Defy the Eagle (32 page)

Once that was done, Jilana's legs were shaking so badly she doubted she could get to her feet, so she stayed where she was and handed Clywd whatever he needed. The sight of the exposed wound made her stomach lurch and when Clywd took a piece of gut soaked in vinegar and began to stitch up the man's side Jilana had to look away or be violently ill. At Clywd's order, she washed her hands in a bowl of clean water and vinegar, repacked his case and then rose shakily to her feet.

"You should have told me what you intended," Jilana said accusingly when they had left that family behind. "I cannot do what you ask."

"This is the hardest part of battle, I think," Clywd replied thoughtfully, as if he had not heard Jilana's protest. "The suffering is sometimes unimaginable, and there so little that can be done to alleviate it." He sighed. 'The families of the injured began calling for me yesterday and still there is no end in sight."

For the first time, Jilana noticed the purple shadows curving like bruises beneath Clywd's eyes. "Have you rested since this began?"

Clywd laughed softly. "Do you worry about me, Jilana? I thank you, but you should save your concern for the wounded. When this is ended I will rest and recover; if I do so now, many will die. That I cannot allow." He glanced at her. "I understand, though, why the lives of these people are not important to you. You need not stay with me."

'"Tis not that they are unimportant," Jilana protested, coming to a halt. "I simply do not see how my fainting or being sick will help you."

"I understand." Clywd nodded and continued walking.

Jilana watched him go. "They do not want my help," she called after him. "I am their enemy!" The only reply Clywd made was to raise his hand in a brief salute and Jilana grimaced. For all his height and the voluminous robes he wore, Clywd made a fragile figure. In the week she had spent with him at Venta Icenorum, she had come to know Clywd well enough to know that he was as stubborn as his son. He would work at the task before him until he dropped. Reluctantly at first, and then with as much speed as her shackles would allow, she trailed Clywd and at last caught up to him. "You are a canny old fox," she told him when he looked over at her. "And you will regret choosing me as an assistant."

Clywd merely smiled and pointed to another campsite. The wound here was less serious and Clywd took the time to explain to Jilana what he was doing and why. By midday Jilana had lost count of the wounded they had tended. Her stola was soiled with blood and bits of other things she would rather not remember; Clywd's robe was no better, but since it was black the stains did not show as clearly. Her head was brimming with hastily imparted knowledge and her body was weary. When she was about to ask Clywd if they could rest, they were hailed by a very tall, dark-haired woman and with a sigh she trudged after Clywd.

Instead of being asked to treat yet another wound, however, she and Clywd were invited to share this family's midday meal. Jilana gratefully accepted the offer of water, and after washing her face and hands she sank to the ground by the fire. The meal was simple: bread and the same dried meat Caddaric had given her the night before, all washed down with a large quantity of mead. Like Clywd, Jilana refused the fermented honey drink and drank water instead. The food settled heavily in her stomach, but she thanked the woman with the same grace she had once bestowed upon the hostess of an opulent feast. The Iceni woman smiled broadly and launched into a speech that told Jilana she had become the object of gossip once again. Word had spread throughout the camp that the Druid was accompanied by the red-haired wicca who had befriended Boadicea at the flogging, been captured at Venta Icenorum, vanished without a trace, and then magically reappeared. 'Twas hardly magical, Jilana told herself dryly, remembering how Caddaric had slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, but she did not disabuse the woman with the truth. Wicca—witch. Caddaric had often called her that, but no longer. He knew better than to consider Jilana magical.

And where was Caddaric? Jilana wondered with a sudden pang of anxiety. Was he safe? From Camulodunum came rhythmic pounding that she had learned was the sound of a battering ram against the iron-plated doors of the Temple of Claudius. What survivors of the city remained had taken shelter in the temple and barred the massive double doors. Had Faline made it to the temple in time? Had Hadrian? So much waste and death, on both sides, she thought sadly. Clywd gave her no time to dwell on such dark thoughts. He thanked the woman, who seemed more than a little in awe of him, and they were on their way once again.

The Iceni force encircled the city, and Jilana wondered how far they had come since morning.

"Nearly halfway." Jilana gasped aloud and Clywd smiled apologetically. "Forgive me; I do not make a habit of reading people's thoughts, but you seemed so sad."

Jilana stared at him, astounded. "You can truly look into another's mind?"

"Occasionally, and through a deliberate effort," Clywd answered. "'Tis a gift, like a sight—though I have had to work much harder at this one—and I cannot use it on everyone." Clywd returned her gaze and a slow smile curved his mouth. "Nay, Jilana, you have only the sight, not the ability to read thoughts, at least, not yet."

For a moment Jilana was too stunned to respond at this latest intrusion into her thoughts and then she laughed helplessly. "I shall have to find a way to protect myself from your powers."

"You have no need to fear me, but there is a way to hide your thoughts," Clywd said casually. "I can teach you if you like; it is part of the training for controlling the sight." Jilana had no chance to reply, for at that moment they were called to yet another campsite to tend yet another patient. The afternoon proved a repetition of the morning. Jilana learned quickly, and soon she was able to care for minor injuries on her own while Clywd went ahead to work on the more severely wounded. In this way the work was halved and it was not until the sun was setting that Clywd called Jilana to assist him once again.

One look at the man on the ground sent Jilana reeling backward, and only Clywd's sharp command stopped her from running away. The warrior lay on his back, and from the center of his stomach several inches of a thick, wooden shaft protruded. The flesh around the wound was brightly colored, from the red of infection to a bruised purple.

"I need—he needs you," Clywd snapped. "I must cut the javelin head out and I cannot do it alone. In my case there is a vial of opium; bring it and a bowl of water to me." When she hesitated, he pointed out the vial he meant. "Quickly, Jilana."

Jilana obeyed mechanically, averting her eyes from the patient when she knelt beside Clywd. "Pour a bit of opium into the water; I will tell you when to stop." A nervous chill enveloped Jilana and her hand, when she raised the warrior's head so that he might drink the mixture, was like ice against his flesh. It seemed impossible to Jilana that he could have endured such an injury and remained alive and yet he was conscious, if not totally rational. His eyes watched them as she and Clywd prepared their instruments and Jilana felt like screaming under his scrutiny. At last, however, the warrior's eyelids drooped and then closed completely and Jilana gave a sigh of relief.

The man's wife—at least she might have been his wife, the Celts were notoriously careless about such formalities—had brought clean cloths and these now lay beside Jilana as she knelt opposite Clywd.

"Why do you not simply pull..." Jilana swallowed a surge of bile, "pull the javelin out?" she finished as Clywd removed & knife from the bowl of water and vinegar in which it had been soaking. While she spoke, Jilana dipped her hands into a like mixture to clean them and then picked up a length of cloth.

"The head of the weapon is barbed. If we pull the head out, the barbs will catch and tear, causing more damage." Clywd looked over at Jilana. "Are you ready?"

With a quick, silent prayer, Jilana nodded. Clywd cut into the inflamed flesh and after that Jilana was too busy be afraid or even think. She responded automatically Clywd's orders; soaking up the blood with cloths and discarding them, keeping the warrior still—at one point actually pinning the man's arms down when he tried to push Clywd's hands away—and making a dressing of herbs and moss that would be inserted into the wound to prevent infection and hopefully stop the blood, occupied her completely. Once the head of the javelin was removed the man quieted somewhat, although his moans betrayed his torment, and Jilana's own reaction set in. She measured out another dose of opium with hands that shook so badly that some of the priceless medicine splashed onto the ground. She barely managed to dribble liquid into the warrior's mouth without spilling that well. Only when Clywd began bandaging the wound did Jilana find the strength to stand. Without a word, she hurried some distance from the campsite and let her stomach relieve itself of its contents.

Bent at the waist, hands resting on her thighs, Jilana aware of nothing but the spasms racking her body. The images her mind had blocked out only minutes ago returned in full force and she shuddered against them. How could Clywd so calmly put his hands into a man's body? The sight of blood had long since lost its aversion her, but to see the fragile flesh and muscle so easily cut away to reveal what lay below had proved too much. At she became aware of Clywd standing some distance away and she straightened.

Clywd approached, carrying a large basin of water. "You will feel better after you have washed," he said softly and set the basin on the ground.

Jilana looked down at her stained hands and shook her head. "I doubt I shall ever feel clean again." But she walked to the basin and washed her hands. When she was finished she sat down on the ground and looked up at the Druid. "Will he live?"

Clywd studied the ground before answering. "I have done all that I can, and I have seen men with worse wounds live." He drew a deep, ragged breath and searched the darkening sky. "I do not think he will live out the night."

"Then it was all for naught," Jilana cried, tears of helplessness welling behind her eyelids.

"Nay, Jilana, we have given him a chance, some small hope. That counts above all else." Clywd picked up the basin and started back to the camp, and after a few moments Jilana followed. She arrived just in time to hear Clywd tell the woman that he would return later than evening. Respect for the frail Druid was born within Jilana at that instant. When Clywd knelt to repack his case he found Jilana beside him, cleaning the knife he had just used and he nodded his thanks.

In the beginning, Clywd had guarded Jilana because of what he saw in the future for the girl and his son. He had come to like her and, because she was so obviously terrified of the forces which had destroyed her world, feel protective toward her. Today had shown Clywd that Jilana was more than a coddled patrician; she possessed an inner strength at which her pretty face and lithe figure did not hint. To see the chains around her ankles now was a greater affront than it had been earlier in the day, and Clywd felt anger swell within him.

Walking beside Clywd back to their encampment, Jilana continued to be surprised at the lack of animosity she created among the Britons. She was obviously a slave, and though a few sullen glances and murmurs were cast in her direction, she was more an object of friendly curiosity than hatred. Remembering that gossip had labeled her a wicca brought a tired stifle to Jilana's lips. In her blood-spattered gown and wildly tangled hair, she hardly looked like some magical creature.

A flash of white seen from the corner of her eye caught Jilana's attention and slowed her pace. Lhwyd stood several yards away at the sparse edge of the forest, deep in conversation with two Iceni warriors. In the dying light of the sun, Jilana could just make out the figures of people huddled against the tree trunks. She could hear weeping and the lower, less intense sounds of moaning. Unconsciously, Jilana came to a halt and stared in the direction of the sounds. She had no need to ask Clywd who the people were; she knew. Lhwyd had somehow found living sacrifices for his goddess. Roman sacrifices.

Retracing his steps, Clywd urged softly, "Come away, Jilana."

"He has wounded there," Jilana whispered, appalled. "Have they been seen to?"

"Jilana—"

"Have they been seen to," Jilana repeated, her voice gaining strength.

The gray streak in Clywd's beard trembled momentarily. "Nay, Lhwyd would not allow it."

"Then you did try?"

Clywd looked down at Jilana, his blue eyes—so like Caddaric's—ablaze with indignation. "I am a healer. Last night I begged Lhwyd to let me treat the wounded and he refused. Do you believe I could see such suffering and not try to prevent it?"

Jilana exhaled a shaky breath. "Nay, Clywd, I do not. Forgive me." She turned back to where Lhwyd stood. "Mayhap Lhwyd will not refuse me." Before Clywd could stop her, Jilana walked proudly to Lhwyd.

At her approach the priest turned and a knowing smile flitted across his lips. "So the little fugitive has returned," he commented in his rich, melodic voice. "Have you come to join your countrymen?"

A shaft of ice pierced Jilana, and before she could speak she had to swallow the fear that clogged her throat. "There are wounded here," she said in a voice so steady she surprised herself. "I wish to treat them."

The laughter that rolled from Lhwyd at her words was as beautiful, and chilling, as his voice. He looked down at the chain binding her ankles and then locked his gaze with hers. "You wish to save their lives so that I may take them? A most interesting thought. Healthy sacrifices are always well received."