Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  He began moving down the corridor. With his hand still on Ajatasutra's shoulder, he guided the assassin along with him. "Besides," he added, "what difference does it make, even if she does know? She's just a woman, Ajatasutra—a small woman, at that."

  Cheerfully:

  "A sheep often knows it's in danger, when the wolfpack begins circling. What good does that do the sheep?"

  Ajatasutra shrugged off the hand. He stopped abruptly, forcing Balban to look at him.

  "She is not a sheep, Balban," stated the assassin firmly. "She grew up on the streets of Alexandria. The toughest streets in the Roman Empire. Her father was a charioteer—some of the roughest men you'll ever encounter. And her husband is not only a great general but a great swordsman as well. And those thugs you hired are not 'wolves.' They're a pack of mangy street curs."

  "That's enough!" snapped Balban. "I've made my decision."

  He stalked away. Ajatasutra remained alone, standing in the corridor, staring at the door. He stood there, silent and unmoving, for a full minute. Then, smiling thinly, he whispered, "Good luck, wolves. You're going to need it."

  * * *

  Antonina strode up the street in the direction she always took, until she was far enough away from Balban's villa to be out of sight. She had traveled two blocks, by now, and knew that the ambush would be coming very soon.

  At the next corner, she turned abruptly to her right and began walking quickly down a narrow side street. Behind her, faintly, she heard footsteps. Several men a block away, by the sound, startled into sudden activity.

  She began running.

  The street was barely more than an alley. She was unfamiliar with it. But she had noticed—in times past, as she had walked by—that the street was the domicile for a number of the small bakeries and cookshops which provided Constantinople with its daily supply of bread and meat pastries.

  She raced by three such shops. Too small. She needed a big one, with a full kitchen.

  At the fourth shop, she skidded to a halt. Hesitated. She could smell the thick, rich scent of meat broth.

  Maybe.

  She heard the footsteps approaching the mouth of the street.

  It'll have to do.

  She strode through the shop door. The shop was very small—not ten feet square—and completely bare except for a small counter on which were displayed samples of the shop's wares. When she saw that they were meat pastries, Antonina sighed with relief.

  A middle-aged woman—the cookshop owner's wife, she assumed—approached Antonina and began uttering some pleasantry. Antonina didn't catch the words.

  "Are you cooking meat broth?" she demanded. "For pastries?"

  The woman, frowning with puzzlement, began to nod. Antonina grabbed the woman's wrist and dragged her toward the door at the opposite end of the shop. The woman was heavyset, taller than Antonina, and began squawking and struggling vigorously. To absolutely no avail. Antonina was a very strong woman, for her size, and she was filled with implacable determination.

  She shouldered the door open and hurled the woman through, following an instant later. Before closing the door, she peeked at the shop entrance. The outer door was still closed. Her pursuers, she thought, hadn't seen her enter the shop.

  Good. I've got a little time.

  She turned and confronted the woman, who was now spluttering with outrage. The woman's husband was standing next to her, glowering, holding up a metal ladle in a half-threatening gesture.

  "Shut up!" snarled Antonina. "There are men just outside your door who are trying to kill me! They'll kill you, too."

  The woman's mouth snapped shut. A second later, her mouth reopened. Wailing:

  "Get out! Get out!"

  The husband stepped forward hesitantly, raising the ladle.

  There was a large table against the wall of the kitchen next to the door. Antonina slammed her purse onto the table and emptied its contents. A pile of gold coins spilled out. Along with a small dagger.

  The shopkeeper and his wife were, first, transfixed by the sight of the coins. Then, by the sight of the dagger in Antonina's hand.

  "You've got a simple choice," hissed Antonina. "You can take the money—call it rent for the use of your kitchen—or you can take the blade. In your fucking guts."

  The shopkeeper and his wife ogled her.

  Antonina hefted the dagger. The wife's face, as she eyed the razor-sharp blade, paled a bit.

  The shopkeeper's face paled quite a bit more.

  He was fat and middle-aged, now. But, in his youth, he had led a rather disreputable life. He was not particularly impressed by Antonina's sharp little blade. He was a professional cook. He had several knives which were just as sharp and much bigger.

  But he recognized that grip. That light, easy way of holding a blade.

  "Shut up, woman!" he snarled to his wife. "Take the money and go upstairs."

  His wife frowned at him. The shopkeeper threatened her with the ladle. Antonina stepped away from the table, clearing a space. The shopkeeper's wife scuttled over, glancing at her fearfully. Then, after scooping up the coins, she practically sprinted to a small door in the rear corner of the kitchen. A moment later, Antonina heard her clumping up the stairs which led to the living quarters above.

  Her husband began backing his way toward the same door.

  "You can't come upstairs," he muttered. "I'm not going to get involved in any of this. Things are crazy right now."

  Antonina shook her head.

  "Just bar the door and stay upstairs. But, before you go—where do you keep your flour? And your knives?"

  The shopkeeper pointed to a cupboard with the ladle.

  "Flour's in there. The knives, too."

  "Good. Leave me the ladle."

  He frowned, glanced at the ladle, shrugged.

  "Where do you want it?"

  Antonina pointed toward the big kettle on the stove. Hurriedly, the shopkeeper dropped the ladle into the simmering broth and then scampered out of the kitchen.

  Antonina stepped to the door which led to the outer room of the shop and pressed her ear against it.

  Nothing. They haven't found the shop yet.

  She raced to the cupboard and threw its door open. She hesitated, for just an instant, between the flour barrel and the knives hanging on the wall.

  The knives first.

  She grabbed four of the knives, two in each hand, and carried them over to the workbench next to the stove. Quickly, she gauged their balance. One of them, she decided, was suitable. That one—and her own little dagger—she placed on the edge of the workbench, blades toward her. The other three—much larger blades, one of them a veritable cleaver—she placed next to them, hilts facing out.

  She hurried back to the closet and seized a small pan on a shelf. She lifted the lid to the barrel and dug the pan into the flour. A moment later, spilling a trail behind her, she poured the flour into the kettle. Quickly, using the ladle, she stirred the flour into the broth.

  She was practically dancing with impatience. But she didn't dare add more flour too quickly. She had to give the broth time to regain its heat.

  When the liquid began roiling, she hurried back to the closet. More flour. Into the kettle. Stir it. Wait. Wait.

  Again.

  That's enough, she decided. The meat broth was now a lumpy, viscous mess. And, within a minute, would be back to a boil.

  She looked around. Draped on nearby pegs, she saw the thick, wettened cloths which the shopkeeper used to handle the kettle. She wrapped her hands in the cloths and picked up the kettle. Grunting with exertion—it was a big kettle, three-fourths full.

  Yes. Barely, but—yes.

  She replaced the kettle on the stove, leaving the cloths next to it. Then, she raced to the door and closed the latch. For a moment, she considered trying to brace the door, but decided against it.

  Better this way. I don't want them to have to work too hard to get through the door. Just hard enough. The latch will do for that
.

  She strode to the table onto which she had dumped the coins, and dragged it into the middle of the kitchen. Then, squatting down, she placed her shoulder under the edge and levered the table onto its side. It was a solidly built wooden table, large and heavy, and it made a great clattering sound when it hit the floor.

  Upstairs, she heard the shopkeeper's wife scream.

  Damn you!

  Faintly, she heard a voice coming from the street.

  "In here!"

  She heard the outer door burst open. Then, the sounds of many men pouring into the shop.

  Now, louder:

  "In here!"

  She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.

  Very loud:

  "She's in here!"

  Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.

  A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.

  Very loud:

  "Out of the way!"

  Thundering footsteps.

  Smash!

  The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body—then another—hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.

  The first man—the self-appointed battering ram—was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.

  The three men behind him skidded into a pile.

  Five men, tangled up, immobilized.

  Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.

  Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.

  Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.

  Couldn't. Couldn't! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.

  Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.

  She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.

  Whipped around.

  Father, I need you now!

  He hadn't been worth much, that charioteer, but he had taught his daughter how to use a knife.

  Taught her very well.

  The little dagger flashed across the room and sank hilt deep into the throat of the man standing on the right side of the doorway.

  The man's eyes bulged. He choked blood. Grabbed the hilt. Tried to draw it out. Couldn't. Sank to his knees. Died.

  By the time the man next to him realized what had happened, it was too late. Another knife had sailed across the room.

  Not into his throat, however. That knife, not as delicate as her own small dagger, Antonina had aimed at a less chancy target. The heavy butcher knife plunged four inches into the thug's chest, right into his heart.

  Antonina took up the cleaver. The two dead bodies in the doorway would keep off the assailants in the room beyond for a few seconds. Time enough.

  She sprang forward, right to the edge of the upended table, and began butchering the men on the other side.

  Quite literally. Her knife-strokes were the short, sharp, chopping motions of an experienced butcher dismembering meat. There was no frenzied lunging; no grandiose stabs; no dramatic swings.

  Just short, straight, strikes. With the heavy, razor-sharp blade of a cleaver.

  Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.

  A nose fell off. The fingers from a hand covering a face. Another nose, and most of an upper lip. An ear and half a cheek.

  Back again, quick. Chop. Chop. Chop. More fingers—and a thumb—fell to the floor. A wrist dangled, half-severed. Blood covered a face gashed to the bone.

  Back again, quick. The men piled up behind the table were a helpless shrieking mob. Not even that—a pack of sheep, half-paralyzed by third-degree burns and mutilation.

  Chop. Chop. Chop.

  Now, the strikes were lethal. Hands with severed wrists and amputated fingers could no longer protect necks. Antonina aimed for the carotid arteries and hit two out of three. (The third would die also, a bit more slowly, from a severed jugular.)

  Instantly, she was soaked in blood. She leaned into the spurting gore, like a child might lean into a fountain, and struck at the two remaining men behind the table. Both of them—dazed with shock and agony—were trying to crawl away from the nightmare.

  One of them worked his way free, with nothing worse than a split shoulder blade. The other collapsed, dead. Antonina had chopped right through the back of his neck, severing the spine.

  The sole survivor, screaming with fear and pain, scrambled toward the door on his knees and hands. (One hand, rather. His left hand was fingerless.) The timing, from Antonina's viewpoint, was perfect. The remaining thugs in the outer room had finally managed to drag aside the two bodies blocking the door. Two of them pushed their way through, only to stumble over the thug crawling toward them.

  One of the men kept his balance, staggering against the doorframe. The other tripped and sprawled across the pile of bodies in the middle of the kitchen. He flung out his hands to break his fall and managed to grab the edge of the table.

  For a brief instant, the thug stared up at Antonina.

  Her face was the last thing he ever saw. Other than the huge blade which descended onto his own face and removed it. The cleaver bit into his forehead and kept going, down and down, driven by Antonina's fury. The blade peeled off his eyebrows, shredded the eyes, took the nose, both lips, all the chin and a small piece of the chin bone.

  Then, Antonina made her first mistake. By now—some thirty seconds into the battle—she was almost berserk with rage. She kicked aside the face flopping onto her foot, drew back the cleaver, and split the man's head in half. The blow was so ferocious that the blade jammed in the skull.

  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. "Com
e 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.