Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  The battle had raged since dawn; it was now midday and Caddaric had been fighting the entire time. His reflexes had slowed, and the arm which held the heavy, wooden shield was trembling under the strain. He should have left the front line long ago, before his strength had been depleted to this point, but his judgment had been clouded by this joyous physical release of his inner turmoil. His control had returned, however, and now Caddaric eased himself out of the fray. The battle lines behind him were five deep and his place was immediately filled. Looking back, Caddaric was filled with dismay at the Iceni bodies which littered the ground at the bridge. Blood turned the dirt to mud and the bodies made a firm purchase all but impossible. At the sides of the bridge, the bodies had been kicked aside into the trench, but the middle ground had not been cleared. In their battle lust, the Iceni gave no thought to the hazard the bodies caused and so did nothing to remove their fallen comrades.

  While Caddaric watched, the frustration of the unreachable Roman wall drove the Iceni mad and several hurled themselves upon the exposed short swords. The back lines surged forward in the vain hope of overpowering the wall through sheer force and Caddaric turned away, sickened. He forced his way to the rear where he dropped his sword and shield and sank onto the grass. A young boy struggling under the weight of a water bucket hurried to his side and offered Caddaric the wooden dipper he carried. Caddaric drained the bowl, poured a second cup over his head and sent the boy on his way with a gruff thanks. Similar scenes were being repeated elsewhere behind the lines as tired warriors and warrior maids retired from the front. Behind the wagons, the non-fighting women and older children were felling trees and using horses to drag them in front of the encampment. Boadicea’s strategy was to clean the trunks of branches and then drop them across the ten-foot ditch to provide access for the warriors to the vallation.

  The Queen’s plan might have succeeded, if she had agreed to delay the attack until after the trees were felled and ready for use. Unfortunately, she had not. By now the legion commander—who, Caddaric had decided upon seeing the defenses, was a cunning veteran—had had time to assess the meaning of such activity and was undoubtedly planning ways to negate this newest assault. Caddaric himself saw Boadicea’s plan as futile. If the Iceni managed to position the tree trunks securely, and if a warrior managed to cross the makeshift bridge without losing his balance—and this meant leaving his shield behind—and falling to his death, all the legionary had to do was wait until the warrior was close enough to be felled by a thrust of a gladius. Caddaric’s respect for the Roman commander rose. The man had taken an indefensible city and turned it into a stronghold. Aye, Caddaric reasoned, the key to breaching the defenses lay in taking the land bridge. Once the bridge fell, with the attackers engaging the legionaries from behind, the tree trunks could be positioned and the Iceni could cross them at a greatly reduced risk to themselves. Caught between the two Iceni lines, the Roman defenders would be cut to pieces. It was vital that the bridge fall before the logs were positioned. Rejuvenated, Caddaric took up his sword and shield and set out to find the Queen.

  ****

  The sharp blare of the carnyx followed by the reluctant withdrawal of the Iceni forces came as a surprise to Hadrian. All morning his soldiers had gradually given up possession of the land bridge inch by hard-fought inch, but even though he estimated that there were three Iceni casualties to his one, Hadrian was grimly certain that unless the Ninth Legion appeared immediately, the city was doomed. Given the Iceni reserves and the growing number of Roman dead and injured, by nightfall the Iceni would have reached the city side of the bridge. Once they reached their goal, the enemy would fan out and the city would be lost.

  Hadrian had spent the morning circling his defenses, exhorting the legionaries to keep their shields above their heads. The Iceni archers were accurate, though their efforts were futile as long as the Roman shields remained in place. The leather of Hadrian’s own shield was scarred where the enemy arrows had dug into the covering and penetrated to the wood beneath. Hadrian’s tribune had been insulted by the slim shafts protruding from the leather and, over Hadrian’s objections, had taken it upon himself to pull out the arrows or break the shafts of the ones that had penetrated too deeply. A nice boy, Hadrian reflected now as he stood on a slight rise behind the land bridge, watching the Iceni pull back, a bit too filled with the glory of Rome for Hadrian’s taste, but nice enough, even so. Now the tribune lay on the other side of the city with an Iceni javelin buried in his chest. He had tried to remove the weapon, but had stopped when it became obvious that the head was of the twisted and barbed type that ripped the wound still further when it was taken out. Mercifully, the javelin must have penetrated some vital organ for the tribune had died quickly. Hail Caesar, Hadrian thought bitterly.

  Of necessity, Hadrian pushed such useless thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the scene in front of him. What was Boadicea planning? Why had she broken off what would, ultimately, have been a successful attack? He shook his head when the Iceni did not bother to protect their rear as they withdrew; his junior officers saw the advantage at the same time and shouted orders. Roman arrows and pill sang through the air and found defenseless targets. Hundreds of attackers fell beneath the missiles, and when their comrades turned back to drag their bodies from the field—a noble, stupid action which caused Hadrian to shake his head—they, too, were killed.

  Across the field, Hadrian could just discern Boadicea where she stood in her chariot. During the battle she had done what he had, except that she circled the outer perimeter of the defences in a wicker chariot drawn by two jet black horses. Now her chariot stood in the midst of a knot of perhaps a hundred warriors—her cadre, Hadrian guessed. Hadrian watched the meeting for several minutes, curious. From the distance came the sounds of axes meeting trees; Boadicea still planned to use the trees to breach the ditch, then. Hadrian considered and discarded several reasons for the Iceni withdrawal and at last shook his head. He would know soon enough the Iceni queen’s plan; until then he needed to take advantage of the respite.

  Hadrian lowered his shield to the ground and slid his gladius into its baldric. He motioned to the only centurion in his ranks as he descended the rise. “My tribune is dead,” Hadrian informed the officer when he had saluted. “You will take his place.” He pulled the helmet

  from his head and ran a hand through his damp hair. Without the battle fever to mask it, the ache in his leg now grew to sickening proportions. Hadrian willed himself to ignore it. “Pick your best decurio and have him lead a detachment to relieve the force on the bridge. See that the men eat and drink while they have the chance.” Hadrian glanced back to where Boadicea held council. Pray Mithras this meeting dragged on like other Celtic councils had been known to do. If the Iceni squabbled long enough, Camulodunum might gain another day.

  “Is that all, primipilus,” the centurion asked.

  Shaking his head, Hadrian pressed his lips together and came to a decision. “Take ten men, go into the city and bring out every man capable of fighting. Draw their arms from the garrison armory and get back here as soon as you can.”

  The centurion saluted and left and Hadrian lowered himself to the ground. Immediately the ache in his leg settled into a dull throb and Hadrian forced himself not to groan in relief. Eating the food taken from the pouch on his belt, Hadrian watched as his orders were carried out. Hadrian, as well as his men, ate and drank slowly and sparingly. By the time he had finished, the centurion had returned from the city with the hastily-armed civilians. Hadrian got to his feet and explained briefly what would be expected of them.

  One of the civilians—more foolhardy than the others—protested. “We are not soldiers. Tarpeius! Most of us have never handled a gladius before.”

  Hadrian glared at the man. “You will have to learn quickly.”

  “This is ridiculous,” the civilian sputtered. “The armory did not even have enough weapons for all of us.”

  “Then go among the dead and ta
ke their swords,” Hadrian ground out. “Or you can meet the Iceni barehanded if you prefer. I care not what weapon you choose, but you will fight.”

  “Not I.” The man threw his gladius to the ground and folded his arms across his chest. “I am a cloth merchant. My taxes support the legions and you are paid to protect me, not drag me into the midst of the fighting!”

  Murmurs of agreement rose from the men around the spokesman and Hadrian knew what he must do. The man was frightened, refused to accept the danger the city faced, and was inciting the others to mutiny. To argue with him was pointless. Hadrian’s eyes hardened until they looked like polished stones as they sought out and found the two legionaries in the front ranks of the civilian escort. Raising his left hand, Hadrian crooked two fingers toward them in a deceptively careless gesture. The two soldiers stepped forward and when Hadrian nodded, each seized one of the civilian’s arms. Drawing his sword, Hadrian walked to the captive. The man had just a moment to realize what was going to happen before Hadrian’s gladius pierced his heart.

  Hadrian pulled his blade free and while the legionaries dragged the dead man away, fixed his gaze on the other civilians. “If the Iceni make it past our variation you will envy your friend his death. Is there anyone else who doubts his ability to fight?”

  There was no chance for an answer, because at that moment a cry went up from the guard on the bridge. “Deploy them,” Hadrian ordered the centurion as he bent to retrieve his helmet and shield. Climbing the rise, Hadrian could see that the Iceni were on the move once again, but this time there was a difference. Now they advanced like legionaries, their shields interlocked both above their heads and in the front ranks, and spears, not swords, protruded from the front line. Instead of wildly assaulting the vallation, the other Iceni hung back, using their javelins and archers to advantage; but what concerned Hadrian was that the advancing phalanx was double the size of the Roman contingent it would meet on the bridge. Armed with spears, they could decimate the legionaries while remaining out of reach of the gladius, and through sheer force of numbers, they would roll over the bridge.

  Hadrian’s eyes narrowed as the enemy approached, wondering if the well-ordered ranks would dissolve once encountered his men. It had happened before—the Celts were easily provoked and found more glory in individual combat than disciplined strategy. The two forces and Hadrian knew a twinge of unwilling admiration for the enemy as his legionaries were immediately forced backward. While he watched, the Iceni formation shifted, consolidating itself into a wedge while maintaining the protection of its flanks. Alarmed, Hadrian ordered reinforcements to the bridge and drew his own sword. Someone in Boadicea’s contingent had a practical, working knowledge of battlefield tactics and had persuaded the Queen to use that knowledge. Even now the wedge had forced an opening in the front Roman ranks and was worming its way forward. Reluctantly, Hadrian ordered more legionaries to the bridge and knew as he did that it was futile. More Iceni were charging forward, rolling over the legionaries left in the wake of the vanguard before they could close behind the wedge. The Iceni vanguard broke through to the Roman side of the bridge in what seemed an impossibly short time and the enemy surged through the breach in an inexorable wave. The Iceni had abandoned their spears and formations in favor of their long sword and were now engaging the legionaries in brutal hand to hand combat. Bellowing, ignoring the jarring pain in his leg, Hadrian ran to meet the rebels. He had an instant—just before his sword met that of a tall, grim Iceni—to wonder if Jilana would have the strength to carry out her own suicide, and then his thoughts were taken up in defending himself against an enemy who fought like a legionary.

  ****

  For Jilana the day passed in a daze. She sat huddled against the wall in Hadrian’s quarters, moving only once, when a group of civilians and legionaries had marched through the garrison to the armory. She had watched them leave and had known the situation was desperate if Hadrian had ordered the civilians to the defenses. When the carnyx had shrilled again she nodded to herself, resigned to her fate. When the Iceni overran the city, she would be killed. Since the garrison stood on the outskirts of Camulodunum, it would be one of the first buildings to be taken. At this point the rebels, intent upon destruction, would not think to take prisoners for Lhwyd’s sacrifices. Whatever warrior or warrior maid stumbled across her would make short work of her death. Jilana was grateful for that; to her shame, she was too weak to use Hadrian’s dagger.

  The sounds of fighting intensified and Jilana rose shakily to her feet and opened the door of the small house. Outside, the bright spring sunshine seemed a mockery of the day’s events. She was frightened, Jilana realized as her trembling legs carried her into the sunlight, but it was a numbing fear, tempered with an odd sense of relief. It would all be over soon, and she would be free of the fear she had lived with for so long. She thought of Caddaric and Hadrian, wondering if they still lived or if they had already fallen during the battle. The thought of either of them dead brought a swift pang to her heart and to ward it off, Jilana offered another prayer for their safety. The stable caught her eye and without thinking of what she was doing, Jilana walked toward it. It mattered not where the Iceni found her, and the stable was as good a place to die as Hadrian’s cramped quarters. At least she would be able to say farewell to her loyal mare.

  The stable was shadowed and as Jilana moved down the aisle between the stalls, the horses whickered nervously at her, She paused occasionally to stroke an inquisitive nose that was pushed over a stall door. When Jilana found her mare’s stall, she leaned against the low door and wrapped her arms around the mare’s neck.

  “You will be cared for,” Jilana murmured, pulling back so that she could pet the mare’s head. “The Iceni value good horseflesh.” From without came the fearsome Celtic battle cries and the sound of pounding feet and Jilana knew a moment’s panic. Her hands turned icy with fear and to steady herself, Jilana pressed her cheek against her mare’s strong jaw.

  The stable door burst open and Jilana knew someone stood in the entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior before advancing further. The breath stopped in Jilana’s throat. Charon, I come, Jilana called silently to the boatman who ferried the dead across the River Styx. Accept me as you surely accepted my family. Juno, intercede on my behalf.

  With the last of her strength, Jilana pushed herself away from the stall and took a step into the aisle. Her green stola stood out against the gloom of the interior and Jilana sensed rather than saw the sudden attention of the man at the door. His large body filled most of the entrance, and with the sun at his back he was a dark, terrifying figure. He stepped into the stable and Jilana felt her heart stop. She wanted to call to him, to tell him that she was alone, that no danger waited for him here and he should end this quickly, but she was beyond speech. The sound of his footsteps drummed in her ears as he drew nearer and Jilana closed her eyes. She was suspended in time, aware of nothing and everything.

  “Still so eager to die, Jilana?”

  Jilana’s eyes flew open at the sound of her name. The dull gleam of a bronze neck torque met her gaze and she forced her eyes upward until they collided with the cold fury burning in a pair of impossibly blue eyes. Caddaric! Jilana tried to say his name but no sound emerged.

  Caddaric flicked a glance toward the mare before pinning Jilana with that icy look once again. “Were you planning to run again?” he asked with a harsh laugh. “I should let you try. You would be dead before reaching the street.”

  Her strength deserted her and Jilana sank to the straw-covered floor, her head bowed. The cold metal of Caddaric’s sword slipped beneath her chin and forced her face upward.

  “No words, no pretty pleas?” Caddaric asked caustically. “You were full of entreaties and lies at Venta Icenorum.”

  The accusation allowed Jilana to find her voice. “I did what I had to,” she whispered. Irrationally, she was glad that Caddaric had found her. At least she would die knowing Minerva had granted a par
t of her prayer.

  “Aye,” Caddaric returned brutally. “You smiled and gave me your body and a few short hours later you lied and knocked me unconscious. Tis fitting that we meet again in a stable.”

  Jilana’s eyes slid from his face to the blood-covered blade. “And that you kill me here.”

  Caddaric was helpless to control the tremor that ran through his sword arm at her words. Damn her for her unnatural calm! Why did she not beg and plead for her life? Why could she not throw herself upon his mercy and into his arms so that he could hold her and hold her and hold her?

  Cursing, he lowered the sword, wrapped his free hand around her wrist and pulled Jilana to her feet. She rose willingly enough and stood regarding him silently. No emotion showed in those lovely violet eyes save for a faint curiosity, and Caddaric realized she was simply waiting for him to kill her. A muscle working furiously in his jaw, Caddaric turned and pulled Jilana back to the door. Angry as he had been—and still was—over her treacherous escape, as often as he had sworn that he would kill her with his bare hands if he ever found her again, the moment he had laid eyes on her again Caddaric had known his passion for this violet-eyed witch outweighed all other emotions. He was going to take her back to the Iceni camp, to the tent Clywd had insisted upon raising last night, and he was going to keep her safe because he wanted her more than anything else on this earth.

  Jilana tumbled in Caddaric’s wake, seeking to match his long stride and not lose her footing. The street through which they passed was free of the carnage which had littered Venta Icenorum, but when they had passed through the city and reached the vallation, Jilana could not avoid seeing the destruction there. Thankfully, she caught no more than fleeting glimpses of the bodies because of Caddaric’s furious pace. The Iceni were still pouring into the city, and Caddaric’s grip on her wrist tightened so that they would not become separated.