Five minutes into her meeting with Balban, Antonina knew that something was not right. The Malwa spymaster was not listening to her carefully enough.
He seemed to be, true. To almost anyone but Antonina, Balban would have appeared to be the very model of attentiveness. He was sitting on the edge of his chair—almost perched, in fact—leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. His eyes were riveted on the woman sitting across the small room from him. He was utterly silent, apparently engrossed in the information which Antonina was giving him.
The information alone should have guaranteed his interest, even if it wasn't being imparted by a beautiful woman. The Malwa spymaster was learning every single detail of every current or planned troop movement of every Roman military unit of any consequence in Syria, the Levant and Egypt. For a man who stood at the very center of a plot to overthrow the Roman Emperor—a plot which was finally coming to fruition—such information was literally priceless.
Wonderful information, too—in every respect. Wonderful, not just in the fact that he had it, but wonderful in its own right. The gist of Antonina's report was that no Roman military unit from the great southern and eastern provinces could possibly arrive in Constantinople in time to prevent the planned coup d'etat.
But he was not paying any attention. Not to the information, at least.
For a moment, Antonina wondered if Balban's indifference stemmed from his knowledge that everything she was telling him was a lie. In actual fact, Theodora had sent word to Daras weeks before that the plot was coming to a head. Antonina's grenadiers had been in Constantinople for ten days, disguised as pilgrim families. They, along with all the Thracian cataphracts, had been transported aboard a small fleet of swift transports. The units from Sittas and Hermogenes' armies, carried on slower grain ships, had just arrived the day before. They were still hidden in the holds of those ships, anchored in the Portus Caesarii.
But Antonina dismissed that possibility almost instantly. She detected no hostility from Balban, not a trace—which she surely would have, did the spymaster suspect her duplicity.
No, it was simply that Balban was not interested in the information, one way or the other. He did not disbelieve; but he did not believe, either. He simply didn't care.
He was interested in her—in the same way that almost every man was, who found himself in her company. Few men of her acquaintance were able to ignore Antonina's beauty. That was just a simple fact of life.
But, beyond that—nothing.
Antonina was chilled to the bone. She realized exactly what was happening. And what was planned.
They are going to kill me.
Had Balban known how perfectly Antonina was reading him, he would have been absolutely shocked. The Malwa was a master of his trade. He would have sworn that no one could have detected a trace of murderous intent in his perfectly maintained composure.
And, in truth, almost no one in the world could have done so. With the exception of a woman who, in her earlier days, had been one of the most exclusive and sought-after courtesans in the entire Roman empire.
Antonina, unlike Balban, was not an expert in the subjects of espionage, and assassination. But she was an expert—one of the world's greatest experts, in fact—on the subject of men, and their moods. Her success as a courtesan had been partly due to her physical beauty, of course. But many women were beautiful. Antonina's great skill had been her ability to keep men interested. Not simply in her beauty, but in the pleasure of her company.
Over the years, she had learned to detect the danger signs. Sooner or later—until she met Belisarius—the men who sought her company would lose interest. Not in her, necessarily. They might well retain a powerful desire for her body. But they would lose interest in her company.
She had always been able to tell when that moment came. And she had always broken off such relationships immediately. Or, at least, as soon as she could do so gracefully.
Her relationship with Balban had never been sexual in the least. But, with him too, that moment had come.
In the brief time that it took to finish her report, she quickly assessed her options.
They would not kill her in Balban's own villa. Of that, she was certain. The Malwa had always taken great pains to maintain a low profile in Constantinople. Even Irene, with all her expertise and the vast resources which Theodora had placed at her disposal, had only discovered the whereabouts of the Malwa military base a few days before. Balban had managed to smuggle several hundred elite Indian soldiers into the Roman capital—and keep them hidden, for weeks—without being spotted.
Such a man would not risk drawing attention to himself at this penultimate hour.
Nor, she thought, would he employ the services of Ajatasutra or any other Malwa agent. There was always the risk, should her assassination fail, that such agents might be captured and traced back to him.
She would be murdered by Roman thugs, hired for the occasion through intermediaries.
The streets of Constantinople had become increasingly rowdy over the past few days. The Hippodrome factions which had been bribed by the Malwa grew more assertive and self-confident by the hour. Gangs of Blue and Green thugs roamed freely, disrupting the capital's tranquillity with impunity. The military units stationed in Constantinople had withdrawn to their barracks—just as Irene had predicted months earlier. The officers in command of those units could sense the coming coup, and they intended to sit on the sidelines until the outcome was clear.
Antonina was certain of the Malwa plan.
It was already very late in the afternoon. By the time she left Balban's villa, it would be dusk. As instructed, she had come alone to the meeting, following the same route she always took. On her way back, she would be accosted by a gang of street thugs. Not closer than three blocks away, but not farther than six. The attack would take place near a deserted building or some other secluded location. She would be dragged off the street and taken out of sight. Then, she would be robbed, probably raped, and murdered. When her body was discovered—which might not be for days—the crime would be dismissed as an unfortunate episode during the current chaos.
She managed, barely, not to heave a sigh of relief.
Professional assassins, like Ajatasutra, were probably beyond her capability. Street thugs, she thought she could handle.
Her mind now (more or less) at ease, Antonina had no difficulty getting through the final few minutes of her meeting with Balban. Her biggest problem was restraining her impatience at Balban's protracted social pleasantries. The hour ahead of her was dangerous in the extreme, but Antonina was the kind of person who just wanted to be done with it.
As soon as possible, she rose and made her exit. Balban escorted her to the door. On the way, they passed Ajatasutra in the corridor. Antonina smiled at him pleasantly, and walked by without flinching. It was not easy, that—after all, she might be wrong.
But Ajatasutra did nothing beyond return her nod with a polite smile.
Balban opened the door, mumbling some final courtesies. Antonina strode through the courtyard to the open gate which led to the street beyond. Even before she passed through the gate, she heard the door close behind her.
Balban, shaking his head, turned away from the door. To his surprise, Ajatasutra was still standing in the corridor.
"A pity," muttered Balban. "Such a beautiful—"
"She knows," hissed Ajatasutra.
Balban blinked his eyes.
"What?"
"She knows," repeated the assassin.
Balban frowned.
"Why do you say that? I saw no indication that she had any suspicions at all."
He made a little gesture at Ajatasutra.
"And—just now—she walked right by you with hardly any notice."
"That's the point," retorted the assassin. "That woman is not stupid, Balban. She knows exactly who I am. What I am. Every other time I've been in her company she always kept a close eye on me. It was a subtle thing, but—" Frustrated, he groped for words. "I'm telling you—she knows."
Balban hesitated. He turned his head, looking at the door. For a moment, it almost seemed as if he would reopen it. But the moment passed, quickly. Then, when Ajatasutra began to approach the door himself, Balban stayed him with a hand.
The spymaster shook his head.
"I think you're imagining things, Ajatasutra. But, even if you're not, there's nothing we can do about it."
Balban scowled. "I think Nanda Lal's orders were an overreaction, anyway. The last thing I'm going to do—now, of all times!—is run any risk of exposing our mission."
He began moving down the corridor. With his hand still on Ajatasutra's shoulder, he guided the assassin along with him. "Besides," he added, "what difference does it make, even if she does know? She's just a woman, Ajatasutra—a small woman, at that."
Cheerfully:
"A sheep often knows it's in danger, when the wolfpack begins circling. What good does that do the sheep?"
Ajatasutra shrugged off the hand. He stopped abruptly, forcing Balban to look at him.
"She is not a sheep, Balban," stated the assassin firmly. "She grew up on the streets of Alexandria. The toughest streets in the Roman Empire. Her father was a charioteer—some of the roughest men you'll ever encounter. And her husband is not only a great general but a great swordsman as well. And those thugs you hired are not `wolves.' They're a pack of mangy street curs."
"That's enough!" snapped Balban. "I've made my decision."
He stalked away. Ajatasutra remained alone, standing in the corridor, staring at the door. He stood there, silent and unmoving, for a full minute. Then, smiling thinly, he whispered, "Good luck, wolves. You're going to need it."
Antonina strode up the street in the direction she always took, until she was far enough away from Balban's villa to be out of sight. She had traveled two blocks, by now, and knew that the ambush would be coming very soon.
At the next corner, she turned abruptly to her right and began walking quickly down a narrow side street. Behind her, faintly, she heard footsteps. Several men a block away, by the sound, startled into sudden activity.
She began running.
The street was barely more than an alley. She was unfamiliar with it. But she had noticed—in times past, as she had walked by—that the street was the domicile for a number of the small bakeries and cookshops which provided Constantinople with its daily supply of bread and meat pastries.
She raced by three such shops. Too small. She needed a big one, with a full kitchen.
At the fourth shop, she skidded to a halt. Hesitated. She could smell the thick, rich scent of meat broth.
Maybe.
She heard the footsteps approaching the mouth of the street.
It'll have to do.
She strode through the shop door. The shop was very small—not ten feet square—and completely bare except for a small counter on which were displayed samples of the shop's wares. When she saw that they were meat pastries, Antonina sighed with relief.
A middle-aged woman—the cookshop owner's wife, she assumed—approached Antonina and began uttering some pleasantry. Antonina didn't catch the words.
"Are you cooking meat broth?" she demanded. "For pastries?"
The woman, frowning with puzzlement, began to nod. Antonina grabbed the woman's wrist and dragged her toward the door at the opposite end of the shop. The woman was heavyset, taller than Antonina, and began squawking and struggling vigorously. To absolutely no avail. Antonina was a very strong woman, for her size, and she was filled with implacable determination.
She shouldered the door open and hurled the woman through, following an instant later. Before closing the door, she peeked at the shop entrance. The outer door was still closed. Her pursuers, she thought, hadn't seen her enter the shop.
Good. I've got a little time.
She turned and confronted the woman, who was now spluttering with outrage. The woman's husband was standing next to her, glowering, holding up a metal ladle in a half-threatening gesture.
"Shut up!" snarled Antonina. "There are men just outside your door who are trying to kill me! They'll kill you, too."
The woman's mouth snapped shut. A second later, her mouth reopened. Wailing:
"Get out! Get out!"
The husband stepped forward hesitantly, raising the ladle.
There was a large table against the wall of the kitchen next to the door. Antonina slammed her purse onto the table and emptied its contents. A pile of gold coins spilled out. Along with a small dagger.
The shopkeeper and his wife were, first, transfixed by the sight of the coins. Then, by the sight of the dagger in Antonina's hand.
"You've got a simple choice," hissed Antonina. "You can take the money—call it rent for the use of your kitchen—or you can take the blade. In your fucking guts."
The shopkeeper and his wife ogled her.
Antonina hefted the dagger. The wife's face, as she eyed the razor-sharp blade, paled a bit.
The shopkeeper's face paled quite a bit more.
He was fat and middle-aged, now. But, in his youth, he had led a rather disreputable life. He was not particularly impressed by Antonina's sharp little blade. He was a professional cook. He had several knives which were just as sharp and much bigger.
But he recognized that grip. That light, easy way of holding a blade.
"Shut up, woman!" he snarled to his wife. "Take the money and go upstairs."
His wife frowned at him. The shopkeeper threatened her with the ladle. Antonina stepped away from the table, clearing a space. The shopkeeper's wife scuttled over, glancing at her fearfully. Then, after scooping up the coins, she practically sprinted to a small door in the rear corner of the kitchen. A moment later, Antonina heard her clumping up the stairs which led to the living quarters above.
Her husband began backing his way toward the same door.
"You can't come upstairs," he muttered. "I'm not going to get involved in any of this. Things are crazy right now."
Antonina shook her head.
"Just bar the door and stay upstairs. But, before you go—where do you keep your flour? And your knives?"
The shopkeeper pointed to a cupboard with the ladle.
"Flour's in there. The knives, too."
"Good. Leave me the ladle."
He frowned, glanced at the ladle, shrugged.
"Where do you want it?"
Antonina pointed toward the big kettle on the stove. Hurriedly, the shopkeeper dropped the ladle into the simmering broth and then scampered out of the kitchen.
Antonina stepped to the door which led to the outer room of the shop and pressed her ear against it.
Nothing. They haven't found the shop yet.
She raced to the cupboard and threw its door open. She hesitated, for just an instant, between the flour barrel and the knives hanging on the wall.
The knives first.
She grabbed four of the knives, two in each hand, and carried them over to the workbench next to the stove. Quickly, she gauged their balance. One of them, she decided, was suitable. That one—and her own little dagger—she placed on the edge of the workbench, blades toward her. The other three—much larger blades, one of them a veritable cleaver—she placed next to them, hilts facing out.
She hurried back to the closet and seized a small pan on a shelf. She lifted the lid to the barrel and dug the pan into the flour. A moment later, spilling a trail behind her, she poured the flour into the kettle. Quickly, using the ladle, she stirred the flour into the broth.
She was practically dancing with impatience. But she didn't dare add more flour too quickly. She had to give the broth time to regain its heat.
When the liquid began roiling, she hurried back to the closet. More flour. Into the kettle. Stir it. Wait. Wait.
Again.
That's enough, she decided. The meat broth was now a lumpy, viscous mess. And, within a minute, would be back to a boil.
She looked around. Draped on nearby pegs, she saw the thick, wettened cloths which the shopkeeper used to handle the kettle. She wrapped her hands in the cloths and picked up the kettle. Grunting with exertion—it was a big kettle, three-fourths full.
Yes. Barely, but—yes.
She replaced the kettle on the stove, leaving the cloths next to it. Then, she raced to the door and closed the latch. For a moment, she considered trying to brace the door, but decided against it.
Better this way. I don't want them to have to work too hard to get through the door. Just hard enough. The latch will do for that.
She strode to the table onto which she had dumped the coins, and dragged it into the middle of the kitchen. Then, squatting down, she placed her shoulder under the edge and levered the table onto its side. It was a solidly built wooden table, large and heavy, and it made a great clattering sound when it hit the floor.
Upstairs, she heard the shopkeeper's wife scream.
Damn you!
Faintly, she heard a voice coming from the street.
"In here!"
She heard the outer door burst open. Then, the sounds of many men pouring into the shop.
Now, louder:
"In here!"
She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.
Very loud:
"She's in here!"
Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.
A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.
Very loud:
"Out of the way!"
Thundering footsteps.
Smash!
The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body—then another—hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.
The first man—the self-appointed battering ram—was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.
The three men behind him skidded into a pile.
Five men, tangled up, immobilized.
Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.
Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.
Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.
Couldn't. Couldn't! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.
Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.
She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.
Whipped around.
Father, I need you now!
He hadn't been worth much, that charioteer, but he had taught his daughter how to use a knife.
Taught her very well.
The little dagger flashed across the room and sank hilt deep into the throat of the man standing on the right side of the doorway.
The man's eyes bulged. He choked blood. Grabbed the hilt. Tried to draw it out. Couldn't. Sank to his knees. Died.
By the time the man next to him realized what had happened, it was too late. Another knife had sailed across the room.
Not into his throat, however. That knife, not as delicate as her own small dagger, Antonina had aimed at a less chancy target. The heavy butcher knife plunged four inches into the thug's chest, right into his heart.
Antonina took up the cleaver. The two dead bodies in the doorway would keep off the assailants in the room beyond for a few seconds. Time enough.
She sprang forward, right to the edge of the upended table, and began butchering the men on the other side.
Quite literally. Her knife-strokes were the short, sharp, chopping motions of an experienced butcher dismembering meat. There was no frenzied lunging; no grandiose stabs; no dramatic swings.
Just short, straight, strikes. With the heavy, razor-sharp blade of a cleaver.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.
A nose fell off. The fingers from a hand covering a face. Another nose, and most of an upper lip. An ear and half a cheek.
Back again, quick. Chop. Chop. Chop. More fingers—and a thumb—fell to the floor. A wrist dangled, half-severed. Blood covered a face gashed to the bone.
Back again, quick. The men piled up behind the table were a helpless shrieking mob. Not even that—a pack of sheep, half-paralyzed by third-degree burns and mutilation.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Now, the strikes were lethal. Hands with severed wrists and amputated fingers could no longer protect necks. Antonina aimed for the carotid arteries and hit two out of three. (The third would die also, a bit more slowly, from a severed jugular.)
Instantly, she was soaked in blood. She leaned into the spurting gore, like a child might lean into a fountain, and struck at the two remaining men behind the table. Both of them—dazed with shock and agony—were trying to crawl away from the nightmare.
One of them worked his way free, with nothing worse than a split shoulder blade. The other collapsed, dead. Antonina had chopped right through the back of his neck, severing the spine.
The sole survivor, screaming with fear and pain, scrambled toward the door on his knees and hands. (One hand, rather. His left hand was fingerless.) The timing, from Antonina's viewpoint, was perfect. The remaining thugs in the outer room had finally managed to drag aside the two bodies blocking the door. Two of them pushed their way through, only to stumble over the thug crawling toward them.
One of the men kept his balance, staggering against the doorframe. The other tripped and sprawled across the pile of bodies in the middle of the kitchen. He flung out his hands to break his fall and managed to grab the edge of the table.
For a brief instant, the thug stared up at Antonina.
Her face was the last thing he ever saw. Other than the huge blade which descended onto his own face and removed it. The cleaver bit into his forehead and kept going, down and down, driven by Antonina's fury. The blade peeled off his eyebrows, shredded the eyes, took the nose, both lips, all the chin and a small piece of the chin bone.
Then, Antonina made her first mistake. By now—some thirty seconds into the battle—she was almost berserk with rage. She kicked aside the face flopping onto her foot, drew back the cleaver, and split the man's head in half. The blow was so ferocious that the blade jammed in the skull.
She tugged at it fiercely. Jerked. Jerked again.
Stuck.
She looked up. The thug leaning against the doorframe stared back at her. For a moment, the man's eyes were simply wide with shock. His jaw hung loose.
Then, seeing her predicament, he shouted sudden victory and sprang toward her. He circled around the pile of bodies and the upended table, making his way into the rear of the small kitchen.
"Come on, lads!" he bellowed. "I've got the bitch trapped!" He waved his club triumphantly.
Antonina backed against the stove and seized both of the remaining knives. She flipped one of them end-for-end. Now holding it by the blade, she made a throwing motion. The club-wielding man in front of her drew back, flinching.
It was a feint. She half-turned and threw the knife at another thug coming through the kitchen door.
That knife, however, was too blade-heavy for a good throw. The thug howled from the pain—the haft bruised his chest badly—and staggered back out of sight. But Antonina knew that he was not even disabled.
Despairing, she turned back to face her immediate opponent.
I didn't think there'd be so many.
She pushed all despair aside. She didn't expect to survive, but she would sell her life dearly.
From the outer room, Antonina heard a sudden shouting uproar. Cries of triumph, she assumed, but ignored them. Her attention was completely fixed on her assailant in the kitchen.
The thug in front of her danced back and forth, snarling and waving his club. For all the man's bravado, Antonina realized that he was also very frightened. She had slaughtered a number of his fellows, after all. And—like the fat shopkeeper—the street tough recognized the expert way she was holding her knife.
He cocked his head, without taking his eyes from her. "Come on!" he bellowed. "Damn you—I've got her trapped!"
Antonina stepped forward. Her knife waved, feinted, probed. The thug backed against the wall, swinging his club wildly. Antonina kept her distance, looking for an opening.
Again, the thug shouted.
"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."