XIII – The Ancalite Wedding

Lucius Vitus Servius once said that rivalry within ranks festers like flesh rot, and if a general ignores it, he’ll lose a man as quickly as a leg. Julius recalls his old friend’s observation as he watches the murdered man’s son glower at Kombius, a prince of the continental Atrebates.

The more concerning bit of flesh rot, however, is Titus Labienus, who listens with jowls tight in resentment as the noble speaks of his time as an Ancalite prisoner.

Before their first campaign on the island, Julius had sent Kombius ahead with a mixed group that included Roman emissaries. The aging Ancalite king, a man of Belgic blood, took Kombius and the emissaries prisoner, killing Labienus’s son in a spilling of Roman blood yet sparing the Atrebates.

Young Skipio and the older Titus have lost more than most, certainly more than Julius, whose aunt’s youngest son, Planus, engages too eagerly with the esteemed Kombius. The hirsute Gaul’s blond locks spark more than conversational interest, and as he regales the smitten Planus, his light eyes steal glances at Skipio’s lion-headed helmet.

“In your time among them,” when Skipio speaks, Planus aims an anxious glance at Julius. “Did you ever talk with the druid, Fintan?”

“The Owl counseled Cassibelanus to anticipate Rome,” Kombius answers. “He wanted no part of it until his wife whispered poisons in his ear that led him and his chariots to Belgica.”

“We know this woman,” says Julius. “Is she a druidess?”

“She would’ve been,” Kombius replies. “Getting pregnant made the old archdruid—”

“Ostin,” Skipio cuts in, and Kombius sets down his cup.

“Ostin, yes, the druid you murdered,” he cordially reminds before returning his attention to Julius. “Ostin excluded her for this and other reasons. She retains a high position among her people. However, she is still a king’s daughter.”

“Clearly,” Julius pushes a cup of wine at Skipio. “Since there’s been no repercussions for her ambushing and murdering my friend,”

“My father,” Skipio interjects.

Yes, the Lion, as he’s known to warriors and druids alike, inches ever closer to thirty, his waning twenties lost with his father’s demise. His campaign of brutality against the island’s druids evokes more fear among the locals than the presence of Rome’s legions.

“Our spies say that since Fintan’s death,” Julius fills the Gaul’s cup. “It is her brother Taran who whispers in Cassibelanus’s ear,”

“My source tells me that he’s made her half-brother, Lugotrix, leader of the Ancalites.” Kombius stares into his cup. “Most of the gathering kings disagree with his choice, putting their faith in her son, a young druid that Cassibelanus dislikes immensely.”

Skipio raises his head as if freshly woken. “Why would this warlord dislike a strategist who’s won him battles?”

“Strategist?” asks Julius.

“He speaks of the Owl,” Planus says softly.

“Yes, but Aedan the Owl King is of two extremes,” Kombius tells them. “Cunning beyond measure, and brutally whorish beyond shame,”

“How is one brutally whorish?” asks Planus.

Kombius smirks. “For him, a fistfight is foreplay,”

Julius looks at his Lion and finally understands.

“Is that what’s made you a child seeking a new toy, Skipio?”

The young man remains silent, his thoughts on the deadly druid his own.

“Fintan was a reasonable sort until he married,” adds Kombius.

Planus wonders, “Does anything make a man more unreasonable?”

“Forgive him,” Julius raises his cup. “Planus carries little taste for women,”

Planus says, “I speak of matrimony, not women.”

“Matrimony and women go hand in hand,” laughs Julius.

“How now, uncle,” Planus smirks. “Men also forge bonds in Juno’s month,”

“Despite our laws ignoring such ceremonial unions,” Skipio gripes.

“Are you married, dear boy?” Julius teases Planus.

Pearly teeth peek out amidst a face full of hair.

“If I were, mother would be the first to know,”

“Then I would be the last,” Julius jokes.

Planus and Kombius laugh, but Skipio broods while Labienus scowls.

“Your men have many wives, then?” Planus asks.

“It is our women who have many husbands,” Kombius answers. “Bonds form when life begins,”

Planus blinks. “You’re married to every woman you get pregnant?”

“You Romans and your writs. There’s no need for contracts if proof of your partnership lies swaddled and crying in your arms,” Kombius shrugs his bony shoulders. “I’ve rutted many a man when the mood strikes, but what I leave him can be wiped away or pushed out with a good fart,”

“And with that, I take my leave.” Labienus rises. “I bid you goodnight and thank you for your hospitality, Imperator,”

Julius raises his cup. “Thank you for supping with us, Tribune,”

The man departs, and Kombius sighs.

“I’ve made him uncomfortable,” he says.

“He doesn’t trust you, nor do I,” Skipio reveals. “You left camp this morning without informing the watch,”

“Yes,” Kombius nods. “And you would know, wouldn’t you?

Julius sets down his cup. “What’s this about then?”

“Legate claims our Kombius ventured into the woods without acquiring leave,” Planus explains with hardened eyes on Skipio. “None one brought up it this night, as you dislike camp politics spoken of at supper,”

“Speaking on bonds between men,” Kombius hopes to change the subject by addressing Julius. “You asked me to reach out to an old lover, and that’s what I did,”

“Then why not inform the watch?” Skipio asks.

“Because I didn’t want you killing him,” Kombius snaps. “Each covert meeting I’ve arranged finds you showing up and murdering everyone in attendance,”

“This is an acceptable reason,” Julius decides. “Thank you, Kombius.”

Planus, the consummate de-escalator, stands.

“We should take our leave, Skipio,”

“I trust you, Lord Planus,” Kombius says, taking his wrist. “More than I trust any other man in this camp,”

Julius apes insult. “You too, Kombius?”

“I’m sorry,” the Gaul grins, eyeing Skipio. “You’re still my battle king, but your Legates do not trust me farther than they can throw me.”

“Except for our dear Planus,” Julius baits.

“Full disclosure,” Planus says. “My interests come tainted,”

Skipio tempers his tone. “May I ask this lover’s name, Kombius?”

“To what end?” Planus laughs over his agitation.

Kombius answers, “His name is Taximagulus, he leads the Cassi,”

“And what words did he share?” asks Julius.

“A high-placed woman seeks an audience with Rome,” Kombius tells him. “She wishes to settle hostilities between you and her family,”

“And how does she intend to do that?” Julius wonders.

“She’ll divulge the location of the Catubellauni stronghold,” Kombius reveals softly. “In return, she desires safe passage to Belgica for her and her son.”

Skipio quakes, “The nerve of that bitch,”

Julius raises a hand for him to settle. “Kombius, arrange this meeting,”

Skipio jumps to his feet, silenced by Julius’s hand.

“Planus,” Julius adds. “Go with him to these negotiations, and when you do, inform the watch guard of your exit,”

Kombius stutters, “Caesar, she’s n—”

“I know the woman who seeks this meeting,” Julius assures him. “Go now with Planus and arrange it,”

Kombius departs, concern plaguing his brow, while Planus follows, delivering a wordless warning for Skipio to remain calm. The moment they’re gone, however, the Servian heir takes up his mane-covered helmet.

“You will remain, Lucius Scipio Servius,” says Julius.

He gnashes his teeth. “How can you even think of making a deal with the bitch who killed my father,”

Julius eyes the space beside him. “Sit down, boy,”

“Boy?” Skipio roars. “You’re not my father,”

“Rome is your father now!”

Skipio shakes his head.

“I won’t discuss the needs of Rome over justice for my father,”

“You’re behaving like a wild boar,” Julius shouts. “Must I cage you like one?”

Skipio comes to attention.

“Apologies, imperator, for my lack of respect.”

Julius sits up and pats the space beside him. “That’s better, now sit,” and as Skipio moves to do so, he scolds, “Put that damned thing on the floor,”

The fleece-covered helmet finds a place between their feet.

“Take a breath and count to ten,” Julius orders softly, but when Skipio sighs in frustration, he barks: “You’ll do it, Or I’ll send those eyes rolling out of this tent,”

Skipio swallows his pride, takes a breath, and, in his mind, counts to ten.

Julius joins him, the scent of bacon and barley finding him from the half-empty plates. No doubt, thoughts of the Owl and his bitch mother boil within the man beside him, but hopefully, this momentary settlement will dampen his fire.

Julius leans down and pinches an ear on the lion’s head.

“Did your father ever tell you where this came from?”

“A beast from Bithynia,” says Skipio.

“It was our first campaign together,” Julius nods. “I was younger than you in those days, but I’d allied with the wrong people. I was desperate for a high position in the House of Jupiter,”

Skipio turns to him. “You were a high priest of Jupiter?”

“Oh yes,” says Julius. “Until those that got me there picked a fight with the wrong man. They lost, just as my mother said they would, and for that, and for refusing to divorce my wife, the victor exiled me to military service,”

“You never chose to serve?” asks Skipio, shocked.

“No, and neither did your father,” Julius tells him. “He’d gambled away your mother’s dowry and needed a soldier’s pension to get it back.” Julius raises a finger. “He never gambled again. Your father made mistakes but never made them twice.”

Skipio lowers his gaze.

“Back in those days,” Julius continues. “I dabbled in men on occasion, not like you and Planus, who live for cock like it’s your religion. Knowing this, my legate sent me to negotiate for ships at the Bithynian court.”

Skipio provides his full attention.

“Your father came along because he was a sturdy hairless sort,” says Julius, grinning. “The type their King fancied,”

“Did my father—?”

“Bye-Jove, no,” Julius laughs. “I did the heavy sitting on that mission, and thanks to your father prancing around half-naked, the King proved a rather uncomfortable chair,”

“Father never spoke of his time in the east,”

“It’s not the sort of thing a man tells his son,” says Julius. “Our host, the Bithynian King, kept a lioness in his menagerie. She came from lands far south of Egypt, and Vitus brought one of her cubs back home. Your grandfather—”

“—Red,”

“Yes, old Rufus.” Julius grabs the decanter and drinks from it. “Rufus named that cub Leonidas. Taught him to take down deer and boar that got into the orchard,”

Dried blood dots the fleece’s ears.

“I saw the beast many years later,” he says, offering Skipio a drink of his wine. “Your grandparents threw an orgy to celebrate your birth. Cornelia was pregnant then, and she desperately wanted to hold you,”

Taking back the decanter, Julius empties it with one swallow.

“We didn’t know that shortly after your birth, Leonidas had gone peculiar. The beast had mauled some harvesters and then attacked two horses.” His fingers scratch into the fleece’s stiff mane. “That night, after we’d gone to sleep, Leonidas climbed out of his pit, entered the house, and killed your wetnurse.”

The lion’s snout stares back at him, its whiskers broken and bent.

“Your grandfather died protecting you. Vitus and I nearly died taking the damned thing down.” Pain clouds his memory. “Cornelia lost her baby that night. A boy. What there was of him in her piss bowl, we buried with your grandfather,”

Remorse colors Skipio’s face. “I’ll burn it, Imperator,”

“You will not,” Julius says, patting Skipio’s knee. “This thing meant too much to your superstitious father. He brought it on every campaign. He said that Minerva came to him in a dream, telling him that the beast that tried to devour his boy would protect him when grown.”

Skipio’s eyes pool with water. “I remember one winter, the snow came early and made a white mountain in the impluvium. Father gathered handfuls of it and lobbed it at everyone in the atrium,”

Julius runs a paternal hand across his back.

“I remember this one Saturnalia, father wore my mother’s womanly robes and jokingly swaddled Vita.” Skipio wipes his nose. “My first harvest, it went on long into the night. Father the lion’s mane and put me on his shoulders. I swung at all the low-hanging fruit with my grandfather’s stick,”

Julius puts a hand upon the young man’s shorn head.

“When I see you in this, Skipio, I see that lion gone mad,” he tells him. “I’m begging you, as one who also mourns your father, please, get ahead of this madness. Do not make me put you down the way we did this damned beast.”

A low groan escapes Skipio’s throat before fierce sobs cover his chin with spit.

“There it is,” Julius’s arm curtains those broad shoulders. “That’s what Roman’s do. We weep for those we lose, not rage for what we’ve lost.”

Skipio cries for several moments.

“You cannot let anger consume you,” says Julius, releasing him. “Not when you must take your father’s place in Comum,”

Skipio’s head rises. “Comum?”

“You’re going home,” says Julius.

“I can change.” Skipio jumps to his feet. “I will change,”

“It’s not a punishment, boy,” Julius assures him.

“There’s no reason to send me home,” Skipio says. “Not when I’ve proven myself capable on the battlefield,”

“The Senate has stripped the people of Comum of their citizenship.” Julius stands with him. “Even families founded in Rome are not immune,”

Skipio’s mouth opens. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“Resentment and jealousy,” Julius tells him. “Comum’s representative in the Senate, your father’s cousin, killed himself after being whipped like a dog in public by Marcus Claudius,”

Skipio growls, “That arrogant Claudian bastard,”

“Arrogant, yes, and powerful.” Julius grasps his muscled arm. “This is why I’m making you Tribune of the Comum battalion,”

Skipio recoils.

“I cannot accept such a high position,” he says. “I haven’t been a praefectus yet,”

“Madness has ruled you for too long,” Julius chuckles. “Do you think I would’ve allowed a simple decurion to lead the missions you’ve carried out these past weeks?”

Skipio’s mind turns behind distant eyes.

“You’ve been Praefectus Vigilium for some time now,” Julius reveals. “You and your riders have protected the marching legions far better than we’ve deserved,”

“But, Caesar,” Skipio whispers. “I’ve only hunted druids for personal—”

“—You’ll wear the purple stripe,” Julius interrupts. “Rebuild the garrison at Comum, and from there, aid Crassus Titus Flavius in Mediolanum and our dear Planus in Bellagio.”

“Comum houses so many youthful trainees,” Skipio warns. “They know more of work than weapons,”

“Marcus Castor Junius will use the youth in rebuilding Octodurus,” Julius decides. “Those going home with you will reestablish the road-watch network and protect our colonial loyalists,”

Skipio comes to attention. “I will not fail you, Imperator.”

“No,” Julius grips both his shoulders. “You must not fail Comum.”

*

Skipio pulls on his long-neglected uniform and curses the irony of having carried the rank of praefectus all this time. He unknowingly held the command of over forty cohorts and could’ve utilized them instead of morally burdening his twenty-five most loyal.

On the meadow, his mustering equites await.

Skipio arrives on Luna in full cavalry armor, his helmet comb bearing praefectus colors. More than his most trusted now stand on the field, five across and five deep, with the newly ranking decurion, Actus Ursius, flanking their right.

Skipio gathers his courage and speaks loud enough that passers-by in camp can hear him.

“I stand before you, ashamed of my actions. In my grief, I polluted each of you with my depravity and my bloodlust. I seek your forgiveness and hope that my actions and those I forced you to partake in did not destroy your humanity as they almost destroyed mine.”

Actus glances at the men before breaking formation.

“None of us blame you, Praefectus,” he speaks for them all. “No apology is warranted, though it is appreciated.”

A collective grunt rises from cohorts. Moments pass with silence until a joyous roar comes after Skipio tells them they’re all going home.

---

Frost coats the meadow, melting away as mid-morning revives the green.

Today, the sons of Transalpine Gaul depart Britannia. They gather outside the camp, near a thousand strong with their horses, for a march to the coast. A single question bandies among them: why must they return home if the beaten Alpine Gauls pose no threat?

Skipio enters the growing formation atop Luna, whose hide smells of lavender from the nettles in her brush. Unwilling to announce his status as Tribune, his armor bears only a praefectus decoration. He dismounts to oversee his decurio organizing the travel columns, and sudden activity near the front gate draws Luna away.

Skipio follows the horse to Caesar’s tent. He gently scolds her wanderlust as three Gallic chieftains emerge through the flaps, arguing with words that bring no blows. Nearby, a group of disarmed islanders huddle together to watch the tent’s guards.

“How could he do this?” Castor’s boyish shrill disrupts all who hear it. Like the other Alpine sons, he dons armor for the journey home but isn’t happy about it.

“What goes on here?” Skipio asks with Luna’s reigns in hand.

“Imperator makes a deal with our enemy,” Castor whispers.

All eyes turn to Skipio.

“This campaign is no longer our affair,” he decides.

“How can you say that?” Castor steps into his path. “They murdered your father,”

“War murdered my father.” Skipio declares as Titus approaches them. “There are bigger issues at home,”

“Bye-Jove,” Titus proclaims. “Your mind has returned,”

“That Ancalite bitch” Castor interjects. “Makes a deal for her and the Owl,”

Planus appears beside Titus. “What are you on about, boy?”

“I’m not a child.” Castor barks. “Stop talking to me as if I am,”

“Decurion!” Skipio snaps. “You’re addressing a Legate,”

Castor comes to his senses. “Forgive me,”

“Emotions run high today,” Planus warns. “let’s calm them, Castor,”

Skipio steps to him and whispers.

“Is the bitch that killed my father in there?”

“No, friend,” Planus points. “She’s over there,”

In the distance come five soldiers, four dragging the woman and her son in ropes. Skipio’s heart races as they pass, for the spindly druid is clean of his paint and looks very much like the man Skipio encountered on the falls.

The morose druid reaches for Luna, whispering the word ‘Looir.’

Soldiers violently yank him onward, and Luna rears onto her back legs. Skipio snatches her reigns and whispers gentle words, watching as the murderous Owl stands alongside his mother, their ankles and wrists bound in ropes.

Skipio’s burns pulse in time with his heart. How many druids did he violate and butcher, punishing the Owl in effigy? An exact number stains his thoughts, every face clear in his mind, every act of brutality remembered in detail.

The real culprit behind his savagery stands before him now, with no mask or fiery crown. His milky skin shines beneath those coal-black curls. His raven eyes drift mischievously to Castor.

The lancer meets their challenge, unsheathing his dagger until Skipio extends an arm.

“No blood spills before the imperator’s tent,” he decrees.

Before Castor can protest, Caesar emerges from the tent and flaps with a voluptuous woman under his arm. Unlike most women on this island, her teeth are plentiful, and her braided hair is clean.

“Your son awaits you, Lady Avalin,” he says, seeing her off.

The woman moves with a Roman matron’s flirtatious grace, gently touching Titus Flavius’s clean-shaven cheek. “What a beautiful shade you are,” she says, her smile dying before Skipio.

“Traitorous cunt,” shouts the Owl’s mother.

Avalin avoids the seething woman and puts her hand on Skipio’s armored chest. She turns her eyes to the Owl. “Perhaps some time with this Roman will mature you enough to be worth something before you die,”

“I don’t deserve such kindness,” says the druid.

“I curse you, you traitorous bitch,” his mother snarls. “Your boy won’t live to see the first snow!”

Skipio comes between them. “And you won’t live to see her son’s death,” he promises as the druid’s lifeless eyes survey his frame.

“Yes, her blood will answer for Lucius Vitus Servius,” Caesar agrees, clutching Skipio’s shoulder. “And her death ends any further quest for vengeance against her bloodline.”

The bitch whispers to her son, keen to know the spoken Latin.

Skipio accepts Caesar’s mandate with a salute, while a seething Castor begrudgingly follows suit.

“Poor, pretty, Bitch Eyes,” the Owl taunts in his native tongue. “Now, you’ll never get to bleed me out.”

His mother laughs until Skipio cuffs her son in the gut.

“Animal,” she cries. “Attacking a man smaller than you!”

Avalin departs, passing the line of Bibroci prisoners led by a centurion. Filing past, the women thank Skipio for his protection, but their leader, the druidess, refuses, saying nothing until the widest of the chieftains emerges from Caesar’s tent.

The bearded man sets his beady eyes on mother and son as he embraces the druidess.

“Where’s Alon?” the druidess demands.

Skipio knows full well the mousy man travels with Castor, who steps up and answers her in her language. “He escaped to the countryside,” he tells her.

“Escaped my arse,” says the Owl. “Alon would rather be a Roman whore than a Bibroci son,”

Skipio punches him in the stomach once more, dropping the narrow man to his knees.

“You brute,” the woman rails. “Pick on a man your own size!”

“Where is he, Owl King?” the chieftain demands, lording over the druid.

His mother steps to the man. “Fuck you, you fat fuck,”

“I didn’t give you up, Chinny,” says the chieftain.

The Owl’s leg shoots up, and a loud crack comes as his foot collides with the chieftain’s nose. The portly man shrieks in pain, cradling his face. The Romans observing find it funny, but Caesar isn’t laughing.

*

Skipio snatches hold of Aedan’s delectable curls, and Luna whinnies as her master drags away her barbarian son.

Ciniod follows them, tripping over her ropes.

“My blood,” she sobs in language. “Not the blood of my boy,”

“She offers her blood,” Castor says, following them. “Not her son’s,”

Skipio wraps his free hand around the Aedan’s throat.

“Tell her that her boy owes me more than blood,”

Castor tells her this, grinning when she falls onto Skipio’s feet. “Please,” she pleads. “Do not take my son’s life,”

Skipio pushes Aedan to his knees and yanks his head back. The druid’s hair smells like campfire, and kissing his forehead salts Skipio’s lips.

“He’ll take his own life by the time I’m through,” he promises, rubbing the kiss away with his chin.

Laughter rises among those gathering around them.

“You never caught me,” Aedan taunts in Greek.

Skipio releases him and stares down at the man on his knees with humored eyes. “Yet here you are, caught!”

“Not by you,” Black orbs defy him. “Servius Tribune,”

Skipio backhands the insolent druid, and for this, he gets a stinging foot across the mouth.

Aedan kicks at the Roman again, but the handsome fucker snatches his ankle, knocking him to his back and dragging him over the grass.

The sinewy Ancalite poses no threat without his weaponized legs. Skipio merrily tows him to the archery field, a short trip made long by the druid’s resistance.

Planus and Castor follow, and Actus also arrives as word spreads among the departing legion of the Owl’s capture.

“No,” screams Ciniod on their heels. “My blood, not his,”

A rowdy crowd gathers at the far field, where grass gives way to muddy earth. They surround Skipio and his prisoner, and he asks the mob what he should do with the mighty Owl King.

The suggestions fly, many violent enough to give a decent man pause. Skipio plants his sword in the mud and confronts the emotionless Aedan.

“Rome demands your life,” he says in Greek.

“You know my birth name, Skippy-oh,” Aedan taunts. “Say it!”

Ciniod falls to her knees beside her son.

“Why do you bait him?” she demands.

“His violence,” says Aedan, “it tickles my soul,”

“What did he say?” Skipio asks Castor, whose upper lip rises in disgust.

“He dares not translate,” Planus says. “Fuel is the last thing your lust needs,”

Aedan watches as the virile Roman strips off his armor.

“Curse me,” Ciniod hisses. “You’re in love with this fucker,”

Aedan turns to her. “Love. Is this what love feels like?”

“Oh, my boy, I never thought you capable.” His mother softens, and the corners of her mouth lift. “Is this really what you want?”

Aedan nods slowly.

“He’s going to kill you,” she warns him. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Someday.” Aedan’s crooked smirk appears. “But not today,”

Skipio kneels before them and cuffs him by the back of the neck. “Enough talking, Ay-dawn,” he growls in Greek. “It’s time for my cock to poke that throat,”

Aedan lewdly pushes out his tongue.

“Oh, I should’ve known.” Ciniod swings her head as the crowd laughs. “Should have known you’d kill me one way or another with that narrow ass of yours,”

Joy sparks in Aedan’s eyes, the first she’s seen of it since he became a man. He wrenches free of the Roman and embraces her, and at that moment, her mind returns to their first walk on the beach when his toddling delight meant more to her than life itself.

Ciniod stands and undoes her sinew belt.

“He’s yours,” she shouts, taking the Roman’s arm and looping the cord around it and her son’s. “For better or worse, more times worse, I reckon.”

Laughter towers from Roman watchers versed in her language.

“Skipio’s a married man now,” Planus exclaims, inciting the crowd again.

“I’ve never been able to deny you, you little shit,” she says, her son’s head rising. “Get on with it. I’d rather you do it than them.”

Without warning, Aedan’s narrow blade drags across her neck. The crowd retreats a pace, collectively gasping as Aedan puts a hand on his mother’s seeping wound and lays her down slowly. Then, he flicks a handful of blood at the Roman, tainting the man’s eyes with stinging red.

Castor jumps into the fray, his dagger out.

“You’ll pay for killing Drusus,” he snarls, until a swift backflip strikes him in the jaw, sending a tooth skyward.

The mob cheers, and Skipio tosses an unconscious Castor into their arms.

Aedan rips off his smock, revealing his pale chest. With his smile bent, he yanks the waistband of his tartan britches to his navel and begins cartwheeling around the circle.

The soldiers move back with each cycle he rounds, widening the arena for the druid and their Tribune. No one dares touch the acrobatic man, while Skipio, his brawny arms folded, watches with steely calm when the druid liberates a sword from an unsuspecting infantry soldier.

Aedan tosses it at the Roman bastard’s feet. He flips over, vaulting backward over a horse and striking its rider’s back with both hands. The sentry falls, and Aedan swipes his lance.

Skipio takes his sword in hand, then collects the other given to him by the druid. He stands sure as the boney Owl prances toward him, spear twirling in a dexterous hand.

“You want to poke my throat,” Aedan says in Greek. “You got to earn it,”

Skipio begins their dance a thrust. The druid moves back as he drives forward, and they coast across the circle, exchanging deft swings, quick dodges, and cunning stabs.

The mob inhales together as the Owl sunders a sword from their Tribune, but when the nimble man vaults Skipio’s head, he catches an ankle and hammers the druid to the ground.

A spry leg sweeps the Roman behind his knees. Quickly, he recovers, crab-walking to a fallen sword before racing down the backflipping druid.

Both blades swinging, Skipio’s body burns like a struck flint as Minerva reveals something new; through the druid’s acrobatics is a bulbous ankle. Tossing aside a sword, Skipio reaches out and catches it.

The agile Aedan finds himself caught, but before the Roman slaps him to the ground, Aedan wraps himself around the man like a serpent, striking his taut backside with the spear.

Skipio growls from the sting and lobs the druid skyward, but as he comes back down, he twists around and tosses the lance.

Aedan sticks the landing before seeing that a slight miscalculation buries the spear’s iron tip between the Roman’s feet. Without a second to spare, he punches the man in his gorgeous mouth.

Skipio swings his sword, slicing the belt around the druid’s trousers. Another backflip allows the druid to quickly shed his pants, pitching them into Skipio’s face. He clears the tartan from his eyes and finds the scrawny Owl struggling to free the spear from the ground.

A sword comes down from above, splitting the lance’s hilt as Aedan hurls himself over the Roman’s head.

Before the Lion can turn, the Owl punches his spine with a dangerous foot. He swings his sword back through the pain, his elbow finding purchase with the druid’s face.

The lithe bastard strikes the ground with his belly, and as he lies there, regaining his senses, a kill shot reveals itself to the Roman.

Skipio marches toward him, sword raised with murderous intent until the druid rises to his hands and knees.

♡ Small white buttocks crown a hairless bridge to a clean-shaven ball sack and huge cock. ♡

Venus reminds Skipio that any man can fuck a face, but Skipio Servius isn’t just any man.

Aedan shakes the blow from his head, but before he finds his feet, the Roman’s thick, muscular body crushes him back into the mud.

“Bring me some oil,” the brute cries, and the mob cheers.

Titus orders his archers to disburse, but most ignore him as their Tribune stands tall, lifting the flailing druid by his neck. The skeletal Celt flits about like a rabbit held at the ears, his girthy erection bobbing for all to see.

Skipio forces the druid to his knees. He crouches beside him and presses his burned chest to the little fucker’s face.

“Are my scars hot?” he growls in Greek. “They burn me every day, A-dawn,”

Teeth cut into Skipio’s pectoral, an agonizing reward for his cruelty. He bounces the druid’s head off his knee, grasping his black curls and yanking him back to stop him falling.

Aedan cannot contain his desire, so many blows coupled with the taste of blood. A strong hand grips his arousal, jerking it violently while forcing his hot breath into Aedan’s ear.

Titus sounds the horn, forcing most to disburse while Planus and Actus stand watching as the druid lustily arches his back and whines. Suddenly, the druid’s cock spits.

Hot spunk covering his fingers, Skipio releases the druid as if poisoned.

Aedan picks himself up from the mud. Turning on his knees, he yanks aside the Roman’s lower tunic.

Eyes wet with desire, the bastard undoes the hip-knot of Skipio’s loincloth and slides his bloody mouth onto Skipio’s length. The druid’s tongue cracks every nerve Skipio possesses, the man’s hand working his foreskin with a whore’s masterful skill.

Aedan takes the man’s monstrous flesh to the hairs, choking and bringing up a thickness that he takes in hand and slathers onto his crack. He turns around and presents his hole, standing on his hands and knees like a bitch in heat.

Coarse desires vent like a volcano.

Skipio snakes an eager arm around those knobby hips and guides his cockhead in the darkened cleave between the druid’s buttocks.

Driven one last time to resist, Aedan kicks back, striking the man’s corded groin with his heel. He flips onto his back, eager for the fist that comes for his mouth. One strike follows another until Aedan’s senses become one with the clouds.

Blood masks the giddy druid’s face. And for Skipio, it is a siren’s song. He rolls the punch-drunk fool onto his stomach and hooks an arm under his waist. One shove takes him deep, his foreskin pinched by the man’s tightness.

Aedan eagerly bears down, swallowing the Roman’s flesh with a contented wail. Skipio’s soul croons within the druid. He dreams of being buried deep until the world ends and the heavens fade.

Lost in their violent tryst, the Lion and the Owl trade vile grunts and cling to one another like rutting animals.

Those still watching fall silent. This is not justice or retribution. It is an open door to a brothel room. Some leave in disgust, others follow with uncertain looks upon their mugs. Actus is one of them, undone by the sordid scene before him.

Skipio’s heart smiles when the druid’s cock spits without a coaxing hand. Aedan shudders, his mouth slack and his tongue tasting the air. Skipio’s desires crest stronger than they ever have before, and he empties himself in the druid with a guttural cry.

Aedan presses his face and belly into the mud, content for the first time in his short, miserable life.

Skipio sits back, arms resting on his risen knees.

Castor crawls beside him. “What are you doing?”

Pearly juice drips from the druid’s ashy cleave, a vision that satisfies Skipio more than it should.

Castor shoves the dagger at him.

“Kill him, Skipio, and be done with it!”

Aedan lazily flops onto his back.

“My lion,” he murmurs in Greek, long fingers reaching for his Roman bride. “You’re as fierce as the day you came of the reeds,”

♡ Skipio loses his breath. ♡

“Am I fierce?” he whispers.

“The fiercest thing alive,” says the druid, baring his crimson-stained teeth. “And you’re mine,”

Skipio wishes to cut his heart out and feed it to the druid.

“If you ever cared for me,” Castor cries. “You’ll send him to the underworld,”

Luna is there beside them. She folds her front legs and lays her long muzzle across the druid’s neck.

“Looir,” Aedan whispers, arm crooking over her mane.

Skipio tosses the dagger away as Castor wails beside him.

“Oh, Venus,” Planus whispers. “You conspire with Mars to test and bless our dear Skipio.”