Eric Flint: In the Heart of Darkness

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.

"All right. At my command, we'll charge out of here and round up as many men as we can. Then-it's simple. Charge to the southwest. As fast as we can."

He looked at the kshatriya. "Make sure our grenadiers are scattered through the crowd. When we get close enough, we can start tossing our own grenades."

One of the faction leaders pointed to a figure huddled in the corner.

"What about the emperor? It'd help if he led the charge. Inspire the men."

Balban did not bother to look at Hypatius.

"If your men need inspiration," he growled, "tell them it's victory or death. That should be simple enough."

He lifted his head and bellowed at his kshatriya. It took not more than twenty seconds to explain the plan. It was simple enough.

" Nika! " shouted one of the faction leaders. He pushed his way out of the shelter and sprang upon the lowest tier of the Hippodrome.

He waved his sword, shouting at the mob above him:

" Nika! Nika! "

The other faction leaders joined him.. They also began shouting, and pointing with their swords to the southwest.

Balban and his kshatriya poured out of the bulwarks. Quickly, they formed a line across the dirt floor of the Hippodrome. At Balban's command, they began marching forward.

Marching slowly . Every instinct in Balban-and his kshatriya-cried out for haste. But Balban knew that he had to give the faction leaders time to rally the mob. The Malwa by themselves could not overcome the Romans at the other end of the Hippodrome. They needed those thousands of thugs.

So, the kshatriya marched slowly. And began to die, as the grenade volleys came their way. But they were soldiers, and maintained their ranks.

From the mob in the tiers, dozens of men began leaping into the arena. Then hundreds. Then thousands.

Thugs, all of them. But not all thugs are cowards, by any means. And not all of them are stupid, either. Given a choice between battle and the horror of the stampeding crowd-which had already trampled hundreds of men to death-many of them chose to fight.

By the time Balban and the kshatriya were halfway across the Hippodrome, they had been joined by almost six thousand faction members.

Now, Balban ordered the charge.

"Pull them back, Antonina," said Maurice.

Pale-faced, Antonina glanced at him.

"You've only got three hundred cataphracts," she protested.

" Pull the grenadiers back ," he repeated. "They're lightly armored and they've got no experience in hand combat."

The hecatontarch gestured at the huge mob marching toward them.

"They'll just get in my cataphracts' way," he growled. "Pull them back and keep tossing grenades. I'll try to hold as long as I can."

Maurice stalked forward, roaring commands. Antonina added her voice to his. The grenadiers and their wives scampered back up the tiers. The Thracian cataphracts moved in from the flanks, forming a solid line in front of the grenadiers. The bucellarii didn't wait for Maurice's order before firing a volley of arrows.

"Aim for the Malwa!" ordered Maurice.

The enemy broke into a charge. There was no discipline to that charge. No formation of any kind. Simply-six thousand men racing toward three hundred.

By the time the traitor army reached the lowest tier on the southwest curve of the Hippodrome, a thousand of them had been slain or wounded by grenades and arrows. The kshatriya, especially, had suffered terrible casualties-including Balban, who was bleeding to death in the arena. A cataphract's arrow had ripped through the great artery in his thigh.

But the traitors sensed victory. Their own grenades were beginning to wreak havoc. And they were now too close for that horrifying cataphract archery. True, the armored Thracians loomed above them like iron statues-fierce, fearsome. But-there were only a few of them.

The mob poured up the tiers.

" NIKA! NIKA! "

The cataphracts raised their swords, and their maces. Soon, now. The first line of the mob was but twenty yards away.

Thousands of them.

Ten yards away.

The line of thugs suddenly disintegrated. Shredded, like meat. Stopped, in its tracks, by a thousand plumbata. The lead-weighted darts sailed over the heads of the cataphracts and struck the charging mob like a hammer. The entire front line collapsed-backward, driving the thugs who followed into a heap.

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.