Defy the Eagle (41 page)

****

Out of necessity, the wagons kept to the paved Roman road while the rest of the war band flanked the slower-moving vehicles. People laughed and sang as they marched. Energetic children darted among the trees which lined the road. The creak of leather and the steady clop of hooves against stone filled the air. The charred remains of Camulodunum fell behind the column, glimpsed only through dust, then through trees, and finally obscured by distance. A door closed on another room of the charnel house Boadicea was constructing.

Along the route, eager Celts flocked to join the war band. Farmers, villagers, former slaves, all came to Boadicea's standard, some carrying only the clothes on their back, others with their possessions piled into carts or wagons. The column swelled, and its progress slowed accordingly.

For the most part, the new arrivals had obviously traveled for days to join the column, but dirty and travel-worn though they were, they were eager to explain that word of Boadicea's rebellion had spread across the length and breadth of Albion. The Queen's success had inspired other, smaller, revolts. Stories were told, and quickly .passed along the column, of the destruction of coloniae and villae and the Romans who inhabited them. Iceni spirits soared. No longer were they alone in their fight. True, the puppet-kings of the other tribes might not have joined Boadicea, but their people had and numbers were what counted in this battle. By the time they met the governor-general, the Iceni would crush him and his legion easily. Provided, of course, that he stood his ground and

fought. He might simply show himself to be the coward Boadicea had named him, and turn tail and run. This last possibility was greeted with jubilant, victorious laughter.

Jilana heard the stories as they were passed throughout the column, but she did not dwell upon them. She was far too busy concentrating on her own survival. Her sandals, with their delicate heels, were not meant for walking any distance. Before Camulodunum was hidden from sight, she had stumbled and twisted her ankle. While the ankle pained her, it was only one of Jilana's worries. The manacles chaffed her ankles and wrists, leaving raw patches on her delicate skin. The muscles in her thighs began to tense, then ache, as she followed the wagon in its slow, relentless pace. As the time passed, she glanced at the sun, marking its progress. Soon it would be midday and the column would stop for the noon meal. Jilana set her teeth against the various pains of her body and waited for the sun to reach its zenith.

Just when Jilana was certain she could not walk another step, Heall pulled the wagon to the side of the road and brought it to a halt. Jilana walked up the six feet of chain that led from her hands to the wagon and collapsed. Heall was rummaging through the wagon and Jilana leaned against the wheel with a sigh of relief.

Heall jumped from the wagon and came to where Jilana was sitting. "I should have remembered the food this morning," he explained, handing her two strips of dried meat and a full wineskin.

"Thank you." Gratefully, Jilana took the food and raised the skin to her mouth. The water was warm, but she could not remember when it had tasted better. The liquid washed the dust from her parched .throat and she sighed again. Not even the meat was offensive, Jilana thought as she gnawed off a sizable piece and chewed it with relish. Which proved just how hungry she was.

"Do not become too comfortable," Heall warned when Jilana adjusted her back against the wheel spokes.

Jilana looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

Heall nodded to the still-moving column. "We have to leave."

"Now?" Jilana was incredulous. "But we just stopped."

"Only to get the food," Heall said patiently. "We eat while we march." At her dismayed expression, he went down on his knee beside her. "Can you make it?"

Jilana swallowed the beef and washed it down with a large draught of water. Her hand, she noticed, was trembling. As were the muscles in her legs. How could she possibly get back on her feet and keep moving? She was a woman, not a horse! And then she thought of Caddaric, remembering how adamant he had been that she must walk, not ride. He had known exactly how weak she was. No doubt he thought to bring her to heel with this treatment! Jilana drew a deep breath and forced a smile. "Just give me a moment, Heall, and I will be ready."

"I am sorry, Jilana," Heall apologized and, looking into his sad, brown eyes, Jilana knew he truly regretted what he was doing.

"I am fine, Heall," Jilana reassured him. If she complained, Heall would force her to ride. That she would not risk.

With a nod, Heall climbed back into the wagon. A moment later, Jilana forced her protesting muscles to move and soon they were back in the column.

The food and water helped, but as the day wore on Jilana's strength slowly diminished. Eventually she grew numb to the pain the manacles caused, to the blisters that developed on her feet. Her steps grew less certain; more often than not she stumbled, whether from the chains or her own weariness she was not certain. The muscles knotted in her legs and she fell. The paving scraped her hands and bruised her knees. Heall, who glanced back at her from time to time, immediately brought the wagon to a halt and ran back to her.

"Jilana!" Heall slipped one arm around her waist and the other under her knees and carried her back to the wagon. "No arguments, now," he told her sternly. "You cannot walk any further, and I refuse to drag you along behind the wagon."

Jilana experienced a brief flash of guilt over the fact that Heall was once again running a risk because of her, but she was too tired to argue. They both knew she could not walk another step. They had not seen Ede since the column had moved out that morning, so perhaps the risk was not so great. Jilana closed her eyes and leaned against a sack of grain. In her bruised condition, it was the softest of pallets and the swaying of the wagon soon put her to sleep.

Night had descended when Jilana awoke. Heall had a fire going and was bending over it, stirring the contents of the cook pot. Ede was nowhere to be seen. Jilana pushed herself upright and groaned at the pain assailing her body.

Heall looked up from his task and regarded her solemnly. "I was just going to wake you. Are you hungry?"

Food was the farthest thing from Jilana's mind and she shook her head. How she longed for a warm bath to soak away the ache and grime of the journey.

Heall came to the wagon and unchained her wrists. "I will get you water and a basin."

"Can we spare it?" Jilana asked, recalling Caddaric's admonition about rationing their supplies. Heall grinned at the question, and in that moment he looked very much like his son.

"Can you not feel the weather?" Heall chuckled. "'Twill rain tonight. We will uncap the barrels. Aye, Jilana, we can spare the water." He moved to the side of the wagon to fill the basin from one of the barrels strapped there.

Jilana slid to the ground, the breath catching in her throat at the pain that shot through her when her feet touched the ground. Wincing, she sat and unstrapped her sandals. The soles of her feet were covered with blisters, some of which had burst to expose the tender skin beneath. She would have to treat them with an ointment from her medicine chest tonight and hope they would heal by the morning. Her wrists would have to be treated the same way, and her ankles, if she could reach beneath the manacles. The flesh was raw and starting to ooze. She could bind her wrists and feet with strips torn from her undertunic and protect them, but not her ankles. They would have to heal as best they could. Heall brought the basin and Jilana quickly rose to her feet and pulled the sleeves of her tunic over her wrists.

"Wash now and then come to the fire," he ordered gruffly. Silently cursing Caddaric, Heall retreated to the fire and dished out two bowls of stew.

When she was relatively clean and had treated her various injuries as best she could, Jilana followed.

"What is wrong with your feet?" Heall asked when she eased herself down to the ground.

Jilana glanced at her bandaged feet, draped her skirt over them and shrugged. "A blister or two; 'tis nothing to worry about." She dug into the stew with what she hoped was appropriate enthusiasm.

A blister or two, Heall thought, his eyes narrowing. If it would not go worse with Jilana once Caddaric returned, he would happily disregard Caddaric's orders. A burst of pride swelled Heall's heart as he watched Jilana across the fire. No one could say she lacked courage, he thought fondly. And when Caddaric returned, Heall promised himself, he would tell that young man how wrong his actions were.

When Jilana started to nod, Heall took the bowl from her and lifted her in his arms. She stirred and opened her eyes. "'Tis time you were abed," Heall said gently. "I prepared a pallet beneath the wagon."

Jilana smiled and, when Heall placed her on the ground, crawled gratefully between the blankets. "Where will you sleep?" she remembered to ask drowsily.

"In the wagon," Heall replied, pulling the blanket over her shoulder.

"But the rain— "

"I have a canvas, and you should be dry enough under here." Heall brushed the hair away from Jilana's face. "Sleep well."

Jilana awoke to the roll of the thunder and a dream that she was lying in a cold bath. When she came fully awake, however, Jilana realized that the rain was falling in torrents and she was soaked to the skin. She crawled from beneath the wagon to find that Heall had broken the camp and was hitching the horses to the wagon. Heall, too, was soaking wet, as everyone else must be, Jilana thought. In this downpour there was no point in trying to keep dry.

"There is water and a pouch of dried meat at the back of the wagon," Heall called over the thunder. "Keep it with you. We will not stop today."

Jilana nodded to show that she understood and went to the back of the wagon. She tied the pouch to her belt and slung the skin over her shoulder. Her sandals were wet and with a shrug, Jilana sat on the ground to put them on. She could not get any wetter. To her dismay, Jilana discovered that her feet had swollen and the ball of her foot could not be forced into the sandal. Which meant she would have to walk barefoot. Jilana groaned and threw the sandals into the wagon. Then, thinking better of it, she rose and tossed the sandals into the underbrush. They were not fit for walking and it made no sense to leave them where Heall would find them. She would simply go barefoot and hope that Heall did not notice, for if he did, he would insist that she ride, and it was suddenly, vitally important to Jilana that she show Caddaric she could take whatever punishment he decided to mete out.

Jilana's resolution lasted throughout a day which was a repetition of the previous one, but her body constantly threatened to betray her. Beneath the wrappings on her feet, Jilana could feel new blisters form and break and the chaffing at her ankles and wrists grew to such intensity that she had to clench her jaw to keep from whimpering. The rain-slicked paving made her footing treacherous and eventually she fell. This time Heall did not see her fall and Jilana recovered as quickly as possible. The rain lasted throughout the night, so the evening meal was more dried meat. Heall had covered the wagon with canvas to keep the provisions dry, so he built a sputtering fire beneath the relative protection of a tree and he and Jilana huddled there. They were not dry, but unless a gust of wind came along, they were out of the chilling downpour. Jilana closed her eyes, pulled the damp blanket around her and wondered how she would get through tomorrow.

****

The Iceni war party had been on the move for three days. All the warriors were mounted, lending speed to the force, and they stopped only to rest the horses. For a time it had seemed their information was wrong, that they would have to ride all the way to Lindum to engage the Ninth, but last night the advance party had rejoined the main body, bringing with them the news that elements of the Ninth Legion were encamped five miles ahead. The chieftains had hurriedly called for a council and it was decided that the Iceni would stay where they were and prepare an ambush. Horses were taken into the depths of the forest, out of sight and hearing of the road, and the warriors ranged themselves along either side of the road. The two lines were five deep, spread back south for a mile. Everyone was in place by moonrise. No fires could be lit, but that meant little since there was no fresh meat to roast and the warriors had their cloaks to ward off the chill. This night, at least, they would sleep, and when the legion marched at dawn, they would be ready to spring their trap.

Caddaric drew his cloak around him and stretched out on the ground. A light drizzle had dampened his clothing earlier in the evening, but he was impervious to it. On his right side lay his sword and Caddaric turned on his side to draw his fingers thoughtfully over the plain hilt and down the intricately worked scabbard. Battle fever was heating his blood, he realized; that was why he did not feel the cold. He wondered if it was the same with the others.

Sighing, Caddaric rolled to his back and stared at the few stars which were visible, his mind reviewing tomorrow's battle strategy. He was at the southern end of the line, which meant engaging the legion infantry, whose number the scouts had estimated at a thousand. The northern end would deal with the cavalry ala, about five hundred men. Once the ambush was sprung, it would be vital to surround the Roman force and prevent any of the legionaries from escaping. If the Iceni annihilated this detachment, perhaps the Ninth would stay in its fortress and wait for help to arrive. Then, if—when, Caddaric corrected himself—when Boadicea's rebellion was successful, the Iceni could turn north once again and destroy the fortress at Lindum at its leisure.

If, Caddaric thought with a stifled groan. If Petilius Cerealis, the legate of the Ninth, had accompanied this force, and if he fell in battle, then mayhap the Ninth would be panicked enough to sit tight in its fortress. But what if they did not? What if the acting commander of the legion decided to avenge the legate and his men? What would happen if Boadicea found herself waging a battle on two fronts? And what if Paulinus marched his elements of the Fourteenth and Twentieth legions from the west coast of Albion to meet Boadicea? Now they were faced with a battle on three fronts. And as dark as that possibility was, it grew even worse when Caddaric remembered that the Second Augusta was still in its fortress at Gleyum. He swore softly into the night. The one thing he knew about Suetonius Paulinus was that the governor-general was a master strategist. If Suetonius was given time to gather his forces...

"Caddaric?" Artair raised his head to peer through the darkness at his friend. "What is wrong?"

Caddaric shook his head, then, realizing Artair would not see him, answered, "Naught."

"That is why you toss about and swear," Artair grumbled. "I have been without sleep for three nights. At least have some consideration for me."

In spite of himself, Caddaric smiled. "I beg your forgiveness, Artair."

"As well you should." Artair rolled to his side and propped his head on one hand to look at Caddaric. "Will the legionaries fight, or do you think they will run when they see the size of our force?"

"They will fight," Caddaric said with great certainty. "The legion teaches that one legionary is worth ten men." He let out his breath. "Nay, they will not run—not until the order is given."

"We outnumber them," Artair mused aloud.

"Not by much." Caddaric touched the scabbard; his fingers caressed the engraving.

"Will it be enough?"

"Who am I to say?" Caddaric snapped, and immediately regretted the harsh retort. By way of apology, he explained, "As long as our surprise is complete and we do not allow them to get into formation the odds are in our favor."

Artair was silent a moment. "You have faced battle before; .true battle, Caddaric, not the overpowering of a sleeping garrison and the killing of unskilled civilians. I have not."

"Are you afraid?" Caddaric's voice was barely audible. The fear of death was natural, he knew, although he had never experienced it himself. When a man had nothing in his life that he cared about, what did it matter if his life ended?

"Not afraid," Artair replied at last, "at least, I do not fear death." He paused. "I wonder, though, how well I will fight, knowing that we are alone here."

"You will fight the better for that knowledge," Caddaric assured his friend. "When there are no replacements, men find strength and courage that they once thought beyond them. I have seen it happen."

"How does it feel, facing the legion?" Artair asked hesitantly.

"Strange," Caddaric admitted. "At Camulodunum, I heard one of the officers yell an order and I found myself obeying it." He raised his left hand a few inches from his chest and let it drop. "You see, Artair, this is new to me as well. The last great battle was Claudius' invasion, and we were but children then. For the first time in our lives we find ourselves facing the enemy as true Iceni, but for the older men, like Heall, this is only a continuation of a battle that is eighteen years old. They find nothing strange or frightening in facing the legion because they have done it before."

Artair nodded. "My father fought like a man half his age." His tone was rich with pride. "He was upset when you said he should remain behind."

"He may have fought like a man half his age, but that does not change his years. You see how worn we are after the ride. Heall would be in worse shape, and he knew it. That is why he agreed to remain with the column."

"And to care for Jilana."

Caddaric's jaw tightened, although Artair could not see the telltale sign. "Aye."

"You were harsh with her."

Caddaric cursed softly. "I had reason."

"Aye, I know."

The quiet statement was like a physical blow. "You know," Caddaric repeated, torn between rage and disbelief. "What do you know, Artair?" He could feel the other man shrug.

"I know that Lhwyd was right; that in the middle of an enemy camp Jilana managed to spirit away Lhwyd's prize captive before he could be sacrificed."

Fear stabbed at Caddaric. "Are you going to tell Lhwyd?"

Artair gave a hushed laugh. "Nay, I am glad she outwitted that mad Druid."

"How long have you known?"

"Since my father told me."

"Heall knows!" Caddaric's voice rose, and with an effort he brought it under control. "How?"

Artair reached out and placed a hand against Caddaric's shoulder. "He wandered into camp just as Jilana was helping Hadrian mount the horse she had taken."

"And he did not stop him?" Caddaric was incredulous. "I am surrounded by traitors!"

Artair's hand tightened warningly. "If he had stopped Hadrian, the truth would have come out. 'Twas wisest to allow the man to escape and hide the evidence of Jilana's involvement. We thought we had done well. How did you find out?"

Numbly, Caddaric recited his discovery of the medicine box and Jilana's subsequent confession. "How is it you overlooked the box?" he asked bitterly.

"We did not know Jilana had left it with Hadrian."

"What evidence, precisely, did you hide, Artair?"

Artair took a deep breath. "Jilana took your roan and the saddle you had taken from Camulodunum. Father and I replaced them."

"Gods!" Caddaric breathed. "Ede was right, I have been played for a fool."

"Nay, Caddaric—"

"And betrayed by the men I thought of as my own family!" Caddaric spat out the words. "Why, Artair? Why?"

"Because my father asked it of me," Artair replied simply.

Caddaric snorted. "And you, of course, have always been the most obedient of sons." When Artair did not reply, he added, "Why did Heall feel it necessary to protect Jilana?"

Artair considered the question for a long time before he answered. "He had his reasons, Caddaric."

"What?"

"He is fond of Jilana." At Caddaric's muttered expletive, Artair sighed. "We did not betray you, Caddaric, nor think to make you a fool."

"The little, red-haired bitch!" Caddaric exclaimed. "She did not say a word!"

"Of course not." Artair sounded smugly pleased. "No doubt she felt that she owed us her loyalty and silence."

"But she owes me nothing? I have kept her alive, fed her—" There was a horrible tightening in Caddaric's throat, something he had not felt since the day he saw his sisters and mother killed.

"What would you have done, Caddaric, had you been in Jilana's place and either my father or myself were captured, awaiting the kind of death Lhwyd had in mind? By all the gods, I hope you would think your first responsibility was to set us free. 'Tis all Jilana did, my friend; in truth, I doubt she thought in terms of betraying you or playing you for a fool."

Caddaric barely heard Artair, he was too busy fighting off the treacherous softness that had crept into his heart since he had met Jilana. He had not cried since childhood, so certainly those were not tears stinging his eyes. He could not—would not!—cry over a woman, or the fact that his two oldest friends sympathized with her. Jilana was a woman, nothing more, in spite of the turmoil that had followed her into his life. So then why was the knowledge that she cared enough for Hadrian to risk her life, to steal for Hadrian when she refused to ask for so much as a blanket for herself, like a barbed spear in his heart? Deliberately, Caddaric rolled onto his side, away from Artair. Gods, what a mess his life was! All his careful plans of what would happen once he made Jilana his were destroyed—as tangible as the ashes in the bottom of Clywd's copper bowl. Why was nothing going as he had planned it would?

"Caddaric?" When there was no answer, Artair said softly, "Father and I did only what we thought best, for you and Jilana."

Caddaric remained silent. This night the world cracks apart for both of us. How prophetic those words, spoken to Jilana the night of the rebellion, had proved to be. He closed his eyes and waited for the dawn.