five minutes, it will not be soon enough.”
Boudica noted that her daughter’s knuckles had gone white on the pommel of her sword, and nodded her approval. Heanua wanted this even more than she did. She supposed that made sense. Her indignities had not broken her spirit like they had Lannosea’s. Instead they had molded her into a fiery, merciless warrior.
Thinking about Lannosea reminded her that she had neither seen nor heard from her younger daughter all morning. The girl should be here with me right now, she thought, anxious to avenge herself on some Roman scum.
“Have you seen your sister?”
Heanua shook her head. “Not this morning. She is probably still asleep.”
“It’s almost time to move,” the gravel in her own voice surprised her. She hadn’t thought she could be so angry. “Why is she not standing here with us?”
Heanua shook her head again. “I don’t know.”
“Find her,” Boudica snapped. “If she sleeps, wake her. If not, drag her to my tent. I want to see her within the hour.”
“I am not your personal messenger, mother,” Heanua said. “Send someone else to collect Lannie.”
Boudica rounded on her eldest daughter, her face flushed and warm. “You will do as I say, child!” she spat. “Or you will watch the conquest of Londinium from one of the cages!”
The cages were just that; mobile cells the Trinovante had brought with them to house prisoners. Each one was six feet by six feet, with stout wooden floors and iron bars set wide enough apart to allow for throwing rotten fruit and buckets of excrement. The Trinovante liked to humiliate their prisoners prior to killing them. Boudica had no intention of taking prisoners, but the Trinovante leaders wanted the cages brought along anyway, and she needed their help. They rolled along on wooden wheels behind the bulk of the army, pulled by oxen.
“Mother, you can’t-” Heanua began.
Boudica cut her off. “I can and will. I will have one of the cages brought to the front lines just for you, so you can view the taking of the city from behind its iron bars.”
A dark look flashed across Heanua’s pale features, but Boudica held her ground, daring her to disobey. For a moment, she seemed like she might argue further, but then her daughter pulled her hand from her sword and swept into a curt bow. “Yes, my Queen,” she said, and turned back to the encampment.
I’ll have to watch that one, Boudica thought. Heanua was not next in line for the throne of the Iceni, but she was not far behind. If anything happened to Boudica, Heanua would assume the leadership of her people. While Heanua would no doubt make a fine, strong Queen, Boudica wasn’t ready to give up her rule just yet.
She turned and headed back for her own tent, which would be disassembled within an hour. Along the way, she pondered the strangeness of having one daughter with no ambition at all, and another who would probably try to kill her in the coming days.
It is a strange world in which I live. Strange or not, Heanua would never have considered disobeying her queen before the Roman attack. Those bastards had not only taken her husband’s kingdom from her, they had taken her daughters, as well.
But she would have the final word. Nero would beg her to take her kingdom back by the time she finished with his army.
13
Theron awoke to the sound of someone groaning. It sounded distant, hollow, as though he heard it through a long corridor. The sound grew stronger and louder as he gradually drifted into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed and listened, not wanting to give away his growing lucidity.
The pain was amazing. All through his body tiny sizzles fired on his nerve endings, making his muscles twitch and spasm. Because of these involuntary movements, he knew without opening his eyes that he had been moved from the table to the stocks. The groaning sound must be Taras, who might be regaining his senses, as well. But did he have to be so damn noisy about it?
Theron opened his eye a crack and risked a quick look. He was in the same room as before. The chains on the wall where the Lost One had tortured Taras hung empty. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room with him. That didn’t mean anything, of course. With his head stuck in the stocks there could be an army behind him and he wouldn’t be able to see them. He might be able to hear the breathing of living occupants, or their heartbeats, but the only other people likely to be in the room with him had no need of either. Still, the silence of the place spoke to its emptiness. He hoped. He opened his eyes the rest of the way and looked around as well as he could, all the while expecting to hear Ramah’s chortling laughter behind him. When the laughter didn’t come, he listened harder. The sound of a mouse scurrying across the floor confirmed there was no Psalm of Silence on the room, which meant he probably was alone for the moment. Well, except for Taras. Ramah had left them both in the cell and gone off somewhere, probably to sleep away the day.
And why not? Neither of his prisoners were going anywhere. Not weak and shackled like they were. All Theron could do was wait for Ramah to kill him, which would probably occur just after dark. Most likely, the only reason he still lived at all was because Ramah had run out of time and had to find a place to spend the day.
Was it dark outside now? He was awake, which usually did not happen during the day. Did that mean dusk had come? If so, how long did he have before Ramah returned? It didn’t look good. Sooner or later the Councilor would come back to the room and finish what he’d started.
The hell with this, he thought. He strained his arms against the wood, hoping to break the lock, but it held. The coagulated, rusty brown stain on the floor told him well enough why. Ramah had spilled and wasted a great deal of his blood. He needed more. Without it he was too weak to break free.
“Theron?” The voice came from his left. Taras. He sounded weak as well.
Theron ignored him and again tried to break through his bonds. Once again they proved too strong for his blood-starved body.
“Theron?”
Theron ignored him again and put his mind to the task of escape. His body couldn’t get him out, so what could he do? He could try to bribe Ramah, though he didn’t have anything the Councilor would want or couldn’t take by force. Perhaps he could shout for help, hoping some human would wander by. But that might bring Ramah all the faster. Or the Lost One. The room wasn’t freezing, so he knew the cursed thing wasn’t near, but it couldn’t be far. Ramah would have it with him at all times.
He needed to think.
“Theron? Are you there?”
“Damn it, Roman. Where the hell else would I be?”
“Dead would have been my guess,” Taras replied.
“Not yet.”
“That was a Lost One, wasn’t it?”
“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Theron suppressed a shudder. The Lost Ones curdled his skin. “Nasty, but effective. Now be quiet.”
For a moment it seemed Taras would do what Theron asked, but then his voice came through the silence again. “Ramah wasted a great deal of your blood.”
“I can see that,” Theron said, looking again at the large dried puddle beneath him.
“Why didn’t he drink it?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“Is our blood poisonous to other Bachiyr?”
“Of course not. Ramah just enjoys torture. Now be quiet and let me think before I remove your head from your shoulders.”
Taras managed to remain silent for a count of thirty, then he started again. “When I get out of this, Theron, I’m going to kill you.” Taras said.
Theron chuckled, a thick, wet gurgle. “I doubt you’ll get the chance. Ramah will kill you just to keep that pleasure for himself.”
