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 completely 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.
Instinctively, the Knights Hospitaler began to pursue. But Zeno, without waiting for Antonina's command, bellowed again. The Knights halted immed-iately. Stopped, leaned on their staffs, drew in deep gasping breaths.
Antonina turned to Ashot.
"I want you and your cataphracts to ride through the city's center. Break up into squads."
She gave him a hard stare. "Don't attack anybody. Not unless you're attacked yourselves, at least. I just want you to be seen. Put the fear of God in that crowd. By nightfall, I want everyone who came out on the street today to be huddling in their villas and apartments. Like mice when the cats are out."
Ashot nodded. "I understand." Instantly, he trotted toward his nearby horse.
She turned to Zeno. "Call out all the Knights you had in reserve. Divide half of them into your—" She hesitated, fumbling for the word. "What did you decide to call that? Your two-hundred-man groups?"