“No, no, Antonina!” John exclaimed. “You’ve got to hold it with both hands. Here—put your left hand under the stock. That’s why the wood’s there.” His expression shaded from pride to half-apology. “It’s not really a true handgun, yet, except for a big man. But it’s the best I could come up with this soon.”
Despite her private reservations, Antonina had thanked John for the gift. Quite profusely, at the time he gave it to her. Two days later, after spending several hours on the practice range—John had been adamant on the point—her thanks were less heartfelt. She had no doubt the damned thing would do its lethal duty, if and when the time came. But her hands ached and her butt was bruised from the times she had been knocked off her feet by the recoil. She darkly suspected, moreover—damn what the doctors said—that at least one of her shoulders was dislocated. Permanently, from the feel of it.
Ashot’s eyes followed hers.
“Ugly damned thing,” he grunted. “Glad I don’t have to shoot a handcannon. Even that one, much less the bonebreakers the Cohort uses.”
For all the sourness of the words, however, his expression was cheerful enough. He leaned back in his chair and planted his hands on his hips.
“Relax, Antonina. The plan’ll work. It looks a lot riskier than it really is, unless we screw up.”
Antonina blew out her cheeks. “You’re that confident in the handcannons?” she asked.
Ashot snorted. “Antonina, I don’t have any confidence in any weapons. Weapons are just tools, I don’t care how newfangled and fancy they are. No better than the men who use them.”
He waved his hand. “I do have confidence in those Syrian boys out there. And their wives. But most of all, I’ve got confidence in the general.”
“The general,” to Ashot, meant Belisarius. Like most of the bucellarii, it was a title which Ashot bestowed on no one else. So Antonina was surprised, when Ashot added: “Both generals.”
She gazed at him quizzically. Ashot chuckled.
“Didn’t your husband ever mention him to you? I’m sure he must have.”
Antonina understood the reference, then. Belisarius had done much more than “mention” that other general to her, in point of fact. In the weeks leading up to his departure for Persia, the year before, Belisarius had spent half his time preparing his wife for her own expedition. He had drilled her for hours, day after day, in that other general’s tactics. He had even insisted—the only time he ever did so—that she take Aide in her hand and enter the crystal’s world of visions.
She almost shuddered, remembering those scenes of ghastly slaughter. But she took heart, as well, remembering the battle of Waterloo. Where the French cavalry broke—again and again—against Wellington’s infantry at the ridge of La Haye Sainte.
“Maybe tonight,” she heard Ashot murmur. “And maybe not. Doesn’t matter. We’ll break the bastards, whenever they come.”
He barked a harsh laugh. “The only thing I know for sure is this, Antonina. A month from now, those bedouin hotheads will be sulking in their tents. Calling you the Iron Dyke.”
Chapter 16
The attack came two nights later, long before the moon went down, and from the south. Menander and Euphronius were both exceedingly disgruntled. The tactics of their enemies made no sense at all!
They got over it, quickly enough. Very quickly. Whatever the Arabs lacked in the way of tactical acumen, they made up for in other ways.
Ashot was not surprised—neither by the Arabs’ tactics nor by the vigor of their attack. The timing was about what he had guessed, so far as the day was concerned. He had not really expected bedouin irregulars to be patient enough to wait until midnight. South was the direction from which they had come, and they had the advantage of moonlight to guide them. True, the same moonlight made them easier targets, but the desert warriors sneered at such unmanly concerns. There was a hill to the south, moreover, almost next to the Roman camp. The hill would disguise the Arabs’ approach, and give them the advantage of charging downhill.
None of it, as Ashot had foreseen, made any difference. The Theodoran Cohort was prepared, as they had been for three days. As soon as the sun went down, the troops were on full alert. The matchlocks were loaded and the matches themselves were lit. The musketeers buckled on their short swords. The wives laid out the grenades, cut the fuses, prepared the cartridges. Sharpened stakes were set in the ground at eighteen-inch intervals, making for additional protection for the musketeers. The Thracian cataphracts, dismounted, took up their pikes.