I swear you shall never find a slave more devoted to you nor more obedient to your wishes. I beg you, lord, for this one thing."
You are mine, Roman, given to me by the Queen. I can do with you as I please."
"Aye, lord," Jilana replied softly, her mind turning—knew Caddaric's was—to the kiss they had shared bedchamber. "But would not a willing slave be more to your liking?"
After a long moment Caddaric nodded and slowly lowered Jilana to the ground. "Very well. I will take you to the burial sites, but I will not aid you in your search."
"That you allow me my search is more than enough," Jilana answered. She took his hand and placed her forehead against it. "You are most generous and I give you thanks."
"Enough!" Caddaric roughly reclaimed his hands and gestured to the door. "By the time the sun has set this night you will not think me generous, you will think me cruel."
True to his word, Caddaric led Jilana out of the city to a small hill, the nearest burial site. Without a word Caddaric left her at the perimeter of the bodies and retired to the side of the hill to watch Jilana's progress. She stood, unmoving, for a long moment and although her face was hidden from Caddaric's view he could well imagine the horror and revulsion her violet eyes must be mirroring. With a slight smile Caddaric saw the resolute squaring of Jilana's shoulders just before she bent and rolled the body nearest her onto its back. She had courage, Caddaric grudgingly admitted, a desirable trait in the mother of his child. Not for a moment did Caddaric believe her act of humility and contrition back in the town—come morning, when her search was ended, Jilana would bare her claws once more. Satisfied with the turn of events, Caddaric stretched out upon the grass and allowed weariness to overtake him.
Jilana—her heart stopping each time she turned over another of her countrymen so that she might see his face—worked at her grisly task with fearsome determination, unaware of the passage of time. She ignored the taunts of the Iceni warriors who were so efficiently and unceremoniously disposing of the dead and concentrated instead upon choking back the sobs which tightened her throat when she happened across bodies of friends or merchants she had frequented. So much death! The waste numbed Jilana's brain as she moved mechanically through the piles of dead. She began, after a time, not to see the horrible wounds or the faces of those who were not her family. She could look and not see; and Jilana experienced the strangest sensation of standing apart from her body and watching a different Jilana sort through the dead. The girl in the blood-stained toga would not find her family, the dispassionate Jilana realized. Too many of the dead were put into the grave before she could look at them, and more carts deposited more bodies atop the ones she had previously searched.
Still, Jilana persisted. The warm spring sun beat down upon her, its promise of renewed life a terrible mockery in view of the tragedy of Venta Icenorum. Jilana's arms ached from the unaccustomed strain and she found herself growing lightheaded as the day wore on. Cursing her weak body, Jilana paused and straightened, trying to ease the sharp cramp in her lower back. She looked over her shoulder to measure her progress and found, much to her dismay, that she had covered less than half the length of the grave. Tears of frustration fell unheeded from her violet eyes and Jilana sank to the ground, defeated. Not caring if the Iceni saw her and laughed at her weakness, Jilana drew her knees up to her chest, buried her face in the stained folds of her toga and wept.
Far from being the object of scorn, Jilana was regarded by the Iceni warriors with a mixture of sympathy and respect. Word had spread of this woman—not only had she, a Roman herself, defied Rome for the sake of their Queen, but when she had been made a slave she had refused to go submissively into captivity. The warriors
You are mine, Roman, given to me by the Queen. I can do with you as I please."
"Aye, lord," Jilana replied softly, her mind turning—knew Caddaric's was—to the kiss they had shared bedchamber. "But would not a willing slave be more to your liking?"
After a long moment Caddaric nodded and slowly lowered Jilana to the ground. "Very well. I will take you to the burial sites, but I will not aid you in your search."
"That you allow me my search is more than enough," Jilana answered. She took his hand and placed her forehead against it. "You are most generous and I give you thanks."
"Enough!" Caddaric roughly reclaimed his hands and gestured to the door. "By the time the sun has set this night you will not think me generous, you will think me cruel."
True to his word, Caddaric led Jilana out of the city to a small hill, the nearest burial site. Without a word Caddaric left her at the perimeter of the bodies and retired to the side of the hill to watch Jilana's progress. She stood, unmoving, for a long moment and although her face was hidden from Caddaric's view he could well imagine the horror and revulsion her violet eyes must be mirroring. With a slight smile Caddaric saw the resolute squaring of Jilana's shoulders just before she bent and rolled the body nearest her onto its back. She had courage, Caddaric grudgingly admitted, a desirable trait in the mother of his child. Not for a moment did Caddaric believe her act of humility and contrition back in the town—come morning, when her search was ended, Jilana would bare her claws once more. Satisfied with the turn of events, Caddaric stretched out upon the grass and allowed weariness to overtake him.
Jilana—her heart stopping each time she turned over another of her countrymen so that she might see his face—worked at her grisly task with fearsome determination, unaware of the passage of time. She ignored the taunts of the Iceni warriors who were so efficiently and unceremoniously disposing of the dead and concentrated instead upon choking back the sobs which tightened her throat when she happened across bodies of friends or merchants she had frequented. So much death! The waste numbed Jilana's brain as she moved mechanically through the piles of dead. She began, after a time, not to see the horrible wounds or the faces of those who were not her family. She could look and not see; and Jilana experienced the strangest sensation of standing apart from her body and watching a different Jilana sort through the dead. The girl in the blood-stained toga would not find her family, the dispassionate Jilana realized. Too many of the dead were put into the grave before she could look at them, and more carts deposited more bodies atop the ones she had previously searched.
Still, Jilana persisted. The warm spring sun beat down upon her, its promise of renewed life a terrible mockery in view of the tragedy of Venta Icenorum. Jilana's arms ached from the unaccustomed strain and she found herself growing lightheaded as the day wore on. Cursing her weak body, Jilana paused and straightened, trying to ease the sharp cramp in her lower back. She looked over her shoulder to measure her progress and found, much to her dismay, that she had covered less than half the length of the grave. Tears of frustration fell unheeded from her violet eyes and Jilana sank to the ground, defeated. Not caring if the Iceni saw her and laughed at her weakness, Jilana drew her knees up to her chest, buried her face in the stained folds of her toga and wept.
Far from being the object of scorn, Jilana was regarded by the Iceni warriors with a mixture of sympathy and respect. Word had spread of this woman—not only had she, a Roman herself, defied Rome for the sake of their Queen, but when she had been made a slave she had refused to go submissively into captivity. The warriors
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