XIX – The Month of Honey VI

The northern road bends east, avoiding another of Saturn’s lost stones.

They enter Clastidium, an unremarkable collection of stables, eateries, and toilets catering to a daily procession of riverboats and bridge-crossers.

“You’re selling water,” Planus scolds the teenage merchant, “when the Padus flows just eighty paces away,”

“It flows, awight,” says the young man, unable to articulate his ‘R’s,’ “With the shit, piss, and spunk of evewy pewson living hew,”

Titus hands the merchant his drinking bladder.
“The Owl  noticed  this?”

“He speaks little,” answers Skipio. “But observes much,”

“Them socializing isn’t unusual,” Titus says, handing over a large coin and getting back two smaller ones. “Valens Tacitus Hadrian leads the lancers now, and he and Valerius were always thick as thieves,”

“Yes, but the Hadrianes are no friends of Caesar,” Planus reminds.

“And let’s not forget,” Skipio adds. “Lysander Valerius and Gaius Pollio hold me in bitter regard,”

“My dear friend,” Planus says, “Not all men love your fists,”

“We were boys back then, and they were bullying Niko,” Skipio retorts. “They’re lucky they got away with just a beat down,”

“We cannot assume all of the lancers are in league with Tacitus,” says Titus.

“The druid saw Valerius riding from man to man,” Skipio reveals. “No doubt measuring the most loyal,”

“Did he now?” Planus grins at Titus. “The troublesome have a skilled nose for trouble,”

“On that, why would the Owl tell you anything?” Titus wonders. “You’ve done nothing but ravish him since day one,”

“Indeed,” Planus snorts. “I’m shocked he can still stand or take a shit after these many weeks under your graceless desires,”

Skipio smirks, “Venus finally smiles upon me,”

“How now,” Planus declares. “He’s found his true mate,”

“That’s a terrifying thought,” says Titus. “At least the druid’s biology lessens the horror,”

“Can you imagine if the Owl were a woman?” Planus laughs. “He’d be polluting that beautiful Servii bloodline with his ugliness,”

Skipio ignores the jab.
“Actus and the scout await us on Septus,”

“No one walks that lane this time of year,” Titus speaks with concern.

“Calm down, Actus hasn’t abused him,” Skipio assures. “There’s no need since he’s rather chatty. He said his mission is to inform Crassus Primo Kaius that the tenth’s Comum-born sons have returned,”

“Indeed we have.” Titus leads them back to their horses. “With a new Tribune and a Legate to replace his boss in Mediolanum.”

Planus adds, “Perhaps advertising our colors was a bad idea,”

“Hindsight is no victory,” Skipio says, glaring at his uniform. “I suppose we can return to our leathers,”

“To think,” Planus sighs. “I looked forward to peacefully rowing past Mediolanum,”

“There’ll be no bloodshed,” says Skipio, walking ahead.

Both stare at him until he explains.

“Under his uniform, Primo is still a street urchin,” he tells them. “And with no warning that we’re coming,”

“He’ll be in his cups,” Titus smiles. “Busy with his vices,”

A horsebound Castor gallops past.

“What of that one?” Skipio whispers.

“He’s not the enemy,” scolds Planus, jogging after him.

“I’ll see to him for now,” Titus assures. “I’ll send him to the river port at Placentia with our cargo.”

Skipio watches his friend walk on before rejoining Luna at the stables. The merchant’s slaves move brushes over her hide, carefully avoiding the sleeping druid’s dangling limbs.

“Get up ,” he barks in Greek, hauling him off the saddle.

The graceful thing lands on his feet instead of his ass, wind gathering under his red tunica. Skipio shoves an empty water pouch at him and leads him to the merchant’s water pump—the druid ambles, rubbing sleep from his eyes while gently assessing the cord around his neck.

“Move it,  A-Dawn,” he orders softly. “We need to get back on the road,”

The druid takes the water pouch, faces the merchant, and then drops it at his captor’s feet. Skipio clamps a hand around the back of his neck.

“We don’t have time for such things today,”  he warns through his teeth. “Behave yourself, or you will walk behind Luna for the remainder of this journey,”

“Looir,” the druid mumbles.

“What?”  barks Skipio collecting the pouch.

Castor arrives atop his horse.
“Have you seen Tacitus?”

“Not today,” says Skipio, handing the merchant two coins.

“I’ve not seen him in days.” Castor scowls at the druid before smiling at Skipio. “Some of my men are concerned and won’t tell me why. They say I should speak to him,”

“We’re in spitting distance of Ticinum.” Skipio folds his arms. “Maybe he hates being this close to home yet so far away,”

The druid’s laughter draws his attention—the merchant’s speech impediment.

“You think he broke ranks to visit his mother?” Castor shakes his head. “I never forbade it, but none of us get to come and go as we please while in uniform,”

“I hope he hasn’t,” Skipio says. “For his sake,”

“I’ll find Lysander,” Castor nods.

“Last I saw Tacitus,” Skipio says. “Valerius and Pollio were with him,”

Castor blinks. “I don’t understand,”

“Neither do I,” says Skipio, watching the pretty Roman ride away.

The druid whispers in Greek.
“You think Bitch Face conspires against you?”

“It crosses my mind,”  says Skipio.

“He knows nothing.”  He takes the pouch from the merchant. “Besides, he would’ve come to you first thing if mutiny were afoot,”

“I’m not so sure about that,”  Skipio counters.

The druid tips excess water onto Skipio’s sandal boots and grins when he jumps.

“Watch it,  A-dawn!”

“Why would you doubt his loyalty?”

“Castor and I aren’t as close as we once were,”

“You were never close,”  the druid says. “He tolerated you in the same of advancement.”

Skipio steps into the defiant Celt, who stares up at him boldly.

“He relies on your memories of his body to keep him in good standing. If I can see that much, so can his underlings.”  The druid’s head swings. “They don’t trust him any more than you do. It’s why they’re using lessor men to feel him out,”

Skipio touches his nose to the druid’s, immune to his bad breath. ♡“After the sun sets, my cock will have you howling like an idiot,” ♡

***

Crowds thin along Clastidium’s southside.

Septus runs longer than any other lane. Small concrete blocks dot her dug-out gutters, each with an iron ring for tethering horses. Timber booths line her wide path, each bound tight in leather tarps until the summer returns.

Soon, no one remains but three uniformed men walking shoulder to shoulder, with a stringy fourth in red lingering behind them. His baleful eyes wander until something on the ground hardens his gaunt face.

He stops, and when his leash gets a tug, he tugs back.

“You said Reed Eyes brought that scout here?”

Titus turns to Planus. “His Greek is better than ours,”

“More than two horses came through here,”  says the druid. “Some tracks fresher than the others,”

The trio exchange looks before quickly slipping behind the nearest booth. Planus peers around it and raises four fingers after a beat. Skipio pulls his sword before jerking his head at Titus, who draws his bow and vanishes.

The druid follows his captor around the leather tarp and spies a small cottage where grass overtakes the road. Four horses stand outside its brick walls, while two stand nearby with tails twitching.

A balding youth emerges with his bearded leader, and the druid knows him as a spearman named Pollio. The scruffy Tacitus tells him to locate Strabo in Placentia. Without haste, Pollio mounts his horse and charges over the grass.

After the cocky Tacitus closes the cottage door behind him, Skipio taps his sword three times against the booth. A Sagittarian shadow appears as Titus, from above, lets loose a bolt.

Pollio lurches, teetering as his horse slows.

Skipio unwinds the cord around his arm, but the druid’s enthusiasm dies when he’s tied to one of the iron rings. He grabs at his captor, but the brute shoves him to the dirt and brings a finger to his lips.

Planus and Titus come together with Skipio, whispering as they close in on the shack. The fierce fucker kicks in the door, and when it closes, the druid can see nothing of what transpires next.

Shouts give way to distinct bellows, none belonging to anyone familiar. Metal collides in a song of close-quarters fighting, and beaten Actus emerges, shedding the rope from his wrists.

***

Late afternoon finds them back on the Postumia.

More mountains surface on the horizon, growing as they cross an arch bridge of tile and stone. Aedan’s small rump shares Looir’s saddle with his clean-shaven bride, whom everyone wrongly labels as his husband.

The large river runs wide here, an expansive vein reminiscent of where the Tamesa meets the sea. Flat-top barges drift slow enough that ferrymen can shuttle goods and people between without fear of collision.

“Is this the  Tiber?” he wonders in Greek.

“No.”  The Roman’s smooth head turns in agitation. “It’s the Padus,”

They speak no more in the next hour, sitting back to back through the cool shadow of Placentia’s eastern wall. Its ramparts conjure his father’s tale of the Carthaginian siege until their stop at a slate jetty quashes the excitement.

Soldiers dismount and speedily load their crates onto the first of three flatboats. The next is narrower, with cloth coverings strung between poles to block the sun; this carrier belongs to water barrels and their horses.

The last shade-crowning barge takes on the lancers, archers, and swordsmen. Its rug-heavy surface is home to water jugs, fruit, nuts, and cheese, all care of bare-chested men who flit about the sitting groups.

A fourth flatboat drifts into position along the jetty, and port hands roll his Roman bride’s carriage onto it, along with the goods cart. The port hands stack the trunks belonging to Mud Face and Milky alongside their duplicari, underlings quick to plant their asses under some wicker awnings.

Aedan clamors to join Looir on the first barge, but his virile bride tows his leash, forcing him onto the last.

Powerfully built men join them, standing along one side with their long sticks and pushing the flatboat away from the jetty. Farther out, half their number rush to the other side, all turning their lengthy sticks over and dipping the paddle ends into the depths. The river flows against them, and the gondoliers churn faster while two beefy pilots at the stern keep the rudder steady.

Bitch Face elicits laughter from Milky when he does a running jump and lands on their barge. After bowing to jovial accolades for his stunt, he glowers at Aedan, who sits closer to his Roman bride.

“Did Tacitus overnight in Dertona?” he asks.

“I saw Pollio at the baths in Clastidium,” Milky answers—a mistake.

His Roman bride corrects it. “That wasn’t Pollio,”

Milky proceeds with artful ignorance.
“Who the hell was it then?”

“His name is Praxus,”  Aedan explains in his tongue, speaking of some man who left Genua well before them. “They look very similar, but then all you wolves look alike,”

Milky chuckles at this.

“Fortunately,”  Bitch Face snaps. “None of us look like you,”

“Maybe if you did,”  Aedan taunts. “You’d be sitting where I am right now instead of jumping about like some hen that lost her chicks,”

Milky laughs heartily until a furious Bitch Face comes closer.

“You’re not worth bloodying my lance,”

Aedan stares. “It’s adorable what you tell yourself to feel stronger,”

“Come drink some wine,” Milky says, pulling Bitch Face away.

“I don’t know what you said,”  Skipio speaks Greek. “But quit baiting him,”

“You quit tip-toeing around him,”  Aedan says. “This subterfuge is unbecoming a man of your rank and station,”

Skipio frowns. “Shut your mouth, A-dawn,”

“Shut my mouth,  Skippy-O,” he dares.

“Not here,” Mud Face pleads.

“Please, not here,” Reed Eyes parrots, curling his lip.

“I wouldn’t mind a little show,” shouts another duplicario.

One of them cries, “Poke his throat, Tribune!”

“Get that Gaul bitch pregnant,” yells a man.

Laughter ripples among their group when Aedan grabs his feet, lifts his legs, and spreads while thrusting out his tongue.

“We need to tell Castor,” Mud Face whispers.

“After Mediolanum.” Skipio reads his friend’s displeasure. “If there’s bloodshed, we can say they fell there,”

Mud Face sulks. “You truly think he knew of their betrayal?”

“We’ll know when we reach Mediolanum,” says Skipio.

“We should tell him and question him accordingly.” Mud Face scolds.

Skipio pulls Aedan up and walks him to the carriage.
“ Titus  feels we should tell  Castor  what we’ve done,”

Aedan hesitates. “They would’ve enlisted him in port,”

“He’s not as innocent as he appears,”  Skipio says.

“No, not innocent, but not guilty either.”  Placentia fades with distance. “Bitch Face is too smart to side with the White Robes this early in the game. He waits things out by playing stupid.”

“What makes you think he’s aware of anything grander?”

“That lover of his that I killed, Drusus? Kombius said he spoke of having family among the White Robes.”

His Roman bride’s handsome profile seems childlike for a moment.

“There’s no way Bitch Face knows nothing because Drusus was a talker. His lips were moving long after I slit his throat.”

A moment of silence passes.
“How did you know his name?”

“I ma d e it my business to know when he showed up leading Mud Faces archers,”  Aedan tells him. “Stop acting like you never learn ed the names of every important druid you killed.”

His Roman bride smirks. “What do you know of our Senate, other than the color of their robes?”

“I know the only time bureaucrats challenge warriors is when they’ve got warriors within their ranks,”  Aedan says. “Your battle king’s true challenger is a warrior hiding in a white robe,”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“Your traitorous trio,”  he replies. “Warriors take up arms against each other only when their commanders wish it. No warrior spills the blood of his brothers on the word of a bureaucrat,”

His Roman bride calls to Mud Face, telling him to collect Milky and Reed Eyes, then sends another man to find Bitch Face.

Strong hands find Aedan’s hips, lift him from his feet, and set him down beside a wooden hut on four wheels, with an arch roof and a golden curtain for a door

“Get in there and keep your teeth together.”  Commanding eyes warn of the price for disobedience. “You defy me, and you’ll be lonely until morning.”

Aedan relents. Inside, he finds a wagon made for people, not things, with two bench seats bearing cushions and lattice-door overhead compartments deep enough to fit a fetal-posed druid.

Milky enters and whistles at his surroundings.

“Now, this is a carpentum.” Seeing him, he jokes in Brittonic. “Our owl is now luggage,”

“You’re adept at stating the obvious,”  Aedan drones.

“It’s a gift,”  brags Milky.

Mud Face enters and shakes his head at the luxury. Noticing Aedan, he grins while Reed Eyes gives only a start. Bitch Face enters, his relief immediate upon seeing the others—but none dare indicate Aedan’s presence when the pretty Roman sits beneath him. His Roman bride reaches over and slides the lattice door shut over his face.

Milky asks after the lancers, and Bitch Face complains bitterly that his second-in-command likely went home without leave.

“He’s not at home,” his Roman bride confesses. “Valens Tacitus Hadrian, Lysander Valerius, and Gaius Pollio are dead by my hand.”

Bitch Face utters boiling words until Milky explains the reason for their demise. Once the pretty Roman settles, his three superiors lob questions while Reed Eyes remains silent.

Once confident Bitch Face knows nothing of his lancers’ actions, talk turns to Mediolanum, where a garrison of secondary soldiers reigns under a temporary Legate named Crassus Primo Kaius.

“We’re about to board some lembs where the Lambro narrows,” Skipio speaks of smaller boats. “Actus will ride to Mediolanum ahead of us and infiltrate as a civilian,”

Reed Eyes stands, eager to leave since his arrival.

“Find a workhorse,” Skipio adds. “Join the cargo on the road bound for home,”

Once he exits, talk returns to the state of affairs.

Bitch Face plays unaware of Rome’s political intrigues, just as Aedan told Skipio he might. Shrewd as always, his bride’s eyes meet his whenever Bitch Face delivers fake ignorance.

Not even Milky provides words to comprehend these recent events until Skipio breaks the silence with one: Pompey. Aedan doesn’t know what that is, but it rattles the wolves.

Mud Face’s mouth falls in shock.
“Do you hear yourself?”

Milky, however, goes quiet, his mind turning.

“He took control of Rome in Caesar’s absence,” says his Roman bride.

“To keep the peace,” Mud Face argues.

Bitch Face nods. “There were riots, Skipio,”

“How convenient that the gangs wage war on an election day,”

“Marriage aligns Pompey and Caesar,” says Mud Face.

“Julia’s dead,” speaks Milky, arms folded.

This news stuns even his Roman bride.

“I found out in Genua,” Milky explains, his friendly nature gone. “I said nothing because the messenger who told me was on his way to tell Caesar, and I wanted to keep it between them,”

“I would think in their grief,” Bitch Face says. “They’d come together,”

His bride fixes the pretty Roman with a look.
“Where have you been these last few years?”

“Why would Pompey sabotage Caesar?” Bitch Face argues. “Every quarter, the Senate takes away his governorship, and the elected Tribunes veto it. Pompey never interferes, so why now and what for?”

Mud Face realizes something unsavory.
“Sole consulship is what for,”

“He’s one of us,” Bitch Face exclaims. “Not a politician,”

Mud Face scratches his wooly head.
“He’s not worn a uniform in many years,”

“And with Crassus fighting in the east,” his Roman bride adds, “only Pompey’s legions inhabit Rome,”

“Pompey stepped down from his command,” says Bitch Face.

“But Caesar didn’t,” Milky reminds. “The agreement to appease the Senate was that both relinquish their rank, but Caesar took us to war in Gaul,”

“Pompey stepped down in name only,” his bride tells them. “Think about it. The elders within the Alpine reserves wouldn’t follow a senator,”

“But they’d follow Pompey,” Milk says, finger up.

“No one in the Senate would dare commandeer colonial garrisons,” Mud Face nods. “Unless they have a general of their own in Rome,”

“Most of the soldiers staffing the Alpine reserves are young men south of the Padus,” says Milky. “None are colonial except by service,”

“Let’s be honest,” Mud Face says, folding his arms. “We’re loyal because we’re local, and our legions throughout Gaul are loyal because Caesar ensures a steady paycheck,”

“Planus, you suggested that the Senate’s reason for disenfranchising the provincial communes is financial. I say it’s political.” His Roman bride slides onto the bench. “The only colonies losing their municipal charters are those established by Caesar.”

“Novum Comum, yet not Mediolanum,” Milky confers, then snaps his fingers. “That’s why he formed the Tenth with Alpine sons.”

His Roman bride nods. “He saw this coming back in Hispania,”

“Bye Jove, that’s why they took away his governorship,” Mud Face declares. “They’re going to arrest him when he returns,”

“They can’t,” Bitch Face argues.

“Oh, but they can,” Milky tells him. “Caesar’s got charges hanging over his head, and since they’ve removed his governorship, he’s retroactively unqualified to be a consul,”

“His immunity is gone, Castor,” explains his bride.

“Pompey would never take sole consulship,” Bitch Face says. “Why would he?”

“He’s grown rather comfortable with the senatorial lifestyle,” Mud Face thinks.

“Indeed. Pompey derides Caesar’s ambition,” Milky adds. “While hiding his own,”

“The only way Pompey acquires sole consulship is if Crassus…” Bitch Face hesitates. “Heart of Mars…do you think Marcus Licinius Crassus is dead?”

None wish to consider the thought.

“Caesar will return,” his Roman reckons. “His legions heavy with Gallic youth,”

“He cannot march on Rome,” Bitch Face says.

“Why not?” asks Mud Face. “It’s been done before,”

His Roman bride nods. “Sulla,”

“Marius,” adds Milky.

“Caesar will do the same if he must,” says his bride. “And the provincial garrisons will be ready for when he returns,”

Bitch Face stares off and mumbles.
“My allegiance is with you…”

“What?” his Roman bride asks.

“Drusus,” Bitch Face snaps out of his fugue. “I came upon him and Caesar one night, talking alone, and I heard Druses say, ‘My allegiance is with you.’”

“His uncle serves Genua in the Senate,” Mud Face nods. “And very loyal to Pompey,”

“Well, he’s dead now,” Bitch Face snaps.

“Mars and Minerva,” Milky sighs. “We might have to wage war on Rome,”

“I would never wage war on Rome,” his Roman bride declares. “But I’ll raise my sword against anyone that strips me of my status as a Roman.”

“It appears we all have some thinking to do,” Castor says.

“No,” his Roman bride declares. “We must focus on the here and now. We retake Mediolanum and establish new garrisons at Comum and Bellagio. You, dear Castor, will rebuild Octodurus,”

“What happens in Rome stays in Rome,” Milky resigns.

“Castor,” his Roman bride softens. “I am sorry about your lancers,”

“Their treachery shames me,” Bitch Face regards him with puppy-dog eyes. “More than you know, Skipio,”

Aedan tuts loudly, raising the pretty Roman from his seat.
“That thing has been here this whole time!?”

Skipio pinches his nose bridge. “He doesn’t understand Latin,”

“Gauda recited Latin to the Porta Harena’s oarsman every day,” Bitch Face seethes. “This scraggly little mollusk was down there with them the entire voyage,”

Aedan delivers his best disinterest until Skipio’s fist strikes the lattice.

“Do you understand Latin?” he asks.

Aedan stares before shifting his eyes to the others.

“I know you’re all Latin,”  he says in Greek. “You’re saying nothing new,”

The trio laugh, but Bitch Face is no fool.
“You’re not buying this druid’s stupid act?”

Aedan refrains from staring at the bitchy master of stupid acts.

---

The river narrows at the fork, forcing them off the barges.

Soldiers out of uniform load crates and cargo onto a parade of two-wheel carts, their oxen chewing dry brush while they wait. After this, half the men take up paddles and board smaller boats for the journey north.

Her kind carries their masters over a pressed dirt road. They pass pastures where twilight farmers sew dung into fallow fields before the ground hardens.

Pungent wind crests over the road’s barriers and does little to quell Master’s admiration of the forest. Her barbarian son sits upright behind him, heart drumming in anticipation when they pass under draping branches.

A gentle tap on her ribs guides her through a break in the wall. She enters the wood where thick branches sway, their orange, red, and yellow leaves a siren song for her Master. Deep into the darkness, he dismounts in a clearing and yanks her barbarian son down. Untying the cord that binds them, he stares at the man.

“Go,  A-Dawn,”

Her barbarian son lends no words to his confusion.

“Run back to Britannia.”

Fingers find her ears, and lips touch her nose.

“Luna stays,”  Master decrees, tearing him away. “You. Go.”

Her barbarian son lifts his long tunica and pulls it over his head.

“I mean it this time. Go.”  Master averts his eyes, taking it. “Before I change my mind,”

Her barbarian son turns away, sullen, then quickly pivots and punches Master’s chest with his foot. He tugs her reins and pulls her deeper into the trees, his sinewy nakedness a beacon guiding her over gnarly roots that slow her charge.

Master’s footfalls rise closer, and she slows, like always, in the moments before he reclaims her barbarian son.

Bodies collide as paths intercept.

“You’re not taking Luna,”  Master growls.

Her barbarian son writhes free from under him and dashes for the nearest tree, but he cannot escape to the heights without low-hanging branches. Master’s passion simmers, his fist heavy with a rage unseen in many moons. His lover defends with bony legs and feet that give as good as they get.

It’s been too long since she joined them in the trees. She shrieks angrily and rises on her hinds, kicking her front hooves until the pair divide in shock.

Her barbarian son rushes to her side and stares into her left eye. Gentle fingers scratch her withers. Looir, there’s no danger. He pulls Master’s arm over his shoulder.

Master gently grips her mane, and his heaving chest settles as the arm around her son tightens. Thick lips burrow into black curls as his green eyes close.

Luna, it’s fine girl, everything’s fine.

She retreats before turning and walking on as her barbarian son drives an elbow into her master’s stomach. Master grunts, trapping him in those powerful arms and dragging him to the forest floor. Hallow strikes mingle with rustling leaves. Her barbarian son whines long when her master invades, and soon, two voices hum to the beat of slapping skin.

Under the stars, dew moistens the grass, and she eats her fill until their cruel song goes silent.

Master slumbers while sitting upright in the leaves. On his thighs is her barbarian son, whose lean chest presses tight against her master’s brawn. Long legs encircle her Master’s waist, still trembling in the afterglow.

Her barbarian son isn’t the sort to be held. Yet, he lazes content within her master’s clutches, cheek swollen with confusion in his eyes.

What is this?  He mouths the Latin words with no voice. What is happening to me?

She nibbles his fingers, tasting seed, blood, and Master’s sweat—but nothing she does quells her barbarian son’s growing dread.