IV – The Set Stage

Haze blankets a sea that burns silver under the high sun. Shadows appear along the vanishing point, first five and then ten, until there are too many ships to count.

Continental refugees decried the fleeing prince Mandubracius and his deal with the Roman wolves. Those fresh from the fight said continental warlord Dumnorix fought hard before his fall. They whispered of impending sabotage and a hidden armada—but alas, it’s now clear that Dumnorix, is as dead as his ships.

“The wolves paddle across the stormy narrow,” says Aedan.

Their driver grunts softly, but then he’s a short oaf with more muscles than thoughts, while Begat, a crone older than dirt, thinks enough for them both.

“Ships can’t crawl over land,” she asserts as if revealing newfound knowledge.

“What battle king in his right mind brings ships over land?” Aedan squats on a rock and studies the fleas nesting in her oily hair. “Those ships will make shore and shit blood-thirsty soldiers with legs capable of crawling over just about anything,”

The bulky oaf suddenly cries, “There’s too many,” and with his wits lost, jogs for the flat-top cart. He climbs sloppily into the driver’s bank and rouses both horses from their gentle grazing.

Begat looks after him. “That one will die first, I reckon,”

“One of many to greet Dumnorix before we do,” says Aedan.

Eyes meet, and laughter fills the space between them.

“You’re a strange one, Owl King.” Her breath reeks of shellfish as she waddles over the grass. “Strange ones always survive,”

“Why is that?” he asks, following in her stunted shadow.

“Gods have use for the strange ones,” she tells him. “So alive you stay,”

The ride back provides little respite from the heat.

Aedan wears his father’s summer robe, open and off his bony shoulders as he stands astride the chariot’s horses, one bare foot upon each of their backs. The driver gawks at his exposed ass with a mix of curiosity and disgust.

Most men don’t mind Aedan’s gaunt body after tasting his hole—it’s his soul they find unpalatable.

A sudden change in wind aids their journey to the hilltop fort, and the horse’s breath is shallow on the charge to its plank gate. Lofty double doors part on their arrival, coming together quickly as they pass between them.

The beasts stop in familiar surroundings, and that’s when old Begat darts from the flatbed and disappears into the shadows to tell her truths. Aedan backflips to the ground, cartwheeling past newcomers whose swords gleam in the sunlight.

He pulls his robe tight and finds his mother in the largest roundhouse, whispering to her little brother at his table full of sand. The druid Taran, his alleged blood father, now acts as leader of this settlement, detailing his plans in the sand while his sister gushes.

The pair sours him enough that he eagerly announces Rome’s arrival before the oafish cart driver formulates the words. Truth is a wicked stew, and Aedan enjoys serving it with too much salt.

“They got more ships than the sea got fish,” the oaf speaks.

“Seven hundred and ninety-three fly Roman colors.” One swift hop puts Aedan atop the table. He curls his toes around its hedging, “Three of them fly Treberoi colors,”

Ciniod starts. “Indutiomarus sails with Rome?”

Before he can tell her no, Cassibelanus enters like a bad smell.

“Cingetorix rules the Treberoi now,” booms the warlord, his thin lips curling under a pelmet of thick brown. His jowls are clean-shaven like his head—and that hairless noggin is the only thing remotely attractive.

Aedan tolerates the hulking Cenimagni because there’s always an entourage of delicious warriors around him, and today’s bouquet includes a sturdy redhead whose broad pale chest boasts the lightest of strands.

Freckles fade beneath light eyes that steal glances, and when Aedan stares boldly back, he finds a manlet barely weaned from his mother’s tits.

“If the wolves are here,” Taran proclaims. “Then Dumnorix is dead.”

The young redhead whispers to his leader, “Why would the leader of the Treberoi fight alongside his enemy?”

“Their families are under the knife.” Aedan studies the manlet’s shapely bicep. “If they flee or revolt, their kin die,”

“It’s called being a hostage.” Cassibelanus intentionally comes between them and slaps Aedan on the small of his back—it’s not a touch he savors. “Look at you perched up here like an owl. I bet you weigh no more than one, at that,”

“This is the Owl?” says the manlet.

“Go get your mother, Kelr,” Cassibelanus orders the youth, then stalks to Ciniod and sweeps her into his bearish arms. “You’re looking well for a widow,”

Mother shows her blackened teeth and titters like a girl never bled.
“Put me down, you fool,”

“My words are true even if foolish.” Cassibelanus sets her down and speaks with an affectionate tone. “You’re still beautiful, Chinny,”

Aedan retches loudly, alarming Taran and the warriors.

“Enough of that,” mother snarls, sorely familiar with such antics.

“How can you carouse,” Aedan accuses with little emotion, “while my father remains undigested by the Gods?”

Ciniod glares at her son until the warlord steps into place between them.

“We’ve bigger concerns,” he says.

Aedan’s eyes shift to him.
“Nearly eight hundred concerns making landfall as we speak.”

Cassibelanus turns thoughtful, and before the moment passes, Aedan swears he can smell roasting pig from inside the man’s skull.

“Do you remember Imanuentius’s cattle?” He asks, and when the warlord meets his gaze, he says, “Before you killed him, he owned six hundred heads. Eight hundred is more than that.”

The skin on the Cenimagni’s arms pebbles to gooseflesh.

“Taran,” declares the birdlike voice of Avalin the Catubellauni.

A sixth child and only daughter to the man who called Cassibelanus his heir, she floats in like a butterfly and embraces his lanky uncle. She then sings Aedan’s name and smothers him with kisses before tousling his curls.

“You’ve become a man,” she beams, planting a kiss on his cheek that he doesn’t wipe away like he does his mother’s.

Chunky and perfumed, the honey-haired Avalin mothers every child, no matter their nature. If the Romans brought children, she would love them as her own.

“Is it true? Have the wolves returned?” Bright brown eyes drift from Taran to his sister. “Chinny, remember the first time we saw them? How we joined our men and fathers on the cliffs?”

Mother forces a subservient smile. Avalin commands many, relying on Cassibelanus, a man she has raised since he was a pup, to keep them in line. Childless most of her days, the Gods saw fit to award Avalin with a son long after her bleeding became irregular.

“Your boy will have his first battle,” Ciniod expresses false excitement.

“We’ll set out before sunrise and attack their beachhead,” says Taran.

“Is that wise?” Cassibelanus asks.

“They’ll not be waiting for you,” Aedan scowls, jumping to his feet. “They’ll march the bulk of their forces through the night and find this place,”

Taran shakes his head, “They don’t know this land,”

“Don’t bet against it,” Aedan counters. “It’s not their first visit,”

“I’m aware. I’ve faced them,” Taran reminds him. “On and off this island,”

“You faced them,” Aedan counters. “And lost your face,”

Avalin steps behind Cassibelanus, who grins at their exchange.

“You would have me send fighters in the night?” Taran goads. “Their torches, targets in the trees?”

“I would have you dispatch the night hunters,” Aedan says. “Set traps along the widest swaths of the wood,”

“Wouldn’t they use the trees as cover?” Ciniod asks.

“No,” says Cassibelanus. “Showing their numbers is strategic,”

“Yes, and they’re regimented creatures,” Aedan adds. “They march four by four on known roads and three by three over natural paths,”

All eyes find him.

“I read my father’s letters,” he explains, then looks at Taran. “Your frontal assaults failed on the continent, and they’ll fail here,”

“I know this land,” Taran tempers his rage. “I’ve killed for it,”

“And I’ve killed to see its future,” Aedan says. “All I ask is that you plan a contingency for when your beach attack fails.”

“That’s a fair request,” Cassibelanus interjects. “Lead a small war party to intercept their scouts,”

Taran nods, “Or better still, we fortify a nearby river.” He draws a circle in the sand around an uneven stick-drawn line. “We’ll gather at the Avona.”

“It’s too close,” Aedan says quickly.

Taran huffs a sigh, earning him a gentle pat on the hand from Ciniod.

“I was thinking farther north,” says Cassibelanus, stepping to the table.

Taran gives his head a shake. “They’ll not cross the Avona,”

“Oh, but they will,” Aedan says. “And our dead will be their bridge.”

Avalin gasps. “Is that what you saw, Owl?”

“Owl?” Ciniod laughs until her son’s lifeless stare finds her.

“He saw nothing,” Taran exclaims. “Bloodlust clouded any divination.”

Aedan watches him in silence.

“We’ll hold half the force east of the wood,” Taran explains. “If the wolves manage to cross the Avona, we’ll fight them in the grass here—”

“-Romans are strongest on an open field,” blurts Aedan.

Taran calmly taunts, “Faced many Romans, have you?”

“As if that matters since you’ve done so and learned nothing.” Aedan taunts without emotion. “They’ve bested you time and again in free-range skirmishes, and here you are, humping the same leg you did on the continent, like an addle-brained dog.”

Cassibelanus comes between him and his enraged uncle.

“What do you suggest, Owl?”

“He’s not Fintan’s successor,” Taran exclaims.

“If not him, then who?” Ciniod asks.

Taran goes silent as his sister turns from him.

Aedan says, “Send an emissary to open talks,”

“Would you have us invite them for some mutton?” Cassibelanus asks, eliciting laughter from his entourage.

“Your river stand is too close.” Aedan jabs a finger into the sand where the eastern grasslands run alongside the river. He draws a line to a stone marking the fort’s location. “Their horsemen will follow your retreat and burn this place to the ground,”

“Get out,” Taran growls. “I tolerated you because of your father, but no more,”

“I thought you were my father,” Aedan mocks.

Cassibelanus lowers his head as Ciniod closes her eyes.

Avalin steps to his uncle and takes the long-faced druid’s big ears in her hands.

“Taran, he’s lost his father, and you’ve lost your…” she goes silent, turning her sad eyes to Aedan. “Let’s speak on this when your tempers have settled,”

Aedan retreats, with Taran’s sour regard tickling his back.

“The boy lacks his father’s temperament,” his mother says as he exits.

Cassibelanus says, “Yet wields his father’s cunning,”

Aedan lingers outside, listening as the warlord informs them of his return north.

“You won’t fight with us at the Avona?” Taran sounds hurt.

“We will fight at the Tamesa,” says Cassibelanus. “By then, I’ll have gathered the numbers needed to face Rome,”

“We’re the first line of defense,” Taran’s voice wavers. “Are you of this thought?”

“I wish for no fight at all,” Avalin placates with a lover’s promise. “But if there’s to be a confrontation, we shall have it on our home shores at the Tamesa.”

“I stand with my brother here,” decrees Ciniod, her bid for the warlord’s attention as pathetic as her loyalty to Taran.

She hopes Cassibelanus will beg her to accompany him north or at least provide her with a detail of men for protection, the former offer being proof that he’s not ready to share her bed. Any unwillingness on his part isn’t down to respect for her dead husband—no, it’s the length of her teeth; Cassibelanus prefers young juicy cunts over those requiring warm grease before poking.

“I saw you at the ceremony, Owl King.” Kelr’s breath tickles his neck.

Aedan turns and finds the manlet’s boyish face studying him.

“Mother’s right,” his thin lips twist. “Your eyes are darker than the new moon sky,”

Aedan dips his head closer. “Can you see yourself in them?”

“No,” says Kelr, pensive. “Am I supposed to?”

Without warning, Aedan shoves him.

Kelr keeps his footing, his cheeks burning red as he grips Aedan’s narrow upper arms. He shoves Aedan to the ground, his face a perfect mixture of upset and irritation.

Aedan bites his lower lip, opens his legs, and bucks his groin at him.

The manlet blinks in confusion, a protective hand cradling his gut.

Bored with such indecision, the limber Aedan rolls backward to standing. “When you’re ready to be a man, come find me,”

Kelr paces after him. “Why did you push me?”

“I hit you. You hit me.” Aedan climbs the water well and perches upon its bucket brace. “I fight you. You beat me. We fuck.”

“That’s insane,” Kelr blurts out.

Aedan’s dark eyes gleam. “A punch to the face feels good.”

“Do you,” Kelr swallows hard, “do you like that?”

“I like that,” Aedan parrots, then softens. “I like you,”

They regard one another for several moments, and many ignore them while bustling about the inner yard.

“Fine then,” says Kelr, unsure. “I can try,”

Aedan sighs softly, then backflips and lands on his feet.

“I need a man that does,” he says over his shoulder. “Not a boy who tries,”