by Eric Flint
John of Cappadocia laughed gaily. With a mocking bow, he waved at the great door leading to the corridor beyond. Not five seconds later, the door burst open. Gore-stained soldiers poured into the audience chamber. They were grinning widely and gesturing triumphantly with their bloody swords. They wore the livery of John of Cappadocia's bucellarii.
"All of them, John!" howled one of his retainers. "I swear—all of them!"
One of his fellows demurred: "Not quite. There's a number of excubitores forted up in the mint. And all of Theodora's bodyguards are still in the Gynaeceum."
"Deal with them," commanded the praetorian prefect. His bucellarii immediately left the chamber.
John turned back to the imperial couple. Theodora spit at the Cappadocian. John dodged the spittle, then returned the Empress' contempt with a cheerful smile, before turning his gaze to Justinian.
"Do it," he commanded.
The two excubitores holding Justinian hauled the Emperor from his throne and manhandled him off the dais onto the carpeted floor of the chamber. Brutally, a third bodyguard kicked Justinian's feet out from under him. A moment later, the Emperor was on his knees, bent double. Each of his arms was pinioned. Another excubitore cuffed away the tiara, seized Justinian's hair in both hands, and jerked the Emperor's head back.
Justinian's eyes, rising, met the eyes of the torturer entering the room through a side door. The man bore an iron rod in his hands. The hands wore gauntlets. The tip of the rod glowed red.
It was the last thing the Emperor would ever see, and he knew it. He barely had time to begin his scream before the rod plunged into his left eye. A moment later, the right. The torturer was quick, and expert.
The Emperor's scream, while it lasted, seemed to shake the very walls of the chamber. But it was brief; very brief. Within seconds, sheer agony had driven consciousness from Justinian's brain. The bodyguard holding his head relinguished his grip. A moment later, so did the excubitores holding his arms. The Emperor collapsed onto the floor.
There was no blood. The red-hot tip of the iron rod had cauterized the terrible wounds as soon as it made them.
Which John of Cappadocia immediately pointed out.
"You see how merciful I am, Theodora?" he demanded. Another mocking bow. "A different man—such as the cruel and despicable creature you have so often proclaimed me to be—would have murdered your husband. But I satisfy myself with mere blinding."
Gaily: "And an expert blinding at that!" Then, with the casual insouciance of a connoisseur:
"It's quite an art, you know. Most people don't appreciate that. It's very difficult to blind a man without killing him outright. Less than one out of ten survive the average torturer." He gestured grandly at the gauntleted man who had mutilated the Emperor. "But I use only the best! The very best! I estimate—" He paused, studying Justinian's sprawled body with exaggerated studiousness. Concluded: "—that your husband has—one chance in three!"
Throughout, Theodora said nothing. She did not look at Justinian. She simply kept her eyes on John of Cappadocia. Black eyes, like the gates of damnation.
Even John, in his triumph, flinched from that hell-gaze.
"There'll be none of your haughty ways now, bitch," he snarled. He pointed to Justinian.
"One chance in three, I say. Unless he's given immediate medical attention. The best medical care."
Sneering: "Which, of course, I also happen to have available. For a price."
Theodora said nothing. The hell-gaze never wavered.
John looked away. His eyes fastened on Justinian. The Cappadocian seemed to draw strength from that piteous sight. Although his eyes avoided Theodora, his voice was cold and certain:
"Now that Justinian has been blinded, he can no longer be Emperor. You know the law of Rome, Theodora. No mutilated man can wear the purple. Neither the Senate, nor the populace, nor the army will accept him. As Emperor, he is finished."
The sneer returned in full force. But, still, his eyes avoided Theodora's.
"You may—may—still be able to save his life. What there is of it. If you offer no further resistance. If you publicly hail Hypatius as the new Emperor."
When Theodora finally spoke, her voice matched her gaze. Hell-voice.
"I will do no such thing. If you bring the worm Hypatius before me, I will spit on him. If you drag me to the Hippodrome, I will curse him before the mob."
She jerked her right arm loose from the excubitores who held it. Pointed to Justinian:
"All you have done is blind a man who would someday have been blinded by death. You threaten to kill a man, when no man lives forever. Do it, then. Kill me with him. I am the Empress. I would rather die than yield."
She reared in her throne. "There is an ancient saying, which I approve: Royalty is a good burial-shroud."
Hell-gaze; hell-voice:
"Do your murder, then, traitor. Kill us, coward."
John clenched his fist, opened his mouth. But before he could utter a word, one of his bucellarii sprinted into the room. He skidded to a halt, almost tripping over the rumpled carpet. Sweat poured from his brow. He gasped for air.
Half-shouting; half-whispering:
"The Army of Bithynia's been routed at sea! Half their ships burned! Most of the survivors fled back to Chalcedon!"
Gasping:
"They say an army's moving toward the Hippodrome. Cataphracts. They say"—gasp—"the whore Antonina is leading them."
Hoarsely:
"And they say—Belisarius is here!"
Theodora's pealing laugh had no more humor in it than Satan's own.
Hell-laugh.
"You are all dead men. Kill us, traitors! Do it, cowards! As surely as the sun rises, you will join us before sundown."
Every traitor in the room stared at the Empress.
John of Cappadocia was famous for his sneer. But Theodora's sneer, compared to his, was like the fangs of a tigress matched to a rodent's incisors.
"Do it, cowards! Boast to Belisarius that you killed his Emperor and Empress. Do it! Tell the loyal man of your treachery. Do it! Tell the man of honor that you are murderers. Do it!"
Hell-sneer:
"After he spits your heads on his spears. After the flesh rots from your skulls. He will grind your bones to powder. He will feed them to Thracian hogs. He will have the hog-shit smeared on your tombs."
Silence.
"Do it, cowards. Kill us, traitors."
John snarled wordless fury.
"Keep them here!" he commanded the excubitores. "Until I return!"
He stalked out of the chamber, followed by his retainer. By the time he reached the door, he was almost running.
Once in the corridor beyond, he did begin to run. But Theodora's taunt followed faster.
"I will await you in the Pit of Damnation, John of Cappadocia! Before Satan takes you, I will burn out your eyes with my urine!"
After the Cappadocian was gone, Theodora lowered her eyes to Justinian's body.
"Release me," she commanded.
Hesitantly, but inevitably—as if giving way to a force of nature—the excubitores relinquished their grip. They were traitors, now; but they had been too many years in the imperial service to refuse that voice.
The Empress rose and walked down from the dais, onto the floor. She knelt beside Justinian. The Emperor was still unconscious. Firmly, but carefully, Theodora rolled him into her arms. She brushed the hair back from his ruined face and stared at the gaping, puckered wounds which had once been her husband's eyes.
When she spoke, her voice held not a trace of any emotion. It was simply cold, cold.
"There is wine in the adjoining room. Fetch it, traitors. I need to bathe his wounds."
For an instant, something almost like humor entered her voice. Cold, cold humor: "I come from the streets of Alexandria. Do you think I never saw a man blinded before? Did you think I would shrink from death and torture?"
Humor left. Ice remained: "Fetch me wine. Do it, cowards.
"
Two excubitores hastened to obey her command. For a moment, they jostled each other in the doorway, before sorting out their precedence.
A minute later, one of the excubitores returned, bearing two bottles. The other did not.
Theodora soaked the hem of her imperial robes with wine. Gently, she began washing Justinian's wounds.
The man who had brought her the wine slipped out of the door. Less than a minute later, another followed. Then another. Then two.
Theodora never looked up. Another man left. Another. Two.
When there were only four excubitores left in the room, the Empress—still without raising her head—murmured:
"You are all dead men."
Hell-murmur.
All four scurried from the chamber. Their footsteps in the corridor echoed in the empty room. Quick footsteps, at first. Soon enough, running.
Now, Theodora raised her head. She stared at the door through which the traitors had fled.
Hell-stare. Hell-hiss:
"You are all dead men. Wherever you go, I will track you down. Wherever you hide, I will find you. I will have you blinded. By the clumsiest meatcutter in the world."
She lowered her head; turned her black eyes upon her husband's face.
Slowly, very slowly, the hell-gaze faded. After a time, the first of her tears began bathing Justinian's face.
There were not many of those tears. Not many at all. They disappeared into the wine with which Theodora cleansed her husband's wounds, as if they possessed the wine's own hard nature. A constant little trickle of tears, from the world's littlest, hardest, and most constant heart.
Chapter 27
The first rocket awed the mob in the Hippodrome. By sheer good fortune, the missile soared almost straight and exploded while it was in plain view of the entire crowd. A great flaming burst in the sky, just over the unoccupied southwestern tiers.
The faction thugs roared their approval. Many of them rose in their seats and shook their weapons triumphantly.
In the imperial box, Hypatius and Pompeius seemed suitably impressed as well, judging from their gapes. But Narses, watching them from behind, spotted the subtle nuances.
Hypatius' gape was accompanied by the beginning of a frown. The newly crowned "Emperor"—his tiara wobbling atop his head—was not entirely pleased. The crowd's roar of approval for the rockets was noticeably more enthusiastic than the roar with which they had greeted his "ascension to the throne," not five minutes earlier.
His brother Pompeius' gape was likewise accompanied by a frown. But, in his case, the frown indicated nothing more than thoughtfulness. Pompeius was already planning to overthrow his brother.
In the rear of the kathisma, Narses sneered. This, too, he knew, was part of the Malwa plot. The Indians intended the overthrow of Justinian to set in motion an entire round of civil wars, one contender for the throne battling another. Years of civil war—like the worst days of the post-Antonine era, three centuries earlier—while the Malwa gobbled up Persia without interference and made ready their final assault on Rome itself.
As always, Narses thought the Malwa were too clever for their own good. They would have done better to stick with their initial scheme—simply to encourage Justinian's ambitions to conquer the west. That would have served their purpose, without any of the attendant risks of an armed insurrection.
But Narses, slowly and carefully, had convinced them otherwise. The eunuch had his own ambitions, which required Justinian's removal. He would risk the Malwa's future plans for the sake of his own immediate accession to power. There would be no civil wars. Narses would put an end to them, quickly and ruthlessly.
The eunuch watched another rocket soar into the sky. The trajectory of this one was markedly more erratic than that of the first. By the time the rocket exploded, it had looped out of sight beneath the northwestern wall of the Hippodrome.
Narses sighed with exasperation. He, too, was being excessively clever. But—he was old. He had little choice. Narses did not have the time to wait, for years, while Justinian exhausted the Roman Empire in his grandiose attempt to reconstruct its ancient glory.
Another rocket. Properly behaved, this one. But the fourth, after an initially promising lift-off, suddenly arced down and exploded in the Hippodrome itself. Fortunately, the section of the tiers where it landed was unoccupied.
Narses sighed again.
Too clever.
He was startled by another explosion. A section of the tiers near the Blue faction erupted in flame and smoke. No one was hurt, however.
Narses frowned. He had seen no rocket.
Another explosion. This one erupted on the fringe of the Blue crowd, killing several thugs and hurtling shredded bodies onto their nearby comrades.
Balban, seated next to the "Emperor" Hypatius, leapt to his feet. He turned and glared at Ajatasutra.
"Did you give grenades to the factions, you fool?" he demanded.
Ajatasutra began to deny the charge, but fell silent. There was no need for his denial.
The truth of the matter was suddenly obvious.
A series of explosions now rocked the tiers, killing Blues and Greens indiscriminately. The giant mob was scrambling to their feet, shouting and brandishing their weapons.
Brandishing them, not in triumph, but at their new enemy—who was even now marching into the Hippodrome through the wide entrance in the unoccupied southwestern portion.
Cataphracts—on foot, for a wonder—flanking a small army of men—and women?—who were hurling grenades at the Hippodrome mob. With slings!
Everyone in the kathisma lunged to their feet, now, and pressed forward against the stone wall overlooking the Hippodrome.
Everyone except Narses. Who simply remained in his seat, sighing. Faintly, Narses could hear the battle cries of the newly arrived enemy.
"Nothing! Nothing!"
Much too clever.
Belisarius, standing on the wharf, heard the same explosions.
"That's Antonina!" exclaimed Irene. "The battle in the Hippodrome's already started!"
Sittas and Hermogenes looked at Belisarius.
"The Hippodrome can wait," he stated. "Antonina can hold her own against that mob, at least for a while. We need to make sure the Emperor and Empress are safe, before we do anything else."
Sittas pointed out to sea.
"There are still some ships left from Aegidius' fleet. They'll be landing at Portus Caesarii soon."
Belisarius shrugged. "Let them. Most of that army's been shattered. Aegidius is probably already dead. Even if he isn't, it'll take him time to rally his troops and start marching them to the inner city. We'll deal with them later."
He pointed up the hill. "We must secure the Great Palace. Now."
Without another word, he began striding off the wharf. Irene and his Thracian bucellarii followed. Very quickly, Sittas and Hermogenes had their own troops marching away from the harbor.
The Great Palace was only a quarter of a mile away. With Belisarius in the lead, the little army of five hundred cataphracts and two thousand infantrymen reached the wall surrounding the Great Palace in minutes.
The Great Palace of Constantinople was a vast complex, not a single structure. It was almost a small city within the city. The many buildings of the Palace were separated by peristyle porticoes alternating with open courtyards and gardens. The porticoes were decorated with mosaics, the courtyards and gardens with statuary and fountains.
It was perfectly designed terrain for defense, and Belisarius knew that he had to overwhelm any enemies before they could organize such a defense. So, for one of the few times in his life, he decided to order a straightforward frontal assault.
He looked to Hermogenes.
"Did you bring scaling equipment?"
Hermogenes answered by simply pointing to the rear. Turning, Belisarius saw that squads of infantrymen were already rushing up with ropes and grappling hooks.
He was pleased—somewhat. He studied
the wall more closely. It was at least eight feet tall.
"We really need ladders, too," he muttered, "to get enough men over in time to—"
He broke off, seeing the look of restrained exasperation on Hermogenes' face.
"We trained for this," growled Hermogenes. "I didn't want to haul a lot of bulky ladders around, so instead—" He took a deep breath. "Just watch, general. And relax."
Belisarius smiled. Watched. Smiled very broadly.
At thirty-foot intervals, down a two hundred yard stretch of the wall, ten-man squads of infantrymen anchored grappling hooks. Immediately, two men from each squad scaled the wall and dropped over into the gardens beyond. The others divided into two-man teams. Each team began hoisting a stream of soldiers by using a shield held between them as a stepping stone. After the first wave of soldiers went over the wall, the hoisting teams were replaced by fresh soldiers and went over the wall themselves.
Coming from the palace grounds, Belisarius could hear the shouts of surprised defenders and the hammering of weapons on shields. But there were not many of those shouts, and the hammering died away very quickly.
Belisarius was impressed. In less than a minute, five hundred infantrymen had swarmed into the palace grounds and—judging from the sound—had already overwhelmed the immediate defenders.
"With a wall this short—Irene measured it for me—this works faster than ladders," commented Hermogenes smugly. "If necessary, I could get all the infantry over in less than four minutes. But we shouldn't need to because—"
Belisarius heard a cry of triumph. Turning his head, he saw that one of the gates was opening. In seconds, the infantrymen opening that gate from within had pushed it completely to one side. A moment later, he saw two more gates opening.
Sittas and twenty of his cataphracts were already thundering through the first gate. Other cataphracts positioned themselves before the other gates. As soon as the way was cleared, they too began pouring into the palace grounds.
Once the heavy cavalry had all entered, the rest of the infantry followed. Belisarius and Hermogenes trotted in the rear, with Irene a few paces behind. Valentinian and Anastasius led the way. Menander, Ashot, and the rest of the Thracians flanked them on either side.
