Caesar’s legions confront the forces of Cassivellaunus at the Tamesa river.
XI – The Tamesa Encounter
byRoman horses smell more of their kind across the river as tension shrinks their nerves.
A towering palisade stands along the opposite bank, where an elderly man, favoring his staff, stands on a rampart behind it. Wind lashes at his long white hair, exposing facial cracks that prove him the oldest man on this island.
“This is as far as you go, Rome!” Ostin the Ageless shows his grasp of Latin.
Caesar, the battle king these natives call Kaiser, yells back, “There will be no turning back.”
The ancient man rolls his toothless gums. “I do have an offer for you, if you’re willing to entertain it.”
Braided heads rise above the wall and swivel in confusion.
“Negotiation is a most honorable path,” shouts Caesar.
“My loyalists will depart this fight,” says the archdruid. “But in return, I want the two-sword Lion brought to me in ropes.”
Laughter erupts among the Roman ranks.
“I might fulfill that condition,” Caesar says with amusement. “If you’re inclined to hand over The Owl King and his mother.”
Angry howls from native warriors fluent in the Roman tongue rise up along the wall, and the archdruid’s slow deliberation finds him yanked down from his position.
“Apparently, he doesn’t speak for all involved,” Caesar says to himself. He raises a hand and lets it fall, compelling his fiercest cohort, the Seventh, to advance. Gauls from the continent make up most of their number, as prisoners fighting for their captors is a tradition older than the Roman war machine.
A desire to live always outweighs the bitterness of defeat.
Islander prisoners sit idly behind the Roman baggage train, their lives bought by a young noble Cenimagni’s revelation of the river’s defenses: deadly stakes hidden below the waterline.
Infantrymen enter the narrow strip of water, no larger than half a mile, and come together with shields up in testudo formation. The shield tortoise enters the water and inches forward slowly. Engineers trawl between the advancing shieldmen’s legs, pulling up stakes. Nearing the opposite bank, a loud grunt from beneath their shell levels the shields, a signal to the swordsmen to rush across their bridge.
Native archers pop up along the banquette and rain flaming arrows down upon the advancing legionnaires. A voice carries among them, urging the bowmen to ignore the running swordsmen and focus on the shields. They riddle the shields with fiery bolts, halting the Roman footman from crossing to the shore.
Roman lancers tread to the waterline and toss their deadly spears, striking three of every five archers whose hasty replacements lack deadly accuracy. A pair of scaffolds rises behind these fledgling defenders like two boxy sentries. Slingers climb birch bones, following a gangly druid with a skeleton marking his nakedness in front and behind. Flames dance above his half-face mask.
It is the Owl King, whose gaunt body and vicious cunning haunt many a legionnaire. Stone set, he spins his flax sling until it becomes a floating disk hovering above his head. He whips his first stone and it finds a lancer’s bronze mask, denting hard enough to crack the man’s skull. A second stone belts a lancer’s throat, his legs buckling before he splashes down and turns the water red. Each lethal toss shortens the spear line, returning momentum to the Owl’s archers.
After spending his last stone, the Owl crawls the scaffold, his long limbs spidering from one slinger to the next. Words spoken direct their stones to the shieldmen’s knees, and soon, the testudo front collapses, exposing the stake-pullers. The Owl hangs from his legs like a bat and directs incoming spearmen to toss their javelins low.
Fat, sharpened tips come dangerously close to the stake-pullers, nagging Caesar’s heart for young Planus works among them. A command travels from legate to legate until it finds the dark decurio, Titus. He and his horse-bound archers ignite their tips and rain fire upon the scaffold. Flames devour birch, and slingers fall from sight. The gangling Owl leaps onto the palisade and takes a moment to examine the enemy’s formation.
Concern blankets Caesar because when the Owl has time to think, Romans die.
The skeleton-clad druid vanishes behind the wall, and within moments, smoke engulfs the second scaffold. Its birch bones quickly immolate before it teeters in the wind. A warning cry sends the wall archers scrambling.
The burning rostrum topples onto the palisade, breaking in two and shedding its fiery crown onto the riverbank. A lethal cloud billows into the Roman shieldmen, collapsing their formation.
Through the faceless ranks comes The Lion, his powerful body wearing only a phalera vest, a loincloth, and boots. Born as Skipio Servius, he dons a lion-face pelt on his head and two swords in his vest belt. Without haste, he calmly shepherds in new men to replace the choking shield bearers. His second, Actus, shadows him, whisking those fallen to safer ground as shield alternates protect the next batch of stake-pullers. Together, they liberate Planus, tossing his unconscious body onto a horse and slapping the beast’s rump to hasten its departure.
Stakes by the hundreds drift downriver, and the Owl King, born Aedan the Ancalite, hops many shoulders to reach his leader, Cassibelanus. The hulking warlord mounts the tower, observing with his sword undrawn. Hot words spill from the painted druid, his spindly arms flailing while Cassibelanus listens coldly.
Rome sheds its spiky tortoise shell, and new shields return to their proper place in front of their bearers. Swords emerge as infantrymen splash safely over the narrow crossing. They collide with the barrier wall, a mass of red-capes and metal. The men in front bend at the knees and put their shields on their backs. A second cohort rushes in with ladders, enabling many to ascend.
Roman horsemen splash through the shallows, passing their ropes to the ladder climber, who lasso their looped ends around the native archers on the wall, yanking them down. Cassibelanus rushes toward the rising tide, his fiercest men at his heels. Spears jab along the smoldering rampart as blue-stained defenders repel climbing legionnaires. One ladder falls, and then another, and the water provides a safe, albeit painful, landing ground.
One Roman rope loops around the palisade’s tallest plank, and with a hatchet in hand, the Owl King quickly cuts it. He scans the fortification trim and sees more ropes taking hold.
Cassibelanus orders his men to keep stabbing at enemy helmets, ignoring the Owl King’s call to sever these Roman ropes. Cassibelanus and his thrall crowd the rampart, giving no one room to get in and sever the ropes.
Down below, the Lion leads three heavy-hooved beasts into the water. A fearful Owl King slings a stone, stinging one of the beast’s hind legs and sending it back across the river. The Lion calls for shieldmen, who hastily rush in to protect the remaining beasts. He secures ropes around their compact necks and lets out a mighty roar that drives the thick-hoof pullers forward. Resistance pulls them up on two legs, and when they regain their footing and till onward, the ropes strewn about the palisade’s anchor joists tense.
Fractures appear in the wall; it’s a terrible wrenching, lost amidst the front-line bluster of clanging metal and profanity. A narrow panel begins wobbling like a loose tooth. It breaks free with a violence that shocks Cassibelanus and his men, who watch helplessly as a portion of their fortification skids across the water. Roman footmen crowd into the opening and collide with the Briton horde to form a mass of flying maces and clashing 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, separating limbs, chopping necks, and gutting bellies.
Soon, the mud becomes a foul, heady mix of blood and shit. A flaming net falls from above and lands upon the Roman side of the mob. Wet with whale oil, the burning ropes ignite helmet combs and sear horse hide. Beasts buck when their hides taste fire, throwing their riders before escaping to the river.
Another blazing web lands, blanketing a trio of horsemen, and the brief crackle of fire kissing skin makes Skipio’s scars throb. Swallowing his fear, he walks to the men, scoops the flaming net with his sword, and tosses it aside. Far across the yard stands the Owl King, his torch a beacon through the smoke.
Images of that night in the shack haunt Skipio as he advances toward it. He whistles for his beast, Luna, who gallops to his side. He climbs onto her saddle and gives her a gentle kick. She charges toward a clutch of rotund women, each holding their portion of a stretched net being doused by the Owl.
Skipio rushes Luna into them before the net is cast. While the Owl King contends with two centurions bent on taking his head, the deadly matrons give the Lion a wicked fight. His reputation for mercy to their gender proves false when he quickly dispatches their number by cutting their throats.
Screams from the river signal that Hanni joins the fight. Form-fit plates protect her hide, while four archers man the houdah crowning her broad back. The massive gray beast trumpets, silencing the battle until Roman swords swing anew, and Britons defend in kind. Hanni’s long trunk, a hammer with godlike strength, swipes away all in her path. Hanni is the largest horse this island’s beasts have ever seen, and every step she takes shakes the earth beneath their hooves.
The pachyderm breaks down what remains of the palisade, leading the native horses to throw their riders and race for the trees. Their fallen riders follow suit, desperate to escape a monster sent by the Gods.
“It’s just an elephant, you cowards!” Aedan, the Owl King, rails. He tears off his fiery headpiece and draws up his mask. “Hannibal brought hundreds to conquer Rome, and now Rome conquers us with one!”
Skipio hears the druid’s words, unable to decipher them but for the name Hannibal. Drawn by the murderous bastard’s fury, he pauses to admire the skeleton drawn on his wiry body. Suddenly, a spear comes for the druid’s back, but the spry man leaps high, his long torso twisting mid-air before he hurls an axe. It splits the lancer’s faceplate, cleaving his skull.
The agile Owl King races over blood-soaked mud, snatching up a hand scythe from a fallen comrade before vaulting off a portion of the banquette. He flies over the melee and fearlessly collides with the golden plate between Hanni’s eyes. Without haste, he scrambles up her forehead to the houdah and drags his curved blade across an archer’s neck. Two of the bowmen take aim, and the Owl’s first victim proves an effective shield. When the man’s corpse grows heavy with bolts, he shoves the spikey body at the bowmen, sending both over the bulwark. His blade comes for the final archer as a reedy-eyed legionnaire climbs over the parapet.
Actus swings his spatha, but the Owl loops his curvy blade into the houdah’s beam and uses it to swing his body all the way around it. Actus feels the sting as the druid’s foot collides with his nose. After the druid’s second revolution around the beam, he catches the archer’s head between his feet. His toes under the man’s chin, he jabs his other heel into the man’s cheek and snaps his neck.
Tight quarters do not suit Reed Eyes, whose broken nose and sloppy charge expose his back. Aedan stabs the tip of his scythe into the centurion’s neck, conjuring a painful scream before hooking it into his collar and yanking his armor down. Given a tunic canvas, he rips a line across the centurion’s shoulder blades, bringing the bastard to his knees.
Aedan readies his arm to slice the fool’s neck, but a broad hand finds his chest and pushes with enough force to steal his breath. Much taller within spitting distance, the strapping Lion’s body glistens. Blood coats his firm thighs and dots those corded pelvic folds where golden hairs rise above the loincloth. Raw hashes mark his left tit and bicep, and seeing that scar tissue makes Aedan smile with pride. Mossy greens flash before the Lion stabs both his swords into the parapet walls.
♡ This beautiful fucker wants a fight.♡
After dusting off his buttocks, the Owl tosses aside his hand scythe. Little fists rise in a sparring stance that provokes the Lion into spreading his thick lips.
“Don’t be shy, A-dawn,” he says in Greek, and the druid’s dark eyes glow at the sound of his name.
Aedan’s balled-up hands move in little circles, and when sure these movements catch the Lion’s attention, he kicks upward, missing the handsome bastard’s jaw. A fist collides with his mouth, sending pain through his teeth, while his back smacks the wooden railing.
Blood seeps from the Owl’s split lip and drips upon his nipple. He drags a finger through it, collecting a slimy dollop before fixing his eyes on the Roman and sucking the digit clean.
“If you’re hungry.” The Lion grabs the front of his loincloth. “I got something for you to gnaw upon,”
Aedan serves the most malicious glare in his arsenal.
“That look, right there,” the Lion leers. “I want to see that look when I unload on your face.”
The battle carnyx falls silent. There are no gods. No Tamesa. No Rome. No tribes. There is only the Owl and his Lion. Until a fucking lance strikes the planks between them.
Bitch Face scrambles into the box, bringing a beefy centurion with him. The Lion steps away, giving the centurion room to move. Aedan looks to him with eyes seeking an explanation, but the handsome fucker only shrugs.
“Kill him!” rages Bitch Face.
The centurion swings at Aedan, who catches his beefy arm and breaks it in half over a bony knee. He moves to the parapet, dragging his simpering victim with him, and tumbles over the side.
The wounded Roman tempers the landing, his neck breaking on impact with the mud. Aedan wrests a dagger from the dead man’s hand and stabs maniacally at his neck, hacking into bloodied bone as if it were a sap-laden tree root. Many frantic jabs later, the centurion’s head rolls from his shoulders.
“He’s so damn fierce,” says a smitten Skipio.
Castor stares. “That wiry scumbag killed your father,”
“My father killed his father,” says Skipio.
“He must die for Drusus,” Castor growls.
Skipio’s lips purse with doubt.
Castor rails, “What version of Psyche runs foul within you?”
“The only version Cupid deserves,” says Skipio, leg over the parapet.
The elephant lumbers onward as the Lion jumps from its houdah, loincloth flapping and that third arm floating for all the world to see. Bitch Face follows with little care for his own safety, while Reed Eyes, cloth packed in his nostrils, prudently negotiates his descent by climbing.
Aedan splashes through crimson shallows with a severed head in his hand. He pushes into the fighting mob, steering clear of blades and spear tips, whacking anyone coming for him with the head. He hops onto a riderless horse, vaulting off its naked back and onto the shoulders of a Roman cavalryman.
Long feet make lily pads of many shoulders until the Owl King clears the melee. The crumbling fortress heaves its last smoldering breath, and from the smoke comes his Lion, with a freshly armored Reed Eyes at his heels. Bitch Face stalks past his comrades, planting his lance like an angry child.
Aedan begins tugging at his cock.
“That’s right,” the pretty Roman snarls. “Keep it out so I can cut it off and shove it down your murderous throat!”
Aedan aligns the corpse’s head and stabs his erection into its slimy mouth. Bitch-Face’s delicate features twist in disgust as laughter erupts from the Lion. Reed Eyes recoils and vomits in the grass. Aedan tears himself from the Lion’s smile long enough to confront Bitch Face. He pulls out of the corpse’s mouth, his arousal bouncing as he brings the centurion’s head across the pretty Roman’s skull.
Skipio retrieves Castor’s lance. “Give me that piece of the fire crotch,” he says to Actus, who hands over a strip of the Cenimagni’s tartan skirt.
A spear soars high and closes in on Aedan like a hungry skua diving for a fish. Kelr’s colors adorn its shaft as it sails toward his heart. It impales the corpse’s head, tearing it from Aedan’s grasp. Such elegant brutality forces his cock to spit, drawing a line across the unconscious Bitch Face’s hair.