Eight for Eternity

by Mary Reed

  Evidently the priests hoped the display would bring calm to the streets. A foolhardy gesture, John thought, but a brave one.

  The procession reached the burning church and mounted the few steps to its narrow portico. Tongues of flame ran along the building’s roofline.

  One of the priests brandished his icon above his head and began to admonish the throng in booming tones. “Brothers and sisters! Go home and repent your sins!”

  John recognized the short, stout figure silhouetted in front of the red glow emanating from the doorway as Leonardis, the man he had spoken to at the Church of Saint Laurentius, who had appeared so fascinated by the fiery torment of his church’s martyr.

  Many of the crowd, their attention drawn to the spectacle of the icons, moved toward the church.

  “Return to your homes!” Leonardis thundered. “I command you, in the name of our Lord!” He moved the icon from side to side. The stern gaze of the Christian saint swept over the entire assembly. “Pray for the emperor’s mercy and justice!”

  “What justice is there on earth, much less heaven?” A man who looked like a beggar pushed his way to the front of the rabble. He emphasized his words with flourishes of a splintered piece of wood stained in sinister fashion. “What justice was there for the Blues and Greens?”

  A full throated roar of approval drowned the priest’s attempt at a reply. A dark object came flying out of the crowd. Leonardis raised his icon like a shield. The clot of dung splattered across the holy image.

  The priest’s outraged words were drowned out by a roar of laughter.

  The ragged man who had addressed Leonardis lurched forward with shocking suddenness, knocked the soiled icon from his hands, and spat on it. “Saints! Relics! Prayers! Do they fill our bellies or keep us warm?”

  “No!” came the crowd’s response.

  The man’s laugh sounded more like the wild cry of a gull than any sound formed in a human throat. “They’d keep us warm if we burnt them!” He grabbed the icon and tossed it through the open doorway. Flames spurted out.

  John tried to move closer to the church but his way was blocked by the packed bodies. The priests on the portico huddled closer together, muttering terrified prayers as children began to throw stones and broken bricks at them. A filthy-faced girl dressed in an obviously stolen, lavishly embroidered tunic too large for her, approached the holy men and lifted up her garment to expose her dirty nakedness. “I’ll keep the lot of you warm!” she shouted. “Who’s going to be first?”

  More laughter echoed across the broken buildings as the priests shrank back, their prayers growing louder. The girl grabbed the arm of one priest and willing helpers dragged him forward and threw him to the ground.

  “Don’t be shy, dearie,” the girl said, “we’re all friends here.”

  A woman suggested since her victim was insulting the girl by not showing interest, someone should make certain he would never insult a woman again. “And I’ve got a nice sharp knife!” She stepped forward to bend over the priest.

  The man on the ground gave a shrill scream and fell silent.

  It all happened quickly, before John could fight his way forward, before Leonardis could react. The stout priest was shaking. “What have you done? Are you animals? You will burn! Sinners! Murderers! You will writhe in eternal torment!”

  The ragged man sprang at Leonardis, grabbed him by his vestments, and shook him. “You! I know you! You Judas! Betrayer! Your threats are worth as much as your lying promises of salvation! Oh yes, my friends are dead but I, I have conquered death! Now let’s see you do the same!”

  With that he picked Leonardis up and flung him into the blazing church.

  Then he swung around, let out a piercing howl of laughter and scuttled off the portico. A path opened in the now terrified crowd and almost instantly he was gone.

  The way he moved sparked John’s memory.

  Was it the madman he and Felix had seen perched on the rooftop cross on their way back from the Praetorium?

  He had vanished now.

  An angry knot of rioters pressed in toward the remaining priests. Some of the priests were on their knees, praying and crying. A couple of braver souls jabbed out with the poles bearing their icons. The hard reality of the painted panels did not deter the attackers any more than their symbolic power had.

  There was nothing John could do. The crush was too thick. He was jostled, practically lifted off his feet. An inadvertent elbow jabbed him in the ribs. He was shoved from behind. It was all he could do to remain standing. Anyone who fell would be trampled to death.

  Usually, in the streets, he could command respect with a glance, but not now. These were no longer human beings but rather a single, monstrous beast intent on mayhem.

  “To the Augustaion,” someone cried. “Nika! Nika!” Other voices echoed the words and then John was borne along with the surging mob, as helpless as if he had fallen into the dark currents of the Bosporos.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Your chamberlain friend hasn’t passed this way, Felix. Not while I’ve been on guard.” The excubitor, Bato, leaned back against an irregular chunk of masonry which had once been part of an interior wall or the ceiling of the palace entrance, to judge from the bright mosaic patterns. He was one of several men stationed amidst the ruins of the Chalke. The rest remained inside a nearby barracks, close at hand in case of trouble, but under their captain Gallio’s orders not to venture outside the palace. “What are you doing out here anyway? Weren’t you assigned to look after the chamberlain’s guests?”

  “I’ve been taking a walk. I needed to get some air.”

  The cold had cleared Felix’s head. Julianna had eluded him. He had circled the imperial residence for a while, in case she emerged, but he had not seen her again.

  “Maybe you’d like to take my place out here?” Bato said. “I wish you’d chosen me to assist with that relaxing job you’ve been handed.”

  “You know Gallio refused to make you available. Perhaps he thought we knew each other too well. Bad for discipline. Anyway, I prefer fighting.”

  “Out of sorts, are you? A bit too much wine last night I’d say.”

  Felix looked along the Mese. Smoke and heaped rubble obscured the people gathered there. A continuous murmur of voices drifted toward the ruined Chalke. Flames flared through the drifting haze. “I hope John isn’t out in that,” he finally said. He hoped Julianna wasn’t out in it either. At least John could take care of himself.

  “It’s quiet now,” Bato said. “A lot of the troublemakers left a short time ago. Shouting about victory, whatever they mean by that. At least if your friend was out there near that fire he’d be warmer.” Bato shifted his lance from one hand to other. He blew on his free hand and flexed his fingers.

  “You’d be warmer too if you were busy driving that rabble from the streets.”

  “I’m carrying out Captain Gallio’s order.”

  “To do nothing!” Felix snorted.

  “Our captain is being prudent. Waiting until the enemy presents an opening.”

  “More likely waiting in order to drive up the price of his services.”

  Bato smiled. “You think he’s already been bribed to sit inside the palace?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I suspect Narses. He’s the treasurer. He went by here a few hours ago. I could practically hear him jingling. He was creeping along like an overburdened mule.”

  “Justinian wants him to buy off the factions.”

  “Eunuchs are a sly lot. You need to watch your step, my friend.”

  “I thought you said Gallio was being prudent,” Felix grumbled.

  “We need to consider every angle don’t we?”

  “Consider then, how could it be prudent to disobey Justinian’s orders?”

  “That’s easy. Gallio must have decided that the emperor is not going to be driving the winning chariot. What else? But he doesn’t know ye
t who will cross the finish line first. So he waits and I stand here in the ruins and freeze my feet.” He stamped his boots.

  “What do you think, Bato? If you aren’t willing to side with the emperor, what chariot would you place your wager on?”

  “I’d put my money on whatever team Porphyrius was on. Wouldn’t you?”

  Felix nodded. “I imagine a lot of people would.”

  Bato poked his lance at the debris scattered on the ground. He flipped over a few small pieces of what resembled charred rock, revealing a fragment of brilliant blue mosaic the color of part of a peacock’s tail. “Impossible to say what’s going to turn up, isn’t it? I don’t blame Gallio for waiting. I only wish he’d ordered me to wait inside.”

  Felix decided to return to John’s house. He’d had no legitimate reason to come out here. He hated sitting behind walls when there was fighting to do. He peered down the street again. “No one’s threatened the palace?”

  “No,” Bato said. “I think they’re tired from burning and looting. They’re just enjoying themselves.”

  “That won’t last long.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when shouts echoed down the fire-gutted colonnades, followed by the clatter of hoofs. Through a gap in the rubble, Felix saw mounted soldiers. He recognized among them Belisarius.

  Jeers and insults showered on the soldiers. A few people flung bricks and stones. An obviously intoxicated man staggered into view, brandishing what looked like the burnt remains of a wooden cross. It was hard to tell, through the smoke. Belisarius leaned over casually in his saddle and swung his sword. The attacker’s head flopped forward unto his chest and tumbled to the ground.

  Then the cavalrymen lowered their lances and spurred their horses.

  “This way!” someone shouted.

  Bato stiffened, lowered his own lance and stepped forward, ready to call for assistance. Then he laughed. “I see they have enough sense not to head this way. They’re taking to the alley across from the church.”

  Felix could see that Belisarius’ company was pursuing the mob. He realized he had his sword in his hand. Then he realized something else. “That alley….” he muttered, “Mithra!”

  He sprinted away from Bato without pausing to explain.

  By the time Felix passed the rubble partially blocking the Mese, pursuers and pursued had vanished. He saw a blazing church spewing a fog of smoke. He felt the heat on the opposite side of the street. He could see bodies crumpled on the portico.

  He raced into the alley.

  It narrowed almost immediately. Enclosed balconies jutting out from the second floors of the surrounding tenements almost met overhead, creating a virtual ceiling through which only a crack of sky remained visible.

  The sounds of battle reverberated along the brick-walled ravine—oaths, the clash of swords, cries of wounded men and horses.

  From the corner of his eye, Felix glimpsed a dark shape hurtling toward his head. He leapt aside and the pot of night soil exploded at his feet. A face leered down from an open window.

  He ran on. Now there was barely space for two horses abreast. The passage veered abruptly and as Felix rounded the corner he saw what he feared.

  Belisarius had been trapped.

  As was common in the city, the alley turned into a stairway to descend a steep hill. The stairs were too precipitous to be navigated easily on horseback. Perhaps the first rider had been unable to slow up in time, or his horse had panicked. Whatever the exact cause, several horses and riders had fallen, clogging the alley. Part of Belisarius’ company had spilled down the stairs, the rest remained at the top. Sticks of wood, bricks, and flaming torches rained from windows.

  A few of the rabble may have taken the chance to escape but many had chosen to fight. Armed with clubs, lengths of chain, cleavers, hammers, and other makeshift weapons they ducked nimbly in and out between the packed cavalry, slashing at legs and bellies, both human and equine.

  There was no room for trained fighters to maneuver. Lances were all but useless in the crush, as likely to impale a comrade as an attacker. Horses wheeled about, only to collide with each other. One reared up, throwing its rider, as an oil lamp trailing flames smashed into the side of the terrified creature’s head.

  Felix moved forward swiftly. How many years had it been since he had fought in such a melee? It didn’t matter. The deafening clamor, the stink of blood and death, brought back all his skills.

  He was confronted by a big red-faced man. The assailant raised an axe. Before he could bring it down, Felix was pulling his sword out of the fellow’s chest.

  Then a ruffian, too intent on eviscerating a wounded soldier, was surprised to suddenly find himself dying from a gaping wound in his side.

  Felix felt his boot slip, staggered sideways, tripped over a body. He managed to reach out to break his fall. He pushed himself up off the ground with a crimson hand.

  Someone backed into him. Before he could react he was shoved from the other side.

  He swung his sword at a ragged form, not sure even if the man was armed. Anyone who wasn’t a soldier was an enemy.

  Felix forced his way forward, pushing, stabbing, swinging his blade when he found space.

  He stayed next to the wall, freeing himself from fending off any attacks from that side.

  Suddenly he was looking down the stairway. Dismounted soldiers at the top of the stairs had begun to form a defensive hedge of lances. Too late perhaps.

  A helmeted head emerged from the tenement doorway Felix was standing beside. The man carried a sword. Behind him, in the dimness, Felix glimpsed other armored men bearing weapons.

  Had the excubitors finally decided to fight? Or were they from the urban watch?

  “You’re just in time,” shouted one of Belisarius’ beleaguered soldiers.

  The newcomer lunged forward and split the speaker’s skull open with his blade.

  Was someone arming the troublemakers, or had they stolen the weapons? It made no difference. Felix threw himself in front of the doorway.

  The man who had killed Belisarius’ soldier took a sword in the throat. Felix yanked his blade free in a gush of blood at the same time kicking the body backwards into the man behind, who went down in a heap.

  Another attacker tried to climb over the two bodies in the doorway. Felix blocked his way. For what felt like eternity he fought alone, refusing to allow the newcomers into the fray. He could feel his heart pounding, the ache in his sword arm, and the fire in his chest every time he drew a breath. He did not experience these sensations as pain or discomfort but rather as useful information, the way a bowman might note the dwindling number of arrows in his quiver.

  By the time he was forced backwards, the ambushers had lost the element of surprise. Soldiers had joined him. He fought shoulder to shoulder with Belisarius’ men.

  By now the dismounted cavalrymen had time to form an impenetrable wall of lances and began to push the crowd back. Felix and his companions moved forward, stepping over bodies.

  Abruptly the mob was gone, fleeing down the alley, and the stairs, and into doorways, dispersing as quickly as water down a drain.

  Felix was aware of the weight of his sword, and how sticky the hilt felt. There was a roaring in his ears.

  “I’ve rarely seen such a fighter,” came a voice beside him.

  He turned wearily and saw the patrician features of Belisarius.

  “Tell me your name, man, or I shall have to say I was rescued in the city streets by a bear.”

  “Felix, excellency.”

  “Felix! Not one of my men, are you? I shall speak to Justinian about that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The rioters in the Augustaion knew nothing of the battle in the alley a few streets distant. They had left the Mese before Belisarius’ arrival, crying out for victory. But the deserted square was not worth conquering. The Great Church had already been burnt as well as the nearby baths. Had there be
en anything to incite them they might have taken torches to Samsun’s Hospice or the Church of Saint Irene. But there was only desolation and the inhuman moaning of a bitter wind.

  Some fell to quarreling with each other, others drifted off in search of taverns which had not yet been ransacked. A few simply went home. A pack of young charioteers had found a girl.

  There were ten of them. They surrounded her at the base of the five wide stairs which had once led to the portico of the Great Church but now led to a blackened pit filled with smoldering debris. She had been scanning the ruins so intently, as if searching for something amidst the jagged remnants of walls and upthrust timbers, that she had not noticed them approaching until too late.

  They closed in around her. They were outfitted in the leather leggings and helmets they wore for races, as useful in street fights as chariot spills.

  Julianna made a dash toward a gap in the tightening circle.

  A stocky dark-haired man smacked her across the face and knocked her to the ground. She tried to get to her knees and someone else kicked her back down.

  Julianna felt blood running from her nose. “If you harm me Porphyrius is sure to find out,” she said. “And when he does—”

  A boot thudded into her side, taking her breath away.

  “Why would you know Porphyrius, little girl?” asked the stocky man.

  “She’s a new charioteer, can’t you see?”

  A boot pushed her tunic up to her waist.

  “She’s got a boy’s legs. No meat on her.”

  “Stop complaining,” said the stocky charioteer who seemed to be the ringleader. “You want meat, you know where you can pay for it. This one’s free.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” came another voice.

  “Wipe your face, girl. I hate the sight of blood.” The ringleader bent toward Julianna, then stopped at the sound of a keening voice.

  “Halt! The Lord commands you!” A bent figure crouched at the top of the stairs. Its eyes shone like sparks from an ash-blackened face. The strange creature waved a golden cross.

  The ringleader looked from the wild-eyed creature to the prone girl and back again. “You’d better be off, whoever you are. We have business to attend to here.”