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?
22
Theron wiped the blood from his chin as he tossed the woman’s body to the street. Another prostitute. It seemed they were the only ones foolish enough to remain behind. Perhaps this one was thinking about all the coin she could make from the remaining soldiers now that most of her competition had fled. Foolish whore. What good will those coins do you now, he wondered. He caught himself casting about for a place to hide the body, and Baella’s words echoed in his mind.
Still living by their rules, are you?
It was true. For the last thirty years, even though he’d been an exile, he’d lived according to the laws of the Council. He’d never turned a human into one of his kind and he’d always taken the time to hide his victims, or at least to disguise their remains so the method of death would be unclear. After nearly three decades of being a fugitive, he had to ask himself why he still cared.
It’s good sense, he told himself. I don’t want to leave them a trail.
Except he still left them a trail. Every kill he hid under a bush, mutilated beyond recognition, or simply fed to the animals would give away his location to those who knew what to look for. Humans would not be able to detect it, but other Bachiyr, themselves familiar with the many ways to dispose of their victims, would know right away. Now that he thought about it, it was a wonder Ramah hadn’t caught him yet. The Councilor must have had many other things distracting him the last few decades.
That made him pause. Since the debacle in Jerusalem, Theron had assumed that his capture and punishment
