Which brought Jilana full circle back to Caddaric. He was a hard man, frighteningly so to Jilana, and he lacked the spontaneity that was so much a part of the other Iceni she had observed. As Artair had said, Caddaric was grim, and even on those rare occasions when he relaxed with Heall and Clywd there was a bitter edge to his laughter.
Jilana drew the long fall of her hair over her shoulder and began braiding it. Yet for all his harshness Caddaric had treated her well. She was not physically abused and he protected her from the warriors and the women by bringing their meals to her chamber and making use of Artair’s slaves so that she might bathe in relative privacy. Even his temper was rigidly controlled except on those occasions when he was provoked beyond endurance— and, Jilana admitted now, she took a perverse satisfaction in goading him. Forcing Caddaric to lose that iron control, even momentarily, made her feel less like the slave Boadicea had named her and made Caddaric more human. And in spite of their harsh words, he protected her; Jilana never felt as safe with an armed Heall guarding the door as she did with an unarmed Caddaric present in the chamber. Aye, he protected her, but the memory of his burning kisses reminded Jilana that Caddaric did not need to beat her in order to have his way. He need only caress her and a delicious languor would seep through her, leaving her as helpless as if she were bound with heavy chains. She blushed at the liberties he had taken and tried to whip up some measure of righteous indignation, but her traitorous mind insisted upon remembering the fact that she had enjoyed that time in his arms.
The chamber door opened to admit Caddaric and Jilana braced herself mentally. Until she settled the turmoil within herself and discovered whether his previous anger had been spent, the wisest course would be to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She studiously watched the progress of her fingers through her hair as she heard Caddaric cross the room and seat himself on the couch. She thought she heard him groan, and the sound was so reminiscent of the soft noises he had made when they had lain together on the bed that Jilana blushed. She risked a glance at him from the corner of her eye and found him stretched out upon the couch. His left leg exceeded the length of the couch so that three-quarters of his calf was unsupported and his right leg was bent at the knee and angled, his booted foot resting on the floor in front of the couch. The single, curved arm of the couch supported his head and shoulders, and his eyes were closed. He looked exceedingly weary.
Jilana cleared her throat. “If your leg pains you, mayhap you should take your rest upon the bed.” He opened one eye, subjecting her to such intense scrutiny that Jilana shifted her gaze back to her hair. An uneasy silence filled the room as she resumed her task.
“‘Tis not my leg.” Jilana started at his words and Caddaric winced at the sight. He deliberately softened his voice before speaking again. “Where is the healing pouch Clywd gave me?”
“In my chest.” Jilana did not look at him as she spoke, concentrating instead upon winding a bit of leather about the end of the braid and tying it in place. Movement flickered in her peripheral vision and she heard a chest being opened, then closed a moment later. Caution gave way to curiosity and Jilana turned to see what Caddaric was about. The sight of the new bandage on his right arm shocked her. “You are hurt!”
“Aye.” Caddaric dropped the pouch on the floor beside the couch and went to the washstand to pour water from the ewer into the basin. “‘Tis slight.”
“Let me see.” Jilana was on her feet and at his side before he could object.
“Are you so bloodthirsty?” Caddaric eyed her curiously as she picked up the basin and brought it back to the couch. “Or is it just that you enjoy my pain?” As soon as the words were out he damned them, but it was too late. He had meant to be kinder to Jilana, to make up for the way he had spoken to her after Artair’s appearance, but his good intentions seemed to be as substantial as air.
Jilana looked at him in surprise. “I enjoy no other’s pain.” It was the truth. Once—a mere week ago—she would have enjoyed seeing Caddaric and any other Iceni writhe in agony, but no longer. The Iceni had reacted against Roman injustice and the Roman citizens of Venta Icenorum had borne the Iceni vengeance. ‘Twas an anguished truth, but a truth nonetheless.
“Not even mine?” Caddaric asked when Jilana seemed to mentally withdraw from him.
Blinking away tears that welled in her eyes, Jilana answered his question with one of her own. “You said you did not kill my family. Is that the truth?”
Caddaric nodded, surprised by her tears. If she had wept for her family before, she had done so in his absence and concealed any telltale signs from him. A flicker of hope sparked in his chest. “I had no hand in their deaths, Jilana. I swear it.” He would not swear by any of the gods, for he was no hypocrite. “I swear by my honor and my sword.”
And with those words Jilana knew he spoke the truth, for Caddaric valued his sword and his honor as a man above all else. “I believe you.” A part of her cried out that this was treachery, but Jilana did not listen. Whatever future she may have was with Caddaric; her family was dead but she was still alive and must start anew. With Caddaric. “Sit down.” She gestured to the space next to her on the couch. “Let me tend your arm.. .lord,” she added hesitantly.
Caddaric sat carefully, hardly daring to believe this unexpected change. “You need not address me as such, little wicca. My name will suffice.” Jilana had accepted her fate, Caddaric thought triumphantly; she had tacitly agreed that she was his. And since she accepted it, there was no further need to bludgeon her spirit with the fact. Now he could afford to be magnanimous, to return to her a portion of her pride. He knew well how important an illusion could be to one’s soul.
“I thought the Queen held council, not battle,” Jilana softly commented as she unwound the soiled bandage and cleaned the wound. From the healing pouch she withdrew the salve she used on Caddaric’s leg and applied it to his arm. Caddaric’s breath hissed between his teeth at the unavoidable pain.
“One of the chieftains was offended by my strategy,” Caddaric answered when he had unclenched his jaw. “We argued.”
“With swords?”
“Within our tribe this is the typical way to settle a dispute.” In an undertone, Caddaric added, “I wish it were not so.”
“But the Iceni are peaceful,” Jilana argued. “I cannot remember when…” Her voice trailed off. She had been about to say ‘ ‘when differences among the Iceni were settled with combat,” but then had realized that during her lifetime the tribe had been forbidden weapons. Because they might rise against the Empire.
“None of the tribes of this island were peaceful,” Caddaric explained, unperturbed by Jilana’s slip, “until Claudius landed and put them under Roman rule. We would raid for cattle to increase our wealth, or in retaliation during a feud. We did not contentedly tend our herds or till the land.”
Jilana shook her head, unable to comprehend a way of life in which raiding was commonplace. She took a strip of cloth from the pouch and carefully wound it about Caddaric’s arm. “You find that uncivilized,” Caddaric hazarded, guessing the path her thoughts had taken.
Jilana glanced at the hard, blue eyes and quickly looked away. “I find it strange. Why risk your life and place your home and cattle in danger when there is no need? Tis childish.” ,
“Mayhap,” Caddaric conceded a bit too readily. “As childish, would you say, as a nation which insists upon conquering other nations so that it has a continual supply of slaves, gladiators and soldiers to serve, entertain and protect its spoiled citizens and greedy ruler?”
There was no answer to that. The truth stung and raised the color along Jilana’s cheekbones. She tied the bandage in place and rose. “‘Tis finished.” Jilana turned, only to be brought up short by a firm hand closing around her wrist.
“You are angry.” Caddaric looked up at her set features, enjoying the feel of the delicate bones beneath his fingers.
“What does it matter?” Jilana stood quiescently, not fi
ghting the pressure. ‘Twould serve no purpose; Caddaric’s strength was far superior to her own; there was no need to demonstrate that fact yet again.
Caddaric smoothed the silken flesh over her pulse with his thumb. “Mayhap our ways are childish, even uncivilized to a Roman. But for all our raiding and feuding we do not hold life cheaply; it took the Roman legion to teach me how little the treasure of life truly meant—and how carelessly it could be taken away.”
There was pain buried deep in his words, a torment Jilana could barely sense, but was there nonetheless. Caddaric was not, she realized with a start, as invulnerable as he pretended to be, and she found a part of herself wanting to reach out and soothe whatever ache still haunted him. His words the night of the uprising came back to her: do not be so willing to court your own destruction. How was it that a man who spent his life in such a violent profession came to regard life so highly? Jilana wanted to ask, but the truce between them was too fragile to bear such questioning. Instead she pulled away from Caddaric and replaced the medicines in her chest.
Caddaric watched her walk away, enjoying the way the material of the long, straight stola clung to her slender hips. A belt cinched the material at her narrow waist and the memory of the way Jilana looked rising naked from her bath sent a shaft of desire through his groin. She had donned the belt during his absence, and Caddaric wondered, with a mixture of amusement and irritation, if she thought the flimsy length of leather would prove a deterrent against his advances. Smiling inwardly he reclined once again upon the couch and followed Jilana’s nervous pacing of the room. “There is to be a feast tonight, a welcome to our allies and the Druids who have joined us,” Caddaric said when Jilana perched upon the edge of the bed. “You will accompany me.”
Jilana swung toward him, her eyes suddenly dark and troubled. The thought of being put rudely on display again destroyed her new-found security. “May I not remain here?” As soon as the words were out Jilana winced at their pleading tone.
“Nay. There will be no one to guard you and I dare not leave you to your own devices.” Their eyes met and Caddaric knew she understood. If Jilana remained behind she would be left alone for the first time, without a guard outside her door or other Iceni warriors milling through the villa and courtyard. She could not be trusted not to try to escape.
The troubled look on Jilana’s face nagged at Caddaric’s conscience, but he had no choice. “I am sorry, little one.” The weak smile she gave him only made Caddaric feel worse. He had broken their fledgling peace, reminded her of her slavery. Now he must find a way to set things aright. An apology was unthinkable, of course, but as Caddaric cast about for a way to extend his own olive branch he hit upon an idea that would surely bring Jilana as much pleasure as it would himself. “Would you like to bathe?” The look Jilana gave him clearly asked if he had taken leave of his senses and his anticipation gave way to embarrassment. In a stiff voice he explained, “Artair’s men are busy preparing for the feast; they will have no time to prepare your bath tonight. I thought that if you wished…” She regarded him in such an odd manner that Caddaric’s voice trailed off.
Artair’s men. Artair’s slaves. Slaves, like herself. The familiar burning resentment flared for a moment and then disappeared. Caddaric had deliberately avoided the word slave. Out of consideration for her feelings? Jilana wondered. The possibility did much to dispel her nervousness and she offered Caddaric a small, but genuine, smile. “About my bath,” she prompted gently when it appeared he would not continue.
Slowly, Caddaric expelled his pent-up breath. “Though not heated, the bath house is in good repair and the water in the caldarium is pleasantly cool. If you like, I will take you there.”
If she liked? Excitement shone in the violet eyes as Jilana slid from the bed. ‘Twould be wonderful indeed to enjoy the deep pool rather than the confines of the wooden tub. If she liked?
Her joy went through Caddaric like a spear and he turned quickly away. Such a little thing, this bath, to bring so much happiness, and he planned to use it to his advantage. He was a cur. “Gather what you need. I will wait for you on the gallery.” He bent over his own chest and removed a change of clothing before leaving the chamber.
Jilana hardly noticed his actions or his retreat. Arms wrapped about herself, Jilana whirled around the room before coming to a stop in front of her chest. Opening the chest, Jilana sorted through its familiar, meager contents. The ransacking of her chamber had left her little enough. Three stolae—two of white linen, the third a soft wool dyed blue—a like number of short tunics of fine but undyed wool; a belt; a russet paenula, a heavy woolen hooded cape; a precious vial of rose-scented oil; one pair of sandals and one pair of shoes; and her saffron bridal veil were all that remained of her once extensive wardrobe and possessions. Dismissing the loss, Jilana chose the
blue stola and, as an afterthought, picked up her comb and the vial of oil. Quickly now, lest Caddaric grow impatient and decide to forego the promised venture, Jilana slipped her feet into the pair of soft leather shoes and all but ran from the chamber.
Caddaric waited at the gallery railing, watching the activity in the courtyard below. The breeze ruffled the soft curls on his head and when he turned to look at her, Jilana was pierced by the same attraction she had felt at their first meeting. His free hand rested upon the wooden railing and Jilana was assaulted by the memory of how gently that same hand had caressed her. There was no indication that Caddaric remembered his earlier tenderness. He nodded once and started toward the stairs, leaving Jilana to follow. And follow she did, until they reached the courtyard and Jilana became aware, that several men were openly staring at her. Instinctively, she quickened her step so that she walked at Caddaric’s side.
The frankly curious stares angered Caddaric. He knew, as Jilana did not, the gossip that had spread through the Iceni host regarding Jilana and himself. Everyone knew that her life had been spared because of her kindness toward Boadicea, and that the Queen had sent Caddaric to keep this one Roman safe—that much of the story, at least, held fast to the truth, as did the part which dealt with Jilana’s confrontation with Boadicea the next day. Thereafter, however, the truth was liberally sprinkled with imaginings of the Celtic mind. Jilana, ‘twas said, was a sorceress. How else could she have lain naked in Caddaric’s arms, and then produced the dagger to plunge into his shoulder at the exact moment that his manhood pierced her, unless by magic? And see Caddaric. Had he not changed since the night he took the Roman to his pallet? Did not his men avoid him? Aye, they did. Even Heall, Caddaric’s most trusted friend, was not trusted too long alone with the red-haired witch. And, as final proof of Jilana’s sorcery, Caddaric bore no wound or scar from Jilana’s blade. Not even Clywd’s most powerful unguent could cause a wound to disappear. Aye, surely she was a sorceress, and her magic most potent.
Now a corner of Caddaric’s mouth lifted in an un-amused smile. The gossips did not consider the fact that if Jilana was truly a sorceress, she would use her powers to escape her enemies—an important fact to Caddaric but apparently not to the other Celtic minds. Mayhap they chose to believe that Jilana harbored a passion for him, but whatever their reasoning, Caddaric did not disabuse them of it. A potential sorceress was held at arm’s length, a source of curiosity and not a little fear. All the better; for no matter how seductive a man might find Jilana, he would hesitate before laying a hand upon her. As for the rest of the gossip, ‘twas to Caddaric’s benefit not to correct the other misconception. If magic would not deter a man, Caddaric’s sword arm and temper would.
The bath house lay just ahead and to their right, resting in the afternoon shade of the villa. It was a small building, erected not for its beauty but for its purpose. Augusta had missed the gracious baths of Rome so, to please his wife, Marcus had built one. Since there were no public baths in Venta, as there were in Rome, Augusta and her friends were quick to take full advantage of the bath. Here in the afternoon, the women gathered to immerse themselves in the rectangular h
ot bath, or caldarium, and then stretch out upon the marble benches while their attendants oiled their bodies and scraped their flesh with a strigil. Then, while the ladies relaxed in the heat and exchanged gossip, they were offered wine and fruit by the household servants. Since the bath lacked a proper frigidarium, or cold bath, with which to close the pores of the skin, the women would then retire to the tepidarium, or temperate room, to cool down and receive a second light oiling before dressing and returning to their homes. It was a ritual which Jilana had shared with her mother since the age of eight.
All these thoughts raced through Jilana’s mind as Caddaric pushed open the heavy door of the bath house. There was an air of abandonment about the building, as though it had stood unused for months rather than a few days and Jilana’s eyes burned with sudden tears. She led Caddaric through the hall with its exquisite wall paintings of bath scenes and stopped when she reached the point where a second hall intersected the first. Directly ahead, flanked by paintings of Venus and Hylas, stood the door leading to the caldarium. To the right and left lay the short passages to the changing rooms,
“May I change and join you in the pool?”
Her soft question brought a nod from Caddaric. Jilana turned to her right and walked down the hallway. Caddaric waited until the door closed behind her before turning to his left and entering the changing room.
The changing room was small but light flowed through the bank of long, rectangular windows which ran along the outside wall just beneath the ceiling. Caddaric paced the perimeter of the room, noting the marble benches, the ornate grills in the floor which signified the presence of a hypocaust—or furnace—and the mosaic floor, where the tiles captured the image of a horse stretched out in full gallop. The mosaic was beautiful and Caddaric allowed himself a moment’s appreciation before inspecting the rest of the room. Shelves were spaced along one wall, and here Caddaric found clean towels, an oil flask, and a silver-handled strigil, the small instrument with a short, curved blade which was used to scrape the oil and dead skin from one’s flesh. The strigil, undoubtedly, had belonged to Jilana’s father, as had the oil. From the passage a door opened and closed, and then sounded again, closer this time. Jilana had entered the bath; Caddaric stripped off his tunic and loincloth and selected a towel from the shelf. He started to walk from the room and then paused, considering. After a moment he retraced his steps and picked up the oil flask and strigil.
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