had lolled against the rails of their transports, watching while the gunners were put through their drills. Watching and grinning, day after day, as the gunners sweated under the Mediterranean sun. Not as hot as Egypt’s, that sun, but it was hot enough. Especially for men and women who practiced hauling brass cannons to the gunports, lugging ammunition and shot forward from the hold, loading the guns, firing them—and, then, doing it all over again. Time after time, hour after hour, day after day. All of it under the watchful eye of a man who, by temperament, would have made an excellent monk. The kind of monk who vigilantly oversees the work of other monks, copying page after page of manuscript, alert for every misstroke of the quill, every errant drop of ink.
A fussy man. A prim man, for all his youth. A nag, a scold, a worrywart. Just the sort of man to drive peasant borderers half-insane.
Now, as they stood by their guns, the Syrian gunners gave silent thanks for Eusebius. And took comfort from his presence. The young twit was a pain in the ass, sure—but he was their pain in the ass.
“Knows his shit, Eusebius does,” announced one.
“Best cannon-man alive,” agreed another.
Suddenly, one of the wives laughed and cried out, “Let’s hear it for Eusebius! Come on! Let’s hear it!”
Her call was taken up. An instant later, the entire contingent of gunners was shouting: “EUSEBIUS! EUSEBIUS! EUSEBIUS!”
Startled by the cheers, Eusebius stiffened. He knew that a commanding officer was supposed to give a speech on such occasions. A ringing peroration.
Eusebius was no more capable of ringing perorations than a mouse was of flying. So, after a moment, he simply waved his hand and smiled. Quite shyly, like the awkward young misfit he had been all his life.
The smile was answered by grins
A fussy man. A prim man, for all his youth. A nag, a scold, a worrywart. Just the sort of man to drive peasant borderers half-insane.
Now, as they stood by their guns, the Syrian gunners gave silent thanks for Eusebius. And took comfort from his presence. The young twit was a pain in the ass, sure—but he was their pain in the ass.
“Knows his shit, Eusebius does,” announced one.
“Best cannon-man alive,” agreed another.
Suddenly, one of the wives laughed and cried out, “Let’s hear it for Eusebius! Come on! Let’s hear it!”
Her call was taken up. An instant later, the entire contingent of gunners was shouting: “EUSEBIUS! EUSEBIUS! EUSEBIUS!”
Startled by the cheers, Eusebius stiffened. He knew that a commanding officer was supposed to give a speech on such occasions. A ringing peroration.
Eusebius was no more capable of ringing perorations than a mouse was of flying. So, after a moment, he simply waved his hand and smiled. Quite shyly, like the awkward young misfit he had been all his life.
The smile was answered by grins