Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Jilana hesitated, terrified that what she was about to do would send Caddaric into a rage. “Caddaric, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “A favor, Jilana?” Curious, Caddaric rolled onto his side so that he faced her. It mattered not; the faint light filtering in through the top of the tent did not extend far enough to illuminate their features. Still, he could picture her sitting there, her violet eyes wide as they sought to pierce the darkness. He reached out and found her hand, squeezing it gently when she started in alarm. “Tell me.”

  Jilana drew a deep breath and gathered all her courage. “Lhwyd has taken prisoners—to be used for sacrifices.” Her fingers curled urgently around his.

  “I know.” At the naked fear in her voice, Caddaric moved nearer. “You are safe, wicca; Lhwyd will not harm you.”

  “I do not fear for myself,” Jilana said quietly, “but for another.” Before Caddaric could speak, she hurried on, “When I arrived at Camulodunum one of Lhwyd’s prisoners took me in, gave me comfort and shelter. Could you—would you—find a way to extent your protection to one more Roman?”

  Caddaric smiled into the darkness. That Jilana could ask this surely meant that she trusted him in spite of his treatment. And if he found a way to grant her favor, mayhap she would forgive him the shackles. “I doubt Lhwyd will listen to me, but Clywd might be willing to speak to him.” He thought for a moment. “If Lhwyd should refuse my father, Clywd could go to the Queen. She might intercede.”

  “Would Clywd do this for you?” Jilana asked breathlessly, her hopes soaring.

  “Aye, I believe so.” Imperceptibly, Caddaric shifted his weight so that his legs lightly brushed against hers. “Tell me the woman’s name and I will talk with my father tomorrow.”

  “His name,” Jilana corrected, “is Hadrian Tarpeius. He has been most sorely injured, but he will cause you no trouble, I swear it. I can care for him and still perform the duties you assign me.” Caddaric was motionless beside her, but his fingers were now crushing her hand. A feeling of dread crept into her heart, stilling the rest of her assurances.

  “Who is he,” Caddaric was finally able to ask, “this Hadrian Tarpeius?”

  Jilana decided not to lie. Within a few minutes of their meeting, Caddaric would recognize the soldier in Hadrian. “Hadrian commanded the force that defended Camulodunum. He is the primipilus of the Twentieth Legion.”

  “Why is he here?” Caddaric growled. “The Twentieth is at Mona.”

  She was being interrogated, Jilana realized, just as she had been interrogated at Camulodunum. “His leg was broken in a fall from a horse,” she answered stiffly. “He was forced to remain behind.”

  “How fortunate for you.” Caddaric practically threw Jilana’s hand from his and turned onto his back.

  Had she not been fighting for Hadrian’s life, Caddaric’s contempt would have driven Jilana into silence. As it was, she forced herself to continue. “Aye, it was fortunate. When I arrived at Camulodunum, the guard thought me a spy and imprisoned me. Hadrian freed me and took me in.”

  “And in turn you laid with him,” Caddaric finished tightly.

  “I did not!” Jilana gasped. “No man has touched me save—” Her words died when Caddaric grasped her wrist and jerked her against him.

  “Do not he to me, Jilana,” Caddaric grated. “First me, now Hadrian.” He made a clucking sound of disapproval that was laden with mockery. “What would your beloved Lucius say about the behavior of his pure patrician bride?”

  The deliberate barb lit Jilana’s anger, dissipating the hurt his words had caused. “I was pure when you took me,” she hissed. “You know that! And if I had lain with Hadrian, what difference could it make to you? Your own people take lovers freely, without benefit of marriage! Is it not your wish that I adapt to the Iceni ways?” Only his feral snarl warned Jilana that she had pushed Caddaric too far. One moment she was half-lying across his chest, and the next she was beneath him, his weight crushing her into the furs.

  Having his own words thrown back at him was more, than Caddaric could bear. Rage boiled up inside him; his fingers threaded through the mass of Jilana’s hair to hold her head still for his kiss. He brutalized her mouth with his and when she denied him entrance, Caddaric bit at her bottom lip until her mouth opened in a quick gasp of pain. His tongue forged between her lips and explored the damp cavern until Jilana lay trembling beneath him. Only then did Caddaric withdraw, pulling back just far enough so that their lips brushed when he spoke. “If ‘tis truth you want, then truth you shall have. You were given to me, Jilana; not by Boadicea or this uprising, but by the gods. Given to me in a dream. The purpose of this gift is a child. Our child, created by us.” She went still beneath him and Caddaric laughed harshly. “Nay, Jilana, I will not take you now, not until I am certain you do not carry another’s seed within your body.” Caddaric jerked at her hair so that Jilana cried out. “Now you know what I want from you: a child, no more. Once that child is born, you will be allowed to stay with him or return to your own people, as you wish.”

  With that he rolled from Jilana and she could do no more than lay unmoving, hearing again and again his devastating words. Her lips were bruised and swollen, and when she moved her tongue over them she tasted the blood where Caddaric’s teeth had pierced her flesh. So now she knew her fate, Jilana thought despairingly. She had mistaken Caddaric’s earlier tenderness; while she had lain in his arms thinking their union to be a beautiful, rapturous thing, he had merely been taking a necessary step to fulfill his prophecy. He had taken her body, and her heart as well, but her love held no place in his dream. She was his brood mare, nothing else..

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning dawned clear and bright, but neither Jilana nor Caddaric took particular note of the fact. In a tense silence they rose and dressed, and while Caddaric tended the horses, Jilana prepared the morning meal. Ede, Artair, Clywd and Heall shared their meal and Jilana steadfastly ignored the questioning looks directed toward herself and Caddaric. For his part, Caddaric talked easily with his friends while Jilana concentrated on devising and discarding different schemes for gaining Hadrian’s freedom. When their conversation turned to the Iceni plans for the final assault on the temple, however, Jilana gave the warriors her undivided attention.

  “We will use arrows to fire the roof of the temple,” Caddaric was saying. “The Romans will be forced to leave or burn to death. Once the temple is taken the Queen plans to raze the city, so we must take what supplies are available and replenish our water barrels before the final assault.” .

  Whatever else Caddaric said was lost on Jilana. Her vision of the temple in flames and the dead and dying littering its steps returned in full force and Jilana bitterly acknowledged its truth. With trembling hands she gathered up the bowls they had used for the meal and washed them in the water she had set to heat earlier. Never again would she doubt the validity of her visions, Jilana promised herself as she washed and dried the utensils.

  Jilana looked up from her task when Clywd came to stand beside her. “This is for you,” the Druid stated as he set a carved box—a smaller version of the one he had carried the day before—next to the wagon. He opened it to display the contents: an assortment of bandages, herbs and salves.

  Drying her hands, Jilana knelt and examined each of the small pots of salves and pouches of herbs in turn before turning a questioning gaze to Clywd. “Where is the opium, the knives?”

  Clywd folded his arms across his chest, his hands disappearing into the voluminous sleeves of the garment. “In time, Jilana, but not yet.”

  Jilana closed the box and rose to her feet. “I would use them to heal, Clywd, not to kill.”

  “Aye, you would; until the temptation became too great.”

  “How can I help the wounded, use what you have taught me, if I lack the proper tools?” Jilana demanded.

  “In time,” Clywd repeated. “There is still much you must learn and then, perhaps—”

  “You will trust
me enough to allow me opium and knives,” Jilana finished in disgust. “Who do you think I will kill, Druid? Caddaric? Heall? You?”

  “Nay,” Clywd replied softly after a long silence. “Yourself.”

  Jilana stared at him for a moment and then laughed harshly. “You credit me with too much courage, Clywd. Hadrian bade me take my life rather than be captured. See you how well I carried out his instructions?” But her argument carried no weight, for Clywd was watching her through eyes that saw far more than the present, though Jilana could not know that. All she saw in the set expression on Clywd’s face was that further argument would be futile. In spite of his gentleness, Clywd was as stubborn as his son. Jilana turned away to repack their eating utensils. “I thank you for the gift, Clywd.”

  “The box is to be used, of course,” Clywd gently chided, as if she would use its deficiencies as an excuse to ignore its purpose. “Many of the Romans have bandages that need changing today and I, unfortunately, have a great many other patients to tend to.”

  Jilana spun back to the Druid, hardly daring to believe what Clywd had implied. “You mean I—“Her voice broke under the force of her emotions and it took a moment before she could bring it under control. “Will Caddaric allow this?”

  “Aye, I have spoken with my son.” Jilana’s obvious happiness at the news brought a quick frown of concern to Clywd’s face. She was thinking of the man, of course, that Hadrian who had looked at her with such adoration. There was a degree of danger in allowing Jilana such contact with Hadrian but the alternative—that of keeping the two apart until Lhwyd took Hadrian as a sacrifice—was far worse, Clywd thought as he lightly touched the side of Jilana’s face and left the camp. And how much danger could there truly be? Clywd asked himself. The Romans were guarded and Jilana’s own movements were hardly unremarked. As desperate as she might be to save her friend, he doubted she would do anything more daring than asking Caddaric or, perhaps, Heall, to intercede on Hadrian’s behalf. Aye, all would be well, and when Hadrian was sacrificed, as he most certainly would be, mayhap Caddaric would be wise enough to offer Jilana sympathy and comfort. When he stopped to care for his first patient, Clywd had succeeded in stilling the nagging instinct which warned that he should not have turned a blind eye to the blatant ruse Jilana had enacted the night before.

  Jilana hurried through the remainder of her chores, her spirits buoyed by the thought of seeing Hadrian. The gods, apparently, had ranged themselves on Hadrian’s side. From the tent she removed the package of bread and cheese Clywd had left the night before and placed it in her healing box. When all was in readiness, Jilana swung the box’s strap over her shoulder and approached Caddaric.

  “Clywd said I have your permission to tend the prisoners,” Jilana said when Caddaric finally looked up from sharpening his weapons. The idle chatter between the other three Iceni died at the bald challenge of her words.

  “Did he?” Caddaric asked blandly. He stared at Jilana for a moment before returning his attention to plying the whetstone along the length of his sword.

  Her heart dropped sickeningly into the pit of her stomach at his tone, but she found the courage to reply. “You did give your permission, did you not?”

  Caddaric tested the edge of his blade with this thumb. Satisfied, he slid the sword into its scabbard and placed both on the ground beside him. “I will not intervene with Lhwyd, nor will I ask my father to do so. Do you understand?”

  “Aye.” Jilana’s voice was barely audible. She had come to terms with the fact that Caddaric would not help her; she would find a way to save Hadrian on her own. But if Caddaric kept her in camp…

  “Then you may go.” Caddaric rose and shrugged into his baldric. “I am taking the wagon into the city to re-supply our water and whatever provisions I can find. You need not concern yourself with the midday meal; the Queen plans to launch the attack against the temple at noon. But be back here at dusk.”

  Jilana nodded, her hands twisting the leather strap over her shoulder. “More sacrifices for Lhwyd?” she asked bitterly.

  Caddaric’s face hardened. “I do not think so. Those that do not die in the flames will undoubtedly meet the blades of eager warriors upon their escape.”

  Jilana left as quickly as her shackled ankles would allow—too quickly, for she missed the fleeting surge of pain that darkened Caddaric’s blue eyes.

  As Caddaric hitched the team to the wagon he thought of what lay ahead. The killing of innocent civilians had never set well with him, not in the legion and not now, when he was defending his homeland from the Roman blight. Had the Roman women been trained to fight, as many of the Celtic women were, perhaps he could have justified their deaths, but they were not. Thanks be to Clywd’s gods that he had not yet had to face an unarmed woman, Caddaric thought fervently. ‘Twas difficult enough facing Jilana with the blood of her countrymen on his sword. How could he meet her eyes if he killed a woman? Because the thought was unworthy of a warrior, Caddaric shoved it away. Until now, he had found the killing of civilians distasteful, but never had he sought to justify the deed. But now he did, because of Jilana. Because he wanted her to see him as something other than the enemy with bloodstained hands. Caddaric snarled at this latest evidence of his growing susceptibility to his red-haired witch and slapped the team into motion.

  It seemed to Jilana as she walked to where the prisoners were held that the Iceni force had grown in number from the day before. The encampment spread out as far as the eye could see, and it appeared that every man and woman was busy with some task while the children played at war with wooden swords or sticks. While the camp gave the appearance of unity, in fact the Iceni and their allies had grouped themselves by their original villages and heeded only their local chieftain. As a result, the chieftains were kept busy arbitrating the disputes which arose between the neighboring camps.

  After avoiding several displays of Celtic temper along the way, Jilana arrived at the makeshift stockade. The guards searched her medical box and waved her past. Jilana was suddenly grateful that Clywd had refused to allow her knives; the guards would surely have confiscated them and refused to allow her any further.

  She went quickly to Hadrian and found him still asleep. Some blood had soaked through to the top of the bandage, but Jilana decided against changing the dressing until he awoke. She untied his bonds and then left him to sleep while she made her way once again through the prisoners, offering what little comfort, both physical and emotional, that she could. The prisoners had not been fed, although fresh water had been rationed out by the

  guards earlier in the morning. While she tended her people, Jilana assured them that they would not be left to starve. The assurances tasted like ashes in her mouth, but what else could she do? Tell them the truth? Surely that would be crueler than the faint hope she offered. Was it not worse to dwell on the manner of one’s certain death than to believe that one would become a slave? For her own peace of mind, Jilana had to believe so.

  Surprisingly, the guards were willing to supply Jilana with buckets of water, and even an amphora of vinegar when she asked. But then, Jilana realized, their attention was not centered on her or the prisoners. The guards were busy discussing the upcoming assault on the temple, and as the sun tracked ever higher, their thoughts grew less and less concerned with their charges. They were eager to be in this final action and Jilana noted that, one by one, the guards drifted away until only a handful remained around the perimeter of the prison area, as well as the guard who accompanied her. And why should they remain? Jilana reasoned. The prisoners were bound hand and foot, and obviously terrified. A glimmer of hope stirred in Jilana’s heart.

  As she repacked her box, Jilana risked a glance at the sky and noticed her guard doing the same. The Iceni grew more impatient with each passing minute. A plan began to form in her mind and Jilana worked to keep her hands and voice steady when she got to her feet. “I have only one more prisoner to see,” she told the guard in a voice which, despite her intentions, cracked
ominously. The guard looked at her sharply, and Jilana prayed that he would attribute the betraying sound to her shock of tending her countrymen. She preceded the Iceni to where Hadrian lay and gave him a weak smile when he set the amphora on the ground. “I thank you for your help, but you need not remain. This man,” she gestured to Hadrian, “requires a great deal of care.” When the Iceni merely eyed Hadrian and shrugged, Jilana risked a roader hint. ‘“Tis nearly noon and this will take quite some time. If you wish to return to your friends and partake of your meal, I will call when I am finished.”

  “Lhwyd ordered that neither you nor the Druid be left alone with the prisoners,” the Iceni said at last. He regarded her suspiciously. “Many of the prisoners died last night.”

  Gods, the opium! Clywd’s kind end could prove her undoing! Jilana ignored the dart of fear that dried her mouth. “Of course they died,” she said as tartly as she could. “They had been tied up and left for more than a day without care! Did Lhwyd think his goddess would see to their wounds?”

  Such open criticism of Lhwyd sent the guard looking nervously about, as if fearing her words would summon the white-robed Druid. “Lhwyd’s orders—”

  “I would not want you to disobey Lhwyd. You can help me with him,” Jilana interrupted desperately. “I have to change his bandage, and he’s far too heavy for me to lift on my own.”

  A look of hatred swept over the Iceni’s face as he surveyed the wounded legionary. “I would rather drive my sword into his belly.” His hand fell to his sword, as if he would carry through his desire.

  Only Jilana’s knowledge of Lhwyd’s order kept her from crying out. For what seemed an eternity she watched the Iceni, poised to throw herself between Hadrian and the guard if he drew his sword from the scabbard. At last the Iceni recalled himself. His hand slid from his sword and he spat contemptuously at Hadrian, the spittle landing on the hem of Hadrian’s tunic. Jilana watched in silence as the man pivoted and walked away to join the other four guards.