David McAfee - 61 A.D.

“The Iceni do not fear death,” she whispered under her breath, reciting the mantra her father had taught her as a child. “Death comes for all.”

Fifty yards from the wall, her troops were hit by Londinium’s archers. Scores of arrows sailed through the night at the advancing Iceni, many of them carried small balls of flaming tar on their tips. Several dozen of her men and a score of horses went down under the deadly rain, but dozens more came forward to fill the gaps.

“The Iceni do not fear death. Death comes for all.” Even unborn Roman bastards.

She ordered a full charge and kicked her horse into a gallop. At full speed, the archers on the walls would have time for only one more barrage before Lannosea and her men crossed into the city. One would not be enough to kill her remaining soldiers, not even close. After that it would be over. The cavalry would soften up the remaining defenders, and then the infantry would march in and take care of the rest. The citizens, if any were left alive, might put up a fight, but they would not be able to stop the march of the Iceni. Soon they and their city would be ashes.

Tonight, Londinium would disappear from the maps of the world, and she would earn her place in history. The noble princess who gave everything for her people, they would call her. A hero’s demise in a noble cause. Perhaps they would write songs of her bravery once the war was over. And no one would ever have to know she sought death on purpose, or of the poison fruit in her belly.

The second volley of arrows was a bit more precise, and claimed the lives of over forty men and a score more horses. The man to her right, a noble son of the Iceni named Balwar, grunted and fell from his saddle, his hand wrapped around the vibrating shaft of an arrow that had buried itself in his chest. Still, Lannosea’s prediction that one more flight of arrows would not be enough to stop her troops proved accurate as her horse sailed over the remains of the eastern wall and charged into the fray, followed by four thousand seasoned warriors from her clan.

She swept her sword down and caught one legionary in the shoulder. With the speed of her horse behind the blow, she nearly severed the man’s head. He went down in a bloody, twitching heap, but another soon came up to take his place. Then another, and then several more.

Lannosea looked around the crumbled wall and realized that she and her mother had underestimated the size of the Roman garrison at Londinium. Instead of a few hundred battered legionaries, she and her men faced nearly a thousand of them, and more were coming. She spurred her horse toward a group of soldiers and ran one down while her horse trampled another, yet they still came.

In moments, the scene devolved into complete chaos. The Romans earned their blood, preventing the easy slaughter she had been expecting. Still, as she looked over the battle she knew the Iceni would easily overpower Nero’s men. The Romans were too few, and they had no supply lines and no way to get reinforcements. They were trapped in their city like rats on a burning ship, and this last, desperate attempt to fight back was just that. Desperate. They knew, as she did, that surrendering would do them no good.

Give them credit for that, at least, she thought. For all their faults, these men are not cowards.

Lannosea turned her horse around, intending to run back into the battle and cut down as many legionaries as she could before Roman steel found her flesh. Now that her decision had been made, she felt no qualms about charging into the thickest knot of Romans she could see. They scattered before her like leaves in the wind, yet her sword still managed to bite into them again and again.

After several minutes, she was exhausted, and splattered with the blood of her enemies, but no Roman sword had touched her. She did not want to make it easy for them, but still, this wouldn’t do. Someone in this blasted city had to be strong enough to kill her, otherwise her plan would fail.

She rode through another group of legionaries, singling out one who stood a head taller than most, and nearly cut him in half with a downward swipe of her sword. Her momentum carried her through the knot of people and a short way down the street. Now she was near the wall again, far away from the heaviest fighting. She stared back over the rubble at the advancing Iceni infantry. General Cyric marched at the head of the group. Her heart, which had been so tortured of late, swelled with pride at the sight of her people’s might and glory. This was it, the end of the city.

The infantry was the real strength of her army. Cavalry charges, while devastating, were not thorough enough to destroy an enemy. They could not go everywhere and root out enemies from their hiding places, but the infantry could storm in and flow into every nook and cranny the town had to offer, exposing every hiding place and every survivor. It would be like a black tide washing in from the sea to engulf the people of Londinium.

And good riddance to them.

She wheeled her horse around, putting her back to the advancing army, and prepared to fight off another Roman. Any Roman would do, so long as he presented a challenge. This time, she would find one who could finish the job and send her to her death with all the honor accorded to those who died on the battlefield. But instead of a Roman, she saw a single woman walking toward her, hands upraised in supplication.

Lannosea could not determine the woman’s age, but the stranger was lovely. Dark of hair and pale of skin, with sharp, exquisite features. She wore plain, dark clothing; a blouse and simple breeches that hid her in the shadows, and soft leather boots that muffled the sound of her feet. Her eyes sparkled in the light of the many nearby fires, and Lannosea found she could not look away from them. She swayed in her saddle, suddenly unable to keep her balance, and the woman smiled.

Lannosea smiled back. “Good evening to you,” she said. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, and words blended together, making her sound like she had gotten into the wine.

“Greetings, Lady,” the woman said. “My apologies, but I have need of your horse.”

“Of course,” Lannosea replied, and dismounted. She handed over the reins, which the newcomer took in her soft hands. Lannosea’s hand brushed the woman’s and she drew back. The skin of her hand was as cold as snow and as dry as parchment. What manner of person…

The woman smiled, and Lannosea forgot about her unnatural chill. “My horse is yours,” she said. “Is there anything else I can offer you?”

“No, Lady,” the woman said. “A horse is all I require.”

Lannosea watched the strange woman lead her horse away toward the crumbling remains of the wall. In the light of so many fires, it was easy enough to see her lift an unconscious man onto the back of the horse, securing him to the beast with rope. Then she mounted the horse and set off through the city.

Lannosea watched her vanish around a corner, then she shook her head. What had she just done? Why did she give her horse away?

She was just about to run after the woman when rough, strong hands grabbed her from behind.

“Look, boys,” a gravelly voice said behind her. “An Iceni woman. A princess, no less.”

Lannosea struggled, but the man was too strong. Raucous laughter erupted all around her, and she turned her head to see half a dozen ragged, filthy men standing nearby. They did not wear the armor of legionaries, nor were they Iceni. Rouges. Probably intent on looting the city. Rats with human faces.

One of the men bound her hands behind her as she spat curses at them. Pain erupted from her lower jaw as he struck her. Then someone put a coarse brown bag over her head and cinched it so tight around her neck she had trouble drawing a breath. She staggered, but remained on her feet, kicking her legs and flailing until the men wrestled her to the ground and tied her ankles together.