Defy the Eagle (73 page)

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A soft ray of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the sacred oak trees, clothing the woman who knelt beside the stream in a mantle of light. A doe and her fawn, having drunk of the refreshing water, approached the woman and trustingly accepted the grain she held in her outstretched hand. She laughed—a sound which she had not voiced in many months—and the gentle sound floated through the grove and brought a smile to the lips of the man who stood watching her from the concealment of the trees. He stepped from behind the oak and walked toward her quietly, utilizing the stealth which had been handed down from his father and his father's father. The woman did not hear him, did not sense his presence—not until he stood directly behind her and grasped a handful of the loose, flame-colored hair which lifted in the breeze.

She turned and regarded him through wide, violet eyes. The doe and her fawn scampered away but she appeared not to notice. "Briton." Her voice was soft, musical and heartbreakingly uncertain.

"Roman." The word should have been a curse, but instead it fell lovingly from his lips. Her gaze skittered nervously to the hand threaded through her hair and Caddaric released his hold only to settle upon the ground beside her. His eyes strayed to the bandages around her wrists and darkened in pain. "'Tis good to hear you laugh again."

Self-consciously, Jilana tugged the sleeves of her stola over the bandages, afraid to be drawn into conversation and just as afraid that to remain silent would drive him away. "Lucius has gone."

"Aye, I know." The corners of Caddaric's mouth tugged upward in a brief smile. "I have spies in your household."

Jilana allowed herself to smile in return. "Your father—and mine."

Caddaric hesitated. "Does it disturb you that Heall is your father?"

"Nay." Jilana shook her head and the sun danced through her hair. "Now I know from whence my wildness comes." She pulled her eyes from his to watch her hands nervously pleat the material of her gown. "Thank you for bringing Artair to me."

Caddaric nodded, remembering those awful days when she had hung between life and death. He would never forget the moment she opened her eyes and saw him sitting beside her bed. She had raised a shaking hand to his face to touch the tears dampening his cheeks and said, "I want only a little peace." He had brought Artair to her then, speaking to her of the need both father and son had for her in their lives. Whether his actions had done any good, he did not know, but gradually the scales had tipped in favor of life. Artair still resided with his mother while Caddaric occupied the hut he had used when he had first come to the villa.

He pulled himself away from the awful memories. "What will you do now?"

"Now that I am not to be a correct Roman matron," Jilana asked, a trifle mockingly. "In truth, I do not know."

Caddaric's palms suddenly went damp with apprehension and his mouth was unaccountably dry. "I have a suggestion, if you care to hear me out." From the instant he had known she would live, he had been hard-pressed not to order her life and inform her that she was his wife and that he intended to take her with him. Lucius had quickly broken their betrothal and her parents had, reluctantly, agreed to abide by whatever decision Jilana made. If they—and he—had learned anything from the near-tragedy, it had been that Jilana must make her own choices.

Jilana glanced at him and then quickly looked away. She had seen very little of Caddaric during her recovery, and then he had been careful and courteous, almost a stranger. 'Twas obvious, even to a blind woman, that he no longer wanted her, that he pitied her, but she could not help but hope. Drawing herself back to the present, she said, "I welcome any advice."

Caddaric nodded and cleared his throat. "I... Do you'..." He sighed, abandoning all hope of presenting a clear, persuasive case, and blurted out, "How strongly do you feel about remaining here?" Now it was his turn to study his hands as he fitfully plucked out blades of grass by their roots.

Jilana considered the question for a moment before answering honestly, "My family is here, of course, but if you mean am I attached to the villa or Londinium, the answer is nay." When he did not respond, she prompted, "Why do you ask?"

"The north country lacks the cities," Caddaric answered obliquely. "And the winters are colder; but, properly built, a bothie can be warm."

The tiny spark of hope in her heart grew and Jilana turned so that she could look directly at Caddaric. "Paulinus has not been able to extend his vengeance that far. A measure of safety is to be found in the north." The breath locked in her throat when Caddaric's brilliant blue eyes found hers.

"Aye. Safety... and peace." At a loss for words, Caddaric held her gaze and reached for her hand. "I want you to come with me, Jilana."

"I—I cannot, not if you are asking because you pity me."

"Pity you?" Slowly, Caddaric smiled and the smile ignited an answering blaze in his eyes. "Oh, my heart, I feel many things for you, but not pity." He cupped his free hand around the back of her head and brought her to his lips. "I love you, Jilana; love you, need you, want you." While he spoke, his head narrowed the distance between them and his last words were spoken against her lips.

Liquid fire seared through her and Jilana murmured, "Caddaric." Their mouths met and she sighed softly.

"Come with me," Caddaric urged, drawing back slightly. "I was a fool to think I could let you go and still make a life for myself, and I was a greater fool to believe that I was less of a man because the rebellion failed. My pride nearly destroyed us, and I beg your forgiveness for the things I said and did, but, my heart, I never stopped loving you." He kissed her tenderly but intensely. "Come north with me, Jilana. Be my wife; make me whole again."

The joy singing in her blood brought tears to her eyes and her hand lifted to stroke his scarred cheek. This proud, arrogant, fearsome man who had burst into her well-ordered world was her life; to know that his feelings

ran as deep as hers was almost more than she could bear.

"Caddaric," she said in a husky voice, " I love you more than life".

The blue gaze heated as Caddaric drew her to her feet. "Wicca, I have waited overlong."

"As have I," She rose and was willingly enfolded by his arms. He drew her against him and kissed her deeply, hungrily; when they parted , her eyes, now a fathomless purple, trapped him and held him prisoner while time flew past unheeded.

From the wicker basket a few feet behind them came the cry of their son as he awoke. They smiled into each other's eyes , feeling their wounds begin to heal.

Prophecy.

EPILOGUE

The eighty, heavily-armed men marched along the rutted path which wound its way through the dense wood. Upon their backs they carried the usual forty pounds of equipment as well as a cloak and blanket. They wore their helmets, and aprOns of iron strips were belted around their waists. Such precautions were necessary, for the land through which they traveled was not entirely friendly toward Romans, armed or otherwise. Farther to the south, from whence they had come, the land of the Iceni was only now recovering from the devastation the former governor-general, Suetonius Paulinus, had wreaked upon it. Forts had been built throughout the Iceni holding so that those who resettled the land could be constantly under the eye of the military. It had been good duty, for Paulinus had allowed his men free rein when dealing with the civilians. The Roman memory was a long one; it did not quickly forget that it had been Celtic civilians who had risen in revolt and nearly succeeded in breaking the Empire's grip on Britannia. The legionaries, many of whom had marched with Paulinus during the revolt, avenged themselves by taking from the settlements anything they wished. Those days were now at an end. Paulinus' successor, Pretonius Turpilianus, had decreed that the days of vengeance were finished. To be of any use to the Empire, the province must export its goods, and that could not be done while a state of undeclared war prevailed.

Turpilianus wanted peace, with both the conquered Iceni and the elusive rebels who seemed to spring up everywhere, and now an uneasy truce lay across the island. Far to the south, Verulamium was being reconstructed, fifteen years after the end of the rebellion. Venta Icenorum did not enjoy the same fate. It remained the charred pile of rubble to which Paulinus had reduced it, inhabited only by ghosts.

None of that occupied the minds of the legionaries, however. Their concern lay with the woods they were traversing. The forest closed around them, blocking the bright summer sunshine, and the rustling of creatures came constantly from the underbrush. Sweat that had nothing to do with physical exertion, and everything to do with fear, trickled between their shoulder blades as they sensed eyes upon them, watching, waiting. At the front of their column walked their centurion, a tribune at his side, and the men grumbled beneath their breath. Why had they been ordered so far to the north simply to purchase forty horses when there were mounts aplenty to be had in the areas where Roman might was undisputed? Their morale dipped even further as they recalled stories of patrols disappearing without a trace. Peace might exist in the reports Turpilianus sent to Rome, but here on Britannia, no Roman traveled unarmed throughout the countryside.

The centurion stepped into a clearing and blinked, unable to believe the vision in front of him. A stockade— nay, a fortress—rose in the clearing, flanked by fields and pens for sheep, cattle and horses. The logs which formed the outer wall had been chiseled to end in sharp teeth capable of impaling any attacker foolish enough to try to scale the walls. The centurion could see four watchtowers, presumably set at the four corners of the fortress, and there was an open gate facing him. The path they were following crossed the clearing only to change into a rampart within one hundred feet of the gate. The construction bothered the centurion, for he had been expecting simply another collection of rough huts, especially this far from civilization. With a certain amount of trepidation he gave the order to enter the fortress through the open gate, for clearly visitors were welcome. He also ordered the men to enter with their swords drawn; he would not be caught unprepared.

Inside the walls, more surprises awaited the centurion and his legionaries, and as they walked through the streets the centurion was struck by a sense of familiarity, as if he had been here before. Buildings that seemed neither Roman nor Celtic but a melding of both lined neat, arrow-straight dirt streets. His nose told him a bakery was close by and, glancing around, he saw the building sitting somewhat apart from the others. So that if it burns, he thought, the fire will not spread. And then he knew why this place was so familiar; incredibly, it was laid out so that it resembled a legionary camp. All Roman camps were laid out in an identical pattern, so that any legionary could walk into any camp and be immediately at ease. One- and two-story homes sat side by side, in perfect harmony. To judge from everything he was seeing, this settlement had thrived and was prosperous. The centurion removed his helmet and, gesturing for his men to remain behind, followed the street that paralleled the front wall of the stockade. The expanse was bare, save for a column of sharpening stone. The centurion frowned at it, a trickle of fear running down his spine at the thought of the inhabitants of this fortress possessing weapons.

He could hear the laughter of children, and the breeze carried faint gusts of conversation to him. So the place was not deserted, despite the fact that he had yet to see any of the inhabitants. As if in answer to his thoughts, a woman came around the corner of the street, a child held in her arms. Seeing him, she set the child on the ground and, with a little slap on its buttocks, sent the child back the way she had come. Then she continued toward the centurion and when only a few feet separated them, she halted and said in a cultured, melodic voice, "Salutatio, Centurion."

"S-salutatio," the centurion managed to reply. A braid of red-gold hair curved over the woman's shoulder to fall to her hip and wide, violet eyes regarded him curiously as he stared at her. She wore a green stola, which clung to the curves of her lithe form, but she was barefoot. His eyes wandered up to her face, where they lingered. She was past the first blush of beauty, and there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes, but she was an arresting woman nonetheless.

"How may we be of service to you?" the vision asked when he simply stared at her.

"You speak Latin." It was the only reply that came to the centurion's mind.

"Aye." Jilana's lips curved into a smile. "What is it you wish, Centurion?" A sudden gleam came into the man's eyes and, as he glanced around the settlement, her smile faded.

"Where are your men?" the centurion inquired, thinking that perhaps the long march would yield more than a few horses.

"Do not even consider such a thing, Centurion."

The man started at the low, but unmistakable warning in her voice. How had she known what he was thinking? The centurion barely managed to suppress a shudder at the violet eyes which now regarded him without their previous friendliness. "We have been sent to purchase horses," he said at last, setting the helmet back on his head.

"I am Jilana. You will wish to speak with my husband and Hadrian regarding the horses. They will return soon."

While the centurion watched, Jilana raised her hand and the street was soon filled with the citizens of the fortress. "You have no need of your weapons," she told him. "No harm will come to you here unless it is by your own hand." She smiled slightly when he sheathed his sword and his men followed suit. "Come, I will introduce you to our elders."

The centurion followed her obediently and greeted several old men—two of which she introduced as her husband's father and her own—and women. The children were present now and they surrounded the Roman infantry, gazing at them with wide eyes.

"We see few legionaries here," a woman called Ede explained to the centurion. "They are a novelty for the children." Her Latin was heavily accented, but correct.

The children spoke Latin as well, and when the centurion, commented upon the fact, Jilana laughed. "Nearly everyone in our village speaks both tongues."

The centurion stared at her. "You are not Celtic."

Jilana looked at him in surprise. "But I am, Centurion, and Roman as well." She swept a hand around her. "We are each part of the other; Roman or Celtic, it does not matter."

The centurion opened the pouch at his waist and extracted several sealed pieces of parchment. "These are for Jilana Basilius."

Jilana took them eagerly, her eyes alight. "Thank you, Centurion."

"You are Jilana Basilius," the centurion insisted. "The daughter—" his voice trailed off and he glanced in confusion at the grizzled man with the look of a warrior about him who had been introduced as Jilana's father. "The daughter of Marcus Basilius, the merchant?"

"Aye." Understanding his confusion, but not caring to enlighten him, Jilana merely smiled. Her gaze went to the gate and an expression so loving it tugged at the centurion's heart fell across her features. "Here is my husband."

The centurion turned and watched the column of men coming through the gate. The two men who led them were both large and powerfully built, though he noticed that the one on the left walked with a slight limp. And then the centurion knew what else had been bothering him—the villagers were friendly, but there had been no men of fighting age here. He remembered the feeling of being watched as they came through the woods and knew that they had been watched for several miles. To his relief, none of the Celts carried weapons.

The column dispersed as soon as it passed through the gate as the men sought out their families. The men in the lead and a tall youth came to where they were standing.

"You must be here for the horses," Hadrian greeted the centurion and then bent to kiss his wife.

"Aye." The centurion watched the man and the youth flank Jilana.

"Centurion, this is my husband, Caddaric." Jilana indicated the towering, fierce-looking man on her left. "And my son, Artair." She glanced at the other man who had draped an arm around Ede's shoulders. "That is Hadrian." She stepped away from her family and linked an arm through Ede's. "Come, Ede, let us leave the men to their business."

That night, Caddaric closed the door of their bedroom and watched Jilana prepare for bed. Their house was small, two-storied, a melding of his culture and hers, but for the first few years they had lived here, their home had been a bothie. Jilana had not minded, but he had insisted upon building this present structure when the stockade had been completed.

Jilana looked up and found Caddaric's eyes upon her. "Did you hide the weapons?"

"Of course, my heart," Caddaric replied with a grin. '' Artair helped me."

Jilana raised an eyebrow at that. "No doubt he helped you only because Cymbre told him she was helping Hadrian."

"No doubt." Caddaric sat beside her on the bed. "Shall I brush your hair?"

"Aye, I would like that." Jilana hesitated. "I should check on the children."

"I have already done so," Caddaric assured her. "They are all asleep."

"All six of them?" Jilana grinned, considering the possibility of such a thing at this early hour.

"The excitement exhausted them." Caddaric's eyes darkened and, taking the brush from her and tossing it aside, he drew her into his arms. "What did Marcus say in his letters?"

"That he wants to see us."

"Us?" Caddaric tilted her face upward. "Or you?"

"All of us this time," Jilana said firmly. "You may read the letter yourself if you do not believe me."

"So the gods have at last worked a miracle." Caddaric chuckled dryly. "What else?"

"That Lucius and Claudia have had another child— their eighth." She slanted her husband a teasing look. "I fear we have fallen behind, my love."

Caddaric snorted. "I think Lucius is trying to keep your sister from dabbling in politics."

Jilana smiled and rubbed her hands against the tunic covering Caddaric's chest. "Allyce is nearly three, my love. Mayhap we should give her a playmate."

As ever, her touch stirred him, and Caddaric eased them both back onto the bed. "Mayhap," he whispered against her lips.