In the Heart of Darkness

So, her sultry glances at the men about the table, her veiled remarks, her giddy laughter, her sly innuendos—even the joke about four soldiers and a pair of holy men being more than any woman could handle at one sitting—giggle, giggle—were a complete waste of effort. She could have been alone at the table, in the cold light of dawn, eating her meal in silence. By mid-morning, Procopius would be assuring anyone who listened that the harlot masturbated at breakfast.

Soon enough, Procopius left the table and retired to his chamber. There was no need for Antonina to send him away on some pretext. The man was fairly bursting with anxiety to reach his quill.

"God, I am sick of that man," snarled Sittas. For a moment, the general looked like he was going to spit out his wine. But only for a moment. He reconsidered, swallowed, poured himself a new goblet.

"Is this absolutely necessary?" growled Michael of Macedonia.

Antonina made a face. But before she could reply, Bishop Cassian spoke. Harshly:

"Yes, Michael, it is. That foul creature—though he's too stupid to know it—is Malwa's chief spy on Antonina. He's the aqueduct which brings them the water of knowledge. Except that Antonina has seen to it that the aqueduct is actually a sewer, piping nothing but filth into their reservoirs." He smiled. It was quite a wicked smile, actually, for a bishop. Almost devilish. "We're not having a meeting here, plotting against Malwa. We're having an orgy!"

Then, with a sly smile: "Is it your reputation which frets you so?"

The Macedonian glared. "All reputation is folly," he pronounced. "Folly—"

"—fed by pride, which is worse still," concluded the Bishop. His smile widened. "Really, Michael, you must develop a broader repertoire of proverbs."

Antonina cleared her throat.

"As I was saying . . ."

"You weren't saying anything, Antonina," pointed out Cassian reasonably. "So I saw no reason not to idle away the time by a harmless—"

"Stop picking on Michael," grumbled Maurice. "He's done wonders with the local lads, and their wives and parents. Even the village elders aren't howling louder than a medium-sized storm at sea."

"Well, of course he has!" exclaimed Cassian cheerfully. "He's a holy man. Must be good for something."

Antonina headed off the gathering storm.

"Tell me, Michael," she said forcefully. "What is your assessment? Michael?"

The Macedonian broke off his (quite futile) attempt to glower down the bishop.

"Excuse me, Antonina? I didn't catch that."

"The peasants," she stated. "What is your assessment?"

Michael waved his hand. It was not an airy gesture. Rather the opposite. So might a stone punctuate solidity.

"There will be no problem. None."

"More than that," added Maurice. "A good number of them, I think, would jump at the chance to join a new regiment." He eyed John of Rhodes. "Assuming there's something for them to do beside drive sheep at the enemy."

John didn't rise to the bait.

"Stop worrying, Maurice. You get your new regiment put together, I'll have weapons for them. Grenades, at the very least."

"No rockets?" asked Hermogenes.

John winced. "Wouldn't count on it. The damned things are trickier to make than I thought." He drained his cup, poured himself another. Then, grumbling:

"The problem, actually, isn't making them. I've got a good twenty rockets piled up in the workshed. Every one of them'll fly, too, and blow up quite spectacularly. The problem is that there's no telling where."

Another wince. "I had one rocket—this is the bare truth—the damned thing actually flew in a circle and almost took our heads off."

"How do the Malwa aim them?" asked Sittas. "There must be a way."

John shrugged. "I don't know. I've tried everything I can think of. Fired them through tubes. Put vanes on them—even feathers! Nothing works. Some go more or less straight, most don't, and I can't for the life of me figure out any rhyme or reason behind it."

Maurice slapped the table with the flat of his hand. "So let's not worry about it," he urged. "When the general gets back from India—"

"If—" murmured John.

"—when he gets back," drove on Maurice, "I'm sure he'll be able to tell us the secret of aiming rockets. In the meantime, let's stick to grenades. Those'll be more than enough to keep a new regiment of peasant recruits busy."

"Maurice has an idea," announced Sittas. The general beamed. "Marvelous idea, I think! And you know me—I generally look on new ideas about the same way I look on cow dung."

"What is it?" asked Antonina.

Maurice rubbed his scalp. The gesture was one of his few affectations. The hair on that scalp was iron grey, but it was still as full as it had been when he was a boy.