Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  The next day, Caddaric took charge of the team. Jilana wanted to ask why he no longer rode with the vanguard, but she did not. She enjoyed riding next to him, even though they exchanged few words. And too, she was grateful for the free time, for she had offered to sew Ede’s wedding gown when she saw the hopeless mess the warrior maid was making of it. Ede’s talents, apparently, did not extend to sewing, although she had cut the material correctly. Thus, Jilana sewed on the gown while Caddaric drove the wagon.

  “You need not labor so for Ede,” Caddaric told Jilana the day of the wedding.

  They were in the wagon and Jilana was finishing the hem of the gown. When that was done, she planned to add a design to the hem of the sleeves. Beneath her fingers, the bone needle flew through the material. She would have to hurry in order to embroider the sleeves by moonset. “I do not mind,” Jilana protested, not looking up from her work. “Every woman should have a beautiful gown for her wedding.”

  Caddaric snorted. “Not so long ago, you and Ede could not bear the sight of one another.”

  “Things change,” Jilana said philosophically. She glanced at Caddaric from the corner of her eyes. “Maybe you are jealous of Ewan.”

  Caddaric laughed shortly. “I have been too long among foreigners; I prefer my women more biddable than Ede.”

  Jilana knotted the thread and bit it off. From the notions Ede had given her, she took a twist of green thread and measured a length of it for the sleeves. “Lucius, too, liked biddable women. I hope you have better luck than he.”

  Caddaric considered that for a moment and then asked carefully, “Meaning you were not biddable?”

  “I fear not.” Intent upon her sewing, Jilana failed to notice the odd note in Caddaric’s voice. “I was forever angering him with my actions.” She sighed and shook her head. “Poor Lucius. He could never understand why I preferred riding my horse through the forest to riding in a litter to the market.”

  “But you would have married him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jilana said dryly. “‘Twas a good match; my father was well-pleased with it.”

  Caddaric shook his head in disbelief. “Did it never occur to you to challenge your father’s dictates?”

  Jilana stared at him. “To what end? I had not the freedom of your Iceni women, Caddaric. I could either remain in my father’s house or marry, at his discretion. ‘Tis the way of things.”

  “Did Lucius meet with your approval?”

  “Aye.” Jilana gave him a slight smile. “He was young, sound of body and mind, and not unpleasant to look upon. We would have had a satisfactory marriage.”

  “You make it sound like a dose of one of Clywd’s medicines,” Caddaric commented acidly. “Had you no thoughts of your own?”

  “Of course I did,” Jilana bristled. “I agreed to Lucius as my husband. ‘Twas far better than journeying to Rome and allowing my father’s father to choose a husband for me! I thought that Lucius—oh, what does it matter? You cannot possibly understand!” She bent back over her sewing, glaring at the material.

  Caddaric watched her for a moment. “You are right-Lucius would not have found you biddable.” He turned to the road, a hint of a smile softening his lips.

  That afternoon, when the camp had been set up, Jilana gathered all her courage and told Caddaric he would have to stay with Heall and Clywd until the ceremony.

  “Why?” Caddaric growled, rising from the fire he had just started.

  “Because we need the tent, and the privacy.”

  “We?”

  “Ede, Guendolen, three other village women and myself,” Jilana replied, eyeing his fierce expression.

  “Jilana, I am weary,” Caddaric began to explain with what he thought was admirable patience. “I had hoped to wash and rest before the evening meal.”

  “You can do that in Heall’s camp,” Jilana pointed out.

  “I planned to rest on my pallet,” Caddaric clarified. “Not the ground or the wagon bed.”

  “Caddaric, have you no heart?” Jilana pleaded. “Ede and Ewan have already lost so much because of the war, they should have this one night, at least.”

  Caddaric eyed her suspiciously. “Have you given them our tent for their wedding night?”

  “Of course not,” Jilana exclaimed. “But I promised Ede a warm bath and the privacy in which to dress.”

  “You promised? Without asking me?”

  It was like a slap in the face. Caddaric was reminding her that she was only a slave, without any authority of her own. Jilana swallowed back the hurt and studied the toes of her shoes. Caddaric had bartered a portion of their cured meat for a pair of leather slippers for her the day after Beltane. They were more comfortable than her sandals and would wear better. She had been touched by his thoughtfulness, but he had curtly brushed aside her thanks. Had he not said he would take care of her?

  “I am sorry, Caddaric,” Jilana whispered, “I had-no right-”

  “Jilana,” Caddaric interrupted roughly, “I was teasing.” Jilana’s head snapped up and she stared into his brilliant blue eyes. “You can give them the damned tent if you wish; I do not care. Just remember that it would mean sharing a pallet made beneath the sky.”

  He brushed the knuckles of one hand over her cheek and, with an exaggerated sigh, went into the tent to gather a change of clothes. When he emerged, Jilana still stood where he had left her. Grumbling under his breath, Caddaric walked the few feet that separated their camp from Heall’s, tossed his clothes into the wagon and then joined the two older men at their fire. When he was settled with a cup of mead, Caddaric looked up and winked at her.

  An explosion of tender warmth burst within Jilana’s breast and she turned away so that Caddaric could not see the expression on her face. How could he be so cold and remote one moment, and so kind the next? He was a puzzle that fascinated her and Jilana had to constantly remind herself that she was only his slave, no matter how considerately he treated her. She had only to look at the fading scars on her wrists and ankles to remember how quickly he could turn on her. But when the women arrived and they began preparing Ede for her marriage, Jilana still had not succeeded in quashing the pang that stabbed her heart when she thought of Caddaric sitting only a few feet away.

  Laughing, the women bathed Ede and dressed her in the gown that Jilana had finished only minutes earlier, and then brushed her hair until it dried and fell down her back like a shining waterfall. One of the women brought a vial of jealously hoarded perfume and it was generously applied to the bride. Ede’s marching sandals were exchanged for a delicate pair with low heels and then the cosmetics were brought forward. Ede’s cheeks were rouged, her eyelashes and brows darkened, and kohl generously applied to her eyelids. When they were finished, Jilana nearly gasped aloud. Although the cosmetics were more heavily applied than was fashionable for a Roman woman, there was no doubt in Jilana’s mind that Ede was the most strikingly beautiful woman she had ever seen and for a moment Jilana was secretly relieved that Ede had chosen another. She could never compete against Ede for Caddaric’s affection. As soon as she had the thought, Jilana chastised herself for being so foolish, but the feeling remained just the same. The women ate a light meal—to which they had all contributed—and then retired to their own camps to prepare for the ceremony. Ede and Jilana were left alone.

  “The gown is beautiful,” Ede murmured, running her fingers over the embroidery on the sleeves.

  Jilana smiled. “So are you.” She sighed and opened her kist. “And now, I must change and rebraid my hair.”

  Ede left the pallet, where she had been sitting so carefully in order to remain unmussed, and peered over Jilana’s shoulder as she pulled out her other white stola. “Why do you not wear these tunics?” Ede inquired.

  Jilana shrugged. “I am uncomfortable in them.”

  “Are they too small?”

  Jilana shook her head and a faint blush rose in her cheeks. “I used to wear them at home when I rode, but here.. .they expose most of my l
egs,” she finished lamely.

  Ede rolled her eyes. “Jilana, most of the women wear short tunics.”

  “I know, but…” Jilana raised her hands in a self-conscious gesture. She was not about to tell Ede that she had put a tunic on one morning and Caddaric had done nothing but stare at her while she did her chores. Before the tent had been struck, Jilana had ducked back inside and changed into her stola. She had never forgotten the feeling of his eyes lingering upon her. Jilana turned her back on Ede and stripped off her stola in order to wash.

  “What is this?” Ede exclaimed.

  Jilana turned and saw the length of saffron in Ede’s hands. “My wedding veil,” she replied shakily. She presented her back to Ede and washed quickly in the cool water.

  “Tis very pretty.” Ede shook out the gauzy material and held it up in front of her eyes. “It gives everything a golden appearance.”

  Jilana shrugged into her gown. “You may have it if you wish.” She knew of the Celtic love of color, and Ede was obviously fascinated with the garment. “I have no use for it.”

  “Oh, do you mean it?” But Ede was already drawing the veil over her head. It provided a vivid contrast to the white gown with its green decoration.

  “Of course.” Jilana smiled at the rapt expression on Ede’s face. The child-like enthusiasm—common among Ede’s people—was endearing. “I will certainly have no need of it.”

  At moonset they emerged from the tent and both women stopped dead at the sight awaiting them. A wicker chariot stood in the camp, and it was drawn by a team of snow-white horses.

  “Oh!” Ede made a sound that to Jilana sounded suspiciously like a sob, and walked slowly forward. Caddaric stood at the horses’ heads, holding the bridles while Heall stood in the chariot. “Where did you—” Ede’s voice broke as she reached out to stroke a white neck.

  “They are from the Queen, so that you might be properly taken to your wedding,” Caddaric explained gently, although he was frowning. “The Queen said—and my father agreed—that the gods would not be offended by the substitution of horses for oxen.”

  “They could not be offended by such beauty,” Jilana agreed. She followed Ede and placed a hand upon one of the velvet-soft noses. The horse accepted her immediately, butting its nose against her shoulder when she tried to show the same attention to its teammate.

  “Heall will drive you,” Caddaric told Ede, although his eyes were fixed upon Jilana.

  “Aye,” Heall put in. “Whenever you are ready, Ede.”

  “I am ready now.” Ede smiled and raised the veil in order to place a kiss on Caddaric’s cheek. “Farewell, Caddaric.”

  Caddaric’s eyes glowed with remembered affection. “Farewell, Ede.” Both knew their camaraderie of the past would be forever changed by her marriage, but neither had any regrets.

  Jilana, Ede took in her strong arms and hugged warmly. “Who would have thought we could be friends?” she murmured. “I will return your veil to you—I think you may find a use for it.” With that she left them and stepped into the chariot.

  “What did Ede say?” Caddaric wanted to know when the chariot was nearly out of sight.

  “She thanked me.” Jilana brushed at the betraying wetness in her eyes.

  “Are you crying?”

  Jilana chuckled weakly. “I am afraid so.”

  Caddaric took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face up to his. “Why did you give Ede your bridal veil?”

  “Because she admired it so,” Jilana replied softly. His hands framed her face now, and his thumbs were brushing away her tears. “Tis not proper for a Celtic wedding, I know, but mayhap my gods will bless the union as well.”

  “Mayhap.” Before he could think about the consequence of his actions, Caddaric lowered his head.

  Jilana’s eyes fluttered closed as Caddaric’s lips touched hers. The kiss was a soft, questioning thing and she responded in kind. When his tongue at last followed the seam of her lips, she opened willingly and took him inside. Her hands went to his chest and the kiss lengthened into a gentle, erotic exploration that left her aching when Caddaric finally lifted his head.

  “Come.” Caddaric offered Jilana his hand and after only a slight hesitation, she took it. He twined his fingers with hers and they walked to the site of the wedding.

  The ceremony was unlike any Jilana had witnessed, but she found it beautiful nonetheless. Or perhaps it was the fact that Caddaric kept a firm grip on her hand throughout the ritual that colored her perception. To Jilana, it mattered not. Along with the rest of their village, as well as Queen Boadicea and her retinue, Jilana watched as Ewan stepped into the chariot beside Ede and took the reins from Heall. Clywd blessed the couple and recited their lineage, and the filid listed the property that they brought into the marriage. Clywd invoked the blessing of Be’al and the lesser gods upon the couple, calling for their health and prosperity in the coming years. Garlands of mistletoe were set upon the heads of the bride and groom and Heall sacrificed to the gods the wine and handful of wheat the couple had offered.

  The men had erected a bower for the couple—far enough away from the main camp to allow privacy, but close enough for safety—and when the ceremony was finished, the village surrounded the chariot and escorted the bride and groom to it. Ribald jokes mingled with good wishes as the couple ducked into the shelter made from branches. The blanket which constituted the door was flipped into place amid loud cheers, and after drinking a toast to the couple with the mead the bride and groom had left outside the bower, the wedding guests withdrew, leaving the newly weds alone.

  That night, when they were settled into their pallet, Caddaric drew Jilana into his arms and kissed her again. In spite of all the warnings that flashed through her mind, Jilana melted in his arms, returning his passion. Reality spun away. She did not even think to protest when his hands cupped her buttocks and drew her into the hard evidence of his desire. When the kiss ended, she knew a longing so intense that she forgot to be embarrassed, but Caddaric tucked her against his side with the soft admonition, “Sleep now,” and, to her surprise, she did.

  ****

  Paulinus and his cavalry escort reached Londinium. Like Camulodunum the city was unwalled, indefensible. From the two centuriae based in the city, Paulinus sent out mounted scouts to find the Iceni war band. Then he turned his attention to provisioning his exhausted troops and making plans for the defense of the city. Two days later, Paulinus’ infantry staggered into Londinium. By the time his infantry arrived, Paulinus had come to the hardest decision of his long and distinguished career. Londinium could not be defended, at least not with the troops available to him; if he tried and was defeated, he would lose his troops, his life, and the entire province. Once he was dead, Boadicea would turn her war band to the west, join with the unruly tribes there, and the legions he had left in the west would be overwhelmed. Rome would be forced to mount a major offensive in order to retake Britannia, if it could. Londinium must be sacrificed in order to save the island. Still, knowing all that he did, Paulinus hesitated to announce his decision to the city.

  When the scouts returned and reported that the rebel force was encamped some twenty miles to the east of the city, Paulinus could delay no longer. He summoned the civil leaders and priests and announced his decision to evacuate the city—in effect, turning it over to the rebels. But first the soldiers would strip it of as much food as they could carry; what could not be transported would be burned. The civilians were invited to join his column the following day when it withdrew from Londinium.

  Word of Paulinus’ decision spread through the city like wildfire. Men and women alike wept at the news, and they gathered at the temples to offer sacrifices to their gods and learn what their friends and neighbors intended to do. The staunchest and wisest of the citizenry opted to pack what household goods they could and join the legion. The price of wagons quadrupled in half a day; the cost of those few horses the legion had not confiscated for its own use increased ten
fold. The strongest and greediest fed upon the stricken city. By midday, a horse, mule, wagon or cart could not be purchased by coin, only blood. People died fighting for possession of a lame pony that would die during the forced march the following day.

  The legionaries opened the granaries—both those belonging to the city and those belonging to the temples. While guards, their weapons drawn in order to keep at bay the citizens who gathered there as well, stood watch over the doors, other legionaries filled their carts with the

  much-needed grain. Once the military needs had been met, the civilians were allowed to draw as much as they wished. The guards stayed. When Paulinus and the rest of the legion were safely out of the city, those left behind would fire the granaries and then take to their horses to join the Roman column.

  That night, the altar fires in the temples burned continuously as the citizens flocked there in search of favorable omens and comfort. What they found only added to their panic: the temples had been stripped of all their trappings; all the sacred valuables, right down to the gold-covered cult statues, had already been packed into wagons for transport. Before daybreak, the faithful were unceremoniously shoved through the cella and out onto the steps. The wide temple doors were barred from the inside while the priests and attendants made ready to flee with Paulinus.

  By dawn, the city streets were choked with traffic; movement was all but impossible. Paulinus had camped the night before with his men beside the road to Verulamium, and as the sun spread its golden fingers over the city, he swung into his saddle and gave the order to move out. The legion, already in formation, moved forward. It was noon before the last of the citizenry passed out of Londinium’s gates. Shortly thereafter, dark plumes of smoke spiraled into the sky, mute evidence that the granaries had been torched.