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by a thin boy.
    “Here they come!” Felix exclaimed.
    An eddy disturbed the crowd, which began to part, making way for a contingent of soldiers.
    “That’s not Belisarius,” Bato replied. “It’s Mundus.”
    The tall man at their head strode along with an easy swing born of countless days of foot marching. His men wore no armor or helmets, revealing hair bleached of color by the strong sunlight under which they had served in hotter climates. Each man was armed either with a spear over a shoulder or a long sword. The regular thudding of heavy boots echoed against the walls of the surrounding buildings.
    Felix grunted. “Belisarius wouldn’t be walking, I wager.”
    “Your Belisarius seems to spend most of his time consulting Justinian. Now, Mundus, there’s a real commander. His Heruli are disciplined fighters, not the usual rabble who wave blunt spears at some old village women for the glory of Justinian and expect a fat purse at the end of it!”
    “Mundus didn’t force the Persians to beg for peace!”
    “You don’t suppose Belisarius did, do you? From what I hear, he had his men hiding in ditches. He was afraid to fight until his officers shamed him into it. Then he was forced to turn tail and run—from a gang of peasants armed mostly with shields. He probably would’ve bought that sick chicken just now to avoid a confrontation. If it hadn’t been for Cabades dying and Chosroes taking the throne, the Persians would be at the walls of Constantinople right now and we’d have Justinian’s eternal peace all right, being as we’d all be dead!”
    Felix glared at Bato, who broke into a grin.
    “You shouldn’t take everything so seriously, Felix! Now I’m off to the Inn of the Centaurs to get a skin full of wine!”
    “Don’t wager on that racing game that was set up in front of the place the other day.” Felix advised. “You may think only Fortuna influences those colored balls rolling down chutes and tunnels and popping out of archways here and there, but it’s my belief the proprietor’s found some way to fix the results. I lost half a month’s wages!”
    Mundus and his soldiers had tramped through the gate into the palace grounds and Bato went up the Mese in the direction from which they had come.
    Felix wondered what, exactly, the soldiers had been doing out in the city on foot. Unrest in various quarters signalled the factions’ way of demanding the release of the condemned men held at the Church of Saint Laurentius. The Urban Prefect had sent men to guard the church. Perhaps Mundus had been needed to quell violence elsewhere while Belisarius had been sent into the streets to make a show of force, to let the disgruntled factions see what they would come against if they were, in fact, looking for a fight.
    Despite what Bato said, Justinian seemed well pleased by Belisarius’ efforts on the Persian front. If the Persians hadn’t been able to defeat him, a mob certainly couldn’t.
    Felix stamped his boots, trying to warm cold feet. There was a promise of frost in the crisp air. If snow fell, as it did occasionally, it would take its toll on the homeless who spent their nights huddled under porticoes. The boy who had eaten the remains of Bato’s apple had stationed himself nearby, hand extended in a mute appeal for charity, the rags covering his feet fluttering in the icy wind. Felix tossed his core toward the urchin who deftly caught it on the downward arc.
    Might have been me, Felix thought. The lad has a keen eye and looks sturdy despite being half starved. He might make a good recruit if—but at that point his speculation ended as he spotted the flash of sunlight on the Mese where the gathered people were scattering again.
    “Belisarius,” Felix breathed.
    Led by their general, the mounted force clattered toward the Chalke, horses steaming in the chilly air. Felix caught a glimpse of Belisarius’ face beneath the polished helmet—high cheekbones, straight nose, a black, closely