by David McAfee
One more push.
Then he was free. His back came away from the rod with a wet, sticky pop, and Taras twisted to the side and fell to the stone floor. He lay on his back on the cold floor, wet with his own blood, and stared up at the shaft of metal. It glistened red and slick in the pale light of the room. The smell of blood was everywhere.
The hole in his chest began to itch as his body tried to repair the damage, but without blood the healing would be slow. He needed to find food, and fast.
Taras put his feet under him and grabbed the pole. His hand slipped as he tried to grip it, but he managed to hold on and adjust his grip. With a grunt of pain, he rose to his feet. His vision swam as a wave of vertigo hit him, almost sending him back to the floor. Taras steadied himself, forcing his mind to clear. Ramah could be on his way back right now. Taras had not spent the last hour pulling his body up a metal pole in his chest just to faint now and allow Ramah to capture him again. He stood on shaky legs, willing himself to remain upright and conscious. Once the images of the room stayed more or less stationary, he took a tentative step away from the spot where he almost died. Again.
Damn the Bachiyr. He’d never wanted to be one of them, and he’d never asked for this. Should he somehow manage to escape Londinium with his life, he vowed he would never again entangle himself in their affairs. Let them all kill each other, he would have nothing to do with any of them. Taras had come too close to death too many times, all he wanted now was to get away and stay away.
He stumbled out the door, looking for food.
***
Lannosea sat in her tent. All her servants had been dismissed. On a chair in the corner sat her armor. Tears stung her eyes as it glinted back at her. The feeble torchlight reflected back at her from the numerous small steel plates embedded in the leather. It was good armor, battle tested and strong. She should be wearing it right now, standing with her mother and sister as they prepared to ride into battle. Her sword should be in her hand, ready to cut the life from her enemies.
Instead she sat in a soft, loose robe, far away from danger.
Far away from honor.
What would her father say if he could see her now?
She could imagine his face burning with shame. He’d be shaking his head, fuming at the thought of one of his daughters shying away from a fight. Her mother had given him no sons to train, and so she and Heanua had been raised to fight like any man. An Iceni queen does not run, her father would say. An Iceni queen fights until the breath leaves her body, same as an Iceni king. You shame yourself as well as your father.
It was true. For generations her people had been raised by the sword, and now she, a princess, sat in her tent alone as her people went to war. There could be no greater shame. “And for what?” she asked herself. “The unborn bastard of a Roman pig.”
Lannosea didn’t give a damn about the baby inside her, the gods could take it and do with it what they willed, but she feared the shame of carrying it more than anything else in the world.
The truth would come out eventually. Sooner or later, it would have to. She could not very well hide a nine month belly from prying eyes. What would she do then?
Her armor shone in the brief flare of a torch, drawing her eye to it.
Could there be another way? She had told her sister that the suit would not fit, but she hadn’t actually tried it on. She merely assumed that the leather and steel, being tight on her middle already, would not wrap around her growing belly.
But maybe…
She stepped over to the chair and grabbed the chest piece, lifting it from the chair with a sigh. It was beautiful, as much now as it had been when her father first gave it to her. A suit worthy of an Iceni princess. She tried it on, but it seemed her fears were correct. The fittings, even let out to their greatest breadth, would not close. The difference was marginal. She felt like she could almost cinch it tight, if only she were just a tiny bit smaller.
“My robe,” she said aloud. She removed the thick, woolen robe and threw it to the floor, standing naked in front of the chair. Would it be enough?
This time when she cinched the armor, it held. It was tight, and the leather chafed due to the lack of anything underneath, but it held. She took it off and donned a thin blouse and breeches, then she put on the rest of her armor, which consisted of studded leggings, bracers, and a small shield, picked up her sword, and admired her reflection in the glass. Everything was snug, and her skin would be raw despite the blouse, but it all fit. She could fight. She didn’t have to cower in her tent like a weak old woman. And her discomfort would only be temporary.
“Far better to die on the field, covered in blood, than an old woman with no honor,” she said.
Lannosea took one last look at herself in the glass, smiled, and raced for the tent exit. Her spirit soared for the first time in months. Finally, she had a plan. She had something to do other than sitting morosely in a corner. She could join her people at last.
Her mother would be glad to see her. Lannosea grimaced as the leather rubbed painfully against her skin, but she reminded herself it would only hurt for a short while. How happy would Boudica be when they laid her daughter’s corpse at her feet?
22
Theron wiped the blood from his chin as he tossed the woman’s body to the street. Another prostitute. It seemed they were the only ones foolish enough to remain behind. Perhaps this one was thinking about all the coin she could make from the remaining soldiers now that most of her competition had fled. Foolish whore. What good will those coins do you now, he wondered. He caught himself casting about for a place to hide the body, and Baella’s words echoed in his mind.
Still living by their rules, are you?
It was true. For the last thirty years, even though he’d been an exile, he’d lived according to the laws of the Council. He’d never turned a human into one of his kind and he’d always taken the time to hide his victims, or at least to disguise their remains so the method of death would be unclear. After nearly three decades of being a fugitive, he had to ask himself why he still cared.
It’s good sense, he told himself. I don’t want to leave them a trail.
Except he still left them a trail. Every kill he hid under a bush, mutilated beyond recognition, or simply fed to the animals would give away his location to those who knew what to look for. Humans would not be able to detect it, but other Bachiyr, themselves familiar with the many ways to dispose of their victims, would know right away. Now that he thought about it, it was a wonder Ramah hadn’t caught him yet. The Councilor must have had many other things distracting him the last few decades.
That made him pause. Since the debacle in Jerusalem, Theron had assumed that his capture and punishment would be a high priority for the Council of Thirteen, but now he knew that to be untrue. A single renegade would be of little consequence, even a former Enforcer like himself. They probably had forgotten about him by now, with the exception of Ramah, who never forgot, the Council of Thirteen had most likely moved on to other matters.
As soon as he thought it, he knew it was true. He’d been part of the Council’s elite team for centuries. He had seen dozens of renegades come and go, some of them heinous, and others mere inconveniences. He could only remember a handful of their names, himself. The old Greek Bachiyr Arya had fled the Council after falling in love with a human and telling him about her race. Jaquar the Mad had left a bloody trail across Asia in his search for a human whose blood was said to protect Bachiyr from sunlight. Trandy, a young Bachiyr from Rome, had attempted to assassinate Councilor Lannis and escaped by sheer luck when the boat carrying the pursuing Enforcer sank in the waters near Athens. All of them had been big news at the time of their crimes, yet they were barely mentioned in meetings a year later even though, to Theron’s knowledge, none of them had ever been captured.
To the Council, Theron was probably nothing more than another fugitive. And he’d never given them a reason to feel otherwise. It was no secret that he would
prefer to go back to the Council and regain their good graces. Theron thought of little else but the Halls of the Bachiyr and ripping out Taras’s throat. But the truth, he realized, was that they would never let him back. Theron, former Lead Enforcer and executor of the Council’s will in Judea, was never very important to the Council at all. Just another servant in a long list of them.
Who was Lead Enforcer now? Was it Ramah? Or did they give the task to another Bachiyr? Aliandra, perhaps? Did it matter? With the exception of Ramah, anyone else in the position would be expendable. Fodder to be used and tossed aside when they were done. The idea did nothing to ease his tension.
The single exception to the Council’s general apathy toward renegade Bachiyr stood in front of him. Baella. She alone had remained a high priority for centuries. He couldn’t help but wonder why. Was it her constant thwarting of their demands? Or simply the fact that she took every opportunity to make them look like fools?
Probably a bit of both, but as Theron watched her walk ahead of him, he could not help but admire her. She had remained free of their influence for…for…
How old was she, anyway?
He supposed it didn’t matter. Her age would mean nothing once he took her head to Herris. But the more he studied her movements; the lethal grace of her walk, the confident stretch of her legs, the more he came to wonder if he could kill her. After all, if the Councilors hadn’t been able to get rid of her, what chance did he have?
None.
Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get back in the Council’s good graces anymore, anyway. Maybe he’d be better off learning a few things from Baella. Clearly, she wanted him alive for a reason.
Maybe, after thirty years of exile, things were looking up.
***
Baella smiled. Theron was just like every other Enforcer she’d encountered over the centuries. His thoughts were as easy to discern as they were to manipulate. She sent a few more images backward to his mind. Pictures of the two of them fighting a team of Enforcers sent to capture them. It was a glorious image, and one she knew he would like.
It was too bad he would never live long enough to enact it.
Theron was a prize, certainly, but her real prize was behind them, back in Londinium. Sooner or later, Ramah would catch up, and then Theron would become expendable.
23
Boudica grasped the hilt of her sword and pulled it from its sheath. It came free with the telltale hiss of steel sliding across leather, and she raised the bared blade toward the sky. It was the silent command for her troops to get ready. Behind her, she heard the ballista crew tightening the rope spring, and she knew that all along her lightless lines, more crews were doing the same. The Trinovante had brought along a score of the machines, plus a dozen catapults, hundreds of boulders, and fifty balls of pitch that could be set alight and fired over the city wall. The first wave of her attack-all flaming balls of pitch-would be devastating to Londinium’s outer defenses. If the crews could get the machines loaded and fire another volley before the initial surprise of the first attack wore off, the battle would be over before it began. The flames would enter the city proper and set fire to the buildings within.
It is difficult to defend a city that is already in flames.
She looked down the line at her army, a dark column that stretched to the horizon like a black smudge on the land. Nearly a hundred thousand warriors from the northern tribes of Britannia stood ready to fight and die. Throughout the landscape of dark-clad soldiers she could see the larger silhouettes of the war machines they had brought with them. Catapults, ballistae, trebuchets, and even a few large machines that resembled giant crossbows, all manned and operated by men who crawled over them like ants. They could not lose. The Trinovante had sent thousands of men, as had several other clans, but by far the bulk of her troops were Iceni, born and raised in the ways of battle. The Romans had no idea of the force they had awakened when they stole her lands, but they were about to find out.
The clop-clop of a horse’s hooves caught her attention, and she turned to look behind her. Heanua sat rigid in her saddle, sword in hand. Despite her misgivings about her eldest daughter’s ambition, Boudica couldn’t quite stifle the feeling of pride she felt at the sight. Heanua looked like a queen. Regal, strong, and ready to fight for her people. If only Lannosea…
No, she thought. No distractions. Lannosea does what she does, and that is the end of it. Except it wasn’t, and she knew it. Lannosea had been acting strange for months, and if rumors could be believed, had even dismissed her bathing staff. She’d even begun to dress differently, wearing delicate, loose-fitting clothes not suitable for life on the road. Not only that, but her appetite had grown as her health declined. It was a wonder she Boudica stopped in mid thought, assembling the facts together in her mind. Lannosea’s recent bouts of nausea, her increased appetite, the lack of servants in her bath. Those servants were the only people who would ever see her with no clothes. Why would she dismiss them unless she had something she didn’t want them to see? Something like…
No…could she?
As if Boudica’s thoughts had summoned her, Lannosea rode up to her post, clad in her leather and steel armor. A cheer rose from the ranks as the soldiers nearby recognized the lovely Iceni woman, and it spread through the troops, despite Boudica’s strict warning for her men to keep silent. Lannosea stopped her horse ten feet away from her mother’s, and raised her hand in greeting. “I am ready, my Queen,” she said.
Boudica stared, unable to speak. Lannosea wore the same armor she always wore, yet this time it seemed a bit snug, straining at the middle where it wrapped her belly in protective leather. Lannosea herself pretended not to notice, but Boudica saw the strain of the leather, and she knew her hunch to be correct. Pregnant. Of course! It made perfect sense now. Those Roman bastards had gotten Lannosea pregnant.
As the ramifications began to pile up in her head-the dishonor, the laughter, the indignity-Heanua cleared her throat.
Boudica jumped, then realized Heanua’s meaning. She’d been staring at Lannie’s belly. That wouldn’t do at all. Soon the soldiers around her would notice what she had, and that would be the end of Lannosea’s future. If she still has one. She shook her head, knowing otherwise. Lannie will never rule the Iceni.
For her part, Lannosea sat straight and stiff in her saddle, her expression a mixture of stoic bravery and resignation. Boudica understood. Lannosea had been raised a princess. She would know better than anyone the inevitable results of her pregnancy. She would be forced to live in disgrace, unwanted and unwed. No one would make a move against her, of course. She was still royalty, but her future would be marred by scandal. For someone as strong and proud as Lannie, that would hurt much more than any blade.
She had not come to fight. She had come to die with her honor intact. The mother inside her remembered Lannie’s birth, and the feel of her mouth on her teat. She recalled the girl’s first sword, and the smile on her face when she first put an arrow into the target. When she was a babe, Boudica would sing soft, soothing songs to her until she fell asleep in her arms. Her father would cradle her as though she were the most precious of his treasures, girl or no, and he covered her tiny face with kisses made prickly by the stubble on his rarely-shaven face. The part of the queen that remembered those things cried out at the injustice of what had been done to her beautiful daughter.
But above all else, Boudica was a Queen and an Iceni warrior. The rulership of her people took precedence over all, and an Iceni was only as good as his or her honor. Without it, they might as well go to Rome and join the emperor’s minions. If Lannie sought an honorable death rather than the shame of bearing the animal in her belly, Boudica would not deny it to her.
“Very well,” she replied, and Lannosea’s face relaxed. “We will attack soon.”
She turned to Heanua, and the look on her eldest daughter’s face told her she had already known. How long had they been planning to keep this a secret? An unexpected p
ain stabbed at her heart. Her daughters had lied to her, kept secrets from her. No matter the dire nature of Lannosea’s condition or the severity of their coming battle, it felt like a mutiny. She might have expected as much from Heanua, but Lannie? Never.
She and Lannie had always been close. There had never been any secrets between them until now. Heanua was another matter. Willful and stubborn, she had proven a challenge on more than one occasion, constantly arguing with her mother over the distribution of supplies, training for the troops, even the weapons they brought into battle. It seemed to her Heanua thought she was the Queen, and not her mother. Once this battle was over, Boudica would have to show her once and for all who was in charge.
***
Theron and Baella left the city by way of the easternmost gate. A pair of armed legionaries let them go without even questioning them, probably under orders from Suetonius. Just outside the gate, two off-duty soldiers played nervously at a game of dice. They stared at the numbers as if they didn’t really see them, then picked them up and tossed them again. Theron recognized the vacant looks on their faces. They had been left behind to die, and they knew it. The scene reminded Theron of the night he killed Ephraim. That night, he’d been forced to kill two legionaries on patrol who’d stopped to play dice. He’d ripped the head from the first one, then turned and stabbed the second.