The King’s sword rose, its edge glittering. The red glow in the sky was spreading and, very faintly, Thyatis could hear a great murmur of thousands’of men shouting and screaming. The Roman army was loose in the city.
“You mock me,” Chrosoes grated. “It is a lie! No Roman ever spoke truth to me, save one, and he is dead for long years. Only lies and deception and murder spring from your hateful stock.“
Thyatis’ right foot slid back on the wet grass and her body turned, subtly, into line with her sword. Her mind cleared and she became aware of a thousand tiny sounds in the garden: the soft mutter of birds, the tink of Anagathios descending a rope at the base of the garden, the harsh breathing of the man facing her.
The King’s sword blurred overhand and Thyatis was in motion, a burst of fire jolting her blood. The heavy saber rang like a.bell on the base of her blade and she slammed her shoulder into Chrosoes, locking sword to sword at the hilt. The King grunted and Thyatis sprang back, her upper arm numb. He was a like a mountain. She could barely hold onto the hilt of the sword, her fingers were so stunned by the shock of his blow. Chrosoes shouted and leapt forward, sword slashing.
Thyatis leapt back, the tip of her blade flicking his stroke aside. Chrosoes pressed, raining blows upon her like a summer storm. Her defense was a blur of glittering steel, fending off each attack. Her arms raged at her in pain. Every stroke was a hammer blow to her upper body. She gasped for breath, giving ground. Fine cuts welled blood on her shoulders and arms. Chrosoes laughed, a high wild sound.
Thyatis spared a breath to shout. “Jusuf! The gate, get to the gate!”
The Khazar paused at the top of the steps, his hand reaching for Shirin. He looked over his shoulder. The Kha-zars, precious bundles strapped to their backs, were climbing down the mossy wall of the garden on long ropes.
Shirin hissed angrily at him. “Get my children out, you oaf!”
Jusuf turned on his heel and bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time.
Thyatis dodged sideways, feeling the air part where her head had been. She kicked out, catching the King of Kings’ knee. Her boot bounced away, but he gasped in pain and switched stance to put the injured leg behind him. Thyatis gulped air and fell back a step herself.
“A Roman relying on skill in battle?” Chrosoes voice was mocking. “It is an age of wonders!”
Thyatis settled her grip on the sword, both hands wrapped around the long hilt. Her palms were slick with sweat, but the wire and leather were like an old familiar glove. She feinted at the King’s shoulder, her blade flashing like summer lightning. He beat the stroke aside and bulled in, howling a war cry, catching her in the chest with his elbow. The iron rings of her vest crumpled around the blow, but the leather backing swallowed most of the force. Dampness spread under her armor. Thyatis flew backward into a sapling.
The tree cracked and she spilled to the ground. The water-steel blade slithered out of her hand, and she rolled up off of the ground, hands wide. The King of Kings circled around the tree, his boot kicking the gleaming shape of the blade away across the grass. Thyatis crouched down, scuttling to one side. He attacked again, laughing in joy, the heavy blade whirling around his head.
She ducked away from the saber twice, then kicked at his bad knee again and had to backflip away from his counterblow. She found herself balanced on the brick wall that divided each terrace, wavering, her arms outstretched. Chrosoes laughed again and blinked sweat from his eyes. The mask had been knocked askew and he took the moment to tear it off of his face. It sailed into the rosebushes.
Thyatis’ eyes narrowed, seeing him fully in the glow of the lanterns. He had been very handsome once, with a proud nose and full strong lips. His eyes were dark, with long lashes and his cheekbones would have made many a Roman matron swoon and bat her eyes at him. Now he was terribly scarred, with one eye almost closed by the ravaged tissue. His beauty was marred, shattered by glassy skin and ridges of tormented flesh.
“You see!” he howled, seeing the flash of repulsion in her eyes. “Nothing like a king!”
He leapt in, slashing diagonally, his full weight behind the blow. Thyatis jumped up, high in the air, her legs curling up under her. The sword carved empty air and the King stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the terrace. Thyatis stormed in, her fists and elbows smashing at his face. Chrosoes screamed as his nose shattered again. She snap-kicked his sword hand, catching the thumb at the joint. The saber clattered off down the steps to the second terrace.
The King of Kings swung wildly, his heavy fists bunched like tree roots.
Thyatis wove between the blows and spun, the back of her boot clipping Chrosoes on the side of his head. The skin ruptured, spewing blood. Hot rage welled up in her, giving her fists lightning speed. Chrosoes fumbled, trying to block her blows, but he was slowing. She hammered at his face and diaphragm again and again.
The tip of her boot flashed into his groin and he screamed, a high keening sound, and doubled up. Her right elbow cracked on the back of his neck, driving him to the ground. Her fingers clawed into his hair and dragged his head up.
A slim hand caught her raised fist as she pulled back for a strike to crush his larynx.
“No! Thyatis… you promised!” The Roman woman turned, the gray tunnel that had focused her entire world down to the bleeding, crushed face of the King falling away. Shirin held her hand. The Princess was muddy, with her hair a rat’s nest of dirt and leaves. Her hands, clinging tightly to Thyatis‘, were streaked with blood and dark bruises where she had sawn the cords away with the water-steel blade. The pale-yellow silk dress was utterly ruined, sopping wet, clinging to her in tatters.
“Leave him be,” Shirin said, pulling Thyatis away from the moaning shape on the ground. “He made his choice.”
Behind the Princess, fire suddenly blossomed from the roof of the palace. Shouts of excited men echoed from the windows. The low clouds were dark and glowing with the red of fires below. Ctesiphon was burning.
“The gate…” Thyatis whispered, suddenly feeling very weak. Shirin slid under her shoulder, her slim arm wrapped around Thyatis’ waist. Shirin started to drag her toward the steps, but Thyatis turned clumsily. Rain had started to fall, slanting through the glow of the flames that were licking around the domes of the palace. “My sword…”
Shirin cursed and propped Thyatis against the trunk of an apple tree. The Roman woman clung to it, feeling the blinding pain in her ribs and forearms for the first time. The Princess cast about on the grass, swearing like a sailor. The drizzle of rain began to swell, hissing through the leaves of the trees. Thyatis turned her face up to the sky, letting the falling water sluice across her face, cooling her skin.
The Princess ran up, soaked to the skin, her long hair plastered to her shoulders and back.
“Here,” she said, pushing the sword into Thyatis’ hands. “We must go.”
There was a sound of glass shattering and red light bloomed in the upper terrace. Shirin held Thyatis close and they stumbled down the steps. Thyatis looked back, seeing the palace outlined in roaring flame and steam. More glass shattered as the soldiers looting the chambers of the King began throwing things through the glassed doors. At the bottom of the garden Nikos was waiting, water running down his face, at the little gate. He was grinning fit to burst. He loved the wet.
Shirin dumped Thyatis into his arms and he ducked under the lintel, carrying her to the boat. The Princess turned back, wiping muddy water out of her eyes. Above her, the domes of the Palace of the Black Swan were blossoms of fire. Flames roared from the windows and smoke and steam climbed into the clouds in a great column. Helmeted figures capered on the balconies, throwing furniture and rugs into the courtyards below. At the top of the garden, outlined by the bonfire, a heavyset figure staggered. Shouts rang out.