"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 instruction 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 both 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 the 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—"
"Shut up," snarled the spymaster. "I received orders—from Nanda Lal himself."
Narses was silent, thereafter, until they had reached the sewer and slogged their way down its stinking length for at least two hundred feet. He began lagging further and further behind. Eventually, Ajatasutra handed Balban the lamp and went back to help the old eunuch.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I could use your shoulder," grunted Narses. "This damned sewer's so low I have to stoop. My back hurts."
Ajatasutra leaned his right shoulder under Narses' left arm and helped him along. The eunuch turned his head until his lips were but inches from Ajatasutra's ear and whispered:
"You do realize what those orders from Nanda Lal mean, don't you?"
Ajatasutra nodded, very slightly.
"Yes," he replied, also in a whisper. He glanced up. Balban's dim form was visible thirty feet ahead of them, backlit by the lamp he was carrying.
"It means you were right about Belisarius," whispered the assassin. "He must have escaped from India."
They progressed another fifty feet. By now, all of them were soaked with filthy water up to their mid-thighs.
Again, Narses turned his lips to Ajatasutra's ear.
"There'll be a boat, waiting. At the Neorion harbor in the Golden Horn. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes," whispered Ajatasutra. "Why me?"
"You're the best of a sorry lot. And if I have to flee to India I'll need someone to vouch for my credentials."
Ajatasutra smiled, thinly.
"You don't sound entirely confident in the certain success of our plans."
Narses sneered. "Nothing in this world is certain, Ajatasutra. Except this—better to have loosed the demon from his pit than to have loosed Belisarius. Especially after murdering his wife."
"She wasn't murdered," muttered Ajatasutra. Seeing the frown on the eunuch's face, the assassin chuckled.
"I followed. At a distance, of course. And I stayed well out of the fray. Quite a set-to, judging from the racket coming out of that cookshop—even before the cataphract arrived. I waited until he brought Antonina out. The woman was covered with blood, but none of it was hers."
Narses sighed. "Well, that's something. Belisarius will just be his usual extraordinarily competent and brilliantly capable deadly self. Instead of vengeance personified."
They slogged on, and on. Eventually, now well ahead of them, they saw Balban rise from his stoop and stand up straight. He had finally reached the exit from the sewer.
"Come on!" they heard the spymaster's hissing voice. "Time is short!"
Just before they came within Balban's hearing range, Ajatasutra whispered:
"What does the boat look like?"
"Like it wants to leave Constantinople in a very big hurry," was the eunuch's only reply.
Maurice waited until the cataphracts circled the monastery before he would let Antonina or Irene dismount. The Thracian cavalrymen were in a grim, grim mood. The small crowd of curious onlookers, which began to gather from the nearby residences, quickly drew back under their hard gaze.
"Marvelous," muttered Antonina. "Just marvelous."
She glared at Maurice. The hecatontarch returned her hot gaze with placidity.
"So much for keeping the whereabouts of the Theodoran Cohort secret," she growled.
Maurice shrugged. He pointed toward the southwest.
"Take a look. The time for secrets is over."
Antonina and Irene twisted in their saddles. They were not far from the Column of Marcian. The monastery, and the cathedral which adjoined it, were located just inside the old walls of the capital—the "walls of Constantine." The heart of Constantinople, the corner of the city which held the Great Palace and the Hippodrome, was not more than two miles away.
In the vicinity of the Hippodrome, the two women could see smokeplumes produced by bonfires which the gathering Blue and Green factions had set aflame to warm their toughs. They could hear the faint roar of the mob, even at the distance.
Antonina asked Irene: "What's the situation at the Great Palace?"
"Tense. Very tense. Justinian called for a meeting of the high council for today, at noon. He's still listening to John of Cappadocia, however, who assures him that most of the army units will stand by the throne. So he's living in a fool's paradise. He doesn't realize that the only military forces he has left are his own excubitores—all five hundred of them!—and the forces which we're bringing."
Irene turned her head, looking to the south.
"Sittas and Hermogenes should be in position at the Harbor of Hormisdas. I'd better leave now and tell them where your forces stand."
Antonina nodded. Maurice ordered a squad of cataphracts to escort the spymaster.
A commotion drew Antonina's attention.
A mob of grenadiers and their wives were pouring out of the monastery's doors, heading toward her. All of them were staring at her, their faces full of worried concern.
"You told them," she said to Maurice, accusingly.
Maurice chuckled.
"Told them? I sent ten cataphracts over here this morning, to regale them with the tale. Every last gruesome, gory, grisly great moment of it!"
Antonina sighed with exasperation. Maurice edged his horse next to her. Leaning over—all humor gone—he whispered harshly: "Listen to me, girl, and listen well. You're at war, now, and you're the commander. A female commander—the first one in Roman history outside of ancient legends. You need all the confidence you can get from your soldiers. And they need it even more than you do."
Antonina stared into his gray eyes. She had never noticed, before, how cold those eyes could be.
"Do you think I'd let an opportunity like this pass?" he demanded. Then, with a harsh laugh: "God, now that it's over, I'm almost ready to thank Balban! What a gift he gave us!"
He leaned back in his saddle. "Antonina, my toughest cataphracts are in awe of you. Not one in ten would have survived that ambush—unarmored, with no weapon but a dagger—and they know it. How do you think these Syrian peasants feel? Now—about their little woman commander?"
It was obvious how the peasants felt. The grenadiers and their wives were surrounding Antonina, gazing up at her silently. Their expressions were easy to read. A mixture of sentiments: relief at her obvious well-being; fierce satisfaction in her victory; pride in their commander—and self-pride that she was their commander.
Most of all—it was almost frightening to Antonina—was a sense of quasireligious adoration. The simple Syrians were gazing at her much as they might have gazed at a living saint.
She was blessed by God's grace.
Just as the prophet Michael had foretold.
For a moment, Antonina felt herself shrink from that crushing responsibility.
Then, drawing on the fierce will which had always been a part of her—since her girlhood in the hard streets of Alexandria—she drove all hesitation aside.
"I am quite well," she assured her grenadiers loudly. She began dismounting from her horse, but immediately found a dozen hands were helping her down. The same hands then carried her toward the cathedral. Hurriedly, monks and priests appeared to open the great doors. Among them, she saw the plump figure of Bishop Cassian.
As she was carried through the doors, her eyes met those of Anthony. He returned her smile, but his gaze was filled with concern.
She was carried to the altar and set back on her feet. Turning, she saw that the grenadiers and their wives were rapidly pouring in behind. Within two minutes, the great cathedral was filled. All the Syrians stood there, silently, staring at her.
Many years before, as a young woman, Antonina's mother had given her some brief training as an actress. In the event, Antonina had never pursued her mother's career, having found a different one which—though just as disreputable—was considerably more renumerative. But she still remembered the lessons. Not her mother's meager talents as a thespian, but her skills at projecting her voice.
All the grenadiers in the room—as well as the cataphracts who had joined them—almost jumped. Such a small woman, to have such a great, powerful voice.
I have little to say, my soldiers. My friends.
Little needs to be said.
Our enemies are gathering. You can see their bonfires. You can hear their coarse shouts of triumph.
Do not fear them.
They are nothing.
Nothing.
Assassins. Street thugs. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Pimps. Gamblers.
Nothing.
Nothing!
She paused, waited. The grenadiers—one or two, at first—took up the chant. Softly, at first. Then, louder and louder.
"Nothing. Nothing."
We will shatter them back into their nothing. We will drive them back into their sewers.
"Nothing! Nothing!"
We will hound them into their burrows. We will follow them into their ratholes. We will savage them till they plead for mercy.
"NOTHING! NOTHING!"
There will be no mercy.
For nothing, there is nothing.
The shouts now shook the cathedral itself. Antonina pointed to the cataphracts. The shouts died away. The grenadiers listened to her with complete attention.
Our plan is simple. The traitors are gathering their forces in the Hippodrome. We will go there. The cataphracts will lead the way, but we will be God's hammer.
We will hammer nothing—into nothing.
She strode forward, heading down the aisle. The grenadiers parted before her and then immediately closed behind. She moved through that little sea of humanity like a ship in full sail.
As she reached the door, Anthony Cassian stepped forward. For a moment, she embraced her old friend.
"May God be with me," she whispered.
"Oh, I believe He is," replied the Bishop softly. "Trust me in this, Antonina." With a quirk of a smile: "I am quite a reputable theologian, you know."
She returned his smile, kissed him on the cheek, and strode past.
By now, a large crowd of onlookers had gathered in the street. Not even the glares of cataphracts could hold back their curiosity. But then, hearing the sound of many approaching horses—heavy, armored horses—the crowd eddied back, pressed against the houses and fences which lined the boulevard.
Down that street, in a prancing trot, came two hundred cataphracts. The remainder of the Thracian bucellarii, returning from their own triumph.
When the cataphracts reached the cathedral they drew to a halt. The cataphracts in the lead tossed the residue of their vengeance at Antonina's feet.
Gasping and hissing, the crowd of bystanders plastered themselves against the walls. A few, timidity overcoming curiosity, scuttled hastily into the houses and fenced yards.
Twenty or so severed heads, rolling in the street, can chill even the most avid onlooker.
The grenadiers, on the other hand, seeing the grisly trophies, erupted with their own savage glee.
"NOTHING! NOTHING! NOTHING!"
Antonina moved toward her horse. Maurice, with two cataphracts in tow, met her halfway.
"Put these on," commanded Maurice. "I had them specially made."
The cataphracts with him extended a cuirass and a helmet.
"The helmet was easy," commented Maurice. "But the cuirass was a bit of a challenge for the armorer. He's not used to cleavage."
Antonina smiled. With Maurice's help, she donned the unfamiliar equipment. The smile vanished. "This stuff is heavy."
"Don't complain, girl. Just be thankful it's only half-armor. And be especially thankful that we're in Constantinople in the winter, instead of Syria in the summer."
Antonina grimaced at the thought. Then, with a sly little smile:
"Don't I get a sword, too?"
Maurice shook his head.
"I've got something better."
He drew a scabbarded knife—a large and odd knife, judging from the sheath—and handed it to her.
Antonina drew the blade out of the scabbard. She could not restrain a little gasp.
"You recognize it, I see," said Maurice. His voice was full of satisfaction. "The shopkeeper drove a hard bargain for it, but I thought it was fitting."
Antonina stared back and forth from Maurice to the cleaver.
The hecatontarch's lips twisted into a grim smile.
"Ask any veteran, Antonina. They'll all tell you there's nothing as important in a battle as having a trusty, tested blade."
Suddenly, the feel of that simple cooking utensil in her hand filled Antonina with a great rush of confidence.
"I do believe you're right, Maurice."
She sensed, from the murmuring voices around her, that the cataphracts were passing the news to the grenadiers. Seconds later, the grenadiers began a new chant:
"CLEAVE THEM! CLEAVE THEM!"
With Maurice's help, she clambered into her saddle, suppressing a curse at the awkward weight of the helmet and armor. Once securely seated, she raised the butcher knife over her head, waving it.
The grenadiers roared. The cataphracts joined their voices to the cry:
"NOTHING! NOTHING!"
Antonina suppressed a laugh.
For all the world like a warrior of legend, waving a mystic sword of renown!
Which, though she did not know it yet, she was; and which, to her everlasting surprise, that humble cleaver would become.