61 A.D.

8

Boudica stared at the walls of Londinium. Her horse shuffled, nervous, as though it sensed her reckless mood. She was not above racing into the city, sword drawn, and cutting down every person she found until they managed to kill her. The problem with that plan-as it was with the last two cities-was that her death would accomplish nothing. She would be able to kill a handful of Romans, maybe even a dozen, but they would stop her. If they didn’t kill her on the spot she would stand trial and they would kill her later, probably after raping her and beating her again.

The scars on her back burned. The wounds had healed, but faint memories of the pain whispered across the scarred tissue, reminding her that there was more at stake.

As if she could ever forget.

To her right, another horse snorted. She turned to look at Heanua, seated astride a large black mare. Her daughter’s eyes glittered with the reflected light of Londinium’s many torches. A soft black cloak covered her from head to toe, tied at the waist to prevent it from fluttering in the breeze. She knew Heanua would be more than willing to ride into the city with her and hack a bloody path through its inhabitants. Her hatred of the Romans burned almost as brightly as Boudica’s.

But they both knew it would have to wait.

The reason was simple mathematics. They could kill perhaps two dozen Romans on their own or wait until her army arrived and tear down the city board by board, slaughtering every one of its twenty thousand inhabitants, or at least those that remained. Reports had come in that Suetonius had abandoned the city, leaving behind a token force and a few thousand civilians who chose not to leave.

They would regret that decision, she vowed.

More important at that moment was the fact that Heanua sat at her right hand, but the space to her left-where Lannosea would normally be-stood empty, a sad reminder of what her family had become. “Where is Lannie?” she asked.

Heanua snorted. It was all the answer she needed. Lannosea would be back with the army, supposedly dealing with the Trinovante. Boudica knew the truth, however. Her youngest daughter no longer had the stomach for battle. Her eyes stung at the memory of her beautiful daughter, stumbling toward her on shaky legs. Blood flowed down the inside of her thighs. The legionaries who had attacked her tossed insults at her back as she fell sobbing to the dirt. Ever since the attack, she had preferred to sit and brood in her tent, alone with her thoughts.

Before the king’s death, Lannosea had been fierce and strong, as dangerous in battle as she was beautiful. But now her daughter’s strong braids and studded leather armor were gone, replaced by flowing yellow hair and loose-fitting robes. The Romans had turned her prized wolf into a sheep.

Boudica shook her head, using her anger to burn away her tears. What was done is done, and she could not undo it. If Lannosea could not be counted on to swing her sword well, then she would be more hindrance than help. Thus Lannie would remain behind with a few of the Trinovante women, as well as the younger children. As with the Iceni, the older Trinovante children would be given weapons and sent to battle. It was their war, too, after all.

The Trinovante had answered her call with not only weapons, but warriors to wield them. Additionally, they had sent along some wonderful devices that reminded her of the Roman ballista, but much larger. The stones these catapults, as the Trinovante called them, could throw weighed almost as much as her horse, and they had brought dozens of them, along with heavy balls of rope coated in pitch. The latter could be set aflame prior to launch.

The image of what those flaming missiles would do to the wooden walls and buildings of Londinium brought an eager smile to her face. They would not even have to get close to the city. With the catapults, they would be able to reduce most of the buildings to rubble without being in any danger from the remaining Roman archers or ballista. Once Londinium lay in ruins, she and her army would march through what remained of the city and kill everyone they found alive.

She watched the walls from a distance, counting the soldiers who patrolled it. “No more than a hundred archers remain,” she noted.

“Aye,” Heanua said. “And Romans, by the look of them. Filthy bastards. They should all die.”

“They will,” Boudica replied. “Tomorrow we will destroy this place.”

“It will be over too quickly. They deserve to die painfully. Like pigs on a stake.”

Boudica nodded. “That they do.” Impalement would be too good for the like of the Londonites. She would rather kill all of them slow, but they didn’t have time. By now word of her march must have reached that bastard Caesar in Rome. It wouldn’t be long before she found herself pursued by half the Roman Legion. When that time came, she intended to be someplace defensible. Londinium was just a stop along the way.

But what a stop it would be.

Ramah stepped out of the gatehouse door into the city. Newly installed, the building nonetheless appeared a bit run down and old. Nothing that would attract much notice. All the gatehouses had been designed that way on purpose. The idea was to make them blend in. In Londinium, as in most cities with gates, the building that house the Bachiyr’s portal to the Halls stood in silent, brooding anonymity. Not worn enough to attract attention, but not so fine as to be noticed.

The first thing he noticed was the crowds. Hundreds, even thousands of people walked the streets, most of them headed toward the gates. Men, women, children, and the elderly pushed their way along, carrying small bags of possessions over their shoulders. Along the street, many carts stood on the side of the road, their contents less valuable when the owners realized they could not pull them through the crowd. A handful of ragged, dirty men rummaged through the carts, stealing everything of value and then running back into the city. Obviously, some people intended to remain. But the rest were running from something. But what?

He thought back to his conversation with Herris, and realized he hadn’t gotten a very detailed report on the city. His fault, he should have waited for Herris or the steward to brief him, but he had been too eager to kill Theron. He could turn and walk back into the gatehouse, thereby admitting his ignorance, or he could proceed as planned. Not one for admitting error, Ramah stepped off the stoop into the throng.

The Bachiyr threaded his way along the dusty streets. In this part of the city, the streets were little more than hard packed dirt beneath his feet. Londinium had cobbled roads and alleyways, but only in the city’s prominent areas. They would be used by the wealthy while riding in soft, padded coaches. Here, among the taverns and the brothels, no one cared if the wagons jounced wildly along the street. Most of the people here didn’t have so much as a wheelbarrow, anyway.

He wished he could have gotten here sooner. The moon was already low, leaving only a couple of hours before dawn broke over the eastern horizon. It would take a very lucky break for him to spot either Taras or Theron by then. Londinium wasn’t Rome or Athens, but it was not small by any stretch of the word, and the many people crowding the streets did not help. He estimated he would probably spend several days wandering around the city before he found another Bachiyr, but he was wrong.

Less than ten minutes later he turned into an alley and found not one, but two.