Destiny's Shield

No motion.

He looked up, squinting. Suddenly, the noise around him registered. Cheers. Syrian gunners cheering. Syrian wives shrieking triumph. And then, above it all, John of Rhodes' powerful bellow.

"Oh, beautiful! Great work, Eusebius! She's nothing but a pile of kindling!"

The chief gunner of the last cannon in line was grinning up at him. "That dromon is still floating," he said. "You want I should smash it up?"

Eusebius shook his head. "No, save it. There's more of them."

He squinted. Everything was a blur. He thought he could make out two ships clustered together, but—

Years later, the young artificer would look back on that moment and decide that was when he finally grew up. All his life he had been sensitive about his terrible eyesight. Yet, too proud—too shy, also—to ask for help.

Finally, he did.

"I can't see very well, chief gunner," he admitted. "Am I right? Are the next two ships lying alongside each other?"

The Syrian's grin widened. "That they are, sir. Bastards almost collided, shying away from the gunfire. They did get their oars tangled."

Eusebius nodded. Then, straightened up and screeched: "Gunners! Are the cannons re-loaded?"

Within seconds, a chorus of affirmative answers came.

Screech: "Prepare for a broadside! Aim for those two ships! Fire on my command!"

He leaned over, whispering, "Help me out, chief gunner. Tell me when you think—"

"Be just a bit, sir. Captain John's bringing the ship around to bear. Just a bit, just a bit."

The Syrian studied the enemy. Two dromons, a hundred yards away, just now getting their oars untangled. A fat, juicy target.

He tapped Eusebius on the knee. "Do it now, sir," he murmured.

Immediately Eusebius screeched:

"Fire! All cannons fire! All cannons—"

The rest was lost in the broadside's roar.

When the smoke cleared away, a new round of cheers went up. True, the broadside had not inflicted as much damage as the earlier single-gun fire had done to the first dromon. It hardly mattered. The rams of war galleys were braced and buttressed, but the hulls of the ships themselves were made of thin planking for the sake of speed. Those hulls had never been designed to resist the impact of five-inch diameter marble cannonballs.

One of the warships had been holed in the bow. Not enough to sink it, but more than enough to send it scuttling painfully back to shore.

As for the other—

The bow was badly battered, though not holed. But one cannonball, by sheer good luck, must have caught the portside bank of oars just as they were lifting from the water. Many of those oars were shattered. What was worse, the impact had sent the oarbutts flailing about in the interior of the galley, hammering dozens of rowers like so many giant mallets. Objectively speaking, the warship was still combat-capable. But its crew had had more than enough of these terrible weird weapons. That dromon, too, began heading for the Great Harbor, yawing badly with only half a bank of oars on one side.

On the poop deck, John was bellowing new commands. The four ships which had been heading for Antonina's flagship were effectively destroyed—one sinking, two fleeing, and the last floundering about with indecision. Antonina could handle that one on her own. John had his own problem, now.

The Rhodian brought the ship around to face the three dromons which had tried to intercept him earlier. The war galleys had chased after him and, with their superior speed, were rapidly approaching.

Not rapidly enough. By the time they got within range, John had brought the ship's port side to bear—with its five unfired cannons and fresh guncrews.

Eusebius was already there, prepared. John was a bit puzzled to see that the artificer had brought one of the chief gunners from the starboard battery along with him. He saw Eusebius and the man confer, briefly. Then, Eusebius' unmistakeable screech:

"Broadside! On my command!"

John smiled. As he often had before, he found the young artificer's boyish voice comical. But, this time, there was not a trace of condescension in that smile.

Comical, yes. Pathetic, no.

Again, he saw Eusebius and the chief gunner's heads bobbing in urgent discourse. The three dro-mons were two hundred yards away, their oarbanks flashing, their deadly rams aimed directly at the Theodora.

Again, the screech: "Fire! All cannons fire! All—"

Lost in the roar. A cloud of smoke, obscuring the enemy.

Screech: "Reload! Reload! Quick! Quick!"

John watched the guncrews racing through the drill. He gave silent thanks for the endless hours of practice that Eusebius had forced through over the Syrians' bitter complaints.

They weren't complaining, now. Oh, no, not at all. Just racing through the drill. Shouting their slogan:

"For the Empire! The Empire!"