“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 yet 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.