In the Heart of Darkness

"I don't have time, any longer, for anyone's delicate sensibilities. I want five thousand bucellarii—the best cataphracts anywhere in the world—as fast as I can get them. A big chunk—possibly the majority—will be Thracian. But they'll be lots of Illyrians and as many Isaurians as we can find who are willing to become cataphracts. Isaurians are tough as nails. Beyond that—" He shrugged. "Anyone who can fight well, and can learn to become a cataphract. Greeks, Armenians, Egyptians, barbarians—even Jews. I don't care."

Ashot had overcome his initial surprise, and was now tugging on his beard thoughtfully. "Expensive, general. Five thousand bucellarii—even if you're not as generous as usual—you're looking at—"

He broke off, remembering. He had seen the Malwa treasure which Belisarius had brought back from India. True, Belisarius had given three-fourths of that bribe to Shakuntala. But the remainder was still an immense fortune, by any except imperial standards.

Ashot nodded.

"Yes, you can afford it. Even with liberal pay and equipment bonus, you've got enough to cover five thousand bucellarii for at least four years. After that—"

"After that," said Belisarius coldly, "there'll either be plenty of booty or we'll all be dead."

Ashot nodded. "A new world," he murmured.

A cry from Anastasius drew their attention.

"There's Sittas! I can see him!"

Belisarius and Ashot looked forward. The dromon was just passing through the double breakwaters which marked the entrance to the small Harbor of Hormisdas, the private harbor of Rome's emperors. Behind the harbor rose the hills of Constantinople. The Great Palace, though it was nearby, was hidden behind the slope. But they could see the upper levels of the Hippodrome. And they could hear the roar of the mob gathered within it.

Belisarius' eyes were drawn lower, to a large figure standing on the nearest wharf.

Sure enough, Sittas. Standing next to him were Hermogenes and Irene.

As they drew nearer, Sittas bellowed.

"What took you so long? Don't you know there's a war to be fought?"

The boar, in full fury.

The mob, too, was in full fury. The seats in the Hippodrome were packed with armed men. Blues on one side, of course, Greens on the other. Even during this unusual alliance, the faction leaders were wise enough not to mix their men.

Balban, watching the scene, was delighted. Narses, standing next to him, was not.

"Almost forty thousand of them!" exclaimed the Malwa spymaster. "I'd been hoping for thirty, at the most."

Narses almost spoke the words: "I'd been dreading more than twenty thousand." But he restrained himself. There was no point, now, in getting into another futile argument.

Called upon to settle some petty dispute between the factions, Balban left. Narses and Ajatasutra remained, standing in the fortified loge on the southeast side of the Hippodrome which was called the kathisma.

The emperor's loge, that was. Reserved for his use alone. By seizing it, the conspirators had announced their full intentions for all the world to see.

Narses glanced over his shoulder. At the rear of the loge was a barred door. That door was the only entrance to the kathisma, other than the open wall at the front. Behind it was a covered passage which connected the emperor's box in the Hippodrome to the Great Palace.

The door was barred on both sides, now. On his side, Narses saw eight Malwa kshatriya standing guard. On the other side, he knew, would be an even greater number of the Emperor's personal bodyguard, the excubitores, anxiously fingering their weapons.

The passage from the Hippodrome to the Great Palace was now the frontier between Justinian and those who sought his overthrow.

Narses looked away. That frontier would fall too, and soon. Brought down by further treachery.

Ajatasutra's low voice penetrated his musings.

"You do not seem to share Balban's enthusiasm for our massive army."

Narses sneered. "Let me explain to you the reality of the Hippodrome factions, Ajatasutra. Both the Greens and the Blues have about five thousand men who can be considered real street fighters. Charioteers and their entourage. Gamblers and their enforcers. That sort. Serious thugs."

He pointed out over the vast expanse of the Hippodrome. "Those will be the ones you see carrying real weapons—well-made swords, and spears—and wearing a helmet. Maybe even a bit of armor."

His lips twisted further. "Then, each faction will have another five thousand men—at the most—who can handle themselves in a fight. On the level of a tavern brawl, that is. The rest—"

His pointing finger made a little flipping gesture. Dismissive, contemptuous—almost obscene.

"Pure rabble. Carrion-eaters, drawn by the smell of rotting flesh."