Excellent. But—
Here and there, scattered among the corpses of the Cappadocian’s bucellarii and a few of Hermogenes’ infantry, he also saw the bodies of men dressed in the livery of excubitores. And he could hear, dimly, the sound of combat in the direction of the Gynaeceum.
He turned to Irene.
“Where is Justinian? And Theodora?”
She pointed to the northeast, at one of the more distant buildings.
“They were going to hold an emergency council in the audience chamber of Leo’s Palace.”
“I know which one it is,” said Belisarius. He began trotting in that direction.
“Hermogenes!” he shouted. The infantry general, a few yards away, looked at him. Belisarius, still trotting, pointed toward the building.
“Half of your men—send them with me! You take the other half and secure the Gynaeceum!”
Sittas came galloping up, followed by his mounted cataphracts. Still trotting, Belisarius waved his hand in a circle.
“Sittas—clear the palace grounds!”
Sittas grinned. The burly general reined his horse around.
“You heard the man!” he bellowed. He jumped his horse over a low hedge and began galloping toward the center of the complex. His cavalrymen followed, pounding through gardens, courtyards and porticoes. Vegetation was trampled underfoot, statuary was shattered or upended. The fountains survived, more or less intact. So, of course, did the columns upholding the porticoes—although many of the beautiful floor tiles were shattered into pieces, and a few of the wall mosaics suffered in passing from casual contact with the armored shoulders and lance butts of cataphracts.
At the very center of the palace complex, Sittas encountered two hundred of John’s bucellarii. Most of them were mounted. The ones who weren’t were in the process of doing so—a laborious process, for armored cataphracts. All of them seemed confused and disorganized.
Sittas gave them no chance at all. He didn’t even bother to shout any orders. He simply lowered his lance and thundered into the mob. His five hundred cataphracts came right behind, following his lead.
The result was a pure and simple massacre. The Cappadocian’s bucellarii were surprised and outnumbered. By the time they realized the danger, Sittas and his men were almost upon them. At that range, bows were useless. Most of John’s retainers had time to raise their lances, but—
They didn’t have stirrups. Sittas and his cataphracts went through them like an ax through soft wood. Half of the Cappadocian’s bucellarii either died or were badly wounded in the first lance charge. Thereafter, matching sword and mace blows with men who were braced by stirrups, the remainder lasted less than a minute. At the end, not more than twenty of the retainers were able to surrender. The rest were either dead, badly injured, or unconscious.
Hermogenes, meanwhile, led a thousand of his infantrymen into the Gynaeceum. Once inside the labyrinth of the womens’ quarters, Hermogenes followed the sounds of fighting. Two minutes after entering the complex, he and his men were falling on the backs of the bucellarii fighting what was left of Theodora’s excubitores.
The battle in the Gynaeceum was not as bloody as the cavalry melee in the courtyards, for the simple reason that John’s retainers surrendered almost immediately. They were hopelessly trapped between two forces; and they were, at bottom, nothing but mercenaries. Whatever his other talents, John of Cappadocia had none when it came to cementing the loyalty of bucellarii.
Belisarius himself faced no enemies at all, beyond a small group of bucellarii—not more than forty—whom he encountered leaving Leo’s Palace just as he was approaching. The cataphracts were in the process of mounting their horses.
There was no battle. The bucellarii took one look at the thousand infantrymen charging toward them and fled instantly. Those of them who had not managed to mount their horses in time retreated also, lumbering in the heavy way of armored cavalrymen forced to run on their own two legs.
Belisarius let them go. He had much more pressing concerns. He plunged into the building. Followed by his infantry, he raced through the half-remembered corridors, searching for the audience chamber.
Hoping against hope, but fearing the worst.
“Who is that?” squawked the “Emperor” Hypatius, leaning over the wall separating the kathisma from the Hippodrome. He stared at the little army pouring through the southwestern gate. Then, goggled, seeing them slinging grenades at the huge mob of faction thugs on the other side of the Hippodrome.