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.