Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  “Look at me, Jilana.” Jilana obeyed the unmistakable note of command in Caddaric’s voice. Her eyes flashed briefly, and in that instant Caddaric saw her fear and panic. And then it was gone, concealed, and while he admired her strength of will he wished it had not been necessary. “Do not be afraid; Lhwyd cannot hurt you. I am here. Trust me.”

  Caddaric had moved closer so that he could be heard over the din, and Jilana longed to throw herself against his broad chest and into the haven his arms offered. Pandemonium had broken out among the Iceni. They left the fires and dashed to the oak grove, eager to witness the homage being paid the Morrigan, and their excited shouts echoed inside Jilana’s head. Their eyes locked, Caddaric drew Jilana to her feet and in that instant she knew what he intended.

  “Nay, you cannot ask this of me,” Jilana entreated. His gaze flickered uncertainly and suddenly Jilana knew that her prayers had been answered. She hurled herself against his chest with what she hoped was a pathetic sob, and was rewarded for her performance when Caddaric’s arms came around her. “Let me go home, Caddaric. Please, I beg you—do not force me to watch Lhwyd put my people to death.”

  Jilana was trembling in his arms and Caddaric tightened his embrace in a gesture of sympathy and comfort. The victims’ screams were becoming more audible now as the ceremony progressed and the Iceni watched in respectful silence. He wanted to tell Jilana that the screams were not caused by pain—that the sacrifice, the actual loss of life, was quick and merciful—that it was fear that caused those pathetic sounds. But he could not. She had endured so much already, and maintained her pride in the process, that he could not bear to have her witness the humiliating attempts the other Romans would make to save their lives. “Very well,” Caddaric said at last. “Go back, but keep to our chamber.” Jilana’s head nodded against his chest and Caddaric tenderly kissed her hair. “I will return as soon as I can.” Jilana slipped from his arms and ran toward Venta Icenorum. Sighing; Caddaric watched until she was swallowed by the darkness before turning to the oak grove.

  Jilana ran as fast as she could, slowing only when she reached the east gate of the town. With only the moon for light, the paving stones were treacherous and Jilana stumbled several times as she raced through the streets to her home. Finally she was there, bursting through the garden gate and flying through the once beautiful garden. A small statute of Priapus, the god of gardens and fertility, tumbled from its plinth when she bumped into it, but Jilana paid it no heed. The only sounds were her own ragged breathing and the fall of her leather shoes against the stones of the courtyard. The stable loomed just ahead of her and then she was inside, leaning heavily against the door while she caught her breath and her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the building. Her heart was pounding, threatening to burst out of her chest, not from the physical exertion but from nervousness. She waited tensely to be challenged by a guard, but when several minutes passed and the only noises made were by the horses, Jilana relaxed. The stable was unguarded.

  At last her breathing steadied and Jilana groped along the ledge by the door until she encountered a lantern and flint. It took several attempts to light the tallow candle within the brass lantern cage because her fingers trembled so badly, but the spark caught and the lantern spread a welcoming pool of light around her. The stable was unchanged; pitchforks and shovels were propped against one wall and in the back she could see a mound of fresh hay. The horses, at least, had been well cared for. Picking up the lantern, Jilana made her way past the stalls until she came to her bay mare. The horse whickered inquisitively when Jilana hung the lantern on a beam and opened the stall and slipped inside. She patted the mare’s flank lovingly and reached for the bridle which, thank the gods, still hung from its peg beside the stall. Speed was of the essence, for she remembered Caddaric’s promise to return as soon as he could.

  It was when Jilana led the mare from the stall that she discovered the saddle was missing. “Nay,” Jilana whispered. She could ride bareback, of course, but it would be far easier with a saddle. Lifting the lantern from its peg, Jilana walked the length of the stalls and found to her dismay that all the saddles were gone. Why? The answer came clearly out of her rising panic: the Iceni intended to exchange the Roman saddles for their own. They were the best horsemen in all of Britannia, of course they would use saddles of their own making. Undoubtedly the Roman saddles had been taken as booty or destroyed. The mare whickered again but Jilana ignored her. Perhaps she should take the time to inspect the small storeroom in the hope that a saddle could be found there.

  “What are you doing, Jilana?”

  The soft question spun Jilana around with a gasp. The light from the lantern did not extend to where the intruder stood, but he was silhouetted against the open door and even if she had not recognized his voice she would have recognized those massive shoulders. While she watched, the mare walked forward and nuzzled Caddaric in a friendly manner. The blood pounded in Jilana’s ears and without realizing it she started toward Caddaric. “You must let me go, Caddaric. You must!”

  “Nay.” The word was flat, clipped, and when the light hit his face the anger sparkling in the depths of his blue eyes was obvious.

  Jilana lashed out bitterly. “Why? Why did you let me go when you knew what I planned? Do you enjoy seeing me humiliated, defeated?”

  “Nay,” Caddaric said again, answering her second question first. “I came after you because I thought you were frightened. And I was worried that one of the warriors might have followed you.” One large hand came up to gently stroke the mare’s neck. “Until I saw the light from the stable I did not consider the possibility that you might be running away from me.”

  “Do you blame me?” Jilana demanded. She was trembling so violently that the lantern shook. “Let me go to my own people, Caddaric.”

  “To what end?” Caddaric regarded her curiously, as if her request made no sense. “The countryside is alive, wicca; Boadicea’s people are moving to join their Queen. Even if I let you go you would only be caught again. This is a war and all of Albion is caught up in it. There is no safety to be found on this island.”

  “Except with you,” Jilana retorted scathingly.

  Caddaric’s head came up at that and his gaze pinned her to the dirt floor. “Aye, little wicca, save with me.” He caught up the mare’s reins and turned her back toward her stall.

  As Jilana followed him, her eyes fell on the tools leaning against the wall. She could not let Caddaric stop her! Her life depended upon getting away from the Iceni.

  Carefully Jilana set the lantern on the floor and reached for the closest implement. Her hands closed around a shovel and she tightened her grip until her knuckles turned white.

  Caddaric’s eyes were focused on the mare, but he was aware of Jilana coming quietly up behind him. “I suppose I should be grateful that you no longer have a dagger,” he said. A slight smile curved his lips as he turned his head to look at his spirited little witch. “Otherwise—”

  Jilana brought the shovel down upon Caddaric’s head with such force that the handle cracked. A groan escaped him and then he toppled forward to the floor like a felled oak. The mare whinnied in fear, rearing, and Jilana quickly dropped her weapon and snatched the trailing reins. Only when the mare had quieted did Jilana dare a look at Caddaric. He lay so pale and still that Jilana was filled with the certainty that she had killed him. She knelt beside him and touched his head. There was a large lump beneath the thick, curly hair that swelled beneath her fingers and she hastily removed her hand, then placed it against his mouth. He was breathing and there was no evidence of blood, and Jilana uttered a short prayer of thanks to whatever gods protected Caddaric. She was about to rise when she caught sight of the pouch containing the food Clywd had given her tied to Caddaric’s belt. After a moment’s hesitation she rolled Caddaric onto his back and untied the bag. She needed the food, Jilana told herself as tears stung her eyes, for she had no idea how long she would be traveling. And she would not feel sorry for h
itting Caddaric, nor would she succumb to this insidious feeling of guilt that told her she had betrayed his trust. But the sight of him lying there, defenseless, made a mockery of her resolution to take the mare and leave without a backward glance. Instead, Jilana bent and pressed the gentlest of kisses upon his lips. Caddaric stirred beneath the pressure and groaned, and Jilana hurriedly rose to her feet.

  Jilana led the mare out of the stable onto the villa grounds. Pausing to glance down the intersecting streets, listening intently for sounds that would mean the Iceni were returning from the feast, she traversed the town until she stood in front of the south gate. The gate was open and less than a mile away was the road built by the legions. Hitching her long skirt over her thighs, Jilana mounted and urged the horse onto the well-worn path that was beaten into the plain. When she reached the main road she hesitated, not knowing which direction to take. Jilana vaguely remembered that Lindum, where the Ninth Hispana Legion was based, lay to the north, but she had no idea how far away it was. Aside from accompanying her father south to Camulodunum on one of his trips, she had never left Venta Icenorum. Jilana drew a deep breath and turned the mare onto the paved road, heading south. Camulodunum was the capital city, the headquarters of the governor-general; it should be well defended and offer the protection Jilana needed.

  ****

  Hungry, frightened, and weary unto death, Jilana reached Camulodunum late in the afternoon of the third day of her escape. She pulled her mare to a halt in the concealment of the sparse wood edging the paved road and studied the city. There was a great deal of activity outside the city proper and she breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized the leather tunics and aprons of iron strips of the legionaries standing guard. The constant fear of the past three days fell away. It was over! She was free and safe. In the upsurge of emotion that followed, Jilana felt imbued with energy and she kicked her tired mount into a canter in her haste to reach the city. As she approached the city she forgot the strain and fear that had been her constant companions. She had ridden for three days, staying in the forest when she could, but never out of sight of the road for without it she would be lost. Her food had run out by the evening of the first day. The mare, fortunately, had had an abundant supply of food and had upon occasion, found small puddles left by the rain. Jilana had drunk alongside the mare, too thirsty to reject the muddied water. The worst times had been when she had to go deeper into the forest in order to avoid the continual flow of Iceni who were journeying northward to join Boadicea.

  Fear had kept Jilana awake and alert, forcing her to continue when she wanted nothing more than to lie down on the carpet of leaves and sleep. Her mare had seemed to understand the need for haste. Whether it was to break into a gallop on those rare occasions when Jilana’s fear drove her to use the road or pick a way through the underbrush in the forest, the mare’s determination had equaled her rider’s, and now Jilana patted her neck and murmured encouragements. At her approach a handful of soldiers had formed up, their short swords drawn, but in her excitement Jilana paid their odd manner no heed. She waved gaily, called her greetings, and failed to notice that when she reined in the mare the legionaries fanned out and surrounded her.

  “There is a rebellion in Venta Icenorum,” she burst out. “Queen Boadicea—” Her warning was interrupted when one of the soldiers grabbed the mare’s bridle, causing her mount to sidle nervously. Before Jilana could control the movement, a second soldier had grasped her arm and she tumbled from the mare’s back to land in a heap at the soldier’s feet. “What are you doing? I am Jil—” The words died as Jilana confronted the sword pointed at her throat.

  “What tribe are you,” the legionary demanded. “What trick is this?”

  Stunned, Jilana could only stare at the hard face above her. Trick? What did he mean? Her confusion grew as the flat of the sword pressed upward beneath her jaw and he ordered her to rise. Jilana obeyed, shakily, and the legionary circled behind her. The sword point bit into her back and the first tendrils of fear coiled in Jilana’s stomach. Why were they doing this? she wondered desperately. Why? Something warm and wet trailed down her spine and Jilana realized the sword had cut deeply enough to draw blood. It dawned on her then that the legionary had prodded her because she had not obeyed his order to march. She started to protest, but thought better of that idea. The man would undoubtedly take her to someone in a position of authority—she could protest her treatment then. She stumbled toward Camulodunum, numbed by this newest threat from such an unexpected source.

  Jilana was oblivious to the curious stares she attracted as she was marched through the city. Her legs were trembling and she had to concentrate upon putting one foot in front of the other. A small military post came into view, separated from the rest of Camulodunum by exceptionally broad avenues, and relief swept through Jilana. She would be taken to the praefectus castra, the post commander; he would explain this rude treatment. Her hopes were dashed when she was forced instead to a small, rectangular building with barred windows. A jail! Before she could form a protest she was through the front door and in front of a smaller, low door.

  The legionary sheathed his sword and wrapped a meaty hand around her arm as the jailer came forward. “A rebel for you,” the soldier informed the jailer as the latter unlocked one of the low doors. “Came riding up bold as you please and started jabbering in that damn native tongue.”

  A cold wave of despair washed through Jilana at the legionary’s words. So that was why he had treated her so shabbily! She had become so accustomed to speaking the Britons’ language during her captivity that she had forgotten to revert to Latin. Hastily, she tried to correct that mistake. “Nay, you do not understand. I come from Venta Icenorum but I am not Iceni!” Her stomach tightened at the wary look the two men exchanged. “Listen to me, I beg you. I am Jilana Augusta Basilius, daughter of the merchant Marcus Basilius.”

  “Aye, and I am Augustus Caesar,” the legionary mockingly replied. Then he gestured to the other man. “Throw her in the cell.”

  “Nay, please!” Jilana grabbed the low lintel and dug in her heels, defying the jailer’s effort to push her into the cell. “Call the praefectus castra; let me explain to him!”

  The legionary ignored her plea. “Mithras, can you not handle one little girl?” he swore when the jailer’s struggle to subdue the prisoner earned him a kick in the stomach.

  Had Caddaric been present he could have warned the two men that Jilana was not one to meekly accept her fate. Winded and retching, the heavy-set jailer fell backward beneath the impetus of Jilana’s foot, and the legionary stepped into the breach. Avoiding Jilana’s well-placed kicks, he grasped her flailing legs in one strong arm and with his free hand began prying her fingers from the lintel. He succeeded in loosening one of her hands, and for his efforts received four gouges from her broken nails down his cheek. Swearing feelingly, he picked Jilana up bodily and moved backward until her fingers were forced to relinquish their hold on the wood. Jilana twisted and writhed in this brutal embrace, kicking ineffectually and then turning her nails and teeth on any piece of the legionary she could reach. How dare they treat her this way? Anger and despair overrode common sense and Jilana cursed them soundly, albeit breathlessly, first with the Roman gods and then with the Celtic ones. She was Roman, damn them! A citizen! She doubted she could say the same for either one of her attackers. They would not become citizens until they fulfilled their enlistment.

  “Stop it, you little she-cat,” the legionary growled when Jilana’s struggles threatened to unbalance him. The next moment he howled in pain as Jilana’s teeth sank into his wrist and hung on. He released her briefly in order to deliver a glancing blow to the side of her head.

  Bright sparks of color danced in front of Jilana’s eyes and she felt herself crumpling to her knees. Her mouth tasted salty and faintly coppery, and she realized she had bitten into the legionary’s wrist hard enough to draw blood. Groggy from the blow, she raised her head and tried to focus on the soldier. “I
am Jilana Augusta Basilius. I was taken prisoner at the outbreak of the rebellion. You must believe me!”

  In response the legionary wrapped an arm around her waist and tossed her into the cell. The fall knocked the air out of Jilana’s lungs and she could only shake her head feebly when the soldier stated, “No refugee that has made it here has managed to do so on horseback, nor did they use the Britons’ language. And even if I had been inclined to believe your story, the way you fight and curse would have caused me to change my mind.”

  The cell door closed behind the legionary with a thudding finality that momentarily stopped Jilana’s heart. The bolt shot home and she lay motionless, listening as the two men departed. Gradually she realized that the floor of the cell was damp and cold and she turned her head to examine the dim cell. In the far corner was a mound of straw and a wooden bucket, neither of them too clean if her nose was any indication; the air was heavy with the scent of urine, perspiration, and other odors she had no desire to place. The room was devoid of any other comforts. A weary fatalism overcame Jilana and, in spite of her aching head, she knew that in a matter of moments she was going to fall asleep. The last of her energy had been exhausted on the legionary and she needed to rest. She dragged herself to the straw pallet and sank into its prickly depths with a strangled sob. Her last thought was the hope that her mare had fared better at the legionary’s hands than she had.

  ****