Destiny's shield b-3 Read online

  Out into the corridor, bustling her mistress along. Fussing, now, with the straps that held the cuirass. "He probably won't fight you, anyway. His soldiers will be blinded by the sun, shining off your brass boobs. You must be a giantess, they're so huge! They'll be terrified and run away!"

  The stern-faced officers who awaited her in the entryway to the palace were startled, then. Startled-and mightily heartened. Appearing before them was the leader of their grim and perilous mission-a woman, and small at that-howling with laughter. As gay a laughter as they had ever heard. At any time, much less on the morning of a battle.

  They took courage from the thought. Stern faces grew sterner still.

  And Antonina kept laughing, and laughing, all the way out to her horse waiting in the courtyard. She wasn't sure what amused her most-the thought of her brass breasts, which made her laugh, or the way her laughter so obviously boosted the morale of her men.

  Either way, either way. Doesn't matter. Out of small victories come great ones.

  As her army marched through the streets of Alexandria, heading toward the suburb of Nicopolis where the Roman garrison had been stationed since the early days of imperial rule, Antonina took the opportunity to assess the city's mood. The streets were lined with people, watching the procession. Most of them were Egyptians and poor Greeks. Both were cheering-the Egyptians with loud enthusiasm, the Greeks with more restraint.

  Word had already spread through the city that Theodosius had been installed as the new Patriarch. That news had been greeted by the Egyptian Mono-physites with wild acclaim. Theodosius was one of their own. True, he was an adherent of the Severan school, whose moderate and compromising attitude toward the official Church was out of step with the more dogmatic tradition of Egyptian Monophysitism. But the Egyptian residents of Alexandria did not look on these things the same way as the fanatic Mono-physite monks of the desert. They had had enough of street brawls, and persecution. Doctrinal fine points be damned. The Empress Theodora was one of them, and she had placed another in the Church of St. Michael.

  Good enough-more than good enough! — to declare a holiday.

  The Greek residents who watched Antonina pass-and cheered her on-took less pleasure in the news. Many of Alexandria's Greek population, of course, had adopted Monophysitism themselves. All of the religious leaders of that dogma were Greek, in fact, even if they found their popular base in the Coptic masses of Egypt. But most Greeks, even poor ones, had remained true to orthodoxy.

  Still, they were not nobles. Tailors, bakers, linen-makers, glassblowers, sailors, papyrus workers-almost all the Mediterranean world's paper was made in Alexandria-shopkeepers, merchants, domestic servants, fishermen, grain handlers: the list was well nigh endless. Some were prosperous, some merely scraped by; but none were rich. And all of them, even here in Alexandria, had come to accept the general opinion of the Roman Empire's great masses with regard to the imperial power.

  That opinion had crystallized, in Constantinople itself, with the defeat of the Nika insurrection. From there, carried by the sailors and merchants who weaved Roman society into a single cloth, the opinion had spread to every corner of the Empire. From the Danube to Elephantine, from Cyrene to Tre-bizond, the great millions of Rome's citizens had heard, discussed, quarreled, decided.

  The dynasty which ruled the Empire was their dynasty.

  It never occurred to them, of course, to think of the dynasty as a "people's dynasty." Emperors were emperors; common folk were common folk. The one ruled the other. Law of nature.

  But they did think of it as theirs. Not because the dynasty came from their own ranks-which it did, and they knew it, and took pleasure in the knowing-so much as they were satisfied that the dynasty understood them; and based its power on their support; and kept at least one eye open on behalf of their needs and interests.

  Common folk were common folk, emperors were emperors, and never the twain shall meet. That still leaves the difference between a good emperor and a bad one-a difference which common folk measure with a very different stick than nobility.

  The taxes had been lowered, and made more equitable. The haughtiest nobles and the most corrupt bureaucrats had been humbled, always a popular thing, among those over whom the elite lords it-even executed. Wildly popular, that. Stability had been restored, and with it the conditions which those people needed to feed their families.

  And, finally, there was Belisarius.

  As she marched through the streets, Antonina was struck by how often her husband's name made up the cheer coming from the throats of the Greek residents. The Egyptians, too, chanted his name. But they were as likely to call out her own or the Empress Theodora's.

  Among the Greeks, one name only:

  Belisarius! Belisarius! Belisarius!

  She took no personal umbrage in that chant. If nothing else, it was obvious that the cheer was the Greeks' way of approving her, as well. She was Belisarius' wife, and if the Greek upper crust had often sneered at the general for marrying such a disreputable woman, it was clear as day that the Greek commoners lining the streets of Alexandria were not sneering at him in the least.

  The Greeks had found their own way to support the dynasty, she realized. Belisarius might be a Thracian himself, and might have married an Egyptian, and put his half-Egyptian, half-who-knows-what bastard stepson on the throne, but he was still a Greek. In the way which mattered most to that proudest of Rome's many proud nations.

  Whipped the Persians, didn't he? Just like he'll whip these Malwa dogs. Whoever they are.

  Hermogenes leaned over to her, whispering: "The word of Anatha's already spread."

  Antonina nodded. She had just gotten the word herself, the day before. The semaphore network was still half-finished, but enough of it had been completed to bring the news to Antioch-and from there, by a swift keles courier ship, to Alexandria.

  There had been nothing personal, addressed to her, in the report. But she had recognized her husband's turn of phrase in the wording of it. And had seen his shrewd mind at work, in the way he emphasized the decisive role of Greek cataphracts in winning the great victory over Malwa.

  That word, too, had obviously spread. She could read it in the way Greek shopkeepers grinned, as they cheered her army onward, and the way Greek sailors hoisted their drinking cups in salute to the passing soldiers.

  Thank you, husband. Your great victory has given me a multitude of small ones.

  The fortress at Nicopolis where the Army of Egypt lay waiting was one of the Roman Empire's mightiest. Not surprising. The garrison was critical to the Empire's rule. Egyptian grain fed the Roman world-Constantinople depended upon it almost entirely-and the grain was shipped through Alex-andria's port. Since Augustus, every Roman Emperor had seen to it that Egypt was secure. For centuries, now, the fort at Nicopolis had been strengthened, expanded, modified, built up, and strengthened yet again.

  "We'll never take it by storm," stated Ashot. "Not with the forces we've got. Even grenades'd be like pebbles, against those walls."

  He looked up at the battlements, where a mass of soldiers could be seen standing guard.

  "Be pure suicide for sappers, trying to set charges."

  Ashot, along with Antonina and Hermogenes and the other top officers of the expedition, was observing the fortress from three hundred yards away. Their vantage point was another of the great intersections which dotted Alexandria itself. Very similar to the one at the city's center, if not quite as large, down to the tetrastylon.

  Originally, the fortress had been built outside the city's limits. But Alexandria had spread, over the centuries. Today, the city's population numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The fortress had long since been engulfed within the suburb called Nico-polis.

  It was a bit jarring, actually, the way that massive stone structure-so obviously built for war-rose up out of a sea of small shops and mudbrick apartment buildings. Comical, almost. In the way that a majestic lion might seem comical, if it were surrounded by chit
tering mice.

  Except there were no chittering mice that day. The shops were boarded up, the apartments vacant. Nicopolis' populace had fled, the moment news came that Antonina was advancing against Ambrose. All morning, a stream of people had poured out of the suburb, bearing what valuables they owned in carts or haversacks.

  Antonina turned to Hermogenes. "Do you agree?"

  Hermogenes nodded instantly. "Ashot's right. I know that fortress. I was stationed in it for a few months, shortly after I joined the army. You can't believe how thick those stone walls are until you see them."

  He twisted in his saddle and looked back at Menander.

  "Could you take it with siege guns? You're the only one of us who's observed them in action."

  Seeing himself the focus of attention, the shy young cataphract tensed. But there was no faltering or hesitation in his reply.

  "Yes, I could, if we had them. But John told me just yesterday that he doesn't expect to produce any for months. Even then, it'd take weeks to reduce those walls."

  Very shyly, now: "I don't know as Antonina can afford to wait that long."

  "Absolutely not," she said firmly. "The longer this drags on, the more likely it is that revolt will start brewing in other parts of Alexandria. The rest of Egypt, for that matter. Paul has plenty of supporters in every one of the province's Greek towns, all the way up to Ombos and Syene, just below the First Cataract. Antinoopolis and Oxyrhynchos are hotbeds of disloyalty. Not to mention-"

  She fell silent. The top officers surrounding her knew the strategic plan which she and Belisarius had worked out, months earlier, to carry the fight to Malwa's exposed southern flank. But the more junior officers didn't. Antonina had no reason to doubt their loyalty, but there was still the risk of loose talk being picked up by Malwa spies.

  So she bit her tongue and finished the thought only in her mind:

  Not to mention that I don't have weeks-months! — to waste in Alexandria. I've got to get to the Red Sea, and join forces with the Axumites. By early spring of next year, at the latest.

  And the next one, full of anguish: Or my husband, if he's not already, will be a dead man.

  But nothing of that anguish showed, in her face. Simply calm resolution.

  "No, gentlemen, we've got to win this little civil war quickly."

  Ashot tugged his beard and growled. "I'm telling you, it'll be pure slaughter if we try to storm that place."

  Antonina waved him down. "Relax, Ashot. I'm not crazy. I have no intention of wasting lives in a frontal attack. But I don't think it's necessary."

  Hermogenes, too, was tugging his beard.

  "A siege'll take months. A year, probably, unless we get siege guns. That fortress has enough provisions to last that long, easily. And they've got two wells inside the walls."

  Antonina shook her head. "I wasn't thinking of a siege, either."

  Seeing the confusion in the faces around her, Antonina had to restrain a sigh.

  Generals.

  "You're approaching the situation upside down," she stated. "This is not really a military problem. It's political."

  To Ashot: "Weren't you the one who was telling me, just yesterday, that the reason Ambrose couldn't intervene while we were suppressing the mob was because he needed the day to win over his troops?"

  The commander of her Thracian bucellarii nodded.

  She grinned. "Well, he's had a day. Just how solid do you think he's made himself? With his troops?"

  Frowning.

  Generals.

  She pointed at the fortress. "How long have those men-the soldiers, I mean-been stationed here? Hermogenes?"

  The young merarch shrugged.

  "Years. Most of the garrison-the troops, anyway-spend their entire term of service in Egypt. Even units that get called out for a campaign elsewhere are always rotated back here."

  "That's what I thought. Now-another question. Where do those men live? Not in the fortress, I'm sure. Years of service, you said. That means wives, children, families. Outside businesses, probably. Half of those soldiers-at least half-will have married into local families. They'll have invested their pay in their father-in-laws' shops. Bought interests in grain-shipping."

  "The whole bit," grumbled Ashot. "Yeah, you're right. Fucking garritroopers. Always takes weeks to shake 'em down on a campaign. Spend the first month, solid, wailing about their declining property values back home."

  The light of understanding came, finally, to her officers.

  Or so, at least, she thought.

  "You're right, Antonina!" cried Hermogenes excitedly. "That'll work!"

  He cast eager eyes about, scanning the immediate environment of the fortress. "Most of 'em probably live right here, right in Nicopolis. We'll start by burning everything to the ground. Then-"

  "Find their wives and daughters," chipped in his executive officer, Callixtos. "Track 'em down wherever they are and-"

  "Won't need to," countered Ashot. "Any women'll do. At this distance, the garrison won't be able to make out faces anyway. Just women being stripped naked in the street with us waving our dicks around and threatening to-"

  Antonina erupted. "Stupid generals!"

  Startled, her horse twitched. Antonina drew back on the reins savagely. Wisely, the horse froze.

  "Cretins! Idiots! Morons-absolute morons-the whole lot! You want me to end a small civil war by starting a big one? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  They shrank from her hot eyes. Antonina turned in her saddle and transferred the glare back to Menander.

  "You! Maybe you're not too old to have lost all your wits! Maybe. How would you handle it?"

  For a moment, Menander was too stunned to speak. Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Well. Well. Actually, while you were talking I was thinking about how the general-Belisarius, I mean-handled the situation with the Kushans. The second situation with the Kushans, I mean-not the first one where he tricked Venandakatra out of using them as guards-but the other one, where he-well, they were guarding us but didn't know the Empress-Shakuntala, I mean, not Theodora-was hidden in-well."

  He stopped, floundering. Drew a deep, shaky breath.

  "What I mean is, I was struck by it at the time. How the general used honey instead of vinegar."

  Antonina sighed. Relaxed, a bit.

  "You're promoted," she growled. "Tribune Men-ander, you are."

  The eyes which she now turned on her assembled officers were no longer hot.

  Oh, but they were very, very cold.

  "Here-is-what-you-will-do. You will find the wives and daughters-and the sons and fathers and mothers and brothers and for that matter the second cousins twice-removed-of those soldiers forted up in that place."

  Deep breath. Icy cold eyes.

  "More precisely, you and your cataphracts will escort the Knights Hospitaler while they do the actual finding. You and your soldiers will stand there looking as sweet and polite as altar boys-or I'll have your guts for breakfast-while the Knights Hospitaler convince the soldiers' families that a potentially disastrous situation for their husbands and fathers and sons and brothers-and for that matter third cousins three times removed-would be resolved if the families would come back to their homes and reopen the shops. And-most important-would cook some meals."

  "Cook meals?" choked Hermogenes.

  A wintry smile.

  "Yes. Meals. Big meals, like the ones I remember from my days here. Spicy meals. The kind of meals you can smell a mile away."

  She gazed at the fortress, still smiling.

  "Let the soldiers smell those meals, while they're chewing on their garrison biscuits. Let them think about their warm beds-with their wives in them-while they sleep on the battlements in full armor. Let them think about their little shops and their father-in-laws' promises that they'll inherit the business, while Ambrose gives speeches."

  "They'll never agree to it," squeaked Ashot. "Their wives and daughters, I mean. And their families."

  He squared his sh
oulders, faced Antonina bravely. "They won't come back. Not with us here. Hell, I wouldn't, come down to it."

  An arctic smile. "That I can believe. Which is why you won't be here. Not you, not your cataphracts. Not Hermogenes, nor his infantry regulars. I'll be here, as a guarantee. Their own hostage, if they want to think of it that way."

  "What?" demanded Hermogenes. "Alone?"

  Suddenly, Antonina's usual warm smile returned. "Alone? Of course not! What a silly idea. My grenadiers will stay here with me. Along with their wives, and their children."

  All the officers now stared at Euphronius. The young Syrian met that gaze with his own squared shoulders. And then, with a grin.

  "Great idea. Nobody'll worry about us raping anybody." A shudder. "God, my wife'd kill me!"

  Ashot turned back to Antonina. The short, muscular Armenian was practically gobbling.

  "What if Ambrose sallies?" he demanded. "Do you think your grenadiers-alone-can stand up to him?"

  Antonina never wavered. "As a matter of fact-yes. Here, at least."

  She pointed down the thoroughfare to the fortress. "We're not on an open field of battle, Ashot. There's only two ways Ambrose can come at me. He can send his men through all the little crooked side streets-and I will absolutely match my grenadiers against him in that terrain-"

  All the officers were shaking their heads. No cataphract in his right mind would even think of driving armored horses through that rabbit warren.

  "— or, he can come at me with a massed lance charge down that boulevard. Which is what he'll do, if he does anything. Down that beautiful boulevard-which is just wide enough to tempt a horseman, but not wide enough to maneuver."

  She bestowed a very benign, approving smile upon the boulevard in question.

  "And yes, on that terrain, my grenadiers will turn him into sausage."

  She drew herself up in the saddle, sitting as tall as she could. Which was not much, of course.

  "Do as I say."

  Her officers hastened to obey, then, with no further protest.

  Possibly, that was due to the iron command in her voice.

  But possibly-just possibly-it was because when she drew herself up in the saddle the blazing sun of Egypt reflected off her cuirass at such an angle as to momentarily blind her generals. And make a short woman seem like a giantess.