Defy the Eagle (48 page)

"Heall!" Jilana broke away from Caddaric and hurried to her friend. Without a moment's hesitation, she threw her arms around the older man's neck in a joyful embrace. "Welcome back."

"Thank you, child." Heall held her with one arm and extended the other to Caddaric.

Caddaric grasped Heall's forearm. "'Tis good to see you once more, old friend."

"And you." Heall pulled Jilana's arms from his neck so that he could peer down into her face. "And you, little one. Are you well?"

"Aye." Jilana studied Heall's face just as intently, her hands framing his jaw through the graying beard, and wanted to weep at the sorrow reflected in his eyes. "You will stay with us?"

"I will make my camp with Clywd," Heall replied, "but this night I would welcome your company—and a piece of that venison I smell cooking."

"In a moment," Caddaric broke in. "First we have one last ritual to attend to." Handing the torch to Jilana, he knelt and laid fresh wood and kindling. Hesitantly, Caddaric spoke the words he had heard his father say in private for so many years. "The blessing of Beltane enter our home. May Be'al find favor with us and see us safely through the coming year." He looked at Jilana. "Put the torch into the wood."

Heall had to bite back the cry of surprise that sprang to his lips at Caddaric's order. Tradition held that the man of the house laid the fire but his mate, if he had one, placed the Beltane fire upon the hearth. It was an honor not lightly taken, but Jilana was obviously ignorant of that fact. While she appeared pleased to have been included in the ritual, she placed no special significance upon the act.

Jilana thrust the torch into the pyramid Caddaric had created out of wood and smiled as first the kindling and then the logs caught fire. Being included in the festival of Beltane had brought a rare peace to her heart. And, from the laughter and singing that issued from the surrounding camps, it seemed to Jilana that the peace extended to everyone. There was a gay air to the Iceni host tonight that had not-been present after Lhwyd's ceremonies. Humming softly, Jilana went to the wagon and laid out the wine, honeyed mead, wheat cakes and preserves which would be served along with the venison to their guests.

No sooner had Jilana completed this task—and Caddaric declared the venison roasted to perfection—than the night's revels began. People stopped by the campsite and, after the exchange of greetings and blessings of Be'al, helped themselves to the food and drink. They had brought their own drinking cups and cut the venison with their own daggers and when Jilana made to serve them she was gently, but firmly, refused. Confused, she went to Caddaric and, after timidly pulling him away from a conversation, asked what she should do.

"There is nothing for you to do, save to converse with the guests," Caddaric explained. "In time we will leave and visit other camps; there we will be expected to wait upon ourselves, even as they do here."

Jilana started to protest that such behavior was improper for a slave, but Caddaric had already rejoined his friends. Shrugging, she wandered around and greeted the strangers who made themselves at home in the camp. Soon she was caught up in the celebration and forgot her status, as did those around her. High spirits and laughter reigned; wine and the fermented mead flowed freely and the bards told stories of great battles and sang of the glory of Albion and her people.

Jilana poured wine for herself, sipped it, and then cut the wine with water until it was the proper consistency. She saw Heall standing apart from the rest and went to him. "This must be difficult for you, Heall. I am sorry."

Heall shook his shaggy head. "The sadness I feel is only because Artair did not live to see the old ways publicly celebrated, but I do not mourn him any longer. Annwn, so the priests tell us, is a happy place. If I close my eyes, I can hear his laughter.''

Jilana smiled and squeezed his arm. "You have Clywd and Caddaric."

"Aye." Heall nodded. "Neither is of my blood, but they are still my family." He draped an arm around Jilana's shoulders. "And there is you, my little friend. You help the heartache."

Jilana dropped a kiss upon his bearded cheek. "Come, Heall, you must be thirsty," she teased affectionately. "Let us get you a cup of mead."

Shortly thereafter, Caddaric came to claim Jilana and, together with Heall, they took their turn at going from camp to camp. Wherever they went, Jilana was warmly greeted, although some admonishing looks were directed at Caddaric. They ate, drank and talked until Jilana's head was fairly spinning. Even Caddaric unbent far enough to join in the dancing at one of the camps and Jilana stood back to watch Caddaric and Heall complete the dance. For such large men, they were incredibly graceful, Jilana thought as she sipped at her wine. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Caddaric stumbled and only the firm grip Heall had on his belt kept him from sprawling full-length upon the ground.

Jilana giggled, swung around to refill her cup, and found Lhwyd standing not two feet behind her. Her automatic reaction was fear, but Caddaric's words of earlier this evening—and perhaps the wine that was working its way through her system—calmed her.

Nodding, Jilana greeted the Druid politely. "The blessings of Beltane upon you, Lhwyd."

Lhwyd's mouth curled into a smirk. "And to you, slave."

Jilana paled at the verbal slap, but she was determined not to ruin the peace of this celebration. She would have walked away, but Lhwyd was suddenly right in front of her, blocking her escape.

"Make no mistake,, slave, I will have you. Caddaric cannot protect you forever and I am a patient man." Lhwyd would have said more, but a glance over Jilana's head stopped him. "Another time, slave, when your guard dog has no further use for you."

Caddaric did not need to ask what had transpired between the two. When he had seen Lhwyd talking to Jilana, he knew the Druid was baiting her. He was not quick enough to catch the Druid, but that was just as well. In his present mood, Caddaric was tempted to do Lhwyd bodily harm.

"Caddaric, nay," Jilana implored when she turned and saw the violence on his face. "'Tis Beltane."

The fingers of his right hand flexed, as if curling around the hilt of his sword, but Caddaric finally nodded in agreement. He took Jilana's arm and they continued their rounds, but their manner was much subdued.

The celebration wore on and, amidst the high spirits of the others, Jilana was able to push all thoughts of Lhwyd away. Caddaric's attitude toward her helped. He was attentive, if not talkative, spending most of his time at her side. Acquaintances from his village were introduced to Jilana and she found herself firmly drawn into the Iceni community. It was impossible not to laugh at the jokes and broadly exaggerated stories of courage, and the smallest smile was encouragement enough to set off another round of tales or another song from the bards. The songs were beautiful, sometimes eerie things which ran the gamut from the love between a man and woman to the feats of the mystical heroes of Albion. The words swept Jilana into a world long past where she witnessed the glory of the tribes of Albion. When the songs ended and she returned to the present, she sadly acknowledged the injustice that Rome had committed against the Celts. And she—and other civilians—were no less guilty than the legions, for they had continued the work of the soldiers in a far more subtle manner.

By the time the three made their way back to their own camp, Jilana was pleasantly exhausted. A few revelers still remained, grouped about the campfire, and Heall went to them, but Caddaric drew Jilana toward the wagon.

"You are weary, I know, but there is one last task I would do before you retire."

Jilana blinked away her drowsiness and looked at Caddaric. "Aye, lord."

Caddaric took a hammer and iron chisel from the wagon and turned to Jilana. "Tis my Beltane gift to you. Lift the hem of your gown." When she hesitantly did as he asked, Caddaric went down on one knee and placed the chisel against the lock of her leg iron. One blow of the hammer shattered the lock. Caddaric repeated the process on the other ankle, then spread the manacles and took them from Jilana's ankles.

Jilana stared at him in disbelief. "Am I free then?"

"Nay." Caddaric shook his head as he put the manacles and tools back into the wagon. "Only the Queen can grant you freedom."

"Then, why?" When he did not answer, Jilana took hold of his sleeve and tugged gently to gain his attention. "Why, lord?"

Caddaric faced Jilana, but could not meet her gaze. "Because I wish it," he replied gruffly.

His answer was puzzling, but Jilana did not press further. Whatever his reasons, she was grateful for the small freedom. She smiled and touched his hand. "Thank you, Caddaric."

"This changes nothing," Caddaric felt compelled to remind her. "You are still mine."

More so than you can know, Jilana thought, but she merely nodded. "That does not alter my thanks, Caddaric. You cannot know how wonderful it feels to be free of those chains."

With that she turned and made her way to the tent, her step light. Caddaric watched her go, torn between happiness and despair.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Boadicea turned her army to the southwest, toward Londinium. Most of the countryside was deserted, its loyal inhabitants having fled either to the safety of Roman fortified cities or legion outposts. Those who remained added their number to Boadicea's war band. As Caddaric had predicted, the farms—and in some cases, entire villages—were put to the torch. If the missing owners were known to be sympathetic to Rome, the Celtic force burned the buildings by way of a lesson in loyalty. In some cases, the farms had already been razed and the animals slaughtered by those loyal to the Empire, in order to deny Boadicea's army supplies. Few crops had been planted, and those that had showed signs of abandonment as weeds overran the soil. Jilana saw the way Caddaric's face hardened at the sight of such destruction, and later she heard him tell Clywd and Heall that the coming winter would be a lean one with so little grain available. The next day, Caddaric began a strict rationing of their grain.

The war band moved slowly, covering a scant ten miles a day. The vanguard usually stopped to make camp at mid-afternoon, but the rear of the column did not arrive until nightfall. When the entire force was camped, it blanketed an area of two square miles. Progress was made at a snail's pace. It soon became obvious, even to Jilana, that the column was unwieldy and far too slow, but the Celts refused to abandon their wagons piled high with household goods. Neither would they agree to send the women back home with the wagons and children. So they plodded on, inching their way across Albion.

Meanwhile, Suetonius Paulinus, encamped on Mona, received word of the uprising. Leaving part of his forces to complete the Romanization of Mona—when the legion left the island, no evidence would be left to suggest it had once been a Druid stronghold—Paulinus took the cavalry alae of the Fourteenth Gemina and Twentieth Valeria legions and turned them toward Londinium. The Twentieth's marching camp at Deva was sixty miles from Mona. Paulinus and his alae covered the distance in two days, and attached five infantry cohorts, of one thousand each. Deva was left with only a token force for defense, and the governor-general prayed to his gods that the detachment on Mona would return before the rebellious western tribes could take advantage of the fact. To Paulinus, it was a calculated gamble: Boadicea and her allies posed a greater threat than the unorganized western tribes. Paulinus swung his legion southeast and sent an order to Poenius Postumus, camp-prefect of the Second Augusta's Fortress at Glevum, to strip the fortress down to a skeleton force and march. They would meet at Verulamium, one hundred and sixty miles southeast of Deva. Paulinus drove his men mercilessly; those who could not keep pace were left where they had fallen and their horses, if they were cavalry and their mounts were still useful, confiscated. With luck, they would make it back to Deva before the bands of rebels scattered through the western mountains found them.

Once out of the mountains, Paulinus set a killing pace. Men and horses alike dropped from exhaustion, but the governor-general was a man possessed. He had stripped the east of its defenses for his expedition and thus it was easy prey for Boadicea. If Britannia fell, Caesar would have Paulinus' head on a platter.

The reported size of Boadicea's army worried Paulinus briefly, until he decided the numbers had been vastly exaggerated by terrified civilians. He sent scouts ahead and comforted himself with the thought that the Second Legion would bolster his own number by nearly six thousand. More than enough to defeat a rag-tag band of rebels. Thus, the reply from Glevum sent Paulinus into a rage. Poenius Postumus had received word of the uprising and decided that his superior's daring plan was also quite mad. His legion would be best utilized in keeping the west secure in order to serve as a base for the counter-offensive which would be launched when Paulinus failed. It took three men to restrain the fifty-year-old general when he read the mutinous reply. Postumus would, Paulinus vowed in his rage, be executed for his seditious act. In fact, Paulinus would see him crucified in the same manner in which Pilate had dealt with that Jewish upstart sixty years earlier. Paulinus contented himself with visions of the slow, torturous death in store for the camp-prefect and plans for the dissolution of the Augusta. No legion that had mutinied was allowed to remain together. Elements of it would be transferred to other legions in exchange for fresh troops, the officers either transferred away from their command—if they were found innocent of culpability in the crime—or executed—if their guilt was evident. If the mutiny had extended into the enlisted ranks, examples would be made of a decade—a unit of ten men—from randomly chosen centuriae.

Paulinus pushed his men to the brink of exhaustion and beyond but when one hundred miles had been covered, he was forced to slow his pace. His command had covered the distance in four days; only sixty miles remained between them and Londinium, but the forced march had taken its toll. Men and animals could no longer sustain the grueling pace. Paulinus ordered a half day of rest and for the first time since leaving Mona, campfires were lit and the men erected their leather tents for a full night's sleep. Londinium was another three days' march away.