12 swords. Fleeing Britons surged around Faelan’s cart, screaming and trampling one another. The cart began to buck and tip, and desperate faces crowded around Faelan and his family, hands grasping for anything that could provide help in the press of men. Faelan’s younger sisters clung to him, screaming. In shock, Faelen did not scream or blink or even breathe… When Falean came to his senses, his mother was nowhere to be seen. Boudicca and her chariot had disappeared, swallowed by a sea of red uniforms and flashing armor. Faelan grabbed Rhiannon and Esselt by their arms and dragged them to the rear of the cart. He leapt down and, pulling his sisters with him, crawled under the cart. He buried his face in the deep green grass and wished for an end, any kind of end. The boy remained still, eyes squeezed shut, for what seemed like hours. He did not sleep; that would have been a mercy, but it was impossible. He was awake and aware of every awful and terrifying sound. Once the gruesome din of battle grew quiet, he opened his eyes and saw only Esselt, who was curled up next to him, chewing on the ends of her hair, grey eyes staring off into the distance. “Rhiannon; where is Rhiannon?” he whispered furiously. Esselt shook her head and inched away from him. He reached to pull her close but froze; someone was peering at them. “Two children under here,” said the Roman legionary over his shoulder. “Should we dispatch them?” The second man bent down and looked under the cart. “These two are old enough to work,” he said. “Maybe we can sell them in the slave market. Let’s take them.” The two soldiers grabbed Faelan’s and Esselt’s ankles, and, no matter how hard they kicked, in a matter of minutes brother
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