Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Jilana wiped the last dish dry and placed it in the wagon, then picked up the bucket of water she had been using and walked some distance from Caddaric to empty it. Frowning, Caddaric watched her return.

  “Has the march been difficult for you?” Caddaric asked in a surprisingly soft voice.

  Not for the world would Jilana admit her weakness to him. She shook her head, stepped around Caddaric, and dipped clean water into the iron pot from one of the barrels on the wagon. She made to grasp the handle of the pot, found Caddaric’s hand there and jerked away as if burned.

  Caddaric’s face hardened as he straightened, the heavy pot in one hand. “Where do you want this?”

  “Over the fire,” Jilana managed to say. When she was sure Caddaric was indeed headed in that direction, she half-filled a pail with cool water and carried it, a wash basin and an empty pail into the tent.

  “What are you going to do?” Caddaric asked when she emerged from the tent.

  “I need to wash my gown and—” Jilana stumbled over the words, unable to tell Caddaric that she also needed to launder the cloths from her woman’s time “—and if you need anything washed…” She allowed the words to trail off and knelt to add more wood to the blaze.

  The perfect slave, Caddaric thought again, tending to his creature comforts but remote, untouchable. He studied her gown and appearance and frowned. Did she think that by making herself unattractive she would be spared

  his attentions? Or had she dressed this way deliberately, thinking to stir his guilt over his treatment of her and thus manipulate him? Conveniently, he pushed to the back of his mind the fact that his conscience had already pricked him on that point.

  From the corner of her eye, Jilana watched Caddaric gather his sword and whetstone and settle by the fire to hone the blade. ‘Twas strange to be alone with him now, with all that lay between them. Had he forgiven her for Hadrian, or was he pleased with the effectiveness of his punishment? His expression gave nothing away and Jilana did not care to broach the silence that had fallen between them, so when the water was hot, using a scrap of cloth to protect her hand, Jilana lifted the pot from the fire and carried it into the tent.

  Caddaric heard her retreat, and a moment later heard the sounds of splashing water from the tent. Laying aside his sword and whetstone, he uncoiled his large frame from the ground and strode to the wagon. Tossing back the canvas covering, he studied the contents that sat at the front of the wagon and frowned. Did Jilana think he would believe that she had not taken advantage of his absence to go through the wagon? Grasping the handle of the chest which claimed his attention, Caddaric lifted the chest from the wagon and considered it as it dangled from his hand. Jilana had said she planned to wash her gown. How, then, was she going to hang it out to dry when her change of clothes was in his possession?

  In her eagerness to clean both her clothing and herself, Jilana had not considered that minor flaw in her plan. Mixing water to the correct temperature in the spare pail, she did her laundry first, then filled the basin and bathed, paying special attention to the sores and abrasions. The bandages on her feet and ankles were the worst; in spots, the cloth had stuck to the raw flesh and Jilana had to soak them free. The bite of the warm water on the open sores made the breath hiss between Jilana’s teeth, but, she continued until all the wounds were clean. Only then did she discover that she lacked a towel and fresh bandages. There was nothing to be done about the bandages, but for a towel, Jilana used the top blanket from her pallet, and then she turned her attention to her hair.

  After adding the last of the cold water to the hot water in the pot, Jilana knelt and dunked her head into the water. When her hair was thoroughly drenched, she scrubbed her fingers over her scalp and down the length of the heavy mass, stopping only when her scalp tingled and the hair squeaked beneath her fingers. She wrung the excess water out of her hair, rose, and, after a moment’s hesitation, wrapped herself in the blanket.

  Surveying the mess in the tent, Jilana smiled wryly. Bathing had been much simpler at home, where one had only to go to the bath house, and as for the laundry—such menial labor had been the purview of the servants. With a sigh, Jilana picked up the pails and carefully made her way from the tent. She would have liked nothing better than to sit beside the fire and bring some kind of order to her wet hair, but that luxury would have to wait.

  The moment Jilana stepped from the tent, she felt Caddaric’s eyes upon her and she glanced warily about. He stood by the wagon, one booted foot resting on a chest, and Jilana hurriedly looked away and went about her chores. She avoided his gaze as she emptied the dirty water and replaced the pails, basin and iron pot in the wagon, but when she left the tent for the final time, her wet laundry in her hands, she realized that their campsite was out in the open. There were no trees or bushes on which to hang her gown. Which left the wagon. Swallowing her uneasiness, Jilana walked to the wagon and began draping the clean cloths over the wagon’s slatted sides.

  Caddaric viewed her actions through narrowed eyes, his hands clenching into fists at the sight of the bare expanse of her shoulders and the way the blanket was folded around the swell of her bosom. Desire, hot and unbidden, flowed through his veins only to be shot through with guilt when Jilana moved and the clink of her chains fell upon his ears. Caddaric had to force himself to remember that she had betrayed him twice before; he would be a fool to remove the shackles and give her a third opportunity. He noticed the hasty, skittering glances Jilana directed his way and ground his teeth together. By the gods, one would think he had beaten her the way she shied away! The punishment he had decreed had been lenient, mayhap too lenient, since she so obviously thought to foster his guilt and play upon it. With that thought in mind, Caddaric rounded the wagon and lifted the clean stola from its resting place.

  “This gown is little better than a rag,” Caddaric noted. He cocked an eyebrow at Jilana, waiting for her to agree and ask him for a new gown. To his surprise, Jilana said nothing, merely stared at the stola in his hand as if it might disappear. “It should be burned.”

  His observation produced a reaction in Jilana. “Nay!” The single word was a cry of despair and she reached for his arm, as if to prevent him from carrying out his threat.

  Her hands grasped his wrist and that was when Caddaric saw the abused flesh which circled her own wrist like a bracelet. Catching her forearm in his free hand, he demanded harshly, “What is this?”

  Jilana caught her breath at his tone and bruising grip. The stola was temporarily forgotten as she sought both to answer and subdue her fear. “P-please, lord, let me go.”

  “Nay.” Caddaric’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightened. “Not until you answer.”

  “I.. .‘tis from—” While Jilana fought to control her stumbling tongue, she wondered, fleetingly, why Caddaric seemed so angry. “‘Tis from the shackles, lord,” she managed at last.

  A muscle jumped in Caddaric’s jaw; he stepped back a pace but did not release his hold. He dropped the stola and touched his forefinger to the ugly scabs. “The shackles,” he murmured and his eyes grazed the length of her until they came to rest upon her leg irons. Jilana stood motionless, afraid to move. “And your ankles?”

  “I did not hold Heall back,” Jilana answered on a quavering note. “You can ask him if you do not believe me.”

  “That is not what I asked,” Caddaric said warningly.

  Her voice froze and Jilana closed her eyes as Caddaric crouched in front of her and pulled the trailing edge of the blanket away from her legs. She felt his hands lift the leg irons up, away from her ankles, and drew a shuddering breath. Now he would laugh, delight in the physical evidence of his punishment and her own weakness. She bit her lip when Caddaric forced her to raise one of her feet so that he might inspect the sole. Like a lamed horse, Jilana thought tearfully.

  The raw sores circling Jilana’s ankles made Caddaric catch his breath, but at the sight of her torn foot he cursed explosively. All thoughts of her treachery were for
gotten as he digested the ravages his orders had wrought. “Did Heall know of this?” he questioned roughly. Caddaric felt the muscles in her leg tense at his question.

  “Aye.” The word was barely audible.

  “And he did nothing?!”

  “He did,” Jilana burst out in Heall’s defense. Violet eyes glared at the top of Caddaric’s head. “He bandaged my feet and ankles and insisted I ride in the wagon, although I told him you would be angry.”

  Caddaric released her leg and got to his feet. “That much damage was not done in a single day.” Her eyes fell away from his and a low growl issued from Caddaric’s chest. “What kind of sandals were you wearing?”

  “None. The sandals Hadrian gave me were impractical for marching, so I threw them away.” Jilana lifted her chin and faced Caddaric defiantly.

  “Heall would have found you a suitable pair—”

  Jilana gave a very unladylike snort of disbelief. “I am a slave, lord, not a guest to be cosseted. Is that not your wish?”

  Something clicked in Caddaric’s brain. “So you went barefoot in that ragged gown to teach me a lesson,” he demanded angrily.

  The accusation was too much for Jilana. “Of course,” she jeered. She swept a hand down her side. “I placed myself in irons, rubbed my flesh raw against my bonds, blistered and cut my feet, all to make you feel guilty!” The gold flecks in her eyes blazed into angry life. “You stupid, odious barbarian!” With that, she curled one tiny hand into a delicate fist and swung.

  Her fist connected with his jaw only because Caddaric was not expecting the blow. His head snapped to the side beneath the force of her swing, but otherwise he did not move. Jilana, however, cried out at the moment of impact, and when Caddaric turned back to look at her, she was cradling her hand against her breast and massaging her knuckles.

  Jilana glared at him. Hitting Caddaric had been like hitting a rock; she was certain every bone in her hand was broken. Still, there was satisfaction to be derived from seeing Caddaric experimentally wiggle his jaw from one side to the other and touch the lump that now sprouted just to the left of his chin. And then she realized what she had done. Uttering a silent prayer to Juno, Jilana awaited Caddaric’s retaliation.

  Caddaric was silent, not because he meant to intimidate Jilana, but rather because he was uncertain how to deal with the situation. He rubbed the lump on his jaw and nearly laughed aloud; to think he had feared that her spirit had been broken! His temper had abated and now he considered his course of action. “You did not know about the kist,” he asked slowly.

  “What chest?” Perversely, Jilana chose to reply in Latin. Juno, but the man was exasperating, and she had had enough of being accused and questioned and tormented at every turn.

  “Your kist,” Caddaric replied.

  Jilana folded her arms across her chest and favored Caddaric with a belligerent glare. The man was as bad as his father; both spoke in riddles. “My chest is in Venta Icenorum, in my father’s house,” she ground out.

  Caddaric shook his head. ‘“Tis here, on the other side of the wagon.” He motioned for Jilana to accompany him. After eyeing him suspiciously, she followed, well out of his reach. Caddaric stopped in front of the chest, opened it, and then stepped to the side. “You see?” He watched her expectantly.

  The suspicious look remained as Jilana looked at the chest and its contents. Why was Caddaric showing her this? Jilana wondered, and the next moment she had the answer. He wanted something, of course, but what? What did she have that he could not take?

  Some of Caddaric’s good humor faded when Jilana did nothing more than stare at the kist. “Well?”

  Jilana drew her eyes from the chest to Caddaric. The top garment was a snowy white stola which made Jilana loathe the very thought of putting on the worn green gown again. And lying atop the stola was her comb. Jilana forced herself not to think of either of those. “What are you planning to do with the clothes?”

  “Do with—” Caddaric ground his teeth in frustration. “I plan to have you wear them.”

  Jilana considered that for a moment. “Why?”

  Caddaric barely stopped himself from echoing the word. “Because you obviously cannot continue wearing that green rag,” he gritted.

  “I see.” Jilana nodded and took a step backward. “And what will your generosity cost me?”

  “Cost you? Cost you?” Caddaric’s anger soared into full-blown rage. “Naught! I am trying to make amends!”

  Frowning, Jilana asked again, “Why?”

  “Because I never meant for you to be hurt; because I am responsible for you,” Caddaric ranted, past rational thought. “Because you run from me and betray me and still you haunt me until I want either to break your pretty neck or kiss you senseless even though I know you are not to be trusted!” He drew a deep breath; his hands clenched into fists at shoulder level and he shook them as if railing against fate. “And all of that, my little Roman wicca, does indeed make me a stupid barbarian!” Caddaric whirled and stormed out of the camp, leaving Jilana to stare after him in shock.

  “Gods,” Jilana breathed when Caddaric was out of sight. His absence was like the calm after the storm. The trembling in her legs slowly passed, and when she was capable of movement, Jilana went to the open chest. Hesitantly, she touched the white gown, assuring herself that it was real. She glanced around, expecting Caddaric to reappear as unexpectedly as he had left, but he was not in sight. She considered the chest a few seconds longer and then, with a slight shrug, she closed the lid and dragged the chest into the tent. Caddaric might change his mind when he returned, but until then she would avail herself of the clothing and her comb.

  Caddaric returned at midday, having exhausted both his anger and his friends’ hospitality during the course of the morning. A stew bubbled over the fire and Caddaric sniffed its aroma appreciatively before greeting Jilana with a short nod. She nodded curtly in return and went to the wagon to pour the mead. Caddaric watched her, noting the white gown and the neat braid of her hair. Her feet were bandaged but she wore the sandals from her kist. Caddaric’s eyes narrowed critically; the sandals were an improvement over her bare feet, but they would not withstand the rigors of the march. He would have to solve that problem before the march resumed.

  Jilana handed him the cup of mead and a jar filled with the same liquid, then returned to the fire and ladled out a generous portion of the stew. She placed two wheat cakes along the edge of the plate as well as a wooden spoon and handed the plate to Caddaric.

  “Thank you.”

  This quiet civility nearly made Jilana trip over her chains; when she dared a look at Caddaric from the safety of the other side of the fire, his attention was directed to his meal and there was no trace of mockery on his features. Jilana served herself a smaller measure of stew and ate thoughtfully, seeking to fathom his changed attitude. Her recently acquired suspicion warred with her gentler side and, eventually, she responded to his overture. “The clothes are most welcome.” Her eyes darted to his and then returned to her plate. She could not bring herself to thank him for the return of what was rightfully hers.

  Caddaric ate in silence for a while longer before responding. ‘“Twas not my intention to dress you in rags.”

  Jilana said nothing. She wanted to believe him, but the memory of his anger was too recent and too strong. Setting her plate aside, she sipped at the sweet mead.

  Caddaric did the same, but studied her face while he drank. “Why did you hide your injuries from me?”

  Jilana hesitated before answering, her hands tightening around her cup. “I did not want you to laugh at me, to mock my weakness.” Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “And I was afraid you would think I had held Heall back and be even more angry with me.”

  “I see.” Caddaric looked to where his sword and whetstone lay, undisturbed. Jilana had not touched them during his absence. It seemed a good omen. Perhaps this was the time to clear the air between them. “Your actions with Hadrian put us all in gre
at danger.”

  She had to speak quickly, before the courage to do so deserted her. “I realize that now, but at the time,” Jilana sighed softly, “at the time, I thought only of getting Hadrian safely away from Lhwyd.”

  “And Heall and Artair helped cover your trail,” Caddaric added. When Jilana looked at him in surprise, he nodded. “Artair told me.”

  “Do not be angry with Heall,” Jilana pleaded. “He did what he did in order to protect me, not to betray you. I never meant to involve either of them in Hadrian’s escape.”

  Caddaric finished his mead and poured another measure from the small jar beside him. “You said that you did not escape with Hadrian because you feared I would follow. Was that the truth?”

  Only part of the truth, but Jilana would not admit that, in spite of everything, she felt bound to Caddaric. Instead, she answered, “Aye. And when you found us, you and Hadrian would have fought—his pride and honor would have demanded no less—and Hadrian would have died. I wanted him to have a fair chance at life, not a postponement of death.” Her voice dropped. “I did not mean to betray you, only to save my friend. Can you understand?”

  Caddaric’s heart twisted. She had stayed behind to save Hadrian, to offer herself up like a sacrifice so that he would not pursue the legionary. A grim thought indeed and his voice was harsh with it when he spoke. “Aye, but that does not change the fact that I cannot trust you.”

  Violet eyes met blue. “Nor I, you,” Jilana replied. “Twice you saved me from death, and what have your actions wrought? Misery for us both.”

  Caddaric rose. His face settled into grim lines while his gaze turned toward the sky, as if searching the heavens for an answer. “I did not intend for it to be thus,” he said finally. “I dreamt of you so often…” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “No doubt ‘tis the gods’ revenge for my mockery of them, to put my dream within reach and then watch it sift through my fingers.”