XII – The Graticule

Bloody waters run deep where the Stour meets the Lug.

Two hefty rafts cut a path within pink foaming shallows, where intestines wobble as hungry fish peck at their undersides. The well-adorned passengers bring tightly woven rags to their noses, anything to quell the stench.

Slimy crimson sand sucks at Aedan’s feet, but what awaits him beyond the trees makes the discomfort worth it.

Flies gather like black rain over 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 cocks frame a centerpiece of stacked hands, where a crowning palm holds a plucked owl, smoke curling from its roasted carcass. Pale auburn feathers reveal it as Fintan’s owl, lost for many days since Tamesa’s fall.

Segobax, the golden-haired leader of the Segontiaci, takes umbrage at such barbarity, though his dead father’s reputation for devouring the eyeballs of enemies haunts everyone’s mind.

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

“Reasonable and tidy,” cracks Segobax. “Look at the neatly folded robes under a tree adorned with butchered druids.”

Ostin’s white cloak, the one he wore the night he replaced Fintan with his son, tops the pile. All eyes turn to the new Owl King, who plucks up the roasted night bird and takes a bite. He finds the bird tasty, his eyes wandering over the ravaged body of a young Ancalite. He reaches for the bare corpse slung over a fallen tree and touches Ostin’s walking staff, rooted deep in the dead Ancalite’s torn ass.

“A less murderous replacement?” Segobax wonders.

Aedan agrees with both assessments.

“Their battle king knows nothing of this,” he says. “This is the work of the Lion.”

Carbilius brings a fine cloth to his mouth and studies the scene with disdain. “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.”

He comes between Aedan and the gruesome scene.

“You’re saying an honorable man like that is responsible for this nasty shit?”

“The Lion has no taste for women.” Aedan touches the bite marks on the dead druid’s buttocks. “When one resists, his fires rage, and no woman resists quite like a man resists.”

Segobax steps away, batting at the flies.

“His vicious appetites transcend reason. 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 advancing legions.”

“These bodies are fresh.” Carbilius studies those hanging with bone splints 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.” Aedan’s knowledge comes from stalking the treetops, watching the strapping Roman and his young Gallic brutes stalk the riverside villages seeking druids.

The Lion and his cadre of youthful Gauls from the continent make short work of anyone who fights back, yet allow the children and the elderly to flee. Found druids get brought before the Lion himself, who takes back the power he lost on the cliffs to Aedan by ravishing the thinnest of them. 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 gorgeously savage fucking.

Aedan often watches from the highest tree, pulling at his arousal while the Lion slaps them about, taunts them with bullish words before handling them like a child’s doll. He tears robes apart, pulls arms back like reins, and shoves faces into the mud while pulling asses high enough to poke. The beastly beauty impales his prisoner’s dry holes with that exquisitely oiled cock, and in his most vulnerable moments, the Lion becomes the most beautiful thing Aedan’s ever seen.

 When the green-eyed bastard begins chewing on his victim’s buttocks, that’s when Aedan’s cock releases its share.

“Mandubracius supplies Rome with grain and soldiers, and he’s the rightful leader of the Trivonantes.” Segobax circles the other chieftains. ”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 stealing what’s ours.”

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

Aedan turns from the carnage.

“Kaiser won’t stay once he gets what he wants.”

“And what does he want?” Segobax asks.

“Assurances that when he returns to the continent,” Aedan tells him. “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 the water.”

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

“Ostin,” he replies. “It’s why he urged negotiations,”

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

“And yet here I stand.” Aedan remains stoic. “Kaiser doesn’t want me. He wants my mother. He holds her accountable for the death of the Lion’s father.”

Carbilius gives a start. “What?”

“Why would she kill the Lion’s father?” Segobax asks.

“Taran claims,” he says. “That the Lion’s father killed Fintan.”

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

Unable to stomach the smell, Carbilius retreats to the water.

“Cut them down,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Leave them,” Aedan tells the chieftain’s men. “Taking them down is what the Lion wants. 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 the visiting chieftains hastily retake their places upon the rafts. Rowers put distance between them and the horrid riverbank, while whispers prevail until falling water drowns out noisy birdsong.

They disembark near the falls, and Aedan pulls their rafts away from shore before leading them behind the thundering water. Torchlight reveals a steep passage, with many steps down before wetness gives way to warmth.

The cavern’s belly holds a radiant grotto, its patchy light revealing natural decks that climb into the darkness. Ignitable fluid within these waters provides the bountiful light, and it makes for nervous eyes until Aedan extinguishes his torch in a bladder-lined basket. Up the winding ridge, the highest ledge offers a narrow passage, where tin cups of burning water sit within the rockface’s many niches. Their dull glow leads to an antechamber with woven blankets hanging from iron rafters.

A round wooden table offers bread, fruit, and barley ale, while the fiery hearth boasts a steamy cauldron of hazelnut broth. The chieftains close in on it like famished children, and the first to greet the new arrivals is Cingetorix of the Cenimagni. A shit-haired man standing a foot taller than most, his mustache grown 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 his thick beard hides a bevy of youthful acne scars.

Aedan climbs the rocky mantle, squatting near the empty perch that once hosted his father’s owl. The room begins its churn as 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 empty space beside him. “Did you find her yet?”

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. Grandfather’s bastard and Aedan’s elder by four years, the raven-haired Lugotrix straddles the line between chunky and trim.

“Hoot-hoot’s tongue is always lapping at something,” he adds, shoulders draped in fur and face clean-shaven.

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,” says Aedan.

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

“You’re just jealous because I can.”

“Dear boy,” he laughs. “That’s nothing to brag about.”

“Can you still see your cock?” Aedan goads. “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!” Cassibelanus enters, a foot taller than every man in the room. He moves past Aedan’s position without so much as offering a scowl.

Cingetorix enters his embrace.

“You’re late, my old adversary,” he says.

Segobax announces, “The Romans butchered Ostin and his druids.”

Cassibelanus glares at Aedan while Taximagulus begins pacing and Lugotrix stands wide-eyed.

“Ostin’s dead?” Taran gasps, then lends a sour look to Aedan. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You never asked.”

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 character.”

“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.

“Fearless enough to lose Kelr to the Romans,” Cassibelanus reminds.

Segobax says, “According to my scouts, your little Cenimagni rode into a trap, after the Owl told him it was a trap.”

“Scouts?” says Cassibelanus,” or spies?”

“What’s the difference?” Segobax asks.

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

“—Tamesa is behind us,” Ciniod interjects, moving around the table to stand at her brother’s side.

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

“I agree,” Cassibelanus says. “If we don’t come together, Rome will destroy everything we know.”

“Would they go that far?” Segobax asks, capturing the attention of Taximagulus and Cingetorix.

“They have destroyed the continent,” Taran says, voice shaking. “There’s nothing left of the Morini. Nothing.”

“Kombius seems well enough,” Aedan chimes 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.

Aedan slaps his hand onto the table, silencing them.

“Rome’s fort is protected on three sides, one of those sides being the river. They’ve built a long communal pool lined with elk bladders. Clay pipes lead in and out of it, each pipe sealed with tree sap to prevent leakage.

“River water flows into a clay tank set over fires before it enters on one end. It is emptied twice daily out the other end, but before then, every man among them bathes. They do this once between sunsets.

“They keep meat rabbits and milk cows in a centralized barn beside a buried armory. They pluck fowl by the hundreds to feed their smokers, so no man goes without a meal, and they all eat at least three times a day.

“Kaiser and his wolves live as well as the men in this room. Well-fed, well-washed, and well-hydrated. And I know all of this because I watch that fort for more than the Lion, who wants me dead.”

Ciniod looks at each man, cowled by Aedan’s words.

“The gods will want blood for Ostin,” she says.

Cassibelanus levels a cold gaze.

“You don’t speak for Ostin,” he says, then sits at the table. “Let’s begin while the night is still young.”

The tribal leaders take their places, but when Ciniod tries to sit, Cassibelanus pulls another into the last open chair.

“Lugotorix will represent the Ancalites,” he decides.

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

“No druid leads a tribe,” says Taran, until Taximagulus’s brow lifts. “Lugotrix is the logical choice. He will lead the Ancalites.”

“Of course.” Ciniod passes beneath Aedan on her way out. “Come, boy, tell me about the owl.”

“Fintan’s son stays,” says Taximagulus.

“Agreed,” adds Carbilius, downing his ale.

Aedan savors the tension while his mother exits with her head high. He jumps down and walks to Cingetorix, who pats his thigh, inviting Aedan to sit upon it. Segobax tuts and scoots over, offering Aedan room beside him. Hands under the table, Aedan catches Cassibelanus, Taran, and Lugotrix trading glances and realizes his mother’s exclusion isn’t as spontaneous as it seems.

The conversation turns heated when Carbilius labels Taran weak, his words born from the loss of a brother and a portion of their tribe at Avona. Resentment blinds Taximagulus from accepting Lugotrix’s elevation over Ciniod, but Segobax reveals that her thirst for vengeance created the Lion.

Aedan foresaw the handsome Roman’s bloodthirsty quest the moment Looir races into that burning hut. It’s not a truth he will volunteer, not when his mother losing face provides him enjoyment. His silence, however, provokes Cingetorix, who asks how The Owl would handle the Roman invaders.

“The wolves erected a large water well not far from their bathing hole. The hot tank feeds this well, sending soiled water into it to cool for drinking. It is a timber frame thing taller than most men that’s lined with bladders.”

Aedan turns his gaze from Cingetorix to Carbilius.

“Eadaoin and her bitches form a bucket line from the river and feed this well thrice daily. They watch the women closely, but no one minds the buckets.”

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

“We must coat Eadaoin’s buckets in yew juice,” he says.

Cingetorix chuckles, “Now that is smart.”

“And gutless,” Cassibelanus cries.

Segobax rolls his eyes. “Must we shout?”

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

“It lacks ethics,” Carbilius says. “But it’s worth consideration,”

“Not by me,” Cassibelanus declares.

“And that is why the wolves will win,” Aedan says, stoic. “You want some grand battle for the ages, and Kaiser is counting on this vanity.”

Cassibelanus rails, “Vanity?”

“Your cousins in Belgica kept the same mind,” Aedan explains. “And your all-or-nothing tactics are too similar. The wolves know now how to defeat this 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,” bemoans Cassibelanus. “We fight with spears, torches, and swords. Like true warriors!”

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

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

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

Lugotrix sulks while the discussion continues.

Without further input from Aedan, the chieftains decide to split their forces into three: A surprise attack on the Roman beachhead, a battle for their grand Tamesa camp, and a raid on the advancing legions at the Lug. No one dissents, though distrustful minds note that Cassibelanus’s faction holds a less risky position along the Lug.

Aedan eagerly departs, seeking his mother in the cavern to tell her of Fintan’s owl. After pissing into a cavern’s glowing water, a firm hand grabs 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,” comes the voice of 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 slither away as if phantoms from the shadow. Excitement courses through Aedan with thoughts of invading the Roman camp. He’ll steal away with Looir, no doubt drawing the Lion from camp long enough to keep him clear of the fight. A good cage made of oak should contain the bastard long enough for Aedan to tame him. His thoughts then turn to whether he wishes the Lion tamed at all.

Then, a smaller, smoother hand takes his wrist.

Avalin stands with her gourd lamp held high. Lack of sleep abates her loveliness, and her voice comes out heavy like her heart. “They’ve got my boy,” she croaks.

“They’ve got many boys,” says Aedan.

“If you’re part of the Tamesa forces,” she whispers, revealing her hidden ears at the chieftain’s 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,”

“Your son is nothing to me,” he reveals, “except in my way.”

“Please,” she whines softly, taking his hand and pulling him away from the water. “If you’re your father’s son—”

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

“How dare you suggest,” she stammers. “Kelr wouldn’t, he would never. He’s a good man.”

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

A tear falls down her cheek.

“How can you be so cruel, Aedan?”

“Lady Avalin,” he says. “Have you met my mother?”

---

Rome wastes no time planting itself further along the Tamesa.

Planks from the fallen stronghold frame their new fort, a monstrous structure they will not burn as they do the spindly logs surrounding their marching camps.

Watchtowers crest their five corners, with red-caped archers pacing the connecting banquettes. Ditches line all three of the surrounding meadows, each trench so deep they look as if Taranis himself dug the soil out with his fingers. A wide portion of the river protects the southern wall, and as the days grow short, cold air collides with the heat, bringing downpours that expose the barrier’s waterline foundations. Such erosions go unseen on stormy nights, and this is how Aedan the Ancalite gets inside.

The wolves store nothing along their inner walls, yet the naked druid crosses the open stretch without fear as the stinging, heavy rain cloaks his presence. A timber pole bears two shiven wood strips, each with an end carved into a point and painted with strange letters. The top sign leads to a trail lined with leather-bound tents, where somber voices drift from drawn flaps. Another pole with a sign points to a path with 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 him to cut the livestock free, but his mission takes precedence.

He ventures unseen to the smaller lodge alongside. Atop its roof, he drops down into 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 lie among them, and one wakes upon seeing his figure against the wall.

Hair braided and face flushed, she elbows the girl beside her, and soon, word of the Owl King’s arrival travels to their sanctioned leader. Before long, the square-jawed druidess, Eadaoin, sits cross-legged before him.

“Tell me Ostin survived,” she says.

Aedan swings his head.

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

Aedan smirks, “So I heard.”

“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 says. “We’d all be pregnant,”

“Pregnant or worse,” gripes a third.

Eadaoin rolls her eyes. “He’s got his advocates.”

“Where are my bitches?” asks Aedan.

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

Aedan starts. “The Lion?”

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

“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 speaks out.

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 or waif, that is,”

“Then it’s good there are no male druids among you,” he says, until Eadaoin’s anxiety rules her face.

“Who is it?” asks Aedan.

Eadaoin 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, looks at Aedan with bright acorn-colored eyes. Hair braided like the women around him, Alon’s fox-like face appears clean, and his pointy chin, shaven.

“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.”

“They call him Castor,” adds Eadaoin.

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

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

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

“He’s called Skipio by his friends,” says Alon. “Decurion by his underlings, most of them are Gauls from the continent.”

“The battle king calls him Lucius Skipio Servius,” Eadaoin tells him. “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 glares at him. “Did you or Kelr tell Lord Lion of our stake defenses?”

“He couldn’t have told them anything,” Eadaoin shakes her head and raises a protective arm before her brother. “We’ve been prisoners here since Taran’s stronghold fell.”

“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?”

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

“I don’t know,” she tells him.

“They don’t take you outside the wall to collect water.”

“No,” she answers. “There’s a sluice inside the southern wall, near the third tower. Water runs through it and then seeps through a cloth. We draw this filtered water and carry it to that boiler.”

“Are the buckets dry when you get them?”

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

“In the morning, you’ll reach under here when you arrive at the sluice.” Aedan draws that 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, one pushing Alon aside.

“It’s filled with yew juice paste.” His words elicit smiles. “Smear your buckets with it before the water assembly begins, then make sure that water gets to the heat.”

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

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

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

“Carbilius is here?” asks Alon.

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

Some of the women retreat while others suck their tongues.

“It’s just a matter of time before one of this lot reveals him to the Lion,” she says with volume.

Aedan scowls. “I do not care.”

“You will take him,” Eadaoin warns. “Or line the buckets yourself.”

Aedan considers doing the job alone, but knows he cannot. Grousing, he climbs to the transom. “I count to ten, then I leave alone.”

A moment later, out in the downpour, Alon drops into the mud behind him. “Stop looking at me,” Alon snaps. “Your ugly face turns my stomach.”

Aedan dips his head to look him in the eyes.

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll fuck it.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Alon grimaces. “I heard how you defiled that head on the battlefield, and then sullied poor Castor.”

Aedan thinks of drowning the little fox on the walk back to the signage pole. Together, they scramble across the clearing under stinging rain.

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

Aedan sprints back down the path and takes cover under a canopied stall. Three horses chow from their buckets, and one is his war prize. Beaming, he kisses Looir’s long muzzle and mouths her name without voice. The beast merrily bobs her head before emitting a squeal.

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

Three heartbeats pass before the muscular Roman emerges naked, his thick manhood swinging as he struts to his horse. Hairless but for a golden thatch around his cock, the Lion takes up 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 wonders. “I dream of him, too.”

Aedan rises within his patch of darkness.

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

Overcome with desire, Aedan reaches out from the darkness, his fingers stopping short of the man’s smooth, sun-kissed skin. He desires just a handful of that taut, supple ass. Then, Reed Eyes intrudes like a bad smell.

“Pilus Junius took that little Gaul through the gate.”

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

“At the camp cistern,” says Reed Eyes with a grin. “Something about the Owl poisoning our water,”

The Lion’s face turns boyish as he laughs.

“The Owl fell for my ruse,” he boasts.

“The water crews will miss having those wenches refill the boiler every day,”  says Reed Eyes, laughing with him. “They’ll have to go back to doing their duties.”

Aedan’s shaky Latin discerns that he’s been made a fool. After they depart, he wanders back to the wall, caring little if anyone spots him in the waning rain. He clumsily slips under the barrier and into the water, strokes over murky shallows.

What an utter fool the Lion has made of him. Anger fades onshore, where bootprints lead into the trees and reveal a dull glow. Aedan climbs a tree to its highest branch and spots Bitch Face below with the traitorous Alon under his torch.

“You’re sure he’ll come through here?” Bitch Face 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. “The women say you’ll be taking Prince Kelr with you,”

“I’d never take him with me. He’s an utter animal.” Bitch Face softens and pulls Alon close. “You’re not like the rest of them. You’ve got a Roman soul,”

Aedan considers hocking spit onto their heads but settles on rolling his eyes instead.

“There’s a grand waterfall about a mile from where the Lug meets the Stour,” Alon tells him. “Behind the first set of falls is an entrance to a large cavern.”

Bitch Face kisses him passionately.

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

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

Aedan allows the traitorous cunt a peaceful moment before descending to a lower branch. It will take a few moments to choke him if he uses his thighs rather than his—

“What’s a little thing like you doing so far from your sister?” roars Skipio Servius.

Alon throws the torch at the man and runs, but the Lion snatches him by the arm. With one hand around Alon’s throat, he lifts him off his feet and tears away Alon’s smock with a single tug.

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

“Please,” the Lion mocks. “I belong to Castor. Well, he used to belong to me, so I guess that makes you community property.”

Alon’s fingers go for the Lion’s eyes, and his skinny legs kick at the man’s corded stomach. Laughing, the Lion drops him, then backhands him into a stupor when he stands.

He pins his forearm to the fallen Alon’s back. “I’m going to use you like Jupiter on a lonely day,” says the Lion, spreading the waif’s thighs with his knees.

Aedan grips his growing arousal.

“You’re not my Owl,” the Lion grunts. “But if I close my eyes, you will be,”

“No, please! Listen, the Owl is here,” Alon cries as the Roman’s cockhead knocks at his door. “He’s above us, watching in the trees!”

The Lion’s gleaming green eyes find the druid standing naked atop a thick, lateral branch high above them.

“Finish him, Skippy-oh!” He demands in Greek. “Or are you too weak from your burns?”

A broad smile evokes a rare one from Aedan.

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

Aedan falls toward him, catching a low branch and swinging around, his toes just out of the Lion’s reach. His palms grow hot with each revolution until he gains enough momentum to launch. Sailing through the air, he swings from one hanger 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 exposed me,”

“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,” comes the raging man’s bellow, a 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!”