The great majority of them were monks, thought Antonina. It was impossible to be certain, since the custom of monks wearing distinctive habits was still in the future. The uniform of the Knights Hospitaler was another of Belisarius’ innovations. But Antonina knew the breed well. Only fanatic monks, as a rule, were quite as disheveled, shaggy-maned, and just generally dirty-looking as most of the men leading the mob. And the practiced, familiar way in which they handled their clubs and cudgels reinforced her supposition.
Antonina smiled ruefully, remembering Belisarius’ description of a vision Aide had once given him of the monastic orders of the future, a time which would be called the Middle Ages. He had described to her the good works and gentle demeanor of the Bene-dictines and the followers of a man who would be called St. Francis of Assisi.
His Alexandria-born-and-bred wife had goggled at the description. The monks she knew from her youth bore as much resemblance to St. Francis as a rabid wolf to a lamb. In the Egypt of her day, the monastic orders (orthodox and Monophysite alike) were as prone to street-fighting as the thugs of the Hippodrome factions—and probably better at it. Certainly more savage.
A particularly beefy monk in the very forefront of the mob caught sight of her, standing on the steps of the palace. He raised his thick club and bellowed, “Death to the Whore of Babylon!”
Whether by predeliberation or simple spontaneous enthusiasm, the call was immediately taken up as the mob’s warcry.
“Death to the whore! Death to the whore!”
The front lines of the mob charged the Knights Hospitaler barring the way. There was neither hesitation nor halfheartedness in that ferocious rush. The monks in the van were veteran brawlers. They had no fear whatever of the bizarrely-accoutered Knights, and even less of their quarterstaffs.
What the hell’s the use of a six-foot-long club, anyway? No room to swing it in a street fight. Silly buggers!
Knowing what was coming, Antonina held her breath. Quarterstaffs, too, were one of Belisarius’ innovations—at least, used in this manner. Shepherd’s staffs were known, of course, and had featured in many a village brawl. But no-one had ever placed them in the hands of an organized force, who had been systematically trained in their use.
When the monks were just a few feet away, the captain of the front line called the command. In unison, the twenty Knights flipped their quarterstaffs level and drove them into the oncoming monks like spears. Expecting club-blows to the head, the monks were taken completely by surprise. The iron ferrules of the heavy quarterstaffs crushed into their unguarded chests and bellies.
The damage done was horrendous. Two monks died instantly, their diaphragms ruptured. Another, his sternum split and the bone fragments driven into his heart, died within seconds. The rest collapsed, tripping the ones piling up from behind. Some wailed with pain. Most didn’t—broken ribs and severely lacerated bellies produce groans and hisses of agony, not loud shrieks.
Instantly, the spear-thrusts were followed by two quick, swirling, pivoting side-blows all across the line. Iron ferrules slammed into heads and rib cages, breaking both.
The captain cried out the command. Again, the stabbing quarterstaffs. Again, the scythe-like follow-on blows. A dozen more were struck down.
The mob piled higher, pushing forward, floundering on fallen bodies. Some managed to force their way through the first line of Knights, only to be mercilessly dealt with by the line which followed.
Again, the command. Again, the spear thrusts. Some of the mob, this time, knew what to expect. Tried to protect their midsections.
The Knights had expected that. This time, many of the iron-shod quarterstaff butts went into faces and heads. Skulls broke, jaws broke, teeth shattered. One throat was crushed. One neck broken.
The mob staggered. Eddied. Hesitated.
Zeno bellowed an order. Immediately, the front line of the Knights swiveled and stepped back. The second line moved forward.
The captain of that line used the forward momentum to drive through the next thrust savagely. The front of the mob reeled back—but only a few steps. The press from behind was too great. The monks in the very fore were trapped, now. Stumbling on fallen bodies, jammed up, unable to swing their own clubs—which were too short to reach the Knights, anyway—they were simply targets.