In the Heart of Darkness by Eric Flint & David Drake

“Let them through, Sittas, those of them that survive the gauntlet. Except the faction leaders. I want them dead or captured. Irene will point them out for you.”

Sittas began to protest the orders. Like Hermogenes, he was filled with a furious determination to massacre the entire crowd.

“Do as I command!” bellowed Belisarius. He matched Sittas glare for glare.

“Don’t be an idiot, Sittas!” He pointed to the southwest. “Antonina has less than a thousand men. Most of them are grenadiers, who won’t be worth much in a hand-to-hand battle. If that huge mob attacks them head on, they’ll be slaughtered.”

Sittas was still glaring. Belisarius snarled.

“Think, Sittas. If we trap that mob from this end, they’ll have no choice but to pour out the other. So let them out here. Hermogenes and his men will savage them on the way out, and you make sure to get the leaders. That’s good enough.”

“He’s right, Sittas,” hissed Irene.

Sittas blew out his cheeks.

“I know,” he grumbled. “I just—damn all traitors, anyway.”

But he reined his horse around without further argu­ment. Within a minute, his cataphracts were forming a mounted line a hundred and fifty yards away. By now, Hermogenes had his five hundred infantrymen lined up on either side of the gates, half on each side. His men stood three feet apart, in three ranks. As the faction thugs poured out of the Hippodrome, they would have to run a gauntlet almost a hundred yards long. Then, they would break against the heavily armored, mounted cataphracts—like a torrent against a boulder. The thugs who survived the gauntlet would be able to escape, by fleeing to either side through the fifty-yard gaps between the last infantrymen and Sittas’ line. But during that time they would be exposed to Irene’s searching eyes—and cataphract archery.

Satisfied, Belisarius turned away. Some of the faction leaders would escape. Not many.

He began trotting his horse to the southwest, ­below the looming wall of the Hippodrome. Valen­tinian, Anastasius and Menander rode next to him. Behind them came the remaining thousand infan­trymen of Hermogenes’ army.

Belisarius turned in his saddle. He saw that the infantry were maintaining a good columnar formation—well-ordered and ready to spread into a line as soon as he gave the command.

Ashot was right, he thought. The best Roman infantry since the days of the Principate.

He stepped up the pace.

Thank you, Hermogenes. You may have saved my wife’s life.

“Forget the rockets!” shouted Balban. The cluster of kshatriya who were trying to erect a rocket trough behind the bulwarks immediately ceased their ­effort.

Balban turned back to his three chief lieutenants. The four Malwa officers, along with six top leaders of the Blue and Green factions, were crowded into a corner formed by the heavy wooden beams. The three-sided shelter formed by the bulwarks was almost suffocating. Into that small space—not more than fifty feet square—were jammed a hundred kshatriya and perhaps another dozen faction leaders. The remaining ksha­triya—those who still survived, which was well over three hundred—were crouched as close to the bulwarks as they could get. Fortunately for them, the cursed Roman grenadiers were still concentrating their volleys on the mob.

Balban stared up at the tiers of the Hippodrome. Those tiers were full of men. Thousands and thousands of men—armed men—all of whom were milling around uselessly. At least half of them, he estimated, were simply intent on escaping the Hippodrome through the northeast gates. Many of them had already dropped their weapons.

“We can’t win an artillery duel,” he announced. “Our only hope is to charge across the Hippodrome and overwhelm them with numbers.”

All three of the kshatriya officers immediately nodded. One of them said:

“Most of that Roman force are grenadiers. We’ll lose men crossing the track, but once we get within hand-fighting range, we’ll massacre them.”

“Some of them are cataphracts!” protested one of the Blue leaders.

“A few hundred—at most,” snapped Balban. The Malwa pointed a rigid finger at the mob in the tiers above them.

“You’ve still got at least ten thousand men!” he shouted. “Would you rather use them—or simply die here like sheep in a slaughterhouse?”

“He’s right,” said another of the Blue leaders. Two of the Green chieftains nodded. Balban’s hot eyes swept the other faction heads. After a moment, they too ­indicated their assent.