by David McAfee
Theron reiterated his earlier invitation.
“I am going to enjoy this,” Ramah said.
This time when the pain hit, it felt like a flaming boulder had been forced into Theron’s skull. He clenched his fists and his eyes shut, but the flames licked through the insides of his mind like a predator, clawing and eating away at his brain until all rational thought had fled. It didn’t take long for him to break his silence, giving Ramah the scream he desired.
12
Boudica watched the sun break over the Eastern horizon. Dawn. Time to march.
Behind her, the army of Iceni and Trinovante prepared for their journey. Her advance scouts had reported killing over a dozen Roman legionaries in the outlying fields. Some of them had been caught spying, while others were simply passing through but could not be allowed to continue after seeing the army camped so close to Londinium. Additionaly, dozens of civilians who’d been spotted in the area had been captured, interrogated, and put to the sword. Boudica was taking no chances.
Even with all their precautions, she knew her troops could not catch every single person who’d caught sight of her army. It mattered little enough, however. The prize was the city, and she meant to have it. The soldiers who remained in Londinium would not be able to withstand her onslaught, and the Roman insult would be avenged this very night. She turned to regard her troops. Cyric stood at the head of the army, calling orders to his officers, who in turn shouted orders to their men. Soon they would be ready to move. The journey would take the entire day, but that suited her just fine. Her intent was to attack at night when the city’s defenses would be at their lowest.
“It will be a long day,” her daughter said. Boudica turned to regard Heanua, uncertain of her meaning.
“Have you lost your will for this?” she asked. “Like Lannosea?”
Heanua’s eyes snapped left, and she stared hard into Boudica’s face. “Hardly. I wish we were there now. I can’t wait to gut the people of Londinium.”
The queen smiled. She should have known better. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there tonight.”
“It isn’t soon enough,” Heanua replied, and turned her face West, toward their objective. “Even if we arrive in five minutes, it will not be soon enough.”
Boudica noted that her daughter’s knuckles had gone white on the pommel of her sword, and nodded her approval. Heanua wanted this even more than she did. She supposed that made sense. Her indignities had not broken her spirit like they had Lannosea’s. Instead they had molded her into a fiery, merciless warrior.
Thinking about Lannosea reminded her that she had neither seen nor heard from her younger daughter all morning. The girl should be here with me right now, she thought, anxious to avenge herself on some Roman scum.
“Have you seen your sister?”
Heanua shook her head. “Not this morning. She is probably still asleep.”
“It’s almost time to move,” the gravel in her own voice surprised her. She hadn’t thought she could be so angry. “Why is she not standing here with us?”
Heanua shook her head again. “I don’t know.”
“Find her,” Boudica snapped. “If she sleeps, wake her. If not, drag her to my tent. I want to see her within the hour.”
“I am not your personal messenger, mother,” Heanua said. “Send someone else to collect Lannie.”
Boudica rounded on her eldest daughter, her face flushed and warm. “You will do as I say, child!” she spat. “Or you will watch the conquest of Londinium from one of the cages!”
The cages were just that; mobile cells the Trinovante had brought with them to house prisoners. Each one was six feet by six feet, with stout wooden floors and iron bars set wide enough apart to allow for throwing rotten fruit and buckets of excrement. The Trinovante liked to humiliate their prisoners prior to killing them. Boudica had no intention of taking prisoners, but the Trinovante leaders wanted the cages brought along anyway, and she needed their help. They rolled along on wooden wheels behind the bulk of the army, pulled by oxen.
“Mother, you can’t-” Heanua began.
Boudica cut her off. “I can and will. I will have one of the cages brought to the front lines just for you, so you can view the taking of the city from behind its iron bars.”
A dark look flashed across Heanua’s pale features, but Boudica held her ground, daring her to disobey. For a moment, she seemed like she might argue further, but then her daughter pulled her hand from her sword and swept into a curt bow. “Yes, my Queen,” she said, and turned back to the encampment.
I’ll have to watch that one, Boudica thought. Heanua was not next in line for the throne of the Iceni, but she was not far behind. If anything happened to Boudica, Heanua would assume the leadership of her people. While Heanua would no doubt make a fine, strong Queen, Boudica wasn’t ready to give up her rule just yet.
She turned and headed back for her own tent, which would be disassembled within an hour. Along the way, she pondered the strangeness of having one daughter with no ambition at all, and another who would probably try to kill her in the coming days.
It is a strange world in which I live. Strange or not, Heanua would never have considered disobeying her queen before the Roman attack. Those bastards had not only taken her husband’s kingdom from her, they had taken her daughters, as well.
But she would have the final word. Nero would beg her to take her kingdom back by the time she finished with his army.
13
Theron awoke to the sound of someone groaning. It sounded distant, hollow, as though he heard it through a long corridor. The sound grew stronger and louder as he gradually drifted into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed and listened, not wanting to give away his growing lucidity.
The pain was amazing. All through his body tiny sizzles fired on his nerve endings, making his muscles twitch and spasm. Because of these involuntary movements, he knew without opening his eyes that he had been moved from the table to the stocks. The groaning sound must be Taras, who might be regaining his senses, as well. But did he have to be so damn noisy about it?
Theron opened his eye a crack and risked a quick look. He was in the same room as before. The chains on the wall where the Lost One had tortured Taras hung empty. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room with him. That didn’t mean anything, of course. With his head stuck in the stocks there could be an army behind him and he wouldn’t be able to see them. He might be able to hear the breathing of living occupants, or their heartbeats, but the only other people likely to be in the room with him had no need of either. Still, the silence of the place spoke to its emptiness. He hoped. He opened his eyes the rest of the way and looked around as well as he could, all the while expecting to hear Ramah’s chortling laughter behind him. When the laughter didn’t come, he listened harder. The sound of a mouse scurrying across the floor confirmed there was no Psalm of Silence on the room, which meant he probably was alone for the moment. Well, except for Taras. Ramah had left them both in the cell and gone off somewhere, probably to sleep away the day.
And why not? Neither of his prisoners were going anywhere. Not weak and shackled like they were. All Theron could do was wait for Ramah to kill him, which would probably occur just after dark. Most likely, the only reason he still lived at all was because Ramah had run out of time and had to find a place to spend the day.
Was it dark outside now? He was awake, which usually did not happen during the day. Did that mean dusk had come? If so, how long did he have before Ramah returned? It didn’t look good. Sooner or later the Councilor would come back to the room and finish what he’d started.
The hell with this, he thought. He strained his arms against the wood, hoping to break the lock, but it held. The coagulated, rusty brown stain on the floor told him well enough why. Ramah had spilled and wasted a great deal of his blood. He needed more. Without it he was too weak to break free.
“Theron?” The voice came from his left. Taras. He sounded weak as well.
Theron ignored him and again tried to break through his bonds. Once again they proved too strong for his blood-starved body.
“Theron?”
Theron ignored him again and put his mind to the task of escape. His body couldn’t get him out, so what could he do? He could try to bribe Ramah, though he didn’t have anything the Councilor would want or couldn’t take by force. Perhaps he could shout for help, hoping some human would wander by. But that might bring Ramah all the faster. Or the Lost One. The room wasn’t freezing, so he knew the cursed thing wasn’t near, but it couldn’t be far. Ramah would have it with him at all times.
He needed to think.
“Theron? Are you there?”
“Damn it, Roman. Where the hell else would I be?”
“Dead would have been my guess,” Taras replied.
“Not yet.”
“That was a Lost One, wasn’t it?”
“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Theron suppressed a shudder. The Lost Ones curdled his skin. “Nasty, but effective. Now be quiet.”
For a moment it seemed Taras would do what Theron asked, but then his voice came through the silence again. “Ramah wasted a great deal of your blood.”
“I can see that,” Theron said, looking again at the large dried puddle beneath him.
“Why didn’t he drink it?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“Is our blood poisonous to other Bachiyr?”
“Of course not. Ramah just enjoys torture. Now be quiet and let me think before I remove your head from your shoulders.”
Taras managed to remain silent for a count of thirty, then he started again. “When I get out of this, Theron, I’m going to kill you.” Taras said.
Theron chuckled, a thick, wet gurgle. “I doubt you’ll get the chance. Ramah will kill you just to keep that pleasure for himself.”
“Ramah will not touch me once he talks to Lannis,” Taras said. “He obviously doesn’t know about our deal. Once she explains it to him, I will be free, and you will be dead.”
“Lannis?” Theron asked. “ Councillor Lannis? How in the Nine Hells do you know her?”
“She came to me a few nights ago and told me you were in Londinium. She offered me clemency from the Council if I helped capture you, which we did. Once she talks to Ramah-”
Theron couldn’t help his laughter, which cut through the room and silenced Taras’s stupidity. Now everything made sense. “You are a bigger fool than I thought, and I thought you were quite the fool, already.”
“We’ll see,” Taras replied. “When Lannis returns-”
“That wasn’t Lannis,” Theron said, still chuckling. “That was Baella. A renegade Bachiyr that the Council has been hunting for a very long time. She always seems to pop up and make things messy, then disappears again. I bet she vanished the second she saw Ramah, didn’t she?”
Silence from Taras.
“I thought as much,” Theron continued. “You fell right into her trap, Roman. I’m not sure what she wanted with you, but now that Ramah has you, you will probably not live to see the moon rise tomorrow.”
Taras said nothing, thankfully, and Theron returned to the task at hand. Namely, escaping the stocks and getting the hell out of Londinium before Ramah came back. It wouldn’t be easy, even if he did manage to get out of this room. Ramah wasn’t the only one out in the city looking for him. Besides the Lost One, there was also Baella.
Theron didn’t have any idea what she would be doing with someone like Taras, but it didn’t surprise him. Nothing she did surprised him. He, and the rest of the Council, had been hunting her for centuries. Her name was whispered in the Halls of the Bachiyr like a curse, as if just by saying it she might appear to wreak havoc. The Council of Thirteen had been trying to corral her almost from the very beginning of his race.
No one knew much about her. Her origins and age were a mystery. Some speculated she was as old as Herris. To be sure, she’d been around at least as long as 3,900 year old Jui Jyn, the Council’s youngest member, and probably longer. Very few had ever seen her, and fewer still lived to tell others about it. Some Bachiyr even considered her a myth, but Theron knew better. He and Ephraim had cornered her once in the Library of Alexandria, just a few decades before the debacle that had made Theron a renegade, himself. Theron had set fire to the building in an attempt to destroy her. Ephraim had been inside at the time, and none too pleased that he had almost been killed along with the renegade.
Their relationship had never been the same after that. From good friends to a cool, detached distance, and then Ephraim fell under the spell of that damn Jewish rabbi and ruined everything. Theron should have killed the bastard in Alexandria and saved himself a great deal of trouble.
A shadow fell over his face, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up to see Taras standing over him, fangs extended and eyes burning.
“Who is the fool now?” Taras asked.
Theron stared at Taras’s hands. They had shrunk. As he watched, they returned to their normal size, filling in and swelling like rising dough.
“How…?” Theron began.
“You mean you don’t know?” Taras shook his head. “Then why the hell would I tell you?” Taras stumbled, but managed to steady himself by placing a hand on Theron’s stocks. He stared at Theron and his ice-blue eyes shifted to red, his ragged face framed by dirty yellow hair. He grinned, revealing his fangs. “Thank you for answering my questions. I would never have known our blood was safe if not for you.”
14
Lannosea was sitting in her chair tying her long hair back with a leather thong when Heanua stormed in, still angry with her mother for sending her to fetch her sister like some house servant. Lannosea started when she saw her, nearly falling out of her chair. Her expression was a mixture of fear and guilt. She doesn’t even have her armor on, Heanua noted. Lannosea wore nothing more than her shift, as though she had no intention of coming along for the battle. Had her sister turned into a coward?
“What are you doing?” Heanua asked. “Why aren’t you ready? Mother is waiting for us at the head of the army.”
“Tell her I will be there shortly,” Lannosea replied, and turned her attention back to her hair, twisting it into a tight bun before securing it with the thin leather strap.
“I’ll do no such thing. I’m not your servant.” Lannie had always been a bit spoiled. The result of her stunning beauty and her station as an Iceni princess. In the past, she had gotten her way with a subtle flash of her ice blue eyes and a well timed shift of her hair. Heanua, whose brown hair and gray eyes rarely attracted notice, had been forced to play second to her younger sister for most of her life. While Heanua was also an Iceni princess, it was widely believed that Lannosea would someday marry a more powerful husband, and thus assume the queenship of the Iceni people.
Yet here she was, languishing all but naked in a cushioned chair on perhaps the most important day in the history of their people.
“Lannie, you need to get ready. Now. Or I will drag you to Mother as you are.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You know I would.” Heanua crossed her arms over her chest. “Today is important. Today we strike back at Nero.”
“As we did at Camulodunum?” Lannosea asked, her voice soft, muffled. “Do you remember the sound of thousands of people dying, Heanua? Their screams as they pleaded for mercy? Did it please you?”
“Of course,” Heanua said. “The dogs of Rome deserved nothing less.”
Lannosea turned her face away, but not before Heanua caught sight of the tears building in her eyes. “We are far from Rome, sister. The people of Camulodunum, like the people of Londinium, have done nothing to us.”
“Do you remember the sound of your own screams?” Heanua shot back. “I was there, as well, remember? Your cries for mercy went ignored, as I recall. How can you sit in your chair and pretend the Romans deserve compassion?”
Lannosea didn’t answer, but Heanua heard the sound of he
r breath as it hitched in her throat. Was she crying? Today, of all days? By the gods, what was wrong with her?
“That’s enough, Lannie,” Heanua said. She strode across the room and grabbed her sister’s wrist, yanking her to her feet. Lannosea yelped at the sudden jerk, but recovered enough to pull her arm back from her sister’s grasp.
“Don’t touch me, Heannie!” she screeched, her face streaked with tears. “Don’t touch me again or by the gods I’ll-”
Heanua slapped her sister across the face. “I don’t know what is wrong with you, Lannie. But you are coming with me if I have to drag you all the way to Londinium. Now I suggest you grab your armor and get moving before I-”
Heanua stopped short, her breath caught in her throat. Lannosea’s clothing had shifted when she got to her feet, and now Heanua saw what she’d missed before. When Lannie had been sitting in her chair, the bulge at her middle had been hidden by her clothes. But now that she was on her feet it was easy to tell.
“No,” Heanua whispered. “No, it can’t be. Lannosea…”
Her sister’s expression crumbled, and she slumped back into her chair and dropped her face to her hands. Her shoulders bobbed up and down as she sobbed into her fingers, the severe bun in her hair coming loose and sending stray locks of hair spilling down around her shoulders. “One of the Romans…” she said.
Heanua understood. The rapes. One of those Roman bastards had created what would be another Roman bastard. And her sister, an Iceni princess, would be forced to live with the shame of it. No wonder she hadn’t been acting normal. Even after the Iceni and Trinovante reclaimed Britannia from Nero, Lannosea would never rule. Indeed, the likelihood of her ever finding a husband at all was slim. No one would want her now. Not after word spread that she’d given birth to a bastard child of a Roman legionary. It wouldn’t matter that the child was born of rape. Few men, certainly no man of any standing, would want to touch her.
“You can’t keep this child,” Heanua said softly.