Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  She went lightheaded with fear and struggled to conceal the emotion. “Will it be over then?” Jilana was amazed at how calm she sounded.

  Caddaric placed his hands on his hips and studied her. “The worst will be over. If we defeat Paulinus, the western tribes will take care of the remainder of the troops Paulinus took to Mona. Then we will be free to return home.”

  Jilana swallowed, thinking of the men who would be trapped. “What about the Ninth Legion at Lindum?”

  “They are alone, isolated, with no hope for reinforcements.” She closed her eyes and Caddaric cursed softly. “I am sorry, wicca, I should have thought—” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hair. “We must go. The Queen has ordered sacrifices made and all are ordered to attend. Nay,” he said quickly when she stiffened in his embrace. “My father is in charge of the sacrifice, not Lhwyd, though he will be there as well.”

  In fact, Lhwyd had been put in charge of procuring the sacrifice and attending to its sacred demise. In the light of the torches, Jilana watched the animal being led to the hurriedly erected altar and felt an unexpected sympathy with it. Like the animal, her life was racing forward, out of control. She would give anything to have a few more days with her husband before the coming battle.

  Caddaric had chosen a place for them well back from the pavilion. He stood behind Jilana, with his arms wrapped securely around her waist, and when the moment came for Lhwyd to draw the knife across the poor beast’s neck, Jilana bowed her head, unable to watch. Caddaric’s arms contracted gently, seeking to lend her strength, and her fingers bit into his arms in return. How would Caddaric react if she asked him not to fight? Jilana wondered as Clywd removed the entrails and read the favorable omens to a cheering crowd. Dare she ask him? She was his wife, did that not give her certain rights where his life was concerned? With all the warriors Boadicea had at her command, what difference would it make if Caddaric fought?

  Boadicea rose to address the hosting and Jilana pulled herself away from her thoughts.

  “My people, you have heard the divinations,” Boadicea shouted. She raised her sword skyward. “The gods are with us. On the morrow we will meet and defeat the army that has held us in bondage for so long—the same army that took our lands, our sons, our daughters. We will crush them beneath our might!” A deafening cheer went up and the Queen waited until it died away before continuing.

  “We are seven to their one,” the Iceni Queen asserted. “The Roman general has chosen as a battleground a plain with forested hills to their flanks and to their rear. Surely Andrasta blinded Paulinus when he picked that spot, for they have no place to run! Our chariots will attack first and scatter their front lines, and then, my brave warriors, then we will drive our attack straight into the heart of their ranks! We know how useless the legionary is when he cannot cower behind a wall of shields; we know how they fear an honorable fight! Neither our resolve nor our swords must falter—we cannot take pity upon our enemy when he falls at our feet and begs for his miserable life. Let Camulos guide your sword arm; remember what the Romans have done to the land through which we have passed. The moment of our revenge is near!”

  Jilana felt the muscles in Caddaric’s arms tighten beneath her fingers as the crowd around them went wild. Boadicea’s frenzy was contagious and Jilana watched as familiar faces took on the crazed look of battle lust.

  “All will be avenged,” Boadicea screamed, her voice barely heard over the tumult of the hosting. “All the Romans will die! The sacred soil of Albion will drink the blood of her enemies and grow strong once again! Through the guidance of our gods and the strength of our resolve, WE WILL BE FREE!”

  Savage tension beat in the air when Boadicea retreated to her tent and the Iceni made their way to their own camps, reminding Jilana of the day after the fall of Venta Icenorum. She tried not to be afraid of the madness, to be the woman a warrior such as Caddaric should have at his side, but she had been gently reared and clung desperately to his hand until they were safely inside the leather walls of their tent.

  Caddaric felt the tension in her and sat beside her on their pallet. ‘“Twill be over soon.”

  Jilana nodded, not wanting to think of the coming battle, or what her vision had portended.

  “You are one of us, my wife. The anger, the hatred, is not directed at you,” Caddaric told her, his hands gripping hers.

  “I know.” Jilana drew a deep, calming breath. “You must think me such a coward.”

  Caddaric smiled and drew her against his chest. “Never.” His lips brushed over her forehead and down her cheek until they fastened on her mouth. When she sighed softly, he nuzzled at her ear and coaxed, “‘Tis late; come to bed.”

  In moments, they were free of their clothing and lying face-to-face beneath the blanket. Jilana buried her face against the hard column of his throat and touched her lips to the pulse there. He was so warm, so alive; she could not let him go without a fight. “Caddaric?”

  “Mmm.” One of his arms was around her shoulders and the other was busy shaping her waist.

  “Will you fight tomorrow?” The hand on her waist stilled instantly.

  “What else would I do?”

  From his tone, it was plain that he had never considered otherwise. Jilana offered a quick prayer to Juno, gathered her courage, and blurted out, “Your shoulder is not healed. I do not think…”

  Her words trailed off as Caddaric levered himself up on one elbow and looked down at her in the darkness. “What are you saying, Jilana? That I should remain behind?”

  Jilana swallowed the lump in her throat and reached up to push back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead. He flinched away from her hand and she nearly cried out at his withdrawal. “You have been wounded,” she reminded him in a whisper.

  “So have many others,” Caddaric told her curtly. “No Iceni has ever avoided a battle as long as he could raise a sword.”

  “I understand,” Jilana said despairingly, knowing her cause was lost, had been lost from the beginning. “But they are not my husband.”

  “What is it you want me to do, Jilana?” Caddaric asked bitingly. “Should I sit in the wagon? Mayhap I should sleep while my countrymen fight for my freedom.”

  “Nay, of course not.” If she told him of the dream, Jilana thought desperately, perhaps he would listen to her.

  At the barely audible denial, Caddaric tunneled his fingers through her hair, forcing her head up. “I am a warrior, my heart. Tis not the same as being a merchant or a farmer—a warrior is what I am, all that I am. Of what use is a warrior who will not fight?” When she shook her head in quick, silent negation of his words, he held on to his patience. ‘Twas important for both of them that she understand. “My life has been spent learning the art of soldiering; ‘tis as much a part of me as breathing. If that is taken from me, I have nothing.”

  “And after the rebellion,” Jilana asked tightly. “What will you do when Boadicea runs out of cities to destroy?”

  Caddaric sighed. “There is always a need for soldiers, Jilana, if not to wage war, then to train those who might have to do battle one day. I can help build Albion’s defenses against the day when the Romans—or some other power—seek to take my home away.”

  His words drifted into the darkness and Jilana bowed to the inevitable. She might be able to convince him to stay out of the battle tomorrow by telling him of her dream, or keep him safe by drugging him until the battle was over, but in doing so, she would endanger their love. His life or their love—which could she bear to lose? And she knew she could not choose, for the loss of either would prove an unending torment.

  “I will take care, little wicca,” Caddaric whispered against her mouth, sensing her thoughts. “You will lie in my arms tomorrow night. I swear it.”

  Jilana clung to him, willing the night to go on forever. And when the dawn came and the march resumed, she clung to his promise.

  ****

  Shortly after midday, the Iceni column drew to a staggering
halt and Jilana climbed down from the wagon seat. They had passed through the narrow defile and onto the broad plain Caddaric had described to the Queen. The excitement and tension of the rebels hung in the air like heavy perfume and the women laughed and chattered as if they were about to visit an exotic bazaar. In truth, the Iceni were so certain of victory that their wagons, three and four deep, now ringed the far borders of the plain. The warriors were making their way back to their wagons in order to gird themselves for the coming battle, and the Iceni end of the plain was a scene of chaos compared to the neatly arrayed Roman field. She could see the precise rows of leather tents in the distance, along with the larger tent with its aquila and standards. That, Jilana assumed, was Paulinus’ headquarters. Looking back the way they had come, Jilana could see the narrow pass was now clogged with abandoned wagons; the wives and children in the rear of the column had left their vehicles in order to gain an unrestricted view of the battleground. Worry and fear had assailed her all morning until now, Jilana felt almost numb as she went about the business of unhitching the horses as Caddaric had instructed her earlier.

  By the time Heall and Caddaric returned to the wagon, Jilana had filled their skins with water and laid out a cold meal of dried meat. A full belly, Caddaric had told her, was a hindrance during battle. Jilana could not understand how they could eat at all, for her own stomach rebelled at the thought of food.

  “Where is my father?” Caddaric wanted to know as they ate the light meal.

  “Boadicea summoned him,” Jilana answered, unable to drag her eyes away from her husband. She stared at him, memorizing every line, angle and curve of his face and form.

  Caddaric swore under his breath. “I wanted him here, not offering up prayers to his gods so close to the Roman lines.” He rose and began saddling two of the horses that had been tied to the wagon during the march.

  Jilana’s spirits rose a bit. Her vision had not seen Caddaric fighting on horseback. “I thought you intended to fight on foot.”

  “I do.” Caddaric’s back was to her and he did not see the color drain from her face. “These are for you and my father. I want you to pack these two and the two Heall and I rode this morning with blankets, food and water.” He tightened the cinch under the second horse’s belly and drew Jilana around to the opposite side of the wagon. Pointing to a spot high on the hill he ordered, “Take the horses there, just below the rise. Tie them to the trees so they cannot bolt and wait.”

  “Wait?” Jilana stared at him dumbly. “For what?”

  “For Boadicea to lose the battle,” Caddaric told her grimly. “If that happens, we surely cannot retreat through the defile.” He looked back to the narrow pass, saw the wagons massed there and gave an imperceptible shake of his^head before turning back to Jilana. “I will try to find my father and tell him where you will be.”

  “You think we will lose?”

  Caddaric draped an arm around her shoulders and her head came to rest against his chest. “I know not whether we will win or lose, but a wise man plans for the worst. If we are forced to retreat, I do not want you trapped here, with no means of escape.”

  “But the others—”

  “Let the others do as they wish. You will do as I say.” Caddaric smiled to take the bite from his words. “If the Queen’s plan is successful, then all these preparations will have been unnecessary, and we can laugh at them this night. But now, ‘twill be easier for me to fight if I know you are safe, out of harm’s reach.”

  That convinced Jilana as none of his other arguments could have. Above all else, she wanted his concentration solely upon the battle and emerging from it alive. She nodded and dredged up a smile.

  Caddaric’s face hardened and he spoke quickly and quietly. “If the worst happens, we will come to you as quickly as we can, but under no circumstances must you stay if the legionaries begin to search the trees. The moment you see the Romans heading for the treeline, take one of the horses and leave. Do not hesitate, do not delay, not for anything or anyone. Do I make myself clear? Go west, for there are Roman settlements there that will take you in. We will follow you when we can.” He frowned at her until she nodded to show him she understood. “There is a sword in the other wagon; take it with you as well and use it if you must.”

  “There will be no need,” Jilana managed to say. “You will ride with me.”

  Looking down into the wide, violet eyes, Caddaric felt the love he held for this woman pour through him, just as felt her love reach out for his heart. “Aye, I will ride with you.”

  No purpose would be served by further delay; there would be no comfort for either of them until the battle had been won—or lost. Releasing her, he slipped a battle-axe onto his belt and readjusted his sword and baldric. He checked the dagger in his belt and strapped a knife in its sheath around the calf of his leg. When he straightened, his eyes locked with Jilana’s and Caddaric wished could give voice to assurances, no matter how false, that would erase the worry lines between her brows.

  Jilana summoned up the dregs of her courage and went up on tiptoe to place a gentle kiss upon Caddaric’s lips. There was no passion in the kiss, only love and concern, and when he pulled her into his arms for a quick, hard embrace, she whispered, “I love you, my husband. The gods go with you.”

  “And with you.” Gently, Caddaric set her away from him. After a slight hesitation, he added, “Put on a stola, my heart.”

  Jilana was about to ask why when the reason blazed into her mind. Dressed as she was, in a short tunic with her hair unbound, she was certain to be mistaken for a Celt. A stola would not identify her as a Roman, but it might give a legionary pause if her escape was unsuccessful. “I will wait for you.” Heall was standing beside Caddaric now and she wrapped the older man in a tender embrace. “For both of you,” she promised when Heall released her.

  They had run out of words and time. Caddaric swung away and Heall followed an instant later. Although her eyes followed the two until they were swallowed up in the hosting, neither man looked back. Jilana’s breath escaped in a shudder and she set about following Caddaric’s final orders. In her blanket, she wrapped a stola; there would be time enough later to change if it proved necessary. She waited as long as she dared for Clywd to return, and when he did not, she swung into the saddle and rode into the trees.

  Jilana had just reached the rise in the hill when the first blast of the carnyx echoed through the trees. The horses snorted and tossed their heads in alarm. Jilana quieted her own mount and then slid from the saddle and tied the four steeds securely. It was chill within the forest, and Jilana took Caddaric’s cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders while she listened to the oddly muted sounds of battle rising from the plain. She could see next to nothing from where she stood, but farther down the hill, she spotted a small clearing. After an agonizing deliberation, she checked the horses’ tethers and began a careful descent until the battlefield came into view. The baldric cut into her shoulder and the sword swung painfully against her hip, but Jilana barely felt it. Her breath caught involuntarily in her throat at the spectacle below.

  Paulinus had ranged his troops so that the infantry formed a center wedge with archers and cavalry on the wings. Contrary to Boadicea’s battle plan, the Iceni infantry broke ranks and charged across the field separating the two armies, rendering their chariots useless. The gods alone knew how much courage it had taken for the legionaries to watch the Celts—some naked, their bodies painted blue with woad, their battle cries reverberating across the plain—roll toward them like some demonic wave. When the two armies collided, the clash of sword against shield was enough to cause the governor-general— mounted, at the rear of his army and surrounded by the standard’s guard—to wince. For good or ill, the battle was joined. Messengers ran from the lines to their commander and Paulinus weighed the reports his officers were sending. The trap he planned had to be sprung at exactly the right moment or all would be lost.

  A cold horror seeped through Jilana as she watched
the engagement. At first glance, it looked as though the Iceni should trample the legion beneath their feet, but it soon became evident that such a thing would not happen. Even to her untrained eye, it was obvious that the Iceni were crowded, too crowded. Those in the rear lines were howling madly at being denied this chance at the hated Roman legion and pushed forward while those in front were literally thrown against the sword points which bristled from the wall of Roman shields. Numerical superiority, in this case, was not an advantage.

  The wicker chariots chased wildly behind the Iceni lines, useless. They needed room to maneuver, and none existed. Now there came the sound of a Roman battle horn and suddenly a torrent of arrows poured from the sky to fall upon the Iceni force. The screams that reached Jilana were mercifully dampened, but she understood what had happened. A second volley of arrows followed the first and those in the rear of the Iceni lines lost all patience. They surged forward in an unstoppable wave and at the same moment the Roman wedge moved. The wedge sliced neatly into the center of the Iceni, splitting them apart. There came a second blare of the legion’s horn and the cavalry, held in reserve at the base of the hills, pranced forward. In place of arrows, lances now menaced the unprotected flanks of the Iceni. There was no protection; the lances kept both horse and rider well out of sword’s reach while retaining the ability to pierce through Celtic shields. Those caught on the flanks fought valiantly and died calling upon their gods; those who tried to flee never saw the instruments of their death. The Iceni collapsed back on themselves, the wedge moved forward yet again, and the chaos began.

  Instinctively, forgetting the danger she was in, Jilana had edged ever closer to the battlefield until she stood only a few feet behind the place where the cavalry had so recently waited. Now she could smell the battle as well as see it, and her stomach lurched sickeningly at the mixed odors of blood and sweat and fear. Dust clouded the plain now; the earth was churned into clods by horses’ hooves and vibrated beneath her feet. The Romans were advancing steadily and the first Iceni bodies were becoming visible. Hopelessness swept through Jilana and she began to pray to every god and goddess she could remember, Roman as well as Celtic.