âI want that torc, Mr. Jackson.â
âUnderstood, sir.â
âGood enough.â The man turned and headed up the stairs, but stopped before heâd gotten more than a few steps away. He turned to face Jackson once more.
âThis woman, the one with the sword. Do we know who she was?â
Jackson nodded. âAn American archaeologist named Annja Creed.â He took a photo out of the file folder in his hands and passed it to his employer. The picture had been taken at the dig site and showed Annjaâs still and bloodied face.
The other man stared at it for a few seconds, then passed it back.
âShe was a pretty thing, wasnât she?â
â¦THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOANâS SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are rebornâ¦.
Myrrdin sat high astride his horse and stared down the slope of the hill at the Roman army amassing in the valley below. What was left of his command was gathered at his back, but it was pitifully small compared to the enemy presence before him.
It was hard to believe that things had gone wrong so swiftly.
Less than a week before, heâd been war leader to Queen Boudica herself and had led an army of more than eighty thousand souls across Britannia, carving a path of destruction in their wake. They had destroyed the colony at Camulodunum and had marched against first Verulamium, and then Londinium itself, sacking each city and slaying as many of the invaders as they could find. Blood flowed like a river wherever they went, appeasing the anger of the gods at the presence of the Roman invaders and bestowing blessings upon the Iceni as a result.
Nothing, it seemed, could stand in their way.
Nothing, that was, until the coming of Gaius Suetonius Paulinus.
Even thinking of the Romanâs name was enough to make Myrrdin curse aloud and spit on the ground. He longed to carve the manâs flesh from his bones and feed it the crows. He prayed to the gods that he would get his chance before the battle was over.
What a difference seventy-two hours made.
Less than five thousand men remained of the army that had met Paulinus and the soldiers of the XIV Gemina on the field of battle three days before. Few, if any, of his senior commanders still lived, for they had stood their ground and fought on even when the battle had turned in the Romansâ favor. Myrrdin would have gone down fighting alongside them if the queen hadnât ordered him to retreat, to ensure that someone still remained who could rally the remnants of the Iceni and see to it that their peopleâs sacrifice was not in vain.
How he wished he had never left her side!
He reached up and fingered the torc he wore about his neck, the one Boudica had entrusted to him before the battle. Sheâd always claimed it to be the root of her power, that the metal from which it was formed, the metal given to them by the very gods themselves, protected her time and time again. But Boudica was dead now, poisoned by her own hand while in Roman custody rather than be handed over to Paulinusâs troops as a plaything for their amusement. When word reached him earlier that morning of her fate, he wept, wondering if heâd condemned her to death simply by taking the torc.
Not that it mattered now; what was done was done.
Myrrdin was a good enough tactician to know that at this point there was no way the Iceni could win. They were outnumbered and the Romans were not only better armed but better armored, as well. If he hadnât been able to beat them with eighty thousand warriors at his command, there was no way he was going to be able to do so with only five thousand. But there was no question of retreat. He would rather die on the field of battle, sword in hand, than be hunted down like a dog in the weeks to come.