“Breathe for me, son,” Clywd ordered. “As deeply as you can.” He put his ear against the right wall of Caddaric’s chest and listened.
Pain which not even the opium could master mushroomed through him when he obeyed his father’s command, and this time Caddaric realized it was he who groaned so loudly. Sweat broke out on his forehead and was immediately replaced by a warm cloth against his skin. He pried his eyes open and looked directly up into Jilana’s pale face. Ridiculous to think she could be worried about him, but just for a moment he allowed himself the fantasy. He lifted a hand toward her and she smiled and took it in hers.
“You must rest now,” Jilana said, appalled at the way his muscles trembled. She dropped the cloth back into the basin, took his hand in both of hers and stroked it.
His eyelids were growing heavy and Caddaric fought against the blackness which threatened to engulf him again. He felt his lips moving and tried to force the words out of his throat. “… go… do n… go “
Jilana’s heart lurched painfully and she bent closer. “Do you want me to go, Caddaric?” She held her breath until Caddaric slowly turned his head to one side.
“N-no.”
Jilana gripped his hand fiercely. “I will never leave you, Caddaric. Never.”
She stayed with him throughout the long night, as did Clywd and Heall, refusing to leave his side. Together she and Clywd changed his bandages and when he awoke, hers was the hand which held the cup containing the admixture of opium and water to his lips. When the pain caused the sweat to pop out on his face and chest, she bathed it away. Near dawn the bleeding stopped and they all breathed a little easier.
“You must rest,” Heall admonished her as they ate the wheat cakes he had prepared. “Clywd and I managed to sleep during the night, but you did not.”
“I will sleep later, when Caddaric is well,” Jilana replied steadily.
“Heall is right,” Clywd put in. “‘Twill serve no purpose to have you fall ill as well.”
Jilana’s eyes traveled to the man sleeping a scant foot away. “Later.” Her voice was filled with such resolve that neither man tried again to dissuade her.
Later that morning Heall joined the other men from his village to hunt while Clywd went to those who had need of him. Jilana took advantage of their absence to wash and change into a clean tunic. The one stained with Caddaric’s blood she burned. She understood now why Caddaric had burned the clothes which had carried Artair’s blood—Caddaric still lived, but even so she could not bear the sight of her stained tunic. She prepared a thin oaten gruel, and when Caddaric awoke for a few minutes, she managed to feed him a little before dosing him with the opium. Blood no longer trickled from his mouth and Jilana knew that was another good sign. Some of her worry faded.
Heall returned bearing a side of venison, several hares and, best of all, the news that they had found some cattle wandering in the forest that had escaped their fate when the Romans withdrew from Londinium. Each of the hunting party would receive a quarter of a side. While Heall and Clywd moved about the camp, dressing the game and making the necessary preparations for smoking the venison and beef, Jilana washed Caddaric with warm water and gently dried him. Clywd held that clean surroundings aided healing, though why he could not say, and Jilana had taken his words to heart. The cloths she used on Caddaric were used only once and then tossed aside. Clywd would launder them in water and vinegar this afternoon.
It was as she drew a fresh blanket over Caddaric—the one from the night before, drenched with Caddaric’s sweat and spotted with blood would be washed along with the cloths—that Jilana noticed his skin felt unnaturally warm. Frowning, she touched her lips to his forehead and then, as her mother had taught her, held one of his hands between hers. His hands were warm and, worse, dry. Her heart in her throat, Jilana rose and called Clywd.
“He seems warm,” Clywd agreed when he touched Caddaric’s brow. “Help me remove the bandage.”
When Jilana saw what lay beneath the dressing, her stomach revolted. The skin around both wounds was red and swollen, and a foul odor emanated from it. “The wounds were not like this when I changed the bandage last,” Jilana cried softly. “What did I do wrong?”
“Naught, naught, child,” Clywd soothed. “It happens like this sometimes.” His face turned grim. “Now we must fight—and so must he.”
The rest of the afternoon was a nightmare. The wound had to be thoroughly cleaned and, even in his drugged state, Caddaric would surely thrash about. Clywd and Heall would hold him down. To Jilana fell the task of spreading the edges of the wounds apart and probing as deeply as she could with a vinegar-soaked cloth. First, however, the dead skin from the wounds had to be cut away and Jilana did this under Clywd’s instruction while the two men held Caddaric still.
“You are not strong enough to hold him motionless,” Clywd had said when Jilana had begged him to trade places. “If he should move when the knife is against him…”
Clywd had not had to argue further. Jilana knew well enough that even in his weakened state Caddaric could easily throw her aside. Throughout the ordeal, Jilana’s throat ached with unshed tears while Caddaric groaned and then screamed under her hands. When it was over and the men had left the tent, Jilana laid her head upon the pallet and let the tears come. At least the nightmare was over.
But it was not. The process was repeated that night and three times the following day. Jilana stayed beside Caddaric while the fever raged, trying to soothe him when he grew agitated and sponging him with cool water to try and bring his temperature down. At first he was quiet, but then he grew restless, kicking off the blanket or trying to tear the bandage from his chest until they were forced to tie his hands together so that he could not injure himself further. Then his ravings began—at least, in the beginning, Jilana thought they were nightmares, but when she listened more closely, she found that Caddaric was reliving old battles fought when he was a legionary.
As the fever rose, his nightmares took him deeper into the past, to his adolescence and then, to his childhood. From Caddaric’s lips fell the story of his father’s abrupt appearance in his life, a stranger to the son he had left behind. All the hurt and confusion felt by the boy poured forth while Jilana held the man’s bound hands and offered comfort that would not be heard. The worst, however, was the destruction of Caddaric’s village by the Roman invaders. In horror, Jilana listened and learned that Caddaric had hidden in the trees and seen his brothers carried off to meet their fate in the Roman auxiliary. He had also seen his mother and sisters cruelly raped and then killed by the legionaries while he had watched helplessly from his place of concealment. Tears scalded Jilana’s cheeks and she cried for the boy who had lost so much in his life.
He spoke of Jilana as well, alternately cursing her and calling brokenly for her. She discovered how deeply she had hurt him by calling him a barbarian and a fool. And she learned how badly he wanted her and how badly his own desire frightened him. He hid his battered and scarred heart from her, afraid that one day she, too, would leave or, worse, reject him.
“I did not mean it,” Jilana told him, her hands lovingly stroking the planes of his face. ‘Twas foolish, of course, he neither heard nor understood her, but she drew some small comfort by talking to him. She rested her cheek against his. “Oh, Caddaric, all I wanted was for you to care for me.” Raising her head, she looked at Caddaric’s face and discovered his eyes were slitted open, watching her. They still bore a fevered glaze, but there was no mistaking the recognition in them.
“Ji.. .lana,” Caddaric said on a thread of sound. “You stayed .”
“Of course I stayed,” Jilana responded, straightening. Flustered, she set about sponging his face. “Where else would 1 be?”
“Water?”
Jilana hastily poured a cup of water and held it for him while he drank.
Caddaric’s eyes surveyed the tent. “Have we kept up with… the war band?”
“We have not moved, nor has the rest of the column,” Jilana
quickly assured him. “The Queen has decreed that we stay here a week in order to gather provisions.”
Caddaric sighed and relaxed against the pillow. “Stay with me,” he whispered just as Jilana had decided that he was asleep again.
“Aye.” Jilana covered his bound hands with hers and watched sleep claim him.
The third day after the battle Caddaric awoke and his fever was gone. He was weak, scarcely able to move, but his eyes were clear and when he demanded they untie his hands, Jilana knew he would live. She hovered over him, feeding him the beef broth Heall had made, bathing him. He seemed to enjoy the attention she lavished upon him until she brought him a battered basin and reached for the blanket.
“What are you doing?” Caddaric demanded, retaining a grip on the covering with his good arm.
Jilana blushed to the roots of her hair, but she was not about to be deterred. “I thought you might, ahh, that is, you must need to—umm—relieve yourself.”
Caddaric looked amused. I do, but I can manage on my own.” He nodded toward the tent flap. “Out.”
“Do not be ridiculous, Caddaric,” Jilana retorted. “I have seen everything you possess—more than once, I might add—and you are still weak. It will not embarrass me—”
“Did you stop to think that it might embarrass me?” Caddaric questioned with a mocking lift of his eyebrow. “Out, Jilana. If I need help I will call for my father or Heall.”
Which was exactly what he did. Jilana was allowed back inside the tent only after all his bodily needs had been seen to.
Caddaric greeted her return with, “Heall tells me you have not slept in three days.”
Jilana stared at him. Had it been three days? She frowned, counting, and agreed, “Aye, it has been three days.” Strange, but she did not feel sleepy. In fact, she was filled with such energy that she felt positively giddy.
“You. need to sleep,” Caddaric stated decisively. “Now.”
“In a moment.” Jilana gathered up the soiled cloths for laundering and took them outside to Heall. Next she straightened the tent, filled an ewer with water and placed it where it would be within easy reach for Caddaric, brought a small bowl of figs and dates and set them beside the pallet, and laid fresh wood for the evening fire.
As she straightened, Caddaric reached out with his good arm, grasped the hem of her tunic and pulled. “Rest, Jilana. Now.”
Jilana twisted so that she could look at the hand holding her hostage. “I will get a blanket—”
But Caddaric had guessed her thoughts. Another tug of his hand brought her heels against the pallet. “Now. Here. With me.”
“But, Caddaric, you are hurt and—”
“I will take the risk that you will injure me further,” Caddaric informed her dryly. “I will not have you sleeping on the ground when there is room enough for us both on the pallet. Come to bed.”
With an exasperated sigh, Jilana sat on the edge of the pallet and took off her shoes. “You will wake me if you need anything?” she worried as she carefully slid in beside him.
“I swear it,” Caddaric promised as her head came to rest beside his shoulder.
“You had better,” Jilana admonished. “I really am not the least bit tired, Caddaric.”
“Close your eyes.” He watched as she did so, and a smile touched his mouth. When he softly called her name a few minutes later, her response was a deep sigh. His smile slowly faded as he realized that she was now a free woman. She had cared for him because she believed she was his steve, and a slave had certain duties to her master. When she learned she was free what would she do? Certainly not share his pallet again, Caddaric grimly concluded. It never occurred to Caddaric to withhold the truth from her; nor did it occur to him that Jilana might already know she was free. He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.
Jilana awoke late in the evening to the feel of something tugging at her hair. Still half asleep, she smoothed a hand over the back of her hair and was startled when it met warm flesh. Turning, she saw that Caddaric was awake and the tugging she felt was her braid being undone. She did not mind the small intimacy in the least.
“How do you feel?” Jilana asked, one hand smothering a yawn.
“Better.” Caddaric allowed his gaze to skim over her before returning to the business of unbraiding her hair. “Heall made soup for the evening meal. Are you hungry?”
Jilana shook her head and settled more comfortably onto her back. “You should be resting.”
“I am,” Caddaric protested innocently. “I am flat on my back, in bed. What could be more restful?” Finished with the braid, he lifted the heavy mass of hair onto his chest and began combing the fingers of his left hand through the red-gold length. “You have beautiful hair, Jilana. Did I ever tell you that?” When she shook her head, he sighed. “Of course I did not. There are many things I should have said that I have not, beginning with how sorry I am that I placed those cursed manacles on you.”
“You were angry—”
“That did not give me the right to treat you the way I sworn never to treat another human being!” Caddaric interrupted. “Gods! When I think of how I treated –”
This time it was Jilana who interrupted. “I forgive you, Caddaric.” She laced her fingers together and studied them. “When you first put the irons around my ankles, and then later, when you ordered me chained to the wagon, I hated you for it. But I do not hate you any longer.”
“Truly?”
Jilana raised her eyes to his. “Truly. I am very lucky that Boadicea gave me to you.”
Caddaric looked away from her trusting expression, remembering how he had manipulated the events of that night so long ago. “You are not mine any longer,” he informed her gruffly. ‘ ‘Boadicea has freed you.”
“I know.” The startled look on his face brought a smile to Jilana’s mouth. “Clywd told me the day of the battle.”
His hand stilled on her hair. “Then you know you do not have to stay here.”
“Aye, I know.” Raising up on one elbow so that their faces were level, she asked, “But, Caddaric, how could I leave you?” His eyes, so dark a blue they were nearly black, bored into her, and she slowly brought her mouth to his. They kissed with their eyes wide open, watching, seeking, and when Jilana withdrew she said quietly, but with pride, “I love you.”
Caddaric could not reply to her declaration. He cared for her as he had cared for no other woman, but to give voice to his emotions now, when he held his dream in the palm of his hand… Perhaps the gods were, even now, watching; waiting for him to open his heart so they could brutalize it yet again. He had mocked the gods so often in the past that, if they in fact existed, surely they would be waiting to take their revenge. With his good arm he pulled Jilana against him so that her head rested against his shoulder and said nothing, knowing himself to be a coward.
Jilana lay quietly, understanding his silence. By his actions he showed his love for her, even if he could not bring himself to say the words. It was enough for now; later— the gods willing, years from now—he would feel secure enough to give her the words as well, but she would not press him.
Long minutes later, Caddaric heard the faint chanting and the screams that came to their camp on the evening air. He stiffened, as did Jilana, but ‘twas she who broke the silence.
“Tis Lhwyd,” Jilana told him when she felt the tension tightening his frame. “He claimed the survivors from the city.”
Caddaric remembered the girl who had wounded him and hoped that she was not among the captives.
****
The week following the fall of Londinium the war band rested. Hunting parties roamed the countryside; the rivers and streams abounded with fish which provided a distraction for those too young to hunt; those who still had livestock slaughtered it, and meat was plentiful once again. Caddaric’s recovery was, in Jilana’s eyes, nothing less than miraculous. Once his fever had broken, he chafed so at remaining in the tent that Jilana capitulated and fixed a place for him
by the fire. From there he could watch as she and Heall went about the business of preserving as much meat as they could. Clywd doted on his son with a fierceness that both amused and touched Jilana, but Caddaric seemed not to mind.
Visitors to their camp laughingly commented that the wound seemed to have improved Caddaric’s disposition, but the way Caddaric’s eyes followed Jilana’s every movement did not escape their attention. Neither did the fact that when Jilana sat, her place was at Caddaric’s side.
The week’s respite grew into two and though Jilana enjoyed the rest, Caddaric did not. The war band was losing the urgency which had possessed it after the fall of Venta Icenorum. Women longed for their homes; children grew querulous now that the sense of adventure had worn off; and men fretted over what they would find upon returning home. The war band had to march, and soon, before desertion weakened both the morale and the number of Boadicea’s force. Even though he knew it would be difficult for him to travel, he also knew that delay now could prove fatal. Suetonius Paulinus was no longer safely tucked away on Mona. When the word was passed through the host that Boadicea had ordered a resumption of the march, Caddaric breathed a sigh of relief.
“But surely there is no reason for your concern,” Jilana asked. It was late and she was engrossed in bathing from the basin while Caddaric lay upon the pallet, watching.
“The governor-general is no coward,” Caddaric replied. His eyes wandered over the enticing swell of her breasts as she washed first one and then the other, and his loins tightened uncomfortably. “He evacuated Londinium because it was indefensible. I do not doubt that even now he is marshalling his forces and picking a battle site that will favor the legion.”
Jilana rubbed the cloth over her stomach, considering. “Boadicea has nearly seventy thousand warriors and warrior maids. Does Suetonius Paulinus have that many legionaries at his disposal?”
While Caddaric watched, the linen cloth dipped between her thighs and he felt the sweat pop out on his forehead. Her shyness with him was gone, but he was not certain if that was a blessing or a curse, for she was constantly warning him to take care lest he open his wounds again. If she only knew where his thoughts were wandering—
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