled. A fat, juicy target.
He tapped Eusebius on the knee. “Do it now, sir,” he murmured.
Immediately Eusebius screeched:
“Fire! All cannons fire! All cannons—”
The rest was lost in the broadside’s roar.
When the smoke cleared away, a new round of cheers went up. True, the broadside had not inflicted as much damage as the earlier single-gun fire had done to the first dromon. It hardly mattered. The rams of war galleys were braced and buttressed, but the hulls of the ships themselves were made of thin planking for the sake of speed. Those hulls had never been designed to resist the impact of five-inch diameter marble cannonballs.
One of the warships had been holed in the bow. Not enough to sink it, but more than enough to send it scuttling painfully back to shore.
As for the other—
The bow was badly battered, though not holed. But one cannonball, by sheer good luck, must have caught the portside bank of oars just as they were lifting from the water. Many of those oars were shattered. What was worse, the impact had sent the oarbutts flailing about in the interior of the galley, hammering dozens of rowers like so many giant mallets. Objectively speaking, the warship was still combat-capable. But its crew had had more than enough of these terrible weird weapons. That dromon, too, began heading for the Great Harbor, yawing badly with only half a bank of oars on one side.
On the poop deck, John was bellowing new commands. The four ships which had been heading for Antonina’s flagship were effectively destroyed—one sinking, two fleeing, and the last floundering about with indecision. Antonina could handle that one on her own. John had his own problem, now.
The Rhodian brought the ship around to face the three dromons which had tried to intercept him earlier. The war galleys had chased after him and, with their superior speed, were rapidly approaching.
Not rapidly enough. By the time they got within range, John had brought the ship’s port side to bear—with its five unfired cannons and fresh guncrews.
Eusebius was already there, prepared. John was a bit puzzled to see that the artificer had brought one of the chief gunners from the starboard battery along with him. He saw Eusebius and the man confer, briefly. Then, Eusebius’ unmistakeable screech:
“Broadside! On my command!”
John smiled. As he often had before, he found the young artificer’s boyish voice comical. But, this time, there was not a trace of condescension in that smile.
Comical, yes. Pathetic, no.
Again, he saw Eusebius and the chief gunner’s heads bobbing in urgent discourse. The three dro-mons were two hundred yards away, their oarbanks flashing, their deadly rams aimed directly at the Theodora.
Again, the screech: “Fire! All cannons fire! All—”
Lost in the roar. A cloud of smoke, obscuring the enemy.
Screech: “Reload! Reload! Quick! Quick!”
John watched the guncrews racing through the drill. He gave silent thanks for the endless hours of practice that Eusebius had forced through over the Syrians’ bitter complaints.
They weren’t complaining, now. Oh, no, not at all. Just racing through the drill. Shouting their slogan:
“For the Empire! The Empire!”
The smoke cleared enough for John to see the enemy. The three dromons were only fifty yards away, now. He flinched. No way to stop them from ramming.
Except—
Their forward motion had stopped, he realized. None of the ships were sinking, true. Only one of them, judging from appearance, had even suffered significant hull damage. Still, the shock had been enough to throw the rowers off their stroke. The men on those galleys were completely unprepared for the sound and fury of a cannon broadside. Instead of driving forward in the terrifying concentration of a war galley’s ramming maneuver, the dromons were simply drifting.
Again, the screech: “Fire! All cannons—”
Lost in the roar. Cloud of smoke. Enemy invisible.
John leaned over the rail, ready to order—
No need. Eusebius was already doing it.
Screech: “Cannister! Cannister! Load with cannister!”
The smoke cleared. Enough, at least, for John to see.
One dromon was sinking. Another had been battered badly. It was still afloat, but totally out of control. Yawing aside, now, its deadly ram aiming at nothing but the empty Mediterranean.