“I told Paulinus as much,” Marcus replied. “You will put an end to it when she returns.” The order, softly spoken though it was, fell like a barrier between them.
Jilana nodded, defeated. “How will I survive Rome, Father?”
Marcus’ expression softened. “‘Tis for the best. Away from here you will have time to heal, forget the past, something you cannot do when you constantly surround yourself with reminders of the rebellion. Lucius will make a good husband.” He hesitated. “You will have other children, daughter, to replace this one.”
Jilana shook her head. She might bear other children, but none could replace Caddaric’s child, for this one had been conceived in love, not duty.
“I have never asked about the time you spent away from us,” Marcus said, his attention focused on the parchment in front of him, “nor will I now. But I want you to listen to me and try to understand. ‘Tis obvious you cared a great deal for the man who fathered your babe, but that part of your life is over, finished. That you know this man is dead is also plain.” His voice lowered. “I grieve for you, for your pain, but you must remember that, even without the rebellion, there would have been no future for the two of you.”
“I do not believe that,” Jilana protested.
“Believe,” Marcus replied intently. “In the normal course of events, how long do you think you could have lived with this man without the comforts our ways afford? How long could you have gone before you found yourself longing for the comforts of a true bath, or the feel of a gown made of fine linen or silk? How long before you missed the companionship of your own kind?”
Jilana gazed at her father with tears glazing her eyes. “I could have lived forever without those things—had he lived.” She cleared the constriction in her throat. “Did you give Hadrian this same lecture?”
“Hadrian is a man,” was Marcus’ answer, as if that explained everything. “You are a woman—my child. I want the best in life for you, and that does not include living in some mean hut in some squalid village.”
Jilana rose and left the room without another word. Her father would not believe that, for her, Caddaric had been the best in life.
Hadrian burst through the double doors of the entrance hall just as Jilana had taken the first stair leading to the second floor. He shook the dusting of snow from his cloak with a massive shake, and Jilana smiled, for his action reminded her of some bear recently awakened from hibernation.
“Salutatio, Hadrian,” Jilana greeted him, stepping back to the hall. “You have returned earlier than usual.”
Hadrian stared at her, his dark eyes running worriedly over her rounded form. He loved Ede, but this woman would always hold a special place in his heart, and the news he brought would shatter the world her family was so carefully building around her. “Ede wants you to come to the slave quarters, Jilana.”
“How many did she find this time?”
“Ten.”
Jilana sighed. “I am glad she found that many. Paulinus has ordered,” she gave a derisive stress to the word, “me to cease.”
“Jilana, you must come,” Hadrian said impatiently.
“Can you not see to their quartering?” Jilana asked with a grimace. “I do not like to leave the house now.”
“I know, but Ede feels it is important.” Hadrian smiled weakly. “Please, Jilana.”
“Very well. I will get my palla.”
Minutes later, Jilana was carefully negotiating the paths to the slave quarters with Hadrian’s hand firmly beneath her elbow. “Are they badly hurt?” she questioned her silent escort.
“One is,” Hadrian answered and then lapsed into silence.
Jilana shrugged inwardly. Clywd was more than capable of dealing with the wounded, but if Ede felt her presence was necessary…
The slave quarters were laid out in three parallel rows, each row containing twenty one-room huts. Hadrian pushed open the door of the last hut in the second row and allowed Jilana to precede him. A brazier had been lit to aid the newly-laid fire and had taken some, but not all, of the chill from the room. Jilana pushed the hood of her palla from her face and advanced toward the cot where Heall, Clywd and Ede stood.
“What is it, Ede?” Jilana asked softly. “Or should I say who? Did you find someone from your village?”
In answer, Ede stepped away from the cot. Her hands were locked so tightly together that the knuckles were white. Jilana wondered briefly at her friend’s agitation and then turned her gaze to the pallet. The man laying there was streaked with dirt; his face was covered with a thick, brown beard and his hair, a shade lighter than the beard, lay in matted tangles against his scalp and nearly brushed his shoulders. His breathing was labored and an awful smell emanated from him.
Frowning, Jilana moved forward and placed her hand upon his forehead. His skin was hot to the touch and, looking down, she saw that his tunic had been stripped from him. An angry gash, barely healed, lay like a brand upon the left side of his hair-roughened chest, and the flesh was so tautly stretched that she could count his ribs. “He has a fever,” she said, breaking the heavy silence, “and has obviously been half-starved”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes tracked upward and found the purple scar on the man’s right shoulder. Memories flooded her and a vise seemed to squeeze her chest. It could not be! she thought wildly. Her eyes were playing tricks upon her mind. Jilana gave a choked gasp, trying to force air into her starved lungs. ‘Twas impossible that now, after so much time had passed—
And then his eyes fluttered open, bright with fever, but recognizable nonetheless. Blue, a brilliant blue; the color was forever seared in her memory. “Caddaric.” Jilana’s voice was little more than an exhalation of air. His eyes ran wildly around the room, and he strained against his bonds to the accompanying jingle of the manacles. And then, mercifully, he lost consciousness.
Jilana pressed her cold fingers against her mouth, holding back the cry that rose in her throat. Oh, my love, what have they done to you?!
“I am sorry, Jilana,” Ede said, lightly touching her shoulder. “But I thought it best not to announce this in the villa.”
“Nay, nay, you were right,” Jilana whispered with a jerky shake of her head. “Juno, what has happened to him?” Abruptly, she brought herself under control. Her voice gained strength and there was a harsh note to it when she spoke. “Get these chains off of him. Clywd, fetch your medicines. Heall, we need to clean him, so set water to heat. Ede, go and tell my parents where I am and gather fresh linens and towels from the house.” When Ede. turned, Jilana grabbed her arm. “And please, act normally! If they so much as suspect—” Ede nodded curtly and ran out of the hut.
The remainder of the day passed in a blur of activity and prayer. Clywd poured medicines down Caddaric’s throat and then Jilana set about cleaning the filth from his body. He was covered with fresh scars that brought tears to Jilana’s eyes while she tormented herself with questions that only Caddaric could answer. How had he survived? Where had he been all these months? Had he been free or had he been held in some horrible cell, tormented by his Roman jailers? When he was clean and lying between clean linens and a warm blanket, he regained consciousness and she managed to spoon broth down his throat before his eyes closed again. Her worry was abated somewhat when Clywd told her that he did not think the fever was life-threatening. Caddaric was weak, but with time and proper attention he would survive. All of them breathed a little easier at Clywd’s words. Hadrian took Ede back to the house at midday. If she remained here, he pointed out, her absence along with Jilana’s would certainly raise suspicions.
Jilana perched on the edge of the cot, ignoring the strain on her lower back. She held Caddaric’s hands in hers, pressing kisses upon the strong, blunt fingers while she prayed as she had never prayed in her life. Once he opened his eyes and breathed her name in a cracked whisper and she brushed her lips against his. “I am here, my love. You are safe now.”
“Searched… for you.”
> Tears spilled down Jilana’s cheeks. “And you have found me. Rest now, dearest.”
When darkness fell, Ede came for her. “Jilana, you must return to the house.” Jilana shook her head in violent refusal and Ede knelt beside her. “Jilana, Lucius is here.”
Jilana closed her eyes. “I do not care.”
“Ede is right, child,” Heall said. “You have spent the day here; you must leave now, before Lucius comes for you.”
Looking at the three, familiar faces around her, Jilana saw the same thing in each of their eyes. Fear. They had been beaten, conquered; and now, even though they were free, their lives were held in Roman hands. How they lived, they lived, depended on their enemy’s whim. Reluctantly, she nodded, and then she suddenly felt as if a stone had been lifted from her shoulders. Jilana rose and excitedly drew her friends around her. “Do you know what this means?” she asked them, her eyes shining with life. Not waiting for them to reply, she continued, “I am free of Lucius. How can I marry him when my husband lives?” She grinned and clapped her hands together in pure joy. “We will be together, all of us, wherever Caddaric chooses to live. I will not have to give up my babe!”
Heall and Clywd exchanged a worried look and Heall counseled gently, “I do not think it would be wise to tell your parents about Caddaric. Your father—”
Jilana waved his objection aside. “I do not plan to tell them. I meant that, when you leave, I will leave with you. Tis so simple! I will just—” she snapped her fingers, “—disappear.”
The three Iceni avoided her gaze. If she disappeared, either Marcus or Lucius would Come after her and, if necessary, drag her back. But none could bring themselves to spoil Jilana’s dream.
“Lucius is waiting,” Ede said at last.
Jilana kissed Caddaric tenderly on the forehead and then returned to the villa with Ede. That night, although she said little, her family noticed the change in her. She was more like the Jilana of old; her eyes sparkled, she smiled easily and, much to her mother’s delight, her appetite was voracious. For Marcus, expecting her to be sullen and withdrawn after their discussion that morning, the sudden change was troubling. He knew his daughter too well to believe that Lucius’ unexpected visit was the cause for such change.
Lucius stayed for a week and Jilana fretted under his presence. Strange as their circumstances were, she was his betrothed, and as such she could hardly abandon him for hours on end, particularly after he made it quite clear that he intended to spend time with her. How she managed to converse with him she did not know, for her thoughts were with Caddaric, worrying over him, longing for the sight of him. Her only consolation was that Ede faithfully reported upon his progress. One night, when the others had retired and she could bear the separation no longer, Jilana made her way to the slave quarters. She slipped once on a patch of ice in the courtyard and gave a startled shriek as she landed on her bottom. Biting her lip, she struggled to her feet and looked over her shoulder toward the villa, watching for a sign that someone had heard her. When several minutes had gone by and she remained alone, she continued on her way.
Caddaric was asleep, Clywd seated beside the cot on a stool, and when she touched his forehead, she was relieved to find it warm, but not with fever.
“He is better.”
Clywd nodded. “Aye. The fever has been gone for a day now; all he needs is rest and food.”
Jilana smiled and eased herself onto the edge of the cot so that she could touch her husband at will. “Have you told him about me? Does he know I am here?”
“We have told him. How much he has understood I do not know.”
“And the babe? Have you told Caddaric about our child?”
Clywd looked away from her avid gaze. “Not yet.”
“I am glad. I want the pleasure of that for myself.” Jilana ran a hand through the waves of Caddaric’s hair. The strands were clean, soft to the touch; someone had washed his hair since she had seen him last, and trimmed his beard. “He needs his hair cut.”
“That would not be wise, not while he remains here,” Clywd said quietly. “Nor should he shave the beard. Ede overheard Lucius talking with your father.” He sighed heavily. “Although you have said nothing, the two of them have reasoned that Caddaric is the father of your child. Lucius is mad for you, Jilana, if he should learn that Caddaric is here, alive, the gods know what he would do.”
Privately, Jilana thought that Clywd worried about nothing, but she did not want to upset him by arguing. “Lucius is returning to Londinium tomorrow morning. I will have Ede bring Caddaric to me when he is gone.”
Her expression of love and hope pained Clywd. “Jilana, do not expect too much from him.”
Jilana frowned and gave him a puzzled smile. “I expect nothing, Clywd.”
“You know how much pride my son has,” Clywd hesitantly continued. “He may be angry at finding himself here, under these circumstances.”
“You are speaking in riddles,” Jilana murmured, shaking her head. “What circumstances? He is here, alive; we are together. What else is there?”
Clywd held his tongue and Jilana left shortly thereafter. Jilana was right—their reunion should be a joyful thing, but Clywd knew his son well enough to fear that Caddaric would not see it in that light.
The next morning, Jilana waved farewell to Lucius. As soon as he passed through the gate, she returned to the villa and asked Ede to bring Caddaric to her father’s office. She sat behind her father’s desk and wrote Caddaric’s papers of manumission. When the ink was dry, she melted wax onto the bottom of the parchment and pressed her father’s seal into it.
Lucius believed she had dressed to please him, but in truth, Jilana had labored over her hair and arrayed herself in her best stola in order to please Caddaric. She had even applied kohl to her eyes, making them appear even larger. Now, her heart drumming wildly, Jilana bit color into her lips and waited. Even though she had been expecting it, the knock at the door made her jump. She touched a hand to her hair, swallowed, and called out her permission to enter in a shaky voice.
Caddaric paced into the room and froze when he saw Jilana. Behind him, Ede tactfully withdrew and closed the door behind her.
It seemed only natural to address her husband in his native tongue. “Caddaric.” Jilana found herself unable to move as she drank in the sight of him. Had she not been seated, she would have collapsed in a heap at his feet; as it was, her legs were shaking.
Caddaric returned her stare, a dagger twisting through his guts. For months he had been mad with grief, believing her dead. Nothing had mattered, especially not his life. He had prayed for death, but his body had been stronger than his will; it had fought off the infections and eventually healed. When the Roman patrol had finally found him, he had fought them barehanded, waiting for the blow that would end his life—the blow that never came. Instead he had been captured and herded into a peri with other survivors. He would have been sent to the galleys had he not been labeled a troublemaker. The Imperial Navy needed strong men, but not mutinous ones. Instead, he was to be sold as a household slave. When he had learned that, he had stopped eating the miserable food the Romans brought into the pen. Eventually, he hoped, he would starve, but even that had been denied him. When his captors discovered what he was doing, he was forcefed.
And now, here he was, looking at his wife. His wife! By the gods, what a cruel jest! He was her slave and she—she had never looked more beautiful, or more Roman. He wanted to either kiss her or kill her, but, for the life of him, he could not decide which. Trying to check his temper, Caddaric surveyed the room. The shutters and drapes were drawn across the windows so that the light in the chamber came from lamps scattered upon the desk and tables. And he could feel the heat from the hypocaust. After the chill of his hut, this room was stifling.
Jilana could stand the silence no longer, could not bear the way his gaze roamed disinterestedly around the chamber. “Please, Caddaric, you must be tired. Sit down.” That brought his eyes back to her,
and she caught her breath at the anger in those blue depths.
“Is that an order, Lady Jilana?” Caddaric mockingly inquired. Gods, why did she look at him that way, as if he had struck her?
“Nay,” Jilana replied, bewildered. She tried to smile, but succeeded only in increasing the trembling of her mouth. “Please, Caddaric, sit down. There is so much we have to talk about.”
“I can imagine.” Caddaric shrugged out of the cloak he had been given and sprawled leisurely in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Shall we begin with your family’s miraculous return from the dead?” He cocked an
insolent eyebrow at her but his hands, out of her sight on his lap, balled into fists.
This time Jilana did manage a small smile. For now, she would follow his lead. “I should be angry with you. Would you ever have told me the truth?”
Caddaric’s eyes narrowed. “I never lied to you, Jilana; Never!”
“That is true,” Jilana said carefully. “But you allowed me to believe the worst, that my family was dead.”
“And Lucius,” Caddaric added in a drawl. “Let us not forget Lucius.”
“I know why you did it,” Jilana told him, her love shining in her eyes. “You wanted me to come freely to you.” When he said nothing she prompted, “Did you not?”
Caddaric shrugged. “My reasons no longer matter.” His eyes bored into her. “I hate your hair that way.”
Jilana’s hand flew to the braids so artfully draped on her head and her heart sank. In truth, she had thought the style most becoming. “I only wore it this way because I thought it would please you.”
“Please me,” Caddaric burst out. “Why are you concerned with pleasing a slave?”
A chill crept over Jilana, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with dread. “You are not a slave, Caddaric.”
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