by Eric Flint
"I wish they were here," grumbled the chiliarch. "We could use them."
"Don't be stupid! If they were here, Peroz-Shapur would be a pile of ashes. As it is, the Malwa expedition had to skirt the town and leave troops to guard against a sally. Just sitting in Peroz-Shapur, Kurush is a threat to them."
He waved his hand. "But let's not change the subject. To go back to Ormazd-this is his best chance to move against Khusrau. If the Malwa destroy us here, they'll return to Babylon. Keep Khusrau penned up while Ormazd takes over all of northern Mesopotamia. The only thing that kept him from doing that before was our intervention-that, and our victory at Anatha. If we're gone, he's got a clear hand."
"How's he going to explain that to his dehgans?" demanded Maurice.
Belisarius laughed. "How else? Blame it on us. Stupid idiot Romans insisted on a hopeless stand. Fortunately, he was too wise to waste his men's lives defending a canal which was obviously just a Roman scheme to reinvade Persia like they did in Julian's day."
"That's pretty tortuous reasoning," muttered Maur-ice, shaking his head.
Again, Belisarius barked a laugh. "Of course it is! So what? It'll serve the purpose."
Maurice was still shaking his head. "What if you're wrong?" Maurice growled, "Dammit, I hate tricky battle plans."
Belisarius smiled. "If I'm wrong, Maurice-so what? In that case, Ormazd will have to fight the Malwa who cross the Euphrates. They may defeat him, but after fighting twenty thousand dehgans I don't think they'll be in any shape to hit us on the flank. Do you?"
Maurice said nothing. Then, sighed heavily. "All right. We'll see how it goes."
The chiliarch started to turn away. Belisarius restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Wait a moment. I'm coming with you."
Maurice gave him a startled look. Valentinian and Anastasius started to squawk. Aide began to make some mental protest.
Belisarius rode them all down.
"Things have changed!" he announced gaily. "The battle's reaching its turning point. I have to be down there, now. Ready-at a moment's notice-to fulfill my vow to Emperor Khusrau."
Maurice smiled. Valentinian and Anastasius choked down their squawks. Aide sulked.
"Safe," sneered Belisarius. He took a moment to don his armor.
"Safe," he sneered again, as he began the long trek down the hill.
Behind him, Maurice said, "Do be a little careful, will you? Going down that miserable path, I mean. Be a bit absurd, it would, you breaking your fool neck climbing down a pile of rocks."
"Safe," sneered Belisarius.
Two eager steps later, he tripped and rolled some fifty feet down the hill. When he finally came to a halt, piling up against a boulder, it took him a minute or so to clear his head.
The first thing he saw, dizzily, was Maurice leaning over him.
"Safe," muttered the gray-bearded veteran mor-osely. "It's like asking a toad not to hop."
He reached down a hand and hauled Belisarius back onto his feet. "Will you mind your step, from here on?" he asked, very sweetly. "Or must we have Anastasius carry you down like a babe in swaddling clothes?"
"Safe," Belisarius assured one and all. None of whom believed him for a moment.
Chapter 33
Alexandria
Autumn, 531 A.D.
Alexandria was famous throughout the Mediterranean world for the magnificence of its public thoroughfares. The two greatest of those boulevards, which intersected each other west of the Church of St. Michael, were each thirty yards across. The intersection itself was so large it was almost a plaza, and was marked by a tetrastylon-four monumental pillars standing on each corner.
The buildings which fronted on the intersection were likewise impressive. On the north stood a huge church, measuring a hundred yards square. The edifice was hundreds of years old. Originally built as a temple dedicated to the crocodile god Sobek, it had been converted into a Christian church well over a century earlier. Most of the pagan trappings of the temple had been discarded-the crocodile mummies in the crypts had been unceremoniously pitched into the sea-but the building itself still retained the massive style of ancient Egyptian monumental archi-tecture. It loomed over the intersection like a small mountain.
Across from it, on the south, stood a more modern building: the gymnasium which marked Greek culture everywhere in the world. And, next to it, the public baths which were a hallmark of the Roman way of life. The eastern side of the intersection was taken up by another archetypal public structure, a large theater in which the city's upper crust was entertained by dramatists and musicians. Only on the west were there any private buildings-three stately mansions, as similar as peas in a pod.
Taken as a whole, the entire effect was one of grandeur and magnificence.
But Antonina, studying that intersection from her vantage point atop the steps of her palace, was not impressed. She had grown up in a part of the city which was very different from the Greek aristocracy's downtown splendor. She had been born and raised in the native Egyptians' quarter, which still bore its old name of Rhakotis. There, the streets were neither wide nor well-paved. They were dirt alleys, which doubled as open sewers. The buildings in Rhakotis were ancient only in the sense that the collapsed mudbrick of one house served its successors as a cellar. There were no gymnasiums-no schools of any kind. As for public baths-
She snorted, remembering. The human population density in Rhakotis was bad enough. The animal population was even worse. The quarter teemed with cattle, pigs, donkeys, camels, goats-and, of course, the ubiquitous pigeons. And their pigeon shit.
The snort became an outright laugh. Zeno, standing next to her, eyed her quizzically.
"I was just thinking of the provisions of a typical Alexandrian rental agreement. For a house or an apartment. You know, the one about-"
Zeno smiled, nodding. "Yes, I know." His voice took on a sing-song cadence: " 'At the end of the term, the tenant shall return the house to the lessor free of dung.' "
He laughed himself, now. "It was so embarrassing for me, the first time I rented an apartment in Constantinople. I was puzzled by the absence of that provision in the contract. When I inquired, the landlord looked at me as if I were crazy. Or a barbarian."
Antonina began to say something, but broke off.
"They're coming!" she heard someone shout. One of the Knights Hospitaler, she assumed.
The entire boulevard in front of her was packed with them. A thousand Knights were arrayed there, in rigid formation. They stood in lines of twenty men, covering the entire width of the boulevard, and fifty lines deep. Each man carried a quarterstaff in his hand, held erect. Their only armor, as such, were leather caps reinforced by an iron strip across the forehead. But thick quilted jerkins and shoulder-pads lay under the white tunics emblazoned with the red cross of their order, providing added protection against blunt weapons. And most of the Knights had wound heavy linen around their forearms, as well.
The majority of the other Knights were positioned in the various side-streets debouching onto the main thoroughfare, but Zeno had crammed hundreds below the street itself. Familiar with Alexandria, the Knights' commander had taken advantage of the labyrinth of cisterns which provided the great city with its water supply. If necessary, those men could either pour out onto the street from the basements of nearby houses, or they could move surreptitiously elsewhere. Zeno had twenty couriers standing nearby, ready to carry his orders when the time came.
All in all, Antonina was more than satisfied with Zeno's dispositions. It remained to be seen, of course, how well the Knights would do in an actual fray. But Zeno, at least, seemed fully confident of their capabilities.
"There they come!" came another shout.
Peering at the distant intersection, Antonina saw that a huge mob was pouring into it from the east. Within two minutes, the intersection itself was packed with people, and the first contingents of the crowd were advancing down the boulevard toward her palace.
"Ten thousand, I make it," murmured Zeno. "Not counting those who are still out of sight."
As it drew near, the mob began to eddy and swirl. Seeing the stern-looking and disciplined formation of the Knights Hospitaler filling the street-not to mention the much scarier sight of armored cataphracts behind them-the faint-hearted members of the crowd began trying to get out of the front line. Pushing their way to the rear, or simply standing in one place uncertainly, they created obstacles to their more fanatical and determined compatriots.
For a minute or so, Antonina even hoped that the mob would grind to a stop and retreat. But that hope vanished. Soon enough, the disparate elements which made up the huge crowd had separated themselves out. Those who were timid, or vacillating, or merely curious, fell to the rear or pressed themselves against the walls of the various shops which lined the boulevard. The diehards surged to the fore.
The great majority of them were monks, thought Antonina. It was impossible to be certain, since the custom of monks wearing distinctive habits was still in the future. The uniform of the Knights Hospitaler was another of Belisarius' innovations. But Antonina knew the breed well. Only fanatic monks, as a rule, were quite as disheveled, shaggy-maned, and just generally dirty-looking as most of the men leading the mob. And the practiced, familiar way in which they handled their clubs and cudgels reinforced her supposition.
Antonina smiled ruefully, remembering Belisarius' description of a vision Aide had once given him of the monastic orders of the future, a time which would be called the Middle Ages. He had described to her the good works and gentle demeanor of the Bene-dictines and the followers of a man who would be called St. Francis of Assisi.
His Alexandria-born-and-bred wife had goggled at the description. The monks she knew from her youth bore as much resemblance to St. Francis as a rabid wolf to a lamb. In the Egypt of her day, the monastic orders (orthodox and Monophysite alike) were as prone to street-fighting as the thugs of the Hippodrome factions-and probably better at it. Certainly more savage.
A particularly beefy monk in the very forefront of the mob caught sight of her, standing on the steps of the palace. He raised his thick club and bellowed, "Death to the Whore of Babylon!"
Whether by predeliberation or simple spontaneous enthusiasm, the call was immediately taken up as the mob's warcry.
"Death to the whore! Death to the whore!"
The front lines of the mob charged the Knights Hospitaler barring the way. There was neither hesitation nor halfheartedness in that ferocious rush. The monks in the van were veteran brawlers. They had no fear whatever of the bizarrely-accoutered Knights, and even less of their quarterstaffs.
What the hell's the use of a six-foot-long club, anyway? No room to swing it in a street fight. Silly buggers!
Knowing what was coming, Antonina held her breath. Quarterstaffs, too, were one of Belisarius' innovations-at least, used in this manner. Shepherd's staffs were known, of course, and had featured in many a village brawl. But no-one had ever placed them in the hands of an organized force, who had been systematically trained in their use.
When the monks were just a few feet away, the captain of the front line called the command. In unison, the twenty Knights flipped their quarterstaffs level and drove them into the oncoming monks like spears. Expecting club-blows to the head, the monks were taken completely by surprise. The iron ferrules of the heavy quarterstaffs crushed into their unguarded chests and bellies.
The damage done was horrendous. Two monks died instantly, their diaphragms ruptured. Another, his sternum split and the bone fragments driven into his heart, died within seconds. The rest collapsed, tripping the ones piling up from behind. Some wailed with pain. Most didn't-broken ribs and severely lacerated bellies produce groans and hisses of agony, not loud shrieks.
Instantly, the spear-thrusts were followed by two quick, swirling, pivoting side-blows all across the line. Iron ferrules slammed into heads and rib cages, breaking both.
The captain cried out the command. Again, the stabbing quarterstaffs. Again, the scythe-like follow-on blows. A dozen more were struck down.
The mob piled higher, pushing forward, floundering on fallen bodies. Some managed to force their way through the first line of Knights, only to be mercilessly dealt with by the line which followed.
Again, the command. Again, the spear thrusts. Some of the mob, this time, knew what to expect. Tried to protect their midsections.
The Knights had expected that. This time, many of the iron-shod quarterstaff butts went into faces and heads. Skulls broke, jaws broke, teeth shattered. One throat was crushed. One neck broken.
The mob staggered. Eddied. Hesitated.
Zeno bellowed an order. Immediately, the front line of the Knights swiveled and stepped back. The second line moved forward.
The captain of that line used the forward momentum to drive through the next thrust savagely. The front of the mob reeled back-but only a few steps. The press from behind was too great. The monks in the very fore were trapped, now. Stumbling on fallen bodies, jammed up, unable to swing their own clubs-which were too short to reach the Knights, anyway-they were simply targets.
Command. Thrust; strike; strike. Command. Thrust; strike; strike.
Again, Zeno bellowed. The second line of Knights swiveled, moved back. The third line stepped forward.
Command. Thrust; strike; strike. Command. Thrust; strike; strike.
Zeno bellowed. Third line back. Fourth line up.
Command. Thrust; strike; strike. Command. Thrust; strike; strike.
Zeno was silent. The machine-like routine was established, automatic. Practiced-over and again-on grain ships. Now, tested and proven in action.
Fifth line. Sixth line. Seventh line.
The boulevard was awash in blood. The monks forced up by the surging mob behind them were like sausages pressed into a meat grinder. Their frenzied club swings could only, at best, deflect a thrusting quarterstaff-into the monk jammed alongside, more often than not. Until the next quarterstaff drove through. Then-downed, or staggering. Dead, often enough; crippled or maimed; or simply stunned or unconscious.
As the eighth line moved forward, the great mob of monks were seized by a sudden frenzy. They had seen enough to understand that their only hope was to surge over the Knights by sheer brute mass, damn the cost.
Shrieking and howling, at least two hundred fanatics lunged forward, trampling right over the bodies of the monks in front of them. They weren't even trying to use their cudgels, now. They were simply trying to close with the Knights and grapple-anything to get through that horrible zone where the quarter-staffs reigned supreme.
The surge hammered the line back. Several Knights were driven down, knocked off their feet. One was seized by the ankles and dragged into the mob, where he was savagely stomped to death. Another was pinioned by two monks while a third crushed his skull with three vicious cudgel blows.
But this, too, had been foreseen. Zeno bellowed a new command. The ninth line immediately sprang forward, bracing the eighth. Both lines locked their quarterstaffs, forming a barricade across the street. The mob slammed into that barricade, pushed it back, slowly, slowly-
The tenth line strode forward, drove their quarter-staffs through the gaps. Head-thrusts, these-there was no room for body blows.
Skulls cracked. Jaws shattered. Noses flattened. Eyes were gouged out. Teeth went flying everywhere.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
Swivel. Step back. Eleventh line forward.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
The lines holding back the mob were tiring now, and suffering casualties. Again, Zeno bellowed. The twelth and thirteenth lines stepped forward and took their place, forming the barricade.
This maneuver was ragged, uneven. Switching places with a man forming a barricade is awkward, even when the man isn't bleeding and half-dazed-which many of them were. But the mob was in no position to take advantage of the momentary confusion. The monks in the fore of that mob were com
pletely dazed, and a lot bloodier.
Soon enough, the hammering resumed.
Standing next to Antonina, Ashot whispered, "Jesus, Son of God. Mary, Mother of Christ."
Antonina's face was pale, but her stiff, cold expression never wavered.
"I told you," she stated harshly. "I told you."
She took a deep breath, almost a shudder. "Belisarius predicted this. He told me-told Zeno and the Knights' captains, too-that if they learned to use their quarterstaffs in a disciplined and organized way they could shatter any mob in the world. Easily."
Ashot shook his head. "I'm not sure the casualties in that mob are going to be much less than if we did it."
"Doesn't matter, Ashot. People don't look at clubs-which is all a quarterstaff is, technically-the same way they do edged weapons. A sword or a knife is an instrument of murder, pure and simple. Whereas a club-" She smiled wryly, and spread her hands in a half-comical little gesture.
"Tavern brawls, casual mayhem," continued Ashot, nodding. "Not really a deadly weapon."
He chuckled, very grimly. "Yeah, you're right. If a thousand monks got sabred, or lanced, they'd be martyrs. But if that same thousand just gets the living shit beaten out of them-even if half of them die from it-people will just shrug it off. What the hell? Fair fight. The monks had clubs too, and they've never been shy about using them. Just too bad if this new bunch of monks is a lot tougher."
Seventeenth line, now. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
"A whole lot tougher."
As the eighteenth line stepped forward, the mob finally broke. More accurately, the monks in the van broke. The crowd itself-the great thousands of them-had already begun edging away from the brutal battle. Edging, edging, walking, striding. Running.
There was room to retreat, now. Once they realized it, the battered fanatics suddenly lost all their fight. Within seconds, they were running away themselves, driving the onlookers before them.