The cataphracts stared. Lowered their swords. Turned their heads.
Behind them, marching down the tiers in ordered formation, came a thousand Roman infantrymen. Above those infantrymen, atop the uppermost tier of the Hippodrome, was their commander. Standing next to the commander of the Theodoran Cohort.
It did not seem strange, to the cataphracts, to see two generals kissing each other fiercely in the middle of a battle. Not at the time. Later, of course, the episode would be the subject of many ribald jokes and rhymes.
But not at the time. No, not at all.
The cataphracts did not wait for the infantry to reach them. As one man, three hundred Thracians simply charged forward, shouting their battle cries.
Some of them: “Nothing! Nothing!”
Most of them: “Belisarius! Belisarius!”
And, one enthusiast: “Oh, you sorry bastards are fucked!”
An hour later, after clambering over the trampled corpses packed in the northern gates, Sittas and Hermogenes slogged across the Hippodrome.
Their progress was slow. Partly, because they were forced to avoid the multitude of bodies scattered across the arena. Partly, because Sittas paused when he came upon Balban’s body long enough to cut off the Malwa’s head. And, partly, because they had found Hypatius cowering in the bulwarks and were dragging him behind them.
Belisarius and Antonina were sitting on the lowest tier by the southwest curve of the racetrack. Valentinian stood a few feet away. Antonina was still wearing her cuirass, but she had removed her helmet. Her head was nestled into her husband’s shoulder. Her cheeks were marked by tear-tracks, but she was smiling like a cherub.
Sittas dropped Balban’s head at their feet.
“You can add that to our collection,” he said, grinning savagely.
Antonina opened her eyes and gazed at the trophy. She made a small grimace of distaste. Then, closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.
“How many?” asked Belisarius.
“A hundred and twenty-eight,” replied Sittas. “Irene says we got most of them. Beyond that—”
He waved a thick arm, grimacing himself. Not a small grimace, either.
“The place is a slaughterhouse. Especially underneath, in the horse pens.”
Hermogenes shook his head. His face was almost ashen.
“Thousands of them tried to escape through the stables.”
Belisarius winced. The only entrances to the stables were small doors, barely wide enough to fit a racing chariot.
“Most of them are dead,” muttered Hermogenes. “Trampled, suffocated, crushed. Christ, it’ll take days to haul the bodies out. The ones at the bottom aren’t much more than meat paste.”
Hermogenes reached back and hauled Hypatius to his feet. The “Emperor” collapsed immediately, like a loose sack. The smell of urine and feces was overpowering.
“Theodora’ll be happy to see him,” snarled Sittas.
Antonina’s eyes popped open.
“No,” she whispered. “She’s at Hell’s gate already.”
She turned a pleading gaze up at her husband.
Belisarius squeezed her shoulder. Nodded.
Hypatius spoke. “Have mercy,” he croaked. “I beg you—have mercy.”
“I will,” said Belisarius. He turned his head.
“Valentinian.”
Epilogue
An Empress and Her Soul
To Belisarius, the huge throne room seemed more like a cavern than ever, with so few occupants. But Theodora had insisted on meeting him there, and he had made no objection. If the Empress found some strength and comfort in the sight of that huge chamber, and the feel of her enormous throne, Belisarius was glad for it.
She, now, was the lynchpin for the future.
He advanced across the huge room with a quick step. When he was ten paces from the throne, he prostrated himself. Then, after rising, began to speak. But Theodora stopped him with a gesture.
“One moment, Belisarius.” The Empress turned toward the handful of excubitores standing guard a few yards away.
“Tell the servants to bring a chair,” she commanded.
As the excubitores hastened to do her bidding, Theodora bestowed a wry smile upon the general standing before her.
“It’s scandalous, I know. But we’re in for a long session, and I’d much rather have your untired mind than your formal respect.”
Inwardly, Belisarius heaved a sigh of relief. Not at the prospect of spending an afternoon in seated comfort—he was no stranger to standing erect—but at the first sign in days that there was something in the Empress’ soul beyond fury, hatred and vengeance.