X – The Price of Pain

One calculates the measure of a citizen by scaling his empathy, benevolence, or financial worth. One measures a soldier’s value in the skill of his kills, the ditches he digs, or how many miles he marches. Sadly, no rubric exists for a citizen who is also a soldier.

Planus ponders this conundrum while observing Skipio.

Nightmares from that night on the sea haunt him.

Planus had been visiting the merchant ship that day, curious about the process of refining the raw materials for chalk. The fireball tumbled over the cliffs less than a mile from their position.

Poor, desperate Luna paddled to keep her head above water. The sailors dropped a wooden deck into the waves and sank it with pulleys and ropes so the creature could gallop her way onto it.

Someone spotted a bald head bobbing in the waves. Divers quickly fished out the charred corpse of Lucius Vitus Servius, the red strips in his blackened skin besieged by hundreds of pilot fish with their noses buried deep.

One of the swimmers surfaced with urgency and announced seeing Skipio in the depths. Without haste, Planus jumped in, and together, they brought up his unconscious friend. On the bireme’s deck, he embraced the drowned man with fists under his ribs and tugged hard enough to break him in two. Before long, Skipio came back to life, vomiting seawater.

Planus fills his hands at the trough and brings the water to his face. His reflection ripples, obscuring his unkempt appearance. Hair past his ears and face full of stubble—his beleaguered visage screams of conflict. Loneliness is a woman’s game, so he seeks the company of anything other than his thoughts.

Skipio’s shirtless and painted turma loiter at the tree line, some fully bearded, all wearing animal skins on their heads. Fresh from hunting nuisance raiders, their rough and chaotic tactics keep the marching legions safe.

Tree naked bodies hang just a stone’s throw away, the white shards in their bloodied palms pinning them to the oak’s broad trunk. Their boneless legs, swaying in the breeze, wear britches made solely of flies.

“Who are these men?” he asks Actus, whose long hair covers his ears and neck.

“Druids,” comes a limp reply. “They knew of the Owl but not his location,”

“Look at me, centurion,” Planus says softly. “What did they do to deserve this butchery?”

“These druids planned today’s raid.” No remorse shows in his narrow eyes. “Lord Skipio nailed them up for their insolence.”

“Legate banned crucifixions,” he reminds.

“Yes, to conserve metal.” Actus nods with a huff, “Lord Skipio removed their shin bones, then we broke and sharpened them for the nails.”

Planus steps into his gaze, a hollow stare his reward.

“Actus Ursius,” he asks. “What would your mother say if she saw you do these things?”

The young man’s brow dimples and his almond eyes widen after a moment.

“Lord Skipio commands me, and I follow.” A watery line falls down his cheek and his bottom lip quivers. “When he hurts, I hurt. When he is wronged, I am wronged.”

Planus cuffs the back of his neck, pulling the weeping man onto his shoulder.

“Go back to your barracks and wash this violence from your skin. While you slumber, wash it from your soul.” He searches the area for Skipio. “When you wake, put your uniform back on and remember that service to Rome comes before service to any one man, no matter how high your admiration.”

---

Titus no longer stomachs what he never sees.

Having lost his father to war, he colludes with his grieving friend’s violence by employing willful ignorance. These four druids possess fathers, no doubt, men in the trees weeping as their sons lay dead with asses high and stuck with spears.

These men, strewn lewdly over the boulders, died before their impalement, but this brings no solace when the teeth marks on their buttocks scream of brutal vices.

“Actus and the others have returned to uniform.” Planus approaches from the tents. “I’m overseeing their inspections—”

“—while our friend sinks further into depravity,” Titus grumbles.

“I tried speaking to him.” Planus liberates a spear from the druid’s anus, emitting a sickening squelch before blood escapes the wound. “He says no more than two words these days, much less any of his pain.”

“He did not attend his father’s cremation,” says Titus.

Planus drops the spear as if stung by it.
“According to him, he watched his father burn already,”

“The camp surgeon says he no longer visits,” Titus gripes further. “His burns won’t heal if not treated daily,”

“I don’t think he cares,” says Castor, joining them.

“You’re no better,” Titus scolds, his eyes glassy with anger. “Constant talk of this Owl and how his blood must atone for Drusus,”

Castor asserts, “The Owl will pay—”

“No,” cries Titus, making Castor’s shoulders jump. “That druid defends his space as we kill his brethren to take it,”

The angry man’s volume gives everyone around them pause.

“My absence put Drusus into a worthy clash that gave him an honorable death.” Emotion guides his pacing feet. “An honorable death is all a soldier can hope for, and forgetting this truth in a moment of rage speaks more of you than it does of your enemy,”

Titus points at the dead druids on the rocks.
“There’s nothing honorable in this butchery,”

“Am I dishonorable, now?” Skipio’s deep voice invades.

“By Jove,” says Planus, as his friend struts past in a loin cloth and boots. “Put your uniform on, man.”

“If this butchery offends,” Skipio asks. “Why stand within sight of it?”

Titus swings his head. “What happened to the honorable man who had the sense to hide his violent whims while serving as an example?”

“I’ve lost too much to hide my real nature.” Skipio gazes at the far trees, arms folded over his broad chest. “On those words, was I ever really an example worth following?”

“Your cock’s viciousness was always your private mess.” Planus stands between them. “Now, your savagery stains everyone, including your father’s legacy,”

“What festers within you,” Titus adds. “Kills our hearts,”

Castor comes alongside Skipio amidst the tension.

“We will find the Owl,” he promises.

Dark green eyes shift. “What of the new prisoner?”

Castor starts. “Why are you so fixated on that one?”

“The same could be asked of you,” Skipio counters.

“That baby-faced hard body,” Castor says. “Is nothing more than a dalliance,”

Planus calls to them, “Are we talking about the redhead?”

Skipio bumps Castor’s shoulder as he passes.

“He knows the Owl,”

“Are you sure?” Castor demands.

Actus appears, saluting Planus before coming to attention.

“Is that fire-crotch who witnessed my father’s death ready for questioning?” Skipio asks him, and Actus affirms.

“Wait,” Castor’s eyes widen. “Kelr was there that night?”

Actus scowls. “It has a name?”

“Yes, and our Castor knows it, doesn’t he?” Skipio leers. “It doesn’t take you long to seduce these Gallic brats, does it?”

“There are others?” Planus confronts him. “An interrogation tent isn’t a brothel stall,”

Castor defends, “Flirting with this one makes him talk,”

“Flirting?” Skipio grunts. “The one posing as a girl, is that what makes him talk?”

All eyes find Castor. “You questioned Alon?”

“I spoke with the women hiding him,” he answers.

Castor cocks his head. “The women love you, don’t they, Skipio?”

The man’s chiseled face hardens.
“Did you address me outside of protocol, Centurion?”

“Ha,” Titus interjects. “As if protocol means anything to you,”

Castor draws back. “Decurion, my apologies.”

“The one you call Kelr hates me.” Skipio pulls aside the front flap of his loin cloth and lets loose a stream of piss upon one of his dead victims. “The druidess bitch he followed hungered for my father’s blood, and he hungers for mine.”

Planus sucks his tongue as Skipio gives his cock a shake.

“He made no mention of you or the Owl,” Castor tells him. “I will speak to him—”

“-Talk to him with the scribe present,” Planus decrees. “I want every word he says documented,”

Castor salutes before jogging away, and Skipio enters the forest.

“Off he goes,” Planus observes. “To sew the ground with his seed,”

“We must speak to Caesar,” whispers Titus.

Planus shakes his head. “You know that he’s allowed Skipio his leave because it’s kept the nuisance raids in check,”

“I’m aware,” says Titus. “His method is effective. The locals are terrified,”

“Wouldn’t you be if some marauding monster roamed your land, raping every mouth and hole with a druid attached?” Planus says. “I brought this before our Legate, and do you know what he said?”

“He’s only buggering the druids,” Titus replies.

Planus turns to him. “You spoke to Labenius?”

“No, I spoke to Antonius,” Titus clarifies. “It seems that they’ve all conspired to formulate the same response,”

Planus claws at his chestnut hair, wetting his fingernails with sweat.

“We’ll still confer with Caesar,” Titus adds. “At least to have our thoughts recorded on their inaction,”

“Confrontation with this island’s central warlord looms close.” Planus stares warily at the trees. “I’ll not allow my friend to leave this place, the monster they’ve made him.”

---

Castor enters the tent and finds a uniformed no-name arranging his quills. Their eyes meet and, together, shift to the muscular redhead lying on the cot.

“They brought you here, bed and all?” asks Castor.

The man’s boyish face doesn’t fit his chiseled body.
“My language sounds strange when you speak it.”

“Yeoman.” Castor removes his sword. “You may leave us,”

The older man aims a suspicious look.

“I’ll call you back when I’m ready to question him,” Castor assures.

The man exits, leaving his bread and cheese on the table.

Castor takes the wheel-shaped loaf and breaks off a piece.
“Are you hungry, Kelr?”

The young man snatches the bread offered.
“Is that old geezer one of your druids?”

“Brutus?” Castor smirks. “No, he’s just a cleric.”

“What’s a cleric?”

Castor pulls off his armor, sensing the man’s focus on his body.

“Someone whose job is writing things.”

“Sounds like a druid to me,” he says, mouth full.

Castor sits beside him on the cot.
“Does your Owl write things?”

“He knows how to write,” he scoffs. “But he doesn’t write shit,”

“What does the Owl do?”

Curious eyes regard him. “What do you care?”

“I thought he was in charge,”

“Oh no,” Kelr snaps. “I’m in charge,”

Castor wipes a fleck of spit from his cheek.
“But he controlled the archers,”

“He uses his hand signs and orders my fighters around,” Kelr complains. “Before I know what’s happening, it’s already happened.”

Castor pouts. “What a pain in the ass,”

“You have no idea,” says Kelr.

Without invitation, Castor kisses his hairless cheek and tastes the warm vestiges of vinegar from the brine bath given to him upon his capture. Kelr responds, his slung, broken arm coming between them.

“I thought your druids were the wise ones,” says Castor.

“He may be wise, but he’s a freak.” Bright brown orbs shine like a boy tattling on his brother. “To him, fighting and fucking are one and the same.”

“Speaking of fucking.” Castor pulls his tunic over his head and reclines, “You haven’t told any of your fellow prisoners about me, have you?”

Kelr’s ogles his naked skin. “They’d kill me.”

“Do you all hate us that much?” Castor’s hands gently grasp his brawny shoulders. “Would your fellow prisoners kill the Owl if he had a Roman lover?”

“No, because he does in a sick, strange way.” Kelr’s tongue wets Castor’s nipple. “That crazy freak lurks in the high trees and watches that Lion-headed monster pleasure himself.”

Castor’s balls tingle as the Gaul suckles his chest.
“Why does he do that?”

“He’s got it in that ugly head of his,” says Kelr, grinding his arousal against Castor’s thigh. “The Lion is a gift from the Gods, just for him.”

Troubled, Castor carefully slips out from under him.
“You need to give me something more than that,”

Kelr collects himself. “I’ve answered every question,”

“Give me something I can tell my superior.” Castor creates a part in the man’s red hair with his fingers. “Or they won’t let me see you again,”

Kelr takes his hand and moves it to his crotch.

“We and the Ancalites no longer fight alone. What’s left of the Bibroci, the Segontiaci, and Cassi have joined us.” Kelr hums when Castor’s fingers dig into his cock. “You’d be fools to keep marching inland.”

“Does each tribe have a king?”

Humming an affirmation, he says, “Except the Ancalites,”

“The Ancalites, that’s the Owl’s tribe?”

“His father’s tribe.” Kelr nibbles on Castor’s collarbone. “His Belgic mother rules them now, and her brother is useless.” He chuckles. “Rumor says that the Owl is his son and not great Fintan’s.”

Suddenly, Skipio barges into the tent.
“What more of the Owl and his mother?”

The Gaul scrambles under the cot, and Skipio upsets it before yanking him to his feet.

“Stop,” Castor yells. “I can learn more from him,”

“You’re just giving him a good time!” Skipio punches Kelr in the stomach.

“Stop, Decurion, please,” Castor steers clear, knowing the pain of Skipio’s fists. “You kill him, and we get nothing,”

“Rival kings gather at the Tamasis,” Skipio mocks. “I got that much from the druids stupid enough to think I’d spare their lives if they sucked my cock.” He steps onto the small of Kelr’s muscular back, pinning him to the floor. “This bottom feeder knows where the Owl hides,”

“The Owl stalks you at every camp,” Kelr speaks into the fur-skin rug. “You need only watch the trees to find him spying on you,”

Skipio removes his foot when Castor translates.

“How does the fire-crotch know this?” he demands.

“He watches the Owl, watching you, watching the trees,” says Castor.

“You fuck the Owl?” Skipio takes Kelr by the throat. “How tight is that little ass of his?”

Kelr seethes in his native tongue.
“Your flesh is so foul the Gods vomited you out,”

“What did this dick-snot say?” he demands.

Castor folds his arms. “The Owl doesn’t fuck, he fights.”

Skipio tosses the Gaul to the floor and steps into Castor.

“The Owl considers fighting and fucking one and the same,” he tells him, and seeing the delight in his eyes, Castor grasps the horrid implication.

“Ask him where the Owl is this moment,” Skipio demands. “Tell him he dies if he doesn’t know.”

“Kelr,” Castor kneels to face him. “You must tell us where your army hides, or the Lion will be put to the knife.”

Blood drips from Kelr’s nose and wets his thin lips.
“I embrace death over treachery.”