The servant had claimed there were hardly any loyal troops left in the palace. He was mistaken, for Belisarius had two hundred of his Veterans — soldiers who had performed well against the Sassanids and now served as his personal guard — quartered inside the grounds, while Mundus had managed to scrape together an equal number of Huns.
These troops were drawn up in a wide pavilion in the southern quarter of the palace. Belisarius was present. Like Mundus, he wore full armour, and exchanged grave salutes with the German as we approached.
“Coel,” he said, with the warm smile that lulled you into thinking he was your best friend, “come to join us for the last dance?”
I nodded, though some of my courage drained away as I looked at his men. Every one of them looked tough and well-armed, but they were pathetically few.
“Lord,” I said hesitantly, “there are thousands of rebels on the streets. Do you mean to fight them all?”
“I mean to strike at their heart,” he replied, beckoning to one of his aides, “victory is best achieved by the bringing of power to a point, not by sheer numbers alone. A few trained and disciplined men can easily overcome many times their number of disorganised peasants.”
His words sounded eerily familiar, and in my head I once again heard my mother describing how Arthur had won his wars.
The aide carried a spatha, a helmet and a small round shield. At a signal from Belisarius, he offered the gear to me.
“I know you were taught to ride in the arena,” said the general, watching me as I took the long, heavy blade and weighed it in my hand, “were you trained to fight as well?”
“A little, if only with wooden practice swords,” I replied, “but I understand the principle. You thrust the sharp end into another man’s flesh, and try and prevent him returning the favour.”
Belisarius gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “The art of war, neatly summarised!” he cried, “take your place with my men. You have been a charioteer. Now you will be a soldier.”
I donned the helmet and shield and joined the end of the front rank of Veterans. The nearest soldier, a grizzled brute with a great scar running from his church to his jaw, gave me a reassuring wink.
The general clapped his hands and planted himself in front of his men.
“Remember Dara, lads?” he boomed, “and how we drove those Persian desert-rats before us? They outnumbered us twenty to one, and still we licked them. My God, I pity the poor bastards who have to face you lot in battle! Every one of you is worth ten, no, twenty of any enemy I care to name! Isn’t that so?”
The Veterans roared and stamped their feet in response. I was amazed at Belisarius’s cheerfulness and good humour in the face of apparently hopeless odds, and how his men reacted to him.
He turned to Mundus. “Will these fragrant savages follow you?” he asked, jerking his thumb at the Huns.
Mundus nodded his shaggy head. “To the gates of Hades,” he said confidently, “I whip them like dogs, and like dogs they love me.”
“I require you merely to lead them to the gates at the rear of the Hippodrome. Take up position there while I approach the front. Your task is to block the retreat of the rebels when I drive them towards you. Understand?”
“Yes, general. None shall pass, I promise you.”
From my place at the end of the front rank of Veterans, I listened to this exchange with bemusement. They sounded like a couple of madmen. To try and storm the rebel headquarters at the Hippodrome with four hundred men seemed the very limit of insanity.
It was too late to escape now. Belisarius gave the order for the gates to be opened, and led his Veterans at a jog down a stone walkway wide enough for two men abreast. I had little choice but to jog with them, for Mundus and his Huns were bringing up the rear. I was unused to bearing arms, and felt heavy and ridiculous in my borrowed armour. The sword was different. Practice weapons aside, it was the first sword I had held since the loss of Caledfwlch, and a comforting weight in my hand.
The walkway ran straight down the hill, and opened via an unguarded postern gate onto a narrow side-street. Belisarius led us along it and down a connecting alley. The stench of fire and death drifted on the wind, and the alley opened suddenly onto the Augustaion, with the Chalke Gate to our left and the burned-out shell of the Church of Hagia Sophia to our right.
Some tents had been set up in the plaza, which was otherwise choked with random heaps of plunder and burning rubbish. A few rioters were sitting on upturned barrels outside the tents, or sprawled on the ground, drinking and playing at dice. They sprang up at the sight of the soldiers pouring out of the alley, and ran away in all directions when they saw who led them.
The Veterans spread out behind Belisarius. I found myself just behind him, struggling to keep pace with his long-legged stride. We carried on to the Mese and the imposing landmark of the Milion. Here our company divided, with Mundus taking his Huns to circle the Hippodrome while we approached the Black Gate.
Our way was impeded by swollen corpses, discarded plunder and piles of fallen masonry. Belisarius picked his way over the detritus, his men surging in his wake like bloodthirsty hounds after their master. This part of the street was deserted, but crowds were visible at the upper end, near the gates.
There were not quite so many as there could have been. The agents of Narses had been at work, enticing supporters of the Blues away with promises of pardon and reward from Justinian if they returned peacefully to their homes. Still, there were upwards of thirty thousand rebels gathered in and around the Hippodrome.
Belisarius drew his sword. “Charge!” he yelled, “Nika, Nika!”
His men took up the shout as they broke into a run. The use of the rebel war-cry proved a clever tactic, as those outside the gates showed no alarm until we burst from the smoking ruins of the street.
The sudden appearance of armed soldiers confused and terrified the rebels. Most fled in panic, but those few who were armed and sober tried to form a battle-line to oppose us. Belisarius loped straight towards them. I followed, my fears drowned by rising waves of excitement and bloodlust.
Belisarius knocked aside the clumsy thrust of a spear and drove his sword into the wielder’s groin. I glimpsed his victim’s face as it went white with agony, and recognised him as Victor, one of Leo’s chief cronies, a particularly arrogant charioteer who loved to bully his underlings. I had hated the man with a passion, and took the opportunity to stamp on his head as he lay squirming in his death-throes.
A big man wearing a butcher’s apron swung his cleaver at me. I met it with my spatha, the first time I had fought with a sword in anger. The blades scraped together with an impact that jarred my arm, but I was quick enough to duck under his next blow and slash at his leg. The broad, sharpened edge cut through his woollen smock and parted the flesh beneath until it ground on bone. He howled and did his best to cut my head off as I tried to wrench the spatha free. It wouldn’t come, but shuddered and bounced in my hands while gouts of blood splashed my face and tunic.
My problems were solved by one of the Veterans, who killed the man with a clean thrust to the heart from behind. I thanked him and struggled to wrench my spatha free. Meanwhile Belisarius and his men cut the rebels to pieces with brutal military efficiency. The survivors turned and fled back to the gates, where they joined the crush of fugitives trying to find refuge inside the arena.
The Veterans charged, and the area around the gates became a killing ground as they butchered defenceless men and women like pigs. I hung back, shaking with reaction from the fight I had just survived. Trumpets sounded a warning inside the Hippodrome, too late, and Belisarius and his men encountered no organised resistance as they forced their way in over a thick carpet of dead and dying.
The sight and sound of so much violent death awoke something feral inside me. I found myself bounding along in the wake of the Veterans, waving my sword and screaming my grandfather’s name.