61 A.D.

21

Ramah stood in the empty street, looking one way and then the other. Both showed him nothing. The dusty streets of Londinium showed no sign of his quarry’s passing. Theron and Baella could be in any direction, at any distance. He’d never locate them with his eyes alone, he would have to use a web psalm, though he dreaded the subsequent loss of blood. He would simply have to take some from Theron before he killed him.

Ramah stood in the middle of the street and closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the task at hand. He cast a mental web around his current position, and slowly expanded it to include the outlying area. The web kept growing, until it eventually covered an area one quarter the size of the city with him at its center. Once it was set, he poked along the filaments with mental fingers and willed his quarry to touch one of them. The strands were limited in their ability to gather information. He could only search for one person. Other individuals would merely register as a slight tickle of the web, but when the object of his search crossed a thread, he would know immediately.

He’d never seen Baella, but he’d known Theron for nearly a thousand years. It was easy enough to conjure an image in his mind of the former Enforcer. Since they were traveling together, he only needed to locate the one to find them both. Or so he hoped.

He pushed the strands out further, slowly feeling his way across the city streets. Dozens of small tingles registered on the web, but none more than a slight twinge. They were the normal humans who had remained behind. He forced himself to remain calm and still, letting the web expand at a slow, steady pace. Patience, he counseled himself. It would not do to drop his web and run randomly through the streets, he would never find them that way, and he knew it. It should not take much longer before There! A bright flash touched his web about half a mile to the east, back toward the gate. It could only be Theron. Ramah turned toward the flash and concentrated only on the strands of the web in its immediate vicinity. The rest of the web withered, lacking the mental energy to keep itself open.

The web psalm was a strong tool in the Bachiyr’s arsenal, and very useful, but it also drained a great deal of mental energy. Ramah could feel his body burning blood to keep the web active, but he couldn’t drop it yet. He needed Theron to cross another strand. The relation of the new strand to Theron’s previous position would tell Ramah exactly which direction the renegade was moving, making it a simple matter to cut him off.

There it was again! Still headed toward the city gate, and moving fast. They must know I am coming for them. Ramah dropped the web and ran. Theron and Baella were trying to leave the city. Ramah could probably catch them before they made the city gate, but it suited his purpose to let them leave. Once outside the city walls, there would be fewer humans, and fewer witnesses. Witnesses were messy. Easy enough to kill one, but not so easy to dispose of several dozen. Far better to have none at all.

Ramah slowed his pace, wanting to let Theron and Baella get far enough away from the city gate that there would be no one around once he caught up to them. Up ahead, a lone woman stood in the flickering light of a single lamp. A prostitute, judging by her garish attire. The sight reminded him of the energy he’d burned creating and maintaining the web. He would probably have to make another one once he left the city to locate the pair of renegades again, which meant he would need more blood.

The woman’s appearance proved most fortunate for the hungry vampire.

Taras clenched his teeth, fighting the nausea and blackness that threatened to overwhelm him. His entire world had been reduced to blinding pain as his body slid up, inch by agonizing inch, toward the end of the pole. His hands slipped in the gore beneath him, so he tried grasping the metal rod instead, with much the same result. Every time he gained a few inches, he would lose his grip and slide back down several more. It didn’t help matters that his hands shook with pain, making it difficult to grasp anything.

He slid back down to the floor, looking up at the two-foot shaft of metal through his chest, red and slick with his own blood. His vision grew more hazy with every passing second, and a sense of dread settled into his mind. How long had Ramah been gone? How soon before he came back? If he didn’t get off this damn pole soon, he would find himself at the mercy of that black devil, and from what he knew of Ramah, mercy was not one of his failings.

I will not die here, he told himself, and tried again. He grasped the end of the pole and pulled himself upward off the floor. After several attempts, he found himself at the tip of the pole. No longer able to pull himself forward, he reached behind him, trying to grasp the pole from his back and push forward. This was the tricky part, the angle was all wrong, and he invariably lost his grip and slid back down to the floor.

When he felt the metal in his hand, he tightened his grip, straining his muscles as he focused all his remaining strength on holding the pole. Then he reached behind with his other hand and grasped the pole just beneath his back. Almost there. With his hands on the metal, he closed his eyes and pushed. Up, up, and up, he slowly rose, feeling the rod slide painfully through his body. He almost blacked out, but fought it off, knowing that to faint now would only find him back on the floor again. When he reached the limit of his arms, he inched his hands upward and started again. He was close, he had to be. How thick was his chest? How much of the pole remained? How much longer could he hold off the gathering darkness?

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?