In the Heart of Darkness

Narses lowered his finger. His sneer became a scowl. "I remember a conversation I had with Belisarius, once. The general told me that one of the worst errors people made when it came to military affairs was to confuse quantity with quality. A large, incompetent army, he told me, got in its own way more than it did the enemy's. And then, if they suffer a setback, the mob's panic will infect the good troops."

Narses sighed.

"So let's hope there's no setback. I wouldn't trust that mob in a pinch any more than I'd trust so many rats."

Ajatasutra shrugged. "Don't forget, Narses. We still have four hundred kshatriya to stiffen their resolve. With their Veda weapons. That should hearten the mob."

"We'll soon find out." Again, Narses pointed. The gesture, this time, was purely indicative. "Look. They've finished setting up the rockets."

Ajatasutra followed the pointing finger. At the far northeast side of the Hippodrome, where the race track made its curve, the Malwa kshatriya had erected several rocket troughs on the dirt floor of the arena. The troughs were pointed upward at an angle, aimed directly across the Hippodrome.

Balban wanted to cement the allegiance of the factions with a demonstration of the Veda weapons. The spymaster was convinced that the Romans would be filled with superstitious awe. For his part, Narses was skeptical. In their own crude way, the Hippodrome thugs were not unsophisticated. They were residents of Constantinople, after all.

But the eunuch had not objected to the plan. While he did not think the thugs would be overawed by superstition, they would be impressed by the sheer power of the devices.

Watching the last few Blues and Greens scampering along the tiers, Narses smiled. The Malwa had assured the factions that the rockets would pass safely over the southwest wall of the Hippodrome, but the thugs were taking no chances. The entire southwest half of the Hippodrome was empty.

At the base of the troughs, the kshatriyas had piled up bundles of elephant hide, which they were wetting down from a nearby drinking fountain. The Hippodrome was provided with many of those fountains, fed by a small aqueduct. The same water was being used to wet down the large wooden palisades which the Malwa had erected behind the firing troughs. Despite their assurances to the faction leaders, the kshatriya had too much experience with the fickle rockets to take any chances. Most of the Malwa soldiers would stand behind those barricades when the missiles were fired.

"Here comes Hypatius," announced Ajatasutra. "And Pompeius."

Narses glanced down at the stairs leading from the Hippodrome to the imperial loge. The stairs ended in a wide stone platform just in front of the kathisma. For reasons of security, there was no direct access to the imperial loge from the Hippodrome. But dignitaries saluting the emperor could stand on that platform and gaze up at the august presence, seated on his throne above them. And separated from any would-be assassins by a nine-foot-high wall.

Clambering up those stone steps, escorted by Balban, came the two nephews of the former emperor Anastasius. The faces of Hypatius and Pompeius were pale from anxiety. Their steps faltered; their lips trembled. But, still, they came on. Greed and ambition, in the end, had conquered fear.

"Finally," grumbled Narses.

A minute later, the new arrivals were hoisted over the wall into the imperial loge. The royal nephews made heavy going of the effort, despite the assistance of several kshatriya. Balban, despite his heavyset build, managed the task quite easily.

Seeing Narses' scowl, Balban smiled cheerfully.

"You are too pessimistic, my friend. Such a gloomy man! Everything is in place, now. The factions are here. The kshatriya are here. The new emperor is here. The Army of Bithynia is on its way. And the Cappadocian is about to slide in the knife in the Great Palace."

Suddenly, from beyond the barred door leading to the Great Palace, shouts were heard. Cries of alarm, from the excubitores. Then, the sounds of clashing steel.

Balban spread his arms, beaming.

"You see? John has unleashed his bucellarii in the palace. What could go wrong now?"

John of Cappadocia's final treachery, when it came, was brutally simple.

One moment, he was standing on the floor of the small audience chamber where Justinian was holding his emergency council, vehemently denying Theodora's latest charge against him:

"It is absolutely false, Your Majesty—I swear it! The excubitores in this room"—he waved at the spear-carrying soldiers standing along the walls and behind the thrones—"are the very finest of your personal bodyguard."

"Which you selected," snarled Theodora.

John spread his hands, in a placating gesture. "That is one of my responsibilies as praetorian prefect."

Justinian nodded his head firmly. The five other ministers in the room copied the gesture, albeit with more subtlety. They had no wish to draw down Theodora's rage.