Defy the Eagle (29 page)

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The sharp blare of the carnyx followed by the reluctant withdrawal of the Iceni forces came as a surprise to Hadrian. All morning his soldiers had gradually given up possession of the land bridge inch by hard-fought inch, but even though he estimated that there were three Iceni casualties to his one, Hadrian was grimly certain that unless the Ninth Legion appeared immediately, the city was doomed. Given the Iceni reserves and the growing number of Roman dead and injured, by nightfall the Iceni would have reached the city side of the bridge. Once they reached their goal, the enemy would fan out and the city would be lost.

Hadrian had spent the morning circling his defenses, exhorting the legionaries to keep their shields above their heads. The Iceni archers were accurate, though their efforts were futile as long as the Roman shields remained in place. The leather of Hadrian's own shield was scarred where the enemy arrows had dug into the covering and penetrated to the wood beneath. Hadrian's tribune had been insulted by the slim shafts protruding from the leather and, over Hadrian's objections, had taken it upon himself to pull out the arrows or break the shafts of the ones that had penetrated too deeply. A nice boy, Hadrian reflected now as he stood on a slight rise behind the land bridge, watching the Iceni pull back, a bit too filled with the glory of Rome for Hadrian's taste, but nice enough, even so. Now the tribune lay on the other side of the city with an Iceni javelin buried in his chest. He had tried to remove the weapon, but had stopped when it became obvious that the head was of the twisted and barbed type that ripped the wound still further when it was taken out. Mercifully, the javelin must have penetrated some vital organ for the tribune had died quickly. Hail Caesar, Hadrian thought bitterly.

Of necessity, Hadrian pushed such useless thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the scene in front of him. What was Boadicea planning? Why had she broken off what would, ultimately, have been a successful attack? He shook his head when the Iceni did not bother to protect their rear as they withdrew; his junior officers saw the advantage at the same time and shouted orders. Roman arrows and pill sang through the air and found defenseless targets. Hundreds of attackers fell beneath the missiles, and when their comrades turned back to drag their bodies from the field—a noble, stupid action which caused Hadrian to shake his head—they, too, were killed.

Across the field, Hadrian could just discern Boadicea where she stood in her chariot. During the battle she had done what he had, except that she circled the outer perimeter of the defences in a wicker chariot drawn by two jet black horses. Now her chariot stood in the midst of a knot of perhaps a hundred warriors—her cadre, Hadrian guessed. Hadrian watched the meeting for several minutes, curious. From the distance came the sounds of axes meeting trees; Boadicea still planned to use the trees to breach the ditch, then. Hadrian considered and discarded several reasons for the Iceni withdrawal and at last shook his head. He would know soon enough the Iceni queen's plan; until then he needed to take advantage of the respite.

Hadrian lowered his shield to the ground and slid his gladius into its baldric. He motioned to the only centurion in his ranks as he descended the rise. "My tribune is dead," Hadrian informed the officer when he had saluted. "You will take his place." He pulled the helmet

from his head and ran a hand through his damp hair. Without the battle fever to mask it, the ache in his leg now grew to sickening proportions. Hadrian willed himself to ignore it. "Pick your best decurio and have him lead a detachment to relieve the force on the bridge. See that the men eat and drink while they have the chance." Hadrian glanced back to where Boadicea held council. Pray Mithras this meeting dragged on like other Celtic councils had been known to do. If the Iceni squabbled long enough, Camulodunum might gain another day.

"Is that all, primipilus," the centurion asked.

Shaking his head, Hadrian pressed his lips together and came to a decision. "Take ten men, go into the city and bring out every man capable of fighting. Draw their arms from the garrison armory and get back here as soon as you can."

The centurion saluted and left and Hadrian lowered himself to the ground. Immediately the ache in his leg settled into a dull throb and Hadrian forced himself not to groan in relief. Eating the food taken from the pouch on his belt, Hadrian watched as his orders were carried out. Hadrian, as well as his men, ate and drank slowly and sparingly. By the time he had finished, the centurion had returned from the city with the hastily-armed civilians. Hadrian got to his feet and explained briefly what would be expected of them.

One of the civilians—more foolhardy than the others—protested. "We are not soldiers. Tarpeius! Most of us have never handled a gladius before."

Hadrian glared at the man. "You will have to learn quickly."

"This is ridiculous," the civilian sputtered. "The armory did not even have enough weapons for all of us."

"Then go among the dead and take their swords," Hadrian ground out. "Or you can meet the Iceni barehanded if you prefer. I care not what weapon you choose, but you will fight."

"Not I." The man threw his gladius to the ground and folded his arms across his chest. "I am a cloth merchant. My taxes support the legions and you are paid to protect me, not drag me into the midst of the fighting!"

Murmurs of agreement rose from the men around the spokesman and Hadrian knew what he must do. The man was frightened, refused to accept the danger the city faced, and was inciting the others to mutiny. To argue with him was pointless. Hadrian's eyes hardened until they looked like polished stones as they sought out and found the two legionaries in the front ranks of the civilian escort. Raising his left hand, Hadrian crooked two fingers toward them in a deceptively careless gesture. The two soldiers stepped forward and when Hadrian nodded, each seized one of the civilian's arms. Drawing his sword, Hadrian walked to the captive. The man had just a moment to realize what was going to happen before Hadrian's gladius pierced his heart.

Hadrian pulled his blade free and while the legionaries dragged the dead man away, fixed his gaze on the other civilians. "If the Iceni make it past our variation you will envy your friend his death. Is there anyone else who doubts his ability to fight?"

There was no chance for an answer, because at that moment a cry went up from the guard on the bridge. "Deploy them," Hadrian ordered the centurion as he bent to retrieve his helmet and shield. Climbing the rise, Hadrian could see that the Iceni were on the move once again, but this time there was a difference. Now they advanced like legionaries, their shields interlocked both above their heads and in the front ranks, and spears, not swords, protruded from the front line. Instead of wildly assaulting the vallation, the other Iceni hung back, using their javelins and archers to advantage; but what concerned Hadrian was that the advancing phalanx was double the size of the Roman contingent it would meet on the bridge. Armed with spears, they could decimate the legionaries while remaining out of reach of the gladius, and through sheer force of numbers, they would roll over the bridge.

Hadrian's eyes narrowed as the enemy approached, wondering if the well-ordered ranks would dissolve once encountered his men. It had happened before—the Celts were easily provoked and found more glory in individual combat than disciplined strategy. The two forces and Hadrian knew a twinge of unwilling admiration for the enemy as his legionaries were immediately forced backward. While he watched, the Iceni formation shifted, consolidating itself into a wedge while maintaining the protection of its flanks. Alarmed, Hadrian ordered reinforcements to the bridge and drew his own sword. Someone in Boadicea's contingent had a practical, working knowledge of battlefield tactics and had persuaded the Queen to use that knowledge. Even now the wedge had forced an opening in the front Roman ranks and was worming its way forward. Reluctantly, Hadrian ordered more legionaries to the bridge and knew as he did that it was futile. More Iceni were charging forward, rolling over the legionaries left in the wake of the vanguard before they could close behind the wedge. The Iceni vanguard broke through to the Roman side of the bridge in what seemed an impossibly short time and the enemy surged through the breach in an inexorable wave. The Iceni had abandoned their spears and formations in favor of their long sword and were now engaging the legionaries in brutal hand to hand combat. Bellowing, ignoring the jarring pain in his leg, Hadrian ran to meet the rebels. He had an instant—just before his sword met that of a tall, grim Iceni—to wonder if Jilana would have the strength to carry out her own suicide, and then his thoughts were taken up in defending himself against an enemy who fought like a legionary.

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For Jilana the day passed in a daze. She sat huddled against the wall in Hadrian's quarters, moving only once, when a group of civilians and legionaries had marched through the garrison to the armory. She had watched them leave and had known the situation was desperate if Hadrian had ordered the civilians to the defenses. When the carnyx had shrilled again she nodded to herself, resigned to her fate. When the Iceni overran the city, she would be killed. Since the garrison stood on the outskirts of Camulodunum, it would be one of the first buildings to be taken. At this point the rebels, intent upon destruction, would not think to take prisoners for Lhwyd's sacrifices. Whatever warrior or warrior maid stumbled across her would make short work of her death. Jilana was grateful for that; to her shame, she was too weak to use Hadrian's dagger.

The sounds of fighting intensified and Jilana rose shakily to her feet and opened the door of the small house. Outside, the bright spring sunshine seemed a mockery of the day's events. She was frightened, Jilana realized as her trembling legs carried her into the sunlight, but it was a numbing fear, tempered with an odd sense of relief. It would all be over soon, and she would be free of the fear she had lived with for so long. She thought of Caddaric and Hadrian, wondering if they still lived or if they had already fallen during the battle. The thought of either of them dead brought a swift pang to her heart and to ward it off, Jilana offered another prayer for their safety. The stable caught her eye and without thinking of what she was doing, Jilana walked toward it. It mattered not where the Iceni found her, and the stable was as good a place to die as Hadrian's cramped quarters. At least she would be able to say farewell to her loyal mare.

The stable was shadowed and as Jilana moved down the aisle between the stalls, the horses whickered nervously at her, She paused occasionally to stroke an inquisitive nose that was pushed over a stall door. When Jilana found her mare's stall, she leaned against the low door and wrapped her arms around the mare's neck.

"You will be cared for," Jilana murmured, pulling back so that she could pet the mare's head. "The Iceni value good horseflesh." From without came the fearsome Celtic battle cries and the sound of pounding feet and Jilana knew a moment's panic. Her hands turned icy with fear and to steady herself, Jilana pressed her cheek against her mare's strong jaw.

The stable door burst open and Jilana knew someone stood in the entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior before advancing further. The breath stopped in Jilana's throat. Charon, I come, Jilana called silently to the boatman who ferried the dead across the River Styx. Accept me as you surely accepted my family. Juno, intercede on my behalf.

With the last of her strength, Jilana pushed herself away from the stall and took a step into the aisle. Her green stola stood out against the gloom of the interior and Jilana sensed rather than saw the sudden attention of the man at the door. His large body filled most of the entrance, and with the sun at his back he was a dark, terrifying figure. He stepped into the stable and Jilana felt her heart stop. She wanted to call to him, to tell him that she was alone, that no danger waited for him here and he should end this quickly, but she was beyond speech. The sound of his footsteps drummed in her ears as he drew nearer and Jilana closed her eyes. She was suspended in time, aware of nothing and everything.

"Still so eager to die, Jilana?"

Jilana's eyes flew open at the sound of her name. The dull gleam of a bronze neck torque met her gaze and she forced her eyes upward until they collided with the cold fury burning in a pair of impossibly blue eyes. Caddaric! Jilana tried to say his name but no sound emerged.

Caddaric flicked a glance toward the mare before pinning Jilana with that icy look once again. "Were you planning to run again?" he asked with a harsh laugh. "I should let you try. You would be dead before reaching the street."

Her strength deserted her and Jilana sank to the straw-covered floor, her head bowed. The cold metal of Caddaric's sword slipped beneath her chin and forced her face upward.

"No words, no pretty pleas?" Caddaric asked caustically. "You were full of entreaties and lies at Venta Icenorum."

The accusation allowed Jilana to find her voice. "I did what I had to," she whispered. Irrationally, she was glad that Caddaric had found her. At least she would die knowing Minerva had granted a part of her prayer.

"Aye," Caddaric returned brutally. "You smiled and gave me your body and a few short hours later you lied and knocked me unconscious. Tis fitting that we meet again in a stable."

Jilana's eyes slid from his face to the blood-covered blade. "And that you kill me here."

Caddaric was helpless to control the tremor that ran through his sword arm at her words. Damn her for her unnatural calm! Why did she not beg and plead for her life? Why could she not throw herself upon his mercy and into his arms so that he could hold her and hold her and hold her?

Cursing, he lowered the sword, wrapped his free hand around her wrist and pulled Jilana to her feet. She rose willingly enough and stood regarding him silently. No emotion showed in those lovely violet eyes save for a faint curiosity, and Caddaric realized she was simply waiting for him to kill her. A muscle working furiously in his jaw, Caddaric turned and pulled Jilana back to the door. Angry as he had been—and still was—over her treacherous escape, as often as he had sworn that he would kill her with his bare hands if he ever found her again, the moment he had laid eyes on her again Caddaric had known his passion for this violet-eyed witch outweighed all other emotions. He was going to take her back to the Iceni camp, to the tent Clywd had insisted upon raising last night, and he was going to keep her safe because he wanted her more than anything else on this earth.

Jilana tumbled in Caddaric's wake, seeking to match his long stride and not lose her footing. The street through which they passed was free of the carnage which had littered Venta Icenorum, but when they had passed through the city and reached the vallation, Jilana could not avoid seeing the destruction there. Thankfully, she caught no more than fleeting glimpses of the bodies because of Caddaric's furious pace. The Iceni were still pouring into the city, and Caddaric's grip on her wrist tightened so that they would not become separated.

Once, as they were passing over the land bridge, the heel of her sandal caught in the stola's hem and Jilana slipped over the edge of the ditch. Before she could cry out, Caddaric's hold had checked her fall and hauled her back to solid ground. Her thanks were abruptly cut off when Caddaric dipped and easily tossed her over his shoulder. No further impediments arose to delay their progress to the Iceni camp.

Jilana, hanging upside down over Caddaric's shoulder, had no idea what he planned, so when Caddaric dropped her roughly to the ground in front of a tent she pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked around in surprise. The sword still dangling menacingly from his right hand, Caddaric tossed back the flap of the tent and jerked his head toward the interior. "Get inside."

Some of her apathy had dissolved during the trek from the city and Jilana did so warily. The inside of the tent contained nothing more than a single pallet and Jilana turned to Caddaric in bewilderment. "Stay here," he ordered in a tone that was meant to be obeyed. The flap snapped down behind him, leaving Jilana in almost total darkness except for what little light was afforded by the gap in the tent's ceiling. The hole was meant to vent the smoke from a fire, Jilana supposed, but any further musings on her part were cut. short by Caddaric's return.

The sword was safely in his baldric, which left one of his hands free for the length of rope he carried. This time he left the tent flap open and the look on his face made Jilana swallow nervously.

"Lie down."

Her heart lurched at the coldness of his voice. "What do you mean to do?" Jilana had to force the question past the obstruction in her throat.

Caddaric's gaze wandered insultingly over her slender frame and then returned to her face. "Not what you imagine," he said bitingly. "Now lay on the pallet."

Jilana lowered herself onto the pile of furs and, while Caddaric towered over her, stretched out full length. He knelt beside the pallet, dropped the rope and then his hard hands bit into her shoulders. When Jilana gasped at his touch, Caddaric merely raised an eyebrow at her and flipped her onto her side so that she faced the tent wall. He released her shoulders and a moment later, Jilana felt the bite of the rope as he coiled it around her ankles. Her arms were pulled behind her back and her wrists bound by the same length of rope which tied her ankles. In the space of a few minutes, Jilana was trussed in a manner that left her immobile. Even as Caddaric rose, Jilana could feel the strain in her muscles and joints as she was arched backward over the rope.

Caddaric tested the knots at her wrists, ankles and the small of her back and then, satisfied, he unfolded a blanket and tossed it over Jilana. She had to strain in order to turn far enough over her shoulder to see him, and when she did he smiled mockingly. "Wait for me, Jilana."

With those sarcastic words he was gone and Jilana was alone in the dark tent. Wait for me. Jilana laughed a trifle wildly. As if she could do anything else. The laugh changed to a choked sob and Jilana felt the hot sting of tears as they filled her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. From far away came the dying cries of Camulodunum and Jilana wept for its loss and Hadrian's. Gradually the tears subsided and Jilana took stock of her situation. The whim of some god had decreed that Caddaric find her once again, and Jilana could only shake her head over the bitter irony of her rescue. Whatever feelings Caddaric had held for her, Jilana had killed with her escape; his voice and eyes had told her that much.

What did Caddaric plan to do with her? Jilana burrowed into the fur as a shiver worked its way up her spine. In spite of his treatment of her, she did not think he planned to hand her over to Lhwyd. Caddaric was not, by nature, a cruel man, only a hard one. Had he intended her to die, he would have killed her himself. That thought comforted Jilana, although she knew that this time her treatment would be far different from what she had received at Venta Icenorum. Hadrian's dagger dug into the flesh of her thighs and Jilana felt a moment of panic. If Caddaric discovered the weapon he would be furious, but at the moment, she had no way of disposing of it. She would have to wait until he gave her a moment of privacy—he had to grant her that much, if only for her body's needs—and toss the dagger away. Or find a way to conceal it from Caddaric, some rebellious spark in her mind added. Jilana closed her eyes and waited for Caddaric to return.