61 A.D.
By David McAfee
Cover design by David McAfee
Cover Image provided by iStockPhoto
This is a work of fiction. The events depicted in this story, though based on real events, are entirely products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner and should not be construed as fact.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Visit David McAfee on the web at www.mcafeeland.com or mcafeeland.wordpress.com
Twitter: DavidLMcAfee
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Email: Monkeyfeet73@yahoo.com
---For Cole, the part of me I never knew was missing.---
Other Books by David McAfee
Bachiyr Novels
33 A.D.
Saying Goodbye to the Sun
Horror Novels
NASTY LITTLE F!#*ERS
The Gallows Tree (October 2010)
Short Story Collections
The Lake and 17 Other Stories
Devil Music and 18 Other Stories
After: Taras and Theron, Beyond Jerusalem
The Dead Man Series
The Dead Woman
With Jeremy Robinson
Bishop (Coming Soon)
Table of Contents
This novel is set against the backdrop of the Iceni Rebellion of 61 A.D. The Iceni Queen—a fiery lady by the name of Boudica—led her people and their allies, the Trinovante, against the forces of Rome in an attempt to force the Romans out of Britannia. Her army demolished several cities, reducing them to ash and killing tens of thousands of people before falling to the Roman general Suetonius and his troops on the ancient road known as Watling Street. The Romans were vastly outnumbered, but they had the discipline and training of a great military empire. The Iceni and their allies were not especially disciplined or gifted strategically, relying more on sheer numbers than sound military tactics.
I researched these events while writing the book, and while some of it is historically accurate, such as the Roman treatment of Boudica and her two daughters after the death of her husband, other parts are less so. This is because I took a few liberties for the sake of the story. (To the layman, this looks remarkably like making things up.) Those who are more familiar with this point in history will no doubt spot these instances of artistic license (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!) easily.
I had fun writing this book, and I even managed to learn a few things along the way, which made the experience that much better. I have been meaning to get it out to you sooner, but this January my wife and I welcomed our son Cole to the world. As any of you who have children can verify, kids change things. Especially infants. Cole has been a magical, wondrous addition to the McAfee household, and I love him very much. He has also eaten up a lot of my time over the last six months. Call it an excuse, but I like spending time with him and he needs the care (I am a stay at home dad). I also like sleep, which is why you will not catch me up until four in the morning working on a book.
All that said, I am very pleased to present this book to you, and if you would like to say “finally!” under your breath, that is OK. I feel the same way. I hope you enjoy this story, and as always, please feel free to contact me with any thoughts or comments, good or bad. I love hearing from you, and your feedback helps make me a better writer. My email address is Monkeyfeet73@yahoo.com, and I am always happy to read and respond to your comments.
Lastly, I want to say thank you. You have helped make 33 A.D. more successful than I ever imagined it could be, and your support means everything. Your time is precious, and I can’t believe how lucky I am that you are willing to spend some of it with me.
David McAfee
August 14, 2011
She enjoyed this part the most. The part where they started to scream. It didn’t matter how old or how strong they were, when she started to work her particular brand of magic, they all screamed. Even the tough ones; the ones who thought they could hold out and be strong. The ones who thought they were stronger than she was. Those types usually screamed loudest of all. Of course, that could be because she was harder on them than the ones who cooperated, but it didn’t matter.
In the end, she thought, all Bachiyr are cowards. They all had their breaking point.
This particular Bachiyr hadn’t lasted long at all. His screams sounded long and loud, echoing off the walls of the keep and traveling the length of the hallways and through the chambers beyond. She couldn’t hide her smile as she realized that the humans in the valley below probably heard them, too. Good. It would give them yet another reason to stay away from her home, as if they needed further warning.
She watched her prisoner squirm, enjoying the burnt smell of his flesh while her fire scorched his toes. She controlled the flames with a simple psalm, but she had to constantly monitor it to make sure it maintained just the right temperature. If she allowed it to get too hot the fire burned away the nerves and the prisoner would feel nothing. If she allowed the fire to get too cool it lost its effectiveness. After several millennia of practice she had mastered the ability, much to her prisoner’s dismay.
He’d tried to resist her, even going so far as to tell her to go to the Abyss and calling her all manner of filthy names. He even spat at her, but he missed. She had seen it all before. In four thousand years she’d seen just about everything there was to see. Not much surprised her these nights.
After two minutes she cooled the flames—not out of any sense of mercy, but because she needed information. A prisoner who is screaming can’t speak.
The Bachiyr’s feet were little more than charred stumps. Even if she let him go—which she had no intention of doing—he would never walk again. But at times like these few prisoners ever seemed to think that far ahead. Mostly they just wanted the pain to stop. It made getting information much easier.
“There, Agnor,” she said when he stopped screaming, “is that better?”
Agnor whimpered something in reply, but she couldn’t make it out.
“You’d better speak more clearly, Agnor.” She reached over and touched his cheek, running her nails along his jawline with enough force to break the skin. Blood dripped from a thin red wound, and he shivered in his bonds. It reminded her that she had not yet fed this evening. She would have to remedy that soon. “You don’t want to displease me. Your feet were just the beginning.”
“It is better,” he said, his teeth clenched against the pain.
“Good. I am glad you can talk. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
“I already told you, I don’t know where he is.” His voice had taken on a whiny tone. Not good. He already knew he would never leave her keep alive. Damn. It made it harder to get what she wanted, but the difficulty often made the getting more entertaining.
“Agnor,” she cooed, “You are a clerk to the Halls of the Bachiyr. No, no. Don’t try to deny it, I know it’s true. You have access to information that few others can get. If anyone outside the Council of Thirteen would know of his location, it would be you.”
“I don’t—”
“Spare me,” she said. “You are a terrible liar.”
“And you are going to kill me no matter what I tell you,” Agnor said.
“True enough,” she admitted. “You’ve seen my face. I can’t very well let you leave. But whether your death takes ten seconds or ten days is up to you. Tell me where he is and you will die like this.” She snapped her fingers. “Or keep stalling. You are only dragging the pain along further.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned the flames on again. This time she started at his fingertips, charring away the skin and flesh as slow as she could, marveling at how his skin crackled and curled upward as it turned black. The acrid odor reached her nostrils and she covered her nose with a damp cloth. Despite her pleasure at the smell’s source, she could only stand it for so long. Agnor screamed again, shaking his head violently back and forth. Amidst the screams were words which she barely understood. Another denial. He was really playing out the lie. Excellent.
When his hands were gone, she cooled the flames again. This time she had to wait several minutes for Agnor’s screams to subside. When at last he quieted, he lay on the stone altar whimpering. Several small red trails leaked from the corners of his eyes. Blood. The coppery smell mixed with the scents of moss, stone, and burned flesh. She sighed, pleased with herself. She had another card to play.
“Do you think they will save you?” she asked. “They don’t even know you are here. When you failed to report to the Council this evening, how much time do you think they wasted looking for you? None, I’ll wager. You are nothing to them, Agnor. Nothing. They will replace you without a moment’s thought on where you might be. That bastard Herris has probably already seen to it. You owe him nothing, and The Father even less. Why suffer longer than you must? Tell me what I need to know. Where is Ramah? Where did they send him last?”
Agnor quieted and turned to look at her. His eyes hardened, and the set of his jaw firmed. She didn’t like the expression on his face at all, and she already knew what his response would be. Damn it.
“It’s Headcouncil Herris,” he said.
She nodded. She’d expected as much. “Very well, Agnor, clerk of Herris. Have it your way. I will enjoy making you talk.”
Agnor closed his eyes. She was just trying to decide where next to burn him—perhaps his manhood—when her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the wooden door. Only one person would disturb her at a time like this.
“Come in, Feyo,” she called.
The door opened and her pet human entered the room. Feyo was large by human standards, and muscular, which is why she kept him around. She had taken him from the lands just south of the sea as a child and raised him at her keep, biting him every month or so to keep him healthy and stronger than normal. He bore the black hair, dark skin, and deep brown eyes of his people. He kept his tight curly hair cut short so that it resembled a small black rug on his head. Today he wore little more than a loincloth, leaving his lean chest and abdomen bare and shiny with sweat.
Had she any such desires she might have mated with him. But fond as she was of her servant, he was still human. She might as well mate with the dogs or horses.
“Mistress Baella,” Feyo said. “I have good news.”
“Speak it.”
“Your runners have found one of the renegades from Jerusalem.”
Baella turned to face him. That was good news. “Where?”
“Londinium.”
“Britannia? Why would Theron go there?”
“Not Theron, Mistress,” Feyo replied. “The other one. The tall one. The one who looks like a northerner but acts like a Roman.”
“Taras,” she said, not even trying to hide her disappointment.
On the table, Agnor snorted. He knew which one she wanted, too. Smarmy bastard. She turned to him and set his crotch on fire. His screams made her feel a little better, but not much.
“The Roman is of no use to me,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above Agnor’s screams.
“Ramah will not come looking for him?” Feyo asked.
“Ramah cares nothing for him. Neither does the Council.”
“But he has eluded them for decades. Surely they—”
“They will send lesser Enforcers to hunt him down,” she interrupted. “Herris and Ramah will not trouble themselves for one of such thin blood, Feyo. You know this already. Leave now. If you find Theron or Ramah, let me know.”
“But Mistress,” Feyo persisted, “Theron cares a great deal about the Roman even if the Council doesn’t, does he not?”
“Of course he does,” she snapped, losing her temper and her focus at the same time. The flames on Agnor’s crotch died instantly, but his screams went on. She turned to regard her servant, concerned about his line of questioning. Did he think she was a fool? “Theron hates Taras with a passion. He’ll never rest until…until…”
Until Taras is dead, she realized.
That’s what Feyo was trying to say. Of course. Bait for bigger bait. Ramah might not come looking for Taras, but he would come for Theron. And Theron, she thought, will come for Taras. No matter where he is.
“Brilliant,” she said. “Well done, Feyo.”
Feyo’s face cracked in a wide smile. “What are your orders, Mistress?”
“Send twenty men out. Give them each twenty gold and tell them to spread word of a tall, blonde man in Londinium with sharp teeth in every tavern and brothel they come to. When the men run out of gold, they are to return here and report. Theron likes to hunt in those places, he’ll hear about it eventually.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Feyo bowed and left the room.
Once word spread that Taras was hiding in Londinium, Theron would make all haste to get there. She would have to plant a message in the Council, as well, to make sure Herris found out. He would send Ramah, and she would be waiting.
Finally, after four thousand years, the Blood Letter would be hers.
Agnor whimpered, drawing her attention back to the table.
“You heard that, I suppose,” she said.
Agnor nodded. “You don’t need me anymore.”
“So it seems,” she replied.
His look of relief brought a smile to her lips, and she couldn’t stifle a short, derisive laugh. “You think that entitles you to a quick death?”
“But…you don’t need me,” he repeated. “You have what you want.”
“Yes, but not from you,” she replied. “Rest assured, when the time comes for me to kill Feyo he will die quick and painlessly. You, on the other hand, will be around for a very long time.”
When Baella brought the flames back, Agnor’s scream seemed even louder and sweeter than before.
I’m coming for you, Ramah.
A small tavern in Southern Spain,
61 A.D.
Gregor’s friends were laughing at him. “I’m telling you, I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “I saw him. He was seven feet tall if he was an inch.”
“You’re drunk now, Gregor,” Zebhoim said.
“So are you,” Gregor shot back. “Yet you see me just fine.”
“You’re a little blurry,” Zebhoim replied, winking.
“Maybe so, but I wasn’t drunk that night. He was seven feet tall and had long, shaggy blonde hair. Looked like one of those northerners, except for the teeth.”
“Yes, the teeth,” Boro said, laughing. “Tell us again how sharp they were.”
“They were like needles,” Gregor insisted. “And he came at me real fast, I almost didn’t see him. I barely escaped with my life.”
The serving girl brought the wine, and Gregor drank deeply of his cup before he continued. “The strangest part was when he spoke to me. A man like that, I expected to hear the language of the north, but he spoke in Roman.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to run,” Gregor said. “It was the strangest thing. I thought I was a dead man, but he stopped about five paces away and told me to run. Looked like he was in pain or something, and his chin had blood all over it.”
Zebhoim laughed again. “A tall northerner, speaking Roman, with sharp teeth and blood on his chin came up to you and told you to run?” At this, the rest of the table joined in the laughter.
“It’s true, I tell you,” Gregor said.
Zebhoim laughed harder. When he finally settled into a series of chuckles, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “True or not,” he said, “it’s a story that deserves a drink.” He called to the serving girl and ordered another round, while several of the other men continued to laugh and poke fun at Gregor.
Gregor stewed in his chair until the serving girl arrived with the drinks, then he reached over and grabbed one. He might be angry that his friends refuse to believe him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drink their ale. He raised the mug to his mouth and downed it, much to the amusement of the other men at the table, who promptly ordered another round. Soon he forgot all about Zebhoim’s laughter.
A few hours later Gregor stumbled out the door and into the street. He looked at the sky and realized for the first time that the sun would be up in a couple of hours. He’d been drinking with his friends almost all night. At least it was fun. After Zebhoim started buying drinks, the night got interesting. Gregor would have stayed longer except he had started seeing two tables where only one should be. That and he felt a pressing need to empty his bladder.
He walked into an alley near the tavern and untied the leather thong in front of his trousers, barely managing to free his cock in time to avoid wetting himself. A great sense of relief spread through him as the pressure on his bladder eased, and he sighed. Drunk as he was, he swayed back and forth, spraying his boots with piss.
“Damn it,” Gregor swore, lifting his leg and shaking his boot. This caused him to sway even more, and he nearly fell over. He only managed to catch himself by placing both hands on the wall. Of course, since he was still in the middle of urinating, this meant he splashed himself and the wall even further.
“Damn it,” Gregor repeated. He steadied himself against the wall, then reached down with his left hand and grabbed his flailing manhood. Thankfully he managed to finish the rest of the job without further incident.
His good mood gone, he re-tied his trousers and tried to shake some of the urine off them, but it didn’t do any good. He would have to have the girl at the inn wash them or he would spend the whole day smelling like piss. She wouldn’t do it for free, either.
Gregor grumbled about the cost of everything and turned to leave the alley. He froze in his tracks at the sight of the man behind him. The newcomer was dark, and hidden in the shadows of the alley, but Gregor could see the outline of sharp, high cheekbones and shoulder length dark hair. His eyes shone red in the middle of his face, giving off a surreal glow that only magnified the two sharp fangs in the stranger’s mouth.
Gregor had thought his bladder empty, but as he stared at the man’s eyes and teeth, he felt a tiny trickle escape and moisten the front of his trousers. He took a deep breath, ready to shout for help, while his right hand stole to the dagger at his hip.
The stranger’s arm shot forward, his hand clamping down on Gregor’s throat and shoving him back against the building. Gregor felt the moisture on his rump as the urine on the wall soaked the back of his trousers, but of more concern was the lack of air as the stranger’s hand closed around his throat. Gregor gasped and tried to pry the man’s fingers from his windpipe, but it was like trying to pry open a pair of iron shackles. Despite the lack of air, he couldn’t help but notice the color of the man’s hand. Black, like charred skin. It didn’t match the olive color of his face.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said. “It will not do you any good. Save your strength.”
Gregor gurgled. His vision swam and he was starting to feel lightheaded.
“You are mine until I release you,” the stranger said. “Do you understand?”
Gregor nodded.
“You have information I want. I am going to release your throat. If you scream, the rats in this alley will feast tonight,” the stranger said. With that, he opened his hand, allowing Gregor to suck in air. When Gregor caught his breath, he looked up to see the man staring down at him with those odd red eyes. His toothy mouth was curled into a sadistic grin.
“What do you want from me?” Gregor asked.
“Tell me about the tall Roman with teeth like mine.”
***
Theron stepped out of the alley, checking both directions to make sure no one saw him, and walked down the street with a spring in his step. It wasn’t just Gregor’s blood that had him in a good mood. The news that his old friend was hiding in Londinium caused him to smile all the way back to his sanctum.
From Gregor’s description, the tall Roman could only be one Bachiyr, and Theron had been looking for him for almost thirty years.
Taras.
His hand itched, as it did whenever he thought of Jerusalem. He reached over and scratched the blackened flesh. It looked charred, as though someone had taken a torch to it. It still functioned, and it didn’t hurt. The skin had even healed without a visible scar, unless you counted the color. It reminded him of the story the Jews in Judea told of a man named Cain, who had killed his brother and was thus, according to legend, given a dark mark on his forehead so that all who saw him would know what he had done.
It wasn’t quite the same, of course. Cain had killed Abel, but Theron had killed the so-called Messiah. The Son of God, some people called him. Supposedly he was anointed to free the people of Israel and lead humanity back to the path of righteousness. Ha! Those fools in Jerusalem would believe anything if it meant they could oust the Romans. Being the Son of God hadn’t saved him from me, Theron mused.
Still, he looked at his black hand and had to admit there was more to the man than he’d first imagined. Almost thirty years had passed since he’d burned his hand on the rabbi’s skin, and it still retained the pigmentation of a vial of ink. He could no longer exact revenge on the dead rabbi, but Taras was another matter.
Ever since Jerusalem, Theron had dreamed of finding the wretched northerner again, and now thanks to a drunken Spaniard he knew exactly where the bastard was hiding. The time had come to repay an old debt. Tomorrow night he would head to the coast. There he would buy passage on a ship to Britannia. In less than a month he would be in Londinium, and shortly after that Taras would be little more than a bad memory.
He wiped the last of Gregor’s blood from his chin.
“I will see you soon, Roman,” he whispered.
Londinium, in the Roman province of Britannia
61 A.D.
Taras opened his eyes, awakened by the sound of a late street vendor trying to make a profit before the sun went down. He’d chosen a sanctum near the market district because of the large number of people who congregated there. The crowds milling through Londinium’s busy market provided Taras with two things he desperately needed: food and cover. There was never any shortage of brigands and thieves in the market, and even one such as Taras could blend in with the throng.
He rose from his straw pallet, the scent of hay mingling with the spicy, earthen smell of the market nearby, and picked tiny twigs from his wheat-colored hair. His hair and height marked him as a northerner, and even here people noticed him from time to time. During its short history, Londinium had suffered attacks from Vikings as well as several tribes in the northeast, most notably the Iceni, who took offense to Rome’s attitude shift after the death of their King Prasutagus. Taras could have been a Viking himself for all the people around him knew. His tall frame and pallor spoke the truth of his heritage, and even though he’d long since forsaken his homeland to join the Roman Empire, no one in Londinium could know that.
In fact, he reflected, there is probably no one left alive who knows that.
His best friend Marcus, a Centurion in Jerusalem, had been killed nearly thirty years ago by a vampire named Theron. The same vampire who’d somehow tricked Taras into aiding the execution of Jesus of Nazareth. Taras didn’t like to think about that, how he’d helped put an innocent man to the cross. But more than that, he tried to dodge the memory of the strange encounter by the Mount of Olives a few nights later.
Jesus had died on that cross. Taras had forced himself to watch the whole thing, so he knew it was true. Had he really seen the same rabbi, even spoke to him, outside of Mary’s tomb a few days later? It sounded impossible, but he knew it was true. Could the dead really come back?
Taras had only to look at himself for the answer to that question. The dead could indeed come back. Unfortunately.
Jesus wasn’t the only one to die on that spring night twenty-seven years ago. Theron had killed Taras that night, too. But unlike his friend Marcus, Taras hadn’t stayed dead. He didn’t understand why, but for some reason he awoke in a hasty grave and had to dig his way out. He’d been terrified. And hungry. Now, of course, he knew the truth. Theron had turned him into a Bachiyr.
Taras slipped into his tattered pants, sending small clouds of dust into the air, and thought about that first night. He didn’t know what the hunger was, then. He’d walked around trying to eat whatever scraps he could find in the street, but his stomach would have none of it. It wasn’t until several days had passed that he ran into Mary’s father, Abraham, at the entrance to her tomb and finally learned his hunger’s true nature.
He pulled on his rough, homespun shirt. He’d taken it from a tall bandit in the countryside a few weeks ago, and it was starting to show signs of wear. He would have to replace it soon, but it would have to wait until he found a tailor that stayed open late or came across another tall robber. He shrugged his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the front of the shirt to fit his chest, which was smaller than the bandit’s had been. It would have to do for now.
Bachiyr. That’s what the Jews at the Damascus Gate had called him. Taras spoke some Hebrew, the result of several years spent living and working in Jerusalem as a legionary for Rome, and he recognized the word. It meant “Chosen.”
He slipped the shirt over his shoulders as he pondered just what, exactly, he had been chosen for. For nearly thirty years, he had hunted robbers, thieves, bandits and worse, feeding only on those who deserved his ire. But that was a choice he made back in Antioch, not one that was made for him, so it couldn’t be that.
Maybe the name was just a coincidence, or an attempt by the Bachiyr to make themselves seem grander than they were. He would probably never know. He’d have liked to ask another of his kind, but every time he found one they tried to kill him. No questions, no talking, just an attack. He had no idea why. But he’d been running from them for nearly thirty years now, and he’d gotten pretty good at it.
In another life, he’d been trained to be stealthy, silent, and deadly. An elite assassin in the great Roman Legion. Now those skills seemed to have magnified a hundredfold, and he learned new abilities every night. He could silence the area around him for a dozen paces, grow claws from his fingertips, heal his wounds by willing blood to the injured area of his body, and many other skills that turned him from a mere assassin into one of the deadliest beings in the known world.
But not the deadliest.
He hadn’t bested Theron in combat. Nor had he beaten the other Bachiyr that night, a dark-skinned creature of indeterminate age that exuded power and strength beyond anything Taras had seen before or since. He never caught the other Bachiyr’s name, and he didn’t want to. He’d had enough of that one to last a thousand years.
But Theron...that was different. He relished the thought that someday he would meet up with that black-hearted bastard again. He’d learned a few things in thirty years, and wanted to try them out.
Someday, he promised, I will pick up your trail again, Theron. Then I will send you straight to Hell.
He pulled on his worn boots and frowned, examining the hole in the bottom of the right one. That wouldn’t do. The winters in Londinium could be very harsh. He’d need a replacement pair before the cold set in. He’d have to add a pair of boots to the list of things to watch for.
Taras stood and walked to the entrance of the building he’d used as a shelter for the day, passing the dried out husk of the structure’s previous owner. The dead man had been a rapist and murderer in life, and Taras had followed him here after witnessing an attack. When Taras cornered the man the bastard had begged for mercy. It was a cry the Bachiyr had heard hundreds of times over the years from a myriad of bandits, robbers, highwaymen, killers, and worse. They all sounded the same to him, begging for compassion they themselves would never give. He killed the man, as he had the others, and left his body to rot in a corner of the building. That was six weeks ago, and no one had come looking for him. Now as he passed the body, he stopped for just a moment to stare at the man’s feet. Too small. He needed bigger boots. Time to go hunting.
He stepped over the corpse, barely noticing the puncture wounds in the dead man’s neck, and set out for the Market. Most of the vendors would have closed up shop by this late hour, but Taras hoped he would be able to find one still out and about, and with boots and a shirt that might fit him. Afterward he would wind his way to the tavern district. There were always thieves and lightfingers near the taverns, and Taras was hungry.
***
Boudica watched the fires level the city of Camulodunum. Smoke filled the air and stung her eyes and lungs, but she refused to budge. The screams of the dying rang through the night like a song, and every once in a while a resident of the town would run down the street, screaming in pain and trying to put out the flames that engulfed his or her body. In the last hour she’d counted ten such human torches, and the sight never failed to amuse her.
Her hip-length blonde hair—dim with ashes floating by from the ruined city— hung in a tight braid down the center of her back. Her icy blue eyes pierced through the smoky gloom, waiting for confirmation that the town’s wealth was now theirs. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a soot-covered hand, feeling the sting as the salt and grime mixed and dripped into her eyes.
There goes another one, she thought as a man ran down the street trailing fire behind him. He ran for twenty or thirty paces before he fell face-first to the ground and lay twitching in the road. Boudica smirked. One of her soldiers started walking toward him with his sword raised, probably intending to put a quick end to him.
“Leave him,” she ordered. “It’s no less than he deserves.”
The soldier turned, saluted, and walked away, leaving the burning man writhing in the street, much to Boudica’s amusement. It’s a good day to die, Roman.
Her thoughts returned to her daughters, raped and beaten at the hands of the Romans after her husband died. The King had willed the Iceni kingdom to his two daughters as well as to the Roman Empire upon his death, and as part of the treaty Rome had agreed to honor their family’s sovereignty over their lands. But upon the death of her husband, King Prasutagus, the Roman Emperor Nero showed his true colors. After nearly two decades of mutual alliance, Rome had decided they wanted the Iceni lands for themselves, and the subsequent attack on her family had been just the beginning.
Nero’s men marched through her lands taking what they wanted and subjugating her people. The Roman creditors who’d been so helpful and benevolent during her husband’s reign turned into savages almost overnight. They lay claim to everything that rightfully belonged to the Iceni, including their princesses.
A single tear leaked from Boudica’s eye. The sight of her two daughters coming to her bruised and beaten, with trails of blood between their legs, had been too much. Every Roman in Iceni lands that could be rounded up was slain that very day, with more and more losing their lives to the sword as the days passed.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough. Not until the Romans were gone, fled from Iceni lands like the dogs they were. Her people were strong and fierce, as evidenced by the complete destruction of Camulodunum, and they did not cower or surrender. Rome had made a very bad mistake.
“My Queen.”
She turned to see her general, kneeling at her back.
“Yes, Cyric?” she asked.
Cyric rose to his feet. Even at six feet tall, he stood two full inches shorter than Boudica, and had to angle his face upward. “The attack is complete. The Romans are all dead or dying, save for a few who managed to escape.”
“Where will they run?”
“Londinium, most likely,” he replied. “That’s the nearest city large and strong enough to offer them some protection.”
“And Camulodunum’s gold?”
“Is ours, as is their livestock, food, and everything else of value.”
Boudica turned from her general and faced the town. The man who’d run out into the street while on fire now resembled nothing so much as a burning log. She wiped another bead of sweat from her brow as she contemplated her next move. Cyric had said some Romans escaped with their lives. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
“Londinium, you say?” she asked. “That’s where you think they’ve gone?”
“It would make sense, my Queen. The city is walled and well fortified. The refugees would probably feel safe there.”
“Then that is their mistake.” Boudica turned on her heel, putting the burning town at her back and startling Cyric. “Send the caravans back home with Camulodunum’s gold and anything else of value that would not be useful to us on the move. The livestock and foodstuffs will travel with us. Inform the men we march for Londinium at dawn.”
“I’ll see to it personally, my Queen,” Cyric said, a slight smile on his lips. He saluted, then turned and walked back to the command area, where Boudica’s officers waited for instructions.
Boudica turned back to the town, but this time she cast her gaze on the distant horizon, barely visible through the flames and smoke. How many had gotten away? She would have to ask Cyric later. It didn’t matter. She would kill every Roman she found until they were wise enough to leave her lands and her people in peace. Nero’s dogs were about to get a taste of their own medicine.
“Go ahead and run, Roman swine,” she whispered. “You won’t get far.”
The sun peaked over the eastern horizon, filtering through the bushes and speckling the woman’s body with alternating patches of shadow and light. Ramah looked down at her as she lay naked in the grass. She had never looked so beautiful, and his heart almost broke as he remembered their lovemaking. The smell of their sweat lingered in the tiny clearing, mingling with the smell of flowers, brush, and soil. He wanted her again, but with the sun came the day, and he would have to go back to his hut before his mother realized he was gone.
Reluctantly, he rose from the grass, putting his hand on her shoulder. Her deep blue eyes—so uncommon among his people, and the very reason many thought her a witch—watched him rise to his feet. Her smile faltered.
“Do you have to go?” she asked.
“I do. Mother will be awake soon.”
Her eyes drooped at the mention of his mother. She would never allow them to marry, and they both knew it. By the laws of his people, he was bound to live in her hut until he married and took a home of his own, but the only one he wanted to marry was Neeya, the very woman his mother despised.
“She hates me,” Neeya said, frowning.
Ramah nodded. It was no use lying; Neeya knew the truth. “But I don’t.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I will speak with her today.”
She turned away and reached for her clothes, but not before he caught the wetness in her eyes. “It will not do any good,” she said. “She will not listen.”
A tear spilled down her cheek, sparkling in the early morning light, and Ramah heard her jagged breath. He reminded himself that, as hard as their love was for him, it must be harder for her. He was Houlo of his village, and as such had many friends and people he could confide in. She had only him.
“I will make her listen,” Ramah vowed.
Neeya shook her head, a sob escaping her lips. “It will not work.”
His heart broke again as he watched her cry. It wasn’t fair. Neeya was no witch woman. The damn superstitions of his people scarred her and made her an outsider, but he knew the truth. She was a simple, lonely girl who only wanted what everyone else wanted; food in her belly, a hut to call her own, and a handful of children. As long as she lived in her father’s hut she would never lack for the first, but until she married, the other two would be forever out of her reach.
Ramah watched her bare shoulders bob up and down and felt tears rising in his own eyes. She was right. His mother would not listen. He’d tried many times already, but she refused to allow him to marry a Chalika, as she was called. This time would be no different. His mother was as stubborn as the sand.
He clenched his fist, feeling the old familiar anger rise up inside him. His mother would see him married to a woman of her choosing, not his own. But he would not be denied. Not this time. “Then I will defy her,” he said.
A blast of thunder boomed overhead. Odd, there was not a single cloud in the sky. Ramah ignored it. There were more important things to deal with right now.
“You what?” Neeya’s eyes widened.
“I will marry you. With or without her blessing.”
“You can’t do that,” she replied. “The law—”
“Can’t I?” he asked. “I am Houlo, not my mother. My word is law. I will marry you and build us a hut on the far side of the village.” He reached down and grabbed her shoulders, gently pulling her to stand in front of him. “That is, if you will have me.”
More thunder. BOOOM! Ramah looked to the sky, but could see no sign of an approaching storm. Perhaps it is hidden by the trees, he thought.
“Will you have me as your husband, Neeya?” he asked.
Neeya stood for a moment, her expression uncertain. “This will anger many people.”
“I am not interested in sharing my hut with many people,” he replied. “Only with you. And our children, of course.”
“But the law—”
“The law be damned. It is time to change it.”
“You would do this for me?”
“I would do it a thousand times over. Marry me, Neeya. The time for hiding is done.”
She nodded and sank into his arms. “I will,” she replied. “Of course I will.”
“I love you,” he whispered. He kissed her softly on the forehead.
Neeya said something in reply, but the sound of her voice was drowned out by another burst of thunder. BOOM! BOOOOOM!
Ramah woke with a start, his arms encircled around his soft, round pillow. Small puddles of blood had leaked from his eyes to soak the fabric, and he used his hand to wipe away the thin red trails on his cheeks.
The gods-damned dream again, he realized. He shook his head, trying to clear away the memories. Bachiyr do not often dream, when the sun rises in the morning sky most of his people simply lay down and die for the day, but Ramah was different. His days were often plagued by visions of his past, and most of them revolved around Neeya, the woman for whom he’d given up everything.
A loud, booming knock signaled that someone was growing very impatient on the other side of his chamber door. At least I know where the thunder came from, Ramah thought. He had no need to ask who it was. Only one Bachiyr would disturb him so brazenly. Not even the Lost Ones would be so bold. “Enter, Headcouncil,” he called.
The door creaked open, and Headcouncil Herris stepped into the room, flanked by his personal Lost One. The thing stood rotting away next to Herris, dropping larvae and small spatters of flesh onto Ramah’s floor. The temperature of the room dropped as the thing carried its aura of cold into the room with it.
“Headcouncil,” Ramah said. “Must that thing be present for this?” He pointed at the Lost One. “I do not care to have it in my private chambers.”
Herris gestured to his servant. “Leave us,” he said. The Lost One bowed, then turned and left the room, taking its unnatural chill with it.
Once it was gone, Ramah relaxed. Like most Bachiyr, he detested the Lost Ones, even though the other councilors enjoyed having them around. Especially Headcouncil Herris. The Lost Ones acted as servants for the Council and other prominent Bachiyr, but they also served as a reminder of what could become of vampires who disobeyed the Council of Thirteen. As a member of the Council himself, Ramah was immune to their laws, but the decaying, worm-eaten flesh of the Lost Ones still put him on edge.
“Thank you Headcouncil,” Ramah said. “How may I assist you?”
“There is blood on your face,” Herris noted. “Are you well?”
Ramah reached up and wiped away the remaining blood, cursing silently that Herris had seen it.
“It’s nothing, Headcouncil,” he said. “A minor injury that I have already healed. I merely forgot to clean up.”
“I see.” Herris studied him. Ramah felt the elder vampire’s beetle eyes boring into him, searching. That Herris knew Ramah lied was beyond doubt, Herris always knew when his subjects lied, but damned if Ramah would allow him to see why.
“Is there something I can do for you, Headcouncil?” Ramah asked as he erected a mental barrier around his mind. Herris broke off his study and smiled. He could probably still rummage through Ramah’s thoughts at will—such was the power of the Headcouncil—but he could no longer do it discreetly.
“You dreamed of her again, didn’t you?” Herris asked.
Ramah’s shoulders fell, and he nodded. No use trying to hide anything from Herris. He should have known better. Herris always knew. “Our last day together,” he said. “The night before I killed my village.”
“The Father’s request,” Herris pointed out.
“And duly obeyed,” Ramah replied. “I do not regret it. But the dreams will not leave me alone.”
“A test?”
“Perhaps, but I see no purpose.” Ramah said. “Never have I faltered in my service to our race.”
“True enough,” Herris agreed. “The Father has his reasons, I’m certain. He does not share them with us.”
“Have you ever dreamed, Headcouncil?”
“Never,” Herris replied. Ramah caught the flicker of doubt across his elder’s face. It was there and gone in an instant, but Ramah noticed. As the primary executioner of the Council’s will, it was his job to notice small things. Interesting. What would Herris dream about? No matter. Herris’ dreams, or lack thereof, were none of his concern.
“You should see Lannis,” Herris said. “She might be able to help you rid yourself of the dreams.”
“With all respect, Headcouncil, is there a reason you have come to my personal chambers rather than wait for the next Council session?” Ramah hoped Herris would take the hint. He didn’t want the dreams to stop. They reminded him of who he was, and fueled his hatred of mankind. For every drop of blood Neeya shed in his dreams, he took a gallon from the world of men. It suited his purpose for them to continue.
“Indeed there is, Ramah,” Herris replied. He leaned closer, and Ramah saw actual excitement in the dead man’s eyes. “I have just this moment come from a meeting with one of our humans in Britannia. We have found the Roman.”
Ramah looked up, trying to figure out why Herris would bother him with such trivial news. Herris looked excited, though, so Ramah dutifully nodded. “Where is he?”
“Londinium.”
“I’ll leave this very hour.” Ramah walked to the far side of his room and reached for the door handle. He didn’t need to pack anything. The Council had recently opened a gatehouse in Londinium, so he wouldn’t even need to travel overland to get there. Once he found Taras it should be an easy kill. He would be back before midnight.
“Wait, Ramah,” Herris said. “You don’t think I came all this way to wake you for that, do you?”
Ramah stopped at the door and turned to face the Headcouncil. “Is there something else?”
“We think Theron might show up in the city, as well,” Herris said.
Ramah smiled. Theron and Taras? In the same city? Could it be? There could only be one reason both renegades would be in such close proximity. “Theron must know Taras is there, also,” he reasoned.
“That is my guess, as well,” Herris replied.
“How did he find him before us?”
“I don’t know,” Herris admitted. “But the important thing is they will both be in Londinium, a relatively small city compared to Jerusalem or Carthage. They should be easy enough to find, especially if Theron remains true to form.”
Ramah nodded. Theron had taken to thwarting Council law at every turn, sometimes even leaving his victims out in the open without bothering to disguise his work. In Athens, he had even been seen in the act of drinking several humans dry. He simply didn’t care about the secrecy of the Bachiyr race anymore. If he arrived in Londinium, there would probably be a body or two found in the streets the next day that no one other than a Bachiyr could explain.
“I will find them both,” Ramah said, “and bring their heads back for the Council.”
Herris shook his head. “Kill the Roman, but Theron’s punishment has already been decided. You are to return him to the Halls so he can be made into a Lost One.”
“Even better,” Ramah said, and turned again to leave. This time Herris did not stop him, and Ramah soon found himself in the stone passages of the Halls of the Bachiyr, walking among the flickering torches and the acrid smell of pitch. Soon he would be in Londinium, and Taras and Theron would both be dead.
Oh, he had agreed to bring Theron back, and in truth, the thought of Theron as a Lost One did have a certain justice to it. But Ramah hated prisoners. They had to be handled, transported, guarded, and the like. Far too much trouble. In any case, Theron was powerful and resourceful. He would be difficult to guard. Far easier to simply remove his head and bring it back to Herris in a bag. Herris might complain, but Ramah was Second of the Council, and thus immune to judgment.
Ramah reached the outer halls and turned toward the Londinium passage. The tips of his fingers itched as his claws begged for release. He would let them out once he found Theron. Taras, too, but it was difficult to get excited about that. The Roman was a young Bachiyr and none too powerful. How he had managed to evade the Council’s minions for thirty years was a mystery.
Ramah intended to find out. Taras would live long enough to talk, then his head, too would part company with his shoulders.
Ramah slipped through the door into the Londinium receiving chamber, startling the clerk, who stammered out a greeting. Ramah ignored him and stepped through the door into the city, all memories of his dream forgotten.
***
Theron brushed the dirt from his sleeves, sending up clouds of dust into the night sky. He was glad to be off the ship. The constant rocking and roiling of the deck as it crossed the span from coastal Spain to Britannia had made it almost impossible to rest. To make matters worse, the crew was small, forcing him to endure his hunger for almost the entire journey. He could have killed every member of the crew, but that would have left him stranded in the middle of the sea, waiting to wither away.
Now free of the cargo hold, and of the crate he’d hidden in for the length of his passage, he felt better. Theron stretched his arms toward the moon, working out the cramps that threatened to set in as he scanned the small port village for any sign of a meal. He spotted the ship’s captain walking ashore. In a village this small there would not be much going on to merit a captain’s attention at this late hour, but it was hunger, and not curiosity, that drove Theron forward. He followed the captain a short way into the city until both men stood behind a single building.
The structure stood between them and the boat, obscuring their view of the docks. And also the dock’s view of the two men.
Excellent, Theron thought.
The captain turned around to face him, apparently not surprised to see Theron standing so close behind. He straightened his shoulders and faced the vampire with an expression that was probably meant to seem unafraid. The captain’s rapid heartbeat gave away his fear, however, and Theron had to force himself not to smile.
“So,” the captain began, “you are here.”
“Indeed,” Theron replied. “Sooner than I expected. Well done, Captain Sethus.”
“Thank the wind for that,” Sethus replied. “I had little enough to do with it.”
Theron nodded.
Sethus cleared his throat. “I believe you owe me ten gold coins.”
“Our deal was five gold coins.”
“You arrived sooner than expected, did you not?”
Theron smiled. “Didn’t you just say you had little enough to do with getting me here?”
“The speed of our travel was determined by the wind, but not the travel itself. You bought passage on my vessel, and you killed one of my crewmen en route.”
“I—”
“Don’t try to deny it, Ephraim or whatever your name is,” Sethus shook his fist at Theron, “I know it was you. You may have tossed the body overboard, but I saw the blood on your crate. I can replace the crewman, but it will take time, and for that inconvenience you must pay five more gold coins.”
“And if I don’t?” Theron asked.
“The Council of Thirteen would not be pleased to hear of it.”
“Probably not,” Theron agreed. Now he did smile. The captain had doubtless hoped to cow him by mentioning the Council of Thirteen. He was about to be surprised. The tips of Theron’s fangs poked into his lower lip. A tiny drop of blood formed, reminding him he hadn’t fed since halfway through the voyage.
Sethus took a step backward, but caught himself before he took a second. His outward demeanor remained calm and in control, but Theron caught the sweet smell of the man’s fear. “Headcouncil Herris would certainly take offense to the mistreatment of one of the Council’s favored,” Sethus said, probably believing Herris’ name carried some weight. Had it been almost any other vampire, it would have been enough.
But Theron was not any vampire.
He struck before the captain could utter another syllable, closing the distance between them and grabbing the man by the throat. His claws grew, but he was careful to let them get only long enough to hurt, not to kill. Not yet. His fangs extended to their full length, and the captain’s eyes widened in surprise.
Sethus grabbed Theron’s arm and tried to pull himself free from the vampire’s iron grip. Theron would have told him he was wasting his time, but he could see in the captain’s eyes that he already knew.
“My...crew,” Sethus said. “They’ll know...they know we carried you. Headcouncil Herris...will find out.”
Theron laughed. “They know you carried a man named Ephraim who liked to sleep in a crate. When Herris asks, that is what they will tell him.”
Sethus nodded, his eyes clenched shut in pain. “Yes...yes. He will find out.”
“My name is not Ephraim, Captain Sethus. It’s Theron.”
Sethus’ eyes flew open at the mention of the name. So, Theron thought. Even the Council’s pet humans know of me. The fight went out of the old captain then, and that told Theron exactly what he’d wanted to know. The Council of Thirteen was using every available resource to capture him.
“It’s nice to be wanted,” he said. When the captain didn’t respond, Theron looked at him. The man’s eyes had closed, and his face had gone slack. He wasn’t dead, Theron could feel the heart beating under his fingers, just unconscious. Perfect. He could take his time, this didn’t have to be messy, and he’d need these clothes again, so it would be best not to get too much blood on them.
Theron bit into the tough flesh of the man’s neck, tearing into the artery just beneath the surface, and then sealed the area around the wound by pressing his lips to Sethus’ skin. Fresh, warm blood poured into his mouth and down his throat, filling him with the vitality of the living. His head began to buzz slightly, and his arms trembled. Tiny electric motes sizzled up and down his skin, sinking into his spine and setting his nerves aflame. Still he held on, his hunger driving him to siphon every last drop from the dying captain.
When it was over, Theron let the body fall to the dirt. Then, as he’d done for the last twenty seven years, he turned and walked away, leaving the corpse where it fell. This was another way of thumbing his nose at the Council. By Council Law, all victims had to be hidden, camouflaged, or otherwise disposed of in order to keep the secrecy of the Bachiyr race intact. As an outcast, Theron no longer concerned himself with such matters.
Occasionally, he would change his methods for a while and hide the bodies, as such corpses tend to leave a trail. The Council’s minions had been chasing him for nearly three decades, and sometimes they’d gotten too close, forcing Theron to fight or flee. In most cases, he fought, and won.
He’d killed more Enforcers in the last twenty-seven years than he could remember, and yet the Council continued to send more. Of course, Ramah still hunted for him as well, and had nearly caught up to him in Spain. Theron held no illusions as to who would prove the victor in a fight between himself and Ramah.
Ramah would tear him to shreds, and then only if he was feeling merciful. More likely the elder vampire would incapacitate him and bring him back to the Halls of the Bachiyr, where the Council of Thirteen would turn him into a Lost One.
Theron felt an involuntary shudder as he pictured the Lost Ones. Vampires cursed to serve the Council without the ability to feed. Their bodies rotted away as maggots and other larvae ate their flesh away. But they could never eat it all. The curse of the Lost One is that there would always be enough flesh for the body to function, no matter how much of it the insects devoured.
Theron would sit on the beach and watch the sun rise before he would allow that to happen to him. The council would probably be fine with that outcome, as well, which was just another reason for him to continue living. As long as he remained active, he would be a thorn in Headcouncil Herris’ side.
Besides, he was enjoying himself far too much to die now.
He turned from the building and walked into the street, the light of the nearly full moon on his shoulders. So this is Britannia. There were not many of the so-called Christians here. The Romans owned the land, despite the efforts of a tribe of rebels. Iceni, he thought they were called. Led by their furious and righteous queen. Boudica? That sounded right.
But none of that concerned him. His only purpose for being here lay with Gregor’s story of the tall northerner who spoke Roman and possessed a pair of sharp fangs. Apparently, the northerner had come across Gregor in the tavern district and nearly attacked him, but backed away and let him leave.
Why?