The eunuch and the Empress stared at each other.
The eunuch's was a gaze of sorrow. Theodora's—
"I will never forgive you. You are a dead man."
Narses nodded. "I know." A rueful little smile came to his face. "But I might still win. And I'm an old man, anyway. Even if I lose, I may well be dead before you kill me."
The smile faded. Sorrow remained.
The eunuch turned away, and began walking toward the door. Theodora's voice halted him.
"Why, Narses?"
For the first time, there was anguish as well as hatred in her voice. Narses, without turning, simply shrugged.
"Ambition," he said.
"No. Not that. Why this?"
Narses turned his head. His eyes met those of Theodora's. There was a hint of tears in her eyes. Just a hint.
Narses fought back his own tears.
"There was no need. And—"
He could not face those eyes. He looked away. Harshly: "I did not stop loving you, child, simply because I planned to murder you."
Anguish fled the Empress. Only the hell-voice remained:
"You should have killed me, traitor. You will regret it, coward."
Narses shook his head.
"No, Theodora, I won't. Not ever."
A moment later, he was gone. Theodora gazed down at her husband. Justinian's moans were growing louder. Soon, he would regain consciousness and begin to scream.
The Empress lifted his head off her lap and set it gently on the carpet.
She had something to attend to.
Crawling on her hands and knees, Theodora made her way to the body of the nearest soldier. She drew a dagger from the corpse's sword-belt.
Then, still crawling, she began making her way toward John of Cappadocia.
The Empress did not crawl because she was unable to stand, or because she was injured, or because she was in a state of shock.
No. She crawled simply because she wanted the Cappadocian to see her coming.
He did. And then, despite the agony which held him paralyzed, tried to scream.
But he couldn't. He couldn't make a sound; couldn't move a muscle. He could only watch.
Theodora crawled toward him, the dagger in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on those of the praetorian prefect.
She wanted those eyes.
Hell-gaze. Hell-crawl.
It was the last thing John of Cappadocia would ever see, and he knew it.
Three minutes later, Belisarius burst into the room. Behind him came his cataphracts and Irene.
All of them skidded to a halt.
Irene clapped her hand over her mouth, gasping. Menander turned pale. Anastasius tightened his jaws. Valentinian grinned.
Belisarius simply stared. But he too, for a moment, was transfixed by the sight.
Transfixed, not by the sight of the bodies littering the chamber. Not by the sight of Justinian, moaning, blinded. Not even by the sight of the praetorian prefect, prostrate, screaming in a silent rictus, his back arched with agony.
No, it was the sight of the Empress. Squatting over the dying traitor, a bloody knife in one hand, her imperial robes held up by the other. Urinating into the empty eyesockets of John of Cappadocia.
Chapter 28
The rocket soared up into the sky and exploded high above the walls of the Hippodrome. A thundering cry followed, from the assembled mob within.
"NIKA! NIKA!"
" 'Victory,' is it?" hissed Antonina. She leaned over her saddle and whispered to Maurice:
"Tell me what to do."
Maurice smiled. "You already know what to do." He pointed forward. They were approaching the looming structure from the southwest. Ahead of them, fifty yards away, began a broad stone staircase which swept up to a wide entrance. The entrance was thirty yards across, and supported by several columns.
"Once we get in there, it'll be like a knife fight in a kitchen. There won't be any room for maneuver. Just kill or be killed."
Antonina grimaced. The entrance they were approaching was called the Gate of Death.
"How appropriate," she murmured.
Next to her, Maurice snorted contempt. "Can you believe it?" he demanded. "They didn't post a guard. Not even a single sentinel."
They were now twenty yards from the beginning of the staircase. Antonina halted her horse and began to dismount.
"There won't be any room for horses in there," she said. Maurice nodded and ordered the cataphracts to dismount. The bucellarii grumbled, but obeyed without hesitation. Much as they hated fighting afoot, they were veterans. They knew full well that cavalry tactics would be impossible inside the Hippodrome.
Antonina drew her cleaver and held it over her head.
"Nothing! Nothing!" she cried, and began marching up the steps.