XI – The Tamesa Encounter

Roman horses smell more of their kind across the river’s narrowest portion.

A timber barrier tops the opposite bank; its rampart is empty but for an elderly man favoring his staff—long white hair flaps on the wind, with rumors that he’s the oldest druid alive.

“This is as far as you go, Rome!” The archdruid’s grasp of Latin impresses, but his following words confuse his compatriots. “I do have an offer for you,”

Flaming heads rise along the wall, their masks swiveling in confusion.

“Negotiation is a most honorable path,” Caesar yells back.

“My loyalists will depart this fight,” says Ostin the Ageless, eliciting angry howls from warriors fluent in the Roman tongue. “But in return, I want The Lion brought to me in ropes.”

Laughter ripples through the legionnaires.

“I might fulfill that condition,” says Caesar with a grin. “If you are inclined to hand over The Owl and his mother,”

Hisses sound off behind the wall until finally, angry hands yank Ostin down.

Tension thickens the air and tightens the soul.

Caesar raises a hand and lets it fall, sending his fiercest cohort, the Seventh, into the water. Gauls from the continent swell their ranks. Prisoners fighting for their captors is a tradition older than the Roman war machine, for the desire to live outweighs a defeated man’s bitterness.

Briton hostages, however, sit idle at the camp, their exclusion down to their highest ranking manlet revealing the river’s unseen defenses, the array of deadly stakes just below the waterline.

Infantrymen close ranks and raise their shields to form the testudo, a grander version of the formation taken at Stour. They advance under the cover of their shields, inches coming little by little as engineers trawl through their legs, pulling up stakes.

The colorful turtle shell reaches the river’s middle, drawing a shout from within that flattens its tented top. Another cry sends swordsmen rushing across the leveled surface. Briton archers appear, lining the banquette, and let loose bolts that rain down upon the legionnaires.

Another shout reverberates behind the barrier, demanding the bowmen ignore the advancing swordsmen and focus on the shields under their feet; within moments, the shields become an unassailable bridge of needles.

Roman lancers step to the waterline and hurl their spears. Three of every five archers take a hit, and their replacements lack accuracy.

A pair of scaffolds rise like boxy sentries behind the newcomers, and slingers climb these birch bones, following a masked, agile man with a youthful body.

The slinger’s leader shouts with the same voice that ordered the bowmen to attack the shields. A skeleton marks his nakedness both in front and behind, and a wicker crown burns atop his head. He is the Owl King, whose painted face haunts many a legionnaire.

His sling-stone set, he spins the flax thong until it becomes a floating discus beside him. The circle hovers above his flaming head as he launches the stone with a jerk of his arm. The first lancer takes a hit to his iron facemask, sending blood from its holes. Another strikes a man’s throat, his legs buckling before he falls.

Each toss shortens the spear line, returning momentum to the Briton archers. With his last stone spent, the Owl spider crawls over the scaffold, his long arms and legs moving from one slinger to the next, his words directing stones to the shieldmen’s knees.

The testudo’s front collapses, exposing the men pulling up stakes.

Hanging from his platform like a bat, the Owl leads the incoming Briton spearmen to toss their javelins low, bringing fat, sharpened tips dangerously close to the stake-pullers. Dread grabs Caesar’s guts; young Planus leads those in the water.

A command travels down the line, legate to legate, until it finds the dark decurio, Titus. He orders his horse-bound archers to ignite their tips before raining fire upon the scaffold’s birch brackets. Flames devour the frame, felling slingers while their leader takes flight.

The gangling Owl leaps onto the banquette and focuses on something below.

Caesar worries, for when this druid focuses, he’s thinking, and when this druid takes time to think, Romans die.

Then, the skeleton-clad monster vanishes behind his side of the wall. Many moments pass before smoke engulfs the second scaffold, and its bones immolate. The tower teeters before a warning cry sends the Briton archers running.

The burning rostrum topples, breaking along the rampart and spilling its fiery top onto the riverbank. A lethal smolder billows into the Roman shieldmen, collapsing their formation.

Skipio, the son of Vitus Servius, enters the fray.

He plods into the shallows, wearing only a loincloth, boots, and a lion’s fleece on his head. Sword in hand, he calmly shepherds in soldiers to replace those struggling. He liberates an unconscious Planus from the water, tossing him onto a horse before slapping its rump to hasten its departure.

Actus and his swordsmen follow suit, taking the fallen to safer ground so their shield alternates can protect the new engineers.

Ever watchful, the Owl hops from one burly painted shoulder to another until he reaches his leader, Cassibelanus. The hulking warlord stands along the tower, doing little except observing. Hot words spill from the druid, his arms moving as he yells, and Cassibelanus listens coldly.

Suddenly, the Roman tortoise sheds its shell, shields return to their proper place, and swords emerge. Stakes by the hundreds drift downriver as Roman horsemen splash over them without hindrance. Infantrymen collide with the barrier wall, building stairs with their bodies and shields for a second cohort to ascend.

Cassibelanus scrambles toward the rising tide, his fiercest on his heels. Swords clash along the smoldering banquette as Briton defenders give everything to repel the climbing legionnaires. A Roman rope loops around a wall plank, and soon, there is another.

Hatchet in hand, the Owl cuts it, but he cannot get his leader’s men to stop stabbing at Roman helmets long enough to sever the others taking hold. 

The Lion returns to the water with six heavy-hooved beasts bred to pull, and the Owl slings his stone, striking one and sending it back across the river. Shieldmen rush to protect them as their handlers secure ropes around their necks.

A shout drives the thick-hoof horses out of the water, stretching the Roman ropes strewn about the enemy wall posts. Resistance pulls the beasts up on two legs, but they regain their footing and till onward, loosening a section of the barrier wall.

Fractures appear, their noisy growth lost amidst the din of sword strikes and profanity. A portion of the banquette wobbles like a loose tooth until an entire section breaks free and races across the water. Roman footmen mass through the opening and collide with the Britons in a deadly wave of stabbing spears and swinging swords. 

Never one to hurry, the Lion marches into the melee with a spatha in each hand. He cuts through the painted mob with abandon, severing limbs and spilling entrails in his wake. 

A flaming net lands upon the Roman mob. Thick with whale oil, the burning ropes ignite tunics and sear helmet combs. 

Skipio watches another blazing web descend, his burns throbbing as it blankets a trio of horsemen. Beasts buck when their hides taste fire, shedding their riders before fleeing to the river. He swallows his fear and dips his sword into the flaming cord, scooping it onto his blade and tossing it aside.

He sees the Owl holding a fiery torch through the smoke, where a clutch of rotund women stands by with a stretched net. The masked druid touches his torch to it before joining their strange dance to send it skyward.

Images of that night in the wicker shack haunt Skipio as he whistles for his beast, Luna. She gallops past, collecting him, and they rush the women. Each matron puts up a wicked fight, and his reputation for mercy to their gender proves false as he stabs each through the chest while the Owl watches.

Screams from the river signal that Hanni joins the fight. 

The massive gray beast lets loose a mighty trumpet, her compact trunk an agile hammer that sweeps away all those in her path. Armor plates protect her hide, and four archers man the tower on her broad back.

She is the largest horse these Brittonic beasts have ever seen, and her every step shakes the earth beneath them. When the pachyderm punches through another wall section, the beasts shed their riders and gallop for the trees. 

Warriors follow, fleeing a monster sent by the Gods.

“It’s just an elephant, you cowardly cunts,” the druid screams at his brethren, tearing off his headpiece and removing his mask. “Hannibal brought hundreds to conquer Rome, and now Rome conquers us with one!”

Skipio hears his words and, though unable to decipher them, admires the skull drawn on his bony face. A spear comes for the druid’s back, but the spry bitch launches himself into the air. Flipping backward, he twists and hurls his axe with lightning speed. It strikes the lancer, splitting his faceplate and cleaving his skull. 

The nimble druid charges over blood-soaked mud, snatching a hand-scythe from a fallen comrade before vaulting from a stable portion of the wall. Skipio marvels at the sheer gall of any man brave enough to hurl himself at a battle elephant.

The lissome Owl lands upon the golden plate between Hanni’s eyes. He scrambles up her forehead to the tower’s parapet and then drags his curved blade across the archer’s neck. 

A duo of archers notice and aim, forcing the druid to use his victim as a shield. After bolts riddle the man’s corpse, the druid rams him at the attackers, sending all three over the bulwark. 

Before the druid’s blade finds the final archer, a legionnaire with the narrowest eyes falls into the box. Without a preamble, Actus lunges, forcing the druid to hook his curvy blade into the beam and swing his lithe body around it. He breaks the archer’s nose with his foot, then traps the man’s head between his feet on his second orbit. He swiftly snaps his neck with a toe under the chin and his sole to the man’s cheek.

Tight quarters do not suit Actus, and when a sloppy chop exposes his back, the Owl stabs his hand scythe’s pointed tip into Actus’s nape. A piercing pain brings forth a scream, and as the metal retreats, it hooks into his armor collar and yanks it free.

Given a canvas of tunic-covered flesh, the Owl rips a line across the soldier’s shoulder blades, bringing the reedy-eyed man to his knees. Before he can slice his neck, however, a broad hand finds his chest and sends him across the box.

Much taller within spitting distance, the Lion’s bloody body glistens. 

Ignoring the splinters in his ass, Aedan the Anacalite stands and takes in the man’s corded pelvic folds, firm thighs, and those two dark nipples eager for a wet cockhead. Raw burns mark the skin over his left tit and upper arm, and this makes Aedan smile with pride.

Mossy greens flash before the Lion stabs his two swords into the parapet walls. His uneven nostrils flare when the Owl tosses aside his hand scythe.

“Don’t be shy, A-dawn,” says Skipio in Greek, the third testicle in neck jumping when he laughs.

The druid’s dark eyes glow at the sound of his name. Little fists rise in a sparring stance that provokes Skipio to raise a hand and wiggle two fingers. 

Aedan’s balled-up hands move in little circles, and when sure the movement catches his opponent’s attention, he kicks—missing the man’s jaw when a fist collides with his mouth.

Agony pulses through Aedan’s teeth as his back smacks the wooden railing. Blood seeps from his split lip and lands upon his teat. He drags a finger through it, collecting a slimy dollop before fixing his eyes on the Lion and sucking the digit clean.

“If you’re hungry,” the Lion grabs himself through his loin cloth. “I got something for you to gnaw upon,” 

Aedan serves the most malicious glare in his arsenal.

“That look, right there,” says Skipio. “I want to see that when I unload on your face.” ♡

The elephant stops moving. The battle carnyx falls silent.

There are no gods and no tribes. No Rome. No Tamesa.

Only Aedan and his Lion exist—until a spear strikes the ground between them.

“Kill him,” Bitch Face joins them in the box, bringing a beefy centurion with him.

The Lion steps away, giving the pretty Roman’s thug room to move.

Aedan’s eyes demand a reason, but the gorgeous Lion shrugs.

The hulking centurion reaches for him, and Aedan catches his arm, breaking it in half over his bony knee. He tumbles over the rail with his whelping victim, and the oaf softens his landing while breaking his neck.

Aedan takes the dead man’s spatha and straddles his chest. Anger courses through his heart as he hacks under the balding man’s chin. Like axing a tree root, it takes many furious swings before the head comes free.

“He’s so angry,” says a smitten Skipio.

“That wiry scumbag,” Castor stares in disbelief. “Killed your father,”

“My father killed his father,” says Skipio.

“He must die,” Castor cries. “For Drusus,”

Skipio purses his lips as if unsure.

“What version of Psyche runs foul within you?” Castor demands.

Skipio cannot answer, so he vaults over the tower’s side. The druid watches his descent, focusing on the upturned loincloth and his visible third arm.

“You stringy fuck,” Bitch Face snarls before jumping.

Aedan splashes through the shallows, severed head in hand, and pushes into the fighting mob. He hops over a horse and vaults off his back with a single hand. Long feet make lily pads of Roman shoulders until Aedan clears the melee.

He regards the crumbling fortress one last time as the strapping Lion strolls into view. Reed Eyes comes alongside him, freshly armored, while Bitch Face stalks past them, dropping his spear.

Aedan begins tugging at his cock.

“Keep it out so I can cut it off and choke you with it,” cries Bitch Face in his language.

Aedan brings the head in his hand to his erection and stabs it into its slimy mouth. Bitch-Face slows, his delicate features twisting in disgust. Laughter erupts from the Lion, a beautiful smile that shines like the sun. Reed Eyes, however, turns and vomits.

Warmth swells within Aedan at seeing the brutal Lion’s smile. He pulls out the corpse’s dry mouth, his arousal bouncing as he slaps the head across Bitch Face’s skull.

Skipio retrieves his former lover’s discarded lance.

“Give me that piece of the fire crotch,” he says to Actus, tying the tartan strip given to him to the lance’s staff.

The druid stands sure as the spear sails toward him, and when it impales the head, tearing it from his grasp, his cock spits onto the unconscious Castor’s hair.