Scipio and the Legio X Equestris winter over in Belgica before setting sail for Britannia.
III – The Calm Before
byRoman victory kills more than those on the battlefield. Like locusts, the legions consume everything. No farm provides a haven to the starving, not with crops stolen and livestock slaughtered. The forest is gone, its slender boughs fueling barracks stoves, and its stoutest trunks now backbones for Caesar’s new fleet.
Longhouses stretch across the white expanse. Half-built ships line the shore for miles. Skipio’s boots crunch over snow as frigid air lashes his wool pants. An irksome beard shields his face, and golden coils atop his head keep his ears warm.
At his barracks door, he knocks snow from his boots, the thump echoing in the stillness. Cold freezes all sounds but Luna, his white mare, who whinnies from the stables. Luna remains his surest ally against homesickness. Her name comes from the gray quarter-moon above her eyes, which his mother says marks her as Neptune’s sacred gift to Diana.
The weeks Luna spent reaching the Gallic frontier blur together. Her first battle is now just one of many in Skipio’s memory. A whiff of hay and horseshit conjures the day he left for school in Mediolanum. On that day, the mare raced alongside the essedum that collected him, until the plantation’s wall stopped her.
Skipio enters, savoring faint warmth.
Incense hides his bunkmates’ rabbit supper, but their stale body odor lingers. He shares these cramped quarters with childhood friends Titus Flavius and Planus Caesar, fellow members of the colonial elite. Their three cots barely fit in the cabin. The central cot, a lumpy pile, hides Planus. Titus sits hunched on a stool over a concrete fire bowl, his nappy beard catching dust in the light.
“Servius Legate slipped out before dawn,” Skipio says about his father. “He hunts another forest.”
The color of fine leather, Titus regards him with dark, mirthful eyes. “Haven’t we enough ships?”
Skipio joins him by the fire bowl. “Five legions, thousands of cavalry. A few biremes won’t carry us all.”
Planus, still beneath his blanket, teases, “His preferred mode of travel.”
Titus scowls at the bed lump. “I hate leaving my horse below decks.”
“She swims better than you do,” Planus laughs.
Titus puts his hands together and says, “Let’s pray Fortuna provides us a beach upon which to land.” Unlike most men raised along the Larius Lacus, he never took to water. Many mock his inability since all his brothers still outswim their peers. One now dives for amber off Capri.
Titus shivers before looking at Skipio. “How much snow fell overnight?”
“Not more than yesterday,” Skipio says, pulling off his boots. “Shipbuilders cleared most of it already.”
Planus shoves the tangled blankets aside and sits up, unconcerned by the cold.
“You think Labenius will let the builders stay?” Titus asks, looking between his friends.
Planus responds with a hardened brow, “The same man who drove us to slaughter migrating innocents at Bibracte? No. He’ll work those craftsmen to death and then put them on the first boat out.”
Titus and Skipio exchange knowing looks; the Julii in Mediolanum wish Planus to serve their interests in the Senate, but his social conscience won’t allow it.
The flaming wood crackles, daring Skipio. He touches the fire bowl’s searing rim, seeking the thrill of pain, and recoils with a smirk.
“You know it’s hot enough to burn,” Titus scolds.
“Yes,” Planus says. “That’s why he touches it.”
Titus asks, “Any word on that well-dressed Gaul from Britannia?”
“Mandubracius,” Planus supplies.
“He claims he’s royal,” Skipio says. “Is he royal?”
“All I know,” says Planus, “is that he brought Kombius back.”
Titus turns to Planus, careful to keep his blankets on his shoulders. “Your thirst for lemon-haired Gauls never ends.”
Years of war provide the colonial elite with numerous opportunities to mingle with tribal nobility. The smooth-talking Planus leads his peers with Gallic romances. Like Skipio, he prefers a man’s intimate touch.
Skipio tests the bowl’s heat. “That prince gave my father an account of their main river, the Tamesa.”
“I wouldn’t trust a traitor,” Titus says.
“He betrays no one in his mind, as his people serve a new king. Aligning with us is how he’ll get his throne back,” Planus explains, then stretches with a yawn. “His royal rudeness is why we’re working through winter.”
Planus finds the self-styled King of the Trinovantes, uncouth. Bulky and bearded, gravel-voiced, the man bathes nightly in a hot iron tub, then fills himself with Roman wine and tells anyone with ears of his longing to rule again.
He smiles, “He was appalled when the goose arrived.”
“You ate goose?” Titus sulks.
Skipio, glowering, fills his cup with lavender tea.
“We ate rabbit, again.”
Coastal camps provide seafood at first. After a year, even Roman nets go empty. With the snow comes a reliance on camp trappers. Then, as the trees vanish, rabbits become the main food source. This shift in their meals marks yet another change, felt in every conversation around the fire.
“Imagine his horror if we served him a rabbit.” The dull ache in Skipio’s fingertips excites his senses. “Those islanders shun rabbit, goose, and chicken.”
Titus furrows his brow, cursing the geese and their seasonal migration. “How does one regard such a tasty bird as unappetizing?”
“It’s not about taste,” says Planus. “To the Gauls, all fowl are sacred.”
Skipio spits a mouthful of tea onto the coals and holds his face over the steam. “They’ve no issue raising roosters to kill each other for sport.”
“You’re telling me fowl populations run unchecked in Britannia?” Titus huffs a laugh. “It’ll be a paradise for the camp hunters.”
“No, I suspect only royalty and the religious abstain,” Planus clarifies. “Common people get hungry, and hungry people eat what’s common.”
“Speaking of hunger,” Titus hugs himself against the chill and regards Skipio. “How is Castor faring?”
The legion’s most beautiful spearman, the younger Castor Junius, joined them at school in Mediolanum. Born in Comum, his brilliance marked him a prodigy who might have avoided military service—save his fondness for men in uniform.
“He’s got a new lover,” Planus says.
Skipio focuses on the fire. “And I’m happy for him.”
Titus and Planus make eye contact, then share a laugh.
“I am,” he insists, glaring at them.
Planus pulls blankets to his chin. “Don’t you miss catching him with a choke?”
“I’ve no use for a man who fears my desires,” Skipio says.
Titus wonders, “Perhaps women are more inclined to your brutal lusts?”
Skipio’s grimace makes both men crow.
“When did you start hating women?” Titus laughs.
“He doesn’t hate women,” Planus explains. “He just doesn’t like their bodies.”
“Big tits are wonderful,” Titus proclaims. “You’d enjoy punching them.”
“I’d rather bite an ass,” Skipio admits.
“Yes,” Planus says. “Your teeth left quite an impression at the baths. Several supple posteriors can attest to that.”
The fairest men approach Scipio Servius Lucius like wanderers in a flower garden seeking the boldest bloom. They lust for his cock but soon flee from his violent passions.
“Why would they let you bite them that hard?” Titus wonders. “Though I’ve seen a few bitten tits in my time.”
“Teats are tasty,” Skipio muses. “So long as they’re not attached to flabby bags.”
“How now!” Planus wags a finger. “That’s no way to speak of the esteemed Pompey’s ample chest!”
Titus grins broadly, and Skipio flashes a toothy smile.
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is Caesar’s most formidable frenemy. The two once ruled Rome together with a third, but their alliance soon became fraught with tension. After achieving his legislative goals, Pompey orchestrated Caesar’s exile to the north. He married Caesar’s daughter, Julia—a political means of tying himself to the man.
Once in the north, though, Caesar found new allies among provincial elites. One example is Skipio’s father, a friend from his military days. Others are colonial patricians, such as Castor’s family, the Junii. The Junii clan despises Pompey. He secured the Senate’s approval to award his retiring soldiers with farmland adjacent to the Junii estate.
“I warned that boy,” Titus confesses. “Castor was wise enough to earn a seat in our classroom, but foolish to ignore my warning about you.”
“You spoke ill of me?” Skipio mopes.
“We’ve all spoken ill of your vicious carnality,” says Planus.
Titus laughs, “I bet he thought he could change our Skipio.”
“Change him, indeed,” Planus says, stifling a laugh. “As if Skipio shat his pants.”
“No man changes me,” Skipio declares.
“The first time Castor showed at muster, bruised and crying,” Titus recalls, “I knew he wouldn’t last with you.”
“I’m an acquired taste,” Skipio brags.
“Indeed,” says Planus. “A rare few develop a taste for a punch in the face.”
Titus yawns. “Does your father know?”
“I do not discuss my sexual habits with Vitus,” says Skipio.
Titus says, “My father took me to my first brothel.”
“Yes,” Skipio pinches his nose bridge. “We’ve heard this story many times.”
Planus says, “My father died before my virginity did.”
“Yes,” says Skipio. “I’ve heard that fact just as many times.”
“My taste for women must bore you both.” Titus glances between them. “I’ll refrain from regaling you with tales of being balls-deep in a waif half my age.”
“How now,” Planus quips. “You should cease regaling us with tales of being balls-deep in women twice your age.”
“That last one,” Skipio laughs at his friend. “Her husband wanted your woolly head on a stick.”
“The old codger chased him for eight blocks,” Planus roars.
“She claimed her man worked nights,” Titus tells them. “I didn’t know he worked those nights on the street outside her door.”
Planus says, “I’m shocked he never issued an arrest warrant.”
“Speaking of warrants,” Titus grabs a blanket from Planus’s pile and drapes it over his fuzzy head. “Why has our Skipio never been arrested?”
“Not for the Servian name,” Planus assures. “Vitus would let him rot in the cells for what he doesn’t know.”
“He suspects well enough,” Skipio says, then turns boastful. “I break no bones, and I break no laws. At the brothel, I’m clear about my intentions before throwing my hands.”
“Do you draw up a contract?” Planus teases, but Skipio’s cat-that-ate-the-songbird expression rouses stern curiosity. Planus repeats, more pointedly, “Do you draw up a contract?”
Titus goes wide-eyed. “Written on a scroll?”
“Verbal.” Skipio leaves the fire bowl and strips naked but for his socks. At his bed, he pulls back the fur blankets, revealing a chubby girl no more than twelve. “I tell them what I give, and they tell me what they’ll take.” His pointing thumb orders her out, her heavy tunica falling down over her little legs as she finds her feet.
“How long has she been here?” Titus asks.
“You?” Planus accuses. “Honoring a Ganymede’s boundaries?”
The child pulls on her deerskin boots.
“She’s been here since muster.” Skipio pulls a leather sack of dried meat and a pouch of roasted nuts from the trunk beside his cot and hands them to the girl. “She warms my bedding and toilet seat.” He then regards Planus. “As for my whores, I honor what I negotiate. Always.”
The braided girl rushes to the door, a strip of jerky hanging from her mouth.
“My linens are always frigid.” Titus grouses. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because it’s wrong,” Planus scolds him. “It’s bad enough we’re conscripting her brothers to fight and working her sisters in the shipyard.” His attention returns to Skipio. “Negotiate? You mean, wear them down until you get what you want?”
“Whores cannot be worn down.” Skipio slips into bed, relishing the lingering warmth from the girl. “Novices like Castor, though, let you get away with enough to keep it exciting.”
Titus turns toward Planus. “Why is he like this?”
“He’s always been diligent,” Planus replies with a shrug. “Kicking the shit out of a man before you rut him takes work.”
Skipio’s eyes grow heavy. “I’ve yet to find a man with enough fight in him to satisfy me.”
Planus lies down, pulling the covers over his head. “Most men hear the story of Pluto and Proserpina and learn what not to do. Skipio hears the same story and uses it as a guide.”
“Novices are fun at first,” Skipio mumbles sleepily, “but they catch emotions in their gut and soon become tiring.”
Planus speaks through his blankets, “You mean, they soon tire of you?”
“No one tires of me,” Skipio boasts, sleep taking hold.
Titus wonders, “How do you not tire of yourself?”
Outside, more snow brings another mantle of white, muffling the world by midday. The hush continues into the night, as the next shift of legionaries stirs to the demands of a new moon.
The cold endures, and winter wages her daily battle, forcing the legions to clear every cave they find. They decimate the bear population, taking pelts, teeth, claws, and meat. Mountain cats cannot withstand the onslaught, and no warren goes unmolested, for rabbit fur warms hands better than leather.
The onset of spring brings warmer days. In this transformative era, Proserpina reunites with her mother, Ceres, and Rome ushers in the new year by celebrating the birth of Mars and the arrival of new supplies from Hispania.
Temperate days soon give way to hot ones.
Without trees, pollen chokes the air. Bright flowers spread, devouring the grass with their smelly blooms while masking the best herbs and safest mushrooms. Cooks diligently prepare rations, craftsmen tirelessly forge armor plates, and legionnaires, their beards shorn and hair freshly cut, restart their spirited drills.
Days grow long by mid-summer as an influx of Gallic youths choose service over labor. Equites lead their horses to greener pastures while captives lead workhorses in dragging ships to shore. Titus tragically loses his second-in-command. A man of remarkable skill, the centurion breaks his hip after a snake startles his horse. His accident leads the camp to buzz over who might fill this vacant position.
The answer comes in the form of Drusus Valerian Terentius, a young man whose extensive equine knowledge impresses Skipio. After he becomes Castor’s new lover, Skipio ceases their pleasant conversations around the watch fire.
Gossip abounds among the cavalry of Skipio’s indifference, and despite many subtle observations from Planus, the master of verbal nets, Skipio remains dispassionate.
Sol crosses the heavens evenly for many weeks, but grows slower in summer’s final month, when the legions sail for Britannia.
Rome’s flotilla contains eight hundred ships, some belonging to profiteers and slavers. Titus sails seven days out with the merchants, leaving Drusus his turma on the crossing. Skipio combines his men with Planus’s, leading them onto the same ship with Drusus and the archers. Hundreds of cohorts pack in with them, taking up valuable space.
Along the surface deck, Skipio happens upon Castor and Drusus, arms threaded and foreheads touching. Such tenderness turns Skipio’s stomach. It’s not jealousy he feels—it is anger. He cannot give and accept affection like most men, so when he sees it in the wild, he is averse.
There’s nothing wrong with him. Not everyone lusts delicately. Someday, Skipio will find a man capable of desiring his brutality, and the brothel will most certainly charge him a fortune to take that man home.
At sunrise, the flotilla departs from the continent.
Skipio, an equestrian long before these wars, is nose blind to the horseshit. Still, he praises the engineers for designing a trough along the length of the ship. Below it, the lowest ranks shove flat-iron brooms from bow to stern, pushing the fallen dung out through openings in the rear.
An attentive decurio, he forgoes resting on this six-hour journey. He walks among his young Gallic charges, talking to them as they quell their nerves by brushing the tension from their horses. The elder Romans among them say little, their brows bent with disastrous memories of the first island landing. Planus performs the same rounds, strolling among his men and Drusus, with the archers, before both reconvene with Skipio.
“You think they’ll be waiting for us?” asks Drusus.
“The tribes greeted Caesar on his last landing.” Skipio eyes Planus impishly. “Hundreds of thousands, all ready to chop our horse’s legs for stew and take a Roman head to decorate their chariots.”
“Don’t tell the boy such things,” Planus scolds, cuffing the anxious Drusus about the neck. “The beheadings are true, dear boy, but a Gaul, no matter where his birth, would sooner eat a man than a horse.”
Laughter ripples through Gallic squads.
“What do they eat?” asks Drusus.
“Repelling a legion is hungry work,” Planus needles further, winking at Skipio. “And we Romans are rather tasty.”
More laughter comes from the older ranks as Drusus shakes his head. “Castor warned me about you.”
“Fear is normal,” says Planus. “But the natives aren’t monsters, Drusus, they’re men.”
“If the druids we faced are any indication,” Drusus says, “they’re also master strategists.”
“Not every islander is a druid,” Skipio says.
“Indeed,” adds Planus. “And not every druid is a man.”
Drusus seems bothered by this. “Will there be more women on the battlefield?”
“They’ve something to fight for,” says Skipio, nodding. “Just like their sons.”
Drusus fingers his horse’s mane.
“I want a chariot from Britannia.”
“Minus the painted warrior driving it?” asks Planus.
Drusus leans onto his horse. “I had a dream that I swam from the continent in my armor and helmet. But I lost my helmet, and didn’t drown until I came ashore.”
Skipio and Planus exchange soulful looks.
“We’ll be touching sand soon,” Skipio teases. “Hold your breath.”
Drusus follows him to a port-side pisshole, and through it, a landmass looms within a veil of hot sea mist.
“How does it look?” Planus yells up at them.
“Fuckable,” says Skipio.
Laughter rings through the hold, but Drusus stares ahead, jaw set.