But the third ship was still coming in. Not driving for a ram, however, so much as clawing forward with broken oars and wounded rowers. Desperately seeking to grapple. Anything to get away from that horrible hail of destruction.
No use. John could see Eusebius at the middle cannon, fussing over the guncrew. The dromon was only ten yards away—close enough for the artificer’s myopic eyes.
John saw Eusebius tap the gunner on his helmet. He saw his lips move, but couldn’t hear the words.
An instant later, the cannon belched smoke. Cannister swept the length of the dromon like a scythe.
John of Rhodes was, in no sense, a squeamish man. But he could not help flinching at the sheer brutality which that round of cannister inflicted on the dromon’s crew. Firing at point-blank range at a mass of men seated side-by-side on oarbanks—one oarbank lined up after another—
He shuddered. Saw Eusebius scamper down to the next cannon in line. Aim. Tap the gunner’s helmet.
Another roar. Another round of cannister savaged the dromon. Blood everywhere.
Eusebius scampering. Aim. Tap. Fire.
It was sheer murder, now. Pure slaughter.
Eusebius scampering.
John leaned over, bellowing: “Enough, Eusebius! Enough!”
The artificer, his hand raised just above the next gunner’s helmet, ready to tap, looked up. Squinted near-sightedly at the poop deck.
“Enough!” bellowed John.
Slowly, Eusebius straightened. Slowly, he walked to the rail and leaned over. Looked down into the hull of the dromon, which was now bumping gently against the Theodora’s side. Studying—for the first time, really—his handiwork.
Under other circumstances, at another time, the artificer’s Syrian gunners—country rubes, the lot of them, coarse fellows—would have derided him then. Mocked and jeered, ridiculed and sneered, at the sight of their commander Eusebius puking his guts into the sea.
But not that day. Not then. Instead, Syrian gunners and their wives slowly gathered around him, the gunners patting him awkwardly on the shoulder as he vomited. And then, after he straightened, a plump Syrian wife held the sobbing young man in a warm embrace, ignoring the tears which soaked her homespun country garments.
Above, on the poop deck, John sighed.
“Welcome to the club, lad. Murderers’ row.”
He raised his head, scanning the sea.
Victory. Total. Four ships and their crews destroyed. Three battered into a pulp. The only unscathed dromon racing away.
He looked toward Antonina’s flagship.
“She’s all yours, girl. Alexandria’s yours for the taking.”
Aboard her flagship, Antonina studied the situation. Studied the pulverized enemy fleet, first, with satisfaction. Studied the wildly cheering mob on the Heptastadium, next, with equal satisfaction.
Then, all satisfaction gone, she studied the city itself. Beyond the harbor, looming in the distance above the tenements and warehouses, she could see Pompey’s Pillar. And, not far away, the enormous Church of St. Michael. The Caesareum, that edifice had been called, once—the temple of Caesar. Its two great obelisks still stood before it. But the huge pagan structure, with its famous girdle of silver-and-gold pictures and statues, was now given over to the worship of Christ.
And, of course, to the power of Christ’s official spokesmen. The Patriarchs of Alexandria resided there, as they had for two hundred years. A hundred years after they took up residence, in the very street before the Church, a brilliant female teacher of philosophy named Hypatia had been stripped naked and beaten to death by a mob of religious fanatics.
“Fuck Alexandria,” she hissed.
Chapter 29
SUPPARA
Autumn, 531 a.d.
By the end of the first hour, Kujulo was complaining.
“What a muck! Gives me fond memories of Venandakatra’s palace. Dry. Clean.”
Ahead of him, picking his way through the dense, water-soaked forest, Kungas snorted.
“We were there for six months. As I recall, you started complaining the first day. Too dull, you said. Boring. You didn’t quit until we got pitched out of the palace to make room for the Empress’ new guards.”
Another Kushan, forcing his own way forward nearby, sneered:
“Then he started complaining about the new quarters. Too cramped, he said. Too drafty.”
Kujulo grinned. “I’m just more discriminating than you peasants, that’s all. Cattle, cattle. Munch their lives away, swiping flies with their tails. What—”