would be a high priority for the Council of Thirteen, but now he knew that to be untrue. A single renegade would be of little consequence, even a former Enforcer like himself. They probably had forgotten about him by now, with the exception of Ramah, who never forgot, the Council of Thirteen had most likely moved on to other matters.
As soon as he thought it, he knew it was true. He’d been part of the Council’s elite team for centuries. He had seen dozens of renegades come and go, some of them heinous, and others mere inconveniences. He could only remember a handful of their names, himself. The old Greek Bachiyr Arya had fled the Council after falling in love with a human and telling him about her race. Jaquar the Mad had left a bloody trail across Asia in his search for a human whose blood was said to protect Bachiyr from sunlight. Trandy, a young Bachiyr from Rome, had attempted to assassinate Councilor Lannis and escaped by sheer luck when the boat carrying the pursuing Enforcer sank in the waters near Athens. All of them had been big news at the time of their crimes, yet they were barely mentioned in meetings a year later even though, to Theron’s knowledge, none of them had ever been captured.
To the Council, Theron was probably nothing more than another fugitive. And he’d never given them a reason to feel otherwise. It was no secret that he would prefer to go back to the Council and regain their good graces. Theron thought of little else but the Halls of the Bachiyr and ripping out Taras’s throat. But the truth, he realized, was that they would never let him back. Theron, former Lead Enforcer and executor of the Council’s will in Judea, was never very important to the Council at all. Just another servant in a long list of them.
Who was Lead Enforcer now? Was it Ramah? Or did they give the task to another Bachiyr? Aliandra, perhaps? Did it matter? With the exception of Ramah, anyone else in the position would be expendable. Fodder to be used and tossed aside when they were done. The idea did nothing to ease his tension.
The single exception to the Council’s general apathy toward renegade Bachiyr stood in front of him. Baella. She alone had remained a high priority for centuries. He couldn’t help but wonder why. Was it her constant thwarting of their demands? Or simply the fact that she took every opportunity to make them look like fools?
Probably a bit of both, but as Theron watched her walk ahead of him, he could not help but admire her. She had remained free of their influence for…for…
How old was she, anyway?
He supposed it didn’t matter. Her age would mean nothing once he took her head to Herris. But the more he studied her movements; the lethal grace of her walk, the confident stretch of her legs, the more he came to wonder if he could kill her. After all, if the Councilors hadn’t been able to get rid of her, what chance did he have?
None.
Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get back in the Council’s good graces anymore, anyway. Maybe he’d be better off learning a few things from Baella. Clearly, she wanted him alive for a reason.
Maybe, after thirty years of exile, things were looking up.
Baella smiled. Theron was just like every other Enforcer she’d encountered over the centuries. His thoughts were as easy to discern as they were to manipulate. She sent a few more images backward to his mind. Pictures of the two of them fighting a team of Enforcers sent to capture them. It was a glorious image, and one she knew he would like.
It was too bad he would never live long enough to enact it.
Theron was a prize, certainly, but her real prize was behind them, back in Londinium. Sooner or later, Ramah would catch up, and then Theron would become expendable.
23
Boudica grasped the hilt of her sword and pulled it from its sheath. It came free with the telltale hiss of steel sliding across leather, and she raised the bared blade toward the sky. It was the silent command for her troops to get ready. Behind her, she heard the ballista crew tightening the rope spring, and she knew that all along her lightless lines, more crews were doing the same. The Trinovante had brought along a score of the machines, plus a dozen catapults, hundreds of boulders, and fifty balls of pitch that could be set alight and fired over the city wall. The first wave of her attack-all flaming balls of pitch-would be devastating to Londinium’s outer defenses. If the crews could get the machines loaded and fire another volley before the initial surprise of the first attack wore off, the battle would be over before it began. The flames would enter the city proper and set fire to the buildings within.
It is difficult to defend a city that is already in flames.
She looked down the line at her army, a dark column that stretched to the horizon like a black smudge on the land. Nearly a hundred thousand warriors from the northern tribes of Britannia stood ready to fight and die. Throughout the landscape of dark-clad soldiers she could see the larger silhouettes of the war machines they had brought with them. Catapults, ballistae, trebuchets, and even a few large machines that resembled giant crossbows, all manned and operated by men who crawled over them like ants. They could not lose. The Trinovante had sent thousands of men, as had several other clans, but by far the bulk of her troops were Iceni, born and raised in the ways of battle. The Romans had no idea of the force they had awakened when they stole her lands, but they were about to find out.
The clop-clop of a horse’s hooves caught her attention, and she turned to look behind her. Heanua sat rigid in her saddle, sword in hand. Despite her misgivings about her eldest daughter’s ambition, Boudica couldn’t quite stifle the feeling of pride she felt at the sight. Heanua looked like a queen. Regal, strong, and ready to fight for her people. If only Lannosea…
No, she thought. No distractions. Lannosea does what she does, and that is the end of it. Except it wasn’t, and she knew it. Lannosea had been acting strange for months, and if rumors could be believed, had even dismissed her bathing staff. She’d even begun to dress differently, wearing delicate, loose-fitting clothes not suitable for life on the road. Not only that, but her appetite had grown as her health declined. It was a wonder she Boudica stopped in mid thought, assembling the facts together in her mind. Lannosea’s recent bouts of nausea, her increased appetite, the lack of servants in her bath. Those servants were the only people who would ever see her with no clothes. Why would she dismiss them unless she had something she didn’t want them to see? Something like…
No…could she?
As if Boudica’s thoughts had summoned her, Lannosea rode up to her post, clad in her leather and steel armor. A cheer rose from the ranks as the soldiers nearby recognized the lovely Iceni woman, and it spread through the troops, despite Boudica’s strict warning for her men to keep silent. Lannosea stopped her horse ten feet away from her mother’s, and raised her hand in greeting. “I am ready, my Queen,” she said.
Boudica stared, unable to speak. Lannosea wore the same armor she always wore, yet this time it seemed a bit snug, straining at the middle where it wrapped her belly in protective leather. Lannosea herself pretended not to notice, but Boudica saw the strain of the leather, and she knew her hunch to be correct. Pregnant. Of course! It made perfect sense now. Those Roman bastards had gotten Lannosea pregnant.
As the ramifications began to pile up in her head-the dishonor, the laughter, the indignity-Heanua cleared her throat.
Boudica jumped, then realized Heanua’s meaning. She’d been staring at Lannie’s belly. That wouldn’t do at all. Soon the soldiers around her would notice what she had, and that would be the end of Lannosea’s future. If she still has one. She shook her head, knowing otherwise. Lannie will never rule the Iceni.
For her part, Lannosea sat straight and stiff in her saddle, her expression a mixture of stoic bravery and resignation. Boudica understood. Lannosea had been raised a princess. She would know better than anyone the inevitable results of her pregnancy. She would be forced to live in disgrace, unwanted and unwed. No one would make a move against her, of course. She was still royalty, but her future would be marred by scandal. For someone as strong and proud as Lannie, that would hurt much more than any blade.
She had not come to fight. She had come to die with her honor intact. The mother inside her remembered Lannie’s birth, and the feel of her mouth on her teat. She recalled the girl’s first sword, and the smile on her face when she first put an arrow into the target. When she was a babe, Boudica would sing soft, soothing songs to her until she fell asleep in her arms. Her father would cradle her as though she were the most precious of his treasures,
