I – The Lion

His name is Scipio Servius Lucius, or Skipio to those who call him a friend. He stands taller than most, with a powerful build, a sharply carved face, and a compelling mouth that no man resists. His shorn head gleams like ripe wheat, while his dark, moss-green eyes run deep.

Vitus Servius, Skipio’s father, is bald like his son. A burly patrician, he owns a profitable apple and pear orchard and a thriving walnut grove near the Alps. His only son eagerly trades farm life for the sword, and Vitus allows it, as he too serves Rome under the command of his oldest friend, Gaius Julius Caesar.

Skipio joins the cavalry and crosses the Alps for his first battle. Many of his boyhood friends, wealthy sons from the Larius lake region, join him, eager to prove themselves after four quiet years at the Belacius garrison. The excitement of impending battle turns to confusion when the invading Helvetii horde reveals itself as a throng of frightened migrants. Still, the call to attack comes, and the cavalry finds themselves clashing with swordless men and angry women protecting their children.

Victory leaves them hollow, their initial eagerness transforming into unease and disillusionment on the westward march.

Weeks become a month.

Skipio welters in melancholy until he offered redemption and a renewed sense of purpose by Publius Licinius Crassus.

A man of Skipio’s years and temperament, Crassus takes on a mission from Imperator Caesar to the Armorica region. Crassus rallies the Alpine cohorts, bringing them into his legion as they ride to overcome the coastal Gauls. During their time in Armorica, Crassus teaches by example, demonstrating effective leadership during the hostage negotiations with the Armoricans. Unfortunately, his approach—treating them as equals—does not please Imperator Caesar, who intervenes decisively to resolve the situation.

Skipio, determined to restore his honor and earn Minerva’s favor, follows Crassus into battle and participates in the siege of many Sotiatian cities in Aquitania. Titus joins Skipio, driven to distinguish himself through brave deeds, while Planus resolves to capture the attention of his mother’s cousin, Caesar. As the campaign concludes, Crassus reunites with the legions and returns Skipio to his father in Hispania.

Skipio, Titus, and Planus secure a place in Caesar’s new Legio X Equestris, yet elevation to the rank of decurio cannot keep Skipio from action. Never one to watch from the flanks, he rides in with his turma of thirty-two, wielding his gladius with the boldness he flaunts at the brothel for painted boys.

The takeover of the Morini fort marks three years since Skipio left home to fight. With their stronghold in flames, the last Morini flees to fight another day, while Rome sets camp a mile east of an estuary.

Soon after, construction on Gesoriacum begins. Days pass without foes, save a few women venting on the hillocks. They bare their backsides and break wind, amusing the Alpine-born, while those south of the Po show revulsion. Skipio’s tolerance is simple: no Alpine Roman can shake his family tree without a Gaul falling out.

Vitus, called Servius Tribune by the ranks, finds Skipio crouched near the mustering field. Restless aediles loiter in exercise tunics, idly swatting flies with swords. Publius Crassus sits tensely on his horse, gripping the reins, russet hair slicked by rain.

Vitus asks, “Why are we not practicing formations?”

“Decurion Servius says something’s not right,” Crassus tells him.

Titus Labenius, bald beneath his leather cap, draws beside them, his steed snorting. “Our enemy plans a sunrise attack,” he warns. “We must assign formations before nightfall.”

“I trust Servius the Younger,” says Crassus. “I’ll drill troops once he clears the field.”

Vitus winks at the frustrated Labenius, then strolls toward his son.

The meadow stretches toward a coastal hillock, where coarse grass grows thick from salt-soaked bedrock. Vitus moves quietly behind Skipio, observes his posture, and studies the field to spot what’s caught his son’s eye.

“Watching the weeds grow, Servius Decurion?”

Skipio remains crouched, eyes fixed on the field, absently turning a leafy twig between his fingers.

“See the lighter grass in straight patches?”

“An abandoned farm?”

“There would be uniform lines from years of plowing,” Skipio says. Like his father, he sees things from the inside out. “It’s as if the moles lived here and then left. But moles never leave.”

“What does that tell you?”

Skipio blinks. “The moles are Gauls.”

Crassus, an astute strategist, assigns Skipio the task of mapping the enemy tunnels. The Servian heir, however, offers a different approach, enlisting Planus and his engineers to uncover the first of many hollow corridors with their shovels. Most prove too narrow for a grown man.

A brave slave boy, enticed by the promise of roast duck, crawls into an exposed trough. When he surfaces several yards behind the battle camp, Skipio orders craftsmen to shape clay pipes. Planus and his men feed these pipes into the passage. Soon, smoke fills the pipes and floods the ducts; white wisps rise from the meadow. Spotting the smoke, Skipio suspects spies in the trees and orders archers to assemble. The archers fake a hasty drill and, at each halt, covertly seal the smoking air holes with wet mud.

Skipio orders those on the overnight watch to keep the pipe fires burning.

Dawn arrives quietly—sunrise brings no battle horn, only the slow stirring of smoke.

Suddenly, the night watchmen’s horn cuts through a wave of cries. Across the meadow, unarmed men in skins dig, while their women sob. Silence blankets the Roman ranks as Gallic men pull small bodies from the earth.

The obscene harvest cuts at Skipio’s heart.

“You didn’t put those babes in this battle,” says Vitus.

“I couldn’t fit inside, so Minerva sent me a child.”

“What does that tell you?” asks Vitus.

“We could’ve collapsed it instead. No need to choke them out.”

“If their goal were only to set fire to our munitions, there would not have been so many air holes.” Vitus grabs his son’s shoulder. “You didn’t put those babes in this battle. Now, dry your tears before the others see you.”

---

Twilight falls over the battlefield.

Rome battles for a strategic beachfront over the hillock, while the Morini, backs pressed to the sea, struggle to survive another day.

A suffocating fog drifts across the grass, reeking of salted earth and burning wood. Chariots, druids with flaming heads at the reins, race from the cloud in frightening masks, terrifying the Roman lancers. One hand controls the horse, the other hurls poisonous gourds. Piercing cries rise from these snarling, demonic predators, their bulging eyes promising murder from behind mask holes.

The spearmen commander falls, and the novice, Castor Junius, takes control. Voice quaking with fear, the young man yells for his brothers to hold the line, making them easier targets for druids.

Castor Junius, beautiful as a maiden and lean as a teenage boy, no longer endures Skipio’s affections. Still, the Servian heir protects his former lover.

Skipio lowers his silver mask and charges in on his battle-mare, Luna.

Vitus reaches the front line before his son. He orders the spearmen to form a wall as Skipio dismounts to join Castor.

“Hold the line, and do not falter,” Vitus shouts, his voice carrying the weight of his station.

Skipio grips a spear, planting his knee deep in the mud.

“Give their steeds a path to escape,” he yells down the line. “Or grant them a noble death!”

A collective shout rises among them.

The first druid chariot, hot on Mercury’s heels, fails to swerve in time. The painted driver turns his carriage hard as the horse stumbles.

Skipio breaks formation, deftly slicing the beast’s tethers. The freed chariot slides into the spear wall—its wooden cab shattering on iron points. The collision hurls its brawny, masked driver, his flaming head spitting embers into the night.

The druid’s body hits the earth, rolling limp as a discarded doll. His owl mask flies off, landing on Vitus’s boot and scorching the leather.

Vitus kicks free of the flaming headdress. In one powerful motion, he swings his spatha twice, severing the dead druid’s head from his shoulders.

A shrill cry breaks the silence behind Vitus, revealing another druid sobbing behind a painted mask. Suddenly, the druid hurls his axe. Skipio darts past his father, shield raised, intercepting the blow. He lands, tosses his shield aside, and brandishes both swords in a fluid motion. The weeping druid vanishes as quickly as he appeared, taking his fallen comrade’s head with him.

Rome is victorious and Skipio finds himself standing in a ruddy soup of severed limbs and foul entrails. He leads the weary equestrians to the ridge, their bodies and spirits spent as they admire the vast, restless surf. This isn’t their Mare Nostrum—it is an untamable sea on the edge of the known world.

A shadow looms on the horizon—the angry island that never forgets.

---

The Roman year begins on Mars’s birthday. For Skipio, this marks his fourth year away from home. During the festivities, his father gives him command of ten teenage Gauls. These orphans, conscripted by Caesar’s conquest, consider Skipio a good leader when he funds their training and improves their rations. He asks about their holidays, granting them a feast of roast squirrel and spice-wine for the equinox.

Grateful, the youths assemble for inspection with new horses in fresh tack and heads shaven. Daggers gleam from uniform belts. Their round shields shine, sometimes serving as dinner plates during scouting missions.

After his inspection, Skipio seeks out his old friend, Planus Caesar. In the Tribune-quarter, he finds the cavalry engineer grumbling to Vitus about their catapults.

Lean and sharp-witted, Planus stands out among the fair-haired Julii with his chestnut locks and cherrywood eyes. Skipio’s father listens with a mirthful eye, grinning as Skipio joins them.

“Did we ever find that bald druid’s head?” Skipio asks.

“I believe,” Vitus says, “that lanky, hatchet-wielding holy man took it with him.”

Castor and his lancers saw the owl man,” Planus winks at Vitus before baiting Skipio. “They bet his shorn head and strong brow mark him as a Servii.

Skipio feigns outrage with his mouth ajar and eyes wide.

“Not our line,” laughs Vitus. “What little Gallic blood swims in us comes from the Lepontine.”

A couple of young Gauls from Skipio’s unit overhear and glance at one another, whispering admiringly about their new commander’s diluted bloodline as he bows politely to his father and says farewell. The teens linger behind, following until Skipio trails after Planus toward the shoreline.

The sea breeze whips their tunics, forcing Planus to raise his voice as he praises the older engineers who work with spit and whatever is at hand. Skipio glances back to find the teens have gone.

Not long into their stroll, Skipio and Planus encounter three infantrymen shoving a struggling Gallic woman between them. The matron fights desperately, her resolve wavering as her clothes tear. Skipio’s heart goes cold, his stomach churning with images of his baby sister and mother. He strides forward to intervene.

“We rape no women here,” Skipio declares, hauling the sobbing matron up. She tightens her ripped shawl and flees across the field.

Skipio confronts the trio.

“If your decurion thinks otherwise, he can discuss it with me.”

All but one heeds quietly.

The third man scoffs, “That’s rich coming from you.”

Skipio steps into him. “Heard of me, have you?”

He is as tall as Skipio, but being a Servii, Skipio never fears such differences.

The man replies, “Everyone knows about you, Servius.”

Skipio’s chuckle is cold and knowing, as if relishing the tease, before he drives a fist into the man’s solar plexus.

The man folds to heap upon the ground.

Skipio remarks, “It’s a good thing you’re not to my liking.”

The two gather their leader and help him across the field.

Planus laughs. “Such righteousness from a man who enjoys forcing his lovers.”

Skipio fixes him with a hard stare. “I make no apologies for my desires. Women and girls have no place in that kind of roughness. They’re outmatched against a man’s strength. It’s not a fair fight.”

Planus objects, “Sex isn’t a combat sport.”

Skipio says, “We shall agree to disagree.”

Planus leans in, his tone gentle but pointed: “Tell me, when did pleasure curdle into violence for you? We grew up together, always chasing men. Yet I’ve never wanted to crush someone I care for.”

Skipio mulls the question.

He then asks, “Do you recall our first trip to Rome?”

Planus answers, “I’ll never forget it. Our balls were bald, and our heroes infallible.”

“Remember that bestiary?” asks Skipio, “where the trainers were breeding a lioness?”

Planus conjures the scene. “She didn’t want the male they shoved into her yard.”

“She wouldn’t let him mount her,” Skipio says. “Out of nowhere, her young son appears and jumps the older male.”

“That I remember clearly.” Planus walks ahead of him. “It was the first time I’d seen a male animal attempt to breed another male. It was rather exciting given my immature proclivities.”

Skipio’s green eyes glow. “That young lion wanted a violent rutting all along.”

Planus stops walking. “My friend, you and I saw a vastly different show. The older lion nearly chewed off the younger’s leg. The pitiful thing had no means to run when that old cat mounted him.”

“Wait up!” Castor’s airy voice arrives before they hash matters further. The petite lancer jogs toward them, his blue tunic flapping in the wind. “Those druid-drawn chariots hail from that island across the channel.”

Skipio says, “Caesar made landfall there last year.”

“While we were in Aquitania,” Planus says, nodding.

Castor whispers, “The isle is called Britannia, though most of the older men call it Defeat.”

Skipio grins. “My father claims it was a reconnaissance mission.”

Planus cracks wise. “Recon, indeed. The sort where the enemy tribes meet you onshore to confront your fleet before you can land.”

Skipio and Planus laugh heartily while an anxious Castor surveys the area for listeners.

“What says Caesar of this newfound information?” Planus asks.

“We sail after the last snow,” Castor tells him, eyes bright.

Planus says, “He truly hates us, doesn’t he?”

“Wintering us this close to the coast,” Skipio says, nodding.

“Our enemies conspire on that island,” Castor scolds.

“More glory for the common man,” Planus mocks, then eyes Castor. “There’s no reason for a campaign across the water but to feed Rome slaves and build Caesar’s legend.”

Skipio drapes an arm over Planus’s shoulders. “Do you doubt the intentions of your mother’s cousin?”

“His intentions were laid bare when he tasked us to murder unarmed civilians at Bibracte,” Planus notes Castor’s concern. “Never fear, little brother. I follow orders and only question them among my closest friends.”

Castor pouts, “Your bitterness is unsightly.”

“It’s not his fault,” Skipio says. “Our Planus still pines for that Veragros.”

“Quiet, you,” his friend snaps, walking ahead.

Castor follows. “Did someone catch your heart?”

Planus answers with silence.

“He fell in love with a reedy Gaul,” Skipio rhymes, “whose long hair looked the color of straw.”

“Does it matter?” Planus turns. “He’s dead.”

Castor’s smile fades at Veragros’ name.

“If he’s dead,” says Skipio. “Then whose serving my mother her midday wine?”

Planus gives a start. “Welletrix lives?”

“Wait, the one called Welle?” Castor asks, then nods. “I took him to the Servian plantation myself.”

Planus turns to his friend, eyes wide like the moon.

“I saw how you looked at him,” Skipio confesses. “So, I purchased him.”

Boyish laughter infects Planus. “You’ve never been so thoughtful!”

“He’s not yours,” Skipio says, arms folded. “He belongs to my house, and since you’re not the sort to ravish a man, you best behave when visiting.”

“Praise the Fates,” Planus beams. “I’m going to write him this very day.”

Castor laughs as the bearded man sprints for their tent city. Sunlight catches his amber curls, filling Skipio with a familiar ache. Skipio seizes the young lancer’s throat and hungrily devours his soft lips.

Castor’s lips open and his teeth defend with soldierly strength.

Skipio breaks free before he’s bitten.

“I told you,” Castor coughs, holding his neck. “No more!”

Skipio comes for him again. “You said you loved me.”

Castor presses back against the rocks. “Your ‘love’ was exciting—now it just hurts.”

Skipio reaches out, but the lancer draws his dagger.

“Touch me again,” he says. “And I report you to Crassus.”

“You raise a blade to me,” Skipio says, voice strained with a mix of hurt and arousal. “Knowing such a threat hardens my cock?”

“This isn’t one of your amorous games,” Caster says through gritted teeth. “I will file a formal complaint with Crassus.”

Skipio huffs, “Does he know of your lust for men?”

“I told him last month in the baths when he saw your teeth marks on my backside.” Castor’s fearful eyes seek witnesses. “I revealed my habits because I knew you’d use them against me.”

“I never forced you.” Skipio’s longing turns angry. “Did Crassus tell my father?”

“Lord Vitus was told of my wounds without being told my name.” Castor lowers the knife. “Do you know what he said? He told Crassus that no self-respecting Roman would allow himself used in such a way.”

“You call my love disrespect?” Skipio demands.

Castor hardens. “Love shouldn’t make a man bleed.”

Disappointment weighs on Skipio’s heart.

“If nothing binds our bodies, then steer clear of me.”

Castor reaches for him. “Don’t be like this, please.”

“Leave me be!” Skipio slaps the young man’s hand away. Frustration burning, he avoids the young man’s gaze as he marches for the trees, anger and embarrassment wrestling inside him.

Under mottled shade, he hunts for the most monstrous, those with roots crawling above the soil. A thick oak calls to him, bark peeling to reveal smooth cambium. He drops to his knees within the root bed and finds a creche that fits him perfectly.

Skipio peels off his tunic, already tumescent as his buttocks meet the cool dirt. Eyes shut, he works his arousal with one hand, the other gripping a skinny lateral root—smooth and unyielding, like a lean young plebe’s leg. He tightens his grasp, nails digging into its hardness.

Leaves rustle overhead, but the tree does not resist or fight. Skipio’s arousal ebbs at the tree’s passivity, and frustration knots his features as handling his diminishing flesh feels like pushing a limp rope.

“Fight me,” he begs, on his back and staring up into the swaying branches. “Fight!”