“I’m not in the business of ‘making points,’ Theo-dosius,” she hissed. “I’m not a schoolteacher, instructing unruly students.”
She took three quick steps, thrusting her face into the Patriarch’s beard. For all her short stature, it seemed as if it was the Patriarch looking up, not she.
“I am the rod of authority in Alexandria. I am the axe of the Empire.”
She stepped back a pace. Waved toward the city’s main intersection. “It’s good enough to simply intimidate the average orthodox citizen. That’s what Ashot and his cataphracts will be doing, now that the crowd is already broken up. But those—those—those—”
All the pent-up hatred of a woman reviled all her life by self-proclaimed holy men erupted.
“Those stinking filthy putrid monks are a different story altogether!”
She ground her teeth. Glared at the bodies lying on the street.
“Whore of Babylon, is it?”
When she turned back, the hot hatred was under control. Ice, now. Ice.
The agate eyes fixed on Zeno.
“The monastery called the House of St. Mark is the largest monastery in Alexandria. It’s also the center of the city’s most extreme Chalcedonians. Ultra-orthodox down to the cockroaches in the cellars. Before they made him Patriach, Paul was its abbot.”
Zeno nodded.
“That monastery is history,” grated Antonina. “By nightfall, it’s nothing but rubble. And any monk who hasn’t fled by the time we get there is on his way to Heaven.”
The hate flared up anew: “Or wherever eternity calls for him. I have my own opinion.”
Zeno moved away, then, rounding up his captains and explaining their new orders. Theodosius, for his part, fell back into silence. Long accustomed to the ferocious debate of a high church council, he recognized a hopeless argument when he saw one. And, even if he hadn’t had the benefit of that experience, he could not misunderstand the meaning of the phrases which, now and again in the minutes which followed, came hissing out of Antonina’s mouth like steam from a volcano. As she stared at the bloody street below, her face filled with cold fury.
Whore of Babylon, is it?
I’ll show you the whore.
Come back to my home town, I have.
And, of course, again and again:
Fuck Alexandria.
When Antonina and her escort of Knights Hos-pitaler and Syrian infantry reached Delta Quarter, by midafternoon, they were immediately met by Euphronius. The commander of the Theodoran Cohort trotted up to her, along with Triphiodoros, the officer whom Hermogenes had placed in charge of the grenadiers’ infantry support.
As he peered up at the woman perched on her saddle, looking a bit like a half-broiled little lobster in her armor, the young Syrian’s expression was odd. Half-apologetic, half-accusing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but—”
He gestured at the surrounding area. Looking up and down the street which marked the boundary of the Jewish quarter, Antonina could see perhaps two dozen bodies lying here and there. Hippodrome thugs. All Blues, from their garments. Killed by gunfire, for the most part, although she could see one storefront which had obviously been caved in by a grenade blast, with three bodies mixed in with the rubble.
Her eyes scanned the roofs. Six of the heavy wooden beams which braced the mudbrick construction were festooned with hanged corpses. No more.
“They ran away,” complained Euphronius. “As soon as we fired the first volley.” He turned, pointing to the shattered storefront. “Except that bunch. They tried to hole up in there. After we tossed in a couple of grenades, the half-dozen survivors surrendered.” A self-explanatory wave at the grisly ornaments on the crossbeams.
Then, apologetically:
“We couldn’t catch the rest. They ran too fast.”
Then, accusingly:
“You didn’t give us any cavalry.”
“Can’t catch routed men without cavalry,” chimed in Triphiodoros. The sage voice of experience: “Men running for their lives always run faster than men who are just wanting to kill them.”
Sage voice of experience: “Got to have cavalry, to really whip an enemy.”
Antonina laughed. Shook her head, half-regretfully, half-ruefully. “I’ll remember that!”
She turned her eyes to the Delta Quarter itself, just across the wide thoroughfare. That side of the street was lined with Jews. Young men, mostly, armed with cudgels, knives and the occasional sword or spear. As Hermogenes had predicted, the Jews had been quite ready to fight it out with the Hippodrome mob. Wouldn’t have been the first time.