David McAfee - 61 A.D.

“Is her malady contagious?”

“We don’t know. But it’s possible. How would you look, mother, leading the army from your sick bed?”

Heanua was right. Boudica wanted to go see her daughter, but getting sick herself would only harm the campaign. It would have to wait until after the attack of Londinium. Once the city was destroyed, she would go see Lannosea and find out exactly what was going on. The girl had been acting strange lately, anyway.

“Very well,” she said. “You and I will lead the attack on Londinium. Lannie will rest. For now.”

Boudica turned back and walked to where her generals were gathered, no doubt going over a few last minute strategies. Cyric was there, as well, going on about the next city on their list. Always thinking ahead, that one. That’s why she liked him so much. That and the fact that he was obviously smitten with Lannosea.

She smiled. He would make a fine king someday.

Heanua watched her mother walk away, relieved for the time being that she wouldn’t have to come up with a bigger lie. What she’d told Boudica was partially true. Lannie was ill. Sort of. And she hadn’t told anyone. Of course, pregnancy wasn’t contagious, but she couldn’t think of another way to keep her mother from visiting the tent. At least she had bought a little time to think.

She climbed into her saddle and urged her mount forward under the guise of inspecting the troops. They didn’t require inspection, and indeed, many of them could scarcely be called soldiers. Her mother had assembled a vast horde of Iceni and Trinovante warriors, but compared to the disciplined ranks of the Romans, they were little more than a gathering of barbarians.

Heanua had seen the Roman Legion in action. Orderly rows and rank upon rank of organized men who knew their role and followed orders without question. It was a system that had seen Rome expand to the great empire it was today. Looking at her own people, she could only shake her head. Presently, two men fought over a wineskin even though they were to march in short order. A little farther on, a group of men snored loudly as their captain tried to wake them, the air around them smelled strongly of wine and mead. Not far away a man and woman lay naked on a mat of furs, their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies while a group of onlookers urged them on.

This was her army.

Heanua sighed. Her people were ragged and undisciplined, and the Romans were better armed and had the experience of generations of military learning. The Iceni had only one advantage, but it was a good one.

Strength of numbers.

Boudica had assembled a massive force of over a hundred thousand warriors, and more joined every day, attracted by the thought of plunder and conquest. The ground shook under her feet when her army marched, and the land behind them was bare and brown, the grass trampled dead by innumerable feet, hooves, and wagons. Among her people, it was the greatest such army ever gathered, and it would roll over Londinium like an ox over an anthill.

And Lannosea would not be part of it.

It felt strange to know she would ride into battle without her sister. Before the attack, Lannie had been a fierce warrior, besting women and men alike. But for the last five months she’d been timid and quiet, hardly daring to leave her tent. At least Heanua now understood why.

Pregnant. Those Roman legionaries had really done it for her sister. Her life was ruined, now. Cyric, who had doted on her ever since she was a child, would not want her once she birthed a Roman bastard, and she would lose the rulership of her people. That meant Heanua would be queen someday, a title she did not want. Let the Boudicas and Lannoseas of the world rule. Heanua had no head for it, and had never aspired to be queen. Heanua knew her sword and her mount. She relished the feel of the rippling muscles between her legs as her horse ran down an opponent, the scream as her sword cut into an enemy’s flesh, and the smells of blood and fire that accompanied battle.

That was Heranua’s world, not sitting in a cushioned chair issuing orders. But that would be her life unless she could think of a way to help Lannie. As she rode among the troops, she pondered her options. She thought of several plans, then discarded them immediately as unworkable or pointless. No matter what she might do, it didn’t change the fact that her sister was pregnant with the bastard child of a Roman legionary. By the time she reached the catapults, her face had grown flush with frustration.

She had to find a way to help Lannie. She had to.

The damp smell of mold and mildew flowed up from the stone stairway when Ramah pushed open the worn, peeling door that led to the basement. He expected to find his Lost One minding Theron and Taras, who should be ready for questioning after spending the day locked away. Instead he found Taras lying unconscious or dead on the floor and Theron missing. The stout lock on the side of the wooden stocks was broken, and hung by the warped loop of metal, but he could see nothing out of place with the shackles on the wall. The bolts were still in place, and the rings hung limply from chains embedded into the stone. How had Taras escaped them?

His Lost One was nowhere to be seen.

He stood in the doorway and examined the rest of the room, wanting to make sure there would be no surprises when he went in. More than one Bachiyr had been trapped by not paying attention to his surroundings. Ramah should know, he was an expert at catching his victims unaware, and so was Theron. But the room seemed clear. No ominous shadows or dusty tarps, and the wind outside told him there was no Psalm of Silence on the room. The walls were bare but for a row of metal rods, each about four feet long and an inch thick. Ramah didn’t know their intended use, but they were good for beating a prisoner across the back, as he’d learned the previous night. Everything was as he’d left it. The only thing out of place was the Bachiyr on the floor.

Ramah stepped through the doorway, his anger growing with each step. He never should have left the Lost One alone with his charges. When he found the thing, he was going to destroy it for letting one of the prisoners escape. Especially Theron. Ramah could have coped with the escape of Taras, but not Theron. The former Lead Enforcer was the one he really wanted. The Roman was just an added bonus.

As he approached, he reminded himself that the yellow-haired former legionary had been an accomplished assassin in life, and had somehow managed to survive as an unauthorized Bachiyr for almost thirty years, despite being hunted by every agent the Council of Thirteen could muster. It would be a mistake to assume everything in the room was as it seemed. Taras could be feigning unconsciousness, waiting for Ramah to get close enough to strike. Not that it would matter. Ramah would crush him easily, and both of them knew it.

He kicked Taras in the side of his chest, noting the satisfying crack as one of the prone vampire’s ribs broke. Taras groaned and made a weak effort to curl into a fetal position, but apparently the effort was too much for him, and he soon lay still again.

What the hell happened here? Had Taras escaped his bonds and then tried to assist Theron? Ramah couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Theron would have attacked Taras as soon as he was free. Taras would have to be very stupid to believe otherwise.

But Taras isn’t stupid, Ramah thought. Weak, but not stupid. So what did happen?

Ramah knelt down and grabbed Taras by the shoulder, rolling him over on his back. Taras’s eyes were closed and his fangs were retracted. He groaned again as Ramah moved him, and his eyes opened a crack. After a moment, the Roman’s eyes widened. Recognition dawned on Taras’s face, and he tried to squirm away, but Ramah put his hands to the other man’s shoulders and pinned him to the floor.