Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  "Shut up," snarled the spymaster. "I received orders—from Nanda Lal himself."

  Narses was silent, thereafter, until they had reached the sewer and slogged their way down its stinking length for at least two hundred feet. He began lagging further and further behind. Eventually, Ajatasutra handed Balban the lamp and went back to help the old eunuch.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "I could use your shoulder," grunted Narses. "This damned sewer's so low I have to stoop. My back hurts."

  Ajatasutra leaned his right shoulder under Narses' left arm and helped him along. The eunuch turned his head until his lips were but inches from Ajatasutra's ear and whispered:

  "You do realize what those orders from Nanda Lal mean, don't you?"

  Ajatasutra nodded, very slightly.

  "Yes," he replied, also in a whisper. He glanced up. Balban's dim form was visible thirty feet ahead of them, backlit by the lamp he was carrying.

  "It means you were right about Belisarius," whispered the assassin. "He must have escaped from India."

  They progressed another fifty feet. By now, all of them were soaked with filthy water up to their mid-thighs.

  Again, Narses turned his lips to Ajatasutra's ear.

  "There'll be a boat, waiting. At the Neorion harbor in the Golden Horn. Do you know where it is?"

  "Yes," whispered Ajatasutra. "Why me?"

  "You're the best of a sorry lot. And if I have to flee to India I'll need someone to vouch for my credentials."

  Ajatasutra smiled, thinly.

  "You don't sound entirely confident in the certain success of our plans."

  Narses sneered. "Nothing in this world is certain, Ajatasutra. Except this—better to have loosed the demon from his pit than to have loosed Belisarius. Especially after murdering his wife."

  "She wasn't murdered," muttered Ajatasutra. Seeing the frown on the eunuch's face, the assassin chuckled.

  "I followed. At a distance, of course. And I stayed well out of the fray. Quite a set-to, judging from the racket coming out of that cookshop—even before the cataphract arrived. I waited until he brought Antonina out. The woman was covered with blood, but none of it was hers."

  Narses sighed. "Well, that's something. Belisarius will just be his usual extraordinarily competent and brilliantly capable deadly self. Instead of vengeance personified."

  They slogged on, and on. Eventually, now well ahead of them, they saw Balban rise from his stoop and stand up straight. He had finally reached the exit from the sewer.

  "Come on!" they heard the spymaster's hissing voice. "Time is short!"

  Just before they came within Balban's hearing range, Ajatasutra whispered:

  "What does the boat look like?"

  "Like it wants to leave Constantinople in a very big hurry," was the eunuch's only reply.

  * * *

  Maurice waited until the cataphracts circled the monastery before he would let Antonina or Irene dismount. The Thracian cavalrymen were in a grim, grim mood. The small crowd of curious onlookers, which began to gather from the nearby residences, quickly drew back under their hard gaze.

  "Marvelous," muttered Antonina. "Just marvelous."

  She glared at Maurice. The hecatontarch returned her hot gaze with placidity.

  "So much for keeping the whereabouts of the Theodoran Cohort secret," she growled.

  Maurice shrugged. He pointed toward the southwest.

  "Take a look. The time for secrets is over."

  Antonina and Irene twisted in their saddles. They were not far from the Column of Marcian. The monastery, and the cathedral which adjoined it, were located just inside the old walls of the capital—the "walls of Constantine." The heart of Constantinople, the corner of the city which held the Great Palace and the Hippodrome, was not more than two miles away.

  In the vicinity of the Hippodrome, the two women could see smokeplumes produced by bonfires which the gathering Blue and Green factions had set aflame to warm their toughs. They could hear the faint roar of the mob, even at the distance.

  Antonina asked Irene: "What's the situation at the Great Palace?"

  "Tense. Very tense. Justinian called for a meeting of the high council for today, at noon. He's still listening to John of Cappadocia, however, who assures him that most of the army units will stand by the throne. So he's living in a fool's paradise. He doesn't realize that the only military forces he has left are his own excubitores—all five hundred of them!—and the forces which we're bringing."

  Irene turned her head, looking to the south.

  "Sittas and Hermogenes should be in position at the Harbor of Hormisdas. I'd better leave now and tell them where your forces stand."

  Antonina nodded. Maurice ordered a squad of cataphracts to escort the spymaster.

  A commotion drew Antonina's attention.

  A mob of grenadiers and their wives were pouring out of the monastery's doors, heading toward her. All of them were staring at her, their faces full of worried concern.

  "You told them," she said to Maurice, accusingly.

  Maurice chuckled.

  "Told them? I sent ten cataphracts over here this morning, to regale them with the tale. Every last gruesome, gory, grisly great moment of it!"

  Antonina sighed with exasperation. Maurice edged his horse next to her. Leaning over—all humor gone—he whispered harshly: "Listen to me, girl, and listen well. You're at war, now, and you're the commander. A female commander—the first one in Roman history outside of ancient legends. You need all the confidence you can get from your soldiers. And they need it even more than you do."

  Antonina stared into his gray eyes. She had never noticed, before, how cold those eyes could be.

  "Do you think I'd let an opportunity like this pass?" he demanded. Then, with a harsh laugh: "God, now that it's over, I'm almost ready to thank Balban! What a gift he gave us!"

  He leaned back in his saddle. "Antonina, my toughest cataphracts are in awe of you. Not one in ten would have survived that ambush—unarmored, with no weapon but a dagger—and they know it. How do you think these Syrian peasants feel? Now—about their little woman commander?"

  It was obvious how the peasants felt. The grenadiers and their wives were surrounding Antonina, gazing up at her silently. Their expressions were easy to read. A mixture of sentiments: relief at her obvious well-being; fierce satisfaction in her victory; pride in their commander—and self-pride that she was their commander.

  Most of all—it was almost frightening to Antonina—was a sense of quasireligious adoration. The simple Syrians were gazing at her much as they might have gazed at a living saint.

  She was blessed by God's grace.

  Just as the prophet Michael had foretold.

  For a moment, Antonina felt herself shrink from that crushing responsibility.

  Then, drawing on the fierce will which had always been a part of her—since her girlhood in the hard streets of Alexandria—she drove all hesitation aside.

  "I am quite well," she assured her grenadiers loudly. She began dismounting from her horse, but immediately found a dozen hands were helping her down. The same hands then carried her toward the cathedral. Hurriedly, monks and priests appeared to open the great doors. Among them, she saw the plump figure of Bishop Cassian.

  As she was carried through the doors, her eyes met those of Anthony. He returned her smile, but his gaze was filled with concern.

  She was carried to the altar and set back on her feet. Turning, she saw that the grenadiers and their wives were rapidly pouring in behind. Within two minutes, the great cathedral was filled. All the Syrians stood there, silently, staring at her.

  Many years before, as a young woman, Antonina's mother had given her some brief training as an actress. In the event, Antonina had never pursued her mother's career, having found a different one which—though just as disreputable—was considerably more renumerative. But she still remembered the lessons. Not her mother's meager talents as a thespian, but her skills a
t projecting her voice.

  All the grenadiers in the room—as well as the cataphracts who had joined them—almost jumped. Such a small woman, to have such a great, powerful voice.

  I have little to say, my soldiers. My friends.

  Little needs to be said.

  Our enemies are gathering. You can see their bonfires. You can hear their coarse shouts of triumph.

  Do not fear them.

  They are nothing.

  Nothing.

  Assassins. Street thugs. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Pimps. Gamblers.

  Nothing.

  Nothing!

  She paused, waited. The grenadiers—one or two, at first—took up the chant. Softly, at first. Then, louder and louder.

  "Nothing. Nothing."

  We will shatter them back into their nothing. We will drive them back into their sewers.

  "Nothing! Nothing!"

  We will hound them into their burrows. We will follow them into their ratholes. We will savage them till they plead for mercy.

  "NOTHING! NOTHING!"

  There will be no mercy.

  For nothing, there is nothing.

  The shouts now shook the cathedral itself. Antonina pointed to the cataphracts. The shouts died away. The grenadiers listened to her with complete attention.

  Our plan is simple. The traitors are gathering their forces in the Hippodrome. We will go there. The cataphracts will lead the way, but we will be God's hammer.

  We will hammer nothing—into nothing.

  She strode forward, heading down the aisle. The grenadiers parted before her and then immediately closed behind. She moved through that little sea of humanity like a ship in full sail.

  As she reached the door, Anthony Cassian stepped forward. For a moment, she embraced her old friend.

  "May God be with me," she whispered.

  "Oh, I believe He is," replied the Bishop softly. "Trust me in this, Antonina." With a quirk of a smile: "I am quite a reputable theologian, you know."

  She returned his smile, kissed him on the cheek, and strode past.

  By now, a large crowd of onlookers had gathered in the street. Not even the glares of cataphracts could hold back their curiosity. But then, hearing the sound of many approaching horses—heavy, armored horses—the crowd eddied back, pressed against the houses and fences which lined the boulevard.

  Down that street, in a prancing trot, came two hundred cataphracts. The remainder of the Thracian bucellarii, returning from their own triumph.

  When the cataphracts reached the cathedral they drew to a halt. The cataphracts in the lead tossed the residue of their vengeance at Antonina's feet.

  Gasping and hissing, the crowd of bystanders plastered themselves against the walls. A few, timidity overcoming curiosity, scuttled hastily into the houses and fenced yards.

  Twenty or so severed heads, rolling in the street, can chill even the most avid onlooker.

  The grenadiers, on the other hand, seeing the grisly trophies, erupted with their own savage glee.

  "NOTHING! NOTHING! NOTHING!"

  Antonina moved toward her horse. Maurice, with two cataphracts in tow, met her halfway.

  "Put these on," commanded Maurice. "I had them specially made."

  The cataphracts with him extended a cuirass and a helmet.

  "The helmet was easy," commented Maurice. "But the cuirass was a bit of a challenge for the armorer. He's not used to cleavage."

  Antonina smiled. With Maurice's help, she donned the unfamiliar equipment. The smile vanished. "This stuff is heavy."

  "Don't complain, girl. Just be thankful it's only half-armor. And be especially thankful that we're in Constantinople in the winter, instead of Syria in the summer."

  Antonina grimaced at the thought. Then, with a sly little smile:

  "Don't I get a sword, too?"

  Maurice shook his head.

  "I've got something better."

  He drew a scabbarded knife—a large and odd knife, judging from the sheath—and handed it to her.

  Antonina drew the blade out of the scabbard. She could not restrain a little gasp.

  "You recognize it, I see," said Maurice. His voice was full of satisfaction. "The shopkeeper drove a hard bargain for it, but I thought it was fitting."

  Antonina stared back and forth from Maurice to the cleaver.

  The hecatontarch's lips twisted into a grim smile.

  "Ask any veteran, Antonina. They'll all tell you there's nothing as important in a battle as having a trusty, tested blade."

  Suddenly, the feel of that simple cooking utensil in her hand filled Antonina with a great rush of confidence.

  "I do believe you're right, Maurice."

  She sensed, from the murmuring voices around her, that the cataphracts were passing the news to the grenadiers. Seconds later, the grenadiers began a new chant:

  "CLEAVE THEM! CLEAVE THEM!"

  With Maurice's help, she clambered into her saddle, suppressing a curse at the awkward weight of the helmet and armor. Once securely seated, she raised the butcher knife over her head, waving it.

  The grenadiers roared. The cataphracts joined their voices to the cry:

  "NOTHING! NOTHING!"

  Antonina suppressed a laugh.

  For all the world like a warrior of legend, waving a mystic sword of renown!

  Which, though she did not know it yet, she was; and which, to her everlasting surprise, that humble cleaver would become.

  Chapter 25

  When John of Rhodes saw the approaching dromon, he be

  gan cursing bitterly.

  Some of his curses were directed at Irene Macrembolitissa. The spymaster had not warned him that the traitorous General Aegidius had obtained a war galley to clear the way for his troop transports. John could already see the first of those transports, bearing the lead elements of the Army of Bithynia. Four of the tubby sailing ships were just now leaving the harbor at Chalcedon, heading across the Bosporus toward Constantinople.

  But most of his curses were aimed at life in general. He did not really blame Irene for the failure in intelligence. In all fairness, the spymaster could not be expected to know everything about their enemy.

  "That's just the way of it," he muttered. "War's always been a fickle bitch."

  "Excuse me?" asked Eusebius, looking up from his work. The young artificer's face seemed a bit green. He was obviously feeling ill at ease from the rocking motion of the galley. Especially since he was standing upon the fighting platform amidships, engaged in the delicate task of opening firebomb crates. The platform was elevated ten feet above the deck, which only accentuated the ship's unsteadiness.

  "Hurry it up, Eusebius," growled John of Rhodes. The naval officer pointed to starboard. "We're going to have to deal with that before we do anything else."

  Eusebius straightened, peering near-sightedly toward the war galley approaching from the south.

  "Oh, Christ," he muttered. "I can't see it very well, but—is that what I think it is?"

  John nodded gloomily.

  "Yeah, it's a dromon. A hundred fighting soldiers and at least a hundred and fifty rowers—good ones, too, judging from their speed. And they've already lowered the sails."

  Eusebius paled. Dromons were the fastest ships afloat—at least, during the period before their rowers tired—and by far the most maneuverable. Pure warships.

  John of Rhodes scampered down the ladder to the main deck and scurried aft, where he hastily began consulting with his steering officer. In his absence, Eusebius began unpacking another crate of firebombs. The artillerymen on the platform offered to help, but he refused their assistance. He was probably being too cautious—once the battle started, the artillerymen would have to do their own loading—but Eusebius knew better than anyone just how dangerous those bombs could be if they were accidentally ruptured.

  Besides, it gave him something to do besides worry.

  And there was a lot to worry about. Eusebius was no seaman, but he had picked
up enough from John of Rhodes over the past months to understand the seriousness of their predicament.

  The artificer glanced at the two scorpions set up on the ship's fighting platform—the "wood-castle," as it was called. Then, more slowly, he studied the ship itself.