“Good.” Taras drove his clawed hand into Theron’s back, making sure to keep his mouth shut tight.
Boudica stared at Heanua’s body, lying in a pool of half-dried blood. “I warned you,” she said. Strangely, she felt no pity. Heanua had gone against her will and chosen her course, with predictable results. “I told you the Bachiyr was dangerous.”
The sun shone through the bars of the cage, casting her dead daughter in a surreal, orange light. She looked peaceful, almost angelic. The effect was marred somewhat by the shadows of the cage bars, which striped the corpse at regular intervals. The bloody red tear in her throat also ruined the illusion.
She would have to burn the body before nightfall in order to make certain her daughter did not rise again as one of the Bachiyr. To think she had survived being raped and beaten by the Romans only to die in a foolish attempt to make a deal with the dead. Such a waste. Particularly since Lannosea was surely dead by now, as well. Who would assume leadership of the Iceni if anything happened to Boudica?
She shook her head and turned away. The city of Londinium lay in smoldering ruins before her, spread out across the horizon like a huge, gray stain on the country side. Smoke hung thick in the morning air, heavy with the smells of charred wood and burned flesh. Her men marched through the streets, putting any survivors to the sword. The screams of the dying dotted the air, punctuated by the sounds of her army setting up for the day ahead. To judge by the sky, it would be bright and cloudless.
There would be little time to rest. Once her men finished their grim work in the city, the Iceni army would have one day to recuperate, then they would be off again. Boudica was determined to take back as much of Brittania as she could before Nero mustered a coordinated military response. They had made it this far slaughtering primarily civilians. Suetonius had abandoned the city before they arrived, and had taken most of his troops with him. Had he stayed, the battle would not have been so easy. Though she had little doubt the eventual outcome would have been the same. She looked across the burning remains of the city, as if she could see past it to the countryside beyond, and silently wondered when Suetonius would strike back.
Cyric appeared at her side. He took a knee, then bowed his head in respect.
“Did you find him?” she asked.
Cyric stood and nodded. “Captain Haegre has been located. He and his men were on the northern wall. Haegre claims it was Heanua herself who sent him there, on your orders.”
“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.