VIII – The Sacrifice

Aedan’s thumb pushes at an eyelid and reveals a lily pad floating in the white, its dark center growing with exposure. His Roman captive burns hot when he sleeps, never waking no matter how indelicate the druid’s touch.

Smooth skin stinks of cooking fire and soft nipples taste of roasted rabbit. He sits, relishing how that muscular gut feels against his bare crack. Cock in hand, he grazes the tip over the Roman’s swollen bottom lip.

Here lies the beauty from the falls, the lion from his vision.

“You’re mine,” he asserts softly, drawing a glistening line across the man’s cheek with his cockhead. He anoints the man’s brow before tapping that imperfect nose. “Every inch of you belongs to me,”

“What are you doing!?” Anger colors Kelr’s face.

Aedan lazily tips his head back. “Marking what’s mine.”

The manlet stands robbed of words while his fellow brutes around the campfire laugh like children. Amusement reigns when it’s a Roman prisoner being humiliated, but their mistress, Ciniod, knows her son’s perverse fixations all too well.

“Stuff that thing back in your pants,” she growls, slapping the back of his curly head as she passes. “This one must remain pure,”

Aedan stands, his semi-arousal still in hand.
“He belongs to me,”

Ciniod snatches her son’s britches from the dirt.
“Nothing belongs to you.”

Blue and red tartan trousers strike the back of his neck, tickling his ass on their way back to the ground.

“His blood will answer for their incursion,” says his mother, pulling the burlap sack back over the Roman’s head. “You lot,” she snaps, and her lackeys jump as if the Gods themselves have spoken. “Get this one back over there with his superior,”

Aedan ties up his pants and moves to follow them until Ciniod steps into his path.

“We’ve got an important meeting with the gods tonight,” she says, intent on keeping her lustful son away from the strapping Roman. “There’re reeds in the gulley. Cut some and make masks for me, you, and that war horse of yours,”

Aedan spots the mare across the grass, pacing with her head down around the wicker hut’s three walls, its fourth side unattainable against the sea cliff’s edge. He walks long to her, knowing she worries for her master.

“Looir,” he says, bringing her long nose up. “They must answer for invading our lands.” When he tries to pet her coup, she trots from his touch. “You’ll stop being angry after a time, this I promise you,”

***

After a meal of porridge loaded with auk, the strongest of them drags the older Roman before Ciniod, whose hateful countenance wounds like the sharpest blade. Kelr, with a forceful hand, compels the bound man to his knees before her, where she hurls questions like stones.

Unable to decipher her language, the barrel-chested Roman sits unmoved by her insult-laden interrogation, staring coldly at something they couldn’t guess. His stony demeanor wavers when a skinny druid appears holding the reigns of a Roman horse—one he knows better than most.

Aedan sees a bit of the lion in this older one’s face and suspects they share blood.

“Do you speak Greek?” he asks, crouching before him.

The hawkish Roman blinks. “Holding us hostage will get you nothing.”

Ciniod walks behind him. “What does he say?”

“He thinks we’re holding him for ransom,” he tells her, then speaks to the man in Greek. “We’ve no use for Roman coin or Roman negotiation.”

The man’s nostrils flare.

“Why have they come back?” his mother demands.

Aedan asks, “Why have you returned?”

Silence becomes the man, so Aedan talks for him.

“The white-robes hate your Battle King for his ambition. His power comes from his warriors and the love of common men. Warriors are as loyal as the spoils they acquire, or whatever coin the white-robe’s dole out.”

The man regards his words thoughtfully.

“Funds for warriors are finite, so your Battle King needs the common men and their love, for it is the one thing the white-robes will never have. That’s why you’re here. Common men love Roman victory, along with a side dish of slaves.”

The man finally speaks.
“You’re rather astute for a boy that’s never left this island,”

“The sea brings boats,” Aedan says, “and boats bring talk of Rome,”

“Caesar wages war for glory,” the man confers with a slow blink. “And yes, his position within the senate comes from his popularity with the common man. As for the Senate, hate is a strong word,”

“All words are strong.” Aedan looks into his eyes. “Wealthy men administer your republic, yet commoners hate them as much as the wealthy hate warriors who forget their place,”

“What’s he saying to him?” Kelr whispers to Ciniod.

“He speaks the gibberish his father taught him,” she replies.

“If the tribal leaders declare your Battle King victorious,” Aedan wonders. “Will he leave our island?”

Kelr strides behind the prisoner, glaring at Aedan. “This is the most I’ve ever heard you speak,”

“Your leaders decide nothing,” says the man. “Without your ilk whispering in their ears,”

Aedan’s eyes widen. “Our ilk?”

“How many of you came to the continent?” the man accuses. “With your masks, poisons, and strategies,”

Aedan understands. “It is we priests you seek to destroy?”

“You druids hold the power,” the man says. “Not these tribal leaders,”

Ciniod nags, “What does he say?”

“If you leave by the next moon,” Aedan ignores her. “The tribes will allow you a port, and the priests here will ignore any future uprisings in Belgica,”

“There are uprisings afoot in Belgica?” the man feigns shock.

Aedan almost grins. “You will return to your Battle King and counsel him back to Belgica,”

“I cannot leave my son,” the man says, suddenly narrowing his eyes. “Though that is what you want, isn’t it?”

Aedan’s tight lips reveal such a truth.

“My son is disturbed,” the man warns. “His lusts are violent, too violent for most men,”

“You entice me with such words, but our violent desires need not concern you.” Aedan levels his gaze. “Why haggle over this request? You’ve more reason to return to Belgica than you do to remain here,”

“We still have men on the continent.” The Roman affects. “We’re here to restore a king to his throne.” He talks as if speaking a fresh truth. “A reasonable king, the true king of this island,”

Aedan scoffs. “Mandubracius won’t guarantee you a foothold,”

Ciniod gently knees her son’s spindly arm.
“What are you saying to him about Mandubracius?”

“He’ll turn on us the first moment he can,” the Roman’s shoulders drop in agreement. “But until then, he’s our port in the storm.”

“A port made of rotted wood.” Aedan purses his lips. “Fine. I will help you by saying this. The tribal leaders won’t consider you a threat until you defeat Cassivellaunus.”

“Why are you saying his name like that?” Kelr demands.

“Hush now,” Ciniod scolds the manlet.

“I will talk to them,” Aedan adds. “But I need assurances that his head is all your Battle King requires to depart,”

Before the Roman can answer, Taran’s scream startles them all.

“You!” the sobbing druid falls upon the prisoner. “You killed Fintan!”

Aedan jumps to his feet, stomach in knots.

Ciniod orders her thugs to remove Taran before confronting the Roman.

“You fucker,” she growls, slapping him across the face.

Mournful eyes shift to Aedan. “The druid charioteer, the owl,” the Roman sobs. “He tried to kill my son. In war, men kill each other, men die,”

“There would be no war,” roars Aedan, his blade out. “If you hadn’t invaded lands, not yours.” He looks at his mother. “He says killing my father was the fault of war,”

Ciniod spits in the Roman’s face and then kicks him in the stomach.

“War you started!” she cries.

“Let Taran kill him,” Kelr puts himself between them. “Then we’ll give his underling to the Gods for their incursion,”

“Taran gets nothing!” Aedan’s shout startles everyone. “I shall provide the Gods with Fintan’s killer’s blood, and they will devour his flesh in the ritual fire,”

“That’s right, my boy,” his mother nods. “A proper sacrifice.”

Kelr points at the sleeping beauty.
“The Gods must have his underling,”

Aedan steps into him. “His son is mine,”

Ciniod gives a start. “His son?”

Kelr growls in her ear.
“We cannot let him live,”

“His blood,” she whispers as her mind turns. “His blood will bring clear visions,”

“I see clearly enough,” Aedan disputes.

Ciniod turns on him. “His blood belongs to the Gods,”

Aedan confronts her. “I am a god.”

Her open hand stings. “You’re no god,” she tells his downturned face.

Silence consumes the camp until Kelr murmurs to Ciniod.
“Perhaps we should call upon Ostin,”

“He’ll have no part in my vengeance,” she reveals. “Aedan has conferred with the gods before. He’s more than capable,”

Kelr hesitates before nodding. “I trust your judgment.”

“That murderer will die for his crime,” Ciniod decides. “And his son’s life will show us a path to victory.”

Aedan stalks away, his mother’s glare warming his back.

---

Cloth blinds Skipio and a tree presses between his shoulder blades. Tension racks his back-stretched arms while rope bites into his wrists. He wiggles his fingers, finding the small of his father’s back.

“Can you see anything?”

“I see our imminent deaths,” whispers Vitus.

“How many are there?”

“Seven in all, but it’s not their numbers that defeat us,” his father’s voice strains. “The owl charioteer from Belgica. His son and wife are our captors,”

“Are you sure?”

“The owl’s son and wife demand blood for blood,” his father reveals. “And do so in the name of their gods,”

“Do they speak Latin?”

“The young druid speaks Greek,”

Skipio drags his head against the tree but cannot shed the cloth over his eyes. “How is such a fate possible?”

“Minerva punishes me,” his father’s voice breaks. “She orders the Fates to cut my line in this horrid place,”

“Minerva punishes no man for his actions in war,”

Vitus weeps. “When you left home, boy, you took my goodness with you,”

Suddenly, a rancid odor invades, and flesh strikes flesh with a grunt from Vitus.

Before Skipio protests, a skull-rattling blow ushers in blackness.

When the world returns, it comes with pain and the stink of tar.

Torchlight filters through wicker tendrils. Beyond them, dark figures move to melodic chants. They hang by their feet from a timber beam, thick ropes binding their ankles to it while sinew keeps their arms at their sides. A cold draft kisses his back. Twisting reveals a spacious sliver in the tendril wall, where the setting sun glows like a Parthian orange floating upon the water.

“We’re on the edge of the white cliffs,” he whispers, examining their small makeshift prison. “We must swing our bodies and tip this thing over the precipice,”

“Skipio?” his father’s voice labors. “Our captors intend to butcher us like swine,”

“Listen to me,” he presses. “We can tip this thing over the edge. Once we’re at sea, we’ll swim for the merchant ship. We saw it off the coast, remember?”

“If we survive that long drop, if,” his father argues. “The rocks below will cut us to pieces,”

“I’d rather die on the rocks than be butchered like a hog,” he yells.

The door swings open, revealing a druid whose painted nakedness peeks out from a wind-swept smock. His mask made of reeds resembles a monstrous owl, a walking nightmare with the red twilight sky behind him.

“I want you to know, my son, that we’ll meet again on the River Styx.” Vitus closes his eyes, resigned to his fate. “Perhaps we’ll be reborn through Jove’s good graces,”

“Stop saying goodbye,” he growls at his father.

Another masked figure, naked without her robe, touches her torch to the druid’s. A blinding light forms and her bony shoulders shake in laughter, jiggling her small tits. The knife-wielding druid sheds his smock and enters their cage, where light dances with the shadows and reveals a familiar body.

“It’s you!” gasps Skipio. “Do you remember me? From the waterfall?” The lifeless mask offers no voice. “I remember you. Please, please remember me.”

The druid’s long, slender blade shines as it rises.

“No!” Skipio twists as the druid nears his father. “Show mercy, do not take him, take me,”

Vitus rumbles, “Stop groveling, boy, you’re a Roman!”

The blade touches his father’s neck.

“I’m yours,” Skipio cries in Greek.

The druid freezes, but then his head slowly turns.

“I’m yours,” Skipio says again. “Do what you will with me,”

Cold, glassy eyes regard him through the mask holes.

“Slaughter me. Eat my flesh. Fuck me into dust. I don’t care,” Skipio pleads. “Just don’t hurt him. Hurt me. I’m yours to hurt. Take me.”

The druid stands as if beholden to Medusa.

Suddenly, the woman returns, her tit flat against his shoulder as she whispers words Skipio cannot understand.

The druid’s blade returns to Vitus’s neck.

“Please,” Skipio begs, and when the mask finds him again, “my life is yours.” Tears drip hot over his brow. “I’m yours to take. Yours.”

Icy orbs within dark holes do not waver when the blade slides under his father’s chin. Blood veils his choking father’s face and white bone crests the gash.

Skipio howls in a rage. “You Ganymede bitch!”

He twists violently in his binds, striking his father’s trembling body until they’re both swinging like wind-swept cocoons.

“I’m going to cut your heart out,” he snarls. “And then fuck the hole in your chest!”

Wicker walls hop upon their rocky foundation, but the druid takes no notice. His hand comes for Skipio’s thigh as narrow eyes in their holes indicate an unseen smile. Long fingers graze Skipio’s fear-driven erection.

“Aedan!” Comes the woman’s shrill and the druid recoils as if woken from sleep.

He raises his blade once more.

“Yes, kill me, A-dawn,” Skipio seethes. “Kill me,”

The druid stops as if struck.

“Kill me,” Skipio taunts. “Or the next time we meet, my cock will rearrange your guts,”

The knife lowers, and cold eyes set upon Skipio as the torch touches the wall.

A bluish-white wave climbs to the overhead beam.

Quickly, it devours its thickness, crawling to his father’s feet. The hanging body immolates as the druid closes the door behind him.

Skipio screams for Minerva, begging for strength as he curls upward and unfurls in the searing heat. His back aches with each drop, arching more as his momentum builds. The hut slides from its foundation, letting in air that stokes the flames and breeds smoke.

The roof over his father collapses, sending the man’s flaming corpse into Skipio’s chest. He screams out as flames burn away his sinew binds. Able arms rise, and desperate fingers dig at the hot ropes around his ankles. His father’s corpse finds him again, searing his upper arm with a crackling sizzle.

Skipio shrieks like a newborn child, his wails cutting through the lashing flames.

Suddenly, something barrels through the fiery wall, bringing with it a wave of cold air. Over him, the full moon grows distant, and when his body strikes the waves, every muscle within feels like it has struck stone.

The ocean’s embrace steals his breath as salty depths baptize his burns, numbing them long enough for his senses to calm. A long-faced mask floats within reach, its black ashen knots dancing in the froth.

Near the surface, Luna gallops through the surf, her spindly legs working by Neptune’s design.