Jilana wet her dry lips. “There is something I must do—”
Hadrian was ahead of her. “Nay, Jilana, there is not. The bodies are being seen to.”
The thought of Caddaric being pushed into a mass grave brought a choked sob from Jilana. He deserved a decent burial, one in accordance with his own ways, Jilana wanted to argue, but it was far easier to drift into the world the opium offered.
“Sleep now,” Hadrian told her as he watched the tears seep from beneath her closed lids. “Just sleep.”
The next time Jilana came to it was morning. The massive throb in her head had receded to a dull ache behind her eyes. She could smell the dew on the grass, hear the birds singing their morning hymns in the trees and, just for a moment, she was grateful to be alive. And then the memories came crashing back and she turned her face away from the light streaming through the open tent flap. Now she had to learn to live without Caddaric—if she could.
“Jilana?”
Hadrian’s voice came from outside the tent and Jilana roused herself enough to reply.
“I thought you might be hungry.” Hadrian ducked inside the tent, a tray in both hands. “Can you sit up?”
Jilana started to, but the scratch of the blanket against her skin brought her up short. “I… Hadrian, I cannot.” Blushing to the roots of her hair, she gestured helplessly at the blanket.
Hadrian looked equally embarrassed. He set the tray on a small table and opened a chest. Dragging forth a crimson tunic, he handed it to her. “I will wait outside.” He did not return until Jilana told him she was decently attired.
The meal had been carefully prepared in order to tempt her appetite, but it tasted like ashes to Jilana. Hadrian watched her nibble at the bread and cheese until she finally sighed and shook her head. He took the tray from her and sat beside the cot. “How do you feel?”
“My head aches.” Jilana carefully lifted a hand to inspect the large knot on the back of her head. “What happened?”
“One of Paulinus’ guards saw you. Luckily, he was able to turn his blade at the last minute.” Had he not, Hadrian thought again with a shudder, Jilana would have been beheaded. Seeing the legionary charge down upon her, his sword drawn, had been the worst moment of his life. Looking at her now, seeing the garish purple bruise that bled from her scalp onto her forehead, dissipated any sense of victory he might have felt. Aware that she was watching him, Hadrian cleared his throat self-consciously and continued, “I ordered you brought to my tent and one of the surgeon’s assistants cared for you.”
Jilana nodded, remembering the man’s animosity. “Is he the one who undressed me?” The thought of a stranger stripping her made her feel violated.
“Nay; I did so upon my return.”
Jilana gave a soft sigh of relief and leaned back against the pillow. They sat in silence for a long time before she asked, “Did you go back for Caddaric’s body?” In answer, Hadrian rose to pour them both a cup of wine. After handing her the drink, he turned his own round and round, watching the liquid slosh from side to side. “Forgive me, Hadrian, I should not have asked that of you.”
Hadrian’s mouth thinned. “There were—are—thousands of bodies, and there were the survivors to be pursued. By the time I returned the burial parties were already at work—”
“I understand,” Jilana hastily interrupted, not wanting to think about the aftermath of the battle. Her eyes remained dry—the agony she felt was too deep for tears. She took a sip of wine to moisten her dry throat. “How is your leg?”
Hadrian glanced down at the left limb stretched stiffly in front of him and gave a short bark of laughter. “It hurts like Hades. Now that I do not need to sit a horse, the surgeon is going to splint it again this afternoon.”
Jilana nodded. “You made it safely to Londinium?” Though she had been worried about him, now Jilana asked the question more from a polite need to make conversation than curiosity.
“And from there to the marching camp at Deva. I arrived the day before General Paulinus came from Mona.” Hadrian exhaled loudly. There were things she had to be told and no purpose would be served by delaying any further. “General Paulinus knows of you, of course. He wants to see you when you feel strong enough.”
She was surprised by the commander’s interest, but that emotion died quickly, leaving her numb once again. “I am at his disposal.” What other choice did she have? She could hardly ignore what amounted to an order from the governor-general.
Hadrian tossed down his wine. “He wants to question you, Jilana. In spite of my explanations, he suspects you of treason.”
Jilana’s eyes widened incredulously and for a moment she was too stunned to speak. Treason? She caught her breath; perhaps she was a traitor, for in her heart she had hoped that Boadicea would succeed. “Tell the governor-general I will see him this afternoon.” Whatever the man had in mind, she wanted to finish it quickly.
“As you wish.” Hadrian rose to walk to the tent flap and now Jilana saw the limp he tried to minimize. “I will find you some clothes.”
Jilana did not ask Hadrian where he found the clothes he brought to her along with the noon meal. She could guess well enough. She had dozed on and off throughout the morning, but the snatches of conversation she caught from outside the tent told her that the Romans had set out not only burial parties, but looting details as well. In the time-honored tradition of soldiers, the legion was stripping the dead and raiding what remained of the wagons. At least she did not recognize any of the clothing Hadrian brought her. ‘Twas ironic, she mused as she smoothed the pale blue wool stola over her hips. The gown had undoubtedly been part of the plunder taken by some faceless Iceni from a Roman dwelling, and how it was in Roman hands once again. As were the brush and comb he had given her.
The governor-general was not the only one who was curious about Hadrian’s guest. The minute she stepped from the tent with Hadrian, conversation among the surrounding legionaries died. Jilana avoided their gazes and walked beside Hadrian to the large tent she had seen at a distance two days earlier.
Suetonius Paulinus was seated behind a campaign desk. A map lay open upon the desk and he and several of his officers were studying it. When Hadrian announced them, Jilana felt six pair of hostile eyes drill into her. Unconsciously, she lifted her chin and met their stares. There was utter silence in the tent, and Jilana knew she was being judged. Like their commander, these officers thought her a traitor.
“General,” Jilana said at last. “I was told you wanted to see me.” She was proud of the calmness of her voice.
“Indeed, indeed.” Suetonius Paulinus rolled up the map. The officers took the action as dismissal and strode from the tent and all the while the governor-general stared at the woman in front of him. “You also, Centurion.”
There was no need for Paulinus to give the order a second time. Hadrian saluted and followed his brother officers.
“Centurion Tarpeius saved your life,” Paulinus began without preamble. “You are very lucky.”
Jilana could have argued the point, but instead she nodded. “The centurion and I are old friends.”
“Aye, so he has said.” Paulinus leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studied Jilana. Her hair fell to her hips in a glorious riot of curls and Paulinus disliked the barbaric appearance it gave her, despite her dress. “Why did you not go with the centurion when he escaped?”
Obviously she was not going to be invited to take one of the chairs ranged in front of his desk. Jilana folded her hands in front of her and replied, “I would only have held him back.”
“Yet Tarpeius says you can ride.” Paulinus’ fingers tapped against the desk’s surface.
“Aye, I can ride,” Jilana admitted, “but not in chains.”
“You were not in chains the day of the battle,” Paulinus stated icily. “You were quite capable of running onto the field and throwing yourself upon one of the dead rebels.” He cocked an eyebrow at her sudden pallor. “Did you think I did
not know? Tarpeius is a primipilus; he knows where his duty lies. As you apparently do not.”
Which meant, Jilana thought bitterly, that Paulinus had questioned Hadrian until her friend had had no choice but to answer truthfully. “I am well aware of my duty, General.”
“Are you indeed?” Paulinus smiled coldly, “Then suppose you tell me your story, beginning with the fall of Venta Icenorum.”
Jilana did as she was ordered, but she gave the general only the barest of facts. She told him nothing of her life with the Iceni; that she kept closely guarded in her heart, and his dissatisfaction with her answer was plainly written on his face.
“But the rebel did unchain you?” Paulinus probed.
“Aye.” On Beltane, Jilana thought, treasuring the memory she would not share with Paulinus.
Paulinus’ fist slammed against the desk, startling Jilana. Pleased with her reaction, he rose and stared daggers at her. “Why, mistress, did you not run the moment you were freed?”
Jilana returned his stare and gave a most unladylike snort of disbelief. “And where, pray, should I have run? You and your vaunted legion were nowhere to be found and the Iceni—” her voice cracked on the word but she continued doggedly, “the Iceni were laying waste to everything in their path. Tell me where I could have run and been assured of safety, General!”
She was actually snarling at him, Paulinus realized. Stunned, he sank back into his chair. “I was on Mona,” he began, though for the life of him he could not understand why he should explain himself to a female civilian.
“Aye, slaughtering priests and women and children,” Jilana retorted hotly.
“They are a threat to the Empire!”
“Like the children you murder now?” Jilana flung back at him, undaunted by the rage sweeping across his features. “And we dare to call the Britons barbarians! You are no better than Boadicea.”
Paulinus was choking on his anger now. “And you, mistress, are a traitor!”
Once, months ago, she would have quailed before such an accusation, but no more. She had lost everything in life dear to her; life itself no longer mattered. “Prove it,” Jilana challenged.
Paulinus actually went white with rage. “You dare—” “I dare a great deal, General,” Jilana replied. “What is left that can be taken from me? What can you do to me that has not already been done, save take my life?” She took a deep, calming breath and checked the wildness singing in her blood. “Have I your permission to withdraw?”
“Not yet,” Paulinus ground out. “I have questions to put to you regarding the rebels. Living with them as you have, you undoubtedly know where they will go into hiding. I am particularly interested in where Boadicea would have fled.” He raised a compelling eyebrow at Jilana and waited.
“I cannot help you,” Jilana replied steadily.
“Cannot, or will not?” Paulinus asked cuttingly.
The most powerful man in Britannia was now her enemy, Jilana realized. Not that his animosity mattered. Her family was dead, her husband was dead, and she did not particularly care what fate Paulinus had in store for her.
“Cannot,” she said at last. “But even if I knew, General, I would not tell you.”
The retort Paulinus was about to make was stopped by the appearance of his aide. “Your pardon, General,” the young man said hastily, “but a messenger from Lindum has just arrived. I thought you would want to see him at once.”
“I do.” Paulinus rose and paced across the area separating him from Jilana. “Hold yourself in readiness, mistress. This is not yet ended.”
Jilana bowed slightly in acknowledgment of the dismissal and turned on her heel. Just outside the tent, she collided with the dust-covered messenger. The man’s hands gripped her upper arms to keep her from falling.
“Your pardon, Tribune,” Jilana said, taking a hasty step backward to rid herself of the man’s touch. “I—” The rest of her apology died in her throat when she met the shocked, dark eyes above her. She could feel the blood drain from her face, the abrupt, cold tingling in her hands and the weakness in her legs. The world spun madly on its axis and she collapsed at the feet of Lucius Quintus.
CHAPTER NINE
The Iceni rebellion was ended. In the space of four months, three major cities and countless villages had been razed. The island’s population had been reduced by sixty thousand, both Roman and Briton. Albion fed upon the blood and bodies of its sons and daughters and upon the scarred earth, grass grew thick and lush over the burial mounds. At the last, the Queen of the Iceni had cheated Suetonius Paulinus of his revenge. Boadicea and her daughters, protected by the royal guard, had fled the final battleground before they could be captured. In a place safe from prying Roman eyes, the Queen had given her two children an easy death and then followed them to Annwn. Some said she fell upon her sword, in a manner befitting a warrior maid; others said poison had been her end. The royal guards had buried their bodies before fleeing north and try though he might, Paulinus could neither find the graves, nor induce any of the captured royal guards to betray the Queen’s final resting place.
Autumn was late in coming to Britannia, as if granting a reprieve to the island’s inhabitants. Even now, in early September, the days were pleasantly warm, although the evenings were chill. Inside the villa of Marcus Basilius, every room was ablaze with lamps, and the courtyard and garden, too, were well lit by torches. On the opposite side of the courtyard from the garden was a door to another path, but that was not lit, for it led to the slave quarters. The slave quarters themselves—a collection of huts—were hidden from view by a high wall. It was in the garden that Jilana Augusta Basilius sat now, watching the villa. The reason for her father’s extravagance was that this night they-would entertain Governor-General Suetonius Paulinus, the man who had put down the Iceni rebellion.
Since his victory over Boadicea, Paulinus had been single-minded in his determination to see the native tribes brought to heel. His first act had been to burn Venta Icenorum to the ground and forbid any resettlement within a thirty-mile radius of the former capital. His second act had been to order every legionary who could be spared into the countryside to track down the survivors of the final battle. Paulinus was as merciless in his victory as Boadicea would have been in hers. Iceni rebels who survived being captured were either sold into slavery—with the money they brought going into the Imperial Treasury—or, if they were healthy specimens, turned over the the Imperial Navy, to spend the remainder of their lives as galley slaves. Lovers were torn apart, children forever separated from their parents, and still Paulinus’ thirst for vengeance was not slaked. All Iceni land was confiscated and sold to those who could claim Roman citizenship. The Iceni horses that had been left behind were found and now wore the brand of the Roman cavalry. The governor-general planned to erase the Iceni from the collective memory of Britannia, and it seemed as if he would succeed.
Jilana sighed, touching the necklace at her throat. How strange that she should be living in such a grand place while her homeland was systematically impoverished. This villa was ten miles from Londinium and had been spared the worst of the sacking. The villa as well as the outlying buildings had remained intact; all that had been necessary was to furnish the rooms, which her mother had done, magnificently. There was even a complete bath, on a larger scale than the one they had had at Venta Icenorum. A high wall enclosed the building site, with gates opening to the south, east, north and west. For Jilana, brought to this place by Lucius, it was as if she had stepped backward in time. She had been stunned to learn her family was alive. Alive! And from Lucius’ description of him, the man who had saved her family was Caddaric. The night of the rebellion, her family and Lucius had been overpowered and taken to the stable. There, Caddaric had given them horses and sent a man—Jilana deduced it was Heall, for Caddaric would have entrusted her family’s welfare only to him—to guide them out of the town. The reason they were to be spared, they were told, was because of Jilana’s aid to the Queen. In gratitu
de, Claudia had raked her dagger across Caddaric’s cheek, leaving him with the scar Jilana remembered so well. Caddaric had clipped Claudia on the jaw, tossed her across her saddle and ordered them to flee while they still could. They had reached the safety of the fortress at Lindum a few days later, grateful to be alive, but left with the impression that Jilana had been killed.
Jilana had almost smiled when Lucius had related the story. How like Caddaric it sounded! By allowing her family to believe her dead, he had forestalled any search they, or Lucius, might have been tempted to make. They had grieved and then turned to each other, just as she had grieved when she believed her family dead, and then built a new life with Caddaric. Ever the strategist, my love, Jilana had thought. Tears had been shed at the reunion, but not by Jilana, though she was overjoyed to see her family alive. Her family treated her gently, assuring her that she would soon forget the nightmare of her past months, and tried to comfort her; Jilana had not been able to bring herself to tell them that their comfort was useless now that her love was dead. They would think her mad, and perhaps she was.
Time had yet to heal the wounds left by the rebellion, but the Empire was pouring material and people into the tiny island at an astonishing rate. Nero had ordered the legions reinforced, and with the promise of additional security, people were willing to leave their homes for this less civilized frontier. Her father’s business was flourishing; the populace needed food and clothing and household furnishings, all of which the house of Basilius imported. Jilana knew how well her father was doing—at her request, she had been allowed to keep his books in order to alleviate the long, boring hours that stretched in front of her. He had added to his fleet of ships and purchased, or built, warehouses along Londinium’s riverfront. The house of Basilius was now wealthy indeed.
Jilana sighed again and rose to walk the paths through the garden. From the kitchen came muted Celtic voices and the sound brought a stab of pain to her heart. At least she was able to help some of Caddaric’s people, she thought, remembering that her first visit to the slave market had come about quite by accident. She had been on her way to her father’s office in the city when she had seen a group of ragged Britons being led through the street. Their hands and feet were chained, and all wore iron collars through which ran a chain, connecting them one to the other. She could not drag her eyes away from the terrible sight, and when one of her attendants—all Romans traveled well-protected these days—asked if she wished to attend the slave auction she almost said nay, but then she met the eyes of one of the prisoners. Was it only her imagination, or was his face familiar? Jilana could not be sure, and that uncertainty compelled her to visit the. auction. Her litter, had joined the rest of the traffic and Jilana had closed its curtains until they reached the marketplace.
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