“Need a solid infantry bulwark, too,” interjected Hermogenes.
Maurice nodded. “Yes, that too. There’s nothing magical about grenades. In the right combination—used the right way—”
Hermogenes: “A phalanx, maybe.”
Sittas: “Damned nonsense! Phalanxes are as obsolete as eating on a couch. No, no, Hermogenes, it’s the old republican maniples you want to look at. I think—”
Bishop Cassian turned to Antonina.
“May I suggest we leave these gentlemen to their play, my dear? I predict that within a minute the discussion will be too technical for us to follow, anyway. And I’m dying to hear all about your exploits in Constantinople.”
Antonina rose, smiling. “Let’s repair to the salon, then.”
She looked at Michael.
“Will you join us?”
The monk shook his head.
“I suspect that your own discussion with Anthony will soon be as technical as that of these gentlemen,” he said ruefully. “I’m afraid that I would be of no more use in plotting palace intrigues than I am in calculating military tactics and formations.”
Sittas happened to overhear the remark.
“What’s the matter, Michael?” A teasing grin came to his face. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the eternal soul has no place in the mundane world?”
The monk gazed on the general like a just-fed eagle gazes on a mouse. Current interest, mild.
“You and yours,” he said softly, “will bring to the battle weapons and tactics. Antonina and Anthony, and theirs, will bring to the battle knowledge of the enemy. But in the end, Sittas, it will come to this. All the gifts you bring will be as nothing, unless the peasant boy to whom you give them has a soul which can face Satan in the storm.”
He rose.
“I will give you that peasant.”
On his way out, Michael bestowed a considering look upon Sittas. Like a just-fed eagle considers a mouse. Future prospects, excellent.
“Always a bad idea, baiting a holy man,” murmured Maurice.
“It’s true,” he insisted, in the face of Sittas’ glare. He drained his cup. “Ask any peasant.”
The next morning, the two generals accompanied John of Rhodes out to the training field, eager to experiment with the grenades. Maurice was waiting there for them, with a dozen peasant volunteers. The Syrians were quite nervous, in the beginning. Even after their prowess at grenade-hurling earned them the praise of the generals, the young men were abashed in the company of such noble folk.
Soon enough, however, Michael of Macedonia made his appearance. He said nothing, neither to the generals nor to the peasants. But it was amusing, to Maurice, to watch the way in which the monk’s presence transformed the Syrian boys. Into young eaglets, in the presence of giant mice.
By mid-afternoon, the eaglets were arguing freely with the giant mice.
Not over tactics, of course, or military formations. (Although the Syrians did have some valuable advice on the practical realities of slinging grenades. Most of it concerned the pragmatics of fuses, and their length.) The young men were not foolish. Uneducated and illiterate, yes. Stupid, no. They did not presume to understand the art of war better than such men as Sittas and Hermogenes. (Or, especially—they had their own peasant view of such things—Maurice.)
But they had quite strong opinions on the question of barracks, and the nature of military camps.
Their children would not like barracks, though they would probably enjoy the tent life of camps. Their wives would like neither, but would tolerate the camps. They were simple women. Practical.
Barracks, however, simply wouldn’t do. No privacy. Immodest. Their wives were simple women, but decent. They were not camp followers.
They wanted huts. Each family its own hut. (A tent, of course, would do for the route camps.)
The generals explained the absurdity of such an arrangement. Violation of military tradition.
The peasants explained the absurdity of military tradition.
In the end, while a monk watched—smiling, smiling—young peasants disciplined generals.
No huts?
No grenadiers.
In a different way, another clash of wills was taking place in the villa.
“It is much too dangerous, Antonina,” insisted the bishop. “I thought so last night, and I feel even more strongly about it today.” He pushed his plate of food away. “Look!” he said accusingly. “I’ve even lost my appetite.”