Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  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 r
efused. 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.”

  The blood drained from Jilana’s face. She had not thought beyond the treatment of the wounds. Such calculated cruelty as Lhwyd displayed was beyond her comprehension.

  “Let us see to them, Lhwyd.” Clywd’s gentle voice came from behind Jilana. A moment later he was at her side. “Twill do no harm.”

  “You too, old priest?” Lhwyd sneered. “You have grown soft over the years, forgotten the teachings of the old ones. Tend to the Iceni wounded and leave the Romans to me!”

  Clywd shook his head. “That I cannot do. A sacrifice to honor a god is acceptable, but you, Lhwyd, you enjoy the agony too much.” He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and grasped Jilana’s elbow. “We will see the Romans now.”

  “You will not,” Lhwyd shrieked. “They are mine!” He turned to the warriors. “Seize this old man and this slave and take them back to their camp.”

  Jilana the guards would have taken without a second thought, but Clywd was another matter. All knew of his power, and it was whispered that he could slay a man with his thoughts. To lay hands on this Druid was to gamble with one’s life. Of the two priests, it was less dangerous to offend Lhwyd, and accordingly the warriors backed away from Clywd and Jilana.

  “Cowards,” Lhwyd spat after the retreating guards. He looked back at Clywd and his eyes narrowed. “See to the Romans, then, but remember they are mine. As for you,” Lhwyd drew the back of his hand across Jilana’s cheek, “I promise that you will be mine one day as well.”

  Jilana’s heart thudded painfully when Lhwyd touched her, but she forced herself to remain still. Lhwyd turned and walked away and Jilana drew a ragged breath. “You did not have to take my part,” she told Clywd, “but I am thankful you did.”

  “Do not thank me. What Lhwyd said is true; we will heal these people only to have them die as sacrifices. I am not sure what we are about to do is right.” Clywd’s face was drawn as they started toward the prisoners.

  There were perhaps a hundred Romans, all of them bound in some manner so that they could not escape. Knowing that the Romans would refuse to allow Clywd to treat them, she accompanied the Druid so that she might reassure her countrymen that he meant them no harm. Few of the injuries were serious; Jilana learned that the rebels had shown no mercy for the severely injured—their lives had been taken with quick dispatch. Jilana was not sure the Iceni actions lacked mercy; at least the dead had died quickly. As they moved among the people, Jilana found it harder and harder to meet their eyes when they asked about their fate. That she and Clywd were binding their wounds gave them the false hope that they might live, a hope Jilana could not bring herself to kill. Most of the survivors were women; the few guards standing watch over the prisoners were men, and the women feared rape at their hands. After asking Clywd if the women did indeed need to fear their guards—out of consideration for the captives’ feelings, Clywd was using Jilana as an interpreter—Jilana assured them that they were in no danger. The women were relieved at the news, and Jilana bit back the rest of the explanation. The sacrifices must not be used in a sexual way or they would be unfit as presents to the goddess. Lhwyd had threatened to kill any warrior who took one of the Roman women.

  They worked steadily through the captives, and when the sun finally set they worked by the light of torches brought by the guards. Amazingly, when the Iceni saw Clywd working on the prisoners, they brought water, vinegar and cloth for bandages without being asked. Jilana was astounded by their aid and too grateful to question their motives. For the few seriously wounded prisoners, Clywd dipped into his precious reserve of opium, measuring out the dose and administering it himself; as they worked their way among the prisoners, the groans diminished one by one and Jilana hated herself for accusing Clywd of having left these people to suffer.

  The gratitude and renewed hope the Romans displayed made Jilana want to weep. Lhwyd might be cruel, but at least he had not lied to these people, which was what she, Jilana, was doing. Despising herself, Jilana at first did not hear her name called in a harsh rasping voice. Only when Clywd touched her sleeve and raised one finger in a gesture for silence did she leave her dark thoughts and listen. Her name came again and at Clywd’s nod she rose to her feet, torch in hand, and walked through the dozen or so prisoners they had not yet seen.

  “Jilana.” The raspy voice was weak, barely more than an exhalation of breath, but it was enough to raise the fine hair on the nape of her neck. Surely she was mistaken, Jilana told herself, but there was a flicker of hope in her heart that would not die.

  He was here, the last figure she bent over, his arms forced behind his back and bound around a tree. “Hadrian,” Jilana breathed and fell to her knees beside him. Even in the torchlight he was pale, and when she brushed a hand across his forehead it came away damp with sweat. “Oh, Hadrian, what have they done to you?”

  “Taken me prisoner,” Hadrian said in a voice so rich in self-disgust that Jilana gave a choked sob. He trembled as a chill took him, but his eyes never left her face. “You did not use the dagger. Oh, Jilana, I meant to keep you safe, to spare you this final indignity.”

  Jilana bent her head so that Hadrian would not see her tears. “Lie quietly Hadrian. I will bring someone to help you.” She stood and ran to fetch Clywd.

  The urgent, pleading note in her voice drew a sharp look from Clywd but Jilana did not notice. She dragged the strap of his case over her shoulder and led him back to Hadrian. Wedging their torches into the tree above the legionary, Jilana knelt beside Hadrian and opened the case. Hadrian’s armor had been removed, and in the light of the torches Clywd could see that the right side of his scarlet tunic was rent and stiff with dried blood.

  Jilana saw it, too. “We must cut him loose.” Before she had finished speaking, she was opening the case and lifting out the trays in search of the knives.

  “Jilana,” Clywd warned, reaching a hand across Hadrian to stay her movements, “we cannot.”

  Violet eyes held a wild gleam as Jilana looked at the Druid. “He is hurt, and we cannot help him—cannot stop the bleeding—with his arms bound behind him like this.” She found a knife, scrambled about on her knees and cut through the ropes holding Hadrian. A groan escaped Hadrian when his arms came free. Jilana tossed the knife aside and took his right hand in both of hers. “Hadrian, this is Clywd, a physician. He will help you.” While Clywd cut the tunic and examined Hadrian’s wound, Jilana clung to Hadrian’s hand with one hand and stroked his forehead with the other.

  “Tis bad,” Clywd announced at the end of his examination. He spoke in Iceni to Jilana. ‘The wound is infected and deep.”

  Jilana forced a reassuring smile for Hadrian, but there was nothing gentle in the eyes she turned to Clywd. “Then we will clean the wound, place a dressing in it that will draw out the infection, and bandage it. I will come back tomorrow and change the dressing myself.”

  Even though this legionary had given no indication that he spoke the Briton’s tongue, Clywd instinctively lowered his voice. “Jilana, he is in pain; already the f
ever has taken him. Let me give him the opium.”

  “Of course you should give him opium,” Jilana replied, not understanding Clywd’s intent. “Then we will care for his wound. The fever will pass.”

  “Not in the time he has left.”

  “If he were Iceni, or Trinovante you would help him,” Jilana accused wildly. This was Hadrian! Did Clywd not understand that she simply could not leave this man to die?

  “Not if his destiny lay in Lhwyd’s hands,” Clywd responded. “Jilana, you know what Lhwyd intends.” He glanced down at Hadrian and found the legionary’s gaze fixed unwaveringly upon him. For a long moment the two men stared at one another, exchanging some silent message that Jilana did not understand, and finally Hadrian nodded.

  “Let him give me the poppy juice, Jilana,” Hadrian said in a weak voice that was a travesty of his usual growl. “He is offering what help he can. ‘Twill be a kindness.”

  All the breath seemed to leave Jilana as she realized first, that Hadrian understood the Celtic language and second, what Clywd was suggesting. What Hadrian was agreeing to. She remembered the Druid measuring the opium for the badly wounded, how their moans had stopped shortly thereafter, and she held a hand to her mouth in order to hold back a cry of despair. No matter that she had been raised to believe that suicide was an honorable end, or that Clywd’s deed had been a blessing; these deaths were still a tragic waste.

  “Let me do it, then,” Jilana said at last. “Let me stay with him.”

  Silently, efficiently, Clywd measured out the medicine into a bowl of water and withdrew. When the Druid was out of sight, Jilana reached into the case he had left behind and began making a dressing for Hadrian’s wound. She did not spare the bowl of medicine so much as a glance. A woman brought Jilana a basin filled with water and vinegar and Jilana thanked her absently. Dipping a cloth into the basin, Jilana looked up and smiled at Hadrian.