Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  “Hadrian, step inside,” Jilana urged.

  Overcoming his superstitions, Hadrian stepped forward and Jilana dropped the flap behind him.

  Leading him to the pallet, Jilana said, “Wait here,” and, after setting her medicine box beside a chest, left him alone.

  He could hear the soft clink of her chains as Jilana moved about outside the tent and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Hadrian was able to discern the furnishings within. A large chest decorated with bold, Celtic patterns sat against one wall. The Iceni warrior’s, Hadrian guessed. A small oil lamp, an earthenware pitcher and basin and the pallet, the latter neatly made and the former strictly aligned against the wall opposite the chest. Odd how the discipline of the legion spilled over into one’s private habits, Hadrian mused. He lay down on the pallet and closed his eyes, surrendering to his wounds. He may have slept, but when Jilana entered the tent, his eyes flew open.

  Jilana crossed the small area between the tent and the pallet and knelt beside Hadrian. “I have a horse saddled and ready, behind the tent, and food and water to last you a week. Will that be enough time for you to reach safety?”

  Hadrian thought a moment, then nodded. “We will go south, to Londinium. The civilians need to be warned of the uprising.” Belatedly, her words made themselves clear and he looked sharply at Jilana. “You are coming with me.”

  “Nay, I cannot.” Jilana gave him a tremulous smile and lifted the hem of her skirt so that the chains were in plain sight. “I cannot ride in these, and even if I could, I would not.”

  “Why?” The single word was raw with anguish..

  “If I escape, Caddaric will come after me,” Jilana answered calmly, but her eyes darkened with a pain that Hadrian could not begin to comprehend. “‘Twill take time for the Iceni to notice that you are gone, and once they discover your absence they will assume that you died.”

  “We did not escape unnoticed,” Hadrian argued. “In time that priest will learn the truth and come for you. Jilana, you must come with me!”

  Jilana concealed the fear which slithered up her spine at the thought of Lhwyd. “Caddaric will protect me,” she assured Hadrian bitterly. “He has plans that not even Lhwyd can contest.” Even as she spoke, Jilana knew that was not true. When Lhwyd discovered her role in Hadrian’s escape—and he would find out, Jilana knew that with dreadful certainty—even if Caddaric were so inclined, he could offer no protection. But what was a moment under Lhwyd’s ritual knife compared to the agony of lying in Caddaric’s arms and knowing his desire was only for the child they would create. Jilana kept these dark thoughts to herself as she knelt and raised Hadrian’s tunic so that she could check his bandage. “The bleeding has stopped,” she informed him. “And the dressing should hold until you reach Londinium.”

  “Jilana—”

  “One last item,” Jilana interrupted. She insinuated a hand between the pallet and the ground, burrowing around until her hand closed around cold metal. With a triumphant smile, she extracted the weapon she had hidden and presented it to Hadrian. “Your dagger.”

  Hadrian shook his head in wonder as he accepted the dagger. “How did you manage this?” he asked as Jilana opened the chest and drew forth a wide belt.

  “Caddaric did not think to search me.” Jilana shrugged. “Come, ‘tis time to leave.” Jilana helped him rise, smoothed the tunic into place and waited impatiently while he buckled the belt and slid the dagger beneath it. “They have fired the temple roof.”

  She hurried him outside before Hadrian could protest further. When Hadrian saw the size of his mount, he groaned. “A smaller horse would be welcome,” he commented weakly.

  “Unfortunately, there is little to choose from,” Jilana answered with a wry smile. “He will serve you well, I think, and he is not as fearsome as another I could have chosen.” She brushed a kiss across Hadrian’s cheek, then stepped back to hold the bridle. “Up.”

  Hadrian rested his arm against the saddle and stared down at her. “Jilana, you must come with me.”

  “There is no time to argue,” Jilana snapped. “You know that I cannot, and you know the reasons. You must leave, Hadrian, or the chance will be lost. I have not gone to all this trouble only to have you caught now!”

  His left leg had not completely healed. Stiff and painful, it bore his weight for only a moment when he made to swing into the saddle; then the knee buckled and Hadrian’s right foot slammed back to the ground. Waves of agony ripped through his side and leg and Hadrian clung to the saddle for support.

  “Try again.”

  Through the buzzing in his head, Hadrian barely made out Jilana’s words. Automatically, he obeyed the tone of command. This time, just as his left leg was about to take his body’s weight, Jilana’s hands were around his knee, bracing it against the strain. He settled hard onto the saddle and took several deep breaths to counteract the swimming sensation in his head. At last he opened his eyes and looked down into Jilana’s concerned face. “Come with me,” he grated.

  Jilana shook her head, unshed tears burning her eyes, turning them a brilliant violet as she handed the reins to Hadrian. “Cut directly through the camp and skirt the city until you reach the road. Cross it and take to the forest on the opposite side. ‘Tis how I reached Camulodunum without being discovered.” She took the bridle strap in her hand and guided the horse between the tent and dead fire. Releasing the bridle, she took a step backward. “The gods go with you, Hadrian, and grant you peace.” Her voice cracked on the last words.

  “Jilana, I beg you—”

  “Go!” Jilana commanded in a desperate voice. She slapped the horse on the rump and it leaped forward. It took Hadrian a moment to gain control of the mount, and when he did he was too firmly enmeshed in the Iceni traffic to turn the steed around. He looked back once, but did not wave. Nor did Jilana. The risk was too great.

  Jilana watched until Hadrian was swallowed up by the trees and the jubilant Iceni. Now she could only pray that his disguise held and, if it did, that he had the strength to make it to Londinium. She turned back to the camp, prayers to Jupiter, Mithras, Mars and any other god who might offer Hadrian protection hovering on her lips. And came face to face with Heall.

  Her mouth formed Heall’s name, but no sound emerged. She felt the blood drain from her face, and her heart began a slow, thrumming rhythm that echoed in her head. Heall stood as unmoving as a statue, his right hand resting on his sword. His brown eyes were bright, boring into her with a fierce intensity. How much had he seen? Jilana wondered frantically. Could she bluff her way through this, pretend that it was Caddaric who had just ridden off? Heall’s words killed that hope.

  “You are a foolish, foolish child.”

  Jilana stayed on her feet, but just barely. “What will you do?” Amazingly, her voice was calm, if breathless.

  Heall sighed and his body seemed to relax. “What I should have done was stop you while I had the chance. But I did not.” He shook his shaggy head. “A girl in chains and a badly wounded prisoner. Who would believe it?” Both eyebrows rose questioningly at Jilana. “How do you plan to explain the loss of the horse to Caddaric?”

  “I—I have no idea,” Jilana murmured, afraid of the light in Heall’s eyes.

  “And the clothes he wore, those were Caddaric’s as well?” At Jilana’s nod, Heall chuckled reluctantly. “You do not lack for courage, child, only intelligence.”

  The insult caused Jilana to briefly forget her fear and she bristled. “Will he be stopped, do you think?”

  Heall considered that a moment before shaking his head. “Nay, not today. You timed it well.”

  “Except for you,” Jilana pointed out. What was Heall thinking?

  “Aye, except for me,” Heall agreed. His expression gave nothing away.

  “Are you going to tell Caddaric?”

  Heall laughed shortly. “There will be no need. The missing horse and clothing will speak for themselves. He is not a stupid man, Jilana.”

  “I know that w
ell enough.” Jilana sank to the ground and idly smoothed her stained skirt over her manacled ankles. Her hands, she noted dispassionately, were trembling. The motion drew a frown from Heall. “I will tell him that I thought to escape and the horse bolted. He will believe that.” She gave Heall a wary look. “Unless you tell him the truth.”

  “And the clothing,” Heall asked, avoiding her unspoken question.

  Jilana shrugged with a carelessness she was far from feeling. In truth, with each passing minute her nerves were stretched closer to the breaking point. “I will plead ignorance and throw myself on his mercy. Mayhap Caddaric can be convinced that he failed to pack those two items.”

  Heall considered this, one hand stroking his silver beard. “There was some confusion when he left Venta Icenorum,” he mused. “Aye, Caddaric could easily be convinced that he left the cloak and tunic behind. So,” Heall drew the word out thoughtfully, “we are left with the problem of the gelding.” Jilana caught her breath as Heall’s meaning became clear, and his beard twitched as he smiled. “Did you think I meant to leave you to your own devices?”

  There was a hint of mischief in his voice and Jilana exhaled shakily. “You are Caddaric’s friend and I have just—” She paused, searching for the right word.

  “Betrayed him,” Heall offered.

  Jilana swallowed and nodded. “Betrayed him, and Boadicea… and Lhwyd. Why would you help me?”

  Heall sat beside her on the ground. “Tell me about this man. What is he to you?” The query was so gentle that Jilana found herself telling Heall the entire story of her relationship with Hadrian. “Friendship is a rare gift,” he said when she fell silent. “That is all this Hadrian is to you, a friend?”

  Jilana inclined her head. “Only a friend, Heall, not a—” she blushed “—a lover.” Something like relief seemed to pass over Heall’s face, but Jilana did not see it.

  “Why did you not go with him?”

  “Because Caddaric would have followed us, and then Hadrian would have been lost.” Jilana glanced down at the links of chain which had escaped the folds of her skirt. “And because 1 could not ride in these.”

  The truth, Heall thought, but not the whole truth. Or perhaps I choose to deceive myself with Clywd’s visions. Awkwardly, he patted Jilana’s hand and rose.

  “Where are you going?” Panic threaded Jilana’s question.

  Heall looked down at her and winked. “Trust me.”

  Heall left, and after several minutes of pondering, Jilana gave up trying to fathom the Celtic mind. Heall had asked for her trust, and Jilana realized she had no other choice. And, for some reason, she did not believe Heall would betray her activities to Caddaric. She watched the sky over the city, saw it darken with smoke. The Iceni were firing all of Camulodunum. Borne by the wind, the dark cloud expanded, moving until it blocked the sun and settled over the Iceni camp. There was a faint, acrid smell to the air now and Jilana sneezed several times. She thought of Camulodunum and Venta Icenorum, of all that had been lost, and wondered when Boadicea’s thirst for vengeance would be quenched. There was no answer to that question, and Jilana turned her thoughts to Hadrian. Was he free, or had some curious Iceni ended his life? Jilana pushed that dark possibility aside. She needed to believe that Hadrian was away from Camulodunum, that he would make it to Londinium and there take ship to Rome; that at some point in the future he would be safely established in his country villa, breeding horses for the legion.

  Jilana’s eyelids dropped. The excitement of the day combined with the lack of sleep the night before took their toll. Too tired to retire to the tent, Jilana curled up on the grass and slept.

  When Jilana woke, dusk had fallen and Caddaric had returned. He sat facing her, studying her face as she moved from sleep into wakefulness. There was a warmth behind her and Jilana sat up and looked over her shoulder. The campfire had been started and meat now roasted over the flames, its aroma mixing with the far more unpleasant smell of the burning capital.

  “How long have you been sleeping?”

  Because of her actions, the simple question took on all kinds of sinister implications. Jilana scrambled to her feet. The chain had twisted around one of her ankles and she bent to unwind it. When that was accomplished, she moved as quickly as she could out of Caddaric’s reach. “I apologize for the fire,” she burst out, wondering if he had checked the horses yet. “I know ‘tis my responsibility, but I fell asleep and—”

  ‘“Twas not a reprimand.” Caddaric cut through her explanation. “I was merely curious.” His face hardened as he watched Jilana put the fire between them.

  “I shall remember the fire from now on,” Jilana promised him. “And my other duties as well.”

  Gods, Caddaric swore. She truly believes I would beat her for falling asleep. He wanted to tell her that was not his intention, that he had tried, unsuccessfully, to find cheese or some other delicacy in the city today so that she would find the beef now roasting on the spit more appetizing. But after his treatment of Jilana this morning, she would not believe him. Instead he said, “There is bread in the wagon and an amphora of wine. Ready those while I see to the horses.”

  Jilana froze as Caddaric got to his feet and walked around the tent. After a moment she forced her legs to move and she went to the wagon. Her hands trembled as she located the bread and wine and moved it within easy reach. While she worked she strained to hear Caddaric. Any moment he would discover the missing horse and come tearing back to the camp. What would she say? Just the thought of Caddaric’s rage caused Jilana to drop the wooden plates she had been lifting from the wagon. She thought of Hadrian, safe now if all had gone well, and tried to invent some lie that Caddaric would believe. She could plead ignorance, but since she had supposedly remained at the campsite all day, Jilana doubted Caddaric would believe that someone could have taken the horse without her hearing. And the saddle and bridle as well, Jilana thought with a flare of panic. She looked at the canvas-draped shapes near the rear of the wagon. The missing saddle seemed to Jilana to have left a glaring depression in the canvas. Caddaric had confiscated those from the imperial stable yesterday. He would surely notice those were missing. Would he believe that another Iceni would steal from him?

  Jilana shook her head in answer to her silent question and began marshalling her defense, even though she doubted that Caddaric would hear her out. How could she make Caddaric understand the instinctive loyalty and responsibility she felt for Hadrian? If Ede had been in Hadrian’s position, would not Caddaric have done all in his power to save her? Aye, he would have, and the knowledge stiffened Jilana’s spine. What did she care whether Caddaric was angry, even furious? To him she was nothing more than a useful slave, a brood mare, a bed partner sent to him by his unfathomable gods! Nothing he could do or say could hurt her more than that. Jilana set the plates and cups on the narrow shelf that was nailed to the side of the wagon.

  Caddaric was talking to the horses in a gentle voice and Jilana wondered at that. Did he not notice the loss of his horse? Or perhaps he believed one of his friends had borrowed the animal. Ruthlessly, she killed such hopeful speculation. The truth would come out and she steeled herself for that eventuality. But, as she listened to the soothing drone of Caddaric’s voice while she turned the meat, Jilana could not help the foolish wish that he would speak to her in that tone.

  Caddaric returned to the campsite in a better mood. Not even his years in the legion had lessened his inbred love of horses. They were fascinating creatures, much like his little wicca in that respect. Unlike Jilana, however, horses were predictable in their temperaments and he found that comforting. A mean horse did not suddenly become gentle any more than a gentle horse would try to bite its rider out of sheer perversity. How simple his life would be if only Jilana were so predictable. And how angry Jilana would be if she knew that he thought of dealing with her in terms of dealing with a stubborn mount!

  Jilana was lost in thought—the gods only knew what was running through her mind—and d
id not notice his return until Caddaric stepped up to the fire. Immediately a wary expression came into her eyes and Caddaric felt a portion of his new-found patience slip away. “I will show you how to make wheat cakes.” His voice was brusque, not at all what he had intended, and neither were the words. Caddaric cursed silently as he gathered the necessary cooking utensils. If anything, Jilana now appeared more nervous. Seizing his patience in both hands, he set about teaching Jilana how to combine the ingredients— taken from Camulodunum, although he had enough sense to keep that knowledge to himself—and then nestle the pan into a section of the coals. Caddaric used the same tone of voice with Jilana that he used with a skittish mare, but to no avail. Her tension was a tangible thing which increased in direct proportion to his efforts to calm her. When he got to his feet Jilana started so violently that she nearly lost her balance, and Caddaric snapped, “By the gods, woman! What ails you?”

  Jilana shook her head, unable to speak. What kind of game was Caddaric playing? Why did he not question her, accuse her of stealing the horse? Could he not sense that her nerves were fraying under his mocking tutelage? Wheat cakes! Her stomach was in such a state that she did not even care to think about eating, let along preparing wheat cakes.

  Oh, he was a cruel, devious man, Jilana thought with sudden insight. Of course he knew she was nervous. ‘Twas exactly his intent! No doubt he intended that she should collapse at his feet and confess her guilt, beg his forgiveness. The demon! Jilana raised her head and proudly faced those blazing, blue eyes. “Will you want me to prepare wheat cakes for every meal, lord?” She was surprised that her voice did not shake.

  Caddaric’s eyes narrowed. The seemingly innocent question was barbed, despite the deferential title Jilana had used. She made “lord” seem like a vile epithet. “I thought Roman women were trained in the art of running a kitchen,” he shot back.

  “So we are,” Jilana answered in a voice so sweet that Caddaric felt his temper rise. “We Roman women may not wield swords, but we are more than competent with menus.”