Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Night had come to Camulodunum, but darkness did not halt the furious activity of the legionaries and able-bodied citizens just outside the city. For the past four days they had worked day and night with shovels and picks in order to carve out a ditch and build an earth wall around the city. The vallation was barely halfway around the city, the progress slowing as the men grew exhausted from their labors.

  Centurion Hadrian Tarpeius, his brown eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed from lack of sleep and hard physical work looked on as long, wooden spikes were embedded in the sides of the ditch. Which direction would the Iceni queen choose? Hadrian asked himself yet again. North, to engage the Ninth? Or south, to overrun helpless cities? Daily, Hadrian prayed that she would have the conceit to take on the northern Legion, but the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach warned him otherwise. A fall from a horse had broken his leg, preventing him from accompanying his century to the battle for Mona. From his tent he had watched them march away under the auspices of his second-in-command and cursed the fact that he was to recuperate in Camulodunum as post commander of the token force quartered there.

  He had barely accustomed himself to the crutches when the first survivors of Venta lcenorum had straggled into the capital. Their news of the rebellion had come as a shock, but he had not worried overmuch. He dispatched a messenger to Lindum, asking for reinforcements from the Ninth’s commander, Petilius Cerealis, and had sent a similar message to the Procurator, Catus Decianus. As yet there had been no answer from Lindum, nor had his own messenger returned. Hadrian had to assume that the soldier had been killed before reaching his destination. From Londinium had come his messenger, an additional two hundred men to bolster the ranks of the eighty legionaries under his command, and word that Catus Decianus had fled to Rutupiae and taken ship to Gaul. At that moment, Hadrian would have sold his soul to Hades to have that greedy coward Decianus in his power. That worm had loosed the Furies upon Britannia and run to safety.

  Would this meager attempt at defense succeed? he wondered now. Mithras, it had to! Two hundred and eighty men—perhaps a hundred more if he counted the veterans who had retired near the city to the plots of land given to them at the end of their service—to defend a city of several thousand. And the bulk of the male civilians would prove useless, even if he could equip them. They were government parasites; soft, fat men who would undoubtedly turn tail and run at the first clash of weapons.

  The earthwall and the deadly ditch behind it would be the city’s first line of defense. Once completed only a narrow causeway would connect the city to the surrounding plain and the Iceni would pay dearly for every foot of the causeway they took. Hadrian sighed and shook his head. His command would be spread too thin around the city’s perimeter to stave off any concerted attack, despite the effects of the lethal spikes. It would only be a matter of time before the Iceni realized that they had to span the ditch, and once they did Camulodunum would be theirs for the taking.

  Hadrian turned and hobbled back to the diggers. He would have to send another messenger to Lindum. And pray. Along the way, the centurion paused at some of the campfires to talk to his men and offer encouragement. His outward confidence was infectious and he left the soldiers in better spirits than he had found them. At the last fire, he overheard a conversation between several legionaries that brought him up short.

  Turning as fast as his crutches would allow, he sought out the speaker and barked, “What did you say, soldier?”

  The legionary paled and rose hastily to his feet. “Centurion?”

  “What did you say about a prisoner, soldier?” Hadrian hobbled closer and pushed his face close to the other’s. The man’s cheek bore four, wicked scratches. “What prisoner?”

  “Th-the Iceni woman,” the legionary stuttered. Hadrian’s temper and harsh discipline were legendary throughout the Twentieth Victrix Legion. He was the primipilus—literally, “first spear,” the senior centurion of the first cohort of the legion. His authority was second only to the legion’s commander. For all purposes, this man’s word was law within the legion. All this raced through the legionary’s mind as he sought to form his answer. “A woman—an Iceni woman who swears she is Roman—came to the town today and I took her prisoner.”

  Hadrian’s face set in austere lines and when he spoke his voice was deceptively quiet. “You did what?”

  The soldier’s mouth went dry at the mild tone. He knew from experience that the quieter a primipilus became, the more trouble he was in. His voice cracked when he answered, “I took her prisoner and left her in the jail.”

  “When?”

  “L-late this afternoon.”

  “And why,” Hadrian asked mildly, “do you believe this woman to be Iceni when she claims to be Roman?”

  The legionary gave his reasons but they suddenly sounded weak and unconvincing. If his judgment of the woman was wrong, he would be doing forced drills under the weight of his forty-pound field pack for the rest of his enlistment. With that thought in mind, the legionary grudgingly gave his name when the centurion asked it, and was reassured when Hadrian did nothing more than nod curtly and walk off into the night.

  Because of the crutches, it took Hadrian longer than usual to return to Camulodunum, and with each step he cursed the misguided intentions of the young soldier with whom he had just spoken. Whoever the woman was, she was a valuable source of information—information that could affect his strategy; information that had been delayed for several hours. Upon reaching his office within the garrison, Hadrian ordered his subordinate—one of those useless tribunes sent by the Senate—to the jail to retrieve the prisoner, then sank wearily onto the hard chair behind his desk. Grimacing, he dropped the crutches to the floor and glared at them. His leg ached and he gingerly massaged the flesh that could be reached without disturbing the splints. A measure of opium would relieve the pain, but he dared not use the drug, not until he had interrogated the prisoner. Hadrian settled instead for a cup of wine from the supply his predecessor had left behind. The wine was Egyptian, dark and strong and sweet, and it eased the hollowness in his gut. Hadrian was refilling the copper cup when the office door swung open.

  Jilana paused just inside the doorway and when the tribune shoved her impatiently forward she whirled and glared at him. She was angry enough at her treatment and frightened enough of her future to be arrogant when the man behind the desk—a centurion, judging by his helmet—ordered her to sit. “I need a bath,” Jilana informed him haughtily. “My cell was alive with vermin. And I demand to know why I have been treated in such an appalling manner!”

  Hadrian blinked in astonishment at the brazen display. The furious little creature in front of him was no Iceni, of that he was certain. Her clothes and speech were obviously Roman, her hauteur too clearly inbred to be feigned. Carefully, Hadrian replaced the jar of wine.

  “Who are you?”

  The simple question shocked Jilana into temporary silence. For the first time in nearly two weeks she was being neither bullied nor harassed, and in the moments it took her to assimilate that fact she was aware of the fact that the legionary was studying her intently. “I am Jilana Augusta Basilius, first daughter of Marcus Basilius, the merchant. Our home was Venta Icenorum.”

  Hadrian considered repeating his offer of a chair, but decided against it. The girl before him in the dirty russet cloak had expended the last of her physical reserves and was functioning now only by the force of her will. He had seen too many men in her condition to allow her to relax now. When she had answered his questions she could collapse. “I am told that when you arrived here you spoke Briton.”

  “Is that a crime?” Jilana flared. “I was born on this island. I speak the Britons’ tongue with the same ease I speak Latin. Since the night of the revolt I have been held prisoner by the Iceni and in order to communicate with them I spoke their language. I am guilty of having forgotten myself with your men, but I have done nothing to deserve being treated like a criminal!”

  Hadrian nodde
d and sipped thoughtfully at his wine. “Other survivors from Venta have found their way here. They were less fortunate than you, however; they came to us on foot.”

  “I stole the horse from my father’s stable the night of Boadicea’s feast,” Jilana explained warily.

  “Then you were not watched, or kept in chains?”

  Jilana looked away from Hadrian’s eyes. “The Iceni who claimed me sent me away when the Druid began his sacrifices.”

  Hadrian’s eyebrows arched inquisitively. “That was kind of him.”

  “Aye,” Jilana whispered, remembering that Caddaric had truly wished to spare her. How he must hate her for her treachery!

  At the haunted expression on her face, Hadrian decided against pressing for further details of her escape. “You are the only one of your family to have survived?”

  Jilana nodded, sudden tears welling in her eyes. “My parents, sister, my betrothed—all were killed the night of the uprising. I was spared because I had once shown kindness to the Queen.”

  Hadrian rose awkwardly to his feet and, using one crutch to support his injured leg, poured a second cup of wine and came around the desk to hand it to Jilana. “You are weary, I know. Only a few more questions and you can rest.”

  The wine ran smoothly down her throat and warmed her empty stomach. “Will you send me back to the jail?”

  “Nay,” Hadrian answered with a brief smile. “You are no Iceni spy, are you?”

  Jilana shook her head and, as relief swept over her, sank gratefully into the chair Hadrian had first offered. The centurion believed her; she was safe. His smile was devastating for it was reminiscent of Caddaric’s—a slight curving of lips that were more accustomed to being set in a harsh line. Jilana mercilessly drove the thought of Caddaric away and swallowed more wine. Hadrian would help her leave Britannia and she would put the nightmare and Caddaric behind her. The wine’s warmth spread through her limbs, relaxing her further. Hadrian was asking questions, questions about horses and warriors. Jilana was not certain she replied, but perhaps she did for the answers she heard were in her own voice. How many did Boadicea have at her command? A thousand, with more coming to join the war band. Questions about the Iceni Queen. Did Boadicea plan to march? Aye. Where? When? I do not known their destination. But when? When, mistress? Three days past. The questions continued until Jilana’s head spun. At some point the questions became amusing and she laughed, wondering that Hadrian could think she would know anything about arms and food provisions and water.

  Gently, Hadrian removed the wine cup from Jilana’s slender hand and placed it on the desk. Jilana Basilius was exhausted and, judging from the mixture of laughter and tears, feeling the might of the Egyptian wine. If she knew anything else—which Hadrian doubted—‘twould not be learned this night. Consolingly, he ran a hand through her hair and was surprised when she raised her head to look at him.

  “I have been so frightened, Centurion.”

  Her words were as fuzzy as her gaze and Hadrian smiled. His hand thrust through her hair and he massaged the back of her neck. “I will keep you safe, mistress.”

  “Aye.” Jilana turned her head so that her cheek rested in the rough palm. His statement was vaguely familiar, but the effort to remember who had once said the same thing to her and why was too great, so she simply accepted the comfort his words offered.

  For a moment Hadrian stood motionless, transfixed by the beauty that was visible beneath the dirt, and the trust she gave so easily. His body was hardening in response and Hadrian wished, fleetingly, that Jilana was other than what she was; that he could take her to his bed, take solace from her body and forget, for a little while, the responsibilities of his command. Ruthlessly, Hadrian killed the longing inside him and shook Jilana lightly. When her eyes opened, his face was as implacable as it had ever been. “Tomorrow I will settle you in a civilian home, but for tonight you will have to tolerate what the military can offer. You may use my quarters; I will have the tribune escort you.”

  Hadrian disappeared from her sight and Jilana heard him open the door and call for the tribune. There was a low murmur of masculine voices and then she was being helped to her feet and led through the building into the night air. The tribune’s hand on her arm was respectful, a vivid contrast to the way he had escorted her from her cell. At a small, one-story building he drew to a stop, opened the door and preceded her inside to light a lamp. Jilana stepped inside and sagged against the wall.

  “The bedchamber is through that door.” The tribune gestured toward the wood panel. “Are you hungry?”

  Jilana wearily shook her head. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed.

  “The centurion has ordered a guard to be placed outside the door, for your protection,” he added hastily at the look of fear that crossed her face. “He will bring you anything you may desire. Sleep well.”

  “My horse?” Jilana asked when the tribune was at the threshold.

  “In the garrison stable, I would imagine,” the tribune replied. “If you wish I will check.”

  “Please. A small, bay mare.” The tribune nodded and left and Jilana closed the door behind him.

  Taking the lamp from the low table, Jilana walked through the spartan room and opened the door to the bedchamber. This room was equally austere, but Jilana barely noticed. A small stand held a ewer of water and basin and Jilana gratefully stripped off her soiled clothing and washed as thoroughly as possible. When she had dried herself, she turned back the covers and crawled onto the rope cot. The mattress was not as full as her own, nor were the linens as fine, but Jilana did not care. Sleep claimed her immediately.

  Jilana awoke the following morning to discover she was not alone in the bedchamber. A young girl sat on the single, hard chair in the room, staring at Jilana with avid curiosity.

  “Centurion Tarpeius sent me,” the girl explained in a bright voice. “I have brought you a clean stola to wear while I launder your own clothes. I am Faline.”

  Jilana managed a weak smile and sat up, clutching the sheet to her breast. “Centurion Tarpeius?”

  “You met him last night,” Faline reminded her. “He said I was to let you sleep, but since you are awake, are you hungry?”

  While Jilana nodded, Faline scurried off the chair and out of the room. A moment later she returned carrying a silver tray laden with fruit, fresh bread, honey, preserves, cheese and wine. She set the tray on the table beside the bed and reached behind Jilana to plump up her pillow. Jilana sat upright and tucked the linen around her as securely as possible. The tray came to rest upon her lap and Jilana was shocked to discover that she was ravenous. She sampled the bread and preserves first and then proceeded to investigate the other delicacies. Faline half-filled a cup with wine and cut it with water from a second jar while her charge ate.

  “When you are finished, I will take you to the bath. Centurion Tarpeius sends his apology that he could not provide you last night with the bath you requested.”

  Jilana paused in mid-bite and looked into Faline’s guileless eyes. Apparently the centurion had not disclosed her ignominious arrival. Jilana was grateful for his consideration.

  When Jilana was finished with her meal, she dressed in her old stola and followed Faline to the public baths. There she was steamed, massaged, oiled and strigiled until the last ache disappeared from her muscles and she felt deliriously clean. The stola Faline slipped over her head was of soft, light wool dyed a pale green; its excess length was caught up by a leather belt decorated with bronze. Faline discarded Jilana’s stained shoes with a disdainful wrinkling of her nose and offered in their place a pair of heeled sandals, dyed a deeper green than the stola, with low side pieces that were fastened with criss-cross thongs and tied at the ankle. It was when Faline stepped back to admire her handiwork that Jilana became aware of the muted conversations going on around her and the frosty looks sent her way. Since none of the other women in the bath knew her, indeed, had not bothered to introduce themselves, their reaction p
uzzled Jilana. Next, Faline took a brush and comb to Jilana’s freshly washed hair and worked the snarls from its length. Faline’s ministrations brought back memories of Caddaric—their lovemaking in her family’s bath, his patient labor with her hair—and Jilana sought refuge in conversation with Faline.

  “The clothes are from the centurion,” Faline replied in response to Jilana’s question. “He bought them from my mistress this morning. He will be most upset that the gown is too long.”

  Surprised that the centurion had gone to so much trouble on her behalf, Jilana brushed aside the matter of the gown’s length. “Who is your mistress, Faline?”

  The brush ceased its movement and Faline leaned down to murmur against Jilana’s ear, “She is the mistress of Suetonius Paulinus.”

  A rush of blood warmed Jilana’s cheeks and she bent her head to study the weave of her gown. That explained the reaction of the other women. No doubt they recognized Faline and had determined that Jilana was of the same ilk as Suetonius’ mistress. Well let them, Jilana decided with a resurgence of spirit. She lifted her head and looked haughtily around the room until even the coldest gazes fell away. These women knew nothing of her, of what she had endured, and she would soon be on her way to the port of Londinium to take ship for Rome. Let them think what they pleased and Hades take them!

  Upon leaving the bath, the two women found the street filled with people and Faline grasped Jilana’s arm to keep from being separated. They stepped into the street, intending to return to the garrison but the flow of traffic was

  against them and they made little progress. “Where are they going?” Jilana questioned when they were rudely jostled aside yet again.

  “To the temple,” Faline panted. Smaller than Jilana and clutching Jilana’s soiled clothing as well, she fared much worse in fighting the tide. “Every morning since we learned of the rebellion, the priests have sacrificed an ox to Claudius.”

  Jilana tried to force a path through the human wall in front of her. Beside her, Faline lent her slight weight to the effort but to no avail. They were firmly repulsed and Faline was in imminent danger of being trampled underfoot. “‘Tis senseless,” Jilana decided. Covering Faline’s hand with her own, she turned back the way they had come.