For a time, the rumor of heathenism seemed sure to sweep the field. Some of the grenadiers were even on the verge of mutiny, so certain were they that the object was an altar designed for pagan sacrifices.
But the appearance of the bishop squashed that fear. The chief competing rumor now made a grand reentry. The object was to be the centerpiece of a martial contest. Matching platoon against stalwart platoon, to see which might be the collective Hercules that could pick up the thing. Maybe even move it a foot or two.
So, when Theodora finally planted her imperial rump upon the throne, she was most gratified to see the wave of awe which swept those young faces.
“I told you it was worth hauling it here,” she murmured triumphantly to Antonina.
Although her face never showed it, Theodora herself was impressed in the two hours which followed.
By the grenades themselves, to some extent. She had heard of the gunpowder weapons which the Malwa had introduced to the world. She had not disbelieved, exactly, but she was a skeptic by nature. Then, even after her skepticism was dispelled by the demonstration, she was still not overawed. Unlike the vast majority of people in her day, Theodora was accustomed to machines and gadgets. Her husband took a great delight in such things. The Great Palace in Constantinople was almost littered with clever devices.
True, the grenades were powerful. Theodora could easily see their military potential, even though she was not a soldier.
What Theodora was, was a ruler. And like all such people worthy of the name, she understood that it was not weapons which upheld a throne. Only the people who wielded those weapons.
So she was deeply impressed by the grenadiers.
“How did you do it?” she whispered, leaning over to Antonina.
Antonina’s shrug was modest.
“Basically, I took the peasants’ side in every dispute they got into with the soldiers. In everything that touched on their life, at least. I didn’t intervene in the purely military squabbles. There weren’t many of those, anyway. The Syrian boys are happy enough to learn the real tricks of the trade, and they never argue with Maurice. They just don’t want any part of the foolishness.”
Theodora watched a squad of grenadiers demonstrating another maneuver. Six men charged forward, followed by an equal number of women auxiliaries. The grenadiers quickly took cover behind a barricade and began slinging a barrage of grenades toward the distant shed which served as their target.
Soon enough, the shed was in splinters. But Theodora paid little attention to its destruction. She was much more interested in watching the grenadiers, especially the efficient way in which the female auxiliaries made ready the grenades and—always—cut and lit the fuses.
Watching the direction of her gaze, Antonina chuckled.
“That was my idea,” she murmured. “The generals had a fit, of course. But I drove them down.” She snorted. “Stupid men. They couldn’t get it through their heads that the only people these peasants would entrust their lives to were their own women. No one else can cut the fuses that short, without ever blowing up their husbands.”
A new volley of grenades sailed toward the remnants of the shed, trailing sparks from the fuses.
“Watch,” said Antonina. “Watch how perfectly the fuses are timed.”
The explosions came almost simultaneous with the arrival of the grenades. The last standing boards were shredded.
“It’s an art,” she said. “If the fuse is cut too short, the grenade blows up while still in the air. Too short, before the grenadier can even launch it. But if it’s cut too long, the enemy will have time to toss it back.”
She exhaled satisfaction. “The grenadiers’ women are the masters of the art.” Chuckle. “Even Sittas finally quit grumbling, and admitted as much, after he tried it himself.”
“What happened?”
Antonina smiled. “At first, every grenade he sent got tossed back on his head. Fortunately, he was using practice grenades, which only make a loud pop when they burst. But he was still hopping about like a toad, trying to dodge. Finally, he got frustrated and cut the fuse too short.” Grin. “Way too short.”