IX – The Slaughter Arena

This violent summer is the hottest in memory.

Bitch Face, the pretty Roman, covers the dead farmer and her children while his brothers hack away at her barley field. He casts an anxious gaze across the field at the forest.

Deep within the trees, Aedan the Owl squats on a high branch, his foot rising so his toe can scratch the itch behind his ear. He watches Bitch Face, whose rage over a slaughtered lover burns hot, and grins. This rare show of emotion unsettles his cadre of most loyal, awaiting him on the forest floor.

The leader of this Roman harvest, known on the wind as Gaius Trebonius, grows impatient and commits more to the reaping. His decision is an anticipated mistake. Aedan drops from his perch, his feathery shoulder guards flapping about his masked face.

His warriors rise the moment his long feet strike the dirt. Unlike other war parties, the Owl’s faction employs no fierce charge or hearty battle cry. They emerge with a deliberate slowness, a blue mass flanked by horse-drawn chariots that roll silently over the grass. Roman watchmen, eight in number, die first, their isolation ensuring their cut throats go unseen.

Aedan orders one of his bitches to ignite the whale oil they spilled days ago around this very field, but before that, her torch kisses his wicker crown.

Fire shapes a border around the harvesting legions, their chaotic panic a tasty sight. Trebonius struggles to quell his men’s terror, but to his horror, the horsemen charge away from their trapped comrades to confront the natives’ advance.

Aedan’s arms give wordless orders from the basket of his fastest chariot. His bitches, a collection of druidesses and noble matrons, pull their cabs behind the footmen, luring the Roman horseman further from the burning trap.

Red-cloaked cavalry plows into the painted horde as Aedan commands his bitches to retake their position and trap the wolves so eager for a fight.

The armored Roman cavalry struggles at the mercy of barbarian slingers whose stone bullets crack bones and dent helmets. Axes and swords torment their horses until the fiery-headed Owl divides the chariot corps, breaking off to lead his chosen toward the burning barley field.

Aedan and his chariots race around the fire ring. Slingers strike down any Roman brave enough to jump through the flames, and as the body count rises, Trebonius dispatches three men to seek the nearby legions.

The trio barely breaks free before the relentless Owl gives chase. Two succumb to the druid’s deadly stones, while the third, fearing his fate, brutally urges his horse forward with cruel digs into her coup. Then, in a moment crafted by Mars, sentries ride between him and the deadly Owl’s chariot. Led by Castor, the sentries enable their brother a swift escape.

Aedan orders his charioteer to rush the northern ridge as Bitch Face and his goons fall in behind them. He presses her to remain on the path, his judgment resolute. Bitch Face gets close enough that Aedan hears his threat to drive a sword through his skeletal heart. Then, the brawny woman turns at Aedan’s command, yanking the beast’s reins and veering the chariot away from the bluff. Its left wheel hops the rocky precipice while Bitch Face, on his steed, deftly turns with them, ignoring the cries of his followers as their horses tumble over the ridge.

Castor readies his lance for a toss, watching as the Owl climbs his stocky charioteer like a tree. The druid’s toes curl over her muscular shoulders as he loads a stone into his sling. He begins spinning it until a blurry wheel forms beside his flaming head.

The stone fires with frightening speed, forcing Bitch Face to toss his spear low. Aedan hops from the charioteer’s shoulders when the spear pierces her back. Rolling over the grass, his fiery crown departs. He regains his feet and sprints after the roaming chariot. He grasps the woman’s corpse, using it to climb back into its cab before shoving her out.

Castor’s steed hops over the discarded body and comes alongside the racing cart. He gropes for the Owl’s feathery cloak, nearly touching it until a nimble leg flits out and his faceplate bears the brunt of the druid’s heel. Another powerful strike brings darkness. The racing steed slows as its rider slumps. Sickle blade in hand, the Owl rounds the chariot and returns for the kill.

Aedan smiles beneath his mask, ready to rid the world of pretty Bitch Face. Suddenly, a swift horse invades, driving him asunder. Roman cavalrymen surround the slumbering Bitch Face, and one of them is foolish enough to pursue. The Roman races to a position beside him and reaches for the chariot horse’s collar band. Aedan lunges forward, his hips against the cart’s bank, and drags the tip of his curvy blade over the man’s arms, ripping the skin.

An endless row of legionnaires appears along the hillside, a line united behind their leader, Caesar.

In the far woods, another cavalry regiment dismounts, their archers forming a shoulder-to-shoulder line. They launch a volley of arrows, picking off the charioteers busy tormenting the trapped with their projectiles. The dead’s horses flee the scene, some with arrows stuck in their hindquarters.

A second contingent rides out behind the archers, each horse carrying two Romans. They encircle the remaining corps of attacking chariots. One rider cuts the horses free with his spatha before the other jabs a pole into the wheels, splintering spokes and sending the cabs skyward.

Aedan whistles for Looir, and the mare appears alongside the chariot’s beast within moments. He hops onto her back and, standing upright, rides toward the fight. The mare slows when a third Roman force crests down the hill like a wave breaking the beach.

This cavalry’s strapping leader wears only a medallion-laden harness and a loincloth.  A lion’s snout adorns his helmet, and a chain of owl skulls hangs from his muscular waist. The ferocious beauty descends upon the blue horde, sliding from his beast as if aided by the gods.

Aedan watches in horror as the Lion’s brutal blade cuts down everyone it touches. He drops to his ass and steers Looir toward the skirmish line, her hide pulsing between his bare thighs. He pierces the chaos with urgent screams to his carnyx-holders to sound a withdrawal. Four hornblowers heed the call, while the fifth goes silent when a sword tip punches through his youthful chest.

The boy falls away to reveal the ferocious Lion. A snout and fleece obscure his face, but those angry cerise marks along his left tit tickle Aedan’s memory.

*

Retreat isn’t always a loss.

Cassibelanus greets Aedan with a bear hug, lifting him from the ground amidst raucous cries of admiration. He receives a victor’s welcome for completing his task, which was to delay the Romans at any cost. Aedan cares little for the warlord and less for his followers, mainly young Kelr, whose once lustful eyes now carry envious scorn.

“Be nicer to Cassibelanus,” Ciniod whispers. “He might be your next father.”

Aedan thrusts his fingers down his throat, and his mother jumps away as vomit erupts.

“One day,” she shrills. “You’ll bring your stomach up through that gullet!”

Cassibelanus steps over the puddle.

“How many legions, Owl?”

“We attacked two before three arrived.” Aedan wipes his mouth. “They killed some of my bitches and took the rest away in chains.”

Cassibelanus shakes his head.

“The Owl draws women like flies to honey,”

“And cunts aren’t to his liking,” Kelr adds.

The men among them chuckle, but Aedan does not.

“My bitches are more than their cunts.”

Kelr goes quiet, his face hard until Cassibelanus pats him on the back. “Any man inspiring loyalty is born to lead.”

“He’s kept plenty of girls from motherhood,” Kelr reminds them all. “I imagine that warrants a certain loyalty,”

“When you explain it that way,” says Cassibelanus. “It’s as natural as rain.”

More laughter, none of it Aedan’s.

“What about my bitches?” he presses.

“We can’t spare any men or horses for a rescue mission.” Kelr folds his arms over his chest. “Your campaign today costs us over thirty chariots.”

“His mission succeeded,” Ciniod defends her son. “Chariots can be rebuilt,”

“Women cannot,” Aedan says.

“Well,” Cassibelanus smirks. “Not at the same speed.”

Laughter explodes, and even Kelr lends a smile.

Aedan whispers to his mother. “We must talk.”

Down by the water, Ciniod picks bits of flesh from her painted son’s black curls. His obtuse cheeks and thick brows speak of sins with her brother, best forgotten.

“The son of the old Roman.” He slaps her hand away. “He lives,”

Ciniod tuts. “No man could’ve survived that fall.”

“This one did,” he tells her.

Ciniod walks from the water, and her son follows.

“You took a totem from the old Roman’s things,” he accuses. “Where is it?”

“That wooden trinket?” she balks. “It’s nothing special.”

Aedan thrusts out his lower jaw. “Where is it?”

“What does it matter?” she demands.

“That trinket is a God.” His stoic coldness unsettles her. “One that watches over his family.”

Ciniod hesitates, “I burned it with Fintan.”

“You stupid woman!”

“Their gods are nothing!”

“This god, Minerva, she guides the hearts of warriors and with her brother,” he says. “Who now leads Rome to devour us!”

Fear tugs at her heart, but she hides it well.

“What was the totem?” he presses. “A leo?”

“A what?” she demands. “Stop using that Greek gibberish.”

“Was it a cat, a snake, a bird?” he demands.

“It was an owl.” Relief clouds her son’s gloomy face. “That bastard Roman took it from one of our fallen. They worship no owls.”

“Oh, but they do, mother,” he says, stepping into her. “And your ignorance of that has saved us from her wrath, but not that of the Roman’s son.”

“Excite you, does he?” she alleges, her son’s glare its own reward. “You have so few weaknesses, boy, but this strange lust of yours equals a thousand faults.”

**

Five days pass before scouts report a Roman camp ten miles east of them. Cassibelanus speedily fortifies their position along the Tamesa, but he needs two more days to fully implement their defenses. The reverent Ostin suggests Aedan take his father’s role as advisor to the Catuvellauni, but Cassibelanus cannot stand the perverse young man.

Aedan the Ancalite is a cunning little fuck whose influence grows at a frightening pace. His strategic talent remains undeniable, and this is why Cassibelanus must bar him from interacting with the other tribal leaders. Though he wishes their help in fighting the enemy, Cassibelanus knows them for the conniving bastards they are—they jockey now to take control of what’s his when the Roman incursion ends.

Avalin believes that a suitable fate for Aedan should be death in battle. Her view on such matters leads Cassibelanus to include Aedan in the next war party, led by Kelr.

Many question Cassibelanus’s decision to allow the young man such a high position, after Aedan proves time and again his strategic field superiority. The fiercest charioteers among them remain loyal to their ‘Owl King,’ a moniker that sickens Cassibelanus whenever he hears it.

Today’s rumors speak of a lion-headed Roman singling out the Owl King for some vengeance. Cassibelanus knows not why this Roman does this, but he will find out.

Two days east, a Roman legion crosses the grassy stretch near Cattle-Shit Pass.

Kelr presents a center-line attack to his raiders, but the Owl points out that the invaders march two across in a single column, and none among them wear red cloaks.

“Do you fear for our enemies’ lives?” Kelr accuses.

“That’s an imbecilic question,” says Aedan. “None marching down there is Roman.”

Kelr ignores the snickering of those standing behind the Owl. He mounts his horse and tells them to prepare for a fight.

“Romans march four men across on open terrain,” the Owl reminds him. “This legion of continentals is bait.”

“Fine, they’re bait. You and your girls will lead the charge into the center line and divide them with clubs and foul words,” Kelr decrees. “We men will roll in and fight the real Romans who may or may not appear.”

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard today.” Aedan stares at him. “And that’s saying much with this present company.”

Kelr growls, “You get your bony ass onto a chariot, druid.”

Aedan scratches at his skull-ridden face. This manlet lacks the guile for such intentions. This order sending Aedan and his bitches on a suicide run is the work of Cassibelanus.

At least he knows now where he stands among the Catuvellauni. Looir comes alongside and he climbs onto her back before leading her from the formation. His bitches in their chariots follow after him. Heavy gallops soon reveal the manlet.

“Where are you going?” Kelr demands, moving his beast into Looir’s path. “You have no faith in my plan, then leave on foot.”

“Go piss against the wind,” Aedan says. “Looir belongs to me.”

The manlet’s skin burns red through the blue woad.

“These chariots belong to me!”

Without urging, Looir begins a fanciful trot around the manlet’s horse. Aedan holds on as she dances aggressively, each calculated hoof drop elegant yet forceful. She moves as if taught, reciting each hind-quarter rise and front leg stomp until Kelr’s mare retreats from her position.

“Take this prancing Roman cunt and go,” yells Kelr. “My chariots stay here.”

Aedan speaks over his shoulder as Looir strolls onward. “You are the only prancing cunt around here.”

They pass many who knowingly smile, but no one laughs. Looir slows along the overlook, where Aedan turns to find thirty faces walking behind them.

The Catuvellauni chariots below charge the enemy line, but the marching Gauls part like drapes when the first chariot reaches their formation. Roman horsemen spill from the trees, crossing the grassy plain under a cloud’s dark shadow.

The arriving Roman cavalry surrounds Kelr’s charge, trapping his chariots and raiders in a pell-mell with the continental Gauls.

The manlet’s death is assured, for even if his warriors outfight the Gallic footmen, their exhaustion presents an easy fight for the Romans now encircling their slaughter arena.

After a time, the Lion appears in his headdress, naked but for his boots, owl skull baubles, and loincloth. A sword in each hand, he slices through raiders with abandon, his sweaty skin gleaming in glorious red.

A second wave enters the fray, Roman lancers adept at poking their spears into chariot wheels. Here, the Lion shows mercy, cutting free the horses before their chariots upend. He notices the druids on the hill and walks from the melee to stare them down. He is the phantom from Aedan’s vision, the beauty from the falls, the son of the man who killed his father.

And the gods keep him alive.

The Lion plants one of his swords and grabs his crotch, a menacing smile growing on his bloody face. The Owl dismounts, his backside tingling at the thought of it.

“Come and get me, fuckface,” Aedan mumbles.

After a beat, the Lion stalks toward them.

“I think he heard you,” whispers one of the women.

Suddenly, Looir shrieks.

Black horses barrel through their group, each carrying an armored rider who swings with deadly accuracy. With little care for themselves, the women surround Aedan and his mare.

“Pick a rider,” he tells them. “Drag him down, take his horse, and flee.”

They move on command, one of them taking Looir as Aedan somersaults over a dismounted Roman. The sun warms his painted back as he drops onto his hands and sweeps a Roman behind the knees with his determined leg. It is Bitch Face, whose tumble robs him of wind and lance.

Aedan collects the spear and touches its deadly tip to the pretty man’s neck. “Thank whatever gods you pray to that I’m allowing you to live another day.”

“I’m going to cut your throat,” growls Bitch Face in Aedan’s native tongue.

A shadow cools Aedan’s back, and he turns in time to block an incoming sword with the spear’s wood.

Bloodlust shines in the Lion’s fierce green eyes, and with each sword strike comes the delicious scent of sweat and death. Unable to match the Lion’s strength, Aedan begins twirling the spear, a desperate distraction for those verdant orbs. Immune to such antics, the Lion thrusts his hand into the spinning pinwheel illusion and seizes the rod’s middle.

The rod stops, but Aedan rolls before landing on his ass. Quickly, he backflips, but his lofty opponent tips back, saving his jaw from Aedan’s powerful kick. His foot splits the lance with a crack. He somersaults over the grass, his metatarsals throbbing, and once clear, whistles for Looir.

Without words, the Lion closes the distance.

“Come back here, A-dawn!”

Aedan stares down his enemy, catching Looir as she swoops by him. They race from the fight. There are no calls for ‘Luna’ from the Roman, who watches them with a steely expression as they run for the trees.