Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  "What the hell are you waiting for, you assholes?"

  From the door, a cold voice answered.

  "They're waiting for Satan."

  Antonina gasped. Her eyes sped to the door. She staggered back against the other wall, almost collapsing from relief.

  The thug's eyes followed hers. An instant later, all color left his face.

  Maurice stalked into the kitchen. His helmet was covered with blood. A piece of a brain slid off his blood-soaked half-armor. The spatha in his right hand dripped blood. His face was spattered with blood. Blood trailed from his gray beard.

  For all the world, he didn't look like a man so much as a killing machine. A thing of iron, not flesh. His eyes, too, were gray. They gleamed out of his gore-covered face like two rivets.

  Maurice circled the pile of bodies and the upended table in the middle of the kitchen. His steps were relaxed, almost casual, as if he were strolling through a garden.

  Hissing with terror, the thug backed into the far corner of the kitchen, against the door which led to the rooms above. He groped, found the door latch, shook it in a frenzy.

  Useless. The shopkeeper had bolted the door from the other side.

  Now the thug screamed, with terror and rage. Maurice ignored the sound completely. He advanced until he was almost within sword range. The thug swung his club franctically. The blows were short, by half a foot. Maurice didn't even bother to duck.

  The hecatontarch turned his head very slightly. Just enough to ask Antonina:

  "Is there anything you want to find out from this piece of shit?"

  Antonina shook her head. Then, realizing that Maurice couldn't see her, said:

  "No. He won't know anything."

  "Didn't think so," grunted Maurice.

  The thug swung the club again. This time, Maurice met the blow with a flashing sweep of his spatha. The club split in half. The shock of the blow knocked the stub out of the thug's hand.

  He gasped. Gasped again, watching his hand amputated by another spatha-strike. Gasped again—started to gasp—watching the sword sweep toward his left temple. In a final despairing act, the thug threw up his left arm, trying to block the strike.

  The spatha cut his arm off before it went halfway through his head. The thug dropped straight down onto his knees, like a pole-axed steer.

  Maurice grunted, twisted the blade with his powerful wrist, and pulled it loose. The thug's body collapsed to the floor.

  "Are there any left?" whispered Antonina.

  The cataphract's chuckle was utterly humorless.

  "Be serious, girl."

  Maurice's eyes scanned the kitchen. A cold, grim gaze, at first. But, by the time those gray eyes reached Antonina, they were full of good cheer.

  "Wish I'd met your pop," he said. "He must have been quite a guy."

  Antonina laughed giddily.

  "He was a complete scoundrel, Maurice! A worthless bum!"

  Then, bursting into tears, she slid down the wall into a half-kneeling squat. She pressed the back of her hand—still holding the knife—against her mouth, smearing her face with yet more blood.

  Gasped, choked, sobbed.

  Whispered:

  "Thank you, father. Oh, thank you."

  Chapter 24

  "Stop fussing over me, Irene!" snapped Antonina. "I'm fine, I tell you."

  The spymaster shook her head. Irene's face was pale and drawn. She had been sequestered in Theodora's quarters for days, and had not learned about the assassination attempt until early the following morning. She had come to Antonina's villa in the suburbs immediately.

  Antonina went to a closet and began pulling out fresh clothes. The garments she had been wearing when she and Maurice returned to the villa the night before had already been destroyed. Expensive as they were, there was simply no way to clean off that much blood and gore.

  "Wear a heavy cloak," said Irene. "It's cold out." Then, darkly: "I should never have agreed to let you go alone."

  Antonina planted her hands on her hips and glared at her friend.

  "It was not your decision in the first place," she pointed out. "It was mine. I've always gone alone to those meetings. Balban insisted."

  Irene wiped her face with a trembling hand.

  "I know. Still—God, you were almost murdered."

  Antonina shrugged. Then, shrugged her way into a tunic. Her muffled voice came from within the simple, utilitarian garment:

  "But I wasn't. And there's an end to it. So stop fussing. Besides—" Her face popped out, smiling broadly. "—it was the best news I've heard, so to speak, in months. You do realize what that assassination attempt means, don't you?"

  Irene frowned. Antonina laughed.

  "You're supposed to be the spymaster here, Irene! So start spymastering, for a moment, and stop fretting over me as if I were your little chick."

  Irene was still frowning.

  "Think, woman. Why would the Malwa decide to kill me? Now, of all times?"

  Irene's eyes widened. She pressed her fingers over her lips.

  "Belisarius!"

  Antonina grinned.

  "Precisely. Balban must have gotten new orders from India. Which means that my dear husband has done something to completely infuriate the Malwa. And it also means that he's escaped from their clutches."

  "Of course," hissed Irene. The spymaster began pacing slowly.

  "If they had their hands on him, they'd have even greater leverage over you than they thought they had. There would have been no reason to have you murdered. Quite the contrary."

  By now, Antonina had finished dressing and was lacing on her boots. She nodded her head. "That's right. Which means he'll be arriving in Constantinople, sooner or later."

  "When, do you think?"

  Antonina shrugged.

  "There's no way to know. We have no idea what route he's taking to get out of India. Most likely, he'll return by ship to Axum. If he does, Ashot and his men will be there to meet him."

  She headed toward the door. Added: "Ashot's instructions were very clear. They'll sail up the Red Sea, portage to the Nile, and then take the river to Alexandria. There'll be a ship waiting to bring them straight to Constantinople."

  Once in the corridor, Antonina strode hurriedly toward the villa's entrance. "They could get here almost any time. Or—not for weeks."

  Behind her, Irene grimaced.

  "I wish we knew. It would—"

  Antonina gestured the thought away. "Don't even think about it, Irene! We can't make any plans based on my husband's return. We can only forge ahead. Speaking of which—have all the grenades arrived?"

  They reached the foyer. Maurice was there, waiting for them. Like Antonina, he had changed his garments. But his helmet and half-armor were the same he had been wearing earlier. He had simply cleaned them off. That kitchen had not been his first slaughterhouse. The new stains were lost amid the relics of old gore.

  Maurice answered her question.

  "Yes. And they've already been taken to the monastery."

  "Let's go, then," said Antonina.

  Maurice held the door open. Antonina strode through into the courtyard, shivering a bit from the cold of a December morning. Then, seeing the mounted cataphracts in the courtyard and the street beyond, she stopped. Did a quick little count. Spun around.

  "Where are the rest of the cataphracts, Maurice?" she demanded. "There's not more than a hundred here."

  Maurice's jaws tightened.

  "The rest of them are busy, at the moment. But they'll be joining us soon enough. They'll meet us at the monastery when they're done."

  Antonina peered at him suspiciously.

  "Busy? 'Done'? Doing what?"

  The hecatontarch's face was like stone.

  "What do you think, girl?"

  "Oh, no," whispered Antonina.

  Irene hissed: "Maurice—you can't. It'll alert the Malwa! They'll know—"

  "I don't give a damn what the Malwa know," snarled Maurice. He glared at b
oth women.

  "I am not a spymaster," he grated. "I am not an intriguer. I am the leader of the general's bucellarii and those"—he pointed to the mounted Thracians—"are my lord's cataphracts."

  He stalked over to his horse and seized the reins.

  "If some stinking pig thinks he can try to have you murdered—without consequences—he is one sadly mistaken son-of-a-bitch."

  He swung himself into the saddle and stared down at Antonina and Irene. Like a statue. Immovable.

  Antonina blew out her cheeks. Then, sighing, headed for her own horse.

  Less than a minute later, she and Irene rode out together through the gates of the villa. Once in the street, the two women were surrounded by over a hundred cataphracts. The small army began making its way toward the inner city.

  After a while, Irene muttered: "Oh, well. Balban probably doesn't think you're still working for him, anyway."

  Antonina giggled. "Do you think his suspicions will be aroused? When two hundred cataphracts tear his villa down around him?"

  Balban poured tea into Narses' cup. The eunuch immediately sipped at the beverage appreciatively.

  "Thank you," he murmured. "Just the thing for a cold morning."

  "The weather's clear, I hope?" asked Balban.

  Narses nodded. "Oh, yes." Smiling thinly: "Other than the cold, it's a perfect day for an insurrection. Not a cloud in the sky."

  "Good," muttered Balban. "The last thing we need is bad weather. How do things seem in the Great Palace?"

  "Just about perfect, I'd say. The more Justinian's position worsens, the more tightly he clings to John of Cappadocia and myself."

  Narses set down his cup.

  "That's why I came here. Justinian ordered me to leave the Great Palace and round up more troops. Since I had the opportunity, I thought I'd come by for a last-minute conference." He laughed harshly. "Troops. Justinian still doesn't realize that he has no troops, except his palace excubitores. Every other army unit in the capital has locked themselves into their barracks, waiting out the storm. We won't even need Aegidius and his Army of Bithynia. The Blues and Greens alone should be enough."

  Balban nodded. "Not much to confer about, then. The factions should start gathering by noon. My kshatriya will have seized the Hippodrome within the hour. All we have to do is make our appearance and"—scowling—"hope Hypatius shows up to be acclaimed the new Emperor."

  Narses sneered.

  "He'll show up. Or if he doesn't, Pompeius will. We'll have to provide the new Emperor with fresh trousers, of course. I'm sure both of the nephews have already shat in the ones they're wearing. But they'll be there. Their ambition is greater than their terror."

  Balban chuckled. Then, more seriously: "What about Theodora?"

  Narses winced. "That's the one small problem. She knows almost everything, Balban—I'm quite sure of that. Her new spymaster—that young woman Irene Macrembolitissa—is fiendishly capable. But," he shrugged, "Justinian's not listening to her at all, anymore. And now he's run out of time."

  Balban grunted. "Still—" He hesitated, then shrugged himself.

  "No doubt you're right. By nightfall, it won't matter anyway. Her corpse will join Justinian's, feeding the fish in the Sea of Marmara."

  Narses pressed his lips together, fighting down the anguish. Fiercely, he reminded himself of his ambition. To hide his feelings, he leaned forward and reached for the teacup resting on the table.

  His hand stopped. The teacup was rattling.

  Ajatasutra burst into the small salon. "Out!" he hissed. "Now!"

  The assassin strode to a door against the far wall. Flinging it open, he began hastily dragging aside the heavy chest which sat on the floor of the closet beyond.

  Balban rose, frowning angrily. "Just what do you think you're—"

  Ajatasutra, still bent over the heavy chest, turned his head. His eyes were like hot coals. "If you want to live more than two minutes, Balban, help me get this damned chest off the trapdoor."

  Balban remained standing in place, rigid, still frowning. Narses immediately rose from his chair and went to Ajatasutra's aid. For all his age and small size, the eunuch was not weak. With his help, Ajatasutra moved the chest out of the closet.

  "Against the wall," grunted the assassin.

  A moment later, the chest was pushed into position. Ajatasutra sprang nimbly into the closet and rolled back an expensive rug. Then, fiddling a moment with a plank which seemed no different from any of the other wood flooring, he levered up a small trapdoor.

  "Get in," he ordered Narses.

  The old eunuch hesitated not an instant. He began lowering himself down a ladder.

  Halfway down, the ladder began to shake. Narses stopped, waist high in the trapdoor, and stared up at Balban. The spymaster was now standing in the door of the closet.

  He was still frowning—but with puzzlement, now, more than anger. Balban looked down at his feet.

  "Why is the floor shaking?" he asked.

  Narses glanced quickly at Ajatasutra. The assassin's face was stiff with suppressed anger.

  "Mother of God," muttered Narses. To Balban: "What have you done, you damned fool?"

  Balban glared.

  "That's none of your concern, Narses!" he snapped.

  Then, frowning at his feet, he asked yet again:

  "Why is the floor shaking?"

  Narses sneered.

  "I take it you've never faced a charge of cataphracts in full armor?" he demanded. "That's what you're feeling, fool. Several hundred tons of approaching death and destruction."

  Balban goggled at him.

  "What are you talking about? We're in the middle of Constantinople!"

  Narses sighed, looked over at Ajatasutra. The assassin, through tight lips, said: "He ordered Antonina's murder."

  "Marvelous," muttered Narses. "Just marvelous."

  The eunuch began lowering himself down the ladder. Very quickly. His voice came from below: "You're not in Constantinople now, Balban. You're in Thrace."

  A smashing sound came from outside the villa. After a second, Balban realized that it was the outer gate. Shattering.

  Shattered.

  A scream. Cut short. Another. Another. Another. All the screams were cut short, but Balban recognized the voices. His Malwa guards. Dying.

  Dead.

  Ajatasutra sprang to the door of the salon and stared down the corridor leading to the villa's main entrance. A moment later, there came a splintering crash.

  He leapt back into the room and slammed shut the door.

  "That," he announced, "was a lance driving through the main door."

  Balban hesitated no longer. He scrambled down the ladder after Narses. Before his head sank below the level of the floor he heard a rolling series of thunderous noises. Doors and windows being shattered. By the time he reached the small tunnel fifteen feet down, he could already hear the screams echoing through the entire villa. The rest of the Malwa mission resident in the villa were being butchered.

  Ajatasutra took the time to close the closet door before he started down the ladder. As best he could, feeling his way in the darkness, he tried to position the rug so that it would cover the trapdoor after he lowered it.

  When he reached the tunnel below, he found the two other men waiting for him. Balban had lit the small lamp which was kept in a cubby.

  "I don't know the way," whispered the spymaster. "I've never been down here."

  Ajatasutra took the lamp from his hand.

  "Follow me," he ordered. "And watch your step. We never bothered to grade the tunnel floor. I didn't really think we'd need it."

  After the three men had inched their way down the narrow tunnel for hundred feet or so, Narses asked:

  "How much farther, Ajatasutra? My shoes aren't designed for this kind of travel. And—damnation—they're silk! Expensive."

  Ajatasutra chuckled, grimly.

  "Forget about your shoes, Narses. We've another two hundred feet to go. Before we reach th
e sewer."

  "Marvelous," muttered Narses. "Just marvelous."

  Fifty feet down, he sneered: "What other brilliant ideas did you have today, Balban? Did you jump into the Bosporus to see if it was wet? Did you swallow a live coal to see if it would burn your throat? Did you—"