Defy the Eagle (63 page)

"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 light-headed, 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 blood-stained 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 own 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."

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."