61 A.D.

5

Theron bounced along the road to Londinium, looking like nothing more than another driver as he approached the high, wooden walls of the city. His clothes-brought over from Spain-were plain and a bit dirty, as would be expected of a traveler on the dusty road from the coast. His matted black hair needed attention, but for now his unkempt appearance would help him get through the gates unmolested. The city walls were solid, but not especially tall. If things at the gate went badly he could likely climb over before anyone spotted him. Of course, he could also kill the two guards at the gate, but that would make noise and cause an alert that would rouse the city guard, and he didn’t want to fight off hundreds of armed Roman soldiers.

He needn’t have worried. The guards barely spared him a bored glance as he passed. Three other late wagons rolled through the gates behind him. At the same time, a dozen or so wagons were leaving, along with a score of people on foot. Londinium, it seemed, was a city used to people coming and going at all hours of the day.

The smells of dust and sweat mingled in the air, along with those of mead and meat. The market had long closed, but the city was not empty. The streets buzzed with people, many of whom streamed out of the city, turning north at the gate. Up and down the street, windows were boarded and doors locked as people left their homes and businesses to flee the city. Not a good sign.

He caught snatches of conversation from some of the passers-by.

“…Camulodunum is gone. Burned to the ground…”

“…not a soul left alive…”

“…coming here next…”

“…Suetonius is leaving…”

“…taking most of the soldiers with him…”

“…ordered the city evacuated…”

So that’s why the people were leaving the city. Apparently the Iceni queen and her horde were on the march to Londinium. Theron could hardly blame the people, he’d heard what happened to Camulodunum; buildings razed, citizens tortured and killed, the whole city was left a smoldering ruin by the Iceni and their allies. And now they were coming here, and the Roman general Suetonius was leaving the city to burn. Small wonder the people were walking over one another to get out. Theron smelled their fear. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed it, but now it meant he needed to get in, do what he came to do, and get out. Would Taras still be here? Or would he have already left? Too many damn questions.

He steered the horses to a nearby trough and tied the cart to a post. He would not be using it again, and it would probably be stolen shortly after he left it. That, too, would be a good thing. The less evidence he left behind, the better. It had been twenty seven years since he had defied the Council and set out on his own, and he hadn’t lived this long by taking chances. Despite the fact that the city would soon perish under the weight of tens of thousands of Iceni raiders, he would still avoid any unnecessary risks.

Then again, just being in Londinium presented a risk in itself. The city had grown large enough that the Council had probably gained enough interest in the region to put a portal here. Nothing fancy, of course. The building would just resemble a dilapidated structure somewhere in the city walls. It wouldn’t look like much, but it would be a gateway to untold numbers of the Council’s minions.

Theron made a mental note to be extra careful. If he spotted any sign of the Council, he would leave. But for now, the bait was too tempting not to try and get a bite.

Taras. That damned former legionary who’d somehow managed to turn Theron’s world upside down by being alive when he was supposed to be dead. True, Theron’s own carelessness led to Taras’s transformation, but if the bastard had just taken him to Jesus’ tomb when he asked, Theron would still be in good standing with his people. He could have gone to the tomb, taken the rabbi’s head, and then presented it to the Council as proof of a job well done. He would still be Lead Enforcer, and privy to the Halls of the Bachiyr, with his own apartments and amenities. He would still be able to enjoy all the benefits of his once lofty status.

Instead he was strolling through a doomed city in stolen peasant’s garb and trying not to arouse the suspicion of a few human guards. Humiliating.

He stepped off the cart and into the street, taking a good, long look at the people leaving the city. Not a single one of them glowed, he noted with more than a little relief. Apparently the fires of faith that burned so brightly in Jerusalem after the death of Jesus had not reached this far. Good. Doubtless the Roman gods ruled here, or possibly the gods of the local people. Either way, it would make his job easier. If he didn’t have to contend with any faithful Jews or any followers of the dead rabbi, then he should be fine as long as he didn’t linger. The Iceni could arrive any day. He gave himself one night to find Taras. If he could not locate Taras in that time he would leave the city and try again some other night.

He walked away from the horses and cart, leaving them tied to the post, threading his way through the exodus of people leaving Londinium. The man back in Spain had said something about the Market district. That made sense. Markets were usually crowded and busy, full of people who had more important things to do than watch a stranger. There would be plenty of people to feed from in a city like this: prostitutes, beggars, thieves. Lots of humans no one would miss. And most of them would be in the Market district.

Theron stepped slowly through the city. He had plenty of time. The sun had only set two hours ago. The peasant who owned the cart had filled his belly well, so he didn’t need to feed. He could take his time and learn the layout of the streets, which would be especially handy if he had to make a fast getaway. As he watched yet another family leave their home, carrying their possessions over their shoulders, he realized that the need for a fast escape might be a distinct possibility.

Boudica stepped from the tub, the warm water running down her body and pooling on the floor. Her youngest daughter Lannosea waited nearby with a soft robe, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves, wincing as the fabric touched the scars on her back. The pain was only mental, she told herself. The tissues had healed months ago. Still, whenever anything touched the sensitive scar tissue, it reminded her of those days immediately after the flogging when her skin felt like it was on fire, and the slightest touch was agony.

Her daughter’s eyes dropped to the ground. She didn’t like the reminders, either. Boudica had been flogged by the Romans, but her daughters had been beaten and raped at the hands of the guttural legionaries. All in all, the queen felt she’d gotten off easier than they.

She remembered every detail. The smell of the Romans’ sweat, the bitter smell of burning pitch, the sound of the whip, the pain in her back, even the grunting of the Roman officers as they took from her two daughters what their future husbands should have gotten. The Romans laughed as the girls cried, then they invited the other men to join them. So many men had their way with her daughters that she lost count. The memories would never fade, she knew. She would feel and hear those indignities until her last breath. But before she went to her grave, she meant to send as many Romans as possible to theirs.

She dried off, and was just getting dressed when her oldest daughter, Heanua, came into the chamber. Unlike Lannosea, the Roman brutality had not weakened Heanua to the point of meekness. Instead, Boudica saw a fire in her eyes to match her own. Heanua will seek her revenge until long after I am gone, she thought proudly.

“My Queen,” Heanua said, bowing, “The messenger from the Trinovante has arrived.”

“Does he have news?” Boudica asked.

“If so, he has not shared it. He will only speak with you directly.”

Boudica nodded. “Very well. Inform him I will be with him shortly.”

Heanua nodded and left the room, a slight eagerness to her step. If the messenger from the Trinovante brought the news they were hoping for, they would have plenty of weapons and warriors to attack Londinium.

The Trinovante, a neighboring tribe, held no love for the Romans. Under Roman rule their lands had been stolen, their taxes raised to shocking amounts, and their citizens were killed if they spoke against the treatment. Since the Iceni had given up their weapons years ago as part of the original treaty with Rome, Boudica had been forced to seek their assistance. Their neighbors were eager to help, and had been supplying weapons and warriors to help with the rebellion. Together, they’d already burned two of the region’s largest cities to the ground and killed thousands of Romans.

And Boudica had savored every moment.

She finished drying herself, then slipped into a long purple dress with white trim. The dress was for show, it would be useless to fight in such an outfit. But the soft purple cloth spoke of the wealth and power that Rome had stolen from her, and it was good to give the impression to her allies that she still held on to a piece of it.

Lannosea helped her put her arms through the sleeves. As had been the case since the Roman soldiers raped her, she went about her task in silence. Her eyes never ventured higher than Boudica’s shoulders. Tonight, Boudica had no doubt the girl would get little sleep, plagued as she was by nightmares. She never spoke of the dreams-or anything else, for that matter-but Boudica could guess well enough what terrors awaited her daughter when she closed her eyes at night.

She sighed, remembering a time not so long ago when Lannosea had been bright and happy, her eyes shining from her beautiful face, with a smile to rival the sun. The girl’s yellow hair gleamed in the sunlight so brightly that Boudica sometimes had to shield her eyes for fear of being blinded. She would have made a fine queen, with a kind soul and a strong mind. But now…she was not so sure.

Lannosea walked through the camp like a wraith, eating little and drinking even less. When she spoke, it was in short, quiet sentences, and then only when someone spoke to her first. The Romans had made her weak. At first Boudica tolerated the change, knowing that Lannosea needed time to heal her tortured mind. But now she had a rebellion to lead and a kingdom to retake. She could not afford to appear weak in front of the messenger, who would doubtless take his impression of the Iceni camp back to his king. She would have to make sure Lannosea was nowhere near when she received the man.

Boudica finished dressing, then stepped out of the chamber. She paused in the doorway to look back at Lannosea, and found her sitting on a soft chair, staring vacantly at the floor and wringing her fingers. Her eyes gleamed with ever-present moisture, as they had since that fateful night when Nero’s dogs showed their true colors. Boudica felt a moment of pity. If only she could talk to her youngest daughter. To somehow ease her suffering. Perhaps she should try again…

But the messenger was waiting.

She steeled herself, drew in a deep breath, and left Lannosea in the chamber. She would deal with Lannie later. When this rebellion was over and she had taken back her kingdom from the wretched Romans, she would present it to Lannosea as a gift. Then she could hold her daughter in her arms and give her the comfort she so desperately needed.

Right now she had a war to win.