The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Roma Mater

"There she is," Vladimir whispered, curly dark hair bound back behind his head, heavy iron scales wrapping his powerful shoulders and back. "The house with the high gate and a moon carved in stone above the lintel."

Nicholas eased his head around the corner, eyes narrowed in falling twilight. He saw nothing, only an empty alley, untenanted even by cats or wild dogs. "I don't see anything," he growled, though softly. Their informer had only given them a vague location, based on a half-heard whisper in the bustling port of Ostia. The Latin was trusting the Walach's uncanny nose for the rest.

Vladimir's long face twitched with a smile. "No, she's a flighty doe, that one, with a soft tread and quiet ways." Something turned in his gruff voice, steeped in grief. "But she loves the smell of pine and juniper and sweet flowers. I can smell her, even from here."

"Good," Nicholas looked away from his friend, avoiding the Walach's wounded expression. "Centurion-post a cohort at each end of this alley, then take your men quietly round to the front and break down the door. Bring the other ram up here. We've run this ship aground, but there are captives aboard our master needs alive."

Vladimir continued to watch the gate while Nicholas dispersed his men. The Walach felt cold, though the dusk was very warm and a vision of Betia leaning against the railing of a trim ship, the blue-green sea framing her tanned face and fine blond hair filled his thoughts.

"Quit mooning about," Nicholas said, thumping his shoulder with a mailed gauntlet. The Latin's scent had changed, spiky with anger and frustration. Vladimir looked up, seeing a tense, bitter expression on his friend's face. "They're inside and I want to finish this. We'll wait just a bit, until the others are at the front door."

"Empress… time to leave." Thyatis knelt beside the cot, scarred fingers brushing short brown hair out of Helena's face. The older woman's eyes flickered open at the touch. Thyatis allowed herself only the briefest frown at the dull expression. The Empress' eyes slid away from hers. "Very well." Thyatis stood, then bent down and scooped Helena up, the thin body almost weightless in her arms.

"No," the Empress protested, though her voice was even fainter than before. "Take my son…"

"We're all going," Thyatis muttered, hoisting the woman onto her back, arms loose around her neck. "Let's go," she called to the others in the cellar.

Shirin was right at Thyatis' side, flashing a warm smile at the Empress and a frown at her friend. "You're very inconspicuous this way…" The Khazar woman's nimble fingers rearranged Helena's grip on Thyatis' chest and tied the two together with strips of cloth. "…but we can say your mother is sick, if we have to."

Thyatis caught Shirin's hand and drew her close. The Khazar woman fell silent, lifting her face and Thyatis kissed her soundly, crushing Shirin's slimmer frame to her with one free arm. After a moment, they broke apart and Thyatis managed a rueful smile.

"We're all going together," the Roman said, leaning close to her lover. "But if anything happens, you take the boy yourself and get away." Thyatis' voice settled to a flat, hard tone like iron pig. "Go home, if you can. If we're separated, I will make my way to Itil."

Shirin's luminous eyes widened and she snuck a look over her shoulder at Betia and Kore and the Duchess, who were waiting by the foot of the stairs. "What about…"

Thyatis pressed Shirin's hand to her face, turning her cheek into the warm palm. With a quiet sigh, she said, "he has to get out of the Empire and no one knows you're here. They'll be watching all the Duchess' ships and agents and the sea road west." Shirin grimaced, but nodded very slightly.

"Let's go," Thyatis said in a louder voice, holding onto the Empress with one hand and picking up her scabbarded spatha with the other. Betia led, darting up the stairs with Shirin on her heels. Kore scuttled along next, little Theodosius cocooned against her chest with braided cloth. Thyatis shifted in her boots, then took the steps one at a time, letting the Empress' weight settle against her. Helena groaned a little-she was sore from head to toe, though she'd barely moved for a day-then her thin hands clutched at Thyatis' tunic, fingernails catching on the mailed shirt beneath. "Come on, Anastasia."

The Duchess looked around the cellar for the last time, then snuffed out the wick of the single remaining candle and hurried to follow.

Thyatis loped out into the main atrium of the house and turned to the right, heading for a flight of stairs rising to the second floor. Almost immediately, she saw the others had not gone the same way. She skidded to a halt. Anastasia slowed up, looking around in alarm. "Where…"

"They went outside," Thyatis snapped. "Go get them-we daren't leave this house on the ground! There are informers and patrols everywhere on the streets."

The Duchess nodded and ran off through the columned hall toward the garden. Thyatis snarled to herself, then bounded up the steps, past an internal door, to the top of the staircase. A short balcony opened from the landing, leading to two bedrooms. One side of the passage was open on the garden court at the center of the house and Thyatis leaned out, seeing three figures near the ornamental pool.

"This way," Thyatis called down, as softly as she could. Shirin looked up, her face a pale oval in falling twilight. Clouds had started to gather over the city as the sun set, and the light of myriad fires and lanterns below cast a dim yellow radiance on their white backdrop. Anastasia appeared in the courtyard and everyone ran back inside.

A dull boom echoed from below and Thyatis fell her heart skip, flutter and then beat strongly again.

"What was that?" Helena whispered in her ear.

"A ram," Thyatis said grimly, taking two long steps back to the top of the stairs. Kore bolted up the steps two and three at a time, her glossy black hair framing a determined, fierce expression. Thyatis stood aside, letting the little girl dart past. "The end of the landing," Thyatis called after her, "crawl out onto the roof, then to the north wall, just the way we came in!"

Without looking to see if the maid understood, Thyatis stepped down the stairs, her spatha rasping from its sheath. Shirin and Betia scrambled up past her and Thyatis growled. "What were you doing?"

"The garden gate leads into an alley…" Betia hissed, short of breath. "There's no one…"

Thyatis turned, fury building in her face. "Did you come back from your errand that way?"

"Yes-" Betia fell silent, seeing Thyatis' lips twitch into a flat, hard line. A heavy crash boomed up from below, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Distantly, men shouted.

"Go!" Thyatis jerked her head. Betia, flushing, was gone. Shirin tarried, her hands on the long knife she carried in her girdle. Thyatis fixed her with a piercing glare. "Take care of the boy."

The Khazar woman nodded, face dark against the fitful light outside. Her hand brushed Thyatis' cheek, leaving a tingling warmth and she ran the length of the landing and swung easily over the little wall. Terra-cotta tile creaked under her hands and feet as she scrambled across the roof.

"Anastasia!" Thyatis took another step down the stairs. The Duchess appeared in the doorway, hair coming loose, her long gown tangled. Face grim, the older woman swung the panel closed with a bang, then groped for a locking bar set against the wall. "Leave it!" Thyatis shouted.

Wood shattered, sounding close, and the baying of a dozen throats hot on the hunt rang and echoed in the main hall. Anastasia grunted, shoving the bar down against the retaining slats. One end stuck and she struggled to fit the bar properly into the groove.

Thyatis cursed, but the Duchess whirled as she prepared to leap down to help her. "Get out!" Anastasia's face was a blur in the dim light, but the snap of command in her voice was unmistakable. Thyatis felt her heart wrench, then turned and sprinted back up the stairs.

Nicholas loped across the main hall-ears pricked for the sound of running feet on tile-and heard a clank of wood against wood off to his left. He turned swiftly, Brunhilde bare in his hand, her eager voice keening in his ears and the flicker of blue-white along her edge showed him a short flight of ornamented marble steps leading up to a door. "Vlad, the door!"

The Walach burled past, powerful shoulders swinging, the long-bladed axe in his hands whipping around in a tight arc. The blade crashed into the door, shattering gold-painted panels and knocking a big section out of the frame. Someone shouted in alarm on the other side-a female voice-and the Walach slammed an armored shoulder into the wood. A splintering crash followed and the entire door frame tore away from the wall. Vladimir stumbled inside-he hadn't expected such flimsy construction-and Nicholas caught a glimpse of a woman in a formal stola and gown, her left arm stiff and swinging up at him, thumb twisting.

Blind instinct threw him to one side as he rushed into the doorway. Vladimir was down, sprawled on the floor in a ruin of broken panels and splintered wood. There was a sharp twang and something snapped past the Latin's head. Snarling, Nicholas lunged, the tip of dwarf-steel blade catching the woman under her raised arm. Steel sank into soft flesh and the woman grunted, thrown back against the wall. Without thinking, Nicholas wrenched the blade free with a half-twist and smashed her down with the armored point of his elbow.

Behind him, there was commotion as the legionaries poured into the house and torchlight flared on the walls of the stairwell. Nicholas saw on opening at the top and leapt in pursuit of the enemy, blood slicking away from Brunhilde's blade.

Vladimir tore his shoulder free from the remains of the door and rose to his hands and feet. Nicholas had disappeared up the staircase. Directly in front of the Walach, a woman was sprawled on the steps, her mane of curly dark hair matted and tangled, one hand pressed against a deep wound in her side. Blood spilled between white fingers, slicking the curve of her breast.

"Ahhh, it's cold," she gasped, barely able to breath. Vladimir crawled forward, wondering if this were the Empress they sought. He saw she had been blessed with a nearly perfect oval face, hawk-wing brows and plush, rich lips. The Empress has shorter hair, the Walach remembered. He hissed, seeing the depth of her wound.

"Who-" The woman opened her eyes and Vladimir felt cold, stunned shock burn through him. They were a glorious pale violet and his nostrils twitched, taking in a heady smell of blood, sweat, myrrh and honey. She smells like… His hand-moving with its own purpose-brushed back the tangle of dark curls around her face. She is beautiful. This must be Betia's mistress, the Duchess Anastasia. The too-familiar smell registered and he slumped back, stunned beyond measure.

"Vladimir," he said, barely able to speak. "I'm Vladimir. My lady… I'm sorry."

The woman tried to smile, but blood welled from her mouth and she stared to choke. Gently, Vladimir turned her head, letting the fluid pour from her mouth. Her skin was very warm under his fingers. Desperately, he pressed hard on her wound, trying to stop the flow of blood. "Thank you, Vladimir," she managed to say and a genuine smile lit her features, shining through sweat and blood. "Betia… cough… said you had a kind heart."

The Walach felt his guts twist. "Nicholas didn't mean… he wouldn't have…" Vladimir stuttered to a halt, unable to express the enormous, overwhelming feeling of grief crushing his chest. "He didn't know you were his sister!"

The Duchess' brows drew together and for a moment the agony seemed to fade, leaving only a puzzled, beautiful woman. "I've no bro… oh-oh, I remember-the collar hurt his neck and made him cry… his eyes…"

"Are yours! Your faces-your smell-everything…" Vladimir twisted, trying to see if anyone had come into the house. "I'll send for a healer, mistress, it'll only be a moment!"

"Vladimir," Anastasia's voice was barely audible and the Walach could feel a chill mounting in her chest like rising water. Already her legs were heavy with death. "You must take care of Betia," she said, face turning pale. Her hand closed tightly over his. "This is only misfortune…"

She started to choke again and Vladimir tried to roll her over, but she shuddered in his arms and grew entirely still. The Walach started to weep and his tears mixed with the blood fouled in her garments, leaving thin silver trails on the side of her neck and face. Gently, he laid Anastasia down upon the steps and straightened her gown and stole, crossing pale arms across her chest.

For the first time, the smell of so much fresh blood did not spark hunger in his breast.

Thyatis ran lightly along the roof ridge, her weight making the curved tiles creak and splinter. The sun had set at last; leaving the city sprawled below her dark save for the slow appearance of glowing windows and bonfires in the public squares. Low clouds drifted across the sky, shining with a reflected orange glow, letting her see just a little. On her back, the Empress wheezed in pain with each jarring step.

Thyatis reached the wall at the end of the roof and raised her head. On the floor above in an adjoining building, Shirin's tense face stared down between sections of crosshatched wooden lattice. Upon entering the Duchess' safe house, they had taken one of the lattice sections out. Thyatis waved, then halted, gauging the distance. Coming down had been easy-a light drop after hanging on the lip of the upper balcony-but getting up was going to be difficult.

"Hand her up," Shirin hissed, reaching down with both hands. "I'll lift-" The Khazar woman's head jerked up and her eyes went wide in alarm. She scuttled backwards out of sight. Thyatis spun, feet sliding on the tiled roof, her spatha flickering into guard position.

Nicholas advanced towards her, his heavy boots cracking tile, sending slivers of red pottery bouncing down the sloping roof. The Empress' hands tightened on Thyatis' armor and her legs scissored tight around the younger woman's waist. Thyatis felt a great calm come over her-her peripheral vision fading to gray, shutting out the sight of the garden below her on the right, now filling with armed men; and the two-story drop to the street on her left. She took the spatha hand and hand, remembering the power in Nicholas' shoulders and arms.

The Latin advanced, footing unsteady, his boots finding purchase difficult on the rows of terra-cotta, but the blade in his hands was steady, flickering with a sullen, half-hidden light. He said nothing, but Thyatis could feel his fury radiating like the glow of a banked oven.

"Cut me loose," Helena whispered in her ear. Thyatis shook her head. She shifted her footing on the tiled roof, the pressure of the Empress' weight vanishing as bloodfire kicked through her veins. With slow grace, she turned in line with Nicholas, blade swinging back and up. He matched her motion, but again, his footing was precarious.

For a moment, they froze, each in balance, watching and waiting. The legionaries in the courtyard fell silent as well, their rude cries dying down. Tense expectation settled on the rooftop; the warm, humid night drawing close around them. Thyatis realized with faint regret she would have to kill every man in the house if she were to escape.

Nicholas attacked, the gleaming blade flashing at Thyatis' face. She blocked the blow away and down, steel ringing high and clear, then there was a blur of cut and counter-cut. He gave a step, then two, back foot sliding on the tile and she reversed, whipping the spatha at his exposed knee. Grunting, face streaming with sweat, Nicholas parried, catching her blow inches from his leg. Thyatis bore down, forcing the shimmering blade into the tile with a squeal of metal.

The Latin struggled to rise, failed, then wrenched his sword away. The spatha sprang back with a ringing sound and Nicholas rolled away. Almost immediately he slid, clattering down the rooftop, fingers clawing at the tile, terra-cotta shattering under the impact. His foot fetched up against a drainpipe along the edge of the roof and he slammed to a halt. Nerves singing, Thyatis darted towards the balcony. Legionaries began to shout and there was a commotion as the men in the courtyard scrambled into the house to cut her off.

Only a single figure remained in the courtyard, a silver-haired old man in patrician's robes, his face turned to the skyline. Thyatis skidded to the end of the roof, then slid sideways, one hand catching an overhanging eave to stop her. She bent down, preparing to swing onto the landing.

Vladimir was waiting, axe poised, his pale face framed by unruly waves of hair. He looked dreadful, face mottled and streaked, but his hands were firm on the haft of the war axe. Thyatis saw him and stopped, searching his face. The Walach advanced a step, teeth gritted, eyes enormous and filled with anguish.

"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'shapacara 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," Kore 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," Kore 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 gentle 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."