widen, and deepen, and grow into a cataclysm of mass terror.
Their fears were exaggerated, perhaps, but by no means groundless. On any number of occasions, Hermogenes' infantrymen had prevented mobs from beating or murdering a man—or an entire family—whose only real crime was unpopularity. On two occasions, the turmoil had become savage enough to require the intervention of Sittas and Belisarius' cataphracts.
Theodora's rage had shaken the entire city. Shaken it almost into pieces.
It was Antonina, more than anyone, who had held the city together. Partly, by the hours she had spent with Theodora, doing what she could to restrain her friend's half-insane fury. But, mostly, Antonina had held the city together by marching through it.
Hour and hour, day after day, marching through Constantinople at the head of her little army of grenadiers, and their wives, and their children.
"Marching" was not the correct word, actually. It would be more accurate to say that she and her Theodoran Cohort paraded through the streets. Gaily, cheerfully—and triumphantly. But theirs was not the grim triumph of cataphracts, or regular soldiers. Their was the insouciant triumph of humble Syrian villagers, who were sight-seeing as much as they were providing a sight for the city's residents.
Who could fear such folk? With their families parading with them? After the first day, none. By the second day, Antonina's parades had become as popular as the grisly display at the Hippodrome. By the third day, much more popular.
Much more popular.
The vicinity of the Hippodrome, for one thing, was becoming unbearable due to the stench. Gangs of slaves were hauling out the bodies and burying them in mass graves. But there were thousands of those bodies, many of them—as Hermogenes had said—not much more than meat paste smeared across the stone floors
Their fears were exaggerated, perhaps, but by no means groundless. On any number of occasions, Hermogenes' infantrymen had prevented mobs from beating or murdering a man—or an entire family—whose only real crime was unpopularity. On two occasions, the turmoil had become savage enough to require the intervention of Sittas and Belisarius' cataphracts.
Theodora's rage had shaken the entire city. Shaken it almost into pieces.
It was Antonina, more than anyone, who had held the city together. Partly, by the hours she had spent with Theodora, doing what she could to restrain her friend's half-insane fury. But, mostly, Antonina had held the city together by marching through it.
Hour and hour, day after day, marching through Constantinople at the head of her little army of grenadiers, and their wives, and their children.
"Marching" was not the correct word, actually. It would be more accurate to say that she and her Theodoran Cohort paraded through the streets. Gaily, cheerfully—and triumphantly. But theirs was not the grim triumph of cataphracts, or regular soldiers. Their was the insouciant triumph of humble Syrian villagers, who were sight-seeing as much as they were providing a sight for the city's residents.
Who could fear such folk? With their families parading with them? After the first day, none. By the second day, Antonina's parades had become as popular as the grisly display at the Hippodrome. By the third day, much more popular.
Much more popular.
The vicinity of the Hippodrome, for one thing, was becoming unbearable due to the stench. Gangs of slaves were hauling out the bodies and burying them in mass graves. But there were thousands of those bodies, many of them—as Hermogenes had said—not much more than meat paste smeared across the stone floors