Disconcertingly, his mind kept turning to Jilana. His anger over her words had long since burned itself out until now he felt only the pain.-He had to force himself to concentrate on fighting, and when he turned away from the sight of yet another enemy falling beneath an Iceni battle-axe, Caddaric knew he could not continue. There were warriors enough to deal with the city’s population. Some of the other warriors had dropped back in order to begin looting and he decided to do the same. They needed supplies, and if he waited until the enemy was totally annihilated he would not find them.
Bodies lay everywhere, both in the streets and sprawled across the thresholds of the houses. Caddaric turned a blind eye to them, knowing that he would find more when he entered the Roman homes. Survival was what mattered now, and none of them, Jilana included, would survive if he did not find provisions. Keeping his sword in his hand, Caddaric retraced his steps and began a methodical search of the houses in his path. From one he took a large square of material; in the next he found several clay pots of preserves and freshly baked wheat cakes. These he wrapped in a small piece of linen torn from the material he had found, placed them in the center of the square and knotted the ends together to form a handle. In another home he discovered several casks of wine. He tucked one cask under either arm and walked back to the street.
Caddaric turned onto one of the broader streets, knowing that it would eventually lead to the temples. After crossing several intersecting streets, he found what he sought. The temple was large, the columns ornately detailed. Above the doors was carved the name of the god— or goddess—to whom the temple was dedicated, but Caddaric could not read. In any case, he was less interested in the god’s name than in finding the temple’s storerooms and granary. Caddaric found the double doors barred from the inside so he followed the colonnade around the building until he came to the temple garden. A stone path led through the garden to a low door, which stood ajar. Stooping, Caddaric entered the temple.
The only light was from the open door. Caddaric set his burdens on the floor and edged around the perimeter of the room until his hand encountered a wall bracket and a torch. He lit the torch with his flint and advanced farther into the room. A small silver statue winked in the flickering light, and further on the torch revealed a jeweled cup lying on the floor. The room was apparently one of those used for storing the temple treasures, and the two Caddaric had seen had either been overlooked or dropped in the haste to flee the city. He did not bother to pick up either one; jewels and silver would not feed a hungry stomach. Opening the door in the far wall, Caddaric found that it opened onto the cella. Caddaric entered, the torch held high in front of him. The flickering light cast eerie shadows throughout the deserted room, as did the hole in the ceiling that allowed the smoke from the sacrifices to escape, and, in spite of himself, Caddaric felt his skin crawl. The Roman god would not be pleased with his intrusion. He slowly paced the width of the cella, past the empty altar, his footsteps echoing hollowly, until he came to a second door.
He pushed the door open, allowing it to swing all the way against the wall, and drew his sword. He entered cautiously, braced for an attack. This room, too, was deserted but a triumphant light came into his eyes when he saw that he had found the storeroom. Sacks of milled grain lined one wall; along the far wall were barrels of what Caddaric assumed were wine. To his right stood tall amphorae, and above them were shelves holding clay jars of various shapes and sizes. Other shelves held bolts of material and spindles of thread and in one corner were stacked coils of rope. Caddaric put the torch into the wall bracket, sheathed his sword, and investigated the sacks of grain. All the sacks he opened contained wheat and Caddaric grinned. Using his knife, he cut a dozen lengths of rope from one of the coils and tied each end to one of the grain bags. When all twenty-four bags were secured, he turned his attention to the jars and amphorae. The amphorae contained olive oil, but the jars yielded dried figs, dates, honey and preserves. Caddaric grinned again, thinking of Jilana’s pleasure when he returned with such delicacies. Leaving the torch in the wall, he went back to the entrance to retrieve the goods he had left there, and then returned to the storeroom.
‘Twas his good fortune to have found these stores intact, ahead of someone else, Caddaric thought as he filled his bundle. Tomorrow, he and Heall would hunt rather than stay with the column, and if their luck held there would be meat enough to dry and cure. Still smiling, he draped the ropes containing the wheat around his neck and stood. The grain was heavy but he could manage easily enough. However, with the additional weight of the wheat and other supplies, he could not carry both casks of wine. Regretfully, Caddaric tucked one of the casks under his left arm and lifted the bundle with his right hand. He left the torch where it was. He would return later, for one of the bolts of material had been of a color that would match Jilana’s eyes.
A movement close by the altar caught his eye and Caddaric stopped. “Who is there?” he asked, his eyes narrowed against the gloom. Only later would he realize that he had spoken in Iceni. There was no answer but he took a step closer to the altar.
“Come no closer!” A frightened, feminine voice ordered him from the shadows. When he ignored the challenge, the voice came again. “Stay away. I have a weapon.”
“I will not harm you. Come out where I can see you.” A slender shadow detached itself from the altar and moved just far enough for Caddaric to see that he was facing a young woman about Jilana’s age but without her beauty. “Are you alone?” The poor thing was terrified; he could see the sword she held tremble in her hands, and Caddaric knew that he could not kill this girl even though the hatred she held for him was plain on her face. He would take her back to Jilana, Caddaric decided suddenly. Meaning to reassure the girl as to his intentions, he turned his back on her. “Come with me—”
Caddaric felt a crushing pressure begin in his back and continue through to his chest, accompanied by a grating sound. Then came the searing pain. The wine cask and bundle dropped to the floor and Caddaric stared down stupidly at the sword point protruding just below his right collarbone. She had stabbed him. This poor, frightened child had stabbed him! While he watched, the sword point disappeared and he felt the blade grate against his ribs as it was withdrawn. Blood coursed down the front of his tunic, soaking the material, and he instinctively pressed his fingers over the wound as he pivoted to face his assailant. His head grew light and the girl seemed to dance from one place to the other.
“I would not have hurt…” Caddaric’s eyes rolled up into his*head and he crashed to the tiled floor.
“Stupid barbarian!”
The epithet rang in his ears just as he was kicked in the side, and then he heard her retreating footsteps. Little fool, he thought distantly, she was running straight to her death. A welcoming void loomed in front of him and Caddaric floated into it.
How long he was unconscious, Caddaric could not say. When he woke, the torch still burned and light still came through the smoke hole in the ceiling. His wound burned like Hades and he felt weak, but Caddaric forced himself to his feet. The wheat hung like millstones around his neck and when he tried to lift his bundle of provisions with his right hand, white-hot pain seared through his chest. Stubbornly, he shifted the load to his left hand and lurched toward the barred double doors at the front of the cella. He had to set the bundle down in order to lift the bar, and when he did, he nearly fainted from the pain the action caused. He leaned his weight against the doors and it was enough to swing them open. Sunlight poured over his. face, blinding him, and Caddaric staggered backward, nearly falling over his provisions. Grabbing the bundle, he reeled through the doors and stumbled down the first flight of steps leading from the temple. Poised on the edge of the landing between the two tiers of steps, Caddaric dimly heard someone call his name. Turning, he tried to find who had called to him, but black spots leaped in front of his eyes and the ground beneath his feet tilted precariously. He felt himself falling, felt his shoulder strike the edge of the step and t
hen he was tumbling downward.
On the street below, Heall watched in horror as Caddaric rolled down the middle flight of steps leading from the temple. With an agility that belied his age, Heall raced up the bottom tiers of stairs and reached Caddaric just as the younger man hit the second landing.
“Gods, Caddaric,” Heall cried when he saw the blood soaking his tunic.
Caddaric’s eyes forced themselves open. “I found… the.. .grain.”
Tears brightened Heall’s eyes. “Damn the grain! We have to get you to Clywd.” He tried to lift the grain from Caddaric’s neck, but Caddaric curled a hand around his wrist and groaned loudly in protest. Heall left the sacks where they were. Taking Caddaric’s good arm, he lifted the younger man to his feet and draped his arm around his neck.
“The bundle,” Caddaric gasped, fighting the weakness in his legs.
“I will come back for it,” Heall said grimly.
“N-nay. I found… dates and… figs. For Jilana.” Caddaric’s head lolled forward and when next he opened his eyes, Heall was half carrying, half dragging him along the street. “The bundle.”
“I have it,” Heall snapped. “I only wish I could find a cart as well.”
Caddaric laughed shortly and knew the taste of blood in his mouth. “No-no use. The Romans took their carts… with them.”
“Save your strength,” Heall ordered curtly. “I do not intend to carry you all the way to camp.”
But, in the end, that was exactly what Heall did.
****
The wounded had started returning to the Iceni camp shortly after midday, and after much arguing, Jilana had persuaded Clywd to tend to the wounded while she remained in camp. In the end, he had agreed only because so many were asking for him and Jilana swore that she would not leave their camp. Before he left, however, Clywd gave Jilana a dagger for protection and she had kept it at her side throughout the afternoon. Jilana was adding wood to the fire and wondering whether or not to prepare oat cakes for the evening meal when she saw Heall and Caddaric.
A scream caught in her throat and she raced toward them. When she was close enough to see the blood covering Caddaric’s right side, her face paled in horror. “What happened?” she gasped as she reached them.
“Can you not see he has been stabbed,” Heall snapped at the girl, But Jilana was too shaken to be offended. He shoved the bundle at her. “Take this while I get him into the tent.”
Jilana ran back to camp, threw the bundle into the wagon, and followed Heall into the tent. Together they took the grain from around Caddaric’s neck and then Heall cut his bloodied tunic up the middle while Jilana took the weapons from his belt and removed it.
“Juno,” Jilana whispered once the tunic had been stripped away. When Heall rolled Caddaric to his side in order to expose both wounds, she covered her mouth with her hand in order to stop the cry which sprang to her lips.
Heall glared at her. “Can you help him or should I find Clywd?”
A strange calm seemed to come over her and Jilana forced herself to examine the wounds. Blood bubbled from his mouth, a bad sign, and the wounds themselves showed no sign of clotting. “Stay with him,” Jilana ordered in a soft voice and left the tent to get her medicine box. She returned with her case, a bowl, a jar of vinegar, and set about cleaning the wounds.
Since the injury went through from front to back, Jilana could neither sew it closed nor sear it. Instead, she made a thick pad out of one of the cloths to place over the wound, and, with Heall’s help, bound it tightly in place with a long strip of linen. Caddaric remained blessedly unconscious throughout the entire ordeal. When Jilana left the tent to wash, Heall followed her.
“Will he live?” Heall demanded as Jilana poured water into a basin and washed her hands.
“I have done all that I can,” Jilana answered, trying to still the quaver in her voice. “The blood in his mouth means the lung has been punctured, but I do not know how badly. The wound itself is clean, but there is always the danger of infection.”
Heall watched Jilana for a long time, wanting to offer her comfort but uncertain how to go about it or how such an offer would be received. If Jilana and Caddaric were each other’s destiny, the gods were certainly taking a perverse delight in keeping them apart, Heall thought. Feeling helpless, he at last busied himself with carrying the sacks of wheat from the tent to the wagon.
Jilana stared at the red-tinted water and forced back a scream. This was her fault, she knew. The gods were punishing her for the way she had treated Caddaric this morning. See what your pride has wrought, she bitterly chastised herself. Once his anger over Hadrian had passed, Caddaric had taken such care with her, shown her many small kindnesses which, as a slave, she had no right to expect. She had worked, to be sure, but so did every other woman in camp. And when her fears regarding Lhwyd had been realized, Caddaric had retaliated in the only way he knew how; as if, as he had often said, she was truly his woman, deserving of his protection. A foolish act, one that jeopardized the life she held more dearly than her own, but in Caddaric’s eyes, he had had no choice.
Jilana emptied the basin, filled it with clean water and carried it into the tent. Caddaric lay on his left side, unconscious. Carefully, Jilana bathed the dirt from his face and body and covered him with a blanket. She laid a fresh fire inside the tent to ward off any evening chill and then sat quietly beside him, watching, occasionally touching his cheek and wiping away the blood that gathered in the corner of his mouth.
That was the scene that greeted Clywd when he hurried into his son’s tent late in the afternoon. For a moment, Clywd felt his heart stop, and when it started again its rhythm was painfully erratic.
“The bandage needs changing,” Jilana said when Clywd knelt beside her, “but I was afraid to move him.”
Clywd nodded and examined his son. Together, they removed the soiled dressing and replaced it with another. Clywd fashioned a pillow from blankets and pelts and, with Jilana’s help, placed it on the pallet and moved Caddaric so that he lay on his back upon it. “‘Twill help him breathe,” Clywd explained when she directed a questioning look at him. From his medicine case he took a small vial oC opium and handed it to Jilana. “He will need it when he wakes.”
Trembling, Jilana took the vial, placed it in her own case and asked the question she was terrified to ask. “Will he live?”
“His lung is punctured and the bleeding must stop.” Clywd touched his son’s hair and Jilana saw that his hand was shaking also.
There was no more to be said, and the two of them sat in silence as evening fell. Heall entered quietly. “Forgive me, Clywd, but there is a lad outside who says you are needed. Shall I send him away?”
Clywd hesitated, clearly torn between his duty as a healer and his duty to his son, until Jilana told him, “If he worsens I will send Heall for you.”
Clywd nodded and rose. “Change the bandage often. If—when he wakes, give him a dose of opium.” He picked up his medicine case and cast one last look at his son. “If he needs me—”
“I will send Heall for you,” Jilana repeated. “I swear it.”
It was hours later that Caddaric swam slowly back to consciousness. He lay with his eyes closed, feeling the pallet beneath him and the tearing pain in his chest that made every breath an exercise in torture. Someone groaned and he forced his eyes open, wondering if Heall had been wounded as well. To his surprise, once he was able to bring his eyes into focus, he saw Jilana and his father bending over him and he was able to make out the leather ceiling of the tent. So he had made it back to camp after all. Clywd nodded to Jilana and she moved out of Caddaric’s sight, and in her absence he could dimly make out Heall seated beside the small fire. Caddaric smiled weakly, trying to convey his relief at finding his friend safe, but his lips barely moved.
“Drink this.”
Jilana was beside him, holding a cup to his lips. Caddaric obediently opened his mouth and swallowed the sweet liquid, his eyes clinging to Jilana’s face. W
hen he tried to speak, she laid a finger over his lips and shook her head warningly.
“Do not talk; save your strength.” She placed a hand on his right shoulder and even her gentle touch sent waves of agony through him. “Your bandage needs changing but it means rolling you onto your good side. We will wait until the opium has taken hold.” She smiled at him and reached for something on the ground. A moment later she was blotting his face and neck with a warm, wet cloth.
“Hate… changing my… bandage,” Caddaric managed to say and Jilana felt her throat tighten.
It must be the effect of the opium, Caddaric thought, that made her eyes seem to fill with tears. He felt her fingers tremble when she laid them against his mouth again.
“Oh, Caddaric,” Jilana whispered, “you are such a foolish man.”
And then, miraculously, he felt her lips first upon his brow and then lightly upon his mouth. Her action stunned him, but the opium was spreading a warm glow through him and he gave himself up to the sensation. He was floating on the soft pallet and his eyes closed as he felt himself turning. The pain of the movement seemed far away, an insignificant thing, and he wondered why someone was groaning again.
It was all she could do not to cry out when Caddaric moaned as they turned him. Clywd was as shaken as she, but neither could give in to their emotions. They removed the old bandage and replaced it with a fresh one as quickly and efficiently as possible and eased Caddaric back onto the pallet. Clywd pulled the blanket away from him and shook him gently. Caddaric’s eyes flickered open in response.
Defy the Eagle Page 50