it was very close to the lines of the Iceni army, and would make a good place to watch them. If they had Theron- and she had little doubt that they did-it was where Ramah would most likely stop to devise a plan for getting the renegade Enforcer.
And where she would capture him.
25
Boudica sat on her horse overlooking the battle. A steady wind blew the heat of many fires and hundreds of glowing cinders toward her, spooking her horse and searing her flesh in places. Despite this, she held herself stiff and rigid, muscling her horse into submission with the skill honed by many such campaigns. A grim smile split her face as she watched Londinium burn. Like Camulodunum, the fires raged through the entire city. Nothing and no one would be spared. Her night’s work would leave nothing intact, she had even ordered the wells be filled with stone.
A thick black plume of smoke rose a short way into the night sky and hung there like a black storm cloud, blotting out the stars above the city and turning the scene into a hellish nightmare. The screams of the dying rang through the night like the peal of a hundred bells, and the smell of burning timber and flesh reached all the way to her station near the ballista crews. This was all according to plan. By the time she left the city it would resemble nothing so much as a large black scar upon the earth.
My legacy, she thought. My gift to the world; pushing out the Romans.
To the left of the ballistae, the infantry waited for their turn to fight. Rank upon rank of anxious, battle- hardened Iceni and Trinovante men stood waiting for the order to attack. While not nearly as orderly and disciplined as their Roman enemies, her men made up for their chaotic nature with the fierceness and brutality that had become the standard for her people. The Romans called them barbarians. Boudica couldn’t help but chuckle. Her troops might not stand in pretty rows, but they knew how to lop off an enemy’s head, and they were loyal to the death. Her army numbered in the tens of thousands, and every single soldier stood ready to fight, die, and kill for their Queen.
No, that’s not quite right, she corrected herself. Her men, and those of the Trinovante, did not truly fight for her or her daughters, but for their king, who kept them free from Roman rule during his life and tried to do the same even after his death. They followed her because she was their leader, but they would never love her as they had loved her husband. Little matter, though. As long as they did what they were told, they could have been fighting for their dogs and she would have been satisfied.
At the head of the cavalry sat Lannosea, a splendid figure atop her black horse. As a princess, it was her duty to lead a group into battle. Boudica had determined that Lannie, being the better rider, would take the mounted troops while Heanua led the infantry. She rode with her back straight and her expression grim, the steel scales on her leather doublet glowing with reflected firelight. If Boudica squinted, and blurred her vision, it almost looked like Lannie was on fire, herself. And maybe she is, at that, Boudica thought. Not a fire of flame, but one of purpose.
Heanua sat behind Lannosea and to her right, ready to storm the city after Lannie’s charge and claim whatever glory the gods saw fit to deliver. There would be plenty. Once Lannosea died-and die she would-it would fall to Heanua to finish the attack. Boudica had no doubt her oldest daughter would acquit herself in grand fashion, she had been training for this for years. Once Boudica’s ballistae and Lannie’s cavalry softened the city’s defenses, they would be easy targets for Heanua’s men.
Just a few more series of ballistae attacks and she would send them in.
“My Queen!”
She turned to see one of her scouts running toward her, his face twisted in fear. Immediately, she thought the worst. Had Nero sent reinforcements? Had the Trinovante changed their minds? Were Roman forces even now cutting into her supply line? Whatever it was, the expression on the man’s face told her the news was not good.
He reached her horse and took a knee, saluting as he did so.
“Report,” she said.
“We have captured…something.”
“Something? What do you mean, ‘something?’” She looked behind him, to a group of men who were dragging a prisoner behind them. The man was tied to a wooden beam by a length of heavy rope, and no less than a dozen men stood around him with their swords drawn. Several archers walked nearby, their arrows trained on the man’s chest. Boudica caught her breath when she noted the condition of her men. Many were bruised and bloodied, with gashes on their arms and chests. One soldier’s left eye was missing, a hideous red hole stared blindly out from his face where it had once been. A thin red line trickled from the wound, making the man look like he was crying blood.
Many more of her men were similarly battered. Petrus limped along on a hastily made crutch, and Bolvo’s left arm was missing from the elbow down. The stump had been tied with a leather thong, but the man was pale as death. Despite this, the prisoner appeared unharmed. While there was a great deal of blood on his clothes, which were ripped and shredded, she didn’t see a single mark on him. How was that possible?
The man glared at her. His dark eyes filled with hate and loathing, and she felt the heat of his disdain from her seat, a good twenty feet away. His straggly hair was matted and sticky with blood, and his face shone red in the moonlight. His thin cheeks seemed gaunt, even hollow, but he had the lean, strong physique of a trained warrior. His muscles bulged as he strained against his bonds. Despite the number of ropes tied to him, she felt a momentary fear that he would break them and come for her throat.
It’s the eyes, she thought, staring deep into their black depths. They aren’t natural. The color. Not brown but black. Who has black eyes?
And what had he done to her men? She did a fast count and noted that over twenty men were missing.
“Where are the others?” she asked. “The rest of your patrol? Where are they?”
The scout looked at his feet. “Dead, my Queen.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-four.”
Boudica tapped her fingernail on the horn of her saddle. Had Londinium known what was coming? Had they sent out troops to meet hers before the bombardment? It seemed unlikely, especially since the attack was well underway already. “Are there any other prisoners?”
“No, my Queen.”
Boudica stood in her stirrups. “You mean this man,” she pointed at the prisoner, “and his allies killed twenty- four of my soldiers and you only captured one of them?”
The soldier looked shaken. “No, my Queen. That is not…that is…there were no others.”
“What do you mean?”
“The prisoner was alone.” He wiped sweat from his brow with a bloody forearm. “He killed twenty four of our men and injured a score more before we were able to subdue him. He fought like a whirling devil.”
Boudica sat back down, staring at the prisoner. One man? Against twenty-four? She looked closely, noting the shiny pink welts on his skin. Scars. Fresh ones. How fresh were they? She doubted he battled such a large force by himself without taking a single hit. One look at her men confirmed that several of them had scored bloody hits. Half the swords pointed at him were stained red. She shook her head, noting the bloody hands and jaws of the strange man.
Bloody jaws… something about the image brought a story to her mind. Something she’d heard of as a child but never believed in. A secret race of beings that looked human, but weren’t. They were said to drink the blood of their victims, and were rumored to have healing powers beyond the imagination of mortal men.
But they were just stories. Weren’t they?
One look at the prisoner’s burning eyes, which reflected the fires of Londinium and looked like burning cinders in the middle of his face, told her they were not.
“Gods save us,” Boudica whispered.
“My Queen?” the scout asked. “Is something wrong?”
