A word of warning:

This is going to be a long story, and I'll probably only be able to post one chapter a week (or less), because of my heavy schedule. If this is going to drive you nuts, you probably better wait until it is finished to read it.

Also, it is set in Europe circa 550 A.D., but I am deliberately not historically accurate. I try to be as much as possible, and I've done a ton of research to that effect, but because of concerns of character familiarity -- and because this is an alternate universe -- historical anachronisms abound: names, dates, speech patterns, historical details, etc are all up for grabs. If that is going to drive you nuts...I can't help you, except to say they are not by accident, but on purpose for the sake of the story and ease of reading.

Okay, now that I've scared off 99% of you...

The Themyscirians

By Meljean Brook

Disclaimer: I neither own the characters described herein, nor make money from them. Don't sue.

A/N: Based on the legend of Beowulf and suggested by Artemis. Thankies!

Chapter 1: In Which Our Heroes Are Introduced While Leaving Rome

Dread tightened Diana's stomach as she watched the anchor rise, the ship begin to move against the thrust of the waves, Kal's figure silhouetted at the bow.

Knowing that he could hear her despite the distance, she murmured, "I do not trust him, Kal. This is too sudden, his plan too radical."

Behind her, oblivious to her whispers, Alexander lounged upon his throne, declaring, "Their journey will be safe, all plots against them thwarted by the diversion you and I have created, and Neptune himself will watch over their voyage."

Even an Emperor can not command the gods, Diana thought, but she did not speak the words. Instead, she forced a smile.

"Indeed, Caesar; the gods will smile favorably upon this union," she said, years of diplomatic training forming the words automatically. "The glory of Rome will shine brightly again under your protection, and your increasing strength."

Alexander inclined his head, accepting her words at their face value. She had given him no reason to suspect her loyalty.

Yet she suspected him.

Kal's reply was faint – already he was far from her, the ship slipping over the horizon. "Leave Rome quickly, complete the mission. After the marriage, we will—" The rest of his words were lost in the wind, the waves and the distance between them.

Divide and conquer. It was the credo of the caesars.

She and Kal had been divided.

Was Alexander's next move to conquer?

***

Diana pushed her riders hard. She had hand selected the twelve men who traveled with her, choosing each for their bravery, their skills, and her unwavering faith in their loyalty to Kal…and to her.

But, despite her trust, she did not confide in them about her suspicions of Alexander's betrayal; for, in truth, the betrayal would not be Caesar's, but hers. His word was law, and if the mission Alexander had given Diana was really an elaborate scheme to displace both Kal and herself, then her soldiers would feel torn between their duty to the empire, and their allegiance to their captain.

And she had taught them that duty should come first.

Yet what if my soldiers are being sent into danger as well? Would not Alexander sacrifice them as well, to achieve the goals she suspected he held?

The question plagued her as their horses traveled swiftly over the road. Around them, the plains gradually gave rise to green, rolling hills, the fields of wheat to groves of olives and almonds. Rome was twelve hours' journey behind them – their destination, at least six weeks away: Gotham.

Despite the years she and Kal had spent journeying, she had not been to that dark city in the northern part of the continent. Formerly a barbarian stronghold, it had been taken and rebuilt by the descendants of Atrieus, the great Roman general, after the family had fled Rome in fear of their lives four generations past.

Conflicting reports about the city had spread over Europe in the last century: barbarians were again taking over the city, or the House of Atrieus had maintained their defenses against them; the city was lawless and filled with superstition and death, or peaceful and a center for learning and knowledge; a new, glorious Roman city was being built by the descendents of the great Roman houses, or corruption had eaten away at the dignity and morality of its aristocracy, and the city's demise was imminent.

And, within the latter part of the last decade, a new rumor had arisen: tales of a monster – half man, half bat – who terrorized the citizens, killing men and women, eating children.

"Captain."

She easily heard Jhon's voice over the pounding hooves of the horses; turning slightly on her mount, she waved him forward, until he drew his horse up alongside hers.

"Lieutenant?" She pulled lightly on her reins, slowing her horse so that he could better hear her. Immediately, the entire company followed suit, ranging behind her two abreast.

"I would like to suggest that we travel at a slower pace than you have been setting," Jhon said.

Diana arched an eyebrow, curious. "Are you tired, Jhon?" She asked the question lightly, teasingly; she felt a deep camaraderie with her soldiers, and didn't take offense to their questioning her decisions – as long as they weren't commands she'd made during battle.

"No, but as a woman, you should be," he said.

She studied his face as she considered his comment. Brown eyes, brown hair, medium build – his nondescript appearance might have fooled another person into thinking him of average intelligence or courage, might have led another to dismiss him as unimportant, average.

She knew he was anything but average, and had used his ability to blend into a crowd of people numerous times; he could ferret out information from an enemy camp just by being there, and often the enemy never knew they'd been invaded.

She also trusted his counsel as highly as Kal's. "Lady Lucretia is an athlete, and an accomplished horsewoman."

"You are posing as a decoy for a woman supposedly traveling to her wedding," Jhon countered. "Although your clothes reflect that of a noblewoman, and although the lady might enjoy athletics, she could hardly be expected to ride as you have over the last day: eating on the horse, stopping only for minutes as a time, without female companions—"

Realizing that she might have compromised her mission—and put Kal in danger—because of her suspicions and haste, Diana held up her hand to stop the list. "You are right, of course. Tomorrow, we will move at a more leisurely pace. And you will take point. The lady would not be expected to head the company, either." Noting that the sun was low on the horizon, she added, "Have the men set up camp. We will stop for the night."

Jhon turned, issued the orders quickly, and the men dismounted and began unpacking their gear.

Diana swung down from her own horse, maneuvering her unfamiliar long skirt somewhat clumsily. "And, Jhon," she added, "We will need to procure some more female clothing, and make the men draw sticks. I need a lady's companion."

His laughter should have brightened her spirits, but instead she burned with frustration as she cared for her horse. Slowing their journey meant that she would have less time to ascertain the political situation in Gotham before Kal arrived with his charge. Less time to consult with Kal before the wedding, and before they returned to Rome. Less time to prepare for whatever Alexander had in mind for them.

Divide and conquer.

Diana, Princess of Themyscira, would not be conquered.

***

Kal let the warmth of the sun soak into his skin, felt the salt-laced breeze that reminded him of his years on the island.

He turned at the sound of retching, as the Lady Lucretia vomited over the side of the ship once again. Her companion held a cool linen to the lady's forehead, her own skin tinged slightly green.

Sitting back onto the deck in a heap, Lucretia glared up at Kal. "If you had any breeding and education at all, captain, you would have turned from the sight of a suffering female."

Taken slightly aback by the heat in her voice, Kal studied the woman. When they had boarded, she had been silent, and retreated immediately to her chambers. He had assumed that she was timid – but now, he thought that she might have been silent with repressed fury.

At whom? he wondered.

"I would never turn from a female, or male, who was suffering," he said.

She raised her brows in disbelief, her voice laced with scorn. "A warrior with compassion? What a rural, backwoods notion."

"Your father does not think so," he pointed out. "As he trusted you into my care."

"My father can rot in Tartarus!"

The lady's companion gasped, whispered, "You can not mean that about the general, Lois—"

Lucretia pulled herself to her feet, her entire form shaking. "Yes, I can." She answered the companion, but her words were directed toward Kal. "My father plots with Alexander to marry me off in that hell of a city, to secure their own positions of power, and he uses the might of his army in the form of his lackey captain to force me," she sneered the last at him.

Suddenly realizing where her anger originated, Kal said simply, "Compassion is not a backwoods notion."

She blinked rapidly, as if unsure how to respond to a statement so seemingly unconnected to her insults. Then response was taken from her, as they rolled over another swell, the boat swaying, and the next moment she was vomiting into the sea.

Kal watched, to make sure she didn't fall into the water should another swell knock them off balance. Diana, he remembered, could tolerate the ocean no better than Lucretia apparently could, and she'd fallen in more than once during her sicknesses. Not that she'd been in any danger when she did – but it explained why she'd often insisted they fly rather than sail when traveling over water.

From the bowels of the boat, he heard one man whisper to another: "We have orders to do it on the south coast of Gaul."

He thought of Diana's warning, her words murmured across the sea.

Lucretia's bottom stuck ungainly into the air as she heaved.

Kal didn't trust Alexander, either. He never had, which was why Alexander had no idea why Kal and Diana were so…different.

When they reached the southern coast of Gaul, the sailors were in for a surprise.

Chapter 2: In Which Our Heroes Come Under Attack

Diana leaned back against the flat rock, breathing deeply of the cool breeze that swept down from the snow-capped mountains surrounding them. The alpine peaks scraped the vault of the sky, rivaling Olympus itself in magnificence and beauty. Below, the Rhône boiled swiftly through a bottleneck of granite created by high cliffs – the cause of their atypical midday idleness. Their horses could not swim across, and trekking downstream in an attempt to find a better crossing point would add days to their journey.

Days Diana was not willing to lose.

That left one option: Diana would have to ferry the men and horses over the river herself. They were waiting until cover of darkness, when the various shepherds and hunters who roamed the mountains during the summer would be less likely to see them.

And the pair of men who followed Diana's company would be forced to detour, left wondering where—and how—Diana's men had crossed the river.

Although she could have confronted them at any time since she had become aware of their presence a fortnight earlier, she preferred to let them make their move first, to show themselves, never realizing that she would be prepared for them.

For now, however, she enjoyed the simple pleasures of the beautiful location, the rustic goat cheese and bread that made up her repast, and the friendly banter of her men as they washed the grime of nearly three week's travel from their bodies.

"Come on, Wallacina! Too dainty to get a little wet?"

Diana turned her head to see Kyle, clad only in his underclothing, run after Wally with a bucket of water. She laughed along with the others as Wally screeched and sprinted away, overplaying his part of lady's companion with high-pitched screams and pleas for mercy, the white and lavender skirts of his chiton flying out behind him.

He evaded Kyle easily; except for Diana, Wally was the fastest among them, his agility and quickness unrivalled by the other men. She'd been pleased when he had been the one to draw the position of her lady's maid – his youth and build made his disguise more believable, and Wally's own disappointment and embarrassment at being the one to wear women's clothing had been assuaged by the realization that Diana's companion would, of course, share her tent at night.

She'd only caught him trying to peek three times.

"…which woman is the Themyscirian?"

"It doesn't matter, shoot them both."

Diana sat up, her eyes searching the treeline. The voices had been faint, distorted by the sound of the river, and she was uncertain of their direction and distance.

Jhon, who had been quietly meditating away from the others, seemed to sense her tension, and immediately called to the men to find their weapons and shields.

They all complied, except for Wally, who hadn't heard Jhon in his dash away from Kyle. Even as he turned at the sudden silence, Diana heard the distinctive twang of an arrow being fired, saw Wally jerk as it embedded into his flesh.

He wheeled backwards, surprise and pain etched on his face, precariously close to the cliff.

"Wally!" She sprinted for him, had to pause as she heard the whistle of another arrow, deflected it with her bracelets. Wally went over, arms flailing.

"Jhon!" Diana shouted the name as a command, but it was unnecessary – her men were already charging into the trees, in pursuit of their attackers. A moment later, she dove into the raging river after Wally.

The icy water stung for a moment, blurred her vision; the current pulled incessantly at her limbs. She fought its force easily, but couldn't locate Wally. The pressure built in her lungs as she crossed the river underwater back and forth, trying to see through the silty depths, until she finally went up to get her bearings.

Diana gasped for breath as she surfaced, looking around frantically for any sign of him. "Wally!" Her voice was drowned by the rushing river. How long had she been under, searching for him? Long enough to need air – and Wally was just a man.

Shouts drew her gaze upward, where her men stood on the cliff's edge, gesturing downstream.

Fighting the current, she turned and caught a glimpse of lavender-clad shoulder before he went under again. Not willing to lose any more time, she stopped swimming, used her gift of flight to speed through the water.

She dove under when she reached the spot she had last seen him, groping blindly beneath the roiling water. Something brushed past her hand – a fish? a piece of fabric? – and she grabbed at it, pulling it up with her, relieved by the weight dragging against her.

Wally's head lolled against her shoulder as she lifted him into the air, his skin pale and lips blue – but he was breathing: a thin, ragged sound.

The arrow protruding from his shoulder worried her more than his subsequent dunking.

She gently set him down when she landed, accepting the blanket Kyle gave her. She barely glanced at the two men who were groaning in pain on the ground, their hands and feet tied together. She would deal with them later.

"Wally?" Her voice was soft, but when he didn't stir she repeated his name more loudly. Satisfied that he was unconscious, she prodded at the shaft of the arrow, then quickly broke off the end, reached around to grab the arrowhead, and pulled the shaft through.

Wally moaned, his eyes fluttering open as she applied pressure to the front and back of his shoulder.

"Don't move," she said.

"Am I going to die?" His voice was weak, but the tone threading though it that had her nearly sighing in relief. "If I am, it's your fault. I couldn't run very fast because of the skirts."

"Now you know how those maidens feel whenever you are around." Diana smiled for his benefit, but she acknowledged the truth of his words – a truth that he hadn't meant, but was present nonetheless.

It was her fault. She should have captured, questioned the men earlier, instead of waiting for them to act. Her arrogance had caused this, her reliance on her powers, her certainty that no man—except Kal—could prove a challenge to the champion of the Amazons. And she had no doubt that the arrows were intended for her – not Lucretia, as Alexander had said he feared, but Diana. But she didn't know why, or how they'd known she was there.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the would-be assassins struggle against their bonds.

She would be finding out the 'why' very soon.

*

The bedchamber was dark, but Diana could easily discern the outlines of the bed, the man sleeping fitfully atop the mattress.

He would sleep less after this night.

"Samuel."

She kept her voice low, but the man came instantly awake, reaching for his sword. He blinked in the darkness, then said uncertainly, "Diana?"

"My men were attacked today." She dumped the two assassins unceremoniously to the chamber floor, their bodies landing with a thud on the marble flooring. "These two claimed that you ordered it."

Frowning, Samuel lit the lamp next to his bedside, examined their faces, then looked up at Diana, worry clouding his expression. "These are my soldiers, Diana."

"I know," she said. "I also know they were lying."

A wry look slipped into his eyes. "Another of your gifts?"

"Partially," Diana admitted. "But I imagine that if you sent someone to kill me, you would have chosen two who were less inept." She tossed a small leather bag onto the bed; its contents clinked dully. "And you would have paid them more. There isn't even thirty pieces of silver there."

A short laugh escaped him, yet she could sense his tension, his wariness, and knew he was considering the implications of her statements. She wasn't surprised when he reached the same conclusion as she. "Caesar?"

She nodded. "Though Kal and I have aided him by protecting Rome against the barbarians, he is afraid of our power."

"But he doesn't know the extent of it, has never been to the battlefields—"

"The rumors have been enough," Diana said.

Samuel inclined his head in acknowledgement; he knew that they could not have kept it a secret for long.

"And my daughter? I agreed to the marriage because I thought she would be safer in Gotham, under the prince's protection. Have I sent her into danger instead?"

Diana drew a deep breath, uncertain how to respond, wishing she could reassure him of Lucretia's safety. But she would not lie to her general. "Kal will protect her with his life, but if Alexander has sent men to kill me, then he almost certainly has a plan against Kal, which might in turn endanger your daughter. It all depends, however, upon how much Alexander desires the alliance between Rome and Gotham to take place."

"Knowing Caesar as I do, he thinks an alliance with Gotham may be Rome's only hope. My journey to that city last spring assured me of that. We can trust Wayne and Gordon – though the prince seems weak, he's a good man, and with Gordon behind him Gotham is strong." He sighed, then looked up at Diana, his age suddenly lining his face. "Kal will protect Lucretia; I leave it to you to make sure that, until then, nothing endangers the alliance with Gotham. The glory of Rome depends on it."

She bent, kissed his forehead in farewell. "I will." She turned to leave, then paused, gesturing to the unconscious men on the floor. "They will be raving of women who fly when they awaken. They fainted from fear shortly after I took to the sky."

A smile lifted the corner of Samuel's mouth. "I would like to have seen that."

She grinned in response. "It was entertaining, and a relief at the time. I'm not certain I could have withstood their screams all the way to Rome." Her smile faded as she regarded him seriously. "Samuel, are you certain that Rome is still worth these sacrifices? That its glory can be reclaimed?"

The general's face was bleak. "If not, my years of fighting have been worth nothing. My daughter's life, her upcoming marriage, worth nothing."

Her voice was soft as she floated out of the window. "I don't think your daughter would agree," she said.

"You don't know Lois," he muttered, but although she heard him she was too far away to reply.

***

Hippolyta had once told him women were far more rational than men outside Themyscira would admit; Lucretia was a living example of the exception to that statement. Despite her continued sickness, she insisted on walking the deck of the ship twice daily, even if her companion could not accompany her. When a rational woman would have remained in her cabin recovering her strength, Lucretia staggered across the boards, throwing glares at Kal as he followed her, making certain she didn't faint or tip over the side.

He found himself charmed by her perverse behavior, even as he empathized with her position. She obviously did not want to marry, yet she found herself trapped on a boat with Kal – whose only mission was to deliver her to her groom. Her sole outlet became the insults she directed toward him, which he endured in silence and increasing amusement.

However, as the weeks passed and Gaul's shoreline remained visible off starboard, he began to wish she would remain secluded, out of the way of whatever the sailors had planned for them—at least until Kal had put an end to their plans.

Although he hadn't heard anything suspicious from the men since that first day, he'd detected a new tension in them, an expectation that seemed to grow daily.

He turned as he heard the click of shoes against the deck; Lucretia sneered into his face and lurched past him.

He grinned. "Good afternoon, my lady."

"It's going to rain." She gestured to the clouds darkening the sky as if they offended her, then swallowed hard when her sudden movement made her stomach roll. "But I suppose if I was a boy raised on a village farm, rain would seem good to me, too."

"Although we cultivated the land, a 'farm' is not an accurate description of my childhood home," Kal said.

"A hovel, then?" Her eyes raked up and down his form. "Only peasants have muscles like you do, formed by hard labor and a lack of intellect."

"'The one safeguard against diseases of mind and body is to exercise both, and thus preserve an equal and healthy balance between them,'" Kal quoted in Greek.

Her eyes met his in surprise; her mouth twisted in a way that told him she was incredibly curious about his unexpected knowledge of Plato, but that she'd rather eat a scorpion than ask him where he'd learned it. Instead she replied in lightly accented Greek, "'When a large body is joined with a small and feeble mind for which it is too big, it renders the man dull, slow and forgetful, and his soul afflicted with the worst of the diseases: stupidity.'"

Kal fought the urge to laugh, and countered, "My lady, the quote I gave is the remedy for yours."

Her brow creased, and she blew out a sudden, exasperated breath that lifted the curling tendrils of hair from her forehead. "Well, what does Socrates know? Or his pupils?"

Hippolyta had often said the same thing, so perhaps Lucretia wasn't as much a contradiction of the Amazon queen's observations as Kal originally believed. The thought was a relief – he could understand women like Hippolyta, or Diana and her sisters, but thus far Lucretia had been a mystery to him.

A mystery he would like to know better: the voyage to Gotham was a long one, and he was accustomed to the company of others—particularly women. If he could manage to pry beneath Lucretia's prickly exterior, to call a truce and initiate a friendship, he was certain the journey would be more enjoyable for the both of them.

"My lady, you are correct about Plato's philosophy—"

A feminine scream ripped through the air, followed by a gurgling cough—then silence.

Lucretia's eyes went wide as she and Kal looked at each other in shock; then realization dawned in her eyes and she darted toward her cabin.

Kal caught her by the arm, pulling her back gently. With vision that could penetrate walls, he saw Lucretia's companion lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath her. He looked closer, saw that her heart had stopped, the muscle cut and torn. Over her stood two of the sailors, one holding a bloodied knife.

"Let me go!" Lucretia screamed at him, turning to bite and kick when his grip remained firm.

He ignored her cries, used his vision and senses to locate the other men on the ship. A dull ache of disbelief and guilt twisted in his stomach—a woman killed, almost right in front of him. He hadn't expected this; he had expected mutiny, or even abandonment on an island or beach while the sailors stole the ladies' jewels and valuables.

Lucretia tried to gouge out his eyes, and he finally turned to her. "We need to get back up on deck," he said quietly. "They are coming for us next."

She slapped him with her free hand, rammed a knee between his legs. He didn't flinch, but caught her hands together, lifting her over his shoulder. She rained blows on his back, yelling for him to release her; he strode quickly past midships, aiming for the open deck at the stern of the ship.

The sailors were waiting for them, lined up with their swords and blades ready. Lucretia quieted at the sight of them, and when Kal set her down against the railing with a whispered warning to stay put, she didn't argue.

Kal glanced at her pale face, saw the anger and fear in her eyes, and swore to himself that he wouldn't fail her twice. He squeezed her hand gently, reassuringly, then crossed his arms in front of his chest, faced the men.

He didn't bother to draw his own sword. He intended to frighten the sailors, then ascertain the origin of their plan. Afterwards, he would command them to the nearest port, where Kal would make sure the sailors would be punished – then he would hire a new crew, and a companion for Lucretia. His mission would be completed as Caesar had ordered it—whether Alexander had really intended for Kal to carry it through or not.

Two men dropped their swords, the metal red and their palms burning after a glance from Kal. A sailor stepped forward and swung his blade at Kal's head; Kal caught it edge-on, crushing the weapon beneath his hand. The sword clattered to the floorboards, and Kal used the tips of his fingers to send the man flying across the deck.

Behind him, Lucretia gasped. A murmur rose among the men. Finally, the man whom Kal recognized as the captain sheathed his sword, held up his hands.

"We had been warned that fighting a Themyscirian would be difficult, if not impossible."

"Warned by whom?" Lucretia suddenly stood by Kal's side. He could feel the trembling of her body, but her voice was insistent, strong.

"Our employer." The captain grinned suddenly, an oily smile that had Kal tensing. Their official 'employer' was Caesar—but did the captain talk of another? Of a different man who had hired them to kill their passengers?

"Who?" Kal demanded.

The captain pulled a small leather sack from his pocket, untied the top. "The same man who gave me this."

"How much?" Lucretia asked. "How much were our lives worth?"

Kal peered past the leather and frowned. The bag was full of dust, not money as Lucretia assumed. What did the captain intend—?

The captain tossed the bag at Kal's head.

Instinctively, Kal caught it, crushing it in his fingers. The contents burst out with a small rush of air as he squeezed, the dust hitting him in the face.

He took a sharp breath in annoyance, then choked as pain ripped down his throat, into his lungs. He staggered back, hitting the railing. He blinked, but the burning settled into his eyes, blurring his vision.

Through the rushing in his ears, he heard the captain say, "It's just a bit of green rock ground up into a powder. I didn't think it would work when he told me."

The meteorite. He'd felt its effects before, been under attack by people who'd used it, but Diana had always been with him, had always been able to remove the rock or get him to safety in time.

Divide and conquer.

He heard Lucretia's shouts of rage as consciousness faded. He felt someone slam into him, the distinctive sense of falling.

Then the silence of water.

***

Two months later…

The scent of blood and death assaulted her as she landed gently on the deck. Even though the barest sliver of light from the crescent moon illuminated the ship, she could see the carnage that spread across the floor—limbs torn from torsos, decapitated heads frozen in expressions of terror. Judging by the smell and the state of the bodies, the massacre had only taken place hours before.

She picked her way across the boards, careful not to disturb the remains of the dead. Fear clawed at her—there were two beings on Earth whom she knew could tear a man apart as these men had been: Kal and herself.

She had not done this, and Kal was not on the ship.

He should have been. He should have met her here, less than two day's journey from Gotham.

A moan drew her attention to a body lying half-hidden under a plank. She lifted the board, stricken by the sight of the man's injuries. The pain he must be suffering…

She touched his brow, trying to offer some small comfort, all the while examining what was left of him. Years on the battlefield told her that moving him would kill him—that death was imminent no matter her actions.

His eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled gently. "You were brave, brother."

Shuddering, he attempted to speak, his face reflecting a dull terror. "Red…eyes…burning…"

Kal's eyes sometimes became red when he used his heat vision in the evening hours; yet she smelled no smoke here.

Hating herself for asking, but needing to know, she pressed, "Kal? Captain of the Roman Army? What happened to him and the Lady Lucretia?"

"Dead!" The man gasped, his breaths fast and shallow, his movements agitated. "All dead!"

"You are safe now, brother," Diana said softly, and continued speaking to him as he slowly calmed. She waited by his side as his breathing became more and more labored, until his chest rose and fell for the last time.

As she trailed lantern oil over the deck, over the bodies, she pondered the dying sailor's last words. She didn't know if he meant that Kal and Lucretia were dead, or if he had been reliving the terror of seeing his shipmates murdered. And if Kal and Lucretia weren't dead, then where were they? Diana's journey had taken longer than she had anticipated—had Kal decided to travel to Gotham ahead of her?

And who—or what—had murdered the crew?

She struck a spark, set the oil ablaze; the ship became a funeral pyre.

The faces of her men were filled with questions as she returned to shore, the ship reflecting in their eyes as it burned into the water.

"What did you find?" Jhon asked, studying the set of her jaw, the sadness and worry in her posture.

"Death," Diana said. She looked into the darkness of the forest that bordered the water, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Something was watching them.

Please, Hera, let Kal be already in the city.

"Mount your horses," she ordered. "And be on guard. We ride for Gotham."

Chapter 3: In Which A Dark Prince is Introduced, and a Masquerade Is Continued

The men seated at the tables in the Great Hall were unusually quiet, their faces reflecting the worry and fear that had settled into the city of Gotham in the past year. The thrall women slipped uneasily between the tables, filling tankards with ale, scooping additional portions of food into trenchers. The married women who usually served their men in the hall were noticeably absent; most had remained in their homes, as if they could protect their children and family simply with their presence, as if a frail body and a wooden spoon could do what Gotham's warriors could not.

What Bruce could not.

Grendel. The monster had killed two more soldiers the previous night, slipping into the city unnoticed, tearing the men apart as they slept in the Great Hall—all the while surrounded by the three dozen unmarried warriors who also made the hall their sleeping chamber.

Bruce fixed his eyes on the spot, remembering the shouts of the waking men, the screams of the women. The bodies had been removed, the blood scoured from the benches and floors, but Bruce could see it still. So, he thought, could the other men—no one sat at the tables near that end of the hall.

Beside him, Gordon murmured, "We should give assurance to the men."

Bruce set his ale down hard, the liquid sloshing over the rim to splash on the smooth, finely worked table top. "Assure them of what?" His voice was low, like Gordon's. Gesturing with an open hand at the hall, he added, "That we will strengthen the city gates? We have done that four times this year. That we will put additional men on watch? Grendel has killed them. That we will build a stronger Hall, one to withstand the monster's strength? It is already the greatest hall in Europe."

The hall was unrivaled in its magnificence and strength; great timbers from the surrounding forests provided the building material for the walls and ceiling beams, and the wood had been carved by Gotham's finest artisans. Its interior was spacious, with room for the dining tables, the stone hearth that could roast an entire steer taking up the center, and the benches that served as the men's beds ringing the walls.

Bruce's father had ordered the construction of the Hall, replacing the older structure built by Atrieus's sons. He'd created the design with both beauty and defense in mind; the doors to the hall should have been impenetrable to anything less than an army—yet they had seemingly sprung open at Grendel's touch, as had the city gates.

"We can not even assure them that our efforts to track the monster and launch an attack will be successful," Bruce added, "since the only men who have survived have been those who have run. No man has survived a face-to-face encounter with the beast."

"Only a woman," Richard said, who had been listening from his chair at Bruce's left.

Gordon's jaw tightened; Bruce threw Dick a warning glance—Gordon did not know exactly how Barbara had avoided death, just that the monster had managed to snap her spine before she'd escaped. He'd never asked—at least, he'd never asked Bruce—how a woman who could not walk had gotten away from Grendel.

And Barbara had never spoken to Gordon of what she knew of the Bat.

"We will distract them with a contest," Bruce said. "That will lift their spirits far more than empty promises."

Disappointment clouded Gordon's face. "Bruce, we can not ease their fears with bread and circuses. That was the downfall of Rome."

Pasting on a smile, Bruce lifted his tankard of ale. "Your years of ruling in my stead have made you too serious, my friend. These men are young, and they want to think of life, not death." A thrall woman passed in front of their table, and Bruce fixed his eyes on her bottom as she bent to refill another trencher. "And I have the perfect way to—"

Placing his hand on Bruce's forearm, Gordon leaned forward. "Bruce, you must listen. You must convince the men that your leadership will not cost them their lives. Already, I have heard rumors that Thorne and his allies gather more supporters in their bid to wrest control of Gotham from your line—including supporters within the ranks of your warriors. If they should rise against you, both of our families would be lost."

Bruce let out a laugh. "You worry too much, old friend. The alliance I have made with Alexander will secure our position; my bride will arrive any day now."

"That will not—" Gordon stopped, sighing heavily as he watched Bruce fill his lap with a giggling serving woman. He stood. "We will speak on this tomorrow," he said.

Bruce glanced up over auburn curls. "Tomorrow," he said, then buried his face into the woman's neck, pretending to bite; the woman's laughter followed Gordon as he left the hall.

Once the older man was gone, Bruce gently pushed the woman from him. "We'll finish this later, wench," he said, although he never intended to keep that promise. She gave him a heated glance as she walked away; it left him cold, but anyone watching would have thought a liaison had been agreed upon for later that night.

When they were by themselves at the table once more, Dick said, "Wench?" His shoulders shook with mirth. "This debauched personality that you've created has reduced you to saying 'wench?' What will you call your wife, I wonder?"

"Nothing," Bruce said. His countenance didn't change, but Dick could see the cool, flat expression in Bruce's eyes that indicated he was no longer pretending to be a dissolute prince. "If I can find evidence of Thorne's treachery, I will not be forced to marry the woman. The marriage is a delaying tactic, nothing more. The Lady Lucretia will be returning to Rome before the nuptials can be completed."

"The men would follow you without question if you did not pretend to be a weak fool," Dick said. "Thorne's influence would be nothing."

Bruce did not reply; he and Dick had discussed this all before: Bruce's pretence upon returning to Gotham was designed to make Thorne overconfident, to make him less wary of the prince. If it had just been a matter of ruling and power within Gotham, however, Bruce might not have resorted to such an act.

But Thorne's machinations went far beyond that, making alliances with the Visigoths and Caesar; both of whom, Bruce was certain, were enemies of Gotham and its people. Yet, at the same time, Rome and the Visigoths were also at odds—so the arrangement of marriage gave Alexander the illusion of some kind of control over the apparently weak prince of Gotham—a control that Caesar knew he might not have over Thorne—even as it threatened the Goths with the combined might of Gotham and Rome.

It was an arrangement that kept Rome complacent and the Goths intimidated; but it was also, Bruce knew, an arrangement that could shatter easily, bringing both forces down upon Gotham.

Samuel, the Roman general had understood that, Bruce knew—but the general hadn't realized Bruce had no intention of following through with the marriage, and instead was seeking a way to rid Gotham of Thorne, Rome, and the Visigoths before the marriage was completed.

But then Grendel had begun terrorizing the city, further crumbling Bruce's already shaky position as leader and prince.

"Did your patrol of the city give any indication where Grendel entered?"

Dick shook his head. "The walls are intact, and the guards were either sleeping and won't admit it, or genuinely saw nothing. It is as if he flew over the wall."

Bruce sat back in his heavy, carved wooden chair, Dick's words troubling him. He didn't believe in such creatures as those told in tales, but he had witnessed firsthand the monster's strength and speed. Could he discount such a fanciful idea as flight, given the creature's inhuman power and the lack of evidence of an entry point?

When he had been traveling in Constantinople, there had been rumors of two people—a man and a woman in the service of the Byzantium emperor—who had been able to fly. Bruce had always dismissed the stories as propaganda, a method of striking fear into opposing armies.

Bruce understood fear, and the need to create it. He did not understand Grendel.

A crisp wind blew through the hall as the doors were opened, and quickly closed. Bruce recognized one of the sentries from the main gate; he was excited, his entire body shaking.

Every head in the hall turned to look; every man immediately thought the same thing: Grendel had returned, had attacked the main gate. A sense of expectation, of dread filled the air.

Bruce stood, beckoned the sentry. "Thorveld!"

The young man skidded to a stop before the raised platform on which Bruce's table and chair were placed. "My lord!" He was breathing hard, and Bruce realized he had run all the way from the gates. He pushed his ale toward the youth; Thorveld picked it up eagerly, downing it in three gulps, then straightened up and announced, "My lord, your bride has arrived!"

Bruce froze, heard the shouts of congratulations from the men in the hall. Dick grinned, and replied for the uncharacteristically dumbstruck prince. "Did you leave her at the gates, Thorveld?"

Thorveld shook his head emphatically. "They insisted on entering the city. I am just ahead of them."

All eyes darted back to the doors, and in the sudden silence of the room, the characteristic ring of hooves could be heard, followed by the distinctive thumps of riders dismounting from their horses.

Quickly recovering himself, Bruce jumped to his feet, pointed at the warrior nearest the door. "Well, what are you waiting for?" He laughed, and lifted his arms wide. "Let my bride in!"

***

Diana entered the Great Hall behind her company of men, her face shadowed by her hood. She quickly glanced around, searching for Jhon, and spied him sitting at the warrior's table nearest the prince's dais. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

The gesture confirmed what Diana had feared: Kal and Lucretia weren't in Gotham. Either they'd never arrived, or something had happened to them once they'd come; regardless, Jhon's signal indicated that he had heard no word of them in the day he'd spent gathering information in Gotham.

Which meant that she was going to continue her role of decoy until the truth about Lucretia and Kal's fate was revealed; her act would flush out any conspirators against them from Gotham or Rome, while at the same time keeping the marital agreement between Rome and Gotham from being jeopardized by the bride's prolonged absence.

Gotham, under the illusion that the bride had been delivered, would have no doubts of Rome's sincerity; the marriage could take place if—when—Lucretia was found. At that time, Diana's act would be easily explained away in the name of Roman political security.

If the prince of Gotham couldn't understand that, then he was no prince at all.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the pretence to come. Around her, the hall was silent, each warrior looking expectantly at—Wally? The young man, still dressed as her lady's companion, stood by Diana's side, unaware of the men's stares. Unlike Diana, who had chosen to enter the room in her cloak and hood, Wally wore his lavender chiton, with an intricate head covering that hid his short hair and a veil that obscured his face.

The very epitome of a modest, Roman lady.

Hiding a grin, she took the opportunity of the warriors' diverted attention to examine the Great Hall. Nearly forty warriors sat at the tables, while several women—probably slaves—stood waiting, serving platters ready. She calculated that, counting the men that currently guarded the city gates and perimeter, Gotham's warrior class was one or two hundred strong—and that didn't include the soldiers in the city who probably could be armed at a moment's notice, should they be needed. Unlike Rome, Gotham did not keep a large standing army.

At the far end of the room, the prince's table was on a raised platform, allowing him to see—and be seen by—everyone in the hall. A younger man sat next to him; the chair on his other side was empty. Standing, the prince gestured their company forward, his smile wide and welcoming.

Diana frowned. She hadn't expected the prince to look so…weak. Although he was dressed in almost the same manner as his warriors—woven tunic and leather breeches, albeit in finer materials—it was difficult to tell if his bulk was muscle or fat because he eschewed the wide leather belt the warriors cinched around their waists, and had linen shirtsleeves covering his arms. Judging by the slouch of his shoulders and the greasy mess on his table, Diana had a feeling it was the latter. A lazy, indolent expression sat in his heavily lidded eyes; his smile, though seemingly genuine, was almost too easy—as if he was a man who lived for the amusements of life, and never let the seriousness of it touch him. A man who let his handsome face and position of power procure his diversions, a man who never earned them for himself.

This was the descendant of the celebrated general, Atrieus? This was the man Samuel trusted, the man to whom he'd promised his daughter? This was the man on whom the alliance to Rome depended?

Hal, Diana's second lieutenant, stepped up to the prince and went down on one knee. "My lord, I am come from Rome with precious cargo. May I present to you the daughter of our esteemed general, favorite of the emperors of Rome and Byzantine, the Lady Lucretia?"

The prince's expression became lascivious as he looked Wally up and down. "Come forward, my lady."

Diana's fists clenched as she observed the prince's shameless and disrespectful perusal of Wally's body, but her voice was even as stepped forward and spoke softly. "My lord—" She hesitated as murmurs of surprise rose around them, and watched the prince carefully.

He hadn't been surprised when she, not Wally, had spoken—although everyone else in the room had been. Suspicion rose in her; she quelled it, forced herself to continue. What would Lucretia say? "My lord, I bring greetings from my father and Caesar. They hold the dearest hope, as do I, that our union will strengthen both our great city-states."

At her words, shouts of approval from the men sounded; after a moment, the prince lifted his hand, and there was silence. "That is my hope, as well." He stepped back, began walking around the table, and Diana was forced to change her initial impression of him.

He was taller than he'd first seemed; he stood almost half a handspan taller than Diana. But it was the way he moved—elegantly, lightly—that surprised her. She'd seen very few people move like that in her lifetime, and they'd all been women—great warriors—on Themyscira.

Stopping in front of her, he took her hand in his. "Welcome to Gotham, my lady," he murmured. "How have you found Jutland thus far?"

She felt the calluses on his palm. "Cold, my lord."

"We will have to find a way to keep you warm until you become accustomed to our climate." There were a few hastily stifled guffaws and suggestions from the warriors close to them, suggestions that deepened the self-indulgent smile the prince wore. He reached up, ran a finger along the fur-trimmed hood. "Will you risk the cold and remove your cloak, so that your future husband and his warriors may see his bride?"

Though every Amazonian fiber in her being screamed against being put on display, Diana knew that Lucretia would have no choice. With quick fingers, she untied the fastening and tossed back her hood, the cloak slipping to the ground to pool at her feet.

Silence fell in the Great Hall, save for the crackling and popping of the hearth-fire. Her gaze clashed with the prince's, her chin lifted defiantly. For just a moment a new, charged emotion flashed across his features, but it was gone too quickly for her to read.

Then the lazy smile was back, and he said casually, "For a moment, I was certain I was going to be as the Frost Giant, lifting the veil of Freya only to find Thor staring back at him." He flicked a glance at Wally, leaving her wondering how much the prince had guessed about her companion—and wondering what else he might know. One thing was certain: he was not as he seemed. "The truth is much more pleasant than myth."

"Myths are often based on truth," Diana said, her expression carefully blank.

The prince tugged her forward, forcing her to follow him back to his table. His smile never wavered. "So are lies," he said.

*

"Who is she?"

Bruce pulled the tunic over his head and tossed it onto the pile of furs that covered the bed. He'd heard Dick enter the room behind him, but didn't turn to his adopted son as he answered, "What did you see?"

Dick leaned against the stones surrounding the fireplace, absently stirring the coals with a long, iron poker. "Her lady's maid was no lady," he said. "Although the disguise was very good. The lady herself had at least one sword under her chiton; it was well-concealed, probably strapped to the outside of her thigh, but the bulge of the hilt gave the line of her hip an slightly uneven cast."

Bruce nodded. "What else?"

Frowning, Dick searched his memories of the bride's arrival for impressions beyond those he'd mentioned. "Although the older man—Hal—introduced her, I think that the lady herself was the head of the company. They looked to her for permission to eat, and did not ease their guard until she began eating. She never let her own guard down, however, despite her pleas of exhaustion that she used to explain her silence during the meal." He paused, and added, "And she did not eat the meat, although the others did."

"What else?"

Dick smiled. "Her beauty would make a goddess envious."

That was an understatement, Bruce thought. The image of Lucretia, hood thrown back and standing proudly in the midst of the hall would be forever burned into his brain, he feared. The general had said that his daughter was beautiful, but Bruce had dismissed the man's words as those typical of a father blind to the faults of his offspring.

But Samuel had not lied; her hair had been long, thick, and black as midnight. Flawless, lightly bronzed skin had stretched over her high cheekbones and brow, highlighting the glacial blue of her eyes – eyes that had been challenging him from the moment she'd seen him.

Bruce couldn't deny that he'd experienced a flash of yearning, of possessiveness when she'd revealed herself. What would it be like to have such a woman—proud, beautiful, intelligent—at his side?

Echoing his thoughts, Dick continued, "She probably makes you reconsider your plan to send her back to Rome."

"No." Bruce slid a large trunk from its hiding place behind a false wall. "Her beauty only makes me more suspicious: why would Alexander let a woman like that marry another? Political alliances wouldn't be reason enough—there are many women in superior and equal positions to Lucretia that could have been offered to me, and he could have kept her for himself."

"But there is a possibility that this woman isn't Lucretia," Dick said. "How would a lady of Rome—even a general's daughter—come to be in the sole company of men for two and half months? Her men obviously trust her, and she communicates to them with only the simplest of gestures; all evidence points to them being with her longer than that time. And the oddity of a woman as the leader of soldiers…"

"It's not unheard of," Bruce said. "But it is unusual, especially in the Roman army." He slid his fingers over his costume, checking for tears that Alfred might have missed. The carefully tanned leather was soft and supple, except where thin iron plates had been sewn into it, the pattern of the armor emphasizing and increasing the bulk of Bruce's already defined musculature.

"So she is a fake? Why?"

Bruce continued his examination of the costume, his eyes troubled. "It is possible she is who she says; her father warned me that Lucretia was unconventional. Independent." Bruce had assumed the general meant that Lucretia read and wrote, or refused to weave, or resisted some other female duty—and, to be truthful, Bruce hadn't concerned himself with the details about the daughter, hadn't bothered to ask more.

It was a failure that ate at him now.

"But you think it is more likely that Alexander has sent a replacement as part of some plan of his—or that this woman might have her own motivations, be acting on her own."

I don't know, Bruce thought, but he didn't voice his uncertainty. Instead he stood, began putting on the costume, piece by piece.

"You are going out tonight, Master Bruce?" Alfred had entered silently, and immediately began assisting Bruce as he donned the uniform.

"One of Thorne's men has just returned from a journey into barbarian territory," Bruce said. As his body was covered by the armored leather, his voice became deeper, rougher. "I want to know if any agreements have been made."

"And you can learn if Thorne has anything to do with your bride," Dick pointed out. "That is, if there is anything to be learned by listening through walls."

Bruce clenched his fists, the gauntlets stretching over his powerful hands. "I might take a more aggressive approach tonight."

"Do try not to get blood on yourself, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "It is nearly impossible to clean from the leather."

Dick grinned, but Bruce was thinking of his betrothed. "Alfred, did the Lady Lucretia settle into her quarters?"

"Yes, my lord, but I'm afraid I could not, in good conscience, let your betrothed share a room with that other…woman."

"Her lady's companion?" Dick was chuckling.

Alfred made a sound of distaste. "Indeed."

"Where is the companion now?" Bruce pressed on the wall next to the fire, and the concealed door swung open soundlessly. His father had built several bolt-holes and secret escape passages in each of the ruling family's bedchambers; Bruce used his regularly.

"In the women's house," Alfred said. "I've asked Barbara to keep an eye on hi—her."

Bruce lifted an eyebrow, his lips twitching. "Do you think that is wise?"

"Of course, Master Bruce." Alfred straightened the bed furs, picked up the clothes Bruce had strewn about the room. "Nothing escapes notice in a house full of women. If the companion is part of a plot, or the lady's lover, we will soon know it."

Bruce's instincts told him that the latter was not true—if Lucretia had a lover, it was not likely the youth who'd dressed in women's clothes. "And her soldiers?"

"They have been given space in the Great Hall," Alfred said.

"Good," Dick said. "More eyes to keep watch for Grendel."

At the mention of the monster's name, Bruce's jaw tightened. He tugged his mask on over his features, his eyes hidden in shadow. "Or more men for Grendel to murder," he said roughly, and started to leave, but Dick's voice stopped him.

"Did I miss anything important?"

Bruce looked back at the younger man. "She had a soldier already positioned in the hall when she entered; he'd been there since early afternoon, at least. Lucretia looked to him first, and she made a decision when he gave a signal in the negative." Dick snapped his fingers in realization, and opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce continued, "Half of the men carried swords of Byzantine design, Lucretia had a barely perceptible Greek accent and a knife strapped to her left ankle—you should have been able to tell by the way she moved. The companion had been injured lately in his shoulder; he carried it stiffly. It was probably an arrow or a stab wound. Also, they had almost no belongings with them—hardly usual for a woman on her way to her wedding."

Dick grimaced. "Was that all?"

"No," Bruce said, but didn't elaborate. He slipped into the dark, narrow passage behind the wall.

He was forced to bend over beneath the low ceiling, and his shoulders brushed the walls on either side of the corridor. Instead of sharing walls, the bedchambers were separated by the passageway between them; Bruce turned a corner, and the bedchamber on his left was his betrothed's. Pausing for a moment, he pressed his ear to the wall, listening for sounds from inside her chamber—silence.

Perhaps her claims of fatigue were genuine, after all.

He continued quickly through the maze of corridors, his sight useless in the dark, guided only by memory. Long ago, he and his parents had played hide-and-seek in these passages; it had been in these walls that Bruce's father had locked him when the assassins had come, where Bruce had heard the dying cries of his parents. After their murders and before Gordon had decided that Gotham was unsafe for the young prince, Bruce had used them to escape the pitying glances, and the whispers.

Now he used them in his attempt to save Gotham.

He exited through the escape hole on the roof of the Great Hall, bolting the latch after him. Creeping to the side of the roof, he glanced down, making sure that no one would see his descent.

Below, Lucretia—once again in her hood and cloak—stood talking quietly to two men: Hal, and the man who'd given her the signal upon her entrance. He froze, careful not to make any noise, and slipped his conical listening device from his belt.

"…men this morning, found them dead in the Great Hall."

He could hear the frown in Lucretia's voice. "Grendel? I don't know, Jhnn—" The rest was lost as, across the courtyard, a shout of male laughter sounded, followed by a feminine giggle. "…the slaughter on the ship?" Lucretia finished as the raucous couple moved indoors.

Slaughter on the ship? Bruce decided to have some of his men search the coastline.

The third man—Hal—spoke; his voice was low, and many of the words too quiet for Bruce to hear. "…and Kal…not on the ship, and not here. Do we suspect Caesar, or Gotham?"

"Both. " Lucretia's voice was firm. She turned to the other man, and her volume dropped. "Jhon, keep the men alert and on rotating watch in the Great Hall; if this Grendel should show again, call for me…strength sounds like…need to know…not Kal."

Who was Kal? Grinding his teeth in frustration as key elements of their conversation continued to be impossible for him to hear, and trying his best to focus, he almost didn't register the shout that came from the direction of the village. He heard them at the same time Lucretia's head snapped around, as she bolted toward the voices.

He swore, turned and ran across the roof, leaping from it and using his cape to slow his fall, the screams of his citizens ringing in his ears.

Grendel.

Chapter 4: In Which Some Masks are Revealed, and Others Seen for the First Time

Bruce kept to the shadows, flattening himself against the roof of the smithy to avoid both the flickering light from the torches, and the shafts of moonlight that filtered through the heavy clouds. A crowd, drawn into the street by the screams of the victim’s wife, had already surrounded the body, but the brief glimpses Bruce had through the mass of people told him one thing: it had not been Grendel who'd done this.

Grendel tore at flesh, ripping men apart with claws; this man, a slave who worked in Thorne's household, had been bludgeoned to death.

However, Bruce realized as he listened to the murmurings and cries of the monster's name within the throng, that difference wasn't apparent to everyone.

A movement at the edge of the crowd caught his eye, and he watched Lucretia's hooded form slip between the milling citizens, and stoop to quickly examine the body lying in the dirt. Her men, Bruce noticed, had spread out, mingling with the citizens. They were skilled—so well did Lucretia's soldiers blend in that, even though the citizens of Gotham were paranoid and afraid, they barely gave the strangers a second glance.

Instead they focused their attention on the men walking toward them.

"It's Gordon!"

"Thorne!"

Bruce narrowed his eyes as he realized the two men were in a heated argument; even in the dim light he could see the flush under Gordon’s skin. Thorne was gesturing toward the victim, the stance of his body and expression radiating anger and concern which the crowd immediately picked up.

As if sensing he’d gained an audience—Bruce had no doubts that Thorne had engineered the scene to gain that attention—the man turned away from Gordon and addressed the gathering.

“Gordon tells me that he and the prince are doing all they can to guarantee our security.” Pushing his way through the circle of people surrounding his slave, Thorne dropped to his knees. “I do not feel secure,” he said quietly, and gently closed the dead man’s eyelids.

Clenching his fists, Bruce watched as Thorne raised sad eyes to the heavens—an act designed to engender sympathy. He knew that Thorne treated his slaves no better than his dogs, and cared more for the lives of his four-legged servants than the two-legged ones.

Echoes of agreement were voiced; Gordon lifted his hands for silence. “Even now, three quarters of our warriors are standing guard around the walls of the city. Reinforcements to the gates are being built. The prince has taken every possible precaution.”

“And yet this occurs within our own walls! My own man, who I loved as a brother, killed!” Thorne stood, lifting the body and cradling it against his chest. The onlookers gasped as they clearly saw the smashed features and twisted limbs, the blood saturating the rustic clothing clinging to the body. Gore stained Thorne’s tunic, immediately ruining the expensive fabric. “If the prince can not protect us against this monster, then Gotham deserves a leader who will!”

Cheers sounded, but Bruce saw the uneasy expression that crossed the faces of many. As frightened as they were by Grendel, they were more wary of such a radical change—a change which implied death, and the destruction of one hundred years of tradition and civil peace.

Bruce noted the reactions, of who seemed to side with Thorne, and those who had been reluctant to agree. The division was as he had thought it would be; Bruce had expected this declaration—he just hadn’t expected Thorne to make it so soon.

Perhaps Lucretia’s arrival had tipped his hand.

Suddenly realizing that Lucretia was not among the crowd—as her men still were—he scanned the surrounding area. She was crouching near one of the granaries, barely visible in its shadow. A flash of pale skin as she reached her hand out to something on the ground, and then she slipped out of sight along the side of the building.

He ground his teeth in frustration, hesitating for just a moment, then slid silently across the thatched roof to follow her. Gordon was already calming the crowd, urging them to bring their concerns to the prince in the morning—not to act foolishly out of anger and fear. Bruce would not have an opportunity to examine the body himself until later, after the widow had washed and wrapped it, and the location where the body had been found would offer few traces of evidence due to the trampling of the crowd. There was little reason for him to stay.

The sounds from the crowd faded as he trailed her past the granaries and between the rows of family dwellings that lined the dirt streets; she frequently paused and bent, looking at something on the ground. Reaching out, touching, then bringing her fingers near her face—to sniff? To taste? Bruce could not tell, but he recognized her pattern.

She was tracking. Hunting.

As she disappeared around another corner, turning toward the city wall, Bruce examined the soil she'd just scrutinized. A bead of blood, slightly congealed and still bearing the marks of Lucretia's fingers, glistened dully against the ground.

His stomach clenched as he realized the implications of her actions: guided only by moonlight, she'd somehow managed to locate a tiny drop against the expanse of dirt…and then the next, as well, as if she could see or smell the lingering path that had been taken by the murderer. Even with the tools Bruce had invented, even in broad daylight, it would have taken him several hours to track the trail this far—and she'd done it in minutes. It should have been impossible, and yet she'd done it. It was unbelievable.

It was inhuman.

Who—or what—was she? Not like Grendel, who acted out of seemingly mindless rage and cruelty, and whose form was as twisted as his deeds.

Unbidden, memories from his childhood, stories told by his mother and father filled his thoughts: tales of Aeneus, the great hero from Troy; his descendants, Romulus and Remus, the twins who built the great city; and the gods and goddesses who favored the kings and emperors of Rome. Jupiter and Juno, Mercury, Apollo and his sister, Diana.

Diana, the goddess of the hunt and the moon. Lucretia was as he'd imagined that goddess as a boy: flawless skin and midnight hair, tall, lithe, beautiful.

He shook his head, forced himself to focus on the present. In all his travels, he had never seen the gods, nor evidence of their existence. Instead, crumbling temples and barren shrines covered the landscape near Rome, replaced by the churches of Paul. Justinian's and now, Alexander's religion was spreading quickly through Europe: some populations willingly, others by force. The citizens of Gotham practiced as they chose—the ruling family supported no particular form of worship. Atrieus's descendents had never built temples to the old or new gods in Gotham; four generations past, when the family had fled Rome, they had declared that they would forsake the gods—as the gods had forsaken them.

But Gotham would not be forsaken by Bruce. It would not be brought under the heel of Alexander, or betrayed and fleeced by Thorne in his search for power. And this woman—whoever she was—would not succeed in her attempt to keep her secrets.

He flattened himself against the side of a dwelling, watching as she sped across the expanse of bare ground that ringed the inside of the city wall. Bruce frowned; he should have heard the cries of the sentries that patrolled the top of the wall, alerting each other to Lucretia's presence, yet all was silent. Did they not see her? Her cloak offered some protection from the moonlight, but not enough to completely conceal—her movement, though quick, should have been seen.

She climbed the stairs that allowed access to the top of the wall, and disappeared from his sight. Unwilling to lose her, he crossed the exposed swatch of land. Normally he'd have waited for a cloud to move over the moon to provide a better cover, but he didn't want her to move too far ahead of him. At the base of the wall, he paused, listening for sounds from above—nothing. He ran silently up the steps, and froze.

The bodies of the two sentries lay sprawled across the top of the wall, the sides of their helmets dented. Neither had had time to draw their swords or crossbows; their weapons remained strapped to their backs and hips. The stink of death assaulted his nostrils, the leaden odor of blood fresh in the air—these men had not been dead long.

Bruce firmed his lips, fought the rage that pulsed through him. Anger would not help these men now—nothing could. He could never atone for their deaths, only discover who had done this, and to ensure that it would not happen again.

He glanced left and right down the length of the wall, but did not see Lucretia. The top of the wall was wide, nearly seven feet thick, but did not offer any spaces to hide on its flat, stone surface or against the parapet, behind which the men could avoid attack from outside. She must have crossed it, went over the other side; he looked out across the fields that surrounded the city, but she had already gone. A thin path of trampled barley marked her passage—and that of whomever she pursued.

Realizing that he could follow her trail after inspecting the bodies of the soldiers, he turned back. He knelt beside the men and examined the damage to the bronze helmets—the weapon must have been heavy, and small, round cavities within the area of impact indicated spikes. A mace? If not, something similar. The splattering of blood on the outside of the helmet suggested the weapon had been bloody before hitting the armor—blood from Thorne's slave, most likely.

Bruce did not think the slave had been beaten in the street where he'd been found. Apparently, the murderer had killed and then dumped the first body in the city. Then, carrying the still-dripping weapon through the streets, and relying on the darkness of the night to cover him, the murderer went atop the wall, where, most likely, his familiarity with the sentries had allowed him the advantage of surprise.

But where had the first murder taken place? And where was the killer now heading?

He stood, intending to follow the murderer's trail—and felt the unmistakable pressure of a blade through the leather along the side of his throat.

Lucretia.

She had thrown back her hood; a cool smile curved her lips, and moonlight reflected like ice in her eyes. "I had heard that a monstrous bat terrorized the city of Gotham; the storytellers did not mention the bat was nothing more than a man in a clever costume."

He remained silent, waiting for her guard to drop. Her weapon was unlike any other he'd seen—the folded metal shined to a high silver polish, the blade longer than the bronze short swords carried by her men and common among the Romans and Byzantines. Almost Asian in its balance and appearance—and she wielded it with the easy confidence of a fencing master. He would not challenge her when she had him so blatantly at a disadvantage.

The edge of her sword, more finely honed than Alfred's razors, rasped against the short stubble on his skin as it scraped up over his cheek. It came to rest at the bottom of his mask. "Why do you hide, man-bat?" Her gaze swept his form, as if trying to gauge, to judge his shape, but his cape covered most of his body.

Using that concealment, he slid his right hand to his belt.

"I can hear the movement of your hands, man-bat," she said softly. "Do not reach for your sword; you have no hope of defeating me in combat." She paused, and a weary amusement flitted across her features. "Although, a bit of combat might be just the thing—I ache for a contest, and victory. There are too many deaths in this country, and no one to hold accountable."

She flicked a glance at the two men lying dead next to the parapet as she spoke, and Bruce palmed the small leather bag of iron, flint and powder, counting on the sound of her voice to cover his action. She returned her attention to him a moment later; he heard the frustration that threaded through her voice even as she mocked, "If Grendel will not show himself tonight, I would be delighted to taste the flesh of the monstrous, baby-eating man-bat."

"Bat-man," he growled, and flipped sideways, away from her sword. The bag detonated inches from her boots—a perfect throw. She cried out in surprise at the sudden flash and deafening explosion, took two stumbling steps back, her weapon lowered as she fought to regain her balance. Smoke filled the air, and Bruce moved in, quick and low. His foot caught the back of her knee and she fell hard onto her backside, unable to break her descent with her hands. Gripping the bracelet of her sword arm and turning, twisting the limb up behind her back, he dug two of his fingers into the tendon inside her elbow. Involuntarily, her hand spasmed, and she dropped her sword.

Crouching behind her, he felt pressure and resistance against his hold on her arm, and suddenly she gasped in pain.

A humorless smile creased his mouth. "Do not try to free yourself. The more strength you use, the more it will hurt."

She didn't reply; instead, unbelievably, the pressure increased until it became difficult to maintain the hold with one of his hands—something he'd done easily when he'd used the maneuver against the strongest of men. She had to be in considerable pain by applying so much strength; a normal man's arm would have broken several times, his shoulder disjointed, under such force.

She was either going to defeat the manuever or injure herself trying. Her breath came in sharp pants as the pain amplified, beads of perspiration dotting her upper lip. Heat and tension radiated from her body as she silently fought his hold, the muscles of her back rigid against his thighs.

"Yield," he commanded.

She gave a short laugh, her breathing labored. "I would die first, man-bat."

The force resisting his grip suddenly eased. Her head snapped back, narrowly missing his chin in a blow that would have knocked him senseless. His hold on her arm loosened, and she twisted her body, breaking free of his grasp.

He rolled, grabbed the hilt of her sword, and pushed to his feet in one smooth motion.

She stood watching him, her right arm hanging limply by her side—useless, for the time being, from the strain of the hold. She would lead with her left, then.

She took a step forward, then another; he raised the blade to deter her advance. Judging by her strength, it could be fatal to let her near enough to strike a blow. Strength not unlike Grendel's, he thought, remembering how easily the monster had crippled Barbara.

Halting only when the point of the sword was a whisper from her neck, she studied him down the length of the blade. He returned her gaze evenly, keeping his expression carefully blank beneath the mask, the arm holding the sword steady. He was confident of his abilities with the weapon—in Gotham, although his citizens couldn't have known it, his expertise with a sword was unmatched.

But Lucretia…she was something he had not before encountered. The evidence suggested that she was an accomplished warrior; even if not as highly trained as he, her other abilities weighed the odds in her favor.

And he sensed that she knew it.

Her assessing gaze changed, became calculating. "You are a surprisingly skilled and worthy opponent," she said. "But are you, as the rumors say, a monstrous one?" She pressed forward, and the tip of the sword dimpled her skin. Resisting the urge the pull the weapon back, he remained silent.

Another tiny move, and blood began to pool in the hollow of her throat, then trickle beneath the fabric of her cloak. "Your costume suggests that you are," she continued. "It speaks of horror and fear, implies that the heart of the man beneath the mask is as hideous as the bat you emulate." The blade cut deeper into her skin, the blood flowed faster.

"Stop." His voice was guttural, the arm holding the sword unwavering.

She arched a brow. "Or you will kill me? I think not," she said, and took a step toward him.

He drew the blade back and to the right; a line of blood crossed the side of her throat as he pulled the sword away.

His advantage was lost—and they both knew it. Without threat of fatal force, she had no reason to fear him, and he had already discovered pain was little deterrent for her. Triumph flashed across her features, and she reached up, wrapped her hand around the blade and tore it from his grip.

Retreat was his best—his only—option. He sprang back, landed on the parapet, then dropped over the edge. He controlled his fall and his landing, rolling as he hit the ground, then leapt to his feet—but she was already on him, smashing into him, knocking him onto his back.

Barley stalks crackled as they broke under him; before he could move, she straddled his chest, her body weight denying him leverage, her knees pinning his arms. She wrapped deceptively delicate fingers around his neck and squeezed lightly in warning, then bent her face to his. "For a bat, you have little taste for blood."

"Get off," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

Her eyes danced with humor. "Or maybe it is just my blood? Why would mine be so disgusting to you?"

Bracing his feet against the ground, he thrust his body up, tried to dislodge her. She simply swayed with the motion, the hand on his throat tightening. "I'm just a woman, after all," she continued as if he'd never moved. The fingers of her free hand trailed over his cheek, ran along the bottom edge of his mask. "Yet I don't know what—or who—you are."

He stilled beneath her. He would co-operate, stall her—until he could maneuver out of this. "A man."

Eyes laughing down at him, she said, "I know. But what sort of man? Who would dress as you do, could have learned to fight and move as you do?" She flexed the muscles of her thighs against the armor plating on his chest and sides. "Who lines their clothes with iron?"

"What sort of woman carries a sword?" he asked. "What kind of woman can track a man by moonlight, with only drops of blood to guide her?"

Her eyes became shuttered—as if she'd suddenly remembered she wasn't supposed to be a woman who did those things. The mirth in her voice disappeared. "Just a woman," she said finally, echoing his own words. Drawing her fingers away from his mask, she released his throat, and stood. She watched as he climbed warily to his feet. "It seems we both have secrets to keep, Bat-man. I will let you have yours a while longer."

He kept his hand on his belt as she picked up her sword from the ground and sheathed it, apparently unconcerned and unthreatened by his presence. She raised her hands, flipped the dark hood over her hair, throwing her sculptured features into shadow once more.

The cloak swirled around her form, rustled against the barley stalks as she turned away from him, and began walking across the field. After a few steps, she paused. With her back to him, she said, "Are you coming? The trail is not as fresh, but still detectable."

Clenching his fists in frustration, he started after her. He would have preferred that she return to the city, and let him continue on—but he could not deny that, with her apparent abilities, tracking the murderer together would be more efficient.

At the edge of the field, she hesitated only a moment before turning left, toward the stream that fed the city's water supply. He remained behind her, watching her closely; she seemed completely focused on the task at hand, but he could not say the same for himself. The questions that had plagued him since her appearance in the Great Hall had only increased upon further observation, and he could not reconcile what he knew of her to her actions—because, quite simply, he did not know enough. However, he could not frighten answers from her, either.

Perhaps the best method of gathering information, then, would be to go around her. Her companion might—

"Here." Lucretia had stopped, knelt in the soft mud along the edge of the stream. Reaching into the hollow of a downed tree, she pulled out two items, and placed them on the ground. A thick wooden club, lined with short iron spikes and plating; and next to it, a dark cloth. Bruce bent, picked it up—the wool was stained with blood.

Lucretia was examining the weapon. "There is nothing significant about this," she said, turning it over in her hands. "No markings, no crest—like a hundred others I have seen since coming to Gotham." She looked up, met his eyes. "Why hide them, then? If there is nothing to identify him with, why not shed them as soon as possible and leave them in the city, instead of killing the guards and taking the risk of traveling this far while wearing them?"

Her thoughts echoed his—but he did not voice his suspicions: the evidence had been hidden so that Grendel would be blamed. If the weapons were found, the citizens would know the murders had been done by a man. But why go to the trouble to blame Grendel?

If the prince can not protect us against this monster, then Gotham deserves a leader who will!

Thorne. Or, ordered by Thorne, and carried out by one of his men. "Where did he go after he hid these?" If it wasn't Thorne himself, then he'd get answers from whomever they tracked down—by whatever means necessary.

Lucretia frowned as she stood, casting her gaze over the ground. "His footprints disappear into the water," she said, and began walking downstream along the bank. He waited for her to either find the trail, or to return; meanwhile, he scrutinized the cloak for further evidence—a piece of cloth, a hair—but found nothing. The dirt around the tree was equally bare of clues; either the murderer had been very careful, or very lucky.

Realizing that Lucretia had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes, he glanced up and glimpsed her on the opposite bank, working her way upstream. When she was across from him, she shook her head, indicating that she'd found nothing.

"He must have used the stream to walk most of the way back to the city," she called out over the water, "Or he used one of the stones along the streamside to exit without leaving tracks."

Bruce frowned. His soldiers had tried several times to trail Grendel with dogs, but each time the animals had lost the scent at the stream's edge. By tomorrow the footprints would be gone, erased by the swell of water—but the hounds would follow the same pattern of being thwarted at the stream, again suggesting a deliberate attempt to blame the monster.

"What do you think?" At her words, he glanced at her again—and saw her jump across the water, landing lightly next to him. Her hood slid back at the sudden motion; her eyes searched his, as if trying to read them. "It wasn't Grendel; these murders were nothing like what I've seen and heard done by the monster."

He latched onto the words, fighting the unease slithered threw him at her display; no man he knew could have leapt that distance, even with a running start. "What did you see?"

She glanced away from him, into the darkness. "Bodies torn apart."

"Where?"

She met his gaze again, held it. "The bay. On a ship."

The bay was two days journey, yet his soldiers in his hall had been killed the night previous—could the monster travel so quickly? Twice as fast as a man? And now this woman, who claimed to be Lucretia, was another creature with beyond-human capabilities. He did not know if she was the same type of thing as Grendel—every instinct told him she was not—but now he wondered how many of these super-beings existed. "How do you know it was Grendel?"

Her eyebrow arched in amusement and a slight smile touched her mouth, but her eyes remained serious, secretive. "I come to Gotham, and I hear about a monster who does exactly what I saw on the ship—what else should I think?"

She was not telling him everything, and he could not force her. Frustration rose in him. "Nothing," he said shortly. He picked up the cloak and club; he'd examine them further in the light. Straightening, he dismissed her. "This is not your city—do not concern yourself with these matters again." He strode away, toward Gotham.

Swift footsteps sounded; he tensed, readying himself for another attack, but she simply kept pace alongside him. "Gotham is my concern," she said eventually. "If not my city."

He halted, turned on her. She backed up a quick step, and he took grim pleasure in her involuntarily reaction, the wary expression on her face—she was not completely unthreatened by him. He pressed the advantage, took a step forward, looming over her. She was tall, but the costume gave him more bulk, more height.

"Gotham does not need your protection," he said harshly.

Her eyes flicked down the club he carried. "All evidence says otherwise, man-bat," she countered. "Regardless, my position here demands my concern."

"Your position? You have no position here, no duty to Gotham. Only to Rome."

Her gaze narrowed. "If you know who I am, then you know my duty is to your prince, and your city."

"I know who you claim to be, Lucretia."

His words hung between them as they stared at each other. Finally, she lifted her chin a fraction, and repeated, "My duty is to your prince, and to your city. It does not matter who you think I am, or am not." Her voice was regal, and in that moment he could see her as a queen, an empress. "I am Lucretia, the prince's bride," she said. "Who else would I be?"

She didn't wait for an answer, but spun on her heel, stalked away. He looked at the space she'd just vacated, remembering with self-derision his earlier, sentimental likening of Lucretia to a goddess. Sardonically, he muttered, "Diana."

He didn't see her move, and the dagger against his neck was unaccompanied by the cool amusement she'd shown atop the wall. Heat and anger flashed in her eyes, demanding. "How did you know?" She hissed the words from between clenched teeth. "Only Alexander could have—"

She broke off, turned to look over her shoulder. Still slightly stunned by the unexpected confirmation of his suspicions, Bruce dimly heard the shouts from the city wall.

"They have found the bodies of the sentries," he said. Reaching up, he grasped the hand holding the dagger. "Unless you want your prince to discover you wandering outside the city walls, you should go back to your chambers. Now."

She shot him a dark look, yanked her hand from his grip. "Next time we meet, man-bat…I will have the answers I seek from you."

He didn't reply, backing away from her until she turned; then he sprinted for the wall. Choosing a section he knew to be lightly manned, he tossed his grappling up and over, quickly scaling the height. At the top, he paused to look back—she had already gone.

Diana.

She wanted answers—so did he. And Bruce had a very good idea where to get them.