“Mine?”
“He gave me this.” Cyric handed her a folded sheaf of parchment. The seal had been broken, but it was still easy to read. Heanua had gone into her tent and forged the document, using Boudica’s own seal to make it look official.
“This is my large seal,” she noted. “From my tent. But you knew that already. Didn’t you, Cyric?”
He nodded. “I noticed it the moment he gave me the parchment.”
“I’m sure you did.” Boudica looked back at the seal. “Haegre should have noticed it, too.”
“He is young, my queen, and not terribly experienced. That is why you left him behind, if I remember correctly.”
“True enough,” she sighed. “It would have been a moot point if she had not been so stubborn. Still…”
“What are your orders?”
Boudica turned to look at Heanua’s corpse. Blood had pooled on the floor of the cage and dripped onto the ground beneath it. A cloud of flies, not satisfied with the many bodies in and around the city, buzzed madly about the cage, feasting on Heanua’s flesh.
“Lock him in the cage with my daughter’s body,” she said, “so he might look upon the cost of his disobedience.”
Cyric saluted, then turned to carry out her orders.
“Cyric,” Boudica called.
He stopped and turned to face her. “Yes, my queen?”
“Once you have locked Haegre in the cage, set it on fire.”
“Yes, my queen,” he said, and turned to leave.
Boudica turned to regard Heanua’s body one last time. With Lannosea undoubtedly dead, as well, she no longer had an heir. Perhaps after the war she would remarry. She was young enough to bear more children, and she had no shortage of suitors. In any case, she owed it to her people to provide an heir.
That is a problem for another day, she thought. She turned away from the body and walked toward her tent, her mind already on the next city. The dead could wait. Suetonius would not.
32
Taras drove his other fist into Theron’s back, as well. The claws tore through Theron’s flesh and emerged from his chest in a spray of gore. Theron sputtered and cursed, and tried to squirm free, but Taras held him fast. “This is for Mary,” he said.
“We had a deal, Roman,” Theron replied, a trickle of red pouring from his mouth.
“The deal was that you would not harm either of us,” Taras replied. “Nothing was said about me killing you.”
Theron chuckled. It came out a thick, wet gurgle. The sound of it set Taras on edge. He drove his knee into the small of Theron’s back.
“What is funny?” he asked.
“You,” Theron replied. “This is the second time you have attacked me when my back was turned.” He spat a wad of blood on the floor near the woman’s shoulder. “You are a true Bachiyr, after all. You just don’t realize it.”
Taras stared at the blood pooling on the floor, then lifted his eyes to his claws. They dug into Theron’s back, leaving holes that oozed crimson in neat little lines. Was Theron right? Was he a coward? Did he only attack when Theron’s back was turned because he knew he could not defeat the older vampire in an honest fight?
He looked at the woman lying in the dust, and his mind traveled back to Mary’s tomb. The two looked nothing alike, but he now realized why he had saved the Iceni princess. Her spirit and determination had reminded him of Mary. He could not have borne to see her come to harm, not when he could do something to help.
But in the end, the woman owed her life to Theron, not Taras.
Taras pulled his claws from Theron’s back and watched as the other vampire fell to his hands and knees. The wounds were not fatal-not to a Bachiyr, at least-but they would slow Theron down long enough for Taras to take the woman and leave. He had no idea where he would take her, but he would not leave her here with Theron, who would probably feed on her to heal himself if the opportunity arose.
He reached down and picked her up, then rose to his feet. Theron remained on his hands and knees, dripping blood onto the dusty floor of the tunnel from eight holes in his chest. Already the flow had lessened. Soon the holes would close completely and Theron would fall into a healing sleep.
“I am not you,” Taras said, “and I am not afraid of you. I would kill you right now if I didn’t owe you her life. Live on, then. Walk your black path if you like, but don’t come looking for me again. The next time we meet, I will kill you.”
He turned to leave. The tunnel would take him outside the city and exit in a heavily wooded area. He would leave the Iceni woman near the tunnel exit, then double back to one of the secure chambers to wait for nightfall. If Theron happened by during the day, Taras would make good on his threat. If not, he had just allowed a great evil to walk free. Would Mary have understood? Maybe. Maybe not. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself.
Theron’s weak, gravelly laughter followed him down the tunnel.
“That was too easy, Roman,” Theron said.
Taras ignored him and rounded the corner, the Iceni woman cradled in his arms.
He walked the length of the tunnel, ignoring several doors along the way. These doors only opened into rooms where the smugglers hid their cache until it was time to move it into the city. He had killed the smugglers several years ago, but the rooms still contained casks of wine, spoiled exotic foods, spices from the east, and even weapons and armor. Enough wealth lay in the tunnel to make a human’s eyes grow wide at the thought of a life filled with every possible luxury, but Taras had no use for any of it, and so he left it where it was.
There was one room in the tunnel that Taras did think useful. In it, the smugglers kept a trio of straw pallets, some dried goods, extra clothing, and most important of all, a freshwater well.
The woman stirred in his arms, and he looked down to see she had awakened somewhat. Her half-open eyes stared up at him.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“You are safe.”
“You’re a Roman?” Her eyes widened a bit, but still only managed to open three quarters of the way. Taras hadn’t realized he’d spoken to her in Roman, but it didn’t matter. Roman was the language most comfortable to his tongue, and thus the one he used most often.
“I was,” he replied. Not anymore. Now I’m not even human.
Her eyes closed. “I was a princess,” she said, her head lolling back in his arms.
“I know.”
She opened her eyes again. “The baby…”
Taras shook his head, remembering the bloody mess back in the street. There had been a lump amidst all that blood. His eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. “Gone,” he said. “The baby is gone.”
She sighed, then her head rolled backward and went limp, bouncing along as he walked. He couldn’t tell if she was happy about the baby or sad, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Dead is dead.
Except for me, he thought.
33
Lannosea awoke in a dark, moldy place, which surprised her. The last thing she remembered was lying in the street, waiting for the pain in her belly to kill her as a Roman legionary approached. She must have lost consciousness afterward, because her next recollection was of a blonde Roman carrying her through a tunnel. He’d told her she was safe, but how could she ever be safe in Roman hands? Now he was gone, and all she could see
