David McAfee - 61 A.D.

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?

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?