David McAfee - 61 A.D.

To the abyss with the Council of Thirteen, she thought. The Father’s lapdogs. Licking his boots for scraps from his table. Not her. She had no use for The Father or his laws. That’s why they hated her so much. The Council of Thirteen would have every Bachiyr believe that they needed the structure and protection of the Council to survive, but she was living proof that they did not. The only thing holding Bachiyr society to the Council was a thin strand of bluffs and outright lies. The Father could take them all to his realm for all she cared.

All but one.

She glanced at Ramah, running her finger gently up the curve of his jaw. So handsome. So dark. So beautiful…and so wasted in service to the Council. She knew his history, he was the product of a love gone wrong. The Father had tricked him into servitude by using his broken heart against him. But she would set him free, and together they would spread fear through all of Bachiyr society. It might take time for him to come around to her point of view, but she was up to the task. She certainly had time to spare. Her face split into a grin as she reflected on the last four thousand years. What were a few centuries weighed against eternity?

First, though, she had to get him back to her home, and that meant getting into Londinium under full siege. And for that, she did not have centuries. She had only a few hours. She sat her back against a tree and watched the Iceni lay waste to the city’s walls, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. Sooner or later the Iceni would cease the long range attack and send in the cavalry. That would be her chance to enter the city.

She just had to wait.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long

Taras stood in the doorway of a crumbling baker’s shop, watching as people ran screaming by. Many of them sported flames on their arms, legs, and heads. The charred, smoking remains of the less fortunate could be seen littering the street. Most of the city’s people had left before the attack, but enough remained behind that the smell of their burning flesh hung in the air, mixing with the smoke of fires too numerous to count. Speckled among the bodies was the rubble of the city. Buildings, wagons, and merchant stands littered the street with smoking debris, many reduced to piles of charred wooden boards, their splintery points aimed in every direction.

The store where Taras took his refuge had been all but demolished by a rock the size of a fruit cart, and flour, burst eggs, and a myriad of other ingredients covered the wreckage. Here and there, broken pieces of the baker’s trade littered the street outside the entrance. Mixing pots, spoons, jars of honey and sugar, all lay cracked and broken amidst the rubble. But the doorway stood, and it made as good a place as any for Taras to rest and evaluate his situation. It wasn’t good.

He could not leave the city through the western gate. He would have to find another way. Fortunately, there was another way. A small tunnel used by smugglers to bring questionable goods into the city. Taras had found it one night while trailing a robber who’d stolen an elderly man’s coin purse. Before the man died, he told Taras everything he wanted to know. The entrance was hidden beneath the floor of a tavern on the northern side of the city and the tunnel led to a small copse of trees about a hundred paces from the north wall. The smugglers had chosen that location because the trees hid their comings and goings from the city guard. It would accommodate him, as long as he could reach it before the incoming soldiers.

The area around him was thick with crazed people running and shouting, trying to escape. But they had no place to go, and so they simply ran up one street and down the other until fire or weapon claimed them. Here and there, officers called to their men, directing them to the walls to try and hold off the invading forces. No one was tending to the wounded or dead, and the fires were left to rage on. Defense of the city took first priority. But even from Taras’s vantage point, huddled under a doorframe, he could see it would be no good. Tonight Londinium would fall.

The smell of blood was everywhere. It drove into his brain like a hot metal spike. Gods, he needed to feed, but there wasn’t time to track down a suitable victim amidst the chaos. There were plenty of people nearby, but they were mostly soldiers, women and children. He couldn’t bring himself to kill them. Even after thirty years, Jesus’ words still haunted him. He could kill innocent people, or he could die a slow death.

There is always a choice. It is not always a good choice.

Killing innocents was no choice at all, and even though the city burned with flames taller than buildings, Taras could not bring himself to sacrifice his life to them. He clenched his jaw and strode out into the street. He would simply have to wait to feed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But unless he found blood soon, it could well be the last.

Lannosea sat atop her mount and ran her sleeve across her forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat and leaving a smudge of soot as she examined the city walls. This close, the heat and smoke were almost more than she could bear. Her horse, a huge black mare known more for her strength than her disposition, shied away from the wall, wary of the flames that consumed it. The ballistae and catapults had certainly done their job, reducing huge sections of the outer wall to smoldering rubble. She and her fellow riders should have little trouble storming the city.

A long, low horn blast sounded behind her. She knew what that meant. The ballistae crews had nearly exhausted their ammunition, which meant it was time for the cavalry to get ready. She held her sword straight up in the air and shouted “Hail Iceni!” Every mounted soldier up and down the line returned the salute, raising their own swords in the air and shouting her words back to her. When the next horn blast came from the ballistae crews, indicating that the long range ammunition was gone, Lannosea lowered her sword and pointed it at the city.

As one, the line of mounted men rode forward, with Lannosea at its head. The creak of their saddles and the pounding of their horses’ hooves were soon drowned out by the noise from within the city. The screams of the injured and the dying overpowered the shouted orders from the town’s remaining defenders, and few of the soldiers on the wall looked like they knew what to do. Most of them stared at the approaching horsemen with a look of fear or resignation. By the look in their eyes, each of them knew they would not live to see the sunrise.

Lannosea could relate. The Iceni cavalry boasted over four thousand battle hardened warriors, each of them bearing multiple scars from one campaign or another. She doubted the Romans had that many legionaries in the entire city. Taking Londinium would be easy.

But she did not intend to come back.

Her mother knew. Lannosea saw it on the Queen’s face when she requested to lead the cavalry charge, and she’d given her consent. Had the queen known? Probably. The queen knew everything. Of course, Lannosea’s death would mean Heanua would one day be queen of the Iceni, but that would probably be for the best. Despite what her mother and suitors said, Lannosea had never really wanted to be queen. Too much responsibility. Her desires were far more mundane. A good husband and a quiet life filled with the laughter of children were more to her taste, but even that could not be now.

A flutter in her belly reminded her why she was doing this. The Roman bastard growing in her womb had ruined everything. Nero’s men had taken her maidenhood as well as her honor, and now they would get her life, as well. It didn’t seem fair, but she would not dishonor her entire family by birthing the bastard child of a Roman legionary. Her shame was hers alone, and she would wipe it away tonight by dying with honor. She could do that much, she knew.