“Never,” Ede declared, her eyes glittering. “Every Roman I kill eases the indignities I suffered under Rome. Only when Albion is ours once again and every enemy slain will I be truly free.”
Jilana watched Ede leave and wondered how the other woman could be so hard. She turned back to the campsite and resumed the task of putting the plates away. Given Lhwyd’s accusation, Jilana was not surprised to find herself shaking so badly that she lacked the strength to lift the amphora of wine back into the wagon. The handles slipped from her hands, and the jar would have fallen had not a pair of strong hands miraculously appeared and curled around the narrow neck. She recognized the long, blunt fingers and the heavy bracelets which circled his wrists. Caddaric!
“Lhwyd will not bother you again.”
Jilana nodded, keeping her eyes on the amphora. What irony that Caddaric should choose to believe the only lie she had ever told him! And, Juno, if he ever discovered the truth— “The sacrifices will keep him busy,” Jilana said bitingly. Caddaric’s silence forced her to look at him, and the expression on his taut features told her the truth. “He is going to do it,” she breathed, horrified. Until this moment, she had not truly believed Lhwyd capable of such an act. “Lhwyd is going to murder those poor people.”
Caddaric nodded reluctantly. “Tonight, at moonrise.”
A sound between a laugh and a sob escaped Jilana and she turned away. Had she not aided Hadrian this morn…. She shook her head to remove the vision.
“We have to attend,” Caddaric continued. He knew what she was thinking, feeling, and he longed to gather her into his arms and hold the horror at bay. But she would reject his comfort, just as she rejected everything about this life he had forced upon her.
“Must I go with you?”
Her question was like a physical blow. Caddaric straightened slowly, aware only now that he had been bending toward her. “I never intended you to do so.” He pivoted and headed for the tent.
Jilana put the plates away and went back to the fire. As she gazed into the flames, Artair came to stand beside her.
“By tomorrow Lhwyd’s accusations will be forgotten,” Artair assured Jilana. “Do not dwell on it.”
Jilana nodded. “I want to thank you for what you have done,” she said tentatively. “I know the risk both you and your father are taking.”
“Do you?” Artair watched her with shadowed eyes. “We have betrayed our Queen and our friend.”
The cold words cut Jilana’s heart. “I did not ask you for your help—or Heall’s.”
“What should we have done?” Artair demanded hollowly. “Left you to Caddaric or Lhwyd?”
“You are not responsible for me!”
Artair stared at Jilana as if he had never seen her before. “So I keep telling myself.” He nudged a log deeper into the flames with the toe of his boot. “You can return the favor my father did for you today by remembering who and where you are. The next time you might not be so lucky.”
Tears stung Jilana’s eyes and she ran blindly for the safety of the tent. She knew as well as Artair that she had placed the three of them in terrible jeopardy and the knowledge was like a stone on her heart. She had had no right to involve Heall, and through Heall, Artair.
Jilana came to a halt just inside the flap. Clad only in his loincloth, Caddaric stood in the center of the tent, his gaze fixed on his kist. At her entrance, he looked up and when their eyes met Jilana knew that something was wrong. Thinking that he desired privacy, she groped behind her for the tent flap.
“Stay where you are.”
The command was issued in a deadly, controlled tone that turned Jilana to stone. The oil lamp flickered, casting ominous shadows across Caddaric’s face.
“Where were you today?”
“Here,” Jilana whispered, unable to force any volume into her voice.
“All day?”
Shakily, Jilana nodded. Caddaric simply stared at her. Jilana’s hands curled into fists and she swallowed to ease the lump in her throat. “You heard what I told Lhwyd.”
“Aye, I heard.” Caddaric settled his hands on his hips and regarded her coldly. “You never left the camp?”
“Nay.”
“Not once?”
Jilana’s nerves tightened. He was probing for something. But what? “Nay.” When anger darkened his eyes, she added, “I mean…1 did leave, but only for a moment.” If she had thought to placate him, she had been mistaken. If anything, his expression grew darker.
“Why?”
Jilana bit her lip. “To relieve myself.” She blushed, though whether from the lie or discussing such a private act she was not certain.
“We all have bodily functions,” Caddaric mocked at her blush. “Other than your, ah, natural needs, did you have cause to leave the camp?”
“Nay,” Jilana snapped, her nerve destroyed. “Why must I repeat to you what you heard me tell Lhwyd?”
In answer, Caddaric took the one step that was necessary in order to bring him within reach of his kist. He lifted an object from the shadow of the chest, closed the distance between them, and dropped the object at Jilana’s feet. Jilana tore her eyes from his face and looked down at the ground.
“Do you know what this is?” Caddaric’s voice fairly vibrated with suppressed emotion.
“Aye, ‘tis the box your father gave me.” Jilana stared at it, uncomprehending.
“How did it get inside the tent, Jilana?” Caddaric demanded in a tone like ice.
“You know the answer to that,” Jilana replied with a defiant lift of her chin. “Your father gave it to me.” Her voice trailed off as a horrible thought occurred to her.
“And you took it with you this morn,” Caddaric finished for her. “I know because I remember it lying on the ground when I found you with the primipilus.”
“Aye.” Jilana’s answer was little more than an expulsion of air.
“And you did not have it with you when we left the prisoners. I did not give you the chance to pick it up.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Jilana shook her head in reply. The beautifully carved box lay at her feet, an eloquent condemnation. Save for the frantic beating of her heart, she felt numb. Looking down, Jilana could see that her skirt was moving and she dimly realized the motion was caused by her shaking legs.
“You had no intention of obeying me, did you, Jilana?” Caddaric felt the rage swelling his chest and welcomed it. ‘Twas better than the pain of knowing she had lied to him.
“Nay.” Jilana had to force the word through frozen lips. “I had no choice, Caddaric—”
She never had the chance to finish her explanation. Caddaric’s palm caught her across the cheek, sent her reeling into the tent wall to land in a crumpled heap on the ground. Her cheek stung and she instinctively pressed icy fingertips against it, shocked at Caddaric’s violence. Tears swam into her eyes and she fought them back. Ridiculous though it was, Jilana’s one thought was not to cry in front of Caddaric. Slowly, she levered herself upright, afraid of triggering another explosion.
Caddaric, his massive chest heaving with the effort of keeping his temper under some scant control, towered over Jilana. “Where is he?”
“Gone.” Jilana’s jaw twinged when she spoke and her tongue explored the cut inside her cheek where flesh had met teeth.
“When?” Caddaric snarled the question. “How long did you wait before betraying me?”
“Just after noon.” Jilana drew a finger across the corner of her mouth and stared in surprise when it came away colored with blood. A sense of inevitability settled over her. “I took one of your tunics, a cloak.” She raised her eyes to his grim face. “And some food.”
“What else?”
Jilana shook her head. The truth about Heall and Artair would prove too costly for all three of the men. “And a belt,” she added. “I had forgotten.” Caddaric growled, deep in his throat, and reached for her. An instant later Jilana found herself suspended in mid-air, his hands wrapped aroun
d her upper arms.
“You should have gone with him,” Caddaric warned. He shook her with such menace that in spite of herself, Jilana cried out. “Why did you stay?”
Jilana gasped and tried to catch her breath. “Be-because I was afraid th-that you would follow us.”
Caddaric’s eyes blazed. The scar on his face turned white as he lowered her to the ground and then tunneled his fingers painfully through the tangled mass of her hair.
“Caddaric?”
Artair’s voice sounded from outside the tent flap and Caddaric’s face underwent a terrifying transformation. His every feature was stamped with barely controlled rage. “Get out,” he shouted. “All of you!”
“Cad—”
“Leave me!” Caddaric didn’t notice that Jilana cried out in pain when his fingers tightened. “Artair, I think of you as a brother, but I swear I will kill you if you say another word.”
There came the sound of retreating footsteps and Jilana offered a brief prayer of thanks. She wanted no one’s blood on her hands. Caddaric held her motionless, looking as if he could flay her alive. Gathering up the tatters of her courage, Jilana asked, “What are you going to do with me?”
Caddaric’s nostrils flared. “I should give you to Lhwyd.” Jilana’s heart stopped, resuming only when he said, “But I cannot. Damn you!” His mouth descended and possessed hers with the full force of every wild emotion ravaging his soul.
When he broke away, Jilana looked away from the sight of her blood staining his lips. “What will you do?” she repeated, as if nothing had happened.
Feeling a sticky wetness on his mouth, Caddaric dragged the back of his hand across his lips and was startled to see the crimson trail against his flesh. A fierce satisfaction burned in his blood. Good! The pain he had inflicted could not possibly match what he was experiencing. His mouth curled into a sardonic smile. He raised a hand and deliberately placed it over the swell of Jilana’s breast. “You can temper your punishment.”
His meaning was clear. Jilana caught her breath. If he took her now, in anger, the lingering memories of his first possession would be forever tainted. And perhaps that would be best; she would have no more illusions to carry in her overburdened memory. “Do as you wish. I cannot stop you.”
A muscle worked in Caddaric’s cheek and he jerked his hand away as if she burned him. “You beg me to save the primipilus and when I will not, you risk your life to free him. You steal from me—for him!” He grasped her shoulders and dug his fingers into the tender flesh until he saw the flash of pain in her eyes. “Why not do something that will ease your own lot?”
“Hadrian was helpless—”
“And you are not?” Caddaric laughed harshly. He turned and searched out a clean tunic and breeks. “Well, little witch, you will soon learn how helpless you truly are,” he warned as he dressed. “You will learn what happens to those who betray me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three days after Hadrian’s escape, Jilana watched Caddaric saddle his golden stallion. It was barely dawn and the air was chilly. A light fog blanketed the camp, isolating their site from the others. Jilana shivered and stretched out her hands to the fire. Caddaric wore a cloak and seemed immune to chill; she had no such luxury, nor would she ask for it. Conversation now was limited to Caddaric issuing orders and her ”Aye, lord.” Caddaric had not abused her further, not physically. In fact, aside from giving her orders, he ignored her. He no longer taught her to cook. That task was divided between himself, Artair and Heall, with the other two men teaching Jilana how to roast meat over the fire or make soup. As they explained what they were doing, Jilana would glance at Caddaric, hoping that her willingness to learn would lessen the tension spun between them. He ignored her overtures with the same supreme ease with which he ignored her presence in his bed.
The one question she had dared had been in regard to their sleeping arrangements. Jilana had asked if she should make up a different pallet for herself. Caddaric’s answer was typical. His eyes had traveled slowly over her and in a voice rich with scorn he had asked, “Why?” She had not raised the subject again.
Now he was leaving. At the end of the wagon lay the saddlebag Jilana had packed, as Caddaric ordered, with dried meat, oat cakes and grain. Caddaric, along with two thousand other warriors, was leaving the war band to turn north to meet elements of the Ninth Hispana Legion under the command of Petilius Cerealis, the legate. The action had been decided yesterday, when allies from the north had brought the news to Queen Boadicea that elements of the Ninth Legion had left their fort and were on the march. The war council had decided to split their forces. Caddaric’s force would veer north while the remainder of the war band continued south toward Londinium. Caddaric had been one of the first to volunteer, despite the greater danger, and Artair had volunteered as well. Clywd was going also; as a physician his abilities would be needed at the battle site. The southbound contingent did not expect to encounter any resistance. The news the forward scouts brought back to camp was that the Romans were deserting their coloniae—the settlements for veterans—and their rural villae rather than face the Iceni. No battles were expected until Londinium.
Around Jilana the camp had come to life. She could hear the usual morning stirrings even though the inhabitants and their actions were concealed by the fog. She added another piece of wood to the fire and bent to stir the oatmeal porridge. Only yesterday Caddaric had ordered her to ration their supplies more carefully, but she could not send him—or the others—on their way without a decent meal. Jilana knew they would ride hard, eating in the saddle and stopping only when the horses required a rest. This might be their last warm meal for days.
One by one the others materialized out of the fog. Jilana welcomed all of them, save Ede, with a fleeting smile. Artair and Clywd tied their horses by Caddaric’s and then came back to the fire for their bowl and the warm, spiced wine Jilana had prepared. Heall and Ede would remain with the main force, and while Heall seemed not to mind, Ede was clearly annoyed.
“Why must I remain behind?” Ede demanded of Caddaric when he came to sit before the fire. “I ride nearly as well as you—and certainly as well as Artair!”
“‘Twas our chieftain’s decision,” Caddaric replied. He took the bowl Jilana brought to him without so much as looking at her. Irrationally, for Jilana had expected nothing else, his dismissal hurt more this morning than it had the past two days. She turned quickly away and concentrated on her own meal. “You are needed here, Ede,” Caddaric added when the woman continued grumbling.
“To do what, drive a wagon?” Ede sneered.
Caddaric nodded. “Between us we now have two wagons. Heall will drive one and you will take the other. Food is as important as fighting.”
“Mayhap,” Ede conceded. Her eyes fell upon Jilana. “But do not expect me to care for your pet Roman, Caddaric.”
“You will not be bothered,” Heall growled before Caddaric could answer. “Perhaps you should take your meals with your brother if the sight of Jilana bothers you. I will care for Jilana.”
The grateful look Jilana bestowed upon Heall faded with Caddaric’s next words.
“That is something we must discuss,” Caddaric said in a cold voice.
“You need not worry.” Heall, misunderstanding, hastened to reassure the younger man. “I will care for her as if she were my own.”
“I do not doubt that,” Caddaric replied steadily, “but while I am gone I do not want you treating her as anything but a slave.” He set his empty bowl on the ground and gave Heall a hard stare. “In my absence you need not put up the tent.”
“But—” Heall tried to protest.
“She can sleep under the wagon or next to the fire, but she does not need the tent.” Caddaric’s words trampled Heall’s. “And I do not want her riding in the wagon.”
“Caddaric, you cannot—”
“She is to be treated as befits a slave, Heall,” Caddaric warned, “not a princess. She has chosen her path.” As
soon as the words were out, he wished them back. He had shared with no one Jilana’s betrayal and a statement like the one he had just made was sure to stir up suspicion.
When Heall would have argued, Jilana broke in softly, “Let it be, Heall, please.”
Heall closed his mouth with an audible snap and studied the depths of his bowl. Instinct told him that Caddaric had learned of Jilana’s part in Hadrian’s escape and it would take some time before his anger was appeased.
Caddaric’s temper soared at Jilana’s interference. How it rankled that Heall would accept her word on this matter and not his own! “And you will chain her to the wagon during the march. I will not have her attempting to escape again.” The momentary satisfaction Caddaric derived from his pronouncement was overpowered by the taste of ashes when he saw the look on Jilana’s pale face. Damn her! he thought savagely. How dare she look so wounded when she had deliberately betrayed him? He had the right to treat her as he chose—as she deserved. Was he not entitled to humiliate Jilana as she had humiliated him?
Clywd rose and swept his gaze across the others. “‘Tis time.” He went to Jilana and pulled her to her feet. “You are a foolish, foolish child,” he told her in a hushed voice.
“I could do nothing else,” Jilana replied, but her thoughts were on the chains.
A troubled frown drew Clywd’s brows together. “I know.” One hand reached inside his black robe and withdrew a sprig of mistletoe, which he brushed across Jilana’s brow in blessing. “Heall will watch over you while we are gone. Be careful, my daughter.” His lips whispered across her forehead and then Clywd was walking to the horses.
“Take care,” Jilana murmured to his back and then she forced a smile for Artair. “And you also, Artair.”
Artair grinned jauntily and paused beside Jilana. “I look forward to meeting the legion.” The grin faded at the look in her eyes. “You cannot mean that you are worried about me?”
Jilana shrugged. In truth, she had grown accustomed to Caddaric’s father and friends. Watching them leave now was akin to losing her family a second time. “I will miss your stories—filled with bragging though they are.”
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