"Don't..." he managed to choke out, licking his lips. Thyatis was very still. Boots clattered on the stairs, mixed with sound of shouting. Torches flared in the passage.
The Roman woman smiled, catching the Walach's eye with her own. "Be well, Vlad," she said and scrambled back up onto the spine of the roof. She came up, one hand out of balance, the spatha drifting out of guard. Nicholas rushed forward, his blade glittering with pale color and she grunted with the effort of swinging the cavalry sword into the path of his blow. The impact knocked her back, one leg twisting under her and the spatha shrilled, metal screeching as Nicholas caught her blade square on edge. The spatha rang like a bell, iron cracking end to end and the sword splintered. Iron fragments zipped past her face, one scoring her cheek. Thyatis' arm shuddered, stunned, and she could barely make nerveless fingers fling the useless hilt aside.
Nicholas windmilled a second cut, his blade cleaving the air where her head had been. The Empress screamed, crushed under Thyatis' armored weight as she fell. A wild hand groped at the side of the younger woman's face. Thyatis rolled aside, trying to spare Helena, feeling tile shatter and crack as her feet groped for purchase. Broken tile cascaded toward the street. Nicholas crabbed down the incline, the tip of his sword punching the air. Thyatis scrambled aside and the blade sheared through three layers of terra-cotta with a crack! Nicholas started to slip himself, staggering, trying to catch his balance.
Thyatis scrambled back to the roof ridge, one hand steadying her, the other drawing a dagger from her belt. She glanced sideways and saw Vladimir crawling out from the balcony, his feet bare, the axe clutched in one hand. The lone man was still standing in the garden below and she risked a look over her shoulder at the adjoining building. The Empress' breath was harsh in her ear.
No one peered down from the trellised balcony and the section of cross-hatched wood had been replaced. Thyatis hissed in dismay, though her heart leapt with the hope her friends had escaped. The sound of creaking tile snapped her head around and she scuttled back, the dagger feeling painfully small in her left hand.
Nicholas did not delay, rushing in, his face contorted with a cold, determined rage. Thyatis lunged forward, the dagger slashing left to catch the glittering sword, her right fist swinging at the man's nose. The two blades met and the lighter dagger twisted away. Gasping, Thyatis felt her arm wrenched aside by the blow, the longsword thrusting past as her fist crunched into the side of Nicholas' face. His head snapped to one side, but he did not go down. Time seemed to slide to a halt, Thyatis tottering back, sandals slipping on the loose tile, Nicholas recovering. His blade ripped back in a savage sideways cut and Thyatis felt the blow as a massive concussion to her side. Breath rushed from her mouth, metal squealed, mailed links shattering as the dwarf-steel sword clove through Helena's outflung arm and into Thyatis' ribs.
She crashed backwards, the Empress crying out, and slid sickeningly down the roof, tile shattering and splintering. Both women hit the edge of the roof, the gutter—poorly fired pottery—disintegrating and they fell, limbs cartwheeling. Thyatis tried to twist into the fall, but hit the top of a vine trellis with her chest, crushing the last breath from her and everything went black in a roar of shattering wood, falling tile and then a dull, wet crunch!
—|—
One last tile slithered from the roof and spun through the air, shattering on the paving below. Gaius Julius blinked but did not flinch away from the sound. With a sigh, he returned his gladius to the leather sheath with a soft click. The sounds of men running echoed from the house, but for the moment the old Roman was alone in the courtyard. Repressing an urge to vomit, Gaius picked his way through the ruins of the vine trellis. Bending down, he lifted shattered, twisted wood and foliage away from the two twisted bodies in the garden plot. Helena's pale face stared up, eyes sightless, framed by crushed roses and lilies. Her body was hidden under the bulkier, broader shape of her protector.
The old Roman surprised himself with the strength in his arms, straining to move the heavy, armored body aside. Beneath her, the Empress lay contorted, one arm ending abruptly in a severed forearm. A sluggish flow of wine-colored fluid spilled from the mangled limb and Gaius Julius felt his stomach roil as he sagged into the mushy, blood-soaked soil. Trying to keep his fingers from trembling, Gaius touched her pale, unmarked neck. The skin was growing cold. Oh, no, he thought mournfully. His thumb peeled back an eyelid, revealing the sightless stare of the dead. Dead already from the loss of so much blood...
The old Roman pressed a hand to his mouth, taking a breath, and then another. Why have things ended this way? he wondered, feeling all of his plans and intrigues turning sour. There was no joy in this—he had never intended for anyone important to die. Some of the lesser lights could be snuffed, to show he meant business, but Galen and Helena? They had entertained him at dinner, listened to his stories, even laughed at his jests...
"Well?" a thin, strained voice echoed down from above. Gaius Julius looked up, seeing Nicholas silhouetted against the softly glowing clouds. The old Roman tried to speak, but had to cough, clearing his throat before he could respond.
"She is dead," he said, feeling anew the pain of such bald words.
"And the other?" Nicholas' sword shifted, pointing, a pale brand against the darkness.
Gaius Julius managed to turn the armored body. The face was revealed, matted with mud, scratches tearing one eyelid, a cloak and mailed armor shattered and wadded around the woman's chest. The old Roman felt another shock, a cold, icy blow stunning his troubled mind to stillness. Diana? My Diana? No... Thyatis. Her name was Thyatis.
He wiped mud and flower petals away from high cheekbones, bloody fingers leaving a smear. Her skin was clammy. Gaius Julius bent his head for a moment, remembering the fire in her brilliant gray eyes as she wrenched her hand from his grasp in the garden of Gregorius Auricus. A brief vision of her dueling on the white-hot sand of the arena tormented him, slowly replaced by her slack, pale visage in this ruin and mud.
"Dear Amazon," he whispered, "how could this happen to you? Aren't you invincible?"
Gaius felt his knees and supporting hand sink into the garden mud, finding himself beyond caring for his ruined garments. He struggled against hot tears, shocked to feel such grief for an opponent. Why is my heart so stricken? Gaius struggled to think, though his thoughts seemed to crawl where once they had sped. Are these dear enemies so precious?
Then he felt a fluttering breath against his hand. Gaius Julius froze, staring at her bloody face. Thyatis' lips seemed to move slightly and her eyelids twitched. She lives?
The old Roman pressed long fingers to the side of her neck and there—faint, but unmistakable—was a thready, uneven pulse. She does, but not for long, if my young friend's anger is let loose upon her. A cloud of wild thoughts distracted him for an instant, though his heart had already decided what must be done. Gaius Julius looked up. Nicholas was still crouched at the edge of the rooftop, staring down with a hard-set grimace.
"She is dead," the old Roman said, rising to his feet. "What about the boy?"
"Gone," Nicholas answered. Vladimir stood behind him, shaggy mane stirred by the night wind, a black outline against the dim sky.
"Find him," Gaius replied, despair curdling to anger in his breast. "Search the neighboring buildings, cellars, closets, everywhere! Find the boy and bring him back to me alive!"
The Latin nodded as he turned away, one hand on Vladimir's shoulder. The Walach stared into the courtyard for a moment, then followed. Gaius Julius looked back down at the bodies at his feet.
"Sir? What should we do with them?" The centurion in charge of the cohort loitering at the edge of the garden stared at him, face drawn and pasty white behind the slash of his chin strap.
"Take... the Empress to the Palatine and set her beside her husband." Gaius Julius' voice grew colder with each syllable. "Treat her gently, Claudius. Make a bier from your spears and quilts taken from the house. One cohort shall march before and one behind.
Let no man speak until you have laid her to rest."
The centurion nodded jerkily. The old Roman's eyes dragged towards the other corpse.
"She..." Gaius Julius felt his loss as a physical pain, a pressure in his chest. He turned away with obvious effort. Perhaps your goddess will watch over you, protect you, if you've even the least chance at life... "Put her in the wagons with the other traitors. Let them burn her, in the abattoir beyond the city walls."
—|—
Vladimir searched along a kitchen wall, the axe tight in his hands, heart thudding wildly in his chest. Nicholas stalked behind him, the dwarf blade in his hand humming with excitement. The Walach tried to block out the wild voice ringing from the steel, begging for slaughter. I've had enough death today... The smell of so much fresh blood had set his mind reeling and he could only move in a crouch. With a fierce effort, he kept himself from running on all fours, but his sense of smell unfolded, showing him ancient trails of mice, the passages of men and women through the kitchens and bedrooms of this apartment. The flood of sensation was overpowering.
He stopped abruptly, drawing an alarmed hiss from Nicholas. Vladimir sidled up to a wall, sharp talons scratching across a wooden door. Stagnant air moved beyond the panel, carrying a ferocious stench. "Here," he said, tasting Betia's sweat and a young human needing to empty his weak bladder.
Nicholas waved him aside, then smashed in the cabinet door with his iron-shod boot. A gaping, dark opening was revealed and a noisome, thick odor rolled out. The Latin peered down the stone-lined shaft.
"Bring a light!" he barked and one of the legionaries following along behind passed up a watchman's candle lantern. Holding the light out over the shaft, Nicholas stared down. "A rubbish tip, into a sewer," he said, voice muffled. "But there is a ladder, which has been recently used."
Without waiting for a response, Nicholas passed the lantern back before swinging into the opening and descending the ladder with reckless speed. Vladimir followed, though the foul miasma clogged his noise and made his head hurt.
At the bottom of the pit, they stood ankle-deep in slowly moving water. The walls dripped with humidity and thick green slime. Vladimir coughed, trying to breath. Nicholas seemed unaffected by the stench.
"Which way?" the Latin growled, jabbing to the right with his sword. As before, in the absence of any greater light, the blade began to gleam a soft blue-white. The Walach stared around in disgust, but saw nothing like a track or sign.
"Betia knew I would follow." Vladimir coughed, feeling his throat clogging with the awful smell. "I can't make out anything down here. We'll just have to pick a direction..."
"You go to the left," Nicholas replied with a curse, his jaw clenched tight. He splashed away to the right, leaving Vladimir in steadily growing darkness. Above, the legionaries stared down the shaft, their lantern casting a fitful dim glow on the ladder. Vladimir stared after his friend, shaking his head slowly. The Walach was no stranger to death—he had taken innocent lives when he could no longer control the pain in his bones—but Nicholas seemed transformed, all pity leached away, his heart wounded by Thyatis' betrayal. Cruel fate digs her claws deep, Vladimir thought mournfully. He is blind and sinking deeper into such a hell... Standing in the sewer tunnel, half bent under the low ceiling, the Walach resolved never to tell his friend—he is still my brother in blood and arms!—who he'd so carelessly murdered in the hallway. I will spare him the stain of kin slayer, at least.
Mind still wild with bloody deeds, Vladimir slung the axe over his back and scuttled off down the tunnel, finding surcease in going on hands and feet, as generations of his forefathers had done. After a hundred feet, the way split, one arched passage tending down the hill, the other rising. Brow wrinkled in debate, Vladimir turned towards the descending passage, then stopped shock still. The hackles on his neck stiffened and he growled in alarm.
The K'shapâcara Queen! his mind gibbered, filled with atavistic fears. How can the Dark Lady be here?
He tried to press on, but the rank smell brought harsh memories to mind and after a moment of dithering, Vladimir backed away and began climbing the rising tunnel. He glanced behind him often, nerves still taut with fear, but he saw nothing.
—|—
"He is gone," Koré said softly, yellow-green eyes glittering in the darkness. Shirin relaxed a little, though her flesh crawled with the clinging taint of the sewer and the sharp fear of pursuit. The little girl moved past, one hand tucked around little Theodosius, the other tapping along the curving wall. "If we go this way," Koré hissed, "we'll reach the river. Perhaps there will be a boat."
Filled with disquiet, Shirin followed, keeping close to the girl. They had descended through two joining chambers—where other pipes fed into the main sewer—before she realized Betia was no longer with them.
—|—
"What other body?" Gaius Julius looked up in the darkness of the main hall, sluggish thoughts stirring to slow motion. An earnest-looking young legionary stood atop a short flight of steps, in an opening filled with the splintered remains of a door frame. "No, I'll see for myself."
The old Roman stepped onto the staircase and looked down. The sight of more blood failed to move him—he felt numbed—but the sight of this face and body sprawled in unkind death forced a groan of dismay from his lips. The legionnaire drew back, Gaius Julius waving for him to leave.
"This is a cruel winter," he muttered, kneeling beside Anastasia's body. There were welts on her white neck where a necklace had been torn away by greedy hands and her left wrist was scored with deep cuts. Her rings and bracelets were gone. Gaius' fingers drifted over the signs of looting, then to the serene, quiet face. Even in death, with her lips parted and a thick trail of congealing blood puddling on the steps under her mouth, he could see her beauty linger. "So many blossoms withered, so many buds cut down by sudden frost."
He turned the corner of her stole over the face and composed her hands and feet as best he could in the cramped confines of the stair. All light seemed to have fled, leaving him entirely in darkness, accompanied only by the pale corpse, her raiment gleaming in the night. Gaius Julius sat on the step, chin on his folded hands. What a bleak world, he thought, overcome by terrifying emptiness. Where every fair enemy is struck down and nothing bright remains. He had felt something like this before, when he had achieved victory over Pompey the Great at last and the world lay in the cup of his hands. An end of challenge, the cessation of everything that fired his blood to life and moved his agile mind to delight.
"No one can deny," he said at last in a choked voice, harsh sound echoing in the empty hall. The legionaries had carried the bodies away, leaving him entirely alone... "that during the civil war, and after, Caesar behaved with wonderful restraint and clemency. Whereas his opponents declared all those not with them enemies of the state; Caesar accounted every man not against him, his ally. He forgave all crimes, pardoned all prisoners, returned their properties, sponsored their children, made good their debts..."
Overcome, Gaius Julius covered his face with his cloak, unable to speak, wrinkled old face streaming with tears, his thin shoulders shaking.
—|—
Vladimir heaved himself up into a brick chamber, his long fingers scraping through a thick, gray slime clinging to the lip of the pipe. The cavity was very dark and he groped across the floor, fearing another pit yawned before him. His outstretched fingers touched something warm and he became very still. The sensitive pads on his fingertips traced the outline of a toe, then another, then a slim foot.
"Who is there?" he breathed, barely able to raise his voice. A familiar smell tried to separate itself from the foul miasma in the tunnel.
"Hello, Vladimir." Betia drew back a heavy cloak from her face and his sharp eyes found her outline—a faint reddish smear against the cold walls. "You've caught me."
"No!" The Walach's exclamation was abrupt and unplanned. "Betia, you should flee..."
Her fingers pressed against his lips, then her gen
tle hand caressed his short beard, the side of his face, his powerful neck. "I am tired of running away," she said, crawling to him. "Take me to my mistress, she'll need me in captivity."
A groan escaped the Walach, his free arm crushing the girl to his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breath hot on her neck. "No... you must fly away from here, far away."
"What happened?" Betia's voice changed, catching his anguish and her small hands framed his face, her lips brushing against his. "Where is the Duchess?"
"Dead," Vladimir managed in a choked voice. "An accident..."
The girl stiffened, her forehead pressing against his. "Truly?" Voice was very faint, but then she shook her head. "You must come away with me," she said. "I know where a ship is waiting..."
Vladimir shook his head slowly, though his heart leapt to say Yes! "I've sworn an oath..." His fingers pressed against his chest, feeling the prince's amulet. The metal was a little warm, comforting against his hand. Like her body conforming to his, her arms around his neck. "I... I cannot go with you."
Betia's body slumped against his and she sighed in exhaustion. "Take me with you, then."
"With me? But..."
"No one will notice a servant," she said, head buried against his chest. "No one at all."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The Catanian Shore, Sicilia
"Where are we?" Alexandros shouted, his strong voice carrying in the humid afternoon air. He rode at the head of a column of his Companions—the Gothic knights astride heavy warhorses, armored from head to foot in the Eastern style, great bows jutting from sheaths on their saddles. Two of his scouts emerged from a thicket of dusky gray brush on the meandering farm track ahead. The Macedonian spurred Bucephalas the Black forward, the stallion catching his master's tense mood. "Where is the sea?"
The scouts stared back at him in alarm, their faces red with the sun and scratched by low-hanging branches. One of them—with the shoulder flash of a file leader—swallowed nervously and jogged up to Alexandros' stirrup. "My lord! We thought this was the way to the beach!"
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