Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  “Caddaric?” Artair raised his head to peer through the darkness at his friend. “What is wrong?”

  Caddaric shook his head, then, realizing Artair would not see him, answered, “Naught.”

  “That is why you toss about and swear,” Artair grumbled. “I have been without sleep for three nights. At least have some consideration for me.”

  In spite of himself, Caddaric smiled. “I beg your forgiveness, Artair.”

  “As well you should.” Artair rolled to his side and propped his head on one hand to look at Caddaric. “Will the legionaries fight, or do you think they will run when they see the size of our force?”

  “They will fight,” Caddaric said with great certainty. “The legion teaches that one legionary is worth ten men.” He let out his breath. “Nay, they will not run—not until the order is given.”

  “We outnumber them,” Artair mused aloud.

  “Not by much.” Caddaric touched the scabbard; his fingers caressed the engraving.

  “Will it be enough?”

  “Who am I to say?” Caddaric snapped, and immediately regretted the harsh retort. By way of apology, he explained, “As long as our surprise is complete and we do not allow them to get into formation the odds are in our favor.”

  Artair was silent a moment. “You have faced battle before; .true battle, Caddaric, not the overpowering of a sleeping garrison and the killing of unskilled civilians. I have not.”

  “Are you afraid?” Caddaric’s voice was barely audible. The fear of death was natural, he knew, although he had never experienced it himself. When a man had nothing in his life that he cared about, what did it matter if his life ended?

  “Not afraid,” Artair replied at last, “at least, I do not fear death.” He paused. “I wonder, though, how well I will fight, knowing that we are alone here.”

  “You will fight the better for that knowledge,” Caddaric assured his friend. “When there are no replacements, men find strength and courage that they once thought beyond them. I have seen it happen.”

  “How does it feel, facing the legion?” Artair asked hesitantly.

  “Strange,” Caddaric admitted. “At Camulodunum, I heard one of the officers yell an order and I found myself obeying it.” He raised his left hand a few inches from his chest and let it drop. “You see, Artair, this is new to me as well. The last great battle was Claudius’ invasion, and we were but children then. For the first time in our lives we find ourselves facing the enemy as true Iceni, but for the older men, like Heall, this is only a continuation of a battle that is eighteen years old. They find nothing strange or frightening in facing the legion because they have done it before.”

  Artair nodded. “My father fought like a man half his age.” His tone was rich with pride. “He was upset when you said he should remain behind.”

  “He may have fought like a man half his age, but that does not change his years. You see how worn we are after the ride. Heall would be in worse shape, and he knew it. That is why he agreed to remain with the column.”

  “And to care for Jilana.”

  Caddaric’s jaw tightened, although Artair could not see the telltale sign. “Aye.”

  “You were harsh with her.”

  Caddaric cursed softly. “I had reason.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  The quiet statement was like a physical blow. “You know,” Caddaric repeated, torn between rage and disbelief. “What do you know, Artair?” He could feel the other man shrug.

  “I know that Lhwyd was right; that in the middle of an enemy camp Jilana managed to spirit away Lhwyd’s prize captive before he could be sacrificed.”

  Fear stabbed at Caddaric. “Are you going to tell Lhwyd?”

  Artair gave a hushed laugh. “Nay, I am glad she outwitted that mad Druid.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since my father told me.”

  “Heall knows!” Caddaric’s voice rose, and with an effort he brought it under control. “How?”

  Artair reached out and placed a hand against Caddaric’s shoulder. “He wandered into camp just as Jilana was helping Hadrian mount the horse she had taken.”

  “And he did not stop him?” Caddaric was incredulous. “I am surrounded by traitors!”

  Artair’s hand tightened warningly. “If he had stopped Hadrian, the truth would have come out. ‘Twas wisest to allow the man to escape and hide the evidence of Jilana’s involvement. We thought we had done well. How did you find out?”

  Numbly, Caddaric recited his discovery of the medicine box and Jilana’s subsequent confession. “How is it you overlooked the box?” he asked bitterly.

  “We did not know Jilana had left it with Hadrian.”

  “What evidence, precisely, did you hide, Artair?”

  Artair took a deep breath. “Jilana took your roan and the saddle you had taken from Camulodunum. Father and I replaced them.”

  “Gods!” Caddaric breathed. “Ede was right, I have been played for a fool.”

  “Nay, Caddaric—”

  “And betrayed by the men I thought of as my own family!” Caddaric spat out the words. “Why, Artair? Why?”

  “Because my father asked it of me,” Artair replied simply.

  Caddaric snorted. “And you, of course, have always been the most obedient of sons.” When Artair did not reply, he added, “Why did Heall feel it necessary to protect Jilana?”

  Artair considered the question for a long time before he answered. “He had his reasons, Caddaric.”

  “What?”

  “He is fond of Jilana.” At Caddaric’s muttered expletive, Artair sighed. “We did not betray you, Caddaric, nor think to make you a fool.”

  “The little, red-haired bitch!” Caddaric exclaimed. “She did not say a word!”

  “Of course not.” Artair sounded smugly pleased. “No doubt she felt that she owed us her loyalty and silence.”

  “But she owes me nothing? I have kept her alive, fed her—” There was a horrible tightening in Caddaric’s throat, something he had not felt since the day he saw his sisters and mother killed.

  “What would you have done, Caddaric, had you been in Jilana’s place and either my father or myself were captured, awaiting the kind of death Lhwyd had in mind? By all the gods, I hope you would think your first responsibility was to set us free. ‘Tis all Jilana did, my friend; in truth, I doubt she thought in terms of betraying you or playing you for a fool.”

  Caddaric barely heard Artair, he was too busy fighting off the treacherous softness that had crept into his heart since he had met Jilana. He had not cried since childhood, so certainly those were not tears stinging his eyes. He could not—would not!—cry over a woman, or the fact that his two oldest friends sympathized with her. Jilana was a woman, nothing more, in spite of the turmoil that had followed her into his life. So then why was the knowledge that she cared enough for Hadrian to risk her life, to steal for Hadrian when she refused to ask for so much as a blanket for herself, like a barbed spear in his heart? Deliberately, Caddaric rolled onto his side, away from Artair. Gods, what a mess his life was! All his careful plans of what would happen once he made Jilana his were destroyed—as tangible as the ashes in the bottom of Clywd’s copper bowl. Why was nothing going as he had planned it would?

  “Caddaric?” When there was no answer, Artair said softly, “Father and I did only what we thought best, for you and Jilana.”

  Caddaric remained silent. This night the world cracks apart for both of us. How prophetic those words, spoken to Jilana the night of the rebellion, had proved to be. He closed his eyes and waited for the dawn.

  ****

  Morning came, and with it ground fog that blanketed the base of the trees and the road in a gray shroud, an additional concealment for the Iceni force. The warriors moved silently into position and ate a light meal of dried meat and grain from their pouches. When they spoke, they did so in whispers which blended with the sighing of the wind through the tree tops. Cloaks had been
tossed aside so that the bright colors would not betray their ambush, so that now, lying belly down in the underbrush and grass just behind the treeline, tunics and breeks were wet with dew.

  The scouts returned with the news that the legion had broken camp and was on the move. The message was whispered up and down the lines and Caddaric felt his muscles tense. He forced himself to relax; battle demanded fluid, coordinated movement, how often had he drilled that fact into raw troops? The body must be alert but not tight, ready to respond to any threat perceived by the senses. You can see, hear and smell the enemy, he had lectured his recruits, but that is not enough; you must be able to feel their presence as well. It was an acquired skill which Caddaric had spent a lifetime perfecting. He eased the white-knuckled grip on his sword and concentrated on drawing deep, even breaths.

  Beside Caddaric, Artair was all too aware of the pounding of his heart and the film of sweat on his sword hand. Nervously, he wiped his hand on the seat of his breeks, wet his lips and said a quick prayer to Andrasta, the goddess of victory. Caddaric had ignored him since they awoke and Artair wondered if things would ever be the same between them. Perhaps he had been wrong in telling Caddaric what he had, but it pained Artair to see the way his friend was treating Jilana. Artair sighed inwardly and took a firmer grip on his sword. When the battle was over, he would speak with Caddaric again and explain why Heall…

  The tramp of booted feet, muffled in the dense morning air, and the vibration in the earth warned that the legionaries were drawing near. Artair leaned closer to Caddaric and murmured, “The gods be with you, my friend.” Caddaric gave no indication that he had heard and then there was no more time.

  The first legionaries rounded the bend in the road. They came at a quick march, five abreast. The Iceni waited until the first line was even with the last of the warriors and then gave the signal, one prolonged blast of the carnyx, to spring the ambush. Iceni war cries rent the air and before the soldiers had a chance to carry out the centurion’s order to form up, the warriors were swarming over the unprotected lines.

  It was a fierce, bloody battle in which the legionaries were doomed from the outset. Unable to close ranks and outnumbered, the Romans were forced into the individual battle at which the Iceni excelled. Caddaric was right; even with the odds against them, the Romans did not retreat. They stood their ground, conceding it only with their deaths.

  Death there was, aplenty. The sight of it filled the eyes; its stench assailed the nostrils. Neither side asked for mercy and neither side granted such. The need to kill or be killed filled the senses, inuring those who lived to the grisly spectacle around them. There was only the combat, the whirring of sword and battle-axe through the air and the exultant, horrible fever of battle that sang in the blood.

  The sun rose to burn away the fog and the men fought on, oblivious. Bodies fell; their blood soaked the greedy earth, and the living stepped over the dead, or straddled them, and continued the battle. Sweat assaulted eyes and dampened clothing. The universe narrowed to surviving the enemy’s next thrust.

  Caddaric’s opponent fell beneath his blade and he pivoted, seeking the next adversary, and his eyes fell upon the aquila, the eagle of the legion. The gilded bronze eagle, its wings partially unfurled as if ready to strike, surmounted a tall pole; it was protected by a special guard and carried into battle by the aquilifer, a senior centurion. It was a source of Roman pride, as well as serving as a rallying point. To allow the aquila to fail to the enemy was unforgivable, and every legionary would willingly give his life to prevent such a shameful event.

  Some of the remaining legionaries had fallen back to the aquila and, while Caddaric watched, the standard now moved toward the trees, secure within its guard. Caddaric blinked and looked at the sky. The sun was in its descent; they had been fighting for the better part of a day. Up and down the road, the Romans were retreating, scattering into the forest with the Iceni hot on their heels. Since the cavalry ala had not appeared, the warriors at the northern end of the line must have dispatched them. Caddaric hefted his sword and followed his countrymen into the trees to hunt down the survivors.

  It was nearly dark when Caddaric paused again, surrendering to the needs of his overtaxed body. Ahead of him, deeper into the forest, came the occasional sound of battle and the scream of a dying man. He had long ago lost sight of the aquila. The battle was over, and the Iceni dared not pursue the Roman survivors any further. Boadicea needed their strength to the south. Turning, Caddaric began the long walk back to the road.

  When he first became aware of the presence, Caddaric could not truly say. One moment he was trudging along, lost in his fatigue, and the next he was conscious of a presence off to his right. Thinking another Iceni was walking some distance away, concealed by the foliage, Caddaric called out and halted, waiting for a response. There was none, save the sound of his own breathing and the rustling of the leaves in the wind. Was it only his imagination?

  Caddaric slid his sword from its scabbard and continued walking. The forest was devoid of life—the birds and animals had been driven away, along with the legion. There was movement on his right and Caddaric spun toward it, his sword raised. “Who is there?” His throat was dry, Caddaric discovered, and it hurt to speak. His voice was little more than a tortured whisper.

  “Caddaric?” A voice as harsh as Caddaric’s emerged from a large tree trunk.

  Caddaric took a firmer grip on his sword. “Aye.” A tall graceful figure appeared from behind the tree and one of the last rays of the sun struck the gold hair. “Artair!”

  “Aye.” His sword tipped to the ground and Artair leaned against the tree.

  Relief trembled through Caddaric and he started toward his friend. “What are you about, Artair? Why did you not answer when I called out?” Gods, but Artair was a sight, Caddaric thought wearily. Blood and gore clung to his face, his clothing and his sword. But then, Caddaric reasoned, he probably looked no better.

  “I did not hear you.” Artair lifted his sword and slid it back in its scabbard with a tired sigh. “I swear, I have covered half the forest this day, and the thought of spending what is left of this day—”

  Artair’s voice stopped abruptly and he made a gasping sound. Caddaric laughed, in spite of his tiredness. “Ever the clown, Artair. Come along; I will help you back to the road.” To Caddaric’s everlasting horror, Artair groaned and sank to the ground. “Artair!”

  Before Caddaric could reach his friend, another figure detached itself from the tree and stepped over the motionless body. The helmet of the legionary was unmistakable, as was the sword he held in one hand. The man was a centurion. “Come along, Briton; ‘twill give me great pleasure to dispatch you as well before I die.”

  The centurion was gravely wounded, Caddaric could see that now as he drew near. And there was something else about this soldier, something… Then Caddaric knew. He had served with this man in Judea.

  As the distance between them lessened, recognition came to the centurion as well. “‘Tis you, Caddaric.” He smiled, but the effort merely produced a grimace and he gestured to the forest. “‘Tis a long way from Judea.” He raised his sword. “Your old century is here; they transferred the entire cohort. Somehow fitting, is it not, for a deserter to die at the hands of his comrade-in-arms?”

  In answer, Caddaric swung his blade. The sound of sword meeting sword echoed through the still forest, drawing others who were on their way back to the road. Caddaric was oblivious to the silent audience; he fought with deliberate cruelty, seeking to assuage his maddening loss by inflicting as much pain as possible upon the other man. The centurion was weak, no challenge “for the tall Iceni. Caddaric played with the Roman, inflicting painful, nuisance wounds that weakened the man further, until he was beyond pressing any attack and could only parry Caddaric’s thrusts and calculated swings. The end, when it finally came, was a mercy for the centurion. He was bleeding from the myriad wounds Caddaric’s blade had inflicted and so lost in the pain of those wounds
that he barely felt the mortal blow.

  The centurion toppled to the ground and a moment later Caddaric fell to his knees beside Artair. A dark froth foamed at Artair’s lips; his eyes stared sightlessly skyward. In the center of his chest was the exit wound of the centurion’s sword. Caddaric assimilated these facts even as he reached out to close Artair’s eyes. A low sound rumbled in Caddaric’s chest and found its way upward to his throat and mouth. His keening, feral cry split the eerie silence and the watching Iceni stepped back, alarmed. Caddaric gave vent to his rage and anguish until there was no more breath in his lungs and, exhausted, he slumped forward across Artair, heedless of the fresh blood that was added to his already stained tunic. A hand touched his shoulder and Caddaric violently shrugged it off.

  “We must leave,” a disembodied voice reminded him. “The hour grows late. We will carry him—”

  “Do not touch him,” Caddaric snarled. In an instant his sword was in his hand and brought to bear on the intruder. “He was my brother; I will care for him!”

  The warrior backed away, his arms upraised in a placating gesture. One by one the others disappeared and when he was alone, Caddaric slowly sheathed his sword. Bending, he carefully lifted Artair in his arms, as a father might hold a child. Cradling his dead friend against his chest, Caddaric made the seemingly endless journey back to the road. He should have known it was not Artair he had heard, Caddaric berated himself. Like the other warriors, Artair had been trained to move silently—he should have known that only a Roman would move so carelessly through the forest. He should have warned Artair of the danger! Where had his much-vaunted training been when Artair’s life hung in the balance? A cry rose in his throat but Caddaric refused to give voice to it again. What good