61 A.D. (Bachiyr, Book 2) (19 page)

They stood around him in a ring of bodies. The net could not differentiate between human and Bachiyr, but Ramah figured the newcomers had to be human. Such a large gathering of vampires in a single place would be so rare as to be unheard of, even for Baella, who reportedly never traveled with more than one or two companions.

Why would Theron be surrounded by so many humans?

Ramah stood by the tree, trying to puzzle out this new development.

He was still standing there when the first flaming missile hit the gate.

24

Taras stumbled from the building just as the first boulder struck. The noise of the impact could be felt as much as heard, and the entire structure shook with the force of the blow. The outer wall vanished into a cloud of dust and shrapnel. Bits of debris rained down on his head, pelting him with shards of wood, pebbles, and dirt. When the world around him went still again, he turned to look at the pile of rubble behind him that had once been a building.
I escaped just in time,
he thought.

Londinium was under attack.

 
Fires were everywhere. As he watched, ball after ball of flaming tar flew over the city wall to land with a sickening splat in the middle of Londinium’s mostly wooden structures. The smell of burning pitch hung in the air, mixed with the smells of burning wood and flesh. The few remaining inhabitants of Londinium ran screaming through the streets. Some of them screamed in fear, but many others screamed in pain. He watched as one man swatted futilely at the flames on his arm, desperate to quench the fire. Taras could have told him it was no use; the man’s arm was covered in burning pitch. He could swat it all he wanted and it would only grow hotter. The man ran back into the heart of the city, swatting at his arm and screaming in pain. Taras watched him go, shaking his head. The man was already dead, he just didn’t realize it yet.

Mixed in with the sound of crumbling stone and people dying were the cries of those who wept for the dead. To his right, a woman in brown homespun wailed over the body of a young man who lay in a pool of blood. Half the man’s face was gone, sheared off by whatever calamity had killed him, but enough remained that Taras could see the similar features of mother and son. If she continued to sit in the street, oblivious to the chaos around her, the mother would be dead soon enough, as well. They would not be the last people to die tonight.

He should leave. Now.

He tried to walk away, but his feet would not obey the order. He tripped and fell face first into the street, his legs too weak to hold him. Taras needed blood. Badly. All around him people ran through the city, but none of them would slake his thirst. Some of them moved with a calm sense of purpose, carrying buckets of water or drawing weapons and running into battle, but far more screamed and ran in a blind panic that caused more problems than it solved.

To judge by the frequency of the boulders and pitch, a very large, heavily armed force had the city under siege. Taras, no stranger to battle, guessed there much be as many as twenty or thirty ballistae. A large number to attack such a relatively small city as Londinium. Whoever was behind the attack, they obviously wanted more than mere surrender. This was not a war for conquest, but for destruction. Before the sun rose, Londinium would be nothing but a blackened swath of charred earth, soaked to near saturation with the blood of its inhabitants.

Taras regained his feet, swaying a bit but somehow managing to keep from falling over into the dirt. Blood or no blood, he needed to get out of the city before the attackers sent in the infantry. Once they invaded, they would kill anything that moved, and in his present condition he would be hard pressed to fight them off.

He got his feet under him and staggered away, headed for the area near the western gate. His hovel should be safe for the moment, as it would be out of range of most of the boulders, but that was temporary at best. If he was lucky, he’d find someone to feed on along the way. If not, then at least he wouldn’t care for much longer.

***

When she rounded a corner about two hundred yards from the Eastern gate of Londinium, she saw Ramah standing beneath the boughs of a tree. His dark form, large by human standards, stood huddled in the shadows on the tree’s trunk. It was probably instinctive for him to seek the darkness. After four thousand years as a vampire, he would prefer it. Baella could relate. She preferred not to be seen, either. But she was better at hiding than Ramah. Through the course of the last four millennia she had seen him often, but he had never seen her, despite the fact that he and his ridiculous Council had hunted her for centuries.

Actually,
she amended,
he’s seen me many times. He just didn’t know it.

Ramah’s face was tight with concentration. His eyes were closed, his jaw slightly open, and his brow furrowed like a field in early Spring. The shouting and screaming from inside the city did not disturb his efforts, which spoke volumes about the man’s will.
Probably in the middle of a web psalm.
Just as well, if he was deep into the psalm he wouldn’t notice her. And he would be looking for Theron, in any case.

Baella’s lip curled. Theron was a fool. It had been all too easy to lead the former Enforcer right into the arms of the invading Iceni and Trinovante. Theron’s mind was simple to manipulate. All she had to do was let him think she would allow him to join her, and he was hers. She could probably have done it without touching his mind at all, if she’d cared to try.

But she would never allow a Bachiyr like Theron into her midst. Despite all his power and considerable skill, Theron had one fatal flaw: he was no good on his own. He’d spent centuries following the orders of Herris and the other Councilors, obeying their every whim and working only toward their gains. He remained a faithful, if dangerous, servant to The Father’s laws right up until the Council blamed him for the problems in Israel, which were not truly his fault in any case.
Just another example of how the Council of Thirteen gets everything wrong
, she thought.

Yet despite the way they treated him in Jerusalem, Theron desperately wanted to be back in the Council’s good graces. She could read that on him as easily as she could read the look of concentration on Ramah’s face. Theron would never be a leader, he would forever be a follower, and Baella wanted no followers.

Ramah, on the other hand, had been leading vampires for centuries. Even before he died, he was the chief of his human village. All his life, he’d given orders and seen them obeyed. The man was born a leader, trained as such, and remained one even four thousand years after he died. In addition, Baella believed Ramah would leave the Council in an instant as long as she presented him with a tempting reason. After centuries of wondering, the time had come to see if she could provide him that reason. But first she had to take Ramah where she wanted him to go, and that would not be easy, especially since she couldn’t let him see her face.

But he’d be leaving soon enough. Baella knew how a web psalm worked. Right now, Ramah would be wondering why his quarry was surrounded by a large number of humans, but soon enough he would leave the tree and run to Theron’s location. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Theron had eluded him for too long, the large group of humans would not be enough of a deterrent to keep Ramah away.

If Theron’s weakness was a deep-rooted desire to be told what to do, then Ramah’s was his single minded determination. He would try to complete his task no matter what stood in his way, and to the Abyss with the cost. That’s why Herris liked him; he got the job done. It’s why she wanted him, too.

Well, one of the reasons,
she thought.

That single-minded sense of purpose would not allow him to stray from his current path. It would also be his undoing.

Sure enough, after about three minutes, Ramah opened his eyes and started walking. Not back into the besieged city toward the Bachiyr Gatehouse which would take him back into the Halls, but east. Toward Theron and the waiting army of Iceni and Trinovante. Toward her.

Toward his destiny.

Baella smiled and waited, secure in her hiding place under a small copse of birches. Her black eyes glittered in the light of the burning wall, though she eased backward into the deeper shadows to make certain Ramah did not see her as he passed.

Ramah’s path brought him to within ten paces of her position, and she froze. She was not as deep into her copse as she would have liked, especially with him so close. His power and strength buzzed in her ears. Surely he could feel something, as well. All he had to do was stop and turn his head, and her plan would be ruined. She waited, hoping her earlier assessment of his nature would prove correct.

He never slowed. His eyes remained on the path ahead as he walked after Theron, never even considering that a more serious threat could be close. She could almost hear the words in his mind.
Theron is this way. Must find him. Headcouncil Herris will be pleased.
He passed her by without a glance.

So much the better.

 
When he was out of sight, she crept out from under the birches and onto the path behind him. Not far ahead was a larger grouping of trees, mostly maples, oaks, and still more birches. It was not a huge, shadowy wood, but it was very close to the lines of the Iceni army, and would make a good place to watch them. If they had Theron—and she had little doubt that they did—it was where Ramah would most likely stop to devise a plan for getting the renegade Enforcer.

And where she would capture him.

25

Boudica sat on her horse overlooking the battle. A steady wind blew the heat of many fires and hundreds of glowing cinders toward her, spooking her horse and searing her flesh in places. Despite this, she held herself stiff and rigid, muscling her horse into submission with the skill honed by many such campaigns. A grim smile split her face as she watched Londinium burn. Like Camulodunum, the fires raged through the entire city. Nothing and no one would be spared. Her night’s work would leave nothing intact, she had even ordered the wells be filled with stone.

A thick black plume of smoke rose a short way into the night sky and hung there like a black storm cloud, blotting out the stars above the city and turning the scene into a hellish nightmare. The screams of the dying rang through the night like the peal of a hundred bells, and the smell of burning timber and flesh reached all the way to her station near the ballista crews. This was all according to plan. By the time she left the city it would resemble nothing so much as a large black scar upon the earth.

My legacy,
she thought.
My gift to the world; pushing out the Romans.

To the left of the ballistae, the infantry waited for their turn to fight. Rank upon rank of anxious, battle-hardened Iceni and Trinovante men stood waiting for the order to attack. While not nearly as orderly and disciplined as their Roman enemies, her men made up for their chaotic nature with the fierceness and brutality that had become the standard for her people. The Romans called them barbarians. Boudica couldn’t help but chuckle. Her troops might not stand in pretty rows, but they knew how to lop off an enemy’s head, and they were loyal to the death. Her army numbered in the tens of thousands, and every single soldier stood ready to fight, die, and kill for their Queen.

No, that’s not quite right,
she corrected herself. Her men, and those of the Trinovante, did not truly fight for her or her daughters, but for their king, who kept them free from Roman rule during his life and tried to do the same even after his death. They followed her because she was their leader, but they would never love her as they had loved her husband. Little matter, though. As long as they did what they were told, they could have been fighting for their dogs and she would have been satisfied.

 
At the head of the cavalry sat Lannosea, a splendid figure atop her black horse. As a princess, it was her duty to lead a group into battle. Boudica had determined that Lannie, being the better rider, would take the mounted troops while Heanua led the infantry. She rode with her back straight and her expression grim, the steel scales on her leather doublet glowing with reflected firelight. If Boudica squinted, and blurred her vision, it almost looked like Lannie was on fire, herself.
And maybe she is, at that,
Boudica thought.
Not a fire of flame, but one of purpose.

Heanua sat behind Lannosea and to her right, ready to storm the city after
Lannie’s
charge and claim whatever glory the gods saw fit to deliver. There would be plenty. Once Lannosea died—and die she would—it would fall to Heanua to finish the attack. Boudica had no doubt her oldest daughter would acquit herself in grand fashion, she had been training for this for years. Once Boudica’s ballistae and
Lannie’s
cavalry softened the city’s defenses, they would be easy targets for Heanua’s men.