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, girl or no, and he covered her tiny face with kisses made prickly by the stubble on his rarely-shaven face. The part of the queen that remembered those things cried out at the injustice of what had been done to her beautiful daughter.
But above all else, Boudica was a Queen and an Iceni warrior. The rulership of her people took precedence over all, and an Iceni was only as good as his or her honor. Without it, they might as well go to Rome and join the emperor’s minions. If Lannie sought an honorable death rather than the shame of bearing the animal in her belly, Boudica would not deny it to her.
“Very well,” she replied, and Lannosea’s face relaxed. “We will attack soon.”
She turned to Heanua, and the look on her eldest daughter’s face told her she had already known. How long had they been planning to keep this a secret? An unexpected pain stabbed at her heart. Her daughters had lied to her, kept secrets from her. No matter the dire nature of Lannosea’s condition or the severity of their coming battle, it felt like a mutiny. She might have expected as much from Heanua, but Lannie? Never.
She and Lannie had always been close. There had never been any secrets between them until now. Heanua was another matter. Willful and stubborn, she had proven a challenge on more than one occasion, constantly arguing with her mother over the distribution of supplies, training for the troops, even the weapons they brought into battle. It seemed to her Heanua thought she was the Queen, and not her mother. Once this battle was over, Boudica would have to show her once and for all who was in charge.
Theron and Baella left the city by way of the easternmost gate. A pair of armed legionaries let them go without even questioning them, probably under orders from Suetonius. Just outside the gate, two off-duty soldiers played nervously at a game of dice. They stared at the numbers as if they didn’t really see them, then picked them up and tossed them again. Theron recognized the vacant looks on their faces. They had been left behind to die, and they knew it. The scene reminded Theron of the night he killed Ephraim. That night, he’d been forced to kill two legionaries on patrol who’d stopped to play dice. He’d ripped the head from the first one, then turned and stabbed the second.
The memory brought a smile to his face. It was a good night.
They walked past the two soldiers and down the path leading away from the city. Theron didn’t know where they were going, he just followed Baella’s lead. Baella, for her part, said nothing, but she seemed in a hurry to put the city far behind them. Theron couldn’t really argue. Knowing that Ramah was somewhere behind them spurred his legs on, too. He would be only too happy to put as much distance between himself and the Blood Letter as possible. His only real regret in leaving Londinium was that he’d had to leave Taras alive.
“I hope Ramah kills you slowly, Roman,” Theron muttered.
“What?” Baella asked.
“Nothing.” Theron shook his head. His opportunity for revenge had slipped away, but at least he would live another night, which is more than he could say for Taras. “I was just saying goodbye.”
Baella’s lips curved into a smirk. She probably knew what he meant, but she said nothing. Just as well, he didn’t want to talk about it. The memory of his failure in Jerusalem still stung, and the farther he got from those involved, the better. Until he killed Baella, of course. Then he would only have to dodge Ramah long enough to find his way to the Halls of the Bachiyr. Once there he could find Headcouncil Herris and present the renegade’s head to him as a gift.
The two traveled further away from the walls, walking as fast as they could without arousing suspicion. Even this late at night there were travelers on the road, and while under normal circumstances they would provide a welcome diversion, with Ramah on their trail all Theron wanted to do was keep going. They didn’t have time to stop and feed. Besides, he had plenty of blood to do what he needed to do.
One traveler approached them on the road, and Theron thought something was odd about him. As he tried to put his finger on the problem, Baella grabbed his arm.
“Have you noticed anything strange about the people on this road?”
Theron had noticed, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. So he kept silent.
“They are all men,” Baella continued. “And every one of them is armed, even though they are dressed like peasants.”
She was right. Now that he thought about it, Theron hadn’t seen a single woman since they left the city, though there had been dozens of people. And every one of them had carried a sword. He studied the next person walking up the road toward them, and caught the unmistakable glint of steel peeking out from under the man’s filthy tunic.
Soldiers.
That didn’t bode well. The only reason there would be such a large number of soldier on the road was if…
“Londinium is about to be attacked,” he whispered.
Baella nodded.
“Looks like we got out just in time,” he said.
“Or maybe not.”
He was about to ask what she meant when the soldier on the path drew his sword.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered.
Theron almost laughed, but then the sound of many booted feet behind him drew his attention. He turned to see a group of soldiers, at least two score of them, moving to surround him. Every one of them was dressed as a peasant, and each one had his sword out and pointed at Theron’s chest.
Stupid! He hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He should have heard the men doubling back on the path and coming up behind them, but he’d been too focused on how to kill his new companion. Now he and Baella were surrounded by forty armed men who were rapidly closing in on them. He turned to Baella to ask what they should do, but the renegade vampire was gone.