The Dark Lord

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