Twenty seven years ago, a dead rabbi had told him there was always a choice, even though it might not be a good one. He’d meant that Taras could kill himself if he really wanted to, rather than live out his years as a monster. But he wasn’t ready to die back then. Nor was he ready now. He would leave her blood intact.
Taras turned his back on her and started walking. Maybe someone would stumble through this area tonight and find her stuck there, maybe not. If so, she would surely kill her rescuers. She’d lost a lot of blood and would need to replace it. Taras couldn’t bring himself to feel pity for them. Hell, he wanted to find someone to feed on, too. As he walked away, it occurred to him that he should just kill her and be done, eliminating her as a witness and as a danger to others. But if the Council already knew he was here it wouldn’t do much good. They’d be coming for him anyway.
The time had come to leave Britannia.
5
Theron bounced along the road to Londinium, looking like nothing more than another driver as he approached the high, wooden walls of the city. His clothes-brought over from Spain-were plain and a bit dirty, as would be expected of a traveler on the dusty road from the coast. His matted black hair needed attention, but for now his unkempt appearance would help him get through the gates unmolested. The city walls were solid, but not especially tall. If things at the gate went badly he could likely climb over before anyone spotted him. Of course, he could also kill the two guards at the gate, but that would make noise and cause an alert that would rouse the city guard, and he didn’t want to fight off hundreds of armed Roman soldiers.
He needn’t have worried. The guards barely spared him a bored glance as he passed. Three other late wagons rolled through the gates behind him. At the same time, a dozen or so wagons were leaving, along with a score of people on foot. Londinium, it seemed, was a city used to people coming and going at all hours of the day.
The smells of dust and sweat mingled in the air, along with those of mead and meat. The market had long closed, but the city was not empty. The streets buzzed with people, many of whom streamed out of the city, turning north at the gate. Up and down the street, windows were boarded and doors locked as people left their homes and businesses to flee the city. Not a good sign.
He caught snatches of conversation from some of the passers-by.
“…Camulodunum is gone. Burned to the ground…”
“…not a soul left alive…”
“…coming here next…”
“…Suetonius is leaving…”
“…taking most of the soldiers with him…”
“…ordered the city evacuated…”
So that’s why the people were leaving the city. Apparently the Iceni queen and her horde were on the march to Londinium. Theron could hardly blame the people, he’d heard what happened to Camulodunum; buildings razed, citizens tortured and killed, the whole city was left a smoldering ruin by the Iceni and their allies. And now they were coming here, and the Roman general Suetonius was leaving the city to burn. Small wonder the people were walking over one another to get out. Theron smelled their fear. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed it, but now it meant he needed to get in, do what he came to do, and get out. Would Taras still be here? Or would he have already left? Too many damn questions.
He steered the horses to a nearby trough and tied the cart to a post. He would not be using it again, and it would probably be stolen shortly after he left it. That, too, would be a good thing. The less evidence he left behind, the better. It had been twenty seven years since he had defied the Council and set out on his own, and he hadn’t lived this long by taking chances. Despite the fact that the city would soon perish under the weight of tens of thousands of Iceni raiders, he would still avoid any unnecessary risks.
Then again, just being in Londinium presented a risk in itself. The city had grown large enough that the Council had probably gained enough interest in the region to put a portal here. Nothing fancy, of course. The building would just resemble a dilapidated structure somewhere in the city walls. It wouldn’t look like much, but it would be a gateway to untold numbers of the Council’s minions.
Theron made a mental note to be extra careful. If he spotted any sign of the Council, he would leave. But for now, the bait was too tempting not to try and get a bite.
Taras. That damned former legionary who’d somehow managed to turn Theron’s world upside down by being alive when he was supposed to be dead. True, Theron’s own carelessness led to Taras’s transformation, but if the bastard had just taken him to Jesus’ tomb when he asked, Theron would still be in good standing with his people. He could have gone to the tomb, taken the rabbi’s head, and then presented it to the Council as proof of a job well done. He would still be Lead Enforcer, and privy to the Halls of the Bachiyr, with his own apartments and amenities. He would still be able to enjoy all the benefits of his once lofty status.
Instead he was strolling through a doomed city in stolen peasant’s garb and trying not to arouse the suspicion of a few human guards. Humiliating.
He stepped off the cart and into the street, taking a good, long look at the people leaving the city. Not a single one of them glowed, he noted with more than a little relief. Apparently the fires of faith that burned so brightly in Jerusalem after the death of Jesus had not reached this far. Good. Doubtless the Roman gods ruled here, or possibly the gods of the local people. Either way, it would make his job easier. If he didn’t have to contend with any faithful Jews or any followers of the dead rabbi, then he should be fine as long as he didn’t linger. The Iceni could arrive any day. He gave himself one night to find Taras. If he could not locate Taras in that time he would leave the city and try again some other night.
He walked away from the horses and cart, leaving them tied to the post, threading his way through the exodus of people leaving Londinium. The man back in Spain had said something about the Market district. That made sense. Markets were usually crowded and busy, full of people who had more important things to do than watch a stranger. There would be plenty of people to feed from in a city like this: prostitutes, beggars, thieves. Lots of humans no one would miss. And most of them would be in the Market district.
Theron stepped slowly through the city. He had plenty of time. The sun had only set two hours ago. The peasant who owned the cart had filled his belly well, so he didn’t need to feed. He could take his time and learn the layout of the streets, which would be especially handy if he had to make a fast getaway. As he watched yet another family leave their home, carrying their possessions over their shoulders, he realized that the need for a fast escape might be a distinct possibility.
Boudica stepped from the tub, the warm water running down her body and pooling on the floor. Her youngest daughter Lannosea waited nearby with a soft robe, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves, wincing as the fabric touched the scars on her back. The pain was only mental, she told herself. The tissues had healed months ago. Still, whenever anything touched the sensitive scar tissue, it reminded her of those days immediately after the flogging when her skin felt like it was on fire, and the slightest touch was agony.
Her daughter’s eyes dropped to the ground. She didn’t like the reminders, either. Boudica had been flogged by the Romans, but her daughters had been beaten and raped at the hands of the guttural legionaries. All in all, the queen felt she’d gotten off easier than they.
She remembered every detail. The smell of the Romans’ sweat, the bitter smell of burning pitch, the sound of the whip, the pain in her back, even the grunting of the Roman officers as they took from her two daughters what their future husbands should have gotten. The Romans laughed as the girls cried, then they invited the other men to join them. So many men had their way with her daughters that she lost count. The memories would never fade, she knew. She would feel and hear those indignities until her last breath. But before she went to her grave, she meant to send as many Romans as possible to theirs.
She dried off, and was just getting dressed when her oldest daughter, Heanua, came into the chamber. Unlike Lannosea, the Roman brutality had not weakened Heanua to the point of meekness. Instead, Boudica saw a
