The Betrayal

  Many soldiers, most bearing the burden of some shame—Loukas among them—had been chosen by the emperor himself to join the Militia Templi, where they had vowed to forever consecrate their swords, arms, strength, and lives to the defense of the mysteries of the Chistian faith.

  Few had run off to become monks.

  They were, after all, soldiers.

  Loukas examined the newcomers again. All four of the people had stepped out of the boat and stood on the dock, talking. The old man, gray-haired, with deeply sunken eyes and a long, hooked nose, clutched a leather bag to his chest. The big man, possibly Atinius, was pointing to the boat and talking with a fisherman. After a time of arm waving and head nodding, the fisherman handed “Atinius” what looked like drachmas.

  Loukas focused on the woman, as did every other man on the dock. What a stunning beauty. Tall, with flowing red hair and the heart-shaped face of a deity, she wore her black cape thrown back over her shoulders, revealing the tan linen dress that clung damply to her perfect curves. Men would pay a fortune to own her. Perhaps, when this was done, Pappas Meridias would reward Loukas by giving him the woman as his slave. In the past two years, he had discovered that the masters of the Militia Templi could be very generous when they approved of his work.

  He smiled at the thought. It was something to look forward to.

  Loukas lifted a hand to his men, made a chopping gesture, and they began to drift toward the prey. Best not to accost them on the dock. Better to follow them into the crowd where they could take them from behind, one by one.

  Flavius went first, ambling toward the dock, just far enough away that he could keep them in sight. A short time later, Janneus positioned himself on the opposite side of the dock.

  Loukas remained at the edge of merchant’s row, waiting to confirm Atinius’ identity.

  SIXTEEN

  Kalay stood on the dock and surveyed the crowd. The odors of sun-warm fish, dank water, rot, and sewage mingled with that of unwashed humanity. Relief came in the intermittent scents of wood smoke, roasting meat, and fresh baked bread. The place was a cacophony of noise, vendors hawking to each other, children shrieking and calling, and the barking of dogs. Color was everywhere, in people’s clothing, in the bright canvas of the stands. It all hearkened to her memories of other times. How long had it been since she’d been here? Four years? Five? She smiled, feeling comfortably back in her element. Challenge was in the very air.

  As she threw her long red hair back, men openly stared at her; given her looks, she had grown used to it over the years. She had found it a useful tool for assessing her situation. As her gaze met each of the men’s, they glanced shyly aside … except for one man. His gaze burned into her, trying to capture her soul. He had a lion’s face, the nose broad, eyes slightly slanted, with red-gold hair. In addition, he moved like a Roman—all authority and no sense.

  Brother Barnabas had retrieved his book bag and already started down the dock. Zarathan followed just behind the old priest, blissfully innocent as they talked to each other.

  From right behind her ear, Cyrus’ deep voice said, “Do you see him?”

  “The Roman?” she said without turning. “He stands out like a whore among the vestals. You think he’s waiting for us?”

  “I think he could be. I also think the two men in the clean robes standing on either side of the landing are with him.”

  Subtly, Kalay located the men in question. She should have spotted them herself. “You’d think killers would have better sense than to appear in a place like Leontopolis looking clean. What do you think they’re planning?”

  “They’ll probably wait for us to enter the crowd. Then they can pick us off one by one. Except for you, of course.”

  She suppressed the prickle that climbed her spine. “Yes, I’m sure they’ll want to keep me for a time. I’d just as soon they didn’t have the chance, Cyrus.”

  She turned partway around and pretended to be straightening her leather belt. Their gazes touched. His green eyes had gone fierce, and he had his right hand curled tightly around one of the bone stilettos on his belt. He drew it out and handed it to her. “Strike first. Don’t hesitate.”

  Kalay took it. “I haven’t hesitated since I was fourteen.” She tested the balance of the bone weapon. The sharp tip gleamed in the sunlight. “What do you want me to do?”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Catch up with my brothers. Stay right behind them. The sicarii, the ‘dagger men,’ will fall into line a few people back, but they’ll be right behind you.”

  “Should I warn your brothers?”

  “Their fear would complicate matters.”

  “I’m to block the killers, is that the idea?”

  He hesitated only a heartbeat. “You are. Can you do it?”

  “Can I cut a few Roman purses if I’ve the chance? To help support our Godly mission, of course.”

  Despite himself, he smiled. “Be discreet.”

  “I’m always discreet.”

  She twirled the dagger and started down the dock at a fast walk, hurrying to catch up with Zarathan and Barnabas before they stepped off onto the sand.

  “Zarathan?” she called.

  He turned and scowled at her. Sharply, he said, “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to me?”

  Kalay pulled up her skirts so that her tanned calves showed and trotted toward him as she shook out her flowing red hair. As she’d known, all eyes were upon her. The two men stationed on either side of the dock were leering. As she grasped Zarathan’s arm and began elbowing through the press around the landing, they began to close in. She watched from the corner of her eye as they followed.

  Kalay pointed, shouting, “Look! A booth that sells roasted sow’s genitals. I’m starved. Are you?”

  The horrified look on Zarathan’s face made her laugh out loud. He was shaking his arm, trying to loosen her hold. A violent blush of red stained his cheeks.

  Barnabas said, “Bread would be enough, Kalay. Do you see any loaves?”

  “I do, brother.” She pointed to the packed alleyway that veered to the right. “Walk straight up there. Follow your nose. You’ll find it.”

  Zarathan disdainfully pried Kalay’s hand loose, shot a wild glance behind them, and asked, “Where’s Brother Cyrus? He has the money. We won’t be able to eat without it.”

  Barnabas, clutching his book bag, said, “Pray to your Lord, and you shall receive.”

  Zarathan reached down to touch the prayer rope tied to his belt and began mumbling, but his voice sounded pained, as though he felt put-upon having to pray, instead of just receiving a handout from his Lord.

  Kalay took a position two paces behind them. As they entered the bread-makers’ alley, her pulse began to pound in her ears. She longed to turn around to see where the sicarii were. Instead, she forced herself to look straight ahead.

  The crowd moved in a swaying herd, banging shoulders as they passed the merchants’ booths, and her skin crawled. She could almost feel the point of a dagger pricking her back.

  Where are you, Cyrus?

  Janneus turned sideways to slide between two laughing brigands who openly carried their gold-hilted daggers like badges of courage, and picked up his pace.

  The woman and the two monks were four steps ahead of him as they entered the narrow shop-lined street. Neither of the monks seemed the slightest bit concerned. If everything was going according to plan, Flavius would be five steps behind him. That way, if Janneus was attacked by the crowd and couldn’t jump the second monk in time, Flavius would take him. Decurion Loukas would be bringing up the rear, following closely behind Atinius. Loukas had claimed the former centurion as his own. Apparently there was something between them.

  Janneus managed to slip between two old women who were gawking at a silversmith’s wares, and gained two paces.

  He propped his hand on the hilt of his dagger, unsure what to do about the woman. He had no orders regarding her. Loukas had said only that she was “of no consequence.?
?? He simply needed to get around her, quietly kill the monks, and escape before she started screaming her head off.

  Janneus’ brows lifted admiringly when he saw her neatly untie and pocket a Roman man’s purse while he was studying a goldsmith’s wares. The victim remained totally unaware.

  As they approached the gallery of food booths, the sweet, yeasty fragrance of bread swirled down the alleyway, accented by the scents of cooked vegetables and camel steaks being fried in fat.

  Janneus sidestepped a group of children and gained another pace. The woman’s hips swayed in an enticing manner. He tried not to think about it. He had to concentrate now. As he rudely pushed past her, he could smell her scent, a mixture of soap and sun-dried clothing. He pulled his dagger, stepping close behind the old priest’s back. He drew his arm back …

  The pain came as a shock, the thrust quick and clean, barely requiring half a heartbeat. Janneus felt the weapon puncture his back and slide between his ribs. His heart started to flutter, pounding desperately.

  He spun around with his dagger up, ready to strike at his enemy, but saw no one, nothing. Only the woman staring at him with burning eyes.

  Where’s Flavius? Is he already dead?

  When the crowd erupted in shouts and cries, he fought to get away, but only made it twenty paces before he stumbled into a leather booth, knocked over the table, and toppled to the ground.

  People huddled over him, shouting questions, shoving each other to get a better look.

  Janneus stared up at the thin slit of blue sky visible between the canvas roofs of the booths. He knew this kind of wound very well, having inflicted it often enough. He tried to breathe deeply, to make his heart pump harder, and hasten the end. Still, it would take another four or five hundred heartbeats before …

  Almost as though he were not real, Decurion Loukas appeared in the crowd, and then vanished without even a glance at Janneus.

  A white-haired crone bent over Janneus and stabbed her finger into the blood pooling beneath his back. She examined it, and her wrinkles tensed. She turned and said something to a man leaning down beside her, but Janneus could no longer hear voices.

  Just as his vision began to gray, he saw a big man with curly black hair moving through the crowd silent as a ghost … following Loukas.

  SEVENTEEN

  When he heard the commotion, Zarathan spun around and saw a man collapse sideways into a leather booth, a huge bloodstain spreading across his robe. For a heartbeat, he could only gape.

  He started to speak, but Kalay pressed a hand into his chest, hissing, “Don’t say a word. Keep walking as though it’s none of your concern.”

  Barnabas froze for an instant, apparently stunned by the tone in her voice, but quickly ordered, “Do as she says.”

  Blood surged in Zarathan’s veins. He felt so light-headed he feared he might faint. What’s happening back there? Is that man on the ground dying? Where’s Brother Cyrus?

  Kalay whispered, “Turn right at the next booth, go up the street swiftly, but not so fast that you attract attention.”

  “What does that mean?” Zarathan hissed back in panic.

  “Keep pace with me.” Barnabas slipped his arm through Zarathan’s in an apparently brotherly gesture. Zarathan feared it was less a display of affection than to keep him from bolting and running.

  They strode past a booth selling live goats, and a corral of horses. The acrid stench of urine and manure made his stomach churn. Bleating goats almost covered the loud voices around the leather shop, and that made his anxiety worse.

  Kalay said, “Walk straight ahead. There’s a church at the end of the street. You’ll see it when we pass the last booth.”

  Zarathan walked so fast he practically dragged Barnabas over the foul-smelling cobblestones. The smells of night earth and standing water burned in his nose. How did people live in a place like this? He pawed anxiously at the flies that swirled around his face.

  The church, a magnificent stone cathedral with enormous cylindrical pillars and thick walls, thrust its golden dome into the sere blue sky. The soaring arches and sculpted gargoyles perched on the eaves drew him like a bee to honey.

  “Hurry,” Zarathan whispered. “If we can make it there, we’ll be safe.”

  “Safe?” Kalay said with her usual irreverence. “Only if they’ve replaced the eucharist with a big pile of spears. We’re going to run past it into that open field just beyond.”

  “Are you insane?” Zarathan stared at her in shock. “If we’re out in the open they’ll see us and kill us!”

  “I can’t believe you’ve survived this long being so stupid. Just follow me.” Kalay veered around both men to lead the way.

  Zarathan slowed. Did he dare run in the opposite direction and leave his companions to face their attackers alone? Desperately, he turned …

  Barnabas’ claw-like old hand gripped Zarathan’s arm, and he ordered, “Follow her. Do as she says. Just don’t think about it!”

  Barnabas, overbalanced by the book bag, pulled Zarathan along the path that led through the cool shadow of the church wall and out into the freshly planted field. The place was a small garden where seedlings had just begun to sprout. A rather well-to-do house stood to the south. A wall blocked off the north, and dilapidated sheds and a barn blocked the east.

  The recently watered green sprigs of wheat smelled fragrant. From this low rise, Zarathan could see across the river to several villages that dotted the lush delta. The dock was still crowded, and people packed the alleys between the merchants’ booths.

  Kalay whispered, “There he is.”

  “Who?” Zarathan asked.

  A muscular man dressed in a tan robe stopped at the last booth. He did look out of place. He had short red-gold hair and a broad nose with slanted eyes. His carefully shaven face was distinctly Roman. For a few heartbeats, the man frowned at them, as though he didn’t understand what they were doing; then he turned to casually examine the harnesses spread out on the table in the last booth.

  Zarathan studied the sword belted around the man’s waist and panic stung his chest. “Why are we just standing here? We should be trying to escape!”

  Kalay said, “If you move, I’ll kill you myself,” and drew a bone stiletto from her belt. She held it with the ease of a person long familiar with such weapons. He blinked at the sticky red sheen on the bone tip, and went weak-kneed.

  As though to taunt the man in the tan robe, Kalay waved to him.

  The man turned slightly to stare at her … .

  Then he jerked, and stood as if frozen. Someone’s hand reached around and pulled the short sword from his scabbard. Finally, the Roman spread his arms and started walking up the trail toward the wheat field, with Brother Cyrus close behind him.

  Had Kalay seen Cyrus and distracted the Roman with her wave? He stared at her in horror and amazement.

  Kalay said, “Now let’s get into the shade behind the church where we’re out of sight of the merchants’ booths.”

  Barnabas quickly strode into the shadows where he set his book bag down, leaned against the cool stone wall, and wiped his brow with a shaking hand. “I saw that man when we first stepped off the dock. Who is he?”

  Kalay’s blue eyes had turned hard as stones. “He’s one of Pappas Meridias’ killers.”

  Barnabas’ bushy gray brows drew down over his long hooked nose. All the world’s sadness seemed suddenly to be concentrated in the tight lines of his elderly face. “Was he one of the men who—”

  “Who poisoned your brothers at the monastery? Yes.”

  Cyrus was whispering to the Roman. Zarathan saw the man nod. As they strode into the shadows, Cyrus took in the garden and the nearby farmer’s house. Then he considered the outbuildings hunched across the field. Inside the barn, a horse whickered.

  To the killer, Cyrus hissed, “Drop to your knees.”

  The Roman slowly lowered himself, but kept his arms up. He had strange lime-green eyes, like a cat’s, cold and inhuman.
When the man looked at Zarathan his soul left his body for an instant. Death lived and breathed in those depths.

  Cyrus, sword at the ready, said, “Kalay, please unbuckle his sword belt and check him for other weapons.”

  She started to hand her stiletto to Barnabas, who shook his head vehemently. Rolling her eyes, she angrily shoved it into Zarathan’s resisting hands. Though he held it at arm’s length, he swore the grisly thing was ready to fly through the air and lodge itself just beneath his breastbone.

  Kalay knelt behind the man. As she unbuckled his sword belt, the man turned and his hungry gaze fixed on her body, and a small, cruel smile came to his lips. He whispered, “Soon, beauty.”

  Kalay didn’t answer. She set the belt aside, and patted him down, pulling out a beautiful silver dagger with a long, curved blade. Next she found a thin bronze stiletto. She tucked both into her own belt. When she’d finished searching him, she picked up a broken fist-sized piece of brick and rose. With all the strength she could muster, she bashed the killer in the head with the brick and sent him sprawling across the dirt. Zarathan and Barnabas had to leap to get out of the way.

  Zarathan cried, “Why did you do that?”

  Kalay smiled at the sight of the blood trickling down the man’s face, tossed the brick aside, and answered, “He wanted a taste of me. I gave him one.”

  Sweat beaded Cyrus’ flushed face, as he belted on the sword.

  Kalay gave Cyrus a curious look. “I assume you want to wring some answers out of this piece of filth, or you would have killed him in the crowd like you did the other one.”

  Zarathan stared at Cyrus and his face slackened. Cyrus killed the man at the leather booth? Dear Lord, help me. I’m traveling with demons incarnate.

  Unless … Zarathan glanced at the blood-smeared bone stiletto Kalay had given him. He felt suddenly faint. Somewhere back there, lay two dead men.

  Cyrus nodded to Kalay. “Let’s get him to that horse shed.”