Irene turned her head, looking to the south.
“Sittas and Hermogenes should be in position at the Harbor of Hormisdas. I’d better leave now and tell them where your forces stand.”
Antonina nodded. Maurice ordered a squad of cataphracts to escort the spymaster.
A commotion drew Antonina’s attention.
A mob of grenadiers and their wives were pouring out of the monastery’s doors, heading toward her. All of them were staring at her, their faces full of worried concern.
“You told them,” she said to Maurice, accusingly.
Maurice chuckled.
“Told them? I sent ten cataphracts over here this morning, to regale them with the tale. Every last gruesome, gory, grisly great moment of it!”
Antonina sighed with exasperation. Maurice edged his horse next to her. Leaning over—all humor gone—he whispered harshly: “Listen to me, girl, and listen well. You’re at war, now, and you’re the commander. A female commander—the first one in Roman history outside of ancient legends. You need all the confidence you can get from your soldiers. And they need it even more than you do.”
Antonina stared into his gray eyes. She had never noticed, before, how cold those eyes could be.
“Do you think I’d let an opportunity like this pass?” he demanded. Then, with a harsh laugh: “God, now that it’s over, I’m almost ready to thank Balban! What a gift he gave us!”
He leaned back in his saddle. “Antonina, my toughest cataphracts are in awe of you. Not one in ten would have survived that ambush—unarmored, with no weapon but a dagger—and they know it. How do you think these Syrian peasants feel? Now—about their little woman commander?”
It was obvious how the peasants felt. The grenadiers and their wives were surrounding Antonina, gazing up at her silently. Their expressions were easy to read. A mixture of sentiments: relief at her obvious well-being; fierce satisfaction in her victory; pride in their commander—and self-pride that she was their commander.
Most of all—it was almost frightening to Antonina—was a sense of quasireligious adoration. The simple Syrians were gazing at her much as they might have gazed at a living saint.
She was blessed by God’s grace.
Just as the prophet Michael had foretold.
For a moment, Antonina felt herself shrink from that crushing responsibility.
Then, drawing on the fierce will which had always been a part of her—since her girlhood in the hard streets of Alexandria—she drove all hesitation aside.
“I am quite well,” she assured her grenadiers loudly. She began dismounting from her horse, but immediately found a dozen hands were helping her down. The same hands then carried her toward the cathedral. Hurriedly, monks and priests appeared to open the great doors. Among them, she saw the plump figure of Bishop Cassian.
As she was carried through the doors, her eyes met those of Anthony. He returned her smile, but his gaze was filled with concern.
She was carried to the altar and set back on her feet. Turning, she saw that the grenadiers and their wives were rapidly pouring in behind. Within two minutes, the great cathedral was filled. All the Syrians stood there, silently, staring at her.
Many years before, as a young woman, Antonina’s mother had given her some brief training as an actress. In the event, Antonina had never pursued her mother’s career, having found a different one which—though just as disreputable—was considerably more renumerative. But she still remembered the lessons. Not her mother’s meager talents as a thespian, but her skills at projecting her voice.
All the grenadiers in the room—as well as the cataphracts who had joined them—almost jumped. Such a small woman, to have such a great, powerful voice.
I have little to say, my soldiers. My friends.
Little needs to be said.
Our enemies are gathering. You can see their bonfires. You can hear their coarse shouts of triumph.
Do not fear them.
They are nothing.
Nothing.
Assassins. Street thugs. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Pimps. Gamblers.
Nothing.
Nothing!
She paused, waited. The grenadiers—one or two, at first—took up the chant. Softly, at first. Then, louder and louder.
“Nothing. Nothing.”
We will shatter them back into their nothing. We will drive them back into their sewers.
“Nothing! Nothing!”
We will hound them into their burrows. We will follow them into their ratholes. We will savage them till they plead for mercy.