“Enough, Ede,” Caddaric snarled. Despite his body’s protests, he rolled awkwardly to his feet and located his clothing. “What passed between Jilana and me is none of your concern.” With quick, efficient movements he wrapped the loincloth about his hips and shrugged into his tunic.
“When you hold me in your arms and call me by her name, it becomes my concern,” Ede threw back at him. “That Roman bitch is the reason you will not bed me. I pray she is dead!” The cold look Caddaric gave her made Ede self-conscious and she drew the blanket around her, averting her eyes.
Caddaric looked away also, his eyes darkening as he studied the straggling stand of trees where they had spent the night, and considered her words. Ede was right. While his body might welcome the release to be found in any woman, his mind wanted only Jilana. What kind of a spell had his Roman witch woven that he could not forget her? “We should go back to the camp,” he said at last.
“Go then,” Ede spat at Caddaric’s broad back, her tone not betraying the tears in her green eyes. “With your precious Jilana for company, you have no need of me. Go and pack that stupid tent you found for her, the one she will never see. Break your fast with Heall; you can both mourn her leaving and your aching heads and forget that she did not gently bid you farewell—she hated us so much that she broke a shovel over your thick head and
escaped!
Caddaric whirled without a word and strode back to the camp. Behind him, Ede buried her face in the blanket and gave way to her tears. When the tears were spent, she wrapped her warrior’s pride about her like a shield. She wiped away the wetness on her cheeks, dressed and folded the blanket, then she followed Caddaric, her head held high. She would allow none to see how deeply her heart and pride had been hurt by Caddaric’s rejection.
She found the camp preparing to march. Caddaric stood on one side of the cart he shared with Heall and Clywd, chewing a mouthful of grain. At her approach he washed the grain down with the water with which he had refilled his wineskin and straightened. “Ede. I—”
“You forgot the blanket,” Ede interrupted. Avoiding his eyes she tossed the blanket into the cart and walked away, her spine stiff with pride.
She would go to Lhwyd, Caddaric guessed with a sigh, or Artair. He scooped a handful of grain from the sack in the cart and chewed it thoughtfully. He had no desire to hurt Ede, but she continually brought the pain upon herself. If only the gods would see fit to send a man who would be strong enough to take her to wife, Caddaric thought, and then he brightened. Surely in Boadicea’s war band there was one warrior who could catch Ede’s eye.
After a last drink, Caddaric slung the wineskin over his shoulders and walked to where his horse was staked. The grain had settled his stomach, and as Caddaric saddled his mount he unwillingly remembered the forced marches in the legion, when they had moved for days with grain and water their only meals. That was exactly what Suetonius Paulinus would do once word of the rebellion reached him. The thought made him impatient with the lumbering pace of the war band. Their ranks swelled every day, and with the growing numbers came the impossibility of swift execution of any maneuvers. If Paulinus ever succeeded in trapping the column, which, Caddaric admitted, was not likely, the Iceni would be cut to pieces by the legion’s rapid deployment. And if Paulinus brought not only his infantry, but an ala of cavalry as well, the Iceni would be cut to pieces. The presentiment of danger was so unexpected and so strong that Caddaric found his hands trembling as he tightened the girth on the horse.
“Ah, gods!”
The low, agonized rumble jarred Caddaric from his bleak thoughts and he looked over his shoulder to see Heall stumbling toward him. A faint smile touched Caddaric’s mouth at the sight of Heall’s red-rimmed eyes and pained expression. In the face of Heall’s suffering, his own headache diminished. Leaning an arm against the saddle, he nodded sympathetically as Heall leaned against the horse’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Mayhap you should ride in the cart, my friend,” Caddaric suggested.
“Nay,” Heall croaked. “Clywd would only try to force one of his vile potions down my throat; ‘tis the disadvantage of having a healer for a friend.” He drew a shuddering breath and squinted up at Caddaric. “I must be getting old, lad; a night spent lifting a drinking cup should not leave me at Annwn’s gate.”
Caddaric chuckled, and was only faintly surprised when Clywd’s soft laughter joined in. There were times when Caddaric wondered if his father could conjure himself wherever he wished. Turning, he watched Clywd glide forward with his usual easy grace. The cart horse, Caddaric noted, meekly followed his father without benefit of halter or harness.
“So, you both survived the night,” Clywd commented, his blue eyes glinting. “Heall, my friend, your face is nearly the same color as your beard.”
Caddaric gave a muffled laugh. Heall’s face was, indeed, a dull gray which reflected the silver of his beard. Affronted, Heall drew himself shakily upright and went to tend his horse. Caddaric grasped the reins of his mount in one hand and walked beside his father to the cart. “How do you manage that?” he asked, indicating the trailing horse. “Magic?”
Clywd laughed softly and shrugged. “Beasts trust me. ‘Tis a gift.”
“Like the sight.”
The impatient statement made Clywd sigh as he reached for the leather harness. How had he created a son who believed only in what he could touch or see? Jilana believed, Clywd thought with a sudden pang; he had seen it in her eyes, read the knowledge in her mind. She believed because she, too, had the gift of sight; but like a fledgling she feared stepping into the world beyond her nest.
“We will reach the city by nightfall,” Caddaric offered by way of apology for his brusqueness. “I want to camp well back from the battlefield.”
“Why?” Clywd asked. There was great competition for the limited space just behind the front lines; everyone knew the best observation sites were at the fringe of the battlefield, and the privilege of viewing the combat was hotly contested.
Caddaric adjusted the final buckle on the harness and rounded the horse to stand in front of his father. “There is always the possibility of defeat,” he answered grimly.
“Should that happen, you must flee since you will not fight.”
“You want me to desert you and Heall.” Clywd frowned. “I am no coward, Caddaric.”
“I did not name you such,” Caddaric insisted. Tentatively, he placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. This was the first time he had touched his father in several years and he was struck by Clywd’s frailty. “Your brothers fought because it was allowed in defence of the sacred island, but your vows forbid you to enter into battle and take a life. If the Romans break through our lines, you, a Druid, will be a great prize. I do not want to chance you falling into their hands by reason of having no avenue of escape.”
A smile lightened Clywd’s face and he covered his son’s hand with his own. “I will do as you wish, unless there are injured who need me. Then I cannot remain safely in the rear.”
“Agreed.” Caddaric squeezed the frail shoulder and then self-consciously withdrew his hand. Turning away, he untied his horse from the cart and swung into the saddle with easy grace. “If you like, Heall and I will ride back and take the midday meal with you.”
Clywd nodded, a pleased expression on his face. Heall and Caddaric were in the Queen’s vanguard, a position of pride, and Caddaric had taken his noon meals with the advance body. Until today. Throwing a jaunty salute, Caddaric wheeled his mount and trotted off.
Caddaric joined an uncomfortable-looking Heall and together they rode toward the place where the vanguard was forming up. Approximately ten miles remained between the rebels and the city of Camulodunum and the warriors were anxious to reach their first battleground. With luck, the civilians in the column would be able to keep pace with the main body of the force and they would make camp within sight of the city long before evening. The sight of the opposing army would demoralize the civilians within; a small advantage,
but important nonetheless. As Caddaric moved ahead with the vanguard his thoughts turned once again to Jilana, and where on the island of Albion she would have fled. Pray the gods Jilana had been wise enough to seek the protection of the legion garrisoned at Lindum, for if she had run south… That possibility did not bear close examination.
****
Jilana hurried along the paved streets of Camulodunum, Faline close behind. A pall hung in the air that had naught to do with the stench of blood and burning carcass of the sacrifice which had just taken place at the Temple of Claudius—a pall some of the citizens sought to dispel with a forced air of optimism. Boadicea had come, as Jilana had known she would, and only now did the residents of the city realize that while Hadrian’s defense allowed only one entrance to the city, it made them virtual prisoners as well.
Word of the Iceni arrival had spread like wildfire and, like the others, Jilana had been seized by a morbid curiosity to see the force Hadrian and his men would oppose. The vallation was complete now, and the raised platform which ran along the inside of the wall was crowded with soldiers and citizens alike who fell silent as they gazed at the rebels. One by one the civilians turned from the sight in front of them and left the platform. As others took their places and the process was repeated, their optimistic veneer cracked and was replaced by desperation. When her turn came to peer over the earth wall, Jilana understood the change. The cleared fields which should have held the seeds of new crops now bristled with wicker chariots, mounted warriors and well-armed infantry. Behind them, wagons were being drawn up and women and children hurried about to make camp. And in the distance Jilana could see a tremendous cloud of dust rising above the treetops, heralding the arrival of still more Iceni. The scene was duplicated as far to the right and left as she could see, as the city was encircled by an Iceni force that now numbered in the thousands.
Because her dreams and visions had prepared her, Jilana was spared the overwhelming fear that swept through her countrymen; she simply accepted the inevitable with a sense of fatalism. About to turn away, Jilana was suddenly shaken by a thought she had successfully kept at bay since her arrival. Caddaric was here! She stared at the distant warriors, knowing it was futile to think—hope?— she could distinguish him from the others, but she tried nevertheless. Behind her, impatient voices told her to move aside but Jilana ignored them. She laced her suddenly trembling hands together and willed the mind that had shown her so much in the past four days to show her Caddaric now. She needed to know that he suffered no ill effects from the blow she had dealt him. The force which tortured her with scenes of destruction, however, refused her attempts to control the nature of those visions. Nothing appeared save the prolonged arrival of the Iceni force and, defeated, Jilana turned to relinquish her place on the platform. Something touched Jilana; it was the lightest of pressures, as if an arm had been draped around her shoulders and then slowly drawn away. Startled, Jilana glanced about to see who had taken such liberties and found no one near her who would have been so gentle. And in that instant she knew who had touched her, although she did not know how. Clywd.
As Jilana made to step from the platform, a very human hand reached up to assist her and she looked down into Hadrian’s stern countenance. “You should not have come,” Hadrian admonished as he forged a path for them through the crowd.
Jilana remained silent, wincing inwardly when Hadrian misstepped and came down hard on his injured leg. As unobtrusively as possible she steadied Hadrian until he regained his balance and they could continue. “You should be using your crutch,” Jilana told him softly.
“The citizens are skittish enough; the sight of me limping along on crutches would send them into a blind panic,” Hadrian gritted.
And how will you manage in battle when your leg is not totally mended? Jilana wondered, but she kept the question to herself. Hadrian had become her protector, benefactor and friend during the course of the evening meals they had shared and she knew how heavily the responsibilities of his office weighed upon him. She would do or say nothing to upset him. They paused before one of the houses that marked the beginning of the city and Jilana gazed once more at the dust clouds that rose in the distance. “Will you dine with me this evening, Centurion?” Her invitation was formal and gracious, as if destruction did not wait beyond the vallation.
Hadrian glanced at her profile, admiring the set of her jaw and proud carriage. If Jilana was frightened, she hid it well. “If my duties permit, mistress, I would be honored.”
Jilana looked at him then and offered a brave smile. He was care-worn, the lines of responsibility deeply etched in his face. She had tried to hate him for keeping her here, for confiscating her horse, but she had not been able to. Like Caddaric, Hadrian was trying to protect her, but unlike the warrior, Hadrian had ruthlessly blocked all her avenues of escape and sealed her within his protection. How could she hate a man who, though misguided, had only her welfare at heart? She could not. She accepted the situation as it was and, because Hadrian treated her kindly, she created a haven out of his quarters so that he light escape his grinding responsibilities for a time. Now touched his arm lightly. “Whatever the hour, Centurion.”
Hadrian nodded curtly and walked away, and Jilana knew he had been embarrassed by her touch. In spite of the desperate situation, Hadrian had been concerned with her reputation; when they dined together, the door to her quarters remained open and a tribune stood guard outside; and if they met in public, Hadrian addressed her as “mistress” or “lady.” As she watched Hadrian melt into crowd, Jilana knew a tremor of fear for him—and, if she would but admit it, for another.
Instead of returning directly to her quarters, Jilana ted the garrison and walked toward the center of the until she encountered the building she sought. It was a small temple—not on the same scale as the one of Claudius—but its workmanship was flawless. The temple of Minerva, the goddess who patronized defensive war and useful and ornamental arts. The temple was empty, although oil lamps flickered in their wall holders. The sound of her footsteps was unaccountably loud against the silence and the muted street sounds. Jilana passed through the anteroom into the cella, and as she walked she drew the belt from her waist. At the foot of the steps leading to the altar Jilana prostrated herself, then rose and ascended to the altar to place the belt with its bronze decorations upon it. Behind the altar stood the statue of Minerva, the daughter who had sprung from Jupiter’s brain in full battle armor. She hoped the goddess would deem the belt an exchange worthy of the favor she was about to beg. Descending the steps, Jilana stretched out full length upon the floor and shivered when the cool marble chilled her skin.
“O merciful Minerva,” Jilana prayed, her eyes fixed on the altar steps. “I ask your intercession with Mars for the lives of two warriors, the Iceni Caddaric and the Roman Hadrian. In return, I offer my belt and—” she drew a tremulous breath “—my own life.” There was a hint of desperation in her voice when she added, “I have nothing else of value to offer, O goddess, yet I would have these two men live through Mars’ most savage love of bloodshed and violence. I beg you to accept my unworthy offering and find favor with my plea.”
Rising, Jilana retraced her steps through the cella and paused when she found Faline waiting at the door to the anteroom. The two women exchanged a long look. “You heard,” Jilana questioned at last.
Faline nodded. “Why do you pray for the enemy?”
Jilana gave a choked, confused laugh. “Because he, in his way, also sought to protect me; because in a night of death he gave me back my life.” Jilana shook her head as the memories descended. “Because in another time, another place, he would not have been my enemy.” She looked through the anteroom to the street beyond where frightened people moved aimlessly or clustered in small knots, arguing. The panic Hadrian feared had not set in, not yet.
“Do you think they will attack today?”
Jilana turned her attention back to Faline. “I do not know. Mayhap.”
“
What should we do?” Faline’s voice held a rough edge of fear.
“Do?” Jilana smiled wearily. “There is naught to be done, Faline. Later we can be of help to those who are injured but now…” Her voice caught and she was silent for a moment. “We can but wait, and pray. Go home, Faline.”
The girl hesitated. “‘Tis said Centurion Tarpeius sent to Lindum for reinforcements. Will they arrive in time?”
Jilana forced a confident smile. “I am certain they will. The centurion’s defenses will doubtless hold the city for several days, more than enough time for the relief column to arrive.” She touched the younger woman’s shoulder reassuringly. “Go home now, Faline.”
The two women went their separate ways. Jilana stopped at the stable on the way to her quarters to visit her mare and feed her a handful of oats. The mare would at least be spared, Jilana thought numbly. The rebels had need of horses. Once inside her quarters, Jilana swept the two small rooms and straightened the covers on the bed— all unnecessary tasks since Faline had cleaned the rooms that morning, but the work kept her thoughts from the inevitable. When that was finished, she returned to the front antechamber and sat watching the shadows lengthen against the floor. She wished that she could cook, and that the small house afforded a kitchen, so that she might occupy the time, but the garrison kitchen saw to her needs. She knew that her calm was unnatural, that she would shatter against the fear the way the glass vial had shattered against the floor, and she waited for her control to break.
When more shadows than light filled the room, Jilana struck a spark against a taper and lit the oil lamps with steady hands. The Iceni had not attacked; Camulodunum had been given one last night of life. Her meal arrived and Jilana gratefully turned to arranging the food on the low table in front of the couch. She sat back, admiring her handiwork, and at last allowed her thoughts to turn to Caddaric. What was he doing? she wondered, and immediately there arose a strong image of Caddaric sitting before a fire, partaking of the evening meal. The firelight played over his set features and burnished his heavily-muscled flesh so that he resembled a statue of a god. A whirlwind of emotion swept through Jilana and she closed her eyes against its force.
Defy the Eagle Page 23
