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."
Chapter 24
"Stop fussing over me, Irene!" snapped Antonina. "I'm fine, I tell you."
The spymaster shook her head. Irene's face was pale and drawn. She had been sequestered in Theodora's quarters for days, and had not learned about the assassination attempt until early the following morning. She had come to Antonina's villa in the suburbs immediately.
Antonina went to a closet and began pulling out fresh clothes. The garments she had been wearing when she and Maurice returned to the villa the night before had already been destroyed. Expensive as they were, there was simply no way to clean off that much blood and gore.
"Wear a heavy cloak," said Irene. "It's cold out." Then, darkly: "I should never have agreed to let you go alone."
Antonina planted her hands on her hips and glared at her friend.
"It was not your decision in the first place," she pointed out. "It was mine. I've always gone alone to those meetings. Balban insisted."
Irene wiped her face with a trembling hand.
"I know. Still-God, you were almost murdered."
Antonina shrugged. Then, shrugged her way into a tunic. Her muffled voice came from within the simple, utilitarian garment:
"But I wasn't. And there's an end to it. So stop fussing. Besides-" Her face popped out, smiling broadly. "-it was the best news I've heard, so to speak, in months. You do realize what that assassination attempt means, don't you?"
Irene frowned. Antonina laughed.
"You're supposed to be the spymaster here, Irene! So start spymastering, for a moment, and stop fretting over me as if I were your little chick."
Irene was still frowning.
"Think, woman. Why would the Malwa decide to kill me? Now, of all times?"
Irene's eyes widened. She pressed her fingers over her lips.
"Belisarius!"
Antonina grinned.
"Precisely. Balban must have gotten new orders from India. Which means that my dear husband has done something to completely infuriate the Malwa. And it also means that he's escaped from their clutches."
"Of course," hissed Irene. The spymaster began pacing slowly.
"If they had their hands on him, they'd have even greater leverage over you than they thought they had. There would have been no reason to have you murdered. Quite the contrary."
By now, Antonina had finished dressing and was lacing on her boots. She nodded her head. "That's right. Which means he'll be arriving in Constantinople, sooner or later."