Propelled forward by the crowd, they traveled to the heart of the city where the temple stood. Faline stumbled as they were pushed up the steps and only Jilana’s firm grip kept her from falling. There was no gradual slowing, as was usual in a crowd. One minute she and Faline were being borne along and the next they were motionless, backed against one of the towering marble columns that rose to the ceiling and formed the colonnade. In front of her, above the heads of others, Jilana could just see the stone altar which had been set in front of the entrance to the anteroom and the fire which blazed upon it.
“Every sacrifice has been the same,” Faline informed her. “The organs of all the sacrifices have been free of blemish or disease, a good sign. The augur says that is a sign that the Divine Claudius will see to it that Camulodunum will be spared the rebellion. Do you believe him?”
Jilana forced herself to nod, but secretly she harbored doubts that the late Emperor Claudius had ascended to the heights where Jupiter ruled. Her thoughts were diverted by the arrival of the priests and the highly decorated sacrifice. The ox stood docilely before the altar while the priests washed their hands with sacred water and dried them on linen cloths, and even before the herald’s ritual command for silence, the only sound was the steady music of the flute. Their heads covered with the folds of their togas, the priests took up the square wooden platter that held the mola salsa, the sacred flour mixed with salt, and sprinkled the mixture between the horns of the animal and onto the sacrificial knife. Two attendants stripped the ox of its decorations while a third drew a knife along the animal’s back from head to tail. The high priest began to chant the prayer, and as his voice rose, so did the tension of the assemblage. Jilana’s fingers curled into the palms of her hands as the prayer rose to a final crescendo and she stared, transfixed, as a junior priest advanced upon the altar with a hammer in his outstretched hands and stood to the right of the animal.
“Do I strike?” The lesser priest’s traditional question sucked the air from Jilana’s lungs and she barely heard the high priest’s affirmative reply. With a lithe movement, the priest swung the hammer high above his head and dealt the ox a well-aimed blow which stunned the animal and brought it to its knees. An image of Caddaric falling beneath her own blow replaced the scene in front of Jilana and the pain that mental image caused sliced through her heart. She closed her eyes, willing the vision away, and when she opened them again the ox’s throat had been cut. A murmur of appreciation rose up from the people at the clean kill and Jilana drew a shuddering breath. She had never witnessed the sacrifice of so large an animal and she quickly averted her eyes as the priests began the task of dismembering and dissecting the ox. The internal organs were removed. They were, examined and found free of disease or blemish. And, as Faline had said, the augur repeated his prediction of safety for Camulodunum. The organs and pieces of the carcass were now put into the flames for the god’s consumption. The odor of burning meat spread and Jilana turned aside as it reached her nostrils and made her feel distinctly lightheaded.
Around Jilana conversation had broken out, voices punctuated with laughter as people hurried to reassure each other that they were surely safe from the Iceni rebellion. But in spite of the bright words there was an underlying despair among the Romans that made Jilana nervous. Without waiting for the ceremony to end, or to see if Faline followed, Jilana forced her way through the crowd toward the street. She ignored the angry looks and caustic insults directed her way, conscious only of an overwhelming need to get away from the temple and the death it represented.
By the time she extricated herself from the crowd and could breathe fresh air, Jilana was pale and shaken and covered with a cold film of perspiration. Remembering Faline she looked back, and was trapped in a vision so terrifyingly real that she could not breathe.
Flames rose from the roof of the temple, consuming wood with a ferocious crackling that drowned out the sounds of the dying. Bodies littered the steps of the temple, their blood staining the marble steps. At the head of the stairs, a group of men employed a battering ram against the closed double doors of the temple. As section after section of the roof collapsed, more screams were heard and the men and women who walked the street with their bloody swords dangling from their hands laughed.
“Mistress?”
Jilana gasped at the touch on her arm and she looked down at Faline’s questioning face. Faline! Jilana jerked her gaze back to the temple and felt the earth rock under her feet. All was exactly as it had been—the temple, the crowd, the priests, the flames rising from the altar. She shivered despite the morning sunlight, the cold emanating from the very marrow of her bones. There was no refuge here, only certain death. Boadicea would come, and when she was finished the capital and all its inhabitants would be dead; Jilana knew this with the same dreadful certainty that had possessed her when she had dreamed of Mona.
“Mistress?” Faline said again and Jilana forced her thoughts back to the present.
“I must speak with the centurion,” Jilana said in a hoarse voice.
“He would be with his men,” Faline answered with a frown. “At work on the earthwall.”
“Show me,” Jilana ordered.
“Nay, mistress.” Faline’s eyes widened in shock. “The centurion said I should return you to your room.”
Jilana shook her head and whirled away. “I must speak with him, Faline. Tis vital.”
Wondering what to do, Faline stood uncertainly in the street as Jilana walked away. The centurion would surely be angry if she allowed Jilana to continue alone, and yet he would be just as angry if Faline accompanied Jilana to the earthwall. With a heartfelt sigh, Faline started after Jilana. She would stay close enough to keep Jilana in sight but far enough away to avoid the centurion’s wrath. She was, after all, only a slave, and if she did not have a care for herself no one else would.
As Faline had predicted, Jilana found Centurion Tarpeius reviewing the progress of his defenses, and had she been less upset she would have seen his normally austere expression turn grim at her approach. Hadrian muttered a word of dismissal to his aide and sent a warning glare at three legionaries who had paused in their labors to appreciate Jilana’s arrival. When the soldiers had returned to work, Hadrian allowed himself the luxury of turning his own admiring gaze toward the young woman. Last night she had been disheveled, travel-worn and badly treated by his command; he had pitied her and taken her under his protection because honor demanded it. The stola had been purchased from the governor-general’s mistress for the same reason. How could he have known that the color would prove a perfect foil for the hair that now shimmered red-gold in the sunlight? At thirty-eight years of age—twenty of which had been spent in his country’s service in the far-flung reaches of the Empire— Hadrian had never met a woman who stopped the breath in his throat the way this one now did. With an effort, he subdued that unexpected surge of emotion and by the time Jilana reached him, Hadrian wore his usual stern expression.
“Greetings, mistress.” Though he did not unbend enough to smile, there was a soft note in Hadrian’s voice.
“Centurion.” Jilana inclined her head slightly. “I must speak with you.”
Hadrian shifted uncomfortably on the single crutch supporting his injured left leg. “Can it wait until the noon leal, mistress? Certain details here require my attention.”
“Nay, it cannot,” Jilana interrupted. “Please, Centurion, ‘tis important.”
With a grunt of resignation, Hadrian nodded and led Jilana away from the working men to a spot of relative privacy. “Very well, mistress. Now tell me what is so urgent it could not wait.”
Jilana clasped her hands in front of her, uncertain how to begin, how to convince this man that she had not taken leave of her senses. “Boadicea will come to Camulodunum.”
Hadrian looked at her questioningly. “You have remembered more than you told me last night?”
“Nay.” Jilana shook her head. “But I know she will come. You must evacuate the c
ity, Centurion, or all here will be killed.”
A chill presentiment raced down Hadrian’s spine at her words, but he shook it off. “You are overwrought, mistress. You need to rest and in a few days…”
“In a few days we will all be dead,” Jilana cried. Her outburst drew curious looks their way and Jilana forced self to speak calmly. “The city is doomed, Centurion, but there is still time to save the people. Surely there are other cities nearby, perhaps even a legionary fortress, which afford more protection than Camulodunum.”
Hadrian cut off her speech with an impatient gesture. “So I am to evacuate the several thousand citizens of this city because you doubt the protection it affords,” he inquired angrily. “And how, mistress, am I to protect a column of that size with less than three hundred legionaries when you doubt I can use those same soldiers to protect a town that will soon be surrounded by a defensible rampart?” Hadrian drew rein on his temper, knowing that his anger stemmed, in part, from the fear that he would not be able to defend the city. “Forgive my outburst, but you must see that I cannot abandon the possibility of saving both Camulodunum and its citizens simply because one young refugee thinks she knows Boadicea’s mind.”
“You do not understand.” Jilana drew a deep breath before continuing. “I have seen the city’s destruction, Centurion. In spite of your efforts, Boadicea will take the city.”
“You have seen—” Hadrian frowned down at Jilana. “Are you saying you have had a vision?”
Disbelief was so clear in his voice that Jilana felt herself redden. “Aye, Centurion.”
Relieved, Hadrian chuckled. “Mistress, since news of the uprising reached us, I have been besieged by citizens claiming to have had one vision or another.”
“You do not believe me.”
“I believe you have lived through a terrible experience,” Hadrian replied gently, “and are justifiably frightened at the thought of undergoing such an ordeal again. I believe this fear is playing tricks on your mind.”
Jilana swallowed her disappointment. She would never convince the centurion of the truth of her vision. “I thank you for the kindness you have shown me, Centurion, but I know what I know. If you will order my mare released from the stable, I will leave for Londinium immediately. And, if you could spare a man to accompany me…” Her voice trailed off as a grim expression settled across the .centurion’s face, and an instant later his hand wrapped painfully around her arm.
“Even if I could spare a man—which I cannot—I would not allow you to undertake such a journey. With the Britons traveling to join Boadicea, I doubt even a full century can travel safely.”
“You have no right to keep me here,” Jilana argued heatedly. “I am not your prisoner.”
“Tis my responsibility to keep you and the others safe,” Hadrian growled, giving Jilana a shake. “And right now, Camulodunum is far safer than the countryside! I have sent messengers to Lindum and to the governor-general; with luck, reinforcements from the Ninth at Lindum will reach us before Boadicea does.”
“Centurion—”
“I will hear no more of this. If necessary, mistress, I will place you under guard.” Releasing her arm, Hadrian said in a softer tone, “I fear you must stay in my quarters until this is over; the inns are filled with refugees and citizens are wary of taking in strangers at this time.” When Jilana nodded and would have walked away, he added, “I will keep you safe, lady; do not fear.”
Jilana walked back into the city in a daze, resigned at last to whatever fate the gods had in store for her. For the last two weeks she had fought for her life and subdued the terror she felt only to have the centurion’s misplaced sense of responsibility seal her fate. She could fight no longer.
Before Jilana was out of sight, Hadrian signaled his aide to join him. “Go to the stable; leave orders that Lady Jilana is not to be given her mount.” The aide saluted and hurried off and Hadrian turned back to the preparations.
****
As was his nature, Caddaric awoke quickly at the moment of sunrise, alert to his surroundings although his eyes remained closed. An instant later he cursed his wakefulness, for a sensation akin to having a battle-axe buried in his forehead radiated pain throughout his body. The battle-axe was a perfect counterpoint to the tender lump at the back of his skull. He turned his head to the side and groaned softly at the resultant nausea. Warily, Caddaric forced his eyes to open into narrow slits and regarded the brown blur directly in his line of vision. Gradually the blur came into focus and he realized he was staring at a tree. With that realization came the knowledge that last night he had broken every one of his self-imposed rules and given vent to a fine display of Celtic temper.
It had been the sight of the leather tent in the cart that had ignited his anger and made him swing at Heall. The older man had had no way of knowing that the tent had been intended to allow Jilana and himself a measure of privacy, Caddaric reflected morosely, and Heall had been confused by his sudden attack. The tent, Heall had reminded him, had been confiscated from the small garrison supplies at Venta Icenorum by Caddaric himself. Heall had simply packed it in the cart with the rest of the provisions for the march. By the time Heall had finished his explanation, the older man’s jaw-was bruised and Caddaric was flat on his back on the ground beneath the combined weight of four warriors, being warned by his chieftain that fighting was now punishable by banishment. Embarrassed, Caddaric had apologized, and Heall had accepted by producing a cask of wine from his portion of the booty. The successful completion of the first six days of the march was cause for celebration, Heall had reasoned, and Caddaric concurred. With their backs against the wheel, they had broken open the cask and begun the celebration.
The afternoon had darkened into evening and others had wandered over to join them. Someone lit a fire, another cask of wine appeared, and the evening meal had been a mixture of venison, cheese and wheat cakes. The wheat cakes, however, served as another reminder of Jilana and Caddaric had hurled his into the fire and turned his full attention to lowering the level, of wine in the cask. Events following the meal were rather vague. He remembered trading barbs and jests with the rest of the company, and joining in the ribald songs with unnatural exuberance which did nothing to lessen the hollow ache in his chest.
The gods curse his treacherous, red-haired witch, Caddaric thought now with a resurgence of impotent fury. She was responsible for the emptiness that gnawed at him by day and tortured him by night. She was fortunate that the march had prevented him from hunting her down and beating her senseless. His eyes burned and Caddaric squeezed them shut, denying the sadness that appeared in the wake of his rage. Why had she run? Had his promise of protection meant nothing? Surely she understood that he would never allow Lhwyd to lay so much as a finger upon her. Or, Caddaric winced, had it been not Lhwyd’s touch but his own that had frightened her into that desperate escape? Caddaric knew he was not the most artful of lovers, but had he disgusted Jilana?
Caddaric was drawn from his thoughts by a rustling at his side. Cautiously, he turned his head to the other side and opened his eyes. Ede lay beside him, her green eyes wide and watchful. Above the blanket which was thrown over both of them, her shoulders were bare and Caddaric realized belatedly that he was naked beneath the blanket. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the amount of wine he had consumed, Caddaric watched as Ede pressed herself firmly against his side and began drawing idle patterns on his chest. She was as naked as he.
“How long have you been here?” Caddaric’s voice grated like a rusted hinge.
Ede smiled and draped a leg across his thigh. “All night. Do you not remember?”
Caddaric dimly remembered staggering away from the campsite when his thoughts of Jilana had proved too distracting for the celebration. Had Ede followed? Aye, she had, Caddaric groaned inwardly, for now he remembered kissing her in the vain hope that she would drive the thoughts of his violet-eyed witch from his mind. Ah gods, what else had he done
? Ede’s leg moved in a blatant, erotic gesture and Caddaric caught at her hand when it started to disappear beneath the blanket. “Ede, nay.”
Ede blinked in surprise. “But last night—”
“—was a mistake,” Caddaric interrupted, aware of the flush staining his cheekbones. His physical response to Ede was growing more obvious by the moment and it shamed him. Damn, where was his tunic? “I am sorry.”
“As well you should be.” Ede snatched her hand away and pushed herself up on one arm to glare at him in mock outrage. “Tis not like you to drink so much that you fall asleep during a kiss.” A lazy smile curled her lips and she slid provocatively upward against his body. “In truth, I did not mind; preparing you for bed was most enjoyable. And I recalled your morning appetite is not limited to food.”
“Then last night we did not mate?” Caddaric asked bluntly, and unconsciously held his breath for her answer.
“Nay, but I forgive you,” Ede teased, not the least embarrassed and oblivious to the look of relief that passed, across Caddaric’s features. “I know you will make up for it now.” Once again her hand drifted under the blanket.
Caddaric snared her hand and pushed her firmly away. “Nay, Ede. I thank you for caring for me last night but I will not repay you in this manner. Where is my tunic?”
Ede stared at him in disbelief which, as she realized that Caddaric had no intention of bedding her, turned to anger. With a low cry she kicked aside the blanket and rose to her knees. Her green eyes swept the length of him and settled upon his tumescent manhood. “Why do you deny that you want me?” she demanded, shifting her gaze to his face. “I have missed you in my bed, and ‘tis obvious that you have missed me as well.” When he shook his head, Ede taunted, “Your Roman did not know how to please you, did she? Did she faint at the sight of you, the Iceni barbarian? Did she threaten to kill herself if you but touched her?”
Defy the Eagle Page 22
