As the eighteenth line stepped forward, the mob finally broke. More accurately, the monks in the van broke. The crowd itself—the great thousands of them—had already begun edging away from the brutal battle. Edging, edging, walking, striding. Running.
There was room to retreat, now. Once they realized it, the battered fanatics suddenly lost all their fight. Within seconds, they were running away themselves, driving the onlookers before them.
Instinctively, the Knights Hospitaler began to pursue. But Zeno, without waiting for Antonina’s command, bellowed again. The Knights halted immed-iately. Stopped, leaned on their staffs, drew in deep gasping breaths.
Antonina turned to Ashot.
“I want you and your cataphracts to ride through the city’s center. Break up into squads.”
She gave him a hard stare. “Don’t attack anybody. Not unless you’re attacked yourselves, at least. I just want you to be seen. Put the fear of God in that crowd. By nightfall, I want everyone who came out on the street today to be huddling in their villas and apartments. Like mice when the cats are out.”
Ashot nodded. “I understand.” Instantly, he trotted toward his nearby horse.
She turned to Zeno. “Call out all the Knights you had in reserve. Divide half of them into your—” She hesitated, fumbling for the word. “What did you decide to call that? Your two-hundred-man groups?”
“Battalions.”
“Yes. That should be big enough for anything you’ll face now. Send each battalion marching through the streets. The big thoroughfares, only. Don’t go into the side streets. And stay out of the purely residential quarters.”
He nodded. “We’re doing the same thing as the cataphracts. Scaring everybody.”
“Hell, no!” she snarled. “I want them to avoid trouble. I want you to look for it.”
Scowling, she pointed with her chin at the bodies of dead and unconscious monks which littered the boulevard.
“Think you can recognize them? Pick them out from simple residents?”
“Sure,” snorted Zeno. “Look for a pack of men who’d put any mangy alley curs to shame.”
“Right.” She took a breath. “Hunt them down, Zeno. Don’t go into any side streets—I don’t want to risk any ambushes in narrow quarters. And stay out of the areas where orthodox Greek citizens live. But hunt the monks down in the main thoroughfares. It’s open season, today, on Chalcedon fanatics. Hunt ’em down, bring ’em to bay, beat ’em to a pulp.”
She fixed him with a hot gaze. “I want it bloody, Zeno. I don’t want those fucking monks huddling in their cells, tonight. I want them lying in the streets. Dead, bruised, maimed, broken—I don’t care. Just so long as they’re completely terrorized.”
“Be a pleasure,” growled Zeno. He cast a cold eye at the bloody street below. Not all of the bodies lying there were those of ultra-orthodox Chalcedon monks. Here and there, he could see a few wearing the white tunic with the red cross. Already, their comrades were picking through the casualties, hoping to find one or two still alive.
There wouldn’t be any, Zeno knew. Not many Knights had been pulled into the crowd. But those who had could not possibly have survived.
“Be our pleasure,” he growled again. Then, calming himself with a breath, asked, “And what of the other half? What do you want those Knights to do?”
“They’ll be coming with me,” replied Antonina, “along with Hermogenes and his infantry.”
“Where are we going?”
“First, to the Delta Quarter. I want to see what happened there. Then—assuming that situation’s under control—we’ll be heading for Beta Quarter.”
She swiveled, facing Theodosius. Throughout the street battle, the new Patriarch had stood quietly a few feet behind her, along with three of his deacons.
His face was very pale, she saw. Wide-eyed, he and his deacons were examining the carnage on the street below. Sensing her gaze, the Patriarch jerked his head away and stared at her.
“What’s the name of that monastery?” she deman-ded. “I know where it is, but I can’t remember what the bastards call it.”
Theodosius pursed his lips, hesitating.
Antonina’s face was as hard as steel. Her green eyes were like agates. “You know the one, Patriarch.”
He looked away, sighing.
“The House of St. Mark,” he murmured. Then, with a look of appeal: “Is that really necessary, Antonina?” He pointed down to the street below. “Surely, you’ve made your point already.”