Defy the Eagle (24 page)

Jilana led the mare out of the stable onto the villa grounds. Pausing to glance down the intersecting streets, listening intently for sounds that would mean the Iceni were returning from the feast, she traversed the town until she stood in front of the south gate. The gate was open and less than a mile away was the road built by the legions. Hitching her long skirt over her thighs, Jilana mounted and urged the horse onto the well-worn path that was beaten into the plain. When she reached the main road she hesitated, not knowing which direction to take. Jilana vaguely remembered that Lindum, where the Ninth Hispana Legion was based, lay to the north, but she had no idea how far away it was. Aside from accompanying her father south to Camulodunum on one of his trips, she had never left Venta Icenorum. Jilana drew a deep breath and turned the mare onto the paved road, heading south. Camulodunum was the capital city, the headquarters of the governor-general; it should be well defended and offer the protection Jilana needed.

****

Hungry, frightened, and weary unto death, Jilana reached Camulodunum late in the afternoon of the third day of her escape. She pulled her mare to a halt in the concealment of the sparse wood edging the paved road and studied the city. There was a great deal of activity outside the city proper and she breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized the leather tunics and aprons of iron strips of the legionaries standing guard. The constant fear of the past three days fell away. It was over! She was free and safe. In the upsurge of emotion that followed, Jilana felt imbued with energy and she kicked her tired mount into a canter in her haste to reach the city. As she approached the city she forgot the strain and fear that had been her constant companions. She had ridden for three days, staying in the forest when she could, but never out of sight of the road for without it she would be lost. Her food had run out by the evening of the first day. The mare, fortunately, had had an abundant supply of food and had upon occasion, found small puddles left by the rain. Jilana had drunk alongside the mare, too thirsty to reject the muddied water. The worst times had been when she had to go deeper into the forest in order to avoid the continual flow of Iceni who were journeying northward to join Boadicea.

Fear had kept Jilana awake and alert, forcing her to continue when she wanted nothing more than to lie down on the carpet of leaves and sleep. Her mare had seemed to understand the need for haste. Whether it was to break into a gallop on those rare occasions when Jilana's fear drove her to use the road or pick a way through the underbrush in the forest, the mare's determination had equaled her rider's, and now Jilana patted her neck and murmured encouragements. At her approach a handful of soldiers had formed up, their short swords drawn, but in her excitement Jilana paid their odd manner no heed. She waved gaily, called her greetings, and failed to notice that when she reined in the mare the legionaries fanned out and surrounded her.

"There is a rebellion in Venta Icenorum," she burst out. "Queen Boadicea—" Her warning was interrupted when one of the soldiers grabbed the mare's bridle, causing her mount to sidle nervously. Before Jilana could control the movement, a second soldier had grasped her arm and she tumbled from the mare's back to land in a heap at the soldier's feet. "What are you doing? I am Jil—" The words died as Jilana confronted the sword pointed at her throat.

"What tribe are you," the legionary demanded. "What trick is this?"

Stunned, Jilana could only stare at the hard face above her. Trick? What did he mean? Her confusion grew as the flat of the sword pressed upward beneath her jaw and he ordered her to rise. Jilana obeyed, shakily, and the legionary circled behind her. The sword point bit into her back and the first tendrils of fear coiled in Jilana's stomach. Why were they doing this? she wondered desperately. Why? Something warm and wet trailed down her spine and Jilana realized the sword had cut deeply enough to draw blood. It dawned on her then that the legionary had prodded her because she had not obeyed his order to march. She started to protest, but thought better of that idea. The man would undoubtedly take her to someone in a position of authority—she could protest her treatment then. She stumbled toward Camulodunum, numbed by this newest threat from such an unexpected source.

Jilana was oblivious to the curious stares she attracted as she was marched through the city. Her legs were trembling and she had to concentrate upon putting one foot in front of the other. A small military post came into view, separated from the rest of Camulodunum by exceptionally broad avenues, and relief swept through Jilana. She would be taken to the praefectus castra, the post commander; he would explain this rude treatment. Her hopes were dashed when she was forced instead to a small, rectangular building with barred windows. A jail! Before she could form a protest she was through the front door and in front of a smaller, low door.

The legionary sheathed his sword and wrapped a meaty hand around her arm as the jailer came forward. "A rebel for you," the soldier informed the jailer as the latter unlocked one of the low doors. "Came riding up bold as you please and started jabbering in that damn native tongue."

A cold wave of despair washed through Jilana at the legionary's words. So that was why he had treated her so shabbily! She had become so accustomed to speaking the Britons' language during her captivity that she had forgotten to revert to Latin. Hastily, she tried to correct that mistake. "Nay, you do not understand. I come from Venta Icenorum but I am not Iceni!" Her stomach tightened at the wary look the two men exchanged. "Listen to me, I beg you. I am Jilana Augusta Basilius, daughter of the merchant Marcus Basilius."

"Aye, and I am Augustus Caesar," the legionary mockingly replied. Then he gestured to the other man. "Throw her in the cell."

"Nay, please!" Jilana grabbed the low lintel and dug in her heels, defying the jailer's effort to push her into the cell. "Call the praefectus castra; let me explain to him!"

The legionary ignored her plea. "Mithras, can you not handle one little girl?" he swore when the jailer's struggle to subdue the prisoner earned him a kick in the stomach.

Had Caddaric been present he could have warned the two men that Jilana was not one to meekly accept her fate. Winded and retching, the heavy-set jailer fell backward beneath the impetus of Jilana's foot, and the legionary stepped into the breach. Avoiding Jilana's well-placed kicks, he grasped her flailing legs in one strong arm and with his free hand began prying her fingers from the lintel. He succeeded in loosening one of her hands, and for his efforts received four gouges from her broken nails down his cheek. Swearing feelingly, he picked Jilana up bodily and moved backward until her fingers were forced to relinquish their hold on the wood. Jilana twisted and writhed in this brutal embrace, kicking ineffectually and then turning her nails and teeth on any piece of the legionary she could reach. How dare they treat her this way? Anger and despair overrode common sense and Jilana cursed them soundly, albeit breathlessly, first with the Roman gods and then with the Celtic ones. She was Roman, damn them! A citizen! She doubted she could say the same for either one of her attackers. They would not become citizens until they fulfilled their enlistment.

"Stop it, you little she-cat," the legionary growled when Jilana's struggles threatened to unbalance him. The next moment he howled in pain as Jilana's teeth sank into his wrist and hung on. He released her briefly in order to deliver a glancing blow to the side of her head.

Bright sparks of color danced in front of Jilana's eyes and she felt herself crumpling to her knees. Her mouth tasted salty and faintly coppery, and she realized she had bitten into the legionary's wrist hard enough to draw blood. Groggy from the blow, she raised her head and tried to focus on the soldier. "I am Jilana Augusta Basilius. I was taken prisoner at the outbreak of the rebellion. You must believe me!"

In response the legionary wrapped an arm around her waist and tossed her into the cell. The fall knocked the air out of Jilana's lungs and she could only shake her head feebly when the soldier stated, "No refugee that has made it here has managed to do so on horseback, nor did they use the Britons' language. And even if I had been inclined to believe your story, the way you fight and curse would have caused me to change my mind."

The cell door closed behind the legionary with a thudding finality that momentarily stopped Jilana's heart. The bolt shot home and she lay motionless, listening as the two men departed. Gradually she realized that the floor of the cell was damp and cold and she turned her head to examine the dim cell. In the far corner was a mound of straw and a wooden bucket, neither of them too clean if her nose was any indication; the air was heavy with the scent of urine, perspiration, and other odors she had no desire to place. The room was devoid of any other comforts. A weary fatalism overcame Jilana and, in spite of her aching head, she knew that in a matter of moments she was going to fall asleep. The last of her energy had been exhausted on the legionary and she needed to rest. She dragged herself to the straw pallet and sank into its prickly depths with a strangled sob. Her last thought was the hope that her mare had fared better at the legionary's hands than she had.

****

Night had come to Camulodunum, but darkness did not halt the furious activity of the legionaries and able-bodied citizens just outside the city. For the past four days they had worked day and night with shovels and picks in order to carve out a ditch and build an earth wall around the city. The vallation was barely halfway around the city, the progress slowing as the men grew exhausted from their labors.

Centurion Hadrian Tarpeius, his brown eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed from lack of sleep and hard physical work looked on as long, wooden spikes were embedded in the sides of the ditch. Which direction would the Iceni queen choose? Hadrian asked himself yet again. North, to engage the Ninth? Or south, to overrun helpless cities? Daily, Hadrian prayed that she would have the conceit to take on the northern Legion, but the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach warned him otherwise. A fall from a horse had broken his leg, preventing him from accompanying his century to the battle for Mona. From his tent he had watched them march away under the auspices of his second-in-command and cursed the fact that he was to recuperate in Camulodunum as post commander of the token force quartered there.

He had barely accustomed himself to the crutches when the first survivors of Venta lcenorum had straggled into the capital. Their news of the rebellion had come as a shock, but he had not worried overmuch. He dispatched a messenger to Lindum, asking for reinforcements from the Ninth's commander, Petilius Cerealis, and had sent a similar message to the Procurator, Catus Decianus. As yet there had been no answer from Lindum, nor had his own messenger returned. Hadrian had to assume that the soldier had been killed before reaching his destination. From Londinium had come his messenger, an additional two hundred men to bolster the ranks of the eighty legionaries under his command, and word that Catus Decianus had fled to Rutupiae and taken ship to Gaul. At that moment, Hadrian would have sold his soul to Hades to have that greedy coward Decianus in his power. That worm had loosed the Furies upon Britannia and run to safety.

Would this meager attempt at defense succeed? he wondered now. Mithras, it had to! Two hundred and eighty men—perhaps a hundred more if he counted the veterans who had retired near the city to the plots of land given to them at the end of their service—to defend a city of several thousand. And the bulk of the male civilians would prove useless, even if he could equip them. They were government parasites; soft, fat men who would undoubtedly turn tail and run at the first clash of weapons.

The earthwall and the deadly ditch behind it would be the city's first line of defense. Once completed only a narrow causeway would connect the city to the surrounding plain and the Iceni would pay dearly for every foot of the causeway they took. Hadrian sighed and shook his head. His command would be spread too thin around the city's perimeter to stave off any concerted attack, despite the effects of the lethal spikes. It would only be a matter of time before the Iceni realized that they had to span the ditch, and once they did Camulodunum would be theirs for the taking.

Hadrian turned and hobbled back to the diggers. He would have to send another messenger to Lindum. And pray. Along the way, the centurion paused at some of the campfires to talk to his men and offer encouragement. His outward confidence was infectious and he left the soldiers in better spirits than he had found them. At the last fire, he overheard a conversation between several legionaries that brought him up short.

Turning as fast as his crutches would allow, he sought out the speaker and barked, "What did you say, soldier?"

The legionary paled and rose hastily to his feet. "Centurion?"

"What did you say about a prisoner, soldier?" Hadrian hobbled closer and pushed his face close to the other's. The man's cheek bore four, wicked scratches. "What prisoner?"

"Th-the Iceni woman," the legionary stuttered. Hadrian's temper and harsh discipline were legendary throughout the Twentieth Victrix Legion. He was the primipilus—literally, "first spear," the senior centurion of the first cohort of the legion. His authority was second only to the legion's commander. For all purposes, this man's word was law within the legion. All this raced through the legionary's mind as he sought to form his answer. "A woman—an Iceni woman who swears she is Roman—came to the town today and I took her prisoner."

Hadrian's face set in austere lines and when he spoke his voice was deceptively quiet. "You did what?"

The soldier's mouth went dry at the mild tone. He knew from experience that the quieter a primipilus became, the more trouble he was in. His voice cracked when he answered, "I took her prisoner and left her in the jail."

"When?"

"L-late this afternoon."

"And why," Hadrian asked mildly, "do you believe this woman to be Iceni when she claims to be Roman?"

The legionary gave his reasons but they suddenly sounded weak and unconvincing. If his judgment of the woman was wrong, he would be doing forced drills under the weight of his forty-pound field pack for the rest of his enlistment. With that thought in mind, the legionary grudgingly gave his name when the centurion asked it, and was reassured when Hadrian did nothing more than nod curtly and walk off into the night.

Because of the crutches, it took Hadrian longer than usual to return to Camulodunum, and with each step he cursed the misguided intentions of the young soldier with whom he had just spoken. Whoever the woman was, she was a valuable source of information—information that could affect his strategy; information that had been delayed for several hours. Upon reaching his office within the garrison, Hadrian ordered his subordinate—one of those useless tribunes sent by the Senate—to the jail to retrieve the prisoner, then sank wearily onto the hard chair behind his desk. Grimacing, he dropped the crutches to the floor and glared at them. His leg ached and he gingerly massaged the flesh that could be reached without disturbing the splints. A measure of opium would relieve the pain, but he dared not use the drug, not until he had interrogated the prisoner. Hadrian settled instead for a cup of wine from the supply his predecessor had left behind. The wine was Egyptian, dark and strong and sweet, and it eased the hollowness in his gut. Hadrian was refilling the copper cup when the office door swung open.

Jilana paused just inside the doorway and when the tribune shoved her impatiently forward she whirled and glared at him. She was angry enough at her treatment and frightened enough of her future to be arrogant when the man behind the desk—a centurion, judging by his helmet—ordered her to sit. "I need a bath," Jilana informed him haughtily. "My cell was alive with vermin. And I demand to know why I have been treated in such an appalling manner!"

Hadrian blinked in astonishment at the brazen display. The furious little creature in front of him was no Iceni, of that he was certain. Her clothes and speech were obviously Roman, her hauteur too clearly inbred to be feigned. Carefully, Hadrian replaced the jar of wine.

"Who are you?"

The simple question shocked Jilana into temporary silence. For the first time in nearly two weeks she was being neither bullied nor harassed, and in the moments it took her to assimilate that fact she was aware of the fact that the legionary was studying her intently. "I am Jilana Augusta Basilius, first daughter of Marcus Basilius, the merchant. Our home was Venta Icenorum."

Hadrian considered repeating his offer of a chair, but decided against it. The girl before him in the dirty russet cloak had expended the last of her physical reserves and was functioning now only by the force of her will. He had seen too many men in her condition to allow her to relax now. When she had answered his questions she could collapse. "I am told that when you arrived here you spoke Briton."

"Is that a crime?" Jilana flared. "I was born on this island. I speak the Britons' tongue with the same ease I speak Latin. Since the night of the revolt I have been held prisoner by the Iceni and in order to communicate with them I spoke their language. I am guilty of having forgotten myself with your men, but I have done nothing to deserve being treated like a criminal!"

Hadrian nodded and sipped thoughtfully at his wine. "Other survivors from Venta have found their way here. They were less fortunate than you, however; they came to us on foot."

"I stole the horse from my father's stable the night of Boadicea's feast," Jilana explained warily.

"Then you were not watched, or kept in chains?"

Jilana looked away from Hadrian's eyes. "The Iceni who claimed me sent me away when the Druid began his sacrifices."

Hadrian's eyebrows arched inquisitively. "That was kind of him."

"Aye," Jilana whispered, remembering that Caddaric had truly wished to spare her. How he must hate her for her treachery!

At the haunted expression on her face, Hadrian decided against pressing for further details of her escape. "You are the only one of your family to have survived?"

Jilana nodded, sudden tears welling in her eyes. "My parents, sister, my betrothed—all were killed the night of the uprising. I was spared because I had once shown kindness to the Queen."

Hadrian rose awkwardly to his feet and, using one crutch to support his injured leg, poured a second cup of wine and came around the desk to hand it to Jilana. "You are weary, I know. Only a few more questions and you can rest."

The wine ran smoothly down her throat and warmed her empty stomach. "Will you send me back to the jail?"

"Nay," Hadrian answered with a brief smile. "You are no Iceni spy, are you?"

Jilana shook her head and, as relief swept over her, sank gratefully into the chair Hadrian had first offered. The centurion believed her; she was safe. His smile was devastating for it was reminiscent of Caddaric's—a slight curving of lips that were more accustomed to being set in a harsh line. Jilana mercilessly drove the thought of Caddaric away and swallowed more wine. Hadrian would help her leave Britannia and she would put the nightmare and Caddaric behind her. The wine's warmth spread through her limbs, relaxing her further. Hadrian was asking questions, questions about horses and warriors. Jilana was not certain she replied, but perhaps she did for the answers she heard were in her own voice. How many did Boadicea have at her command? A thousand, with more coming to join the war band. Questions about the Iceni Queen. Did Boadicea plan to march? Aye. Where? When? I do not known their destination. But when? When, mistress? Three days past. The questions continued until Jilana's head spun. At some point the questions became amusing and she laughed, wondering that Hadrian could think she would know anything about arms and food provisions and water.

Gently, Hadrian removed the wine cup from Jilana's slender hand and placed it on the desk. Jilana Basilius was exhausted and, judging from the mixture of laughter and tears, feeling the might of the Egyptian wine. If she knew anything else—which Hadrian doubted—'twould not be learned this night. Consolingly, he ran a hand through her hair and was surprised when she raised her head to look at him.

"I have been so frightened, Centurion."

Her words were as fuzzy as her gaze and Hadrian smiled. His hand thrust through her hair and he massaged the back of her neck. "I will keep you safe, mistress."

"Aye." Jilana turned her head so that her cheek rested in the rough palm. His statement was vaguely familiar, but the effort to remember who had once said the same thing to her and why was too great, so she simply accepted the comfort his words offered.

For a moment Hadrian stood motionless, transfixed by the beauty that was visible beneath the dirt, and the trust she gave so easily. His body was hardening in response and Hadrian wished, fleetingly, that Jilana was other than what she was; that he could take her to his bed, take solace from her body and forget, for a little while, the responsibilities of his command. Ruthlessly, Hadrian killed the longing inside him and shook Jilana lightly. When her eyes opened, his face was as implacable as it had ever been. "Tomorrow I will settle you in a civilian home, but for tonight you will have to tolerate what the military can offer. You may use my quarters; I will have the tribune escort you."

Hadrian disappeared from her sight and Jilana heard him open the door and call for the tribune. There was a low murmur of masculine voices and then she was being helped to her feet and led through the building into the night air. The tribune's hand on her arm was respectful, a vivid contrast to the way he had escorted her from her cell. At a small, one-story building he drew to a stop, opened the door and preceded her inside to light a lamp. Jilana stepped inside and sagged against the wall.

"The bedchamber is through that door." The tribune gestured toward the wood panel. "Are you hungry?"

Jilana wearily shook her head. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed.

"The centurion has ordered a guard to be placed outside the door, for your protection," he added hastily at the look of fear that crossed her face. "He will bring you anything you may desire. Sleep well."

"My horse?" Jilana asked when the tribune was at the threshold.

"In the garrison stable, I would imagine," the tribune replied. "If you wish I will check."

"Please. A small, bay mare." The tribune nodded and left and Jilana closed the door behind him.

Taking the lamp from the low table, Jilana walked through the spartan room and opened the door to the bedchamber. This room was equally austere, but Jilana barely noticed. A small stand held a ewer of water and basin and Jilana gratefully stripped off her soiled clothing and washed as thoroughly as possible. When she had dried herself, she turned back the covers and crawled onto the rope cot. The mattress was not as full as her own, nor were the linens as fine, but Jilana did not care. Sleep claimed her immediately.