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.