“Aye,” Heall agreed, one hand scrubbing wearily at his craggy face. “Have any other tribes answered the Queen’s summons, Caddaric?”
“The Trinovantes are with us.” When his announcement was greeted less than enthusiastically, Caddaric reminded Heall, “Between our two tribes and the Ordovices we will number forty thousand, nearly equal to Suetonius’ four legions. And, mayhap, we will gain more warriors when news of our victories spreads.” Pure loathing curled his lips into a sneer. “And we will have to guard our backs. That Brigantian whore, Cartimandua, will betray us to Rome as she did Caratacus, if she learns of our plans.”
Jilana, pale and shaken by the magnitude of the discussion, could nonetheless not resist asking. “Who is this Caratacus? You speak as if he is a god.”
“I did not realize you were so ignorant,” Caddaric mocked.
“I am not ignorant,” Jilana flared back, a rush of color staining her cheeks when Caddaric snorted in disbelief. “I wish only to understand this revolt which has destroyed my life.”
Caddaric stared at Jilana, his gaze resting insolently upon the curve of her breasts. Heat seared through his veins, threatening the rigid control Caddaric had imposed upon himself during the past few days. His eyes skimmed upward, pausing briefly on the pulse point in Jilana’s slender throat before coming to rest upon the soft fullness of her lips. The warm invitation of her mouth brought a ragged edge to his breathing and when Jilana—unnerved by Caddaric’s silence and the forbidding set of his jaw—moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, Caddaric wrenched his thoughts back to Jilana’s question.
“Caratacus could have been the savior of Britannia,” Caddaric began in a clipped voice. “His people, the Catuvellauni, led the resistance against the Roman general Aulus Plautus when he invaded Britannia seventeen years ago. When, in the end, the Catuvellauni were defeated and Caratacus’ brother slain in battle, Caratacus gathered his family and fled into the west.” Caddaric’s eyes darkened as he recalled the epic tales which had reached every corner of the island. “There he welded the Ordovices, Silures and Deceangli into an army which threatened the legions’ control not only in the west but throughout the ire island. For years Caratacus and his followers harassed the legions, nearly driving them out of the western territories. Then—although the gods alone know why— Caratacus changed his tactics and decided to fight a pitched battle.” Caddaric’s mouth twisted. “He was defeated, his forces scattered. His wife and children were captured by the Romans but Caratacus escaped into Brigantia.”
“But the Brigantian queen is loyal to Rome,” Jilana interrupted. “She is our staunchest ally.”
“Even so.” Caddaric’s voice was flat, yet laced with contempt. “Rome’s legions have long stabilized her throne, kept her secure from her people and the husband who knows she is unfit to rule. So, out of gratitude to Rome, Cartimandua betrayed Caratacus to the governor-general.”
Jilana swallowed, unable to look away from Caddaric’s hard eyes. “What… happened then?”
“Caratacus and his family were sent to Rome, where they were pardoned by the Emperor Claudius. A wise man, Claudius,” said Caddaric wryly. “Why elevate an enemy to the status of martyr by killing him when, by allowing him to live, he becomes little more than an object of pity? Of course, Claudius’ pardon came with the provision that Caratacus and his family remain in Rome as exiles.” Caddaric lifted the cup to his lips and drained the wine. “Such is Roman mercy—what is life worth when one must live and die in a foreign land?” He shook himself mentally and thrust the cup at Jilana. “More wine.”
Heall had been pacing the room during Caddaric’s recitation but now he halted beside the young man and allowed his eyes to light adoringly upon Jilana’s delicate form. “She is not responsible for Caratacus’ fate. Do not berate her so, Caddaric.”
“I did but answer the Roman’s question,” Caddaric growled. “Should I have been less than truthful?”
“She is but a child, Caddaric, alone and confused,” Heall replied. “Should she be punished for events which were not her doing?”
“She is a Roman, Should I thank her for what has befallen this island?” Caddaric countered with a snarl. Ji-lana returned, offering the wine cup with hands that trembled ever so slightly, and Caddaric accepted it wordlessly. The barbed words of Heall’s reprimand gnawed at his conscience, for Caddaric knew they were justified.
“And now, Caddaric, tell us the rest.” Clywd’s soft voice broke the silence of the bedchamber and three startled pairs of eyes flew to the Druid.
Caddaric inhaled sharply, feeling a part of his soul wither beneath the Druid’s piercing blue eyes. Any reprieve, no matter how slight, would be welcome and to that purpose Caddaric raised the cup to his lips and emptied it.
When Caddaric did not answer immediately a cold dread enveloped Jilana. Juno, nay, Jilana prayed silently as she walked, unseeing, to the open gallery doors. Visions of the recurrent nightmare flooded Jilana’s brain, rendering her immobile, and she knew with despairing certainty what Caddaric would say.
“Druid,” Caddaric began and found he could go no further. He set the wine cup aside and clasped his hands tightly together, wondering how best to impart his news. At last, when the silence threatened to become deafening, Caddaric forced the words from his throat. “Suetonius Paulinus has overrun Mona. The priesthood is dead; the families who sought refuge there slain. The legions have desecrated the altars and are felling the sacred oak groves.” Caddaric hesitated. “Shall I describe the Roman attack?”
“Nay.” Clywd’s eyes lifted from Caddaric to fall upon Jilana’s rigid body. “You can tell me naught that I do not already know.”
“Aah, I see.” Caddaric’s tone dissolved into mocking brutality. “I had forgotten your gift of sight. How kind of the gods to allow you to witness the decimation of your low priests!”
A spasm of pain contorted Clywd’s face. “‘Twas not kindness but rather torture. Being a Druid makes me no less a man, Caddaric! I see, I feel, with the same intensity you. Do you think I enjoyed Mona’s destruction? Do you think I laughed as I watched Roman swords render the Druids and innocent families into little more than bloody flesh?” He rose and in two swift steps stood over Caddaric, his thin frame trembling with indignation. You were twelve when I was taken and sold into slavery, you bought my freedom when you were twenty-two. Know you what I did every day of those ten years? I used the gift you hold in such contempt to discover the fate of my family, and I gave thanks to the gods that they allowed one of my children to live. I saw you grow into manhood under Heall’s care and I wept because I was not there. I saw you and your brothers taken by the legions; I saw their deaths and watched when you turned your face and heart from our gods. And I died a little with every passing day because I could not give you succor. Yet still I gave thanks that you were whole of mind and body. The gift of sight is not often kind, but for ten years it was my only comfort. On the day you bought my freedom I wept with gladness that my son, cold and grim though he was, had been returned to me by the gods.” Clywd paused to draw a ragged breath. “Though I am allowed to see the future, Caddaric, I cannot alter what will be. That knowledge is my own private torment.”
The gash on Caddaric’s left cheek showed garishly red against the unexpected pallor of his face. Clywd’s revelations—indeed, the tirade itself—were shocking considering the Druid’s mild, unassuming nature. After a long moment Caddaric found his voice. “Father, I did not know.”
“Only because you never thought to ask,” was Clywd’s harsh reply. “If you had—had you thought beyond your own mockery—you would have learned long ago that my gift offers both comfort and agony beyond compare.” The anger drained from Clywd; he turned wearily and walked toward the gallery doors.
“Father, stay.” So seldom did he address Clywd as such that Caddaric felt his tongue twist around the word. Yet, Caddaric now remembered a time when the name had been warmly familiar. “I… I would speak with you.”
Before Jilana could reply, the Druid was gone. I am no prophetess, she thought with a shiver of apprehension. I had no visions, only nightmares, dreams of Roman revenge upon the Iceni, and yet… Jilana forced her attention to the conversation Caddaric was holding with Heall and listened in growing horror as Caddaric described the Roman assault on Mona as he had heard it from an Ordovician warrior. Unbidden, the specters of her nightmare rose before her eyes; Caddaric’s voice faded to an unintelligible drone. It did not matter. Jilana did not need words to know what had transpired upon the Isle of Mona. She had seen it all too often. Mona—that which was now a legend.
Black-robed priests lined Mona’s shore, their wild curses mingling with the shrieked taunts the priestesses hurled at the Roman legions across the strait. Interwoven with the holy ones stood the warriors, spears and swords held aloft as their battle cries joined the cacophony which rent the thin shroud of fog surrounding the isle. The magnificent display of Celtic defiance sent a ripple of apprehension through the Roman troops who stood silent and unmoving upon the opposite shore. A barked order came from the Roman officers and all traces of hesitancy evaporated. The foot soldiers marched in perfect unison onto the waiting flat boats; the cavalry took to their saddles and, with a counterpoint of creaking leather and Jangling harness, spurred their mounts to the water’s edge. There was a second, strident command and the legionaries surged forward.
Jilana closed her eyes, her fingers curling into her palms as she fought off the remainder of the vision. She would not view the carnage again! Through sheer force of will the images receded but the sounds remained: the sound of sword meeting sword, the cries of the wounded, the terrified screams of the innocent children whose families had sought refuge on Mona.
“Jilana! Jilana ” A pair of hands gripped her shoulders, roughly shaking her from the last vestiges of her trance, and Jilana gasped at the pain Caddaric was unwittingly inflicting. “By the gods, woman, you try my patience! I am in no mood for your defiance today!” Caddaric released her so unexpectedly that Jilana staggered backward into the door frame.
“Your mood is all too plain,” Jilana retorted, her anger flaring at his callous treatment. “You are fit company only for scorpions! I do not wonder Clywd has never before claimed you as son within my hearing. How great must be his shame at having spawned such as you!”
Caddaric’s arm arced backward; his eyes darkened before the gathering storm of his anger. Jilana raised her chin, rebellion snapping in the depths of her violet eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them charged with electricity until, grudgingly, Caddaric lowered his arm. This woman sorely tried his control and he would not allow her that weapon. “My mood,” he stated perversely, his lips curling, “is not your concern. Nor is my father. You exist only to serve me, to fulfill my wants.”
Jilana flew at him then, her fingers curved to rake the smirk from his face. Laughing, Caddaric caught her wrists and twisted them easily behind her back. “Release me,” Jilana hissed, oblivious to the fact that her body was intimately molded against Caddaric. “Release me or by all-the gods I will—”
“Scratch out my eyes?” Caddaric chuckled mirthlessly. “I have sheathed your claws, little wicca, and this time you have no dagger.”
The blunt reminder of the fate of her only weapon brought Jilana up short. On the morning following the Iceni uprising Caddaric had awakened first and found the dagger embedded in the headboard. He had risen, shaken Jilana out of her slumber and, while she watched, returned to the bed and casually snapped the blade at the hilt. Wordlessly, Caddaric had dropped the useless dagger hilt onto her lap and quit the chamber. Though Caddaric had never spoken of the incident, from that time forward no weapons of any kind—save the sword Heall carried for Jilana’s protection—were allowed within the bedchamber.
“I will not always be defenseless,” Jilana spat. “One day, Briton, you will pay for the way you have treated me.”
“Have you been treated badly?” Caddaric mockingly inquired. “I think not. Your meals are brought to you here in this room, as are your daily baths.”
“Baths which you insist upon watching!”
Caddaric grinned and nodded. “I am certain others, including Lucius, have viewed you thus, so you need not pretend shyness with me.” Jilana’s indignant gasp passed unnoticed as he continued. “In truth, little wicca, your life is hardly changed, save for the fact that you no longer pass your days gossiping. Although,” he added, recalling the scene upon which he had just intruded, “even that may not have changed.”
Jilana’s voice, when she finally found it, shook with rage. “Do not expect my gratitude, Briton! I repay your kindness every night by changing the dressing on your leg.”
“Hardly an odious task.” Slowly, Caddaric released Jilana’s wrists and slid his hands up her back. “I could banish you to the kitchen to work beside the other captives during the day and take your rest in the stable at night.”
“Then do so,” Jilana challenged with false bravado. She had encountered the other captives only once, when Caddaric had at last allowed her the freedom of the courtyard. Recognizing one of her mother’s dearest friends in the bedraggled group of slaves, Jilana had rushed to greet her fellow countrymen, only to find herself the object of scorn and derision. Whore, the Romans had named her in their hatred. Iceni harlot. A slut who clung to her worthless life by gracing the enemy’s couch. The taunts had grown uglier, hands had yanked at her hair, and when Jilana had sought to explain her situation she had been shoved to the ground. Jilana shuddered to think what might have happened had Heall not come to her rescue. Heall’s low growl and menacing look had sent her attackers scurrying away and Jilana had fled to the safety of her bedchamber without a word of thanks. Since that day she had ventured into the courtyard only when the other captives were occupied elsewhere.
Caddaric studied the set of Jilana’s jaw, irritation mingling with admiration. He knew full well what had happened between Jilana and the Roman slaves and he silently acknowledged the courage it took for Jilana to calmly issue such a challenge. “Nay, Jilana, I will not. Lovely you are, but I doubt you could bake so much as a wheat cake without reducing it to a cinder.”
With a furious exclamation Jilana twisted away and paced about the room. “If I am so worthless, then give me up. Let another deal with my inadequacies.” The slender back she presented to Caddaric stiffened resolutely. “Or set me free.”
“Never!” Caddaric’s bark spun Jilana around and a few strides of his long, powerful legs brought him within inches of her. “Understand this, Roman: you are mine until I decide otherwise. Neither tears nor pretty entreaties nor shrewish behavior will sway me—they will only anger me.” He paused to allow Jilana to take his words to heart while he casually wound the thick, red-gold braid around his hand, drawing her ever closer. “Beware, my dream witch. I could break you, snap you with my bare hands as if you were nothing more than dry kindling.”
The breath caught in Jilana’s throat; her eyes darkened with apprehension when her breasts brushed Caddaric’s lower chest. She realized, suddenly, that at some point Heall had left the chamber, and she was alone with Caddaric. That realization and Caddaric’s strangely taut expression sent a premonitory chill through Jilana.
The faint tremor brought a raised eyebrow from Caddaric and he allowed his gaze to wander from Jilana’s face to the hollow of her throat. Her pulse fluttered wildly and Caddaric succumbed to temptation and touched a forefinger to the sensitive spot. How delicate she is, Caddaric thought as his hand easily circled the slender column of her throat. The image of Jilana rising in damp splendor from her bath flashed into Caddaric’s brain and sent a sharp pang
through his loins. Desire flared within him, a desire he knew must be carefully controlled. He had held himself in check during the past few days, allowing Jilana as much time as could be spared in which to adjust to and accept her new life. But time, that most precious commodity, was no more. Boadicea would march soon and battles would follow and he would once again face death. Jilana’s reprieve had ended with the return of the Iceni messengers.
Jilana understood, instinctively, the resolve which hardened Caddaric’s features. Panicked, she turned to flee only to be brought up short by Caddaric’s hold on her hair. Tears of pain and humiliation welled in the violet eyes as Caddaric slowly, inexorably, drew her across the room to the bed.
“Briton, nay,” Jilana managed to whisper. Caddaric was systematically unbraiding her hair and Jilana frantically sought to divert his attention. “What if Heall returns?”
“He will not,” Caddaric stated with such confidence that Jilana believed him.
“The gallery doors—”
“The villa is empty, as is the courtyard.” Caddaric combed his fingers through her unbound hair, glorying its color and texture.
“Then you should be with your men—” Jilana’s voice died as his fingers skimmed the flesh at the back of neck. Against her will, tiny bolts of lightning dance across her skin at the contact. Praise the gods her was to Caddaric; Jilana could not have borne his mocking laughter had he seen the color which now rose in cheeks.
The electric spark raced through Caddaric as well; tautened the muscles of his arms into iron bands tripped the steady rhythm of his heart. “My men,” Caddaric murmured in reply as his hands fell to Jilana’s shoulders, “grow weary of my biting tongue, and I sweeter company than they afford.”
“Then go to Ede,” Jilana returned in a voice that was far less emphatic than she would have wished. “You will find no comfort here.”
Defy the Eagle Page 12
