Lorne's hazel eyes sharpened to a poisonous glare. "Lorne of the Iceni," he growled. His voice was so high, a true tenor, that it ruined any antagonism that would have meted. He sounded like a puppy snarling. His hands had curled into fists.<br/><br/>"I'm no<i>Lupa," </i>he added. He stood tall. His people had killed Romans in droves, hacked off the breasts of Roman women, they were ferocious warriors.<br/><br/>But Lorne was just one boy far away from home, and he recognized it. He wouldn't bend to the Roman willingly, but his willingness was not a factor. His rosy lower lip trembled, thinking that, and then he set his jaw to stop it.