My student band let up a cheer as I came in sight. In an almost passable imitation of the Palace Guard, they raised their weapons in salute.
‘Martin,’ I said, ‘go back and stand by the Great Church. It’s too late to get you into the main area, but the priests will let you back up to the dome if need be.’
I turned from him. ‘Right, my boys.’ I shouted. ‘Are we going to clear those fucking Heraclians out of this city? Or are we just going to show them how to fight?’
I tried to think of some battle cry that was both literary and relevant.
I was beaten to it.
‘Blue – Blue – Blue – Blue,’ chanted the true racing fans around me.
I’d expected the exit into Middle Street from the Forum of Constantine would be the weakest point in the defence. Though we had a stout wooden wall built across the street, there was a wide-open space beyond for an attacking force to gather. If you think of it in terms of a battering ram against a door, there was room here for a good, hard run.
The first attack on the wall came from the Greens. They poured into the Forum from the direction of the Main Harbour. I watched them from the platform that ran along the upper part of the wall and let us see over at breast height. There was no appearance of discipline among them. Their weapons and armour were as makeshift as those of my own men. Their big advantage was in numbers. We were strung out along a line that had to be held at all times. They could stay together in larger groups and make their attack at any point.
The Greens filled the wide expanse of the Forum. As they slowly came forward, they struck up one of their Circus chants. That low, rhythmical grunting a few days earlier had seemed part of the good-humoured badinage before the races. Now, it was in earnest. It had a sound about it of blood and death. At the back of the crowd, I saw pikes with heads stuck on them. It wasn’t hard to guess, from the imprecations that began around me, that these were the decapitated heads of Blues picked off after the sudden change of side at the Main Harbour.
The Greens marked every downbeat of their chant by striking their weapons on the pavement.
The Blues around me began a chant of their own. Then – just like at the races, though now with malevolence – the ritual insults and curses flew back and forth.
As the Greens came within striking distance, my Blues took up their slingshots and let fly with volley after volley of the excrement they’d taken the trouble to collect from around the Great Church. The smell was overpowering. The Greens let out a howl of rage as it splattered all over them. Their fine green banners turned brown. Some slipped on the splashes of shit littering the ground in front of them and fell heavily down.
The Blues screamed with laughter. Some of my more vulgar men even took to pelting each other. Their betters called them to order with canes, and turned their attention back to the advancing enemy.
The Greens were now coming on fast. Then, with a last and terrible scream of hatred, they broke into a run for the last twenty yards of the advance. As their twisted faces grew clearer, I heard the panted aftersound of their war chant and the scuffing of leather on pavement as the massed attack of the Greens came closer and closer.
With a sudden shock, they crashed into the wall. The wooden planks shook horribly at the impact of so many hundreds of bodies. I clutched at the inner frame of the wall to hold myself steady. I thought at first it would tumble down, and we’d be into open combat.
But the wall held. Now into another of their Circus chants, the Green attackers grabbed hold of the walls where they could and rocked backwards and forwards. I thought to jump down before I was pitched off, but the Blues beside me now went into action. They poked the attackers with sharpened stakes and poured cauldrons of boiling water over their heads.
It was very light work to break the force of the Green attack. After taking a few dozen casualties, they drew back. They stood about ten yards from the wall, throwing stones and chanting more factional insults. The occasional severed head bumped against the outer planks. Shaking their weapons, the Blues chanted back. No one seemed inclined to engage in more bloodshed.
I climbed down from the wall. ‘This all seems to be under control,’ I said briefly to one of my students.
At that moment a message was delivered from the barricade by the Saint Julian Church. This was one of the strongpoints, but now it was under attack by regular troops.
59
We arrived just as the enemy was battering at the wall. In scarlet cloaks and pointed silver helmets, the soldiers had marched straight down the shopping street beyond, and were now attacking the wall more effectively than the Greens had managed.
The citizen defenders hadn’t yet run away. But they stood nervously back from our side of the wall. Some of them were still throwing a few stones over the top. For all the good that did the defence, it might have been rain.
‘On to the rooftops!’ I shouted. I led the way up to the roof of the church. Some of the Blues already there were looking nervously over to the archers who stood further back from the attack force. Though not so dangerous in street-fighting as on an open battlefield, archers on the opposing side are bad news when you have none yourself.
I took up one of the cobblestones Priscus had made sure to put up there in great baskets. I threw it and hit one of the attackers straight on the forehead. He went down like a stunned ox. The soldiers beside him stopped their pushing at the wall and looked up.
‘Come on,’ I said encouragingly. ‘They die just like the rest of us.’
I threw another stone and this time caught an officer on the shoulder. There was a shout of sudden confidence around me, and a whole volley of stones followed mine.
‘Now for the glass,’ I said. The small catapult that had been dragged up there went into action. Heaps of glass dishes and drinking vessels flew about thirty yards down the street beyond our barricade. These didn’t hit anyone. Instead, their purpose was to hold the cavalry back. The enemy plan, it was clear, was for the infantry to smash the wall down so that mounted troops could sweep straight along the street to the city centre.
That had to be avoided whatever the cost. Now their blood was fully up, my Blues were a match for any regular troops so long as we had some advantage of cover. There was nothing we could do against heavy cavalry. That would go straight through us.
Well, we did avoid it. That set of barricades wasn’t going anywhere soon. And horses would now have to be led very carefully round those shards of glass.
I felt a surge of joy as I called the men back. The defence wasn’t going too badly so far.
A hand brushed my cloak. ‘My Lord,’ someone said from behind, ‘they are breaking through by the Urban Prefecture building.’
He was right. By the time we got there, they had already done so. Soldiers stood with raised shields to fend off our hail of slingshot, while Green volunteers cleared the far less solid barricade Priscus had put there.
‘Charge!’ I called to my students. My mouth had gone very dry and my sword arm trembled as I led them into battle.
We took the soldiers by surprise. They hadn’t expected active resistance and we were on them before they could mount a defence. I struck one of them straight in his bearded face with the pommel of my sword. I drew its edge along his throat and pushed him back against another two. I snapped another’s neck with the edge of my shield. Beside me, my students hacked and shouted their way through the soldiers as they pushed them back to the other side of the barricade. We moved away just in time to avoid the boiling oil that had begun to rain from the upper windows of the Prefecture.
With the soldiers in retreat, we turned on the trapped Greens and butchered them until the ground under our feet turned slippery with blood. I lost my sword in one particularly fat victim. It went in easily enough, but got stuck somewhere on the way out. He squealed and rolled his eyes as I pushed in and out of his body. It must have seemed rather comical to anyone watching.
‘Take this one,’ somebody yelled in my ear
, passing over a much heavier military sword. The new weight and length took a bit of getting used to, but this one cut through flesh and bone as if it were a butcher’s cleaver.
With a blast of trumpets, the soldiers were sent back to rescue the Greens. We now went for Greens and soldiers indiscriminately. The ground before us was a natural killing ground; we had the advantage of cover and a slight incline.
I picked up a spear and threw it at the fleeing soldiers. It caught one of them in the leg. As he went down, one of my students – the young man who’d spoken of Saint Sebastian – disregarded my orders and ran forward. He dodged past the pools of steaming oil that covered the ground and killed the man with a sword-thrust into his mouth. Waving a stolen shield above his head, he danced back behind the barricades, his face shining with joy.
I wanted to supervise the rebuilding of the barricade while the soldiers were in retreat but before I could do so another message arrived. We were hard pressed a few hundred yards down the line where someone had fired one of the buildings. I filled my lungs with clean air as we dashed into the cloud of smoke and felt our way towards the new threatened point. Buildings were burning around us. Missiles rained from the tops of burning buildings as we fought and killed and raced from one threatened point to another.
There were still no cavalry attacks, perhaps because the streets were so choked with debris. But the main danger now was arrows. It seemed that hundreds of archers had been brought forward to join the few I’d seen earlier. They stood out of range of anything we could send back at them, firing off volley after volley of arrows. Most of them fell spent around us, but they made getting about the streets inside the barricades increasingly slow and difficult.
The fighting had by now reached the stage when we were hard pressed everywhere. Blues fought back against Greens with murderous passion. When I and my students got to any one barricade, many of the Greens turned and ran, to be replaced by regular soldiers who usually waited for us to run at them sword in hand.
But we were untrained and outnumbered. The proper place for my Blues was on the City walls, fetching and carrying for the regular defenders. A leader of genius like Belisarius might have kept the defence going longer and more effectively. Had I known then what I learned many years later, I could have used fire and the safe lines of communication offered by rooftops to inflict catastrophic losses on the enemy. But that day I had only the skills of a bandit and the dispositions made by Priscus.
And there were now so many threatened points. I knew that we were being pushed steadily back, but we had to hold the line we had. I’d already pulled everyone back to the innermost ring of defences. There was nowhere further to retreat to and regroup.
We fought with frantic energy. My sword twisted in my grip with blood and sweat and weariness as I hacked and stabbed at the soldiers. So far as I could tell, I was unwounded myself, but I tripped several times over the bodies that now littered the rubble-strewn streets – bodies both in uniform and in makeshift armour.
At last, that poor Saint Sebastian boy died in my arms. He’d taken an arrow in his throat. His face still shining, he choked with his last breath over the poem Simonides had written so long ago for the Spartan dead at Thermopylae:
Here dead we lie because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.
As I looked down into the dead eyes of his still face, my mind began to clear. Simonides had known how to speak for the Spartans. Their heroes had died for a country that was worth any number of lives. What could I ever hope to say to that boy’s mother? That he’d died to buy time for Phocas?
So far as I could tell, he hadn’t even died for the Blue Faction. Perhaps he’d died for me.
I sat down heavily beside him and pushed his eyes closed. An officer in the attack force stood over me. I reached for my sword.
‘Fuck off!’ I said wearily.
The man looked at me and walked smartly off.
I heard yet another blast of the military trumpets and then a loud voice shouting in the distance: ‘Put your weapons down. Stand against the walls. We give you quarter.’
I heard another voice from a different direction: ‘Put your weapons down. Your battle is lost. You have full quarter.’
‘They’re right,’ Martin spoke urgently behind me. ‘It’s all over. You must get away.’
I looked round. It was Martin indeed. I’d thought at first I was hearing things. He was nursing a cut to his arm but was otherwise unharmed.
What the fuck was he doing here? I hadn’t noticed him during the fighting. So far as I’d thought of him at all, it was to assume that he was safe inside the Great Church.
He sawed at the straps of my breastplate with a broken sword until the thing fell away from my body. It was splashed with blood and dented all over.
I helped him pull the helmet off my head. This also was dented nearly out of shape. I let him throw a piece of cloth over my hair.
‘Where are the others?’ I asked, confused at the sudden silence around me. I coughed as the wind blew smoke into my face.
‘Dead or gone home,’ he said.
He pulled me to my feet.
‘We must get out of here,’ he said. ‘There’s no quarter for you. Before the Prefecture building fell, its defenders hailed you as Emperor.’
‘Stupid fucking bastards,’ I croaked. All of a sudden, I was thirsty beyond imagining.
I had by now recovered my senses as much as I needed them. One after the other, I stretched my arms and legs, expecting to feel a stab of white pain at any moment. But I felt nothing. I’d been in the thick of the battle and I hadn’t picked up a scratch. Given time, I’d have started an argument with Martin about the power of his holy relics.
I looked around me. Except that there was no grass, the street looked like one of the tattier parts of Rome – all smashed wood and other things.
‘Which way to the Legation?’ I asked weakly.
60
I don’t know how we got back to the Legation. There were soldiers everywhere. Citizens scurried around, searching for loved ones or loot. A few times, I saw soldiers looking at me. One raised his sword in a strange salute. But no one tried to stop us.
There were a few bodies in the square outside, and one or two piles of discarded loot. Otherwise all looked much as usual. The Legation was just inside the ring of defences but I didn’t recall any fighting here. Smoke drifted into the square but from some distance away.
I approached the gate as if in a dream. It was shut. I prayed that it was locked and that all was well inside. As I drew closer, my head was pounding as if I were going into battle again.
‘God be praised!’ said Martin in a quivering voice when we reached the gate.
I touched it gently. No movement. It was surely locked. I pushed harder.
The gate moved and we both stood looking at the inch of darkness that had opened before us. Neither of us moved. It was like being in a dream. The faint sound of shouting from the streets behind us died away to an oppressive silence. The rest of the world might not have existed as we stood, stupidly, looking at that strip of darkness.
I pushed harder at the gate and we stepped into the gloom of the main hall. At first, everything seemed as it should be. There were the same patterns of light and shadow, the same dull quietness of the place. Then I saw the empty lodge just inside to my right. Where were the doorkeepers?
‘We must go upstairs,’ said Martin in an odd voice, but he seemed as rooted to the spot as I was.
I made a tremendous effort and stepped forward. ‘Come on,’ I said, taking Martin by the arm. I found my teeth chattering uncontrollably.
The door to my suite was off its hinges. The bars Authari had worked so hard to procure and fit were smashed with the force of whatever had been brought against the door.
Upstairs, everyone was dead.
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We found Radogast first. He lay at the top of the stairs. He’d been almost cut to pieces in the desperate struggle. His severed right arm still clutched a military cloak.
Gutrune lay in the corridor outside my office. Her throat had been slit. She’d died with a bloody knife in her hand. The dent in the lead feeding bottle showed that she must have used it as a club.
The other dead bodies also showed signs of desperate resistance.
And Maximin?
We ran up and down the corridor, looking into each room.
Nothing.
There was no sign of looting. This had been a tight military operation. There had been a wild struggle but its outcome could never have been in doubt.
‘Aelric,’ Martin cried from my office. ‘Aelric, it’s Antony – he’s still alive.’
Alive he was, though only just. He was sitting on the floor and he groaned as Martin lifted the cup of water to his lips.
‘Men,’ he whispered, ‘armed men. They had the Emperor’s authority. All was in order when I had the gate opened. Priscus’ – he swallowed – ‘he came in with full authority. The doorkeepers let him in. I protested the violation of our immunity. I tried to stop them from taking the dear child.’
He coughed and blood ran down his chin. I looked at the great spreading stain on his robe.
‘The law says the authorities can enter in an emergency to secure the Legation. They have no right to-’
He coughed again. More blood. His face turned an ashen colour as his lips described the word ‘right’. I took hold of him and held him during his last violent spasm.
Martin pulled the robe over his face as I drained the water jug.
‘I should have been here,’ I said flatly. ‘I could have kept Priscus out.’ I imagined Priscus holding up Maximin to see the work of butchery against the only family he’d known. I could see the look on the man’s face and hear the triumph in his voice as he took possession of his alienated property.
The Terror of Constantinople a-2 Page 38
