Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  “Are you certain?” Lyting digested the pronouncement, keeping his own questions to simple Greek sentences.

  The older man nodded darkly. “Poison.”

  “A potion?” Lyting struggled for the precise words, finding his grasp of the tongue strained and his understanding spotty.

  The man shook his head. “They be more clever than that. ‘Twas in the scented oils she used — part of her daily ritual, to perfume and soften her skin, to make herself more beautiful . . . for you, Rurik. Ever for you.”

  Lyting felt the stab of those words and wondered if Alexius used them apurpose to torment Rurik. He was glad he could take the prick in his brother’s stead. Was the man embittered?

  “Even as she lay sick and dying, she asked to be anointed daily, wishing to smell of jasmine, her favorite scent . . . for you. Even as you kept vigil over her, the poisons in the oils did their work, penetrating deep, and killed her.”

  Lyting realized at once, if the substance had been used so extensively — over torso and limbs — then Helena must have absorbed the poison into nearly ever pore of her body. No wonder she had succumbed so quickly. Someone hated Rurik greatly to murder Helena as he watched helplessly at her side.

  The Varangians, Thengil and Vegeir, had died on separate occasions but in similar manner to Helena’s death, Lyting recalled. Officially they died shortly after trysting with a woman, presumably a prostitute. Though poison was suspected, Thord confided that both their bodies had been fragrant with oils when discovered. The prostitute was never found, but ‘twas certain at least one woman was in the employ of the “spider.” Lyting sorely wished he could speak with Rurik and find who had tended Helena and were present at her sickbed.

  “Did Askel the Red speak with you?” Lyting asked at last.

  The man did not answer. Lyting thought mayhap his Greek was incorrect or his accent too thick. Lyting’s thoughts went to Askel’s armband and he quoted it.

  “ ‘The spider yet spins in the halls of the Caesars.’ Did the `spider’ kill Helena?”

  “Not the ‘spider.’ “ The older man rounded on Lyting. His eyes gleamed in the shadows that fell across his face. “Beware,” he rasped. “Beware the ‘scorpion’ who sits beneath the throne. The spider does naught but his bidding. But the ‘scorpion’ poises to strike.”

  Lyting puzzled his words. The man began to move apart. Did a smile etch his lips? Lyting turned toward Ailinn, who waited silently by his side. But as he looked to her, his gaze alighted on the sarcophagus next to that of Helena’s and on the inscription carved on the band beneath its lid.

  There, he read: Alexius Dalassena.

  Lyting pivoted and bolted for the man. Catching him by the tunic, he dragged him around. The man tried to jerk free, but the fabric tore, splitting open to reveal a stylized symbol on his left shoulder — a small scorpion created by two letters of the Cyrillic alphabet — an I for the stem of the lower body, surmounted by an omega, which took on the look of two claws curving above a brief head.

  Lyting tightened his grip on the man and began to demand answers, but the rush of footsteps filled his ears, followed by Ailinn’s startled scream.

  Whirling around, he caught sight of two men dressed in black coming, knives glinting in their hands. Lyting twisted, hurling the older man into them and crashing the trio to the ground. Lyting seized hold of Ailinn and broke into run, heading back down the pathway for the main passage. She gave no resistance but ran for all her worth, striving to keep pace with him.

  A figure suddenly sprang from behind an aged monument, catching Lyting in the ribs, breaking his clasp of Ailinn and driving him to the ground. Lyting and the man collided with the earth, the impact jolting them apart. Instantly Lyting rolled and came up, clenching his fists and slogging the man’s jaw heavenward, then clouting him hard in the stomach. The man groaned and crumpled to the ground.

  Again, Lyting seized Ailinn by the hand, and they raced to reach the main path and flee the cemetery. Just as they neared it, three men closed off their escape, blocking their way, while a fourth leapt down from the top of a sarcophagus directly behind, cutting off their retreat.

  With instant reflex Lyting shoved Ailinn from the path and kicked out to the side, striking the man behind him in the chest and sending him sprawling into the dirt. The others rushed forward, their daggers drawn.

  “Come on, Ailinn!”

  Lyting grabbed her and pulled her with him as they entered the jungle of graves, darting in and around them, dodging markers and monuments and slipping around crypts, rushing hurriedly in the direction of the gates. They heard the pounding of feet from behind then the scraping of swords off to the left. Lyting rued that his own scabbard was empty.

  “The gate!” Ailinn gasped. “I see it ahead. There, between the stones.”

  Just then another assassin lunged into view, swiping his blade before him horizontally in a wide arch. Lyting pitched to the side, taking Ailinn with him to the ground and covering her at once. The steel rang out overhead, striking the sarcophagus next to them and gashing the hand of a prophet. The man dropped his blade and grabbed his wrist, wincing in pain. Lyting gave him no quarter and rolled, knocking him from his feet. Coming up, he struck the assassin solidly across the jaw and felled him.

  Voices called out. Ailinn scrambled to her feet and grasped Lyting’s hand. Together they raced for the iron cemetery gates. Flying through them, the Gate of Charisius came immediately into view, but it appeared the guard was closing it. Lyting called out and madly waved his arm, and Ailinn followed his lead. The guard recognized them from before and blessedly did not try to detain them as they rushed past and reentered the city.

  On they ran, hastening along the Mesê without slowing, but when they heard their assailants’ shouts from behind, they abandoned the boulevard and fled down one narrow street after another.

  Still, the assassins pursued them like a pack of hounds on the scent. Lyting quickly sprinted through his knowledge of the streets. An inspiration struck.

  “Come, Ailinn. This way.” He pulled her along. “Just a little farther.”

  The street ended, opening onto a square. There, Lyting snatched a torch from its iron grip on one of the buildings and quickly swept the brand before him, searching feverishly. “What are we looking for?” Ailinn panted, breathless. “Stairs.”

  Ailinn looked up, but then saw that Lyting was looking down. She searched with him but saw nothing.

  “There!” He proclaimed triumphantly and dragged her along with him.

  Ailinn saw it, then — a short, steep flight of stone stairs leading into the ground and ending at a door. She followed Lyting. He gave over the torch, forced the door open, then retrieved the torch once more. As he thrust it into the darkness, Ailinn saw that the stairs disappeared into a black abyss below.

  “This is it. Hurry.” He started downward.

  Ailinn swallowed her newborn fears and followed after him, knowing the others would be upon them any instant. Quickly Lyting reclosed the door. They continued a half-dozen steps farther and waited, pressed against the wall. Footsteps tramped above, then faded from hearing.

  The place was chill and damp, causing Ailinn to huddled into her mantle. They continued to wait lest the men return, retracing their steps. When all remained quiet, Ailinn prepared to climb from their sullen prison. Instead, Lyting held out the torch so its light could spill down the stairs. He reached back for her hand.

  “Come, Ailinn. This way.”

  Her eyes rounded. “This way?” she gasped, none too certain she wished to descend into the inky depths which looked all too fitting a place for beasts to lurk. “What is this, this . . . ?”

  “A cistern,” he replied easily as he began to descend, obviously undisturbed by thoughts of hidden beasts. “Remember the Aqueduct of Valens? It brings the water here. ‘Tis one of the underground reservoirs for holding the city’s water supply.”

  “I hope ‘tis all that it holds,” Ailinn commented dryly, foll
owing Lyting and ignoring his chuckle.

  Picking her way down, she counted thirty-nine steps before reaching the bottom one. There, she joined Lyting and looked over the cistern as he held up the torch. They could make out a vast body of water — as though a lake — and rising from it a forest of marble columns, upholding a vaulted ceiling. Even the capitals of the columns were carved with delicate stonework — a lacy foliage. The cistern looked as though it were a beautiful palace — its water, a shiny floor.

  “We can reemerge many streets from here, in another section of the city. Rurik told me that small boats are kept in the cisterns at the various entrances.”

  He held the torch out and moved it before them. There were none by the steps. A moment later he spied one moored to a nearby column. After giving over the torch to Ailinn, he doffed his mantle and tunic. Their eyes locked when his hands went to his trousers.

  Ailinn looked aside, her heart tripping anew. She heard the cloth drop to the step, then the soft splash of water as he entered the cistern. Saints forgive her, but she could not repress the image that rose to mind of Lyting standing naked at the rapids of Essupi.

  After he returned with the boat and dressed, they set out on the waters. Lyting rowed in thoughtful silence until he felt Ailinn’s eyes upon him and found a curious smile playing on her lips.

  “Have you found humor in this night after all we have endured?”

  “I was thinking of how quiet, even dull, ‘twill be for you behind your monastery walls if we survive this journey and you yet intend to go there.”

  “I will have memories aplenty to liven my days,” he returned lightly, but his look gave Ailinn to realize those memories would be filled with her.

  “I, too, shall remember these days. For all time.”

  Their eyes held, their unspoken thoughts touching heart-deep.

  Lyting broke their gaze and, relying on his sense of direction, rowed southward while Ailinn held the torch and they glided among the legion of columns.

  He forced his mind to the events of the night. ‘Twas clear he’d been mistaken for Rurik, and that Rurik — and now he — was marked for death. Neither of them had anticipated that he might be mistaken for Rurik, himself. Yet, they should have.

  At the same time Lyting reminded himself that Ailinn had been seen with him and was possibly in danger as well. He castigated himself for placing her at added risk.

  He would need to keep her close to him and deliver his message to the Imperials without delay. The “spider’s” waiting was at an end, and the “scorpion” was poised to strike.

  Much later they emerged from the cistern in another part of the city and made their way cautiously along the darkened streets to Melane’s.

  Chapter 18

  As the first glimmerings of light brightened the skies, Ailinn accompanied Lyting to the Sacred Palace.

  Along their walk, Lyting explained his purpose in coming to Constantinople — his mission for his brother, Rurik, and his need to deliver his message and warning to the Augusta, the Empress Zoë. Yet for all he confided, Ailinn suspected he kept much more locked inside himself.

  And then there was the matter of the attack in the cemetery last night. Lyting owned that his brother had enemies in the city and assured her the attack was the result of his being mistaken for Rurik.

  Still, Lyting had not disclosed what passed between him and the silver-haired man at the crypt, and she guessed his mission held more dangers than he cared to speak of. Not for the first time she looked forward to leaving the golden city. On the day of her arrival she realized Constantinople was not the “light” of which her mother had spoken.

  Ailinn shifted her harp from one hip to the other as they entered the Mesê. Lyting’s and her goods had arrived late the day before at Melane’s. She brought the precious harp with her, for the women of the house showed it such interest, she feared they might abuse it in her absence.

  Reaching the boulevard’s end, they entered the Augustaeum. To the right, a pair of bronze horses adorned the entrance to the Hippodrome. There, Lyting informed her, the games were held, the chariot races being the first love of the male populace and life of the city. There, too, the factions gathered. The fate of the Caesars had been made and remade when the fires of dissent flamed into riots.

  To the left stood the immense Hagia Sophia — “Holy Wisdom” — a ponderous building that rose in stages with buttresses and half-domes supporting a huge central dome overhead. And yet, for all the building’s massiveness, a multitude of windows pierced its exterior, including a row just beneath its enormous dome. In the early morning duskiness she could see that lights burned brilliantly within, God’s holy light a beacon to the harbor.

  Lyting and Ailinn continued on, along with a multitude of others, streaming toward the palace grounds — people of every station: workers, couriers, diplomats, and senators. It amazed Ailinn still that Lyting’s affairs should be so high-placed — with the emperor, Constantine, and the Augusta, Zoë.

  “We will enter at the Chalke Gate.” Lyting gestured ahead as they followed the enclosure wall. “ ‘Tis also called the `Brazen Entrance’ and provides access to the grounds.”

  Ailinn viewed an exquisite building with magnificent gilded doors and gilded roof — bronze, Lyting informed her. Perfumers’ stalls crowded the gate, their sweet scents layering the air and wafting pleasantly through the doors of the vestibule as Lyting and Ailinn entered.

  Inside, Ailinn found herself standing in the most dazzling room she had ever seen. A blaze of mosaics covered the walls and ceiling, and multicolored marbles dressed the floor — greens, reds, blues, and white.

  “Thord tells me that is Justinian’s great general, Belisarius.” Lyting pointed to one of the brilliant mosaic scenes. “ ‘Tis made of tesserae — colored glass. The colors are more varied and intense than marble, and many contain gold.” He smiled at her astonished look. She obviously had never seen such beauty.

  Emerging onto the grounds, Ailinn beheld a rambling complex of buildings in a setting of matchless beauty. Here were shaded walks, gardens, ponds, fountains, and arbors. Here also was a multitude of buildings, each a lovely gem of architecture — some made entirely of a single colored marble: yellow, verde, or red. Ailinn believed them each to be a palace unto themselves.

  Lyting informed her, however, that while some were pavilions of the Imperial Family, others were workshops, storehouses, stables, and government offices such as the Hall of Tribunals with its numerous statues and the Senate building which he pointed out.

  Looking to the distance, she saw how the land sloped toward the harbor and looked out to the placid blue waters of the Marmara. For its many thousands of workers and attendants, the grounds possessed a sense of tranquility.

  As they progressed, Ailinn noticed with some surprise that the fashion within the palace grounds was to wear red slippers sewn with pearls. Somehow, she could not imagine Lyting wearing them and secretly smiled at the thought.

  For the better part of the morning, Lyting and Ailinn dealt with the cumbrous Byzantine bureaucracy, moving from one official to another, chamber to chamber, building to building.

  For all his forbearance, Lyting’s patience wore thin. He suspected these men played him a game, using their authority to wield their petty powers and thwart others at will. Some of the eunuchs were obnoxiously imperious. Other officials, more completely endowed, eyed Ailinn openly — one not so subtly suggesting that Lyting and he come to an “arrangement,” the object of that arrangement being Ailinn.

  Refraining from striking the man and flattening him straight out, Lyting quit the building and escorted Ailinn outside. There he strove to cool his ire and collect himself.

  “Ailinn, I regret this has taken so long. Would you prefer to wait on the grounds? There seem to be guards aplenty. You can enjoy the airs and the view of the harbor. There remains one more office Thord suggested I approach. Judging by the last ones, I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Do not
hurry yourself.” Ailinn smiled, touched by his concern. “I have my harp to entertain me and will wander down the path here and seek a place to rest.”

  Lyting touched her cheek in parting, sending a shiver through her. Ailinn watched as he strode back toward one of the fine buildings and disappeared inside. Glancing about, she deemed that nothing in all of Eire could compare to this. Her homeland seemed an impoverished country by comparison.

  Even Hedeby, which once struck her as so advanced, seemed piteously rustic measured to the Imperial City.

  Turning, Ailinn strolled down along the path, noticing peacocks, ibis, and pheasants wandering about the grounds. She happened on one fountain and found wine springing from a golden pineapple into a marble basin filled with almonds and pistachios.

  She soon came to a small but lovely pavilion, its colonnade lined with alternating columns of green and red onyx. It seemed a quiet place, tucked away, adorned with shrubbery, and overlooking its own private garden, which in turn stretched toward the Marmara.

  Ailinn discovered a marble bench sitting before the seaward side of the pavilion and settled herself there. Looking out over the waters, her senses filled with the mingled fragrances of the sea and its incredible beauty.

  Content, she slipped the wrapping from her harp. Assured she would neither disturb nor be disturbed by anyone, she plucked out a run of notes, then began a simple but enchanting melody, one she had loved as a child. She sang it softly, closing her eyes as she gave herself to its lilting tune.

  Ailinn’s lashes parted. She thought to hear a rustling among the shrubbery. She suspected an errant bird to be caught there and continued to sing. Again, came a rustle of leaves. Glancing to her left, she found a young boy standing amid the greenery where he had been hiding.

  She continued to play and sing, for his eyes were intent upon her hands. Though he did not smile, he appeared mesmerized as her fingers stroked the strings and brought them joyously to life.