"Made us look like fools, you bitch – and then you let her live!" The speaker’s painted face was full of spite. She grasped the neck of Zoe’s tunic, ripping it wide open. The Greek girl’s breasts hung ripely, slick with sweat.

"Listen to the mob!" another slut hissed in her ear. "They wanted that girl’s blood. You’ve shamed us all!"

Despite the pain of being pinioned, Zoe grinned at that. "We’re whores," she muttered back. "We’ve got no shame!"

That earned her another punch. Her handsome face contorted. She bit her lip and let her head fall forward. The band around her temples kept the dark hair from her eyes.

Fingers closed around her jaw and forced her head back up. Victoria glowered sullenly at her. She was a small but shapely girl, with pert breasts underneath her open cloak. The pink tips were as large as coins, and Zoe focused muzzily on them. Victoria wore a gladiator’s girdle round her midriff, which gave the dainty tits more prominence.

Her helmet was tucked under her arm. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders. Her brown eyes gleamed maliciously. "You know you should have died out there," she said.

Zoe glowered back at her and tried to hide her terrible relief. Death had stormed around the bowl, but somehow she had walked away untouched. Not so the unlucky Britons strewn across the sand. Masked slaves had emerged like jackals, checking each slumped girl for signs of life. A red-hot iron was touched to a plump buttock, but the facedown body didn’t even twitch. Others were made sure of by an iron hammer blow. Each impact cracked a girl’s skull like a nut.

Zoe had watched numbly as the dead were cleared away. The slaves used butchers’ hooks to drag them off. She recognised each girl she’d killed, their bodies nerveless now. They hung their heads, as if in shame. Breasts jiggled with each jerk. And all the time the crowd were jeering her.

The red-haired girl had not been slain. It would have been an anticlimax now. The remnants of her tunic were pulled down around her arms, and then her hands were tied behind her back. A rope was looped around her throat. The slaves led her away. Her parting glance at Zoe had been poisonous.

Maybe she had hoped to die, defending her tribe’s honour – not live on as a plaything for the mob. Maybe Zoe should have thrust that spear into her throat. It would have been a mercy, in the end.

You’d better kill me, she had said. Or one day, as I swear it, I’ll kill you.

Victoria tweaked her nipple sharply, jerking Zoe back into herself. "Plutus will be angry," said the small girl icily. "I mean to see you whipped when we get back."

Mention of their owner put a knot in Zoe’s stomach. Victoria pinched her tit again, then flounced on down the tunnel like a lady. The other legionaries followed, dragging Zoe with them. The roars became an echo in the amphitheatre’s throats and vaults of stone.

* * *

Plutus was angry, right enough. He slapped her face so hard that Zoe fell. They were back in the old compound which the troop had taken over, a former barracks at the edge of town. All the way here in the creaking wagon, the other whores had pinched and elbowed her. Zoe’s flesh felt black and blue. She sat up cautiously and touched her mouth. Blood oozed thinly from her lip. She raised her eyes to Plutus’s grim face.

"We had the crowd right here," he told her, opening his palm. "And then you threw our victory away!" He clenched his fist. "The editor’s not happy. Which means that I lose half my purse. You’ll pay for that, my girl."

Zoe licked her bloody lip. Her eyes flicked to the wagon. The British girl – that Boudicca – was on her knees behind it. She’d been stripped down to her loincloth and her sticky skin was caked with ochre dust. Her head was bowed, her lank hair almost trailing in the dirt. Her wrists were bound in front of her, and a length of rope attached them to the tailgate.

She’d stumbled in their wake as they returned from the arena. Children had thrown stones at her, while women hurled abuse. Now she looked up slowly, as if sensing Zoe’s gaze. A blue eye glinted through her tangled hair.

Plutus kicked at Zoe’s stomach. "Look at me, you bitch!" Zoe groaned, peered up at him and struggled not to snarl. The other whores were watching her. She heard them sniggering. The German girl unstrapped her helmet, shaking out her hair.

Plutus was their pimp, as much as owner of the troop. A plump and peevish little man, with shifty eyes that never missed a trick. His hair and beard were tightly curled, his toga freshly-laundered. He wore a ring on every finger, one of which had just split Zoe’s lip.

"At least I killed a few of them," she muttered. "Most of your legion were too busy showing off their tits!"

"That’s why the crowd love them," was his pitying response. "You’re just a piece of meat thrown to the dogs." He turned to look at Boudicca. "And that one’s just the same. She’s worthless now that someone’s bested her. I got her at a knock-down price. The dogs will chew on her some other day."

"Plutus, Lord!" Victoria called, "I hope you’re going to teach that slut a lesson."

"Don’t fret yourself, my little dove," said Plutus, as if talking to a pet. He paused to eye his sweaty-breasted girls, then jerked his head. "Over to the bath house, now, and get yourselves cleaned up. I have a client who’ll pay to join you there."

Victoria sniffed at that, as if such business was beneath her, but Zoe caught a glimmer of her greed. A few more coins to call her own. More pampering from Plutus. The prospect didn’t need much pondering. She swept across the courtyard with her crimson cloak unfurling. The other women sauntered in her wake.

"As for you, get off your arse," said Plutus testily. "I want the weapons cleaned and polished. Have Malleus sharpen them again. And make sure that the blades are oiled. If I find a speck of rust, I’ll have you whipped."

The skin of Zoe’s back began to crawl. Her face stayed blank. Getting up, she drew her tunic closed over her breasts. Plutus gave an ugly smile and patted her smooth cheek. "Quite the little maiden, hey? But you showed some balls back there. I can see why they marked you down to fight – unlike your little girlfriend …"

That jolted her. He knew it would. His greasy smile grew wider. But Zoe’s mind was full of what had happened to Lucilla, the girl who’d been condemned along with her. Too timid to pick up a sword, still less fight other women. And so she’d met a much more grisly fate …

Zoe swallowed thickly. Sweat was glistening on her brow. Plutus walked away, still smiling, calling to his slaves. He told them to put Boudicca in one of the old cells – then stoke the hypocaust to heat the baths. His client was expected soon. He turned to glare at Zoe. She wiped her mouth and went to get the pile of swords his harlots had discarded.

* * *

The evening light was mellowing like honey, but the barracks forge still glowed an angry red. Its fierce, sooty smell engulfed the scent of cooking fires. Malleus laboured on like a machine.

His coal-black skin was gleaming in the hot light of the forge. His muscles rippled with each hammer-blow. The clang of iron on battered steel went ringing round the yard, and Zoe’s muscles twitched reflexively. The big slave straightened up and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He looked at her impassively, then set about the dented shield again.

Zoe finished wiping down a sword. Her rag was bloody. She padded over to the forge and threw it on the fire. A row of swords were laid out on the workbench. Most of them were army surplus, hilts worn smooth with use. Legionary stabbing swords, and longer, slashing blades for cavalry. A few barbarian weapons, too, from Germany and Gaul. She watched the firelight quiver down the runnels of their blades. The smell of burning blood was in her nostrils.

Victoria’s gladius lay at the near end of the row. Still sheathed, unlike the other blades. It looked to be a ceremonial sword. The hilt and bulbous counterweight were burnished ebony. The sheath itself was ebony and gold.

Of course she had to polish it, although Victoria never used the thing. She picked it up and slowly drew the blade. A tribune might have sold it off to pay his gambling debts. The steel flashed like a mirror in the flames.

Her fingers fitted to the grip, as smoothly as they had in the arena. She stepped away and turned to slash the air. The ringing of the hammer paused. She looked round at Malleus. The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. Zoe shrugged.

A wooden post was standing at the centre of the yard. The soldiers had used it for training. Now the gladiators used it too. Zoe approached it cautiously, as if it were a sleeping sentinel. Then her heart began to kick. She bared her teeth and hacked into the wood.

"You looking for a whipping, girl?" Malleus asked behind her. His voice was conversational. The hammer clanged again. Zoe glanced around. The smith was watching levelly. He’d come to care for Zoe, as an older brother would.

Adjusting her torn tunic, Zoe slashed the post again. She felt her anger pump into the blow. Perhaps, if she struck hard enough, her rage would fill the blade, and drain off like the venom from a snake ...

"That’s it. Fuck the marble, bitch." The whip lashed out once more. Zoe ground her crotch against the pillar. Her breasts rubbed up and down it as she writhed. Livia paused and tittered like a spoilt little girl. Then she showed her teeth and struck again ...

The blade rebounded off the post and Zoe stumbled back. She swiped her hand across her forehead, then took up a fighter’s crouch once more.

"Is that the best that I could teach you, girl?" came Galba’s voice.

Zoe looked round sullenly. The veteran was watching her, arms folded. A stocky, weather-beaten man, his hair cropped to his skull like iron filings. He studied her with sharp blue eyes, then gestured at the sword. "Go on, then. Let me see you work. That little madam never uses it."

Zoe wet her lips and kept on flourishing the weapon: swiping, stabbing at the air, then ducking under an imagined blow. The muscles rippled in her arm. The blade hacked splinters from the hardened wood. Galba watched implacably. He criticised and goaded. The hammer kept on clanging in the background, spraying sparks.

Zoe’s skin was slick again. Her reflexes grew sharper. Part of her found time to wonder why the gladiator favoured her. She knew she was attractive, but he’d never tried to use her. Perhaps he couldn’t get it up; but she was grateful anyway.

"That’s it girl – into the belly. Twist, then jerk it free!" Zoe did so, picturing the look on Livia’s face. She loosened up and stood there, panting. Galba almost smiled. She glimpsed Malleus flip his hammer, catching it again to swing it down.

Unthinkingly she flipped the heavy sword into the air. It spun point over hilt, and then she snatched it back again. The gladius had perfect balance, poised for the next thrust. He gave her a sardonic look. She smiled wryly back.

"All right, that’s enough," he said. "Haven’t you got work to do?"

"Yeah – I guess," said Zoe. She walked over to the bench. "So who’s this client that they’ve got?" she asked over her shoulder.

"A rich young lady, so I hear. She watched the Games today. Seems the bloodshed turned her on. She paid to meet the victors privately."

He winked, but Zoe wasn’t fazed. Such things were natural. Women could enjoy each others’ bodies, just like men. What bemused her was the way these Romans worshipped carnage. She came from poor fisherfolk, but none of them could ever be so crude.

She thought about the pampered lady she had glimpsed today. Crying out for Zoe’s blood as if they knew and hated one another. Then egging Zoe on to kill, like a mistress giving orders to her dog. The amphitheatre might have been her doll’s house. How petulant she must have been when the dog refused to bite: the doll rebelled!

People like her had howled with glee to see Lucilla punished. Zoe’s stomach tightened as she slid Victoria’s blade into its sheath. "Now take them to the armoury," the trainer said behind her. But he was just a voice again, as her memory slid back into the past ...

Her fingers tightened round the bars. She thought of Livia too. Somehow she would free herself. And kill, and kill, and kill.

* * *

The barracks had a bath house which the officers had used. The girls could sometimes bathe in it when Plutus felt that they deserved a treat. The stucco might be crumbling now, the murals damp and peeling, but the hot pool had been freshly filled, and steam came wafting down the passageway. Zoe smelled the tang of oils and incense. Harmonious laughter echoed in her ears.

She waited in the antechamber, picturing the scene. The pool in here was lukewarm, cloudy, tainted with the cohort’s dust and sweat. Now they were relaxing in the heated bath next door, their hardened muscles slowly loosening. Victoria would be holding court, a princess amongst pros, while the others fawned over their wealthy guest. That bloodthirsty young lady must believe this was Elysium, where nymphs attended to her every need.

Zoe’s mouth was dry as sand, although the air was humid. She looked round at the lady’s maid. The girl stared back, wide-eyed. She’d been left outside to mope around while her mistress bathed and petted. Zoe’s appearance, like a ghost, had struck her dumb with shock.

She was still holding the load which had been thrust into her arms. A bundle of swords, wrapped up in cloth – like the symbol of the Roman state itself. Zoe gestured her ahead, and followed down the passage. The air grew denser, steamier. She heard a playful splashing. Her heart was drumming in her chest. They came into a room of mist and rainbows.

The sunken pool was slopping at the rim with scented water. Shafts of evening light fell through the steam. Zoe glimpsed the sheen of naked bodies as the cohort lazed or frolicked in the pool. Some still wore their polished helmets, swaggering to titillate their guest.

The trembling slave could bear her load no longer. The bundle slithered from her grasp to clatter on the tiles. The sound rang hollow in the room, portentous and unnerving. The giggling harlots jumped and squirmed around.

Zoe dipped her head to whisper in the young slave’s ear. "Now run like Mercury, and don’t look back."

The girl brushed past her, fleeing down the steamy corridor. Zoe turned her gaze back to the pool. She stood there, lean and naked, moisture dripping down her body, like the shameless fishergirl she had once been. In one hand she held a trident from the armoury. A net was slung across her other shoulder. Her dark fringe straggled in her eyes. She tossed her head, as feisty as a mare.

Victoria was sitting at the far end of the bath, breast deep in milky water while one of the dark-skinned archers squeezed her shoulders. She glared at Zoe with a look of outraged disbelief. Next to her, a haughty-looking girl lazed in the water, with flushed cheeks and a cap of dark blonde curls. Zoe’s stomach plunged with recognition. It was the wealthy lady who had cried out for her death.

A bitter smile curved Zoe’s lips. She stepped back from the scattering of weapons. The rich bitch peered at her, perplexed, not sure if this was part of what she’d paid for. Zoe glanced from face to face. She gestured with the trident.

"Pick a sword, then. Any sword. They’ve got your names on them."

For a moment, no-one moved. Her own heart seemed to thunder in the hush. Then the whores began to stir and slowly wade towards her. One girl heaved herself out of the bath, her wet breasts dripping. The helmet she still wore contrasted with her nudity. Zoe met her surly gaze and side-stepped warily. The girl eased forward, glancing at the swords. Zoe took another step; glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye. Then one of the brown-skinned archers vaulted from the pool, and snatched a gladius as she scrambled up.

Zoe spun and jabbed the trident into her bare midriff. The points were sharp as splintered glass and sank into the unprotected flesh. The girl screeched like a scalded child and tried to slash at Zoe, but the heavy sword was slipping from her gasp. Zoe skewered her, then put her heel in the slut’s belly and shoved her backwards off the bleeding spikes.

The wailing girl went down into the water, and her helmeted companion tried to pounce. Zoe had no time to turn; she thrust back with the blunt end of the shaft. It struck the harlot in the stomach and she doubled forward with a squawk. Zoe wheeled and struck at her. The wood clanged on the cheek-guard of her helmet. The girl spun round beneath the blow and flopped into the pool.

Now the other whores were snarling, splashing from the bath. Zoe shrugged the heavy net off, gathered it and cast it over them. It opened like a cloud, weighed down with pebble-sized lead weights, and landed on one girl, entangling her. Zoe watched her squeal and thrash, then hurled the lightweight trident. Her fisher’s eye was true again. The tines drove through the squirming harlot’s chest.

The girl reared backwards with a grunt, her face a mask of shock. Zoe didn’t wait to hear her scream. She scooped a German longsword up. It scraped on the mosaic. A whore had seized a gladius, and Zoe’s naked back was turned to her.

Zoe threw her weight into a brutal backhand slash. It caught the girl beneath her plump right tit. Zoe grinned at her grimace, then forced the blade across. The harlot’s wail became a scarlet scream. The blade ripped free again beneath her pendulous left breast. She coughed blood down her cleavage as she slumped.

Zoe grasped her gladius as she relinquished it, and danced clear with a weapon in each hand. Another of the legionaries picked up a sword and lunged. She slashed, but Zoe blocked her with the spatha. It was the German girl who’d tried to push her to her doom. She wasn’t looking so complacent now. Her blonde hair straggled damply from beneath her polished helmet. Her blue eyes glared at Zoe hatefully.

Zoe jabbed the shorter sword at her, then spun away. Another girl had clambered up behind her. Zoe swung the spatha, but the harlot parried it. The blades rang off each other, striking sparks. Zoe wheeled, still lashing out. The two whores hissed at her. The darker-skinned one struck again and Zoe beat her off. This was the girl who’d stood by with her bow while Zoe struggled. The one who’d pinched her spitefully throughout their journey back. Zoe feinted, ducked and sliced: the gladius streaked the harlot’s throat with red. The girl choked disbelievingly, and then the streak split open, a drooling grin beneath her sagging jaw. Zoe swung away from her and kicked her in the belly. The archer flopped, blood spattering her breasts.

The legionary renewed her own attack, her pale breasts joggling. Zoe rode with the assault, deflecting it with one blade, then the other. Beads of moisture, drops of sweat and globules of blood went spraying outward. Zoe’s own tits wobbled as the woman’s blade swiped past. She took a long stride back from her opponent. The gladius spun upward from her hand.

The blade flashed as the weapon tumbled, pommel over point. The girl looked up at it instinctively. Zoe gripped the spatha in both hands and slashed her stomach. The harlot doubled forward with a groan.

The gladius was falling: Zoe snatched it from the air. Over-arm, she drove the blade into the big girl’s chest. The German made a bleating sound, too agonized to scream. She stuck her tits out in a helpless spasm. Zoe bared her teeth and yanked the gladius free again. Hot blood splashed her naked skin. The blonde girl crumpled like a broken doll.

Zoe let the longsword fall. She plunged into the bath. The scented water slopped around her, heavy and polluted with spilled blood. The girl she’d clouted with the trident floundered in her path, still trying to find her feet as Zoe reached her. She turned; her helmet was askew. It made her frightened face look almost girlish. But Zoe could remember how the bitch had sneered at her and punched her in the stomach at the Games …

That’s it, girl. Into the belly. Twist, and jerk it free!

The woman screamed in agony as Zoe disembowelled her. They were so close that their tits were touching; Zoe felt her nipples growing hard. The legionary clutched at her, and Zoe grasped her shoulder. The twisting blade ripped free again. The girl’s breasts heaved and sagged. Zoe shoved her, drooping, to one side and waded forward. The vaulted chamber echoed like a tomb. The rich young lady sat transfixed, still chest-deep in the water. Her pink complexion was as pale as whey.

Zoe heard a splash, and then Victoria sloshed towards her. She’d found her own sword on the tiles, and now she sliced the steamy air with it. She didn’t have her helmet on. Her dark hair was unbound. Her shrewish brown eyes blazed through her damp fringe.

Zoe turned her to meet her like a mermaid in the water. She held her sword out mockingly, then jerked it backward from Victoria’s swipe. They circled in the crimson pool, between the bobbing corpses. The cow-eyed client watched them, mesmerised.

Victoria hissed and lunged again. Her sword clipped Zoe’s, spinning it aside. A smirk of triumph lit her face; she plunged in for the kill. Too eagerly to see it was a trap.

Zoe had released her sword, and feigned a loss of balance. Now she sprang towards Victoria, seizing her and grabbing at her arm. The two of them squirmed fiercely in the water for a moment, the polished gladius wavering between them. But Victoria had grown soft with too much ease and pampering, and Zoe’s muscles bulged with years of rage.

Slowly she wrenched the sword around to prick Victoria’s belly. The harlot wriggled, squealing with dismay. Zoe grinned with gritted teeth. "You know the army’s honour … A general defeated … has to do the decent thing …"

She forced Victoria down onto the point. The girl cried out. Zoe jabbed the blade in deeper, and Victoria kicked convulsively. She doubled forward into Zoe, biting at her shoulder like a lover. Zoe bucked in time with her, as if sharing an orgasm. Her jaw clenched and her cheekbones tightened. Blood went dripping down her shoulder blade. Then Victoria went limp, and flopped from her embrace into the water.

Zoe dragged the sword back out. More crimson fogged the bath. She scarcely felt the bite mark in her flesh. She rounded on the last surviving woman in the pool. The harlots’ client gawped at her in dread.

Let her have it, she had shouted. Give it to the bitch.

Zoe waded through the blood towards her. The girl sat up, her ample bosom bobbing into view. "Oh, mercy!" she said tearfully, her arms outstretched, palms upturned in appeal. Zoe paused to stare at her. A grim smile hooked her mouth. "Things look different, don’t they … from the bottom of the pit?"

She slashed out with the blade and laid the girl’s pale forearms open. Blood spurted in two fountains from her wrists. Her face went white with shock as she reared backwards, and Zoe watched the water turn bright red.

"Isn’t this the way you Romans end it? A warm bath, and a blade against the veins?"

The woman wailed and tried to flounder. Zoe laid the sword against her throat. "Hush. Don’t struggle. Let it flow." The girl mewled, growing paler by the moment. She gazed up Zoe’s blade, and Zoe met her eyes, unblinking. The anguished stare grew misty, and the girl began to droop. The bloody water closed over her breasts, and then her shoulders. She gave a last, pathetic sob, and let her head slip down into the soup.

Zoe stood and waited till the bubbles had stopped rising, then waded back across the murky bath. Dark clouds billowed round the floating bodies. It looked as if a crimson storm was just about to break. She clambered out and padded from the chamber, her body streaming with diluted blood. Her heart was pounding, steady as a drumbeat. Victoria’s sword still dangled from her hand.

Soaked and nude, she stepped into the courtyard. The evening air felt cool against her skin. Plutus had his quarters in the gatehouse of the barracks. Her fingers tightened round the sword’s black hilt.

She crossed the yard towards the unlit building – and there was Galba, slouched against the wall. He stared at her, expressionless. She halted, breathing hard. She glimpsed the stiffness in his groin, and realised he could get it up all right.

The trainer eyed her body for a moment, then looked back at her face and straightened up. He threw a heavy cloak at her, and Zoe caught the garment with one hand. Keeping her sword arm clear, she draped its folds around herself. The wool began to soak the wetness up.

"Plutus is out banqueting," said Galba evenly. "And he always keeps his bodyguards close by. Killers from the legions, not a bunch of pampered prossies. You’re not ready to take him, girl. Not yet."

Zoe drew the cloak a little closer. A shiver of reaction gripped her flesh. She sensed another pair of eyes, and looked behind her quickly. Malleus, at his forge, was watching too.

The tableau held, then broke apart. No further words were spoken. The men sought out some clothes for her while Zoe rinsed the blood off at the cistern. A pinkish pool formed round her feet. She dried off with a blanket. The dusk was coming quickly now. Moths spiralled round the lamps.

She dressed in a short tunic; tied a belt round her slim waist; put on a pair of calf-length army boots. Galba fetched Victoria’s scabbard from the silent bath house. Zoe slung the strap over her shoulder, and slid the polished blade into its sheath.

She took a dagger too, and reached behind herself to slide it through her belt. The gesture made her breasts stand out, and Galba swallowed dryly. Zoe glanced at him, then sensed Malleus at her elbow. He’d retrieved the trident which she’d used, and unfastened the wicked iron head. "This, you carry in your pack," he told her, bundling it. Then he handed her the shaft. "A traveller needs her staff. Who knows how many miles she has to walk?"

Zoe gazed at them, perplexed. She had no words to voice her gratitude. They walked behind her to the gate. She turned and hugged them there. "Strength and Honour," she said softly, as if naming them. Then she clutched her staff and slipped away into the twilight, like a panther on the first steps of its hunt.

* * *

The British girl lay huddled on the bare floor of her cell, as naked as a captured animal. The slaves had doused her with cold water and her skin was soaked. The dark red hair was plastered to her face. Goosebumps stippled her pale flesh, and yet she didn’t tremble. Motionless despite the chill, she listened with the patience of a cat.

For a while there had been silence in the barracks block around her, but now she could hear shouts and running feet. Someone snarled in fury. Torchlight flickered through the windows. And still she lay unmoving and corpse-cold. The consternation reached the doors. She heard approaching footsteps. The heavy oaken door clanked open. Oily yellow flames lit up the cell.

She didn’t cringe, now they had come to kill her. She raised herself, her plump breasts dangling, nipples hard as stalks. She ploughed back her bedraggled hair and raised her pale blue eyes. The bearded slaver towered over her.

His bodyguards were there behind him, swords drawn, almost daring her to pounce. But the man called Plutus eyed her thoughtfully. "Boudicca. You played her well. Is that your real name?"

The girl just sneered. "You Romans gave me it. I’ll wear it gladly."

"So tell me something … Boudicca. How much do you hate the girl who killed your sisters?"

Boudicca’s lip curled. She didn’t answer.

"The Greek slut slaughtered five of them – but worse, she spared your life!" Plutus smiled at her and sauntered closer. "That means that she owns you, girl. You’ll live forever in the bitch’s debt!"

The British girl hissed angrily, still crouched on hands and knees. Plutus chuckled, fumbling in his pouch. He threw a crust of bread down, and a scattering of coins. Boudicca eased back and frowned at them.

For the journey," Plutus said. "Go on. I set you free. You’re worthless to me now, you little tyke." He tossed something that clattered on the stone floor of the cell. The bodyguards grew tenser at his back.

It was a butcher’s knife, the keen edge glinting in the torchlight. Boudicca looked up, and Plutus leered.

"Take that and track down my slave. Cut out the bitch’s heart. You don’t need me to order it. You’ll do it for yourself."

The British girl stared back at him, then reached out for the weapon. The bodyguards stood ready with their blades. Boudicca picked up the knife, and weighed it in her hand. And now, at last, her teeth showed in a smile.