Defy the Eagle (42 page)

****

Morning came, and with it ground fog that blanketed the base of the trees and the road in a gray shroud, an additional concealment for the Iceni force. The warriors moved silently into position and ate a light meal of dried meat and grain from their pouches. When they spoke, they did so in whispers which blended with the sighing of the wind through the tree tops. Cloaks had been tossed aside so that the bright colors would not betray their ambush, so that now, lying belly down in the underbrush and grass just behind the treeline, tunics and breeks were wet with dew.

The scouts returned with the news that the legion had broken camp and was on the move. The message was whispered up and down the lines and Caddaric felt his muscles tense. He forced himself to relax; battle demanded fluid, coordinated movement, how often had he drilled that fact into raw troops? The body must be alert but not tight, ready to respond to any threat perceived by the senses. You can see, hear and smell the enemy, he had lectured his recruits, but that is not enough; you must be able to feel their presence as well. It was an acquired skill which Caddaric had spent a lifetime perfecting. He eased the white-knuckled grip on his sword and concentrated on drawing deep, even breaths.

Beside Caddaric, Artair was all too aware of the pounding of his heart and the film of sweat on his sword hand. Nervously, he wiped his hand on the seat of his breeks, wet his lips and said a quick prayer to Andrasta, the goddess of victory. Caddaric had ignored him since they awoke and Artair wondered if things would ever be the same between them. Perhaps he had been wrong in telling Caddaric what he had, but it pained Artair to see the way his friend was treating Jilana. Artair sighed inwardly and took a firmer grip on his sword. When the battle was over, he would speak with Caddaric again and explain why Heall...

The tramp of booted feet, muffled in the dense morning air, and the vibration in the earth warned that the legionaries were drawing near. Artair leaned closer to Caddaric and murmured, "The gods be with you, my friend." Caddaric gave no indication that he had heard and then there was no more time.

The first legionaries rounded the bend in the road. They came at a quick march, five abreast. The Iceni waited until the first line was even with the last of the warriors and then gave the signal, one prolonged blast of the carnyx, to spring the ambush. Iceni war cries rent the air and before the soldiers had a chance to carry out the centurion's order to form up, the warriors were swarming over the unprotected lines.

It was a fierce, bloody battle in which the legionaries were doomed from the outset. Unable to close ranks and outnumbered, the Romans were forced into the individual battle at which the Iceni excelled. Caddaric was right; even with the odds against them, the Romans did not retreat. They stood their ground, conceding it only with their deaths.

Death there was, aplenty. The sight of it filled the eyes; its stench assailed the nostrils. Neither side asked for mercy and neither side granted such. The need to kill or be killed filled the senses, inuring those who lived to the grisly spectacle around them. There was only the combat, the whirring of sword and battle-axe through the air and the exultant, horrible fever of battle that sang in the blood.

The sun rose to burn away the fog and the men fought on, oblivious. Bodies fell; their blood soaked the greedy earth, and the living stepped over the dead, or straddled them, and continued the battle. Sweat assaulted eyes and dampened clothing. The universe narrowed to surviving the enemy's next thrust.

Caddaric's opponent fell beneath his blade and he pivoted, seeking the next adversary, and his eyes fell upon the aquila, the eagle of the legion. The gilded bronze eagle, its wings partially unfurled as if ready to strike, surmounted a tall pole; it was protected by a special guard and carried into battle by the aquilifer, a senior centurion. It was a source of Roman pride, as well as serving as a rallying point. To allow the aquila to fail to the enemy was unforgivable, and every legionary would willingly give his life to prevent such a shameful event.

Some of the remaining legionaries had fallen back to the aquila and, while Caddaric watched, the standard now moved toward the trees, secure within its guard. Caddaric blinked and looked at the sky. The sun was in its descent; they had been fighting for the better part of a day. Up and down the road, the Romans were retreating, scattering into the forest with the Iceni hot on their heels. Since the cavalry ala had not appeared, the warriors at the northern end of the line must have dispatched them. Caddaric hefted his sword and followed his countrymen into the trees to hunt down the survivors.

It was nearly dark when Caddaric paused again, surrendering to the needs of his overtaxed body. Ahead of him, deeper into the forest, came the occasional sound of battle and the scream of a dying man. He had long ago lost sight of the aquila. The battle was over, and the Iceni dared not pursue the Roman survivors any further. Boadicea needed their strength to the south. Turning, Caddaric began the long walk back to the road.

When he first became aware of the presence, Caddaric could not truly say. One moment he was trudging along, lost in his fatigue, and the next he was conscious of a presence off to his right. Thinking another Iceni was walking some distance away, concealed by the foliage, Caddaric called out and halted, waiting for a response. There was none, save the sound of his own breathing and the rustling of the leaves in the wind. Was it only his imagination?

Caddaric slid his sword from its scabbard and continued walking. The forest was devoid of life—the birds and animals had been driven away, along with the legion. There was movement on his right and Caddaric spun toward it, his sword raised. "Who is there?" His throat was dry, Caddaric discovered, and it hurt to speak. His voice was little more than a tortured whisper.

"Caddaric?" A voice as harsh as Caddaric's emerged from a large tree trunk.

Caddaric took a firmer grip on his sword. "Aye." A tall graceful figure appeared from behind the tree and one of the last rays of the sun struck the gold hair. "Artair!"

"Aye." His sword tipped to the ground and Artair leaned against the tree.

Relief trembled through Caddaric and he started toward his friend. "What are you about, Artair? Why did you not answer when I called out?" Gods, but Artair was a sight, Caddaric thought wearily. Blood and gore clung to his face, his clothing and his sword. But then, Caddaric reasoned, he probably looked no better.

"I did not hear you." Artair lifted his sword and slid it back in its scabbard with a tired sigh. "I swear, I have covered half the forest this day, and the thought of spending what is left of this day—"

Artair's voice stopped abruptly and he made a gasping sound. Caddaric laughed, in spite of his tiredness. "Ever the clown, Artair. Come along; I will help you back to the road." To Caddaric's everlasting horror, Artair groaned and sank to the ground. "Artair!"

Before Caddaric could reach his friend, another figure detached itself from the tree and stepped over the motionless body. The helmet of the legionary was unmistakable, as was the sword he held in one hand. The man was a centurion. "Come along, Briton; 'twill give me great pleasure to dispatch you as well before I die."

The centurion was gravely wounded, Caddaric could see that now as he drew near. And there was something else about this soldier, something... Then Caddaric knew. He had served with this man in Judea.

As the distance between them lessened, recognition came to the centurion as well. "'Tis you, Caddaric." He smiled, but the effort merely produced a grimace and he gestured to the forest. "'Tis a long way from Judea." He raised his sword. "Your old century is here; they transferred the entire cohort. Somehow fitting, is it not, for a deserter to die at the hands of his comrade-in-arms?"

In answer, Caddaric swung his blade. The sound of sword meeting sword echoed through the still forest, drawing others who were on their way back to the road. Caddaric was oblivious to the silent audience; he fought with deliberate cruelty, seeking to assuage his maddening loss by inflicting as much pain as possible upon the other man. The centurion was weak, no challenge "for the tall Iceni. Caddaric played with the Roman, inflicting painful, nuisance wounds that weakened the man further, until he was beyond pressing any attack and could only parry Caddaric's thrusts and calculated swings. The end, when it finally came, was a mercy for the centurion. He was bleeding from the myriad wounds Caddaric's blade had inflicted and so lost in the pain of those wounds that he barely felt the mortal blow.

The centurion toppled to the ground and a moment later Caddaric fell to his knees beside Artair. A dark froth foamed at Artair's lips; his eyes stared sightlessly skyward. In the center of his chest was the exit wound of the centurion's sword. Caddaric assimilated these facts even as he reached out to close Artair's eyes. A low sound rumbled in Caddaric's chest and found its way upward to his throat and mouth. His keening, feral cry split the eerie silence and the watching Iceni stepped back, alarmed. Caddaric gave vent to his rage and anguish until there was no more breath in his lungs and, exhausted, he slumped forward across Artair, heedless of the fresh blood that was added to his already stained tunic. A hand touched his shoulder and Caddaric violently shrugged it off.

"We must leave," a disembodied voice reminded him. "The hour grows late. We will carry him—"

"Do not touch him," Caddaric snarled. In an instant his sword was in his hand and brought to bear on the intruder. "He was my brother; I will care for him!"

The warrior backed away, his arms upraised in a placating gesture. One by one the others disappeared and when he was alone, Caddaric slowly sheathed his sword. Bending, he carefully lifted Artair in his arms, as a father might hold a child. Cradling his dead friend against his chest, Caddaric made the seemingly endless journey back to the road. He should have known it was not Artair he had heard, Caddaric berated himself. Like the other warriors, Artair had been trained to move silently—he should have known that only a Roman would move so carelessly through the forest. He should have warned Artair of the danger! Where had his much-vaunted training been when Artair's life hung in the balance? A cry rose in his throat but Caddaric refused to give voice to it again. What good

would it do to scream and rail against fate? Gods, all the screams in the world would not alleviate his guilt!

Clywd met Caddaric when he emerged from the trees. One look at his son's face told the Druid of the burden on the younger man's soul and Clywd longed to take Caddaric in his arms and offer some measure of comfort. Instead, Clywd tucked his hands into his sleeves and moved to Caddaric's side. "Pyres have been prepared. We will honor our dead before riding south."

Caddaric closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought of Artair's body consumed by flames. Artair should be standing at his side, a grin threatening to split his face, not lying in his arms, growing steadily colder. He should have told Artair that he forgave him his part in Jilana's treachery, that they were still friends.

"Caddaric," Clywd gently called, "I ache for your loss, but we have no time in which to mourn. We must bless our dead quickly and leave."

Gods! Why had he not told Artair he was not angry, that all was forgiven?

"Caddaric!"

The urgency in Clywd's voice penetrated Caddaric's despair and he nodded. Following his father to a clearing, Caddaric became aware that others had been lost. The pyres filled the clearing and a single fire burned brightly in their center. Caddaric lifted Artair to the bed of dried wood, folded his arms across his chest and took the sword from his scabbard. A warrior's sword accompanied him to Annwn, but Caddaric would bear Artair's weapon back to his father. Caddaric's heart wrenched; how was he to tell Heall of his son's death?

Clywd blessed the dead in clear, proud tones and called for*the family to come forth and receive the torch which would light the pyre. A few had some family member present, but most did not, so friends and acquaintances—and occasionally total strangers—took the responsibility of acting as family. Caddaric took his torch and paced stoically back to Artair's pyre. There had not even been time to prepare the body, Caddaric thought irrationally as the flame illuminated Artair's features. Behind him, Caddaric heard his father extolling the virtues of the dead to the appropriate gods. As if in a dream, Caddaric watched his hand reach out and touch the flame to the wood. The tinder caught and with a whoosh the pyre was engulfed in flames.

Caddaric took a step back, out of reach of the greedy fire. "Goodbye, my friend." He tossed the torch into the pyre and walked away without a backward glance, Artair's sword gripped in his left hand. He would not remember Artair as a monster of charred flesh and bone.

During the hard ride south Caddaric rode beside his father, not speaking, the reins of Artair's horse wrapped around his saddle horn.

****

For Jilana, the march took on all the aspects of torture. Despite her care of them, Jilana's feet were blistered and cut each day, and eventually they became infected. Where the manacles chafed, her flesh fared no better, and she was hard pressed to keep the sores from Heall. The rain had lasted four days before abating, and by then Jilana was wracked with fever. That she managed to stumble along behind the wagon without crying out her weakness to Heall was due to the streak of stubbornness that seemed to increase even as her physical strength diminished. Blessedly, Heall insisted upon preparing their evening meals, so Jilana had some time to herself to clean and bind her injuries and gather the strength to pick at her food. At night she would roll into her blanket and fall into unconsciousness.

When the sun finally emerged, Jilana was gripped by a feverish chill that the sun did nothing to abate. On the sixth day, Jilana woke to the discovery that her body Had one more act of treachery to play upon her. Walking some distance from the wagon, Jilana fought back tears while she tore what remained of her undertunic into several strips and tended to her body's needs. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she left Heall harnessing the horses and sought Ede. Ede was engaged in the same task as Heall and Jilana waited until she had the horses hitched to the wagon before she spoke.

"Ede, I need a word with you."

Ede whirled around. A biting retort rose to her lips, but the sight of Jilana stopped the words. The Roman looked terrible! Ede had seen neither Heall nor Jilana since the first day of the march, preferring Lhwyd's company to theirs. One of Lhwyd's guards—less conceited than the others—had taken an interest in her, and Ede had found herself, unwillingly at first, returning that interest. Now, she discovered, her jealousy of Caddaric's Roman mistress, which had once burned so hotly, had been all but extinguished. Ewan's attention was a balm to Ede's wounded pride. Ede's stare was so intense that Jilana had to force herself to speak again.

"Please, Ede; just a moment of your time."

Ede nodded and watched Jilana approach. Her first instinct was to tell the smaller woman to sit down, but Ede stopped herself. 'Twas none of her concern that Caddaric's slave looked to be on the brink of death. "What do you want?"

Jilana nervously wet her cracked lips. What she was about to ask was embarrassing, and before she could change her mind, Jilana blurted out the request. "I have need of rags or strips of cloth. Can you give me some?"

Ede frowned. "Why?"

A dull flush tinged Jilana's pale cheeks. "'Tis personal, Ede."

"Then ask Heall; he is your watchdog, not I."

"I cannot!" Jilana gasped. "I—the cloth—"She dropped her eyes to the ground. "'Tis my woman's time, Ede," she confided on a barely audible note, "and I have no provisions for..." Her voice trailed off in numbing embarrassment.

Ede found herself blushing as well, something she had not done since she first learned of the differences between men and women. "I understand; bide a moment." She went to the wagon and rifled through one of the kists until she found what Jilana needed. Jilana's heartfelt thanks when Ede handed her the cloths shamed Ede and she hesitantly offered the Roman a clean tunic.

"Oh, nay, I could not," Jilana answered, aware of the stains on her stola and its frayed hem. "But thank you."

Ede noted the overly bright eyes and the blanket Jilana clutched about her. Obviously Caddaric's Roman was ill. "I have a spare cloak," Ede said gently. "'Twill keep you warmer than that blanket."

Jilana shook her head. "Caddaric would not want you to interfere. Thank you again, Ede."

It was on the tip of Ede's tongue to say that Caddaric would not want her dead, either, but Jilana was already walking away. Shaking her head, Ede went back to the wagon. The Roman had courage, no doubt of that, but it was sorely misplaced. She should talk to Heall, tell him that Jilana was ill, but the column was starting to move. She would tell Heall tonight.

Heall was waiting when Jilana returned to their camp, and as unobtrusively as possible, she placed her bundle of cloth in the wagon. Heall, for all that he had never married, was no stranger to women and their needs. He understood what Jilana needed the cloth for and made no comment about it. Instead, he peered intently into her face.

"You do not look well."

Jilana forced a tiny smile. "Only a chill from the rain, Heall. May I keep the blanket today?"

"Of course." Heall placed the back of his hand against her forehead and frowned. "You have a fever."

"A small one." Jilana stepped away from Heall's touch and extended her arms. "We should leave."

"No chains," Heall decided in a voice that brooked no argument. "Not today. I think you should ride in the wagon."

"But Caddaric—"

"Caddaric be hanged," Heall swore. He had had enough of inflicting the punishment Caddaric had dictated. "You will ride with me."

Jilana was too weak to argue. When Heall picked her up in his arms and laid her on the grain sacks in the wagon she did nothing more than murmur her thanks.

"What is this?" Heall demanded.

Jilana opened her eyes and looked at Heall. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing her bandaged feet.

"Where are your shoes?"

Jilana sighed. "I threw them away after the first day; they were not made for walking. 'Twas easier to go barefoot."

"And these?" Heall touched one of the ankles she had managed to bandage.

"The manacles chafe my skin," Jilana explained wearily.

Heall gave an angry growl. "Why did you not tell me?" When Jilana merely shrugged, his eyes narrowed. "Do you think I would have made you walk had I known this?"

"Nay," Jilana whispered.

"Tonight when we make camp, we will see to these." Heall gestured to her feet. "From now on, you will ride." At Jilana's meek nod, he grunted in satisfaction, went to the front of the wagon and swung into the seat. "Go to sleep."

Jilana needed no further urging. She slept throughout the day, waking only when the column stopped for the night. When Heall had helped her down from the wagon, Jilana took two of the cloths from the bundle Ede had given her and looked uncertainly about.

"Come, there are some bushes a short distance from here." Heall took Jilana's arm and led her away from their campsite. She made no move to avail herself of the relative privacy and he understood her hesitation. "I will wait for you by the wagon. Call me when you are ready to return."

Heall was as good as his word. When Jilana was finished, she called out softly and he hurried back to her. Another time she might have found such doting behavior amusing in such a gruff man, but now she was grateful for his assistance. She felt weaker than ever, despite her day's rest, and when they reached the fire, she barely had the strength to stay on her feet. Heall settled her on a blanket on the ground, tugged a second blanket securely around her shoulders, and poured the water he had set to warming over the fire into a basin.

His gentleness was amazing, Jilana thought as Heall unwrapped her feet and ankles and washed them. Much like Caddaric... She drifted off during his ministrations and came to much later. She was still lying by the fire, but Ede and a man had joined Heall. Jilana tried to make her eyes focus properly, but the effort was too great. She gave up and closed her eyes again.

"Jilana, are you awake? Are you hungry?"

Jilana shook her head and instantly regretted the movement, for it increased her dizziness. Heall ignored her answer and ladled broth from the cooking pot into a small bowl. With Ede's assistance, he lifted Jilana so that her back was against his chest and brought the bowl to her lips. "Try to drink some of this."

With her eyes closed, allowing Heall to bear her weight, Jilana managed to swallow a bit of the broth he had prepared. When he brought the bowl to her mouth again, Jilana weakly shook her head. She heard him set the bowl aside and, with a small sigh, Jilana nestled her head in the hollow of Heall's shoulder. Sleep claimed her immediately.

Heall gazed at the figure in his arms and his beard twitched as he frowned slightly. Jilana appeared to have lost weight in the past week, but that was easily remedied. What was of greater concern was the infection in her injuries. Her feet were the worst. By all the gods, why had she not asked him for a pair of shoes? Even as he asked himself the question, Heall knew the answer: her stubborn pride would not allow it. Foolish child, he thought, shaking his head. And her ankles and wrists were more than chafed; the flesh was scraped raw and oozing. No doubt the infection was contributing to her fever. How he wished Clywd were here; the Druid would know how to

care for Jilana. Heall brushed the hair away from her face and studied her features. Such a pretty, delicate creature, he thought with a smile. Who would have thought... He looked up to find Ede regarding him curiously. Heall lowered Jilana back to the ground and covered her with the blanket.

"Will you ride with me tomorrow?" Heall asked Ede. "I need someone to watch over Jilana."

After a moment's hesitation, Ede consented. "Ewan will take my wagon, will you not?" she cajoled the warrior at her side. Ewan nodded and was rewarded with a lingering kiss. The two rose and, after bidding Heall good night, walked to their own camp.

Heall checked the fire and then rolled into a blanket near Jilana. Before falling asleep, the old warrior entertained himself with visions of the tongue lashing he would give Caddaric upon his return.