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 was a dark room with a wooden door. Bright light shone around the doorframe, and the sounds of birds and other animals came through it.
She rose to her feet, amazed at the fact that nothing hurt. The brigands who’d tried to rape her had punched her repeatedly in the belly, causing the baby…
The baby! She looked at her belly, marveling at how flat and smooth it was. She checked the area between her legs and caught her breath. The blood on her thighs was gone. Someone had cleaned her up and left her by the door.
But who?
The door looked solid and heavy, but the smell of clean air that flowed from under it was too great a temptation. She put her hand on the wood and shoved. It swung outward much easier than she had expected. Overbalanced, she fell through the doorway and into the foliage beyond, landing in a clump of tall grass speckled with red and yellow flowers. A bee buzzed away, angry at the interruption of its work.
All around her were trees. Maples, birches, and oaks surrounded the door on all sides. The sounds of the woods came at her from all directions. To her left, a mouse rustled in the dried leaves. Up ahead, a falcon flapped it’s wings as it coasted through the sky. Behind her, more bees buzzed and droned in their never ending search for nectar.
In addition to sounds, the smells of the woods came to her nose in force. The musty reek of a bird’s nest, the earthy smell of the forest floor, and the fresh, pleasant smell of green leaves filtered through the air, magnified a thousand times their normal strength. And hidden among the natural smells of the woods, like a viper in a basket of rope, was one other.
Smoke.
Lannosea followed the smell of smoke to the edge of the woods, marveling at how clearly she could pinpoint it. She’d never been able to do that before, at least not to such an extent. During the time she was pregnant smells had been magnified to nearly intolerable levels. Was this an extension of that, perhaps? Or would that have changed with the death of the baby? For that matter, how was she even alive?
The Roman, she thought. He had something to do with it. I know it. But why?
She came to the edge of the woods and peered through the trees. A huge scorch mark marred the earth about a hundred yards distant, with a few charred timbers sticking up here and there from the ashes. People moved among the timbers, collecting whatever items they found and, every once in a while, raising a sword to strike at something on the ground. She recognized their garb as that of her people.
Which meant the scorch mark was all that remained of Londinium. The Iceni had won, her mother had razed the city. Her people were searching the rubble for survivors and putting them to the sword, just as they had done in Camulodunum. Her mother’s orders. None would be spared, not even the children. Her hand instinctively went to her belly. With the curse of the Roman bastard gone, she could rejoin her people and take her place as princess of the Iceni.
The image of her mother’s eyes came to her, then. Her mother had not tried to stop her, though she surely knew Lannosea’s plan. Why had she let her daughter march to her death? The answer came to her as soon as the question entered her mind. Honor. Her pregnancy dishonored her mother as well as herself. Lannosea’s death would have been convenient for the queen. The fact should have made her sad, but it did not.
As another soldier raised his sword, she heard the cry of a child. The cry was silenced as the soldier brought the sword down. Even from this distance, Lannosea heard the wet thud as the sword sliced into flesh, and caught the sudden shriek as the life on the receiving end of the blade was extinguished.
Killing children. Where was the honor in that? Her mother was driven by vengeance, not justice, and Lannosea and Heanua had gone along with her plans because neither could tell the difference. Until now.
Lannosea shook her head. She could not go back to her people. She did not belong with them anymore. Heanua would have to assume leadership of the Iceni, if there were any of them left to lead once the Romans came. Her mother led her people onto a path that would only end either when Rome or the Iceni were destroyed. Despite the smoldering ruin that was Londinium, she knew Rome would eventually prove the victor. Suetonius was probably planning his attack even now.
“Good luck, mother,” she whispered. “I hope you find what you need.”
With that, Lannosea turned her back on her people and walked away. Brittania was a large country. Surely there was a place for her somewhere.
Taras watched her go from the shadows of the tunnel. The dawn had made him weak and drowsy, but he fought the urge to sleep long enough to see the princess step through the doorway and into the woods beyond. It took several hours and used up a considerable amount of blood, but he refused to sleep until he knew she was all right. Now he knew. Theron would not catch her. It was up to her what she would do next.
He had done his part. She was safe.
He thought of Theron, and Ramah, and Baella, and all the other Bachiyr in the world who would love to see him dead, and felt a stab of self pity. The princess might be safe, but he would never be able to say the same for himself.
He reached into his pack and pulled out the strip of blue cloth, running it between his fingers and bringing it up to his nose. He liked to imagine that he could still smell Mary’s perfume on it, but it was a lie. The cloth smelled like the inside of his sack. Nothing more. At times like this, he wished he could still cry.
When sleep took him, he was still holding the scrap of cloth to his face.
Theron stumbled from the doorway and into the night. The sounds of the forest surrounded him. Owls, frogs, and crickets sang their songs of night to him as he trudged through the damp foliage toward the sound of voices. Mixed in with the smells of the forest was another smell. Blood. From two sources.