“The wives’ll scream bloody murder, of course, since they’ll wind up doing most of the hauling.”
John was still not satisfied. “Bronze is expensive,” he complained. “Iron cannons are a lot cheaper.”
Antonina shook her head.
“We’ll just have to live with the cost. I won’t subject my soldiers and sailors to that kind of gamble. Let the treasury officials wail all they want.”
Grimly: “If they wail too much, I’ll refer them to Theodora.”
Her usual good humor returned. “Besides, John, we can make the giant fortress cannons out of wrought iron. Once we get to Alexandria. It won’t matter what they weigh, since they’ll never be moved once they’re erected to defend the city. And there’ll be no problem keeping them clean. The garrison gunners won’t have anything else to do anyway. Hopefully, the guns’ll never be used.”
John scowled. “Are you sure about this?” he demanded.
He was not talking about the cannons, now. He was raising—again—the argument he had been having with Antonina since she arrived at Rhodes. The very first instruction Antonina had given John, almost the minute she set foot on the island, was to organize the transfer of the armaments complex he had so painstakingly built up, in its entirety, to Alexandria.
Antonina sighed.
“John, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Rhodes is just too isolated. The war with the Malwa will be won in the south. Egypt’s the key. And besides—”
She hesitated. Like most Rhodians of her acquaintance, John had a fierce attachment to his native island. But—
“Face the truth, John. Rhodes isn’t just isolated—it’s too damn small.”
She waved her hand toward the cluster of workshops some fifty yards away from the testing range. The workshops, like the testing area, were perched on a small bluff overlooking the sea. Behind them rose a steep and rocky ridge.
“This is a war like no other ever fought. We need to build a gigantic arms complex to fight it. That means Alexandria, John, not this little island. Alexandria’s the second largest city in the Empire, after Constantinople, and it has by far the greatest concentration of manufactories, artisans, and skilled craftsmen. There’s nowhere else we can put together the materials—and, most importantly, the workforce—quickly enough.”
“Egypt’s the richest agricultural province of the Empire, too,” added Hermogenes. “So we won’t have any problems keeping that workforce fed. Whereas here on Rhodes—”
He left off, gesturing at the rugged terrain surrounding them. Rhodes was famous, throughout the Mediterranean world, for the skill of its seamen and the savvy of its merchants. Both of which talents had developed, over the centuries, to compensate for the island’s hardscrabble agriculture.
John stood up slowly. “All right,” he sighed. Then, with a suspicious glance at Antonina:
“You sure this isn’t just an elaborate scheme to justify a triumphant return to your native city?”
Antonina laughed. There was no humor in that sound. None at all. “When I left Alexandria, John, I swore I’d never set foot in that place again.” For a moment, her beautiful face twisted into a harsh, cold mask. “Fuck Alexandria. All I remember is poverty, scraping, and—”
She paused, shrugged. All of the men standing around knew her history. All of them except Euph-ronius had long known.
The Syrian peasant had only learned that history three months earlier, when Antonina selected him as her executive officer and invited him and his wife to her villa for dinner. She had told them, then, over the wine after the meal. Watching carefully for their reaction. Euphronius had been shocked, a bit, but his admiration for Antonina had enabled him to overcome the moment.
His wife Mary had not been shocked at all. She, too, admired Antonina. But, unlike her husband, she understood the choices facing girls born into poverty. Mary had chosen a different path than Antonina—for a moment, her hand had caressed her husband’s, remembering the tenderness of a sixteen-year-old shepherd boy—but she did not condemn the alternative. She had thought about it herself, more than once, before deciding to marry Euphronius and accept the life of a peasant’s wife.
Antonina turned away. “Fuck Alexandria,” she repeated.
Chapter 10
MESOPOTAMIA
Summer, 531 a.d.
An hour into the march from Callinicum, Bares-manas passed on the bad news.