XII – The Graticule

Bloody waters run deep where the Stour meets the Lug. Two rafts enter the pink foaming shallows, cutting through loose intestines that wobble from the pecking of hungry fish.

Slimy crimson sand sucks at the druid’s feet, but what awaits him beyond the reeds proves his discomfort worth it. Here, flies scatter like black rain and reveal a dining table made of human bones.

Half-skulls sit upon its gruesome ribcage, each ghoulish bowl heavy with a stew of eyes, ovaries, and testicles. Cut tongues and cocks frame a centerpiece of stacked hands, where the top palm holds a plucked owl, smoke curling from its roasted skin.

Segobax, the golden-haired leader of the Segontiaci, takes umbrage at such barbarity, though his dead father’s reputation for devouring an enemy’s eyeballs rings fresh in everyone’s mind.

“Caesar is not behind this,” says Carbilius, the barrel-chested leader of the western Bibroci. “He’s a man of reason,”

“Reasonable and tidy,” Segobax cracks. “Look at how neatly folded these robes are under this tree adorned with dead druids,’

Ostin’s white cloak, the same one he wore the night he replaced Fintan the Owl with his son, tops the pile. All eyes turn to the new Owl, whose black gaze lingers on a ravaged young Ancalite.

“Your less murderous replacement?’ Segobax asks.

“Their battle king knows nothing of this.” Aedan reaches for the bare corpse slung over a fallen tree. His fingers glide over Ostin’s walking staff, rooted deep in the dead Ancalite’s torn ass. “This is the work of the Lion,”

“Eadaoin and our women are his prisoners. He’s not laid one hand on any of them, nor does he allow any of his cohorts a taste.” Carbilius brings a fine cloth to his mouth and studies the scene with disdain. “You’re saying an honorable man like that is responsible for this nasty shit?”

“Honorable he may be, but he’s no taste for women.” Aedan cannot help but touch the bite marks on the dead druid’s buttocks. “Resistance fuels his fires, and no woman resists quite like a man resists,”

“His vicious appetites transcend reason.” Segobax pulls a face. “Perhaps this battle king is ignorant of his underling’s brutality,”

“Caesar knows the actions of every man he commands.” Fresh contusions warm Aedan’s fingers. “He allows the Lion to feed his cock, a reward for keeping us from hindering his legion’s advance,”

“These bodies are fresh.” Carbilius studies those hanging with bones hammered into their palms. “If the Lion is here, then he’s close enough to strike,”

“He’s been in these parts for weeks and has yet to find us,” says Aedan, whose knowledge comes from stalking the treetops.

Once bound and helpless before Aedan’s fire, the brutal Lion takes back his power by ravishing the thinnest druids.

Half-naked and dripping with sweat, the Lion stays frighteningly calm when hauling his prey into the trees. Those who yield too quickly get a mouthful of piss before he guts them like venison.

Those who fight back earn a beautifully savage fucking. He slaps them about, engaging in bullish conversation, handling them as an angry child does a doll. He tears free their robes, pulls their arms back like reigns, and shoves their face into the mud.

Aedan often watches from the highest tree, pulling at his arousal while the Lion impales his prisoner’s dry holes with that exquisitely oiled cock. At his most vulnerable moment, the Roman is more beautiful than anything Aedan’s seen, yet Aedan’s climax comes only when the man begins chewing on his victim’s buttocks.

Segobax passes between him and the gruesome display.

“Mandubracius supplies Rome with grain and soldiers,” he says, circling the other chieftain. “Why should we commit our warriors to this brand of suicide?”

“Ostin summoned us,” Carbilius reminds.

“Ostin’s dead,” Segobax kicks the robe pile, then whispers, “Cassibelanus wishes to cull our warriors in this fight, for when Rome departs, we’ll not have enough men to stop him from taking what’s ours,”

“Mind your tongue,” Carbilius whispers back, glancing at their escorts. “These men are loyal to him.”

Aedan walks past them. “The wolves won’t stay once they get what they want,”

“And what do they want?” Segobax asks.

“Assurances,” he says. “Assurances that when he returns to the continent, we’ll stay out of whatever uprisings occur there.”

“I’ll swear my inaction today,” Segobax declares. “I don’t give a damn what happens across that damned water.”

Carbilius steps to Aedan. “How do you know this?”

“Ostin,” he replies, still drinking in the bloody scene. “It’s why he urged negotiations,”

“Ostin the Ageless wanted to turn you over at the Tamesa,” Segobax reminds him. “Your life for that of the Lion’s, yes?”

“And yet here I stand.” Aedan gives the chieftains his full attention. “The battle king doesn’t want me. He wants my mother. He holds her due for the death of the Lion’s father,”

Carbilius gives a start.

“Fintan,” Segobax declares.

“Taran says that the Lion’s father killed him,” Aedan affirms.

Segobax sighs. “As the hot days are long, a fucking Ancalite makes things worse,”

Unable to stomach the scene, Carbilius turns from it.

“Cut them down,” he shouts.

“Leave them,” Aedan yells.

Carbilius steps into him. “Why would we do that?”

“That’s what the Lion wants,” he tells him. “You put them on our rafts, and they’ll bleed a trail in the water for him to follow.”

“The Owl is right,” Segobax says softly. “We’ll tend to them another day.”

No one touches anything, and before long, the visiting chieftains retake their places on the rafts.

Distance grows between them, and the carnage and whispers prevail when falling water drowns out the noisy birdsong.

Near the falls, Aedan pulls their rafts away from shore and then leads his party behind the water, where torchlight reveals a steep passage. Many steps down, wetness gives way to warmth in the cavern’s belly.

A radiant grotto illuminates rocky decks that climb high into the darkness. Ignitable fluid within the ground spring provides bountiful light yet makes for nervous eyes until Aedan extinguishes his torch in a bladder-lined basket.

He leads them up the winding ridge, where the highest ledge offers a narrow passage. Tin cups of burning water sit within the rockface’s many niches, guiding them to an antechamber.

Woven blankets hang from iron rafters, and a round wooden table offers bread, fruit, and barley ale. On the hearth fire hangs a steamy cauldron of hazelnut broth, drawing the chieftains in like famished children.

The first to greet them is Cingetorix of the Cenimagni, a fire-haired man standing a foot taller than most, his mustache longer than his hair braid. He embraces the effete Segobax, who, after such uncouth handling, sourly rearranges his rings and smooths his frocks.

Carbilius embraces the shortest among them, Taximagulus of the Cassi, who expresses condolences at the loss of the man’s brother. Bald and brooding, the Cassi warlord spent some of his boyhood among druids. He speaks little, and that thick beard hides a bevy of youthful acne scars.

Aedan climbs the rocky mantle and squats beside his father’s perched owl. Segobax whispers to Taximagulus while Taran eavesdrops on Carbilius, telling Cingetorix about the Roman camp at Tamesa. After several moments, Ciniod enters and notices her son.

“Get down here,” she whispers, but Aedan shakes his head. She looks at the owl beside him. “Then take her out, the sun’s gone down,”

Aedan shakes his head again.

“The Lion’s killing actual owls, now.” Segobax saunters past her with an ale in his hand. “Did you tell her what we found?”

“Pay the boy no mind,” Taran calls from the table. “He forgets his tongue with his manners most days,”

“Oh, I doubt our scraggly little hoot-hoot ever forgets his tongue.” Lugotorix is the last to enter the room, his habit since learning to walk. “His tongue’s always lapping at something,” he adds, shoulders fur draped and face clean-shaven.

Grandfather’s bastard and Aedan’s elder by four years, the raven-haired dolt straddles the line between chunky and trim. Segobax sets his ale down and takes both the young man’s hands in his, and their womanly exchange prompts humored glances, even from Ciniod.

“Your ass is too thick for that skirt,” Aedan says.

Lugotorix regards him without turning. “Why don’t you fold up somewhere and suck yourself,”

“You’re just jealous because I can,” taunts Aedan.

Lugotrix laughs, “Dear boy, that’s nothing to brag about,”

“Can you still see your cock?” Aedan asks. “Or does your belly get in the way?”

Lugotorix spins around in anger.

“Come now, that’s enough,” scolds Taran.

Ciniod hisses at her son. “Find somewhere else to be,”

“The Owl stays,” Carbilius declares.

“The Owl died across the water,” booms the towering Cassibelanus, who walks past Aedan’s position without so much as a scowl.

Cingetorix enters his embrace. “You’re late, my old adversary,”

“The Romans butchered Ostin and his druids,” Cassibelanus says, eyes on Aedan.

Taximagulus begins pacing while Lugotrix goes wide-eyed.

“Ostin’s dead?” Taran gasps. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You never asked,” Aedan replies.

Ciniod steps to her brother, “He’s only been here a few moments,”

“And here he’ll remain,” Carbilius decides, staring down Cassibelanus. “That was Ostin’s wish,”

“It was his wish for a time,” Cassibelanus reveals. “But this one has shown himself to be an unsavory druid,”

“Is there any other kind?” Segobax asks.

“Unsavory or no,” says Taximagulus. “He fought on at Tamasa after you and yours fled from an elephant,”

“I heard you attacked that Roman monster by your lonesome,” Cingetorix smiles up at Aedan. “While the others ran for the trees,”

“My boy is fearless,” Ciniod brags.

“He fought fearless, to be sure,” Lugotrix grins. “He even attacked a Roman head with his—”

“—Tamesa is behind us,” Ciniod interrupts.

“Yes, and that loss makes one thing very clear,” Taran says. “We must combine our forces and drive them out,”

“Yes,” Cassibelanus trumpets. “Or they’ll destroy everything we know,”

“Would they go that far?” Segobax wonders.

“They already have, on the continent,” Taran tells him. “There’s nothing left of the Morini,”

“Kombius seems well enough,” Aedan says from his perch.

Taximagulus starts. “Kombius walks among them?”

“As a guest,” Aedan nods. “Not a hostage,”

“You would know,” Taran barks. “Spying on that monster like a lovesick wretch,”

Lugotorix teases, “Our hoot-hoot is in love?”

“How does one catch feelings for an enemy that wants him dead?” Segobax asks.

“That’s enough.” Ciniod looks at each man. “The gods will want blood for Ostin,”

“Lady,” Cassibelanus levels a cold gaze. “You don’t speak for Ostin,”

“Let’s begin while the night is still young,” Taran says, eager to avoid conflict. “Please, everyone, sit.”

The tribal leaders take their place at the table, but when Ciniod tries to sit, Cassibelanus pulls another into the last open chair. “Lugotorix will represent the Ancalites,”

“My son is his grandfather’s heir,” Ciniod argues.

“No druid leads a tribe,” says Cassibelanus, but Taximagulus’s brow lifts.

“Lugotrix is the logical choice,” Taran says. “He will lead the Ancalites,”

“Of course.” Ciniod passes beneath Aedan on her way out. “Come, boy, let’s get that owl outside,”

Taximagulus calls out. “Fintan’s son stays,”

“Agreed,” says Carbilius, downing his ale.

Aedan savors the tension as his mother exits with her head high.

He jumps down and walks to Cingetorix, who pats his thigh, inviting him to sit until Segobax tuts and scoots over, offering Aedan room beside him. Hands under the table, the druid catches Cassibelanus, Taran, and Lugotrix trading glances; his mother’s exclusion is no accident.

Talk turns heated when Carbilius labels Taran weak, his words born from losing a brother and a portion of their tribe at the Avona. Taximagulus resents Lugotrix’s elevation over Ciniod, but Segobax reminds them that her thirst for vengeance created the Lion, and thus, her temperament remains dangerous.

Of course, Aedan foresaw the Lion’s bloodthirsty quest, but he’s not volunteering that truth, not when his mother losing face provides such enjoyment. His silence, however, provokes Cingetorix, who asks how he would handle the Roman invaders.

“The wolves have erected a large water well. A timber frame pool taller than most men that’s lined with bladders.” Aedan turns his gaze to Carbilius. “Eadaoin and the women form a bucket line from the river and feed it thrice daily.”

“That’s smart,” Cingetorix says.

“They watch the women,” says Aedan. “But no one minds the buckets,”

“You mind everything in that camp, don’t you?” asks Lugotrix.

Aedan ignores him. “We must coat Eadaoin’s buckets in yew juice,”

Segobax chuckles. “Now that is smart,”

“And gutless,” Cassibelanus cries.

Segobax rolls his eyes. “Must we shout?”

“How does our most capable fighter,” Cassibelanus demands. “Suggest something so cowardly?”

“And that is why the wolves will win,” Aedan accuses coldly. “You want some grand battle for the ages, and Rome counts on this vanity,”

Cassibelanus rails, “Vanity?”

“Your cousins in Belgica kept the same mind,” Aedan tells him. “Your all-or-nothing tactics are too similar. The wolves know now how to defeat such a mindset and have done so with half the numbers,”

“If they truly provide half their number,” Cingetorix nods. “We can repel them,”

“Agreed, but not as craven snakes,” Cassibelanus points out. “We fight with spears, torches, and swords, like true warriors,”

“Yes, and you’ll die as true as you fight,” says Aedan.

Lugotrix tuts, “And you’ll be flying up a tree for warmth,”

“No tree could replace your wide carcass for comfort,” Aedan counters.

“Enough,” Taran scolds. “Or I’ll dismiss you both,”

The talking continues until a final plan appears.

Their forces will split into three: A surprise attack on the Roman beachhead, a raid on their Tamesa camp, and a confrontation with advancing legions at the Lug. Though no one dissents, distrustful minds note that Cassibelanus’s faction holds a less risky position along the river.

Aedan eagerly departs, and while seeking his mother in the cavern, a firm hand finds his nape and another his crotch. A gentle squeeze stills him as hot breath warms his ear.

“Don’t turn around, my morbid little Owl,” whispers Taximagulus. “Thirty of mine will gather the yew berries. Meet them in the north woods on the morrow, make the paste, and get it done.”

Thick hands release him.

Moments later, a smaller, smoother hand takes his wrist on the highest deck. Avalin stands with her gourd lamp held high. Lack of sleep devours her loveliness, and her voice lays heavy like her heart.

“They’ve got my boy,” she croaks.

“They’ve got many boys,” says Aedan.

“If you’re part of the raiding party,” she whispers, revealing her hidden ears at the meeting. “Find my Kelr and bring him home,”

“I will not.” Aedan blinks at her outrage. “He got caught because he refused to listen,”

“He cares for you,” she stammers. “And you care for him,”

“He’s nothing to me,” he says. “Except in my way,”

“Please,” she cries. “If you’re your father’s son—”

“-You invoke Fintan to move me?” He remains calm. “The Owl would leave your boy to rot for telling the Romans of our river defenses,”

“Kelr wouldn’t, he would never,” she argues. “He’s a good man,”

“He’s an entitled little boy in a grown man’s skin,” says Aedan. “Perhaps some time among the Romans will mature him enough to be worth something before he dies.”

A tear falls down her cheek.

---

II

Rome wastes no time planting itself on the Tamesa.

Planks from the fallen stronghold frame their new fort, a monstrous structure they will never burn when abandoned, like the spindly logs surrounding their marching camps. Soaring watchtowers crest the corners while red-caped archers pace on the connecting banquettes.

Three sides host deep rips that look like Taranis dug the soil out with his fingers, while the river protects the southern wall. The days grow short, and cold air collides with the heat, bringing downpours that expose the barrier’s foundations. Such erosions go unseen on stormy nights, which is how Aedan the Ancalite gets inside.

These wolves store nothing along their inner walls, yet the naked druid crosses an open stretch without fear, heavy rain cloaking his occurrence. He comes upon a wood pole bearing two skinny birch strips, each bearing strange letters and pointing out grassless paths.

Leather-bound tents line one trail, with somber voices drifting from their drawn flaps. Another road boasts larger tents, each with its own three-horse stable.

Two long houses without windows center the camp. A pair of sentries walk around them, meeting in the middle and making small talk before repeating their orbit.

Inside the first, cattle laze around sacks of barleycorn. Wooden racks hang from the rafters with animal skins stretched tight over their grills. Aedan’s ornery spirit nags at him to cut the livestock free, but his mission takes precedence.

He ventures to the smaller lodge and climbs to the roof. He drops in through an air transom and finds the Bibroci women sleeping with nothing more than some hay to keep them from the dirt.

None of his bitches from the farmhouse raid are among them, but one wakes upon seeing his figure against the wall. Hair braided and face flush, she elbows the girl beside her, and soon, word of the Owl’s arrival travels to their sanctioned leader, the druidess Eadaoin.

Before long, the square-jawed woman sits crossed-legged before him.

“Tell me Ostin survived Tamesa,” she says.

Aedan swings his head.

“He came here, you know,” she tells him. “Offering your life up for the Lion.”

Aedan crouches to her level and smirks.

“That Lion,” she adds. “He’s as strange as you when his cock’s full of blood,”

A voice rises from the darkness. “He keeps us safe,”

“Without him,” another speaks. “We’d all be pregnant,”

“Pregnant or worse,” gripes a third.

Eadaoin rolls her eyes. “The Lion’s got his advocates here,”

“Where are my bitches?” asks Aedan.

She wastes no words. “They planned an escape and got killed for their trouble,”

“The Lion?”

“No, he wasn’t here when it happened,”

Aedan mourns them, brave to the end. “Are there no men left among you?”

“Is there a man among us?” Eadaoin speaks over her shoulder and grunts when no one says a word. “Nothing nice to say about your Lion now, have you?”

“We got one man that we know of here,” a woman grouses.

Eadaoin snaps, “Who said that?”

“It makes no matter,” says Aedan. “If he hides among you, he’s safe.”

“No man is safe around the Lion.” Eadaoin swallows hard. “No druid, that is,”

“Then it’s good there are no male druids among you,” he says.

Eadaoin relents and then kicks the nearest sleeper.

“Get up,” she hisses, then turns to Aedan. “My brother is among us,”

Alon the Bibroci, a failed druid’s apprentice, regards him with those bright acorn-colored eyes. Unlike the others, his face is clean, his pointy chin shaven, and his short locks in braids.

“Tell the Owl what you know,” she orders.

The petite man’s diminutive voice whispers, “One of them knows I’m here, but he says nothing to the Lion,”

“His name is Castor,” adds Eadaoin.

Aedan simpers. “The pretty one with the bitchy face?”

“That’s him,” Eadaoin replies, nodding.

“What is…” Aedan tests Alon. “What is the Lion’s name?”

“He’s called Skipio by his friends,” says Alon. “Decurion by his underlings,”

Aedan realizes then, how his bitches got caught.

“The battle king calls him Lucius Scipio Servius.” Eadaoin puts herself between his glare and her brother. “All these damned wolves have three names. Some go by the middle name, and others by the first,”

“Marcus Castor Junius calls him Skipio,” says Alon.

“Marcus Castor Junius calls him Skipio,” Aedan snidely apes. “Have you picked out a bridal garland for your wrists yet?”

Soft laughter ripples through the dark.

Aedan’s smile fades. “Did you or Kelr tell Lord Lion of our stake defenses?”

“He couldn’t have told them anything,” Eadaoin shakes her head. “We’ve been prisoners here since Avona,”

“You’ve all been here too long.” Aedan looks past her and at the many lumps in the shadows. “Tonight, we’ll begin your first steps to freedom,”

Eadaoin leans closer, her eyes eager. “Will there be an attack?”

“Where are the buckets used to refill their above-ground well?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she tells him.

“Do they take you outside the wall to collect water?”

“No,” she answers. “There’s a sluice outside the southern wall, near the third tower. Water runs through it and then seeps through a cloth. We draw the filtered water for their well.”

“Are the buckets dry when you get them?”

Eadaoin shakes her head. “No, they’re floating in the clean water pond when we get there,”

“In the morning, you’ll reach under here when you arrive at the sluice.” Aedan draws part of the fortification’s wall in the dirt between them. “There’ll be a bucket against the wall, where the tower-walker cannot see,”

Other women join their huddle, and one pushes Alon aside.

“It’s filled with yew juice paste,” he says to their smiles. “Smear your buckets with it before the water assembly begins, then sink them in the pond,”

“Wait,” Alon objects. “Won’t that kill them?”

“Some of them will die,” Eadaoin laughs. “Most, it will make too sick to fight,”

“You do your part,” Aedan nods. “And your uncle’s men will be back at sundown,”

“I have one condition.” Eadaoin asserts. “Take my brother with you this night,”

Some of the women retreat, others suck their tongues.

“It’s just a matter of time before one of this lot outs him,” she says with volume, and when he aims a wordless scowl, she adds, “You will take him or line the buckets yourself,”

Aedan climbs to the transom. “I count to ten, then I leave alone.”

Outside in the downpour, Alon drops into the mud behind him.

“Stop looking at me,” the Bibroci snaps. “Your ugly face turns my stomach,”

Aedan dips his head and stares at him. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll fuck it,”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Alon grimaces. “I heard how you defiled that head,”

Aedan says nothing as he thinks of how the little man will drown on their way back to the hideout. Together, they scramble across the clearing under stinging rain.

“We must hurry—” he turns to find Alon no longer there. “Smegma licking cunt!”

Fearful of his position, Aedan sprints to a canopied stall, where three horses chow from their buckets. One is his war prize. Beaming, he kisses the beast’s long muzzle and mouths the word, Looir.

The beast merrily bobs her head before emitting a squeal.

“Luna?” a husky voice calls from the tent.

Three heartbeats pass before the muscular Roman emerges naked, his thick manhood swinging as he struts to the horse. Hairless but for a golden thatch around his cock, he snatches a brush from the saddle stand.

“Did you have another dream, girl?” This gentle voice becomes him. “You’ve had quite an adventure on this island, haven’t you?”

Looir moves into his embrace as he brushes her shoulder.

“Do you dream of the Owl?” he asks. “I dream of him, too,”

Aedan shivers in his patch of darkness.

“Did he braid your mane and make you a barbarian?” He drags the brush over her croup, his lips down in prideful admiration. “I’m going to fuck his ass hard enough to make his mind go feeble,”

Overcome with desire, Aedan lifts his back from the wall and reaches out from the darkness. Fingers stop short of the man’s smooth, sun-kissed skin. He longs for a handful of that taut, supple ass…until Reed Eyes intrudes, like a bad smell.

“Pilus Junius took his hidden Gaul through the gate,”

“Where are they?” Skipio demands, tossing the brush.

“At the camp cistern,” he replies. “Something about a druid poisoning our water,”

Skipio’s face turns boyish when he laughs. “The Owl fell for my ruse,”

“The water crews will miss having those wenches refill the cistern every day,” Actus laughs with him. “Now they’ll have to go back to doing their job,”

Aedan slips out of the stall, his shaky Latin discerning that he’s been made a fool. He wanders back to the wall, caring little if anyone spots him in the pouring rain. After clumsily slipping under the barrier, he strokes through the murky depths where the undertow cannot catch his legs.

Onshore, bootprints lead into the trees, where a dull glow awaits. What an utter fool. Aedan climbs a tree to its highest branch and spots Bitch Face below with the traitorous Alon under a torch.

“You’re sure he’ll come through here?” the bitch asks in their language.

“That sandy patch is the only way to cross without getting pulled away by the river,” Alon explains. “He’ll swim there, and if he comes through here, then I’ll know for sure where he’s going,”

Bitch Face wraps a gentle arm around him.

“If you know where he’s going, please tell me,”

Alon fingers the man’s hair but says nothing.

“I’ll take you with me,” Bitch Face promises. “You’re not like the rest of these painted animals. You’ve got a Roman soul,”

Aedan considers hocking spit onto their heads.

“There are some small falls two miles from where the Lug meets the Stour,” Alon reveals. “Behind the first set is an entrance to a large cavern,”

Bitch Face kisses him passionately—it’s enough to make Aedan retch.

“Stay here until I return,” he hands the young man his torch. “Do not go near the fort until I retrieve you,”

“I won’t,” says Alon, a proper lap dog.

A peaceful moment passes before Aedan descends to a lower branch, wondering how long it might take to choke the treacherous cunt out between his thighs.

Before he can strike, a tunic-clad Skipio strolls from the trees.

“What’s a little thing like you,” the brawny man sneers. “Doing so far away from your sister?”

Terror in his eyes, Alon throws the torch at him and charges for the woods, but the Lion quickly snatches him back. With one hand on the little man’s throat, the Roman hoists his prey high before tearing away his smock with a single tug.

“Please,” Alon chokes out in Latin. “I belong to Castor,”

“Please,” Skipio mocks. “I belong to Castor,”

Alon’s pathetic fingers go for the Lion’s eyes, but the man lets him drop before backhanding him into a stupor.

Aedan touches his cheek, thirsty for a blow like that.

“You belong to Rome.” Skipio pins his forearm to Alon’s chest and spreads the waif’s thighs with his knees. “I’m going to use you like Jupiter on a lonely day,”

Aedan grips his erection and smiles.

“You’re not my Owl,” the Roman grunts. “But I’ll close my eyes, and you’ll do just fine,”

“The Owl is here,” Alon cries as a cockhead knocks at his door. “He’s above us, watching,”

Aedan’s heart jumps when those gleaming green eyes find him.

“Finish him, Skippy-oh!” Aedan speaks Greek and thrusts out his tongue. “Or are you too weak?”

The Lion’s broad smile evokes a rare one from the Owl.

“Get down here, you skinny Ganymede bitch,” he chuckles in Greek, wagging his arousal. “Let me poke that throat,”

Aedan tips over, catching a low hanger, and his palms grow hot with each revolution as he gains enough momentum to launch. He sails through the air, grasping one branch and swinging to another, an agile squirrel speeding through the trees.

---

Ciniod studies her reflection in the glass, her pride stinging from Cassibelanus’s decision to demote her for a sniveling man-cunt. There’s no time to revisit such an insult as screams from the cavern tighten her arms.

Frightful cries reveal Roman infiltration. The cavern erupts into madness, and as Ciniod emerges to take up the fight, her son speeds toward her, hands raw and foliage in his raven curls.

“We must flee,” he pants.

She grabs hold of his large ears. “Did they follow you?”

His head swings. “A prisoner among them revealed us,”

“Which one?” she growls.

“He makes no matter in this moment,” he yells, pulling her into a narrow fracture.

She squeezes in behind him, side-stepping across the precipice when the wall before her vanishes. The warm wind catches her skirt, and the fearful howls of woken druids ring beneath it.

Helmets spill into the grotto below. Roman men with swords drawn follow the Lion, whose headdress drips from breaching the water curtain. He hacks through the waking warriors, his powerful arm showing no mercy.

Taran rushes the man, blowing dust from his hand, but the poisonous spray clings to that furry snout, protecting the bastard’s chiseled face.

A cruel sword pushes into Taran’s belly as distant mossy eyes savor the kill. Ciniod screams for her brother until Aedan’s hand strikes her mouth, but it is too late—she’s caught the Lion’s attention.

“Toss your torches into the water,” the steely man bellows, his cruel gaze on the pair high above him. “Then get against the wall and hold your breath,”

Aedan seizes her wrist and drags her into another crevasse, where no words come as they start a slow and careful climb down into the darkness. Suddenly, a blast rattles the rocks around them, and a hot rush of air bursts through the narrows, jarring her hold on the slippery rocks.

Ciniod falls with him, and as if born to such perils, he hugs his knees on the way down. She mimics him, dropping into the serpentine rapids. The torrent’s powerful rumble deafens her to his cry but rising above the froth, she feels his hand around her wrist.

She crawls under the safety of a boulder, groaning in agony while rolling onto her back. Her boy follows, edging beside her with his lips to the sand.

Somewhere above, the Lion’s roar echoes.

“Bring me the Owl, my cock wants him alive!”

The corners of Aedan’s mouth twist, denting his cheeks.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” she warns. “Or by Karnon’s hand, I’ll sew that hole of yours up myself!”