Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  “So this is where Caddaric has hidden you.”

  Somehow the voice, and the hand that came to rest upon her shoulder, did not surprise Jilana. She turned beneath the pressure of the hand and met the green stare of Lhwyd. Hopelessness was replaced by a savage fury that glittered in Jilana’s violet eyes. Juno, but she hated this Druid! The emotion burst into her breast and swept aside all her fear. Caddaric was out there, trapped, perhaps dying, and this imitation of a man could think only of one last sacrifice for his goddess, of his need for vengeance.

  “If you want to kill,” Jilana said in a voice that shook with disgust, “go out there and help your countrymen!”

  Lhwyd smiled. “Afraid, Roman?”

  “Not of you,” Jilana spat, and it was true.

  “You should be.” Lhwyd glanced at the battle and then looked back at Jilana. “Tis forbidden for a Druid to kill.”

  “You do so readily enough when your enemy is bound,” Jilana goaded, soaring in a tempest of emotion. “What a coward you are, priest. You slay helpless prisoners and then incite those braver than you to face the enemy while you cower behind your vows.”

  Lhwyd’s face blanched and then flooded with color. “Roman bitch,” he hissed. “When I offer your heart to the Morrigan, she will see us victorious.”

  There was laughter and Jilana, staring at Lhwyd’s thin mouth, realized that the sound came from her. Lhwyd’s hand moved inside his robe and reappeared an instant later with a dagger. Jilana glanced contemptuously at the long, thin blade and took a step backward. Before Lhwyd could follow her, she flipped back the left side of her tunic and pulled the sword from its baldric. Lhwyd was incredulous at first and then, when he saw the effort it took for her to raise the weapon, he grinned evilly.

  “Too late, Roman. You have not the skill, or the courage.”

  In one sense Lhwyd was correct, she had no skill with a blade; but as Caddaric could have told him, she did not lack for courage. The Druid’s mistake was in underestimating his opponent and overestimating the power of his spells. Just as her fear had hidden her thoughts from Clywd, so now did Jilana’s rage protect her mind from Lhwyd. He began a soft, hypnotic chant and, while Jilana watched in disbelief, advanced upon her.

  “Stay away, priest,” Jilana warned him quietly, backing away. The sword was too heavy for her wrists, and the tip dragged on the ground as she retreated. Hate Lhwyd she did, but she had no desire to kill him.

  Lhwyd’s answer was to chant louder. His pace never faltered, nor did his eyes leave hers. The carpet of leaves muffled the sound of their steps and Jilana felt the gentle rise beneath her feet give way to flat ground. A heartbeat later, her back came up against a tree trunk and Jilana knew she could retreat no further.

  “You are mine, Roman.” Lhwyd smiled, seeing her trapped. “Just as the Morrigan promised.”

  Jilana never remembered raising the sword. One minute Lhwyd was several feet away, the dagger held high in his hand and a mad gleam lighting his eyes, and the next he gave a breathless, almost feminine gasp and looked down at the space between them. Jilana followed his gaze and saw the sword held at an upward angle in front of her. Lhwyd was impaled upon its blade.

  “Bitch,” Lhwyd cursed her with his final breath and in a last, convulsive movement, pulled himself off the blade.

  Jilana watched in horrified fascination as her enemy fell. When he came to rest, his arms were outstretched, his eyes wide open. Save for the spreading red stain on his white robe, he might have been watching the clouds pass overhead.

  “Juno, forgive me,” Jilana prayed, and dropped the sword. What appalled her the most was that she felt no guilt at having taken a life. Keeping an eye on Lhwyd’s corpse, she moved some distance away until the body was hidden from her sight and then she turned her attention back to the battle. She was totally out of the concealment of the trees now, but that was a small consideration compared to the mayhem in front of her.

  More than a few Iceni bodies were visible now and Jilana stood frozen in place by the sight, sound and smell of war. Caddaric, her heart cried when she heard the Iceni curses rise above the tumult.

  The battle had turned into a rout. Caddaric, buried in the midst of the Celtic force, felt the shock wave when the Roman wedge advanced. Experience told him what was happening even before the first Roman shield came into view. His sword was free, but there was no room to wield it, and he spared a thought for the short sword he had left for Jilana. The long sword he held was made for slashing, not stabbing, and with his neighbors’ elbow jammed into his ribs, he was sorely lacking in maneuvering room. The second shock wave rolled through the warriors and Caddaric grabbed Heall’s wrist.

  “Here they come,” he shouted over the din. “If we become separated, remember where the horses are.”

  “I will not leave without you, boy,” Heall shouted back.

  “You will do what is necessary, my old friend,” Caddaric said in a voice that once brought eighty Roman legionaries to heel. “And that includes seeing my father and Jilana to safety. Do you understand?”

  Heall was given no chance to reply, for at that moment the wedge broke through to where they were standing, separating the two men that had been as father and son.

  “Remember,” Caddaric screamed as Heall disappeared from sight, and then he raised his own shield just in time to deflect the menace of the Roman short sword that jabbed from the wall of interlocked shields.

  At first, his small world of battle went well. The men around him followed Caddaric’s example and used their swords in short, stabbing motions rather than killing their own people by seeking to swing their blades in the time-honored way of their fathers. A few Romans fell, but always any breech in the wall of shields was immediately filled. Sweat dripped down Caddaric’s face, burning his eyes and lips. His arm began to ache from the strain, and when his thrust met a particularly effective parry, he felt something give in his shoulder, followed by a sunburst of pain. His wound had broken open, and he confirmed that guess a moment later when he glanced down and saw the shoulder of his light brown tunic turning a rusty color. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He forced the pain away, willing it to the back of his mind until there was time to deal with such trivialities. With all his attention focused on avoiding a mortal blow, Caddaric barely noticed the bothersome wounds inflicted upon him, both by the Roman swords and those of his own people. His arms and legs bled in dozens of places where honed iron had slipped against his flesh. Like his shoulder, the stings of the razor-like wounds were ignored.

  With the third flight of arrows, Caddaric knew they were doomed. The Iceni were being relentlessly forced back toward the defile. The Iceni had fought bravely, but they were helpless as babes against the superior Roman strategy. To stay was madness, for only certain death waited on the battlefield. They could move neither forward nor to the sides, only backward. Already he could hear the screams of women and children as the Romans reached the wagons. He thought of Jilana and wondered if he could fight his way to the perimeter. From there he might be able to bludgeon a path through the cavalry. He managed to withdraw from the front rank, using brute force and his shield to push his countrymen out of his way and then he felt the earth tremble under his feet. Straining to see above the heads of those around him, Caddaric looked to the rear and what he saw brought forth a string of curses from his mouth.

  Enraged by the obvious failure, and frustrated beyond endurance, the famed Celtic temper had overridden strategy once again. The chariots, which had been helplessly milling back and forth for several hours, now tried to charge through their own ranks in an effort to reach the Roman cavalry, and leading them was Boadicea. For just a moment, Caddaric’s spirit rallied at the sight of his Queen, a spear in one upraised hand, charging toward him, and then he realized what would happen and that was when he cursed. More screams—these of fear and anguish—rent the air as Iceni infantry was crushed beneath the hooves and wheels of Iceni chariots. Caddaric turned away and doubled
his efforts to reach the perimeter. The chariots would never reach the Roman lines; instead they trampled their own people.

  There came a sound like the buzzing of maddened hornets and Caddaric felt himself reel when something slammed into his left shoulder. The shock numbed his arm; his shield dropped from his hand and Caddaric looked down to see an arrow shaft still quivering where it was embedded in his shoulder. There was no pain. Instinctively, Caddaric reached up with his right hand, wrapped his fingers around the shaft and yanked the missile from his flesh. The fount of blood which followed the extraction left him lightheaded, but Caddaric could not have fallen if he had wanted to. The crush of bodies held him upright.

  Pitilessly, he pushed and shouldered his way through the ranks until the Roman cavalry came into view. Shifting his sword to his left hand, he took a moment to wipe his bloody right hand against his equally bloody tunic and then grasped the hilt in both hands. With a feral cry, he burst through the last two lines of Iceni, his sword held high above his head. He saw the shock in the cavalryman’s eyes as he avoided the lance and arched his blade into the man’s neck. The man fell, adding his body to those already heaped underfoot. Raw power pulsed through Caddaric, and he charged forward, his blade singing through the air above his head. The wild charge took the cavalry by surprise and the horses were reined aside to avoid the madman. He was nearly through them when one of the rearing horses came down squarely in front of him. This man held no lance, though Caddaric could not think why, and then he saw the distinctive helmet of a centurion. In place of a lance, this man wielded a sword and Caddaric had just a moment to wonder why the shadowed face beneath the helmet looked familiar before the blade bit deeply into his side.

  ” Jilana,” Caddaric cried as the sword was withdrawn. He felt the hot rush of blood as his life drained away and cursed the gods one last time. His world went up in flames and then he plunged into a welcoming darkness.

  Jilana heard his voice as clearly as if he had been whispering in her ear. An unworldly chill enveloped her, and she stepped onto the plain. Some force she did not understand set her feet upon an unseen path, and she was mercifully blind to the carnage surrounding her. The pace of battle was quicker now as the Iceni threw themselves upon lances and swords in a mad scramble to escape defeat in any manner that presented itself, and the Romans followed relentlessly. Though she was plainly visible, neither the cavalry nor the archers paid her any heed as she picked her way over Roman and Iceni bodies. Which was friend and which was foe, Jilana wondered madly, and then her thoughts focused once again upon finding Caddaric.

  High above the battlefield, Clywd reached the tethered horses and his heartbeat faltered when he could find no sign of Jilana. Not daring to call out, he plunged downward through the trees, praying. In his haste, Clywd nearly tripped over Lhwyd’s body. The sight of the dead priest gave him pause and when Clywd was able to force his gaze from the body, he saw Jilana step onto the battlefield. Clywd drew a deep breath and started to call her name.

  Nay!

  The breath was locked in his lungs and though he struggled to follow the slender figure in the blue cloak, his legs would not obey. “Father, I beg you,” Clywd prayed desperately, “let me go after her.”

  Nay. You are the last of my priests. You must live to tell the children of me.

  “There will be no children,” Clywd sobbed. “The Romans will kill them all. I beg you, Father, spare me the agony of being separated from my child a third time.”

  Remember the children.

  Clywd felt his legs move, but they were carrying him deeper into the forest, away from the battle. When he sought to change direction, his legs refused to work. Tears streamed down his cheeks as Clywd found his way back to the horses. There he gathered his cloak about him and waited, praying that one of his family would escape.

  Heall’s sword arm grew weary and an unfamiliar ache blossomed in his chest. Bodies pushed and twisted against him, and there was a humming in his ears that sapped his strength. A Roman sword skittered off his shield and when he made to drive his blade through the opening that had somehow appeared in the Roman wall, his foot slipped on the ground turned muddy with blood. The fall stunned him and then he felt the smothering weight as another body landed on top of him. A tear squeezed its way out of his eye. Clywd, my old friend, Heall thought fleetingly, I have left so much undone. Then there was a roaring in his ears that brought peace.

  Jilana stopped by a body which, to another, would have borne no resemblance to her husband, but her heart knew. She dropped to her knees, her fingers reaching out to trace the bloodstained features she had come to know so well. With the hem of her cloak, Jilana wiped away the blood and then she gently took him in her arms. Cradling Caddaric’s head against her breast, she brushed the hair away from his forehead and began to cry silently, rocking him as she would a babe. His blood soaked her cloak and tunic and soon she began to sob, then wail. At last she threw back her head and a high, keening sound ripped from her throat. The lamentation filled her ears just as the man in her arms filled her world. She did not see the cavalry centurion wheel his mount around and stare at her in disbelief. She finally realized that she was not alone with her beloved when a pair of hooves pranced nervously only a few feet from where she sat.

  Tears clouding her eyes, Jilana slowly looked up until she could make out the armor-clad figure of the legionary. “You shall not have him,” she choked out, drawing the cloak around Caddaric’s chest in a protective gesture and clutching him tighter. “You shall not.”

  The man was in the process of dismounting when he suddenly shouted, “Nay!” and held up his hand in a warning gesture that caused him to lose his balance and sent him tumbling to the ground.

  Jilana’s head exploded in a shower of stars. Her last thought was: I did not have to choose after all.

  Suetonius Paulinus turned away from the carnage to address his second-in-command. “Light the fires and have the torches brought to them. ‘Twill be soon be dark and we will need the light in order to track down these rebel dogs.” As the officer hurried away, Paulinus turned back to watch the massacre, a satisfied smile on his hard lips. Above him, a mute witness to the carnage, the Roman eagle glinted victoriously in the last rays of the sun.

  ****

  Jilana awoke to agony so intense she knew at once she was alive. Charon had not ferried her across the Styx to the promised paradise of the afterlife. Her head pounded with a thousand hammers, threatening to beat itself apart. A sweet, sickening smell assaulted her nostrils and she weakly turned her head, gagging. A hand was behind her head, holding her, as her stomach emptied itself.

  “Drink this.”

  Jilana tried to pry her eyes open, but the effort was too great. She felt the rim of a cup pressed against her lips and obediently opened her mouth. Wine, she thought, but something else as well that left an aftertaste. There were hands on her body, and then she felt the cool air against her skin. She should protest such a liberty, but speech was beyond her. A blanket was drawn over her and she drifted away.

  When Jilana awoke next, she was able to open her eyes. Three braziers illuminated her world. The surroundings were familiar; she recognized the leather walls of the tent Caddaric had brought for her. So it had all been a dream then, Jilana thought, denying the crawling tendrils in her belly that told her differently.

  “Drink this.”

  A hand bearing a cup appeared in front of her and Jilana shrank away from it, her eyes going to the unfamiliar face above her. “Who are you?” The words emerged in a throaty whisper and the man’s jaw set.

  “None of your heathen tongue.” He pushed the cup roughly against her mouth, jarring her teeth.

  Jilana cried out as the small pain triggered the larger one in her head, and then she swallowed hastily to avoid choking as the wine was poured down her throat.

  “Why he bothers with one of you I do not know,” the man said in disgust, wiping droplets of spilled wine from his hand with a towel. “Our ow
n lie wounded while I waste my time on you.”

  “I can waste even more of your time,” threatened a harsh voice from somewhere behind Jilana’s head. “You may be assigned to the surgeons’ staff, but that can be remedied. How would a transfer to one of the western marching camps suit you?” The voice had come further into the tent during the speech, until now it was so close that Jilana started at the lash in the question. “How is she?”

  The man paled and swallowed convulsively. He had come to attention, but his legs were trembling. “Awake, sir, but I dosed her again.”

  “Get out.”

  The man obeyed with alacrity and when he was gone, the owner of the rough voice moved so that Jilana could see him. Her eyes wandered up the thick, heavily muscled body and widened in disbelief when the man removed his helmet.

  “H-Hadrian!” And then Jilana remembered the legionary who had fallen from his horse while shouting a warning. “‘Twas you this afternoon.”

  “Yesterday afternoon,” Hadrian corrected, drawing up a camp stool beside the cot. He took one of her hands in his own hard paw. “Jilana, you must speak Latin.”

  The gentle reminder was like a slap in the face and it brought back all the memories Jilana had managed to hold at bay. “‘Tis over, then.” She found her native tongue strangely awkward.

  “Aye.” Hadrian met her gaze. “All that remains is to track down those who scattered into the hills.”

  Jilana closed her eyes, feeling the first effects of the opium the soldier had forced into her. The poppy juice lent a dream-like quality to their conversation—or perhaps it was only that her mind refused to accept what Hadrian was saying. “Where am I?”

  “In my tent.” When she opened her eyes and frowned, Hadrian said, “Oh, I see. We are still on the battlefield. Paulinus will not march for another week or so.”