61 A.D. b-2

by David McAfee

  She remembered every detail. The smell of the Romans’ sweat, the bitter smell of burning pitch, the sound of the whip, the pain in her back, even the grunting of the Roman officers as they took from her two daughters what their future husbands should have gotten. The Romans laughed as the girls cried, then they invited the other men to join them. So many men had their way with her daughters that she lost count. The memories would never fade, she knew. She would feel and hear those indignities until her last breath. But before she went to her grave, she meant to send as many Romans as possible to theirs.

  She dried off, and was just getting dressed when her oldest daughter, Heanua, came into the chamber. Unlike Lannosea, the Roman brutality had not weakened Heanua to the point of meekness. Instead, Boudica saw a fire in her eyes to match her own. Heanua will seek her revenge until long after I am gone, she thought proudly.

  “My Queen,” Heanua said, bowing, “The messenger from the Trinovante has arrived.”

  “Does he have news?” Boudica asked.

  “If so, he has not shared it. He will only speak with you directly.”

  Boudica nodded. “Very well. Inform him I will be with him shortly.”

  Heanua nodded and left the room, a slight eagerness to her step. If the messenger from the Trinovante brought the news they were hoping for, they would have plenty of weapons and warriors to attack Londinium.

  The Trinovante, a neighboring tribe, held no love for the Romans. Under Roman rule their lands had been stolen, their taxes raised to shocking amounts, and their citizens were killed if they spoke against the treatment. Since the Iceni had given up their weapons years ago as part of the original treaty with Rome, Boudica had been forced to seek their assistance. Their neighbors were eager to help, and had been supplying weapons and warriors to help with the rebellion. Together, they’d already burned two of the region’s largest cities to the ground and killed thousands of Romans.

  And Boudica had savored every moment.

  She finished drying herself, then slipped into a long purple dress with white trim. The dress was for show, it would be useless to fight in such an outfit. But the soft purple cloth spoke of the wealth and power that Rome had stolen from her, and it was good to give the impression to her allies that she still held on to a piece of it.

  Lannosea helped her put her arms through the sleeves. As had been the case since the Roman soldiers raped her, she went about her task in silence. Her eyes never ventured higher than Boudica’s shoulders. Tonight, Boudica had no doubt the girl would get little sleep, plagued as she was by nightmares. She never spoke of the dreams-or anything else, for that matter-but Boudica could guess well enough what terrors awaited her daughter when she closed her eyes at night.

  She sighed, remembering a time not so long ago when Lannosea had been bright and happy, her eyes shining from her beautiful face, with a smile to rival the sun. The girl’s yellow hair gleamed in the sunlight so brightly that Boudica sometimes had to shield her eyes for fear of being blinded. She would have made a fine queen, with a kind soul and a strong mind. But now…she was not so sure.

  Lannosea walked through the camp like a wraith, eating little and drinking even less. When she spoke, it was in short, quiet sentences, and then only when someone spoke to her first. The Romans had made her weak. At first Boudica tolerated the change, knowing that Lannosea needed time to heal her tortured mind. But now she had a rebellion to lead and a kingdom to retake. She could not afford to appear weak in front of the messenger, who would doubtless take his impression of the Iceni camp back to his king. She would have to make sure Lannosea was nowhere near when she received the man.

  Boudica finished dressing, then stepped out of the chamber. She paused in the doorway to look back at Lannosea, and found her sitting on a soft chair, staring vacantly at the floor and wringing her fingers. Her eyes gleamed with ever-present moisture, as they had since that fateful night when Nero’s dogs showed their true colors. Boudica felt a moment of pity. If only she could talk to her youngest daughter. To somehow ease her suffering. Perhaps she should try again…

  But the messenger was waiting.

  She steeled herself, drew in a deep breath, and left Lannosea in the chamber. She would deal with Lannie later. When this rebellion was over and she had taken back her kingdom from the wretched Romans, she would present it to Lannosea as a gift. Then she could hold her daughter in her arms and give her the comfort she so desperately needed.

  Right now she had a war to win.

  6

  Taras stepped into the damp, moldy building he’d been using for shelter during the day. The smell of moist wood and fungus filled the room like a rotting cloud. The previous tenant’s body lay right where he left it. Not a drop of blood remained in it, of course, but even if some remained it would have done him no good. Dead blood is useless to Bachiyr. He found that out several years ago after trying to feed on a recently slain robber. The dead man’s blood tasted different, foul. It hadn’t harmed him, but the spoiled blood was inert, as though missing an ingredient. He had no idea what that might be, but it didn’t matter. He just made sure to take his fill from every single victim. He sidestepped the corpse and wandered deeper into the place, headed for the bed chamber and what few possessions he would take with him.

  Taras didn’t own much. His fugitive lifestyle demanded that he travel light. He never knew when he would have to run. It seemed the time had come again. During his walk through the market district he’d felt a strange tingle on the back of his neck. It defied explanation, but his skin pricked and tickled as if a thousand tiny needles danced across its surface. He’d felt eyes on him, which was strange since most of Londinium’s people seemed to be on the way out of the city. But the oddest thing about it was the sense of familiarity. Of deja vu. He’d felt it before, but couldn’t place it.

  Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be good.

  He stepped into the bedchamber-equally as moldy and damp as the outer room-and pulled his traveling bag from the hook in the wall. As he slipped it over his shoulder, a small scrap of pale blue cloth fell out and floated to the ground. A piece of the dress Mary died in. Taras eyed it for a moment, trying not to see the brown stain where her blood had dried. The blood had long ago vanished, leaving only the stain behind, but he could see it as if it were still wet and glistening in the moonlight next to Mary’s bleeding and broken body.

  He reached down to pick up the strip, now dingy and dirty from years of being in his pack. The image of the blood brought a tinge of hunger to his belly, but he suppressed it easily. Memories of his dead love had that effect on him.

  Mary.

  He hadn’t thought about her for months. He almost wanted to think he was forgetting about her, which would make things easier for his heavy heart, but that would be a lie. If he lived another thousand years he would never forget Mary’s face. She had been everything to him. Taras had even ended his service to Rome just to be with her, yet she died that same night. He’d loved her and Rome more than his own life, and both had been stolen from him by a Bachiyr who’d used him to frame an innocent man.

  His career in Rome and Mary were both gone, and his life, such as it was, remained intact. He was no longer a Legionary, or anyone’s lover, or even human. All that remained of the life he’d lost was the small patch of blue cloth in his hand, which he still carried everywhere he went. Theron had taken those things from him. He’d stolen them as sure as he’d stolen Mary’s ring from her finger as she lay dying in the alley. Taras had bought her that ring, a symbol of their forbidden love.

  “I will find you someday, Theron,” Taras whispered to the empty room. He folded the strip of cloth and tucked it into his bag. “When I do, you will not get away again.”

  “Marvelous,” said a female voice behind him. “I absolutely adore bravado.”

  Taras whirled, claws at the ready, his pack dropped to the floor without a thought. He crouched low as he spun, making himself a smaller target for the vampire he knew mu
st be swinging at him even now.

  But the only other Bachiyr in the room stood ten feet away, leaning against the doorframe and wearing a smile that revealed the two bright, sharp points of her canines. Taras stood slowly, keeping his claws out and ready to fight.

  “Put those away,” she said, nodding toward his hands. “You will not need them, and they would do you no good, in any case.”

  Taras scoffed, and the woman sighed. She waved her fingers at him and whispered a few words in a language he did not understand. A strange tingle ran through his arms, and then his claws retreated back into his fists on their own. Taras stared at his vanishing weapons, willing them to slow or stop, but they didn’t. In only a few seconds his hands were normal again.

  He looked up at the woman in his doorway. She winked, then yawned, revealing her fangs in gleaming white detail. “Now we can talk,” she said.

  “Talk?” Taras asked, backing toward the window. Several wooden boards blocked it-Taras had added them to shield the place from sunlight-but he could break through them if he had to. “About what?”

  “Something we both want, Taras. And stop moving toward the window. I could kill you before you broke the first board if I wanted. I’m not here for that.”

  He couldn’t hide his surprise. How the hell did she know who he was?

  She stepped into the room with a silky, lethal grace, giving Taras his first good look at her. Her long black hair spilled in waves over her shoulders. Aristocratic, sharp features dominated her lovely face. Her black eyes glittered with amusement, and a faint trace of a smile tugged at the corners of her deep red lips. Her clothing clung to her like a second skin, leaving very little to the imagination. He found his eyes drawn to the shapely swell of her breasts. Had he still had need of breath, she would have taken it away. As it was, he could not help but stare at her dangerous beauty.

  More than her beauty, he felt the power of her lithe body in his skin. It tickled his nerves, sending an icy shiver through him that he couldn’t hide. Her wide, confident smile burned a hole through him and cauterized the wound. The woman’s power sizzled and popped, radiating from her body like heat from the sun. Taras realized he would have no chance if it came to blows. He had no doubt that she could, indeed, kill him any time she wished, just as she claimed.

  He moved to the edge of his bed and sat down. She didn’t want to fight, that was obvious. A deal, then. But for what? And why him? Only one way to find out.

  “What could a woman like you possibly want that you can’t get for yourself?”

  She sauntered into the room, slithering onto the bed behind him and raising her hand to his arm. Her fingernails traced softly along his skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind them. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he felt something wet and slippery on the back of his neck. Her tongue? She brought her face next to his and brushed her lips against his ear. Taras stiffened, trying to suppress the rapidly awakening desires he’d thought long dead. Had he really been thinking about Mary only moments ago? Gods, it had been so long…

  “Theron,” she whispered into his ear. “I want Theron.”

  Taras jerked away from her, catching her wrist in his hand. All thoughts of desire gone, he stared into her black eyes, searching for some sign of the joke. She looked back at him, a smirk hiding at the very edge of her lips.

  “What did you say?” he asked, his fists bunched, useless, at his side.

  “Theron,” she replied. “I want him. You can help me get him.”

  “Why do you want him?”

  She shook her head. “We’ll get to that in a moment. The important thing is Theron is here in Londinium and-”

  “He’s here?” Taras jumped to his feet, his rage lending him a strength he hadn’t known he possessed. Without realizing it, he’d willed his claws to grow, and despite the woman’s influence, they sprouted fast and strong from his knuckles. “Where?”

  She eyed his claws, and for the first time her smile faltered. The corner of her mouth twitched, and her brow creased with a brief look of confusion. It passed quickly, however, and she stood to face him. “Sit down.”

  Taras towered over her, and his rage pulsed through his body like a wild thing. “No,” he said, and tried to shove his way past her.

  The second he touched her, he heard a popping noise and felt a jolt of energy sizzle through his body. His muscles jerked, and his knees buckled, sending him sprawling to the floor in a heap. The air in the room smelled like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. He lay there looking up at her while his arms and legs twitched as in the throes of a seizure. What the blazes had she done to him?

  “I can do worse,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “Don’t touch me again.”

  Taras nodded, or he tried to. The muscles in his neck spasmed and didn’t quite obey his command. But she smiled again.

  “Good,” she said, and sat back on the bed. “Theron is in town. He is here looking for you.”

  The twitching in his muscles lessened, and he regained some control. “Me? Why?”

  “Theron hates you almost as much as you hate him, if not more,” she replied. “Do you know what you took from him when you refused to take him to Jesus’ tomb?”

  Taras shook his head. His body had resumed normal function, and he picked himself up off the floor and moved to the far side of the room. His visitor noticed, but her smile never faltered. “No, I don’t,” he said, “and I don’t care.” He thought of Mary’s face, and the familiar ache settled into his chest. “Whatever he lost, it is nothing compared to what he took.”

  “He lost everything,” she continued. “He was on a path of glory; a servant of the Council, and a favored one at that. He’d made a few mistakes, but all he had to do was show up in the Halls of the Bachiyr with the rabbi’s head and he would have had everything he wanted.”

  “Well,” Taras said, “we know how that turned out.”

  She stared at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You and Theron are much alike, Roman. You are both skilled assassins who worked for a higher power. Both of you are dedicated to your tasks, and possessed of far more patience than most, yet your biting sarcasm has landed you in trouble more than once. And of course, both of you are Bachiyr who are running from the agents of the Council.”

  Privately, Taras swore to himself he was nothing like Theron, but it was hard to argue the similarities with her. Time to change the subject. “So why do you need my help?” he asked.

  “He will follow you anywhere,” she replied. “If you walked into the Council’s portal here in Londinium he wouldn’t hesitate, even though he knows the Council’s agents would swarm him. He hates you that much.”

  “So?”

  “I want you to lead him to me. Let him see you in the market, then run to me. Once he is nearby I can capture him.”

  “Why do you want him?” Taras asked for the second time.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Taras shook his head again.

  She looked at him again with that same bemused smile on her lips. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  “My name is Lannis,” she said. “Fifth of The Council of Thirteen.”

  7

  Theron walked into the tavern and surveyed the room, his head swiveling from one side to the other. The main room stank of sweat and old mead, with a hint of blood added, probably from a brawl. The walls were bare, unadorned wood, with not a single window to let in light or allow the stale air to circulate. Apparently the patrons of this place enjoyed their gloom.

  A dozen or so wooden tables sat on the floor, most of them empty. Behind the bar, a stout Briton was deep in conversation with a plump young serving girl. The two looked bored, as well they might. The place was nearly empty, with only a handful of sullen, raggedly-dressed humans nursing their drinks.

  These are the ones who stayed behind, thought Theron. The city is doomed.

  A pair of soldiers stood alone in a corner, tal
king and drinking and casting wistful glances at the door. Probably ordered by Suetonius to stay behind and offer a token resistance. Perhaps to slow down the Iceni horde. By all reports, Boudica did not take prisoners, so the two soldiers were as good as dead. Judging by their faces, they knew it, as well. Having seen firsthand what the Roman Legion did to deserters, Theron understood why they stayed behind. Better a quick death in battle than a slow, painful one at the hands of a Roman Inquisitor.

  Taras was nowhere in sight. Another wasted effort.

  Theron turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you a coward, too?” said a gravelly voice at his back. “Afraid of a few barbarians?”

  Theron turned to find himself face to chest with a very large – and very drunk – man in a dirty tunic and torn breeches. Theron recognized him as one of the men from the only occupied table in the tavern. Only a few moments ago the man’s face had been buried deep in a mug of ale. His craggy face revealed lines of dirt and sweat, and his odor testified to his lack of proper bathing. The man swayed on his feet, steadied by his hand on Theron’s shoulder, and bent his neck to bring his face close enough that the vampire could smell the rot of his mouth.

  “Are you going to answer me?” the man asked, revealing a mouthful of half rotten teeth. He shook his hand, causing Theron to jerk back and forth like a toy.

  Theron didn’t say a word. He punched the drunk in the solar plexus, delighted by the grimace of pain that sprouted on the large man’s face. He pulled his hand back and punched again, this time in the sternum. A loud crack echoed through the tavern as the bone snapped, along with several ribs. Theron grinned as the man slid to the floor, his breath coming in wet, choppy gasps. A thin line of blood trickled from the drunk’s mouth. Theron knew what that meant; he’d punctured a lung. The man would be dead in minutes, drowned in his own blood. No less than he deserved.