DEFY THE EAGLE
by Lynn Bartlett
THE DREAM
A soft ray of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the sacred oak trees, clothing the woman who knelt beside the stream in a mantle of light. A doe and her fawn, having drunk of the refreshing water, approached the woman and trustingly accepted the grain she held in her outstretched hand. She laughed, a gentle sound which floated through the grove and brought a smile to the lips of the man who stood watching her from the concealment of the trees. He stepped from behind the oak and walked toward her quietly, utilizing the stealth which had been handed down from his father and his father’s father. The woman did not hear him, did not sense his presence—not until he stood directly behind her and grasped a handful of the loose, flame-colored hair which lifted in the breeze.
She turned and regarded him through wide, violet eyes. The doe and her fawn scampered away but she appeared not to notice. “Briton.” Her voice was soft, musical.
“Roman.” The word should have been a curse, but instead it fell lovingly from his lips. “I have waited overlong.”
“As have I.” She rose and was willingly enfolded by his arms. He drew her against him and kissed her deeply, hungrily; when they parted, her eyes, now a fathomless purple, trapped him and held him prisoner while time flew past unheeded.
****
He awoke and lay for several minutes beneath the pelts which sheltered him from the night air, staring at the sky. The same dream. By the gods, the same dream! Would he never be free of this vision, this torment which had plagued him for nearly two decades? With an oath he threw back the pelts and left his bed. There would be no more rest this night, not for him. The mighty warrior brought low by a dream of a woman, he jeered silently as he picked his way over the sleeping forms of the half-dozen men who had followed him from the village. The sharpness of the night air cleared his head, cooled his inflamed senses. He needed a woman, that was all. And not a woman of Rome, but one of his own tribe. An Iceni woman. He would take a wife as he should have done years before. She would cool this fever in his blood, the ache in his loins which came over him with the dream.
“You have risen early, Caddaric. Or has your sleep been disturbed?”
The voice brought Caddaric up short and he turned to face the man who had materialized from the trees. “As are you, Clywd. Have you been speaking to your gods?”
The mocking tone drew a laugh from the older man and he pushed back the hood of his black cloak, exposing gray-streaked hair to the firelight. “They are your gods as well and I know you believe in them, so why do you beg their wrath?”
Caddaric motioned impatiently. “I am not a Druid; the gods do not speak to me.”
“They speak,” the Druid countered. “You do not listen. That is the difference. Come, share my fire and tell me of your dream.”
Caddaric’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he followed Clywd and seated himself at the small fire. “What dream?”
“The one which shadows your face and heart,” Clywd replied easily.
“Do you peer into men’s souls, old one?”
“When the need arises.” Clywd fixed Caddaric with an unwavering stare. “You are my son. Is it so strange that I should know when the flesh of my flesh is troubled?” Caddaric did not answer and Clywd added several twigs to the flame before he spoke again. “You are a warrior, a source of pride to me and your people. Do you fear the truth more than battle?”
“I fear nothing.” Caddaric glared into the flames. The fire reminded him of the woman of his dreams and with a low groan he relented. “A woman—I dream of a woman, Father.”
“Ahh.” Clywd nodded. “She is beautiful, I trust, and will bear you strong sons. Have you offered for her?”
“Nay.” Caddaric answered in a tortured voice. “We have never met, except in my dreams. And in my dreams she is Roman.”
“Ahh,” Clywd said again and pulled a pouch from his robe. He extracted a handful of herbs from the leather, placed them in a beaten copper bowl and eased the bowl into the glowing embers. Brightly colored flames leaped upward in a dazzling display and Clywd nodded, satisfied. “She has been with you a long time, my son. Since you first became a man. I saw her birth eighteen summers ago, but I was not certain until now why the gods chose to show me the birth of a Roman girl-child.”
“If I dream of her again I shall go mad,” Caddaric confessed, accepting without question his father’s knowledge. “I was twelve when I first dreamed of her, and then she was but a child, a babe. I have watched her grow, become a woman.” He shook his head. “She does not exist; she cannot. This is but a punishment visited upon me by the gods because they knew I would betray our people and fight for a time for the Romans.”
Clywd’s face turned grim. “There was no betrayal— that, too, was destined by the gods. What you learned as a Roman auxiliary will soon be put to use against the Romans themselves.”
“It will come then, wise one?”
“Aye. As surely as day follows night. And that presents you with a problem, my son.” Clywd added more herbs to the copper bowl and studied the colors which arced forth.
“If she is indeed of Rome, then there can be only one solution,” Caddaric ruminated when his father remained silent. “When the Iceni rise to throw off the Roman yoke, the land must be cleansed completely of the Empire and its people. If this woman exists, she will perish. There is no other course.”
“Nay. The woman must not die,” Clywd announced with sudden vehemence. “Some will be spared, this woman among them.”
Caddaric frowned. ‘ ‘Why?”
“Have you not guessed?” Clywd replied in a voice as soft as the wind rustling through the oaks. “She is your destiny, Caddaric.”
The old man still gazed blindly into the fire and Caddaric leaned forward to grip his arm. “There is more. Tell me what you see, Clywd.”
“In time—all in good time, my son.” Clywd shook off his son’s hand and rose. “Her destruction will cause yours as well, that much I will say. Guard your future well, young warrior.” He turned and with a whisper of his robe disappeared into the grove.
Caddaric watched him go and then plucked the copper bowl from the embers. With a long forefinger he poked at the contents of the dish and snorted derisively. “Ashes— only ashes.”
CHAPTER ONE
Jilana Augusta Basilius—first daughter of the merchant Marcus Basilius—drew her mount to a halt in the clearing of the forest and dropped lightly from the saddle. She allowed the horse to graze and, laughing, raised her arms above her head and twirled delightedly in the first rays of the sunlight.
“Free! I am free,” Jilana cried, her voice caroling through the wood. But only for a time, a treacherous voice in the back of her mind mocked.
Her smile faded and, sighing, Jilana allowed her arms to fall to her sides. It was true; in a matter of days she would wed the Tribune Lucius Quintus and the time she spent here would be ended. Lucius—ever ambitious— would have no tolerance of her early morning rides; he expected Jilana to remain in the city and court the wives of those men who could further his career. Lucius did not, as he so often said, plan to remain a tribune forever. Even now his family in Rome was thinking of ways to hasten his return to that city. His father was a senator and one day Lucius would take his place. Hopefully Lucius would find a way to cover himself with honor before that day came, and what better path to glory than through service in the military. Lucius had already proved himself a leader of men and a skilled soldier—unlike so many other senatorial tribunes. To be chosen as his wife was no small honor. Jilana shuddered at the thought and bent to pick the wildflowers she loved so well. She did not mind marriage to Lucius—after all, she was eighteen, well past the age when most
women were already married—and the fact that she did not love him bothered Jilana not at all. What did claw at Jilana’s heart was the knowledge that Lucius would some day take her from this island which was her home.
Unlike Claudia, her younger sister, Jilana had never been to Rome. She had been born in Britannia and her parents had lived here and traded with Britons for several years before the Emperor Claudius had led the final assault upon the barbarian inhabitants. They had fled Britannia for a short time and lived in Gaul, so her mother said, but Jilana had taken her first steps on Britannia’s soil. This was home; Jilana spoke the Briton’s language with the same ease she spoke her own, and she loathed the thought of living in Rome where all things would be unfamiliar to her.
“Oh, Juno,” Jilana sighed aloud. “Why did Lucius not choose Claudia in my stead?”
Claudia, newly returned from Rome, would have made Lucius the perfect wife. She had ambition enough to match his, she could charm with a glance, and she was totally ruthless. A year in Rome had honed her characteristics to a fine edge and Jilana shuddered to think of living out the rest of her life in the company of a hundred Claudias. Tears of self-pity pricked her eyelids and Jilana hastily blinked them away. She was, in spite of everything, a Roman; and while hers was not the blond, dark-eyed beauty of Claudia, Lucius often said her pale, flame-colored hair and violet eyes were captivating. For the present that would be enough, and in time Jilana would learn all that Claudia had learned. In Rome.
“Greetings, mistress.”
Jilana left her thoughts and the ground with an alarmed gasp and found herself staring at a tall man who stood watching her from the edge of the clearing. He wore the uniform of a centurion and he spoke her tongue, but that did nothing to alleviate the frantic beating of Jilana’s heart as the man bore down upon her. Trembling, Jilana clutched the wildflowers to her breast and retreated a step ;n the stranger halted in front of her. Sheer terror led her tongue and Jilana regarded the hard blue eyes fearfully.
Caddaric stared at the pale, oval face which was at once liar and unknown, and felt his senses reel. His dream become reality and, as in his dream, Caddaric heard himself say, “Roman.”
Jilana started at the sound of his voice, colored with some unnamed emotion, and half-turned, poised for flight. For several moments they stared at each other; Jilana suddenly aware of the vulnerability of her position and Caddaric struggling to suppress the urge to crush her against him.
Witch, Caddaric’s mind screamed. Roman! You are the one who torments me so. You are the one who haunts my dreams and makes peace elusive. She is your destiny. Clywd’s words cleared Caddaric’s roiling thoughts and he studied the woman in front of him. She was delicate, far more delicate than his dreams had led him to believe, and her red-gold hair was bound up in the Roman fashion. But it was her eyes that held Caddaric— they were a deep violet, fathomless, more enchanting than any Caddaric had ever seen. The blood pounded in his temples, threatening his self-control. How he ached to take this woman in his arms, to twist his hands in those silken curls and kiss her until she begged for mercy.
Jilana paled beneath the bold, appraising stare, unexpectedly intimidated by the overpowering presence of this man. Every fiber of her being cried out to Jilana for escape, yet she stood as if rooted to the ground because her legs refused to obey her commands.
Seeing the fear in the wide, violet eyes, Caddaric gentled. “I did not mean to frighten you, mistress, but rather to offer my help. Are you lost?”
“Oh, nay!” The gasped-out denial brought a smile to the centurion’s lips and Jilana relaxed as the blue eyes lost their wintry haze. “I come here often, Centurion. ‘Tis you who must be lost, for I know of no one else who has come here before.”
Caddaric laughed. “A soldier must know the land he protects, mistress. My friends and I visit these woods to hunt the wild boar and today my path led me here. For your own sake, ‘twould be best if you gathered your flowers some other day, Lady…”
“Jilana.” Jilana gave her name readily but curiosity danced in her eyes and she forgot her fear. “You have deceived me, Centurion; you are not Roman.” The man’s face darkened and Jilana hurriedly explained, “While you speak my language quite well, you have the faintest trace of an accent.”
“You are most astute, Lady Jilana,” Caddaric answered smoothly. “I am of the auxiliary, not the legion.”
“I was not aware that the auxiliary forces were stationed here.” Jilana frowned. “Are you new to the town?”
“We arrived only a few days ago.”
“Strange, Lucius did not mention that auxiliaries were being sent here.” Jilana pondered that for a moment and then shrugged. The day was too beautiful to be spoiled by thoughts of Lucius. Smiling, she looked up at the man who towered over her. “I bid you welcome, Centurion. I think you will find Venta Icenorum pleasant duty.”
Caddaric bowed, then glanced meaningfully at the forest. “Part of my duty includes protecting young maidens such as yourself from harm. I should never forgive myself if the boar we were hunting came across you. If you will permit me, Lady Jilana, I will see you safely from these woods.”
Sighing, Jilana assented and followed the centurion to where her mount was grazing, but when he made to lift her into the saddle she shook her head. “Come, we will walk together.”
“As you wish, lady.”
They fell into step, one on either side of the horse, and as they wound their way through the forest, from time to time Jilana stole a glance at the centurion. Absurdly, he reminded her of the oak trees—tall, sturdy, with arms and legs which were powerfully muscled, he seemed a part of this land. His light brown hair—cut short in the manner of soldiers—was ruffled by the breeze and Jilana was seized by an insane urge to run her fingers through the hair which curled so willfully about his head. How unlike Lucius he is, Jilana thought, and then she blushed furiously. Surely there could be no comparison between a tribune of the glorious Ninth Hispana Legion and a centurion of an unknown foreign auxiliary.
They reached the edge of the forest and Caddaric halted. In the distance were the walls of Venta Icenorum, the tribal town of the Iceni, and Caddaric was loathe to return this woman to a place he knew would soon contain more danger than the forest behind them. “‘Tis rumored that there will be trouble with the Iceni,” Caddaric said softly, his eyes never leaving Jilana’s face. “With King Prasutagus dead and no male heir, Caesar has decided the Iceni will be brought under Roman rule. Queen Boadicea will not countenance such humiliation.”
There was a ring of pride in the centurion’s voice and Jilana turned her violet gaze fully upon him. “For one so recently arrived, you are most knowledgeable about the affairs of Venta Icenorum.”
Caddaric inclined his head slightly. “I fear you flatter me overmuch, lady. I am only a soldier, with a soldier’s knowledge. I learn what I must in order that my men and I might survive any turn of events.”
Jilana was silent for a moment as she considered the lean, sun-bronzed face of the centurion. “You dissemble well, Centurion. I think you are more than a simple soldier.” When he opened his mouth to argue, Jilana shook her head and laughed. “I will not bandy words with you—if you wish me to believe you only a modest soldier then so be it. But mark me, Centurion; one day I will know the truth.”
“If the gods so will,” Caddaric murmured. He placed his hand around Jilana’s waist and lifted her into the saddle. His blue eyes caught and held the violet ones, and it was all Caddaric could do not to snatch Jilana from the saddle and take her to a place of safety in the woods.
****
“Will you not accompany me?” Jilana inquired, sensing his hesitancy. The touch of his hands had sent the most delightful feeling through her and for some inexplicable reason, Jilana wished to prolong their time together.
“I think not, Lady Jilana. I must gather my men before returning.”
“But of course. In truth, Centurion, I had forgotten your men and the danger of the bo
ar in your company.” Jilana smiled and offered him one of the flowers she still held. “For remembrance. Think you we shall meet again?”
Caddaric’s eyes darkened as he took the flower and then held the delicate hand in his own large one. “The town is small, lady.”
“Aye.” But soon I will not be free to meet you as I should like, Jilana thought sadly. Ashamed of her wanton behavior, Jilana reclaimed her hand and forced a haughty note to her voice. “We shall not meet again; ‘twas a foolish thing for me to say. Fare you well, Centurion.”
A tap of her heel sent the horse flying forward and, bemused, Caddaric stared after her. For a moment, when their hands and eyes met, he had thought Jilana was experiencing the same flood of emotion which sang through his own veins. Had it been his imagination? A feeling of sorrow swept over Caddaric. If she was, in truth, his destiny, then why had the gods allowed him to find Jilana only to lose her?
“Caddaric.” A hand on his shoulder swung Caddaric around. Instinctively he dropped Jilana’s flower so that his hand would be free to wield his sword. Pivoting, he stared at the oldest of his followers, a man the same age as Clywd. “Should we not venture into the town as well?”
Caddaric nodded slowly and turned to the small band of men who had left their place of concealment within the trees. “The rest of you will wait here and join the warriors who are yet some distance behind us.” Muttered protests greeted his words and Caddaric reminded them,
“We do not know Queen Boadicea’s situation. Catus Decianus, the Roman procurator, may reconsider and allow our Queen and her daughters to rule. If that happens, we shall return to our village and bury our weapons once again and the Romans will not know how strong the Iceni are.”
“And if the Romans make good their threat to strip Boadicea of her authority?” one of the warriors questioned.
“You know the answer,” Caddaric said grimly. “We are Iceni—we will not go willingly into Roman slavery.”
“Caddaric speaks wisely,” the older man at Caddaric’s side spoke up. “He knows the Roman ways; we do not. We would do well to follow his advice. If Roman blood is to be shed, Caddaric will see that your battle-axes spill their share.”
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