Summer, 531 A.D.
"Be careful!" hissed Antonina.
"I am being careful," growled Irene. "It's the stupid boat that's being careless!"
Hesitantly, gingerly, the spymaster stuck out her foot again, groping for the rail of the little skiff bobbing alongside Antonina's flagship. The sea was not particularly rough, but Irene's experience with climbing down a large ship into a smaller one was exactly nil.
Her foot touched the rail, pressed down, skidded aside. Frantically, she clutched the rope ladder. A stream of vulgar curses ensued. Coarse phrases; unrefined terms. Aimed at the world in general and boats in particular.
Above, Ousanas grinned down.
"Witness, everyone! A miracle! There is a book which Irene has never read, after all! I refer, of course, to On the Transfer of Personnel From Craft to Craft At Sea, by the famous author Profanites of Dispepsia."
A stream of really vulgar curses ensued. Utterly obscene phrases; incredibly gross terms. Aimed exclusively at one particular African.
The African in question grinned even wider.
"May I lend you a hand?" he asked pleasantly.
Irene glared up at him furiously. "Yes!" she snarled. "Get me into this stupid fucking boat!"
"No problem, noble Greek lady," said Ousanas cheerfully. The dawazz leapt onto the rail of Anton-ina's flagship, gauged the matter for perhaps a micro-second, and sprang directly down into the boat below. He landed lightly on his feet, easily finding his balance. Then, turned to face Irene. The spymaster was swinging against the hull of the larger ship above him. Her face was pale; the knuckles of her hands, clutching the rope ladder, were white as snow.
"Jump," he said.
Irene's eyes widened. She stared down at him, as if ogling a dangerous lunatic.
"Jump," repeated Ousanas. "I will catch you."
"You are completely insane!" she shrieked.
Ousanas glanced up at the flagship above. Antonina and Eon were both leaning over the rail. Antonina's face was filled with deep concern. Eon's, with a struggle to contain his laughter.
"Eon!" shouted Ousanas. "Cut the ladder!"
"Good idea!" boomed Eon. The Prince drew his blade from its baldric. It was a typical Axumite sword, other than being more finely made than most. Which is to say, it was short, square-tipped, and very heavy—more like a huge cleaver than a Roman spatha.
Irene's terrified eyes stared up at the thing. The sword would obviously cut through the thin ropes of the ladder like an axe.
Eon, muscled like a Hercules, raised the blade high.
"Oooo!" she screamed. And then, convulsively, let go of the ladder.
She fell no more than four feet. Ousanas caught her easily, easily; then, neatly, set up her upright on the deck of the skiff. An instant later, she collapsed onto a pile of cordage coiled in the bilge.
"You are a foul creature," she hissed, "from a foul land." Gasp, gasp. "Now I know where Homer got the inspiration for the Cyclops."
Ousanas clucked his tongue. "So cruel," he complained. "So vicious!"
From above came Antonina's voice.
"All you all right, Irene?"
The spymaster took a deep shuddering breath. Then, suddenly, burst into a smile.
"I'm quite fine, actually. The first mission is accomplished!"
She transferred the smile onto Ousanas.
"I apologize for my insulting and intemperate remark."
Ousanas winced, awaiting the inevitable.
Hiss.
"I did not mean to slander the memory of an honorable monster of legend."
Above, Antonina and Eon turned to face each other.
"You are certain, Antonina?" asked the Prince. "You have your own difficult task ahead of you. My sarwen would be of help. I have the authority to use them any way I wish. As I told you, my father's offer is for a full alliance."
Antonina shook her head.
"No, Eon. The negusa nagast's offer we accept, certainly. Theodora gave me the authority to seek out that alliance myself, in fact. But if I can't establish my authority in Egypt with the Roman troops at my disposal, another four hundred Axumite soldiers won't make the difference."
She cast a quick glance toward the Ethiopian warship. The craft was rolling gently in the waves just a hundred yards away. The rail was lined with soldiers of the Dakuen sarwe. There were, she estimated, about fifty of them. The rest of Eon's troops were waiting for him at the small port of Pelusium, at the far eastern end of the Nile Delta.
"Besides," she added, "the presence of Axumite sarwen would create political problems. I want to quell the ultra-Chalcedonian fanatics in Egypt without alienating the majority of orthodox Greeks. You know they'll look on Ethiopians as allies of the Monophysites. Foreign heretics, used by the empire against them."
Thoughtfully, Eon nodded. Antonina laid a friendly hand on his arm.
"So, I must decline your offer. Though I do thank you for it. Please pass those thanks on to your father."
"I will."
"Pass on to him also Rome's agreement to the proposed alliance. When she gets to Axum, Irene can negotiate the details with the negusa nagast. She is fully authorized to do so, and you may tell your father that she carries Empress Theodora's complete confidence. Providing an escort for her is the best use of your sarwen, at the moment."
She broke into her own smile.
"And I'm happier this way. I hate sending Irene into that maelstrom in India. But at least I'll have the comfort of knowing she has you, and Ousanas, and four hundred Dakuen to protect her."
Her shoulders shuddered, just slightly. "For that matter, I'll be happier knowing she doesn't have to face Red Sea pirates without—"
"Pirates," growled Eon. He barked a laugh.
Behind him stood three officers of the Dakuen sarwe. Leaders of the Prince's own royal regiment, they considered themselves—quite rightly—as elite soldiers. And seamen, for that matter. They matched the Prince's growl with their own glares, Eon's barking laugh with their own sneers of derision.
"Pirates," they murmured. So might a pride of lions, if they could, mutter the word, hyenas. Or, for that matter, elands. Impalas.
Meat.
Antonina grinned. She gave the Prince a warm embrace. He returned it, somewhat gingerly, in the way that a courteous and well-bred young royal returns the embrace of a respected, admired—and very voluptuous—older woman.
"Be off," she whispered. "Take care of Irene for me, and for Theodora. And take care of yourself."
A moment later, Eon and his officers made their own easy and effortless descent into the skiff. Once they were aboard, the line was cast off and the boat began pulling away. The officers did their own rowing. In the Axumite tradition, they had all risen from the ranks. They were accustomed to the task, and did it with familiar expertise. Quickly, the skiff pulled toward the waiting Ethiopian warship.
Antonina and Irene stared at each other, for a time, during that short voyage. Close friends—best friends—they had become, during the past three years of joint work and struggle against the Malwa menace. Each of them, now, was taking her own route into the maw of the beast. In all likelihood, they would never see each other again.
Antonina fought back her tears.
"God, I'll miss you," she whispered. "So much."
Thirty yards away, she saw Irene turn her head aside. She did not miss the slight sheen in those distant eyes. Irene, she knew, was fighting back her own tears.
Antonina tore her gaze from the figure of her friend and stared at Eon. The Prince was sitting in the stern-sheet of the skiff. Antonina could see his head slowly turning, as he scanned the surface of the waves.
Already, she realized, Eon was fulfilling his promise to protect Irene from any danger.
Then, seeing the arrogant ferocity lurking in Eon's huge shoulders, she could not help smiling. She found great comfort in those shoulders.
Sharks, of course, do not have shoulders. But if they did, so might a great shark confront the monsters of the sea.
Tuna. Squid. Devil-rays.
Meat.
By the time the skiff bearing Irene reached its destination, other skiffs were making their own way to the Axumite warship from other Roman craft, bearing their own cargoes.
Three of those skiffs carried barrels of gunpowder. Two hauled cannons—brass three-pounders, one in each skiff. And two more carried the small band of Syrian grenadiers, and their wives and children, who had volunteered to accompany Irene to India. Trainers, if all went well, for whatever forces the Empress Shakuntala might have succeeded in gathering around her. Trainers, and their gear, for the future gunpowder-armed rebellion of south India.
Antonina's little hands gripped the rail. Her husband Belisarius, while he was in India, had done everything in his power to help create that rebellion. He was not a man to forget or abandon those he had sent in harm's way.
Not my husband, she thought, proudly, possessively.
She did not know the future. But Antonina would not have been surprised to learn that in humanity's future—any of those possible futures—the name of Belisarius would always be remembered for two things, if nothing else.
Military brilliance.
Loyalty.
She cast a last glance at the small and distant figure of her friend Irene and turned away from the rail. Then, walked—marched, rather—to the bow of her own ship and stared across the waters of the Mediterranean.
Stared to the southwest, now. Toward Alexandria.
She gripped the rail again, and even more tightly.
Silently, she made her vows. If Irene reached India safely, she would not be stranded. If Belisarius' determination to support the Andhra rebellion was thwarted, it would not be because Antonina failed her share of that task.
She would take Alexandria, and Egypt, and reestablish the Empire's rule. She would harness the skills and resources of that great province and turn it into the armory of Rome's war against Malwa.
That armory, among other things, would be used to support Shakuntala and her rebels. Many of those guns would go south. Guns, cannons, rockets, gunpowder—and the men and women needed to use them and train others in their use.
South, to Axum. Then, across the Erythrean Sea to Majarashtra. Somehow, someway, those weapons would find their way into the hands of the young Empress whom Belisarius had freed from captivity.
She clutched the rail, glaring at the still-unseen people who would resist her will. The same people—the same type of people, at least—who had sneered at her all her life.
Had a shark, in that moment, caught sight of the small woman at the prow of the Roman warship, it would have recognized her. It would not have recognized the body, of course—Antonina's shapely form did not evenly remotely resemble that of a fish—nor would its primitive brain have understood her intellect.
But it would have known. Oh, yes. Its own instincts would have recognized a kindred spirit.
Hungry. Want meat.