Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Jilana smiled and squeezed his arm. “You have Clywd and Caddaric.”

  “Aye.” Heall nodded. “Neither is of my blood, but they are still my family.” He draped an arm around Jilana’s shoulders. “And there is you, my little friend. You help the heartache.”

  Jilana dropped a kiss upon his bearded cheek. “Come, Heall, you must be thirsty,” she teased affectionately. “Let us get you a cup of mead.”

  Shortly thereafter, Caddaric came to claim Jilana and, together with Heall, they took their turn at going from camp to camp. Wherever they went, Jilana was warmly greeted, although some admonishing looks were directed at Caddaric. They ate, drank and talked until Jilana’s head was fairly spinning. Even Caddaric unbent far enough to join in the dancing at one of the camps and Jilana stood back to watch Caddaric and Heall complete the dance. For such large men, they were incredibly graceful, Jilana thought as she sipped at her wine. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Caddaric stumbled and only the firm grip Heall had on his belt kept him from sprawling full-length upon the ground.

  Jilana giggled, swung around to refill her cup, and found Lhwyd standing not two feet behind her. Her automatic reaction was fear, but Caddaric’s words of earlier this evening—and perhaps the wine that was working its way through her system—calmed her.

  Nodding, Jilana greeted the Druid politely. “The blessings of Beltane upon you, Lhwyd.”

  Lhwyd’s mouth curled into a smirk. “And to you, slave.”

  Jilana paled at the verbal slap, but she was determined not to ruin the peace of this celebration. She would have walked away, but Lhwyd was suddenly right in front of her, blocking her escape.

  “Make no mistake,, slave, I will have you. Caddaric cannot protect you forever and I am a patient man.” Lhwyd would have said more, but a glance over Jilana’s head stopped him. “Another time, slave, when your guard dog has no further use for you.”

  Caddaric did not need to ask what had transpired between the two. When he had seen Lhwyd talking to Jilana, he knew the Druid was baiting her. He was not quick enough to catch the Druid, but that was just as well. In his present mood, Caddaric was tempted to do Lhwyd bodily harm.

  “Caddaric, nay,” Jilana implored when she turned and saw the violence on his face. “‘Tis Beltane.”

  The fingers of his right hand flexed, as if curling around the hilt of his sword, but Caddaric finally nodded in agreement. He took Jilana’s arm and they continued their rounds, but their manner was much subdued.

  The celebration wore on and, amidst the high spirits of the others, Jilana was able to push all thoughts of Lhwyd away. Caddaric’s attitude toward her helped. He was attentive, if not talkative, spending most of his time at her side. Acquaintances from his village were introduced to Jilana and she found herself firmly drawn into the Iceni community. It was impossible not to laugh at the jokes and broadly exaggerated stories of courage, and the smallest smile was encouragement enough to set off another round of tales or another song from the bards. The songs were beautiful, sometimes eerie things which ran the gamut from the love between a man and woman to the feats of the mystical heroes of Albion. The words swept Jilana into a world long past where she witnessed the glory of the tribes of Albion. When the songs ended and she returned to the present, she sadly acknowledged the injustice that Rome had committed against the Celts. And she—and other civilians—were no less guilty than the legions, for they had continued the work of the soldiers in a far more subtle manner.

  By the time the three made their way back to their own camp, Jilana was pleasantly exhausted. A few revelers still remained, grouped about the campfire, and Heall went to them, but Caddaric drew Jilana toward the wagon.

  “You are weary, I know, but there is one last task I would do before you retire.”

  Jilana blinked away her drowsiness and looked at Caddaric. “Aye, lord.”

  Caddaric took a hammer and iron chisel from the wagon and turned to Jilana. “Tis my Beltane gift to you. Lift the hem of your gown.” When she hesitantly did as he asked, Caddaric went down on one knee and placed the chisel against the lock of her leg iron. One blow of the hammer shattered the lock. Caddaric repeated the process on the other ankle, then spread the manacles and took them from Jilana’s ankles.

  Jilana stared at him in disbelief. “Am I free then?”

  “Nay.” Caddaric shook his head as he put the manacles and tools back into the wagon. “Only the Queen can grant you freedom.”

  “Then, why?” When he did not answer, Jilana took hold of his sleeve and tugged gently to gain his attention. “Why, lord?”

  Caddaric faced Jilana, but could not meet her gaze. “Because I wish it,” he replied gruffly.

  His answer was puzzling, but Jilana did not press further. Whatever his reasons, she was grateful for the small freedom. She smiled and touched his hand. “Thank you, Caddaric.”

  “This changes nothing,” Caddaric felt compelled to remind her. “You are still mine.”

  More so than you can know, Jilana thought, but she merely nodded. “That does not alter my thanks, Caddaric. You cannot know how wonderful it feels to be free of those chains.”

  With that she turned and made her way to the tent, her step light. Caddaric watched her go, torn between happiness and despair.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Boadicea turned her army to the southwest, toward Londinium. Most of the countryside was deserted, its loyal inhabitants having fled either to the safety of Roman fortified cities or legion outposts. Those who remained added their number to Boadicea’s war band. As Caddaric had predicted, the farms—and in some cases, entire villages—were put to the torch. If the missing owners were known to be sympathetic to Rome, the Celtic force burned the buildings by way of a lesson in loyalty. In some cases, the farms had already been razed and the animals slaughtered by those loyal to the Empire, in order to deny Boadicea’s army supplies. Few crops had been planted, and those that had showed signs of abandonment as weeds overran the soil. Jilana saw the way Caddaric’s face hardened at the sight of such destruction, and later she heard him tell Clywd and Heall that the coming winter would be a lean one with so little grain available. The next day, Caddaric began a strict rationing of their grain.

  The war band moved slowly, covering a scant ten miles a day. The vanguard usually stopped to make camp at mid-afternoon, but the rear of the column did not arrive until nightfall. When the entire force was camped, it blanketed an area of two square miles. Progress was made at a snail’s pace. It soon became obvious, even to Jilana, that the column was unwieldy and far too slow, but the Celts refused to abandon their wagons piled high with household goods. Neither would they agree to send the women back home with the wagons and children. So they plodded on, inching their way across Albion.

  Meanwhile, Suetonius Paulinus, encamped on Mona, received word of the uprising. Leaving part of his forces to complete the Romanization of Mona—when the legion left the island, no evidence would be left to suggest it had once been a Druid stronghold—Paulinus took the cavalry alae of the Fourteenth Gemina and Twentieth Valeria legions and turned them toward Londinium. The Twentieth’s marching camp at Deva was sixty miles from Mona. Paulinus and his alae covered the distance in two days, and attached five infantry cohorts, of one thousand each. Deva was left with only a token force for defense, and the governor-general prayed to his gods that the detachment on Mona would return before the rebellious western tribes could take advantage of the fact. To Paulinus, it was a calculated gamble: Boadicea and her allies posed a greater threat than the unorganized western tribes. Paulinus swung his legion southeast and sent an order to Poenius Postumus, camp-prefect of the Second Augusta’s Fortress at Glevum, to strip the fortress down to a skeleton force and march. They would meet at Verulamium, one hundred and sixty miles southeast of Deva. Paulinus drove his men mercilessly; those who could not keep pace were left where they had fallen and their horses, if they were cavalry and their mounts were still useful, confiscated. With
luck, they would make it back to Deva before the bands of rebels scattered through the western mountains found them.

  Once out of the mountains, Paulinus set a killing pace. Men and horses alike dropped from exhaustion, but the governor-general was a man possessed. He had stripped the east of its defenses for his expedition and thus it was easy prey for Boadicea. If Britannia fell, Caesar would have Paulinus’ head on a platter.

  The reported size of Boadicea’s army worried Paulinus briefly, until he decided the numbers had been vastly exaggerated by terrified civilians. He sent scouts ahead and comforted himself with the thought that the Second Legion would bolster his own number by nearly six thousand. More than enough to defeat a rag-tag band of rebels. Thus, the reply from Glevum sent Paulinus into a rage. Poenius Postumus had received word of the uprising and decided that his superior’s daring plan was also quite mad. His legion would be best utilized in keeping the west secure in order to serve as a base for the counter-offensive which would be launched when Paulinus failed. It took three men to restrain the fifty-year-old general when he read the mutinous reply. Postumus would, Paulinus vowed in his rage, be executed for his seditious act. In fact, Paulinus would see him crucified in the same manner in which Pilate had dealt with that Jewish upstart sixty years earlier. Paulinus contented himself with visions of the slow, torturous death in store for the camp-prefect and plans for the dissolution of the Augusta. No legion that had mutinied was allowed to remain together. Elements of it would be transferred to other legions in exchange for fresh troops, the officers either transferred away from their command—if they were found innocent of culpability in the crime—or executed—if their guilt was evident. If the mutiny had extended into the enlisted ranks, examples would be made of a decade—a unit of ten men—from randomly chosen centuriae.

  Paulinus pushed his men to the brink of exhaustion and beyond but when one hundred miles had been covered, he was forced to slow his pace. His command had covered the distance in four days; only sixty miles remained between them and Londinium, but the forced march had taken its toll. Men and animals could no longer sustain the grueling pace. Paulinus ordered a half day of rest and for the first time since leaving Mona, campfires were lit and the men erected their leather tents for a full night’s sleep. Londinium was another three days’ march away.

  ****

  The Iceni march to Londinium was far different for Jilana than the previous leg of the journey. Free of her chains, she would have gladly walked the distance, but Caddaric would not allow it. Instead, she rode in the wagon beside Heall, jumping out occasionally when she needed to relieve herself or when her muscles became cramped from the enforced inactivity. Caddaric was in the vanguard of warriors, but he rode back during the day to see how they fared. Of Clywd there was little sign during the day, although he always managed to turn up beside the wagon when they were about to make camp. Clywd, Jilana later learned, roamed about the war band, treating the sick and injured, and making his presence known. A few days later, when Ede had had her fill of driving the second wagon, Clywd took up the reins. Children descended upon the Druid’s wagon and he kept them enthralled with stories and songs.

  Two days into the march, Heall taught Jilana to drive the team. By the time they made camp that night, her hands were swollen and blistered and her arms ached, but nothing could erase the grin from her face as she helped unhitch and tether the team. Caddaric said nothing about her accomplishment, but that night he carried the water to the fire for her and later, when they were alone in their tent, he applied balm to the palms of her hands. They were back to sharing a pallet, Caddaric having said, rightly, that there were not enough furs for two. Still, Jilana was uneasy with the enforced intimacy, but the look on Caddaric’s face had stilled any protest she might have made. Now, Jilana sat nervously on the edge of the pallet while Caddaric knelt on one knee in front of her.

  “You will have calluses,” Caddaric stated as he wrapped her hands.

  Jilana studied the top of his bent head. “It does not matter.”

  Caddaric stroked his fingers down one bandaged palm. “Your hands were beautiful at Venta Icenorum,” he said thoughtfully, almost to himself. “So soft and lovely.”

  The touch of his hand sent a flood of warmth up her arm and Jilana snatched her hand away. “But now I can drive a wagon,” she reminded him briskly. “Tis much more useful than having pretty hands.”

  Caddaric stared at her for a long moment, his eyes clouded, and then he nodded curtly. “As you say.”

  He blew out the lamp and Jilana hurriedly crawled to her side of the pallet so that Caddaric could get under the blanket. Earlier, she had changed into the tunic Caddaric had given her as a nightdress and now she turned onto her side, away from Caddaric, and listened to the sounds he made as he prepared for bed. She felt his weight on the pallet, the movement of the blanket as he tugged it around his shoulders, the warmth of his body. The nights were still cool and his heat was a temptation to Jilana. She burrowed into the furs, waited, and heard his breathing change into the rhythm of sleep. Cautiously, she rolled onto her back and then her side. Her nose grazed his shoulder. Catching her lip between her teeth, Jilana eased herself closer, until she was pressed comfortably along his warm length. Exhaling a soft sigh, Jilana closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

  Beside her, Caddaric smiled into the dark and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  Jilana awoke the following morning to the feeling of something heavy across her stomach. She stirred, seeking to dislodge the weight, but when it refused to move she opened her eyes. She was laying on her right side with the back of the tent directly in front of her. She bent her head to look down at her stomach and came fully awake. A hard, brown arm was draped around her waist, as if anchoring her to the pallet, and against her back was an equally firm cushion. And not only her back, she realized with a hot blush, but against her buttocks and legs as well. Caddaric. She was curled into him and he around her and she could feel…

  ‘“Tis dawn.” The soft pronouncement stirred against her ear and Jilana shut her eyes on a wave of embarrassment. Caddaric watched the color fade from her cheeks and surge back a moment later when he moved against her. “Have you no greeting for me, wicca?”

  Jilana swallowed hard and found her voice. “Greetings, Caddaric.” No sooner had the words left her lips than she was being turned onto her back.

  “Open your eyes,” Caddaric ordered gently. He waited patiently until she obeyed, and when she looked at him, his expression softened. “Greetings, Jilana.” He touched his lips to hers, lingered a moment, and then withdrew. Jilana’s eyes widened at the contact and one hand crept up to touch his cheek. Encouraged, Caddaric dipped his head and found her mouth again. This time her lips softened under the pressure of his and when his tongue traced the line where her lips met, they parted for him. With a low growl he plunged into her mouth and sought her tongue.

  Forgetting her previous embarrassment, Jilana gave herself up to the kiss. Her arms wrapped themselves around Caddaric’s neck, pulling him down, and her tongue measured the length of his. She wanted his heaviness, welcomed it, and tried to tell him so. All that she managed was a choked little moan, but it was enough. The kiss went wild and Caddaric’s hands were beneath her shoulder blades, lifting her, crushing her breasts into the hard wall of his chest while his mouth worked feverishly on hers. When Jilana sensed some of Caddaric’s control returning, she dug her fingers into his neck and teased his mouth with the tip of her tongue. The kiss exploded again and this time Jilana explored the damp interior of Caddaric’s mouth until she was drunk with the taste of him.

  Their lips parted gradually and the tent was filled with the sound of their labored breathing. Caddaric laid his head beside Jilana’s and waited for the ache in his loins to abate. His body was on fire and the rise and fall of her breasts beneath his chest was both pleasure and torment.

  He opened his eyes and saw the tear that trailed forlornly down Jilana’s cheek. Wo
nderingly, Caddaric caught it on his forefinger and then raised himself up on one elbow to look into her face. “Did I hurt you, wicca?” When she shook her head, he ran his finger along her jaw until she opened her eyes. “Then why are you crying?”

  How could she explain? Jilana wondered miserably. In a cracked voice, she asked, “What am I to you, Caddaric?”

  Caddaric’s brows came together in a frown and he sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “What am I?” Jilana insisted.

  “You are mine,” Caddaric growled, uncomfortable with the question and his own unsatisfied body. “Have I not said it often enough?”

  “Exactly,” Jilana replied. “I am yours—your slave, to do with as you will. I will not be a convenient body for you.”

  “Convenient?” Caddaric echoed, and though he tried not to allow it, his temper flared. “Convenient, by the gods! Woman, you are many things, but I would not call you convenient! He sprang from the bed and began dressing, jerking on his clothes with such violence that Jilana was certain the seams would rip. “If I wanted a body upon which to slake my desire, there are many in camp that would serve the purpose. And gladly! They would not cry after a simple kiss!”

  “I was not crying about the kiss!” Jilana raged.

  “Then why?” Caddaric bellowed. “Have I not made amends for the way I treated you? Do you want for anything?”

  “Aye, you have made amends, but that does not change the fact that I am still a slave,” Jilana exclaimed. When Caddaric flipped back the tent flap she cried, “I have no control over my own life.”

  Caddaric hesitated and then, slowly turned back to her. “I have told you before, I cannot free you,” he said ominously.

  “I know.”

  “Then what are you seeking?”