Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (33 page)

“
The Gate of Charisius lies at the northern land wall, at the end of the Mesê,” Thord advised. “I would take you there myself, but I must report for duty in the next hour. I could draw you a map, if you like.”

“
No need. I have one committed here.” Lyting smiled, tapping his forehead. “My brother insisted. He did not tell me the location of Helena’s grave, however. Alexius is elderly, silver-haired and distinguished-looking. He should not be too difficult to identify.”

Thord nodded in agreement.
“Be sure to be back inside the city before the gates are locked, or you will be spending your night among the dead.”

Thord
’s jestful words settled ill in Lyting’s bones.

As he explained matters to Ailinn, she pressed that he take her with him. Lyting preferred to leave her with Melane, but reconsidered, seeing the house
’s patrons were already arriving. Of those couples who strolled in the gardens, many a man’s eye strayed from his consort to where Ailinn sat beside him. Thord would not be present either to watch over her.

Finding no other choice, Lying agreed to take Ailinn with him.

»«

Lyting and Ailinn passed through the Gate of Charisius and arrived at the cemetery early evening. The light was beginning to descend, dusk spreading its gray veil over the graveyard, casting the legions of tombs and markers into long shadows.

As they started down the wide central path, Lyting wrestled with his conscience in silent turmoil. He could not simply leave the city after delivering Rurik’s message at court and forsake a ten-year-old boy — emperor or not — to the hands of his enemies. He knew he must remain long enough to solve the mystery of the “spider’s” identity, or Constantine Porphyrogentius and Zoë would surely die.

Lyting wondered whether the man waited to make his move on the Imperials because he plotted to catch Rurik in his web as well. He would be disappointed to learn that Rurik had not taken his bait and returned to Constantinople. But Lyting knew that the one behind the palace intrigues and murders would not wait forever to ensnare the young emperor and his mother. He must move quickly to reveal this man.

Lyting tugged the hood of his mantle forward as he and Ailinn continued along the path.

She leaned forward to better glimpse his face, smiling.
“‘Twas my guess you wished to pass through the city unobserved, but none will mark your passage here, if you wish to rid yourself of your hood.”

Before he could respond, Lyting caught sight of a silver-haired man standing down one of the side paths, in front of a row of tall, marble sarcophagi. Ailinn started to speak again, but Lyting touched her arm, staying her, then gestured toward the man.

“There,” he said quietly. “That must be Alexius Dalassena.”

Leaving the central walk, they passed more of the numerous common grave stones that filled the cemetery
— some leaning with age — huddled in and about more elaborately carved tombs and monuments, those crowded with biblical figures and motifs. Minutes- later they approached the silver-haired man. He stood with his head bowed before a marble sarcophagus as though praying.

Lyting and Ailinn did not disturb the man as they joined him. For the moment they stood solemnly and respectfully beside him while he finished his prayers.

Lyting scanned the sarcophagus. ‘Twas a masterpiece of sculpture, covered with a double row of carved reliefs, illustrating Old and New Testament themes. At the very top of the sarcophagus — above the carvings, but just beneath the lid — ran a smooth band, carrying an inscription and the name “Helena Dalassena.”

After a prolonged moment the silver-haired man raised his head and looked to Lyting. His face remained partially hidden in the shadows of evening.

“Rurik.” The man drew the name out in a low, hoarse whisper. “You have returned, my son. Good.” He fell silent and turned again to contemplate Helena’s tomb.

Lyting began to correct the man
’s misperception. Understandably, he had expected Rurik, not himself, and that was his own fault. Lyting could not say what had prompted him earlier, but when composing his letter to Alexius, he had signed it simply “Atlison.” Mayhap Byzantine duplicity was catching, Lyting thought grimly.

On the other hand,
‘twas common enough for him to be mistaken for his brother, for their facial resemblance was exceedingly strong. ‘Twas their hair that set them most apart and, at the moment his was concealed beneath his hood. Too, it had been many years since Alexius had seen Rurik. Lyting started to respond when the older man sighed and gazed upward to the band of writing that carried his daughter’s name.

“
They murdered her — my beautiful flower, my Helena.” He shook his head sadly and lowered it again, yet his shoulders did not sag as one might expect of a man weighted with sorrow or defeat. Tension stiffened his shoulders and spine.

“
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 seiz
ed 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 r
an, 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.”