XV – The Month of Honey II

Strong fingers tighten around his spindly arm, dragging him until his feet remember their function. Such rough handling sweetens the pot, as does every grope, grasp, and growl.

A new timber jetty stretches to the Krokodilo, who wears a reptilian eye on each side of her keel. Weather-worn triangular teeth line her narrow battering ram, and two banks of oars dangle from her sides, the long overhanging the short. Aedan counts twenty-five, meaning a total rowing complement of fifty.

All make way for the towering Skipio, his bronze coils and golden beard heavier from another week without a blade. Nothing abates his fierce beauty, yet the scruff marks Aedan’s chest as much as his wiry bush does Aedan’s nose.

The druid’s hair also lacks proper taming; black twists long enough now to mask his big ears. His face conjures no more than a mere shadow, though. It is a minor inconvenience, given the chilly coastal wind.

Roman wolves in fur capes stride the surface deck, where the Krokodilo’s stout helmsman surveys their orderly chaos. The ship’s lookout is a hairy youth in light furs; he lunges amidst the furled sails with nothing to do until they reach open water.

Skipio pulls him toward an open hatch until a clean-shaven Greek in a tunic lighter than his silver hair steps into their path.

“Tribune, you’re to see me every morning and every evening,” he proclaims, hand raised. “I must salve those burns twice daily, or the scars will never lighten.”

Aedan’s grasp of Latin remains weak, but he understands the word scar. A patch of reddish pink hangs above Skipio’s left tit and stretches across the muscular prominence of his upper arm. It is Aedan’s handiwork, his brand.

Skipio nods. “I will present myself as ordered,”

“I’m no camp physician, young Severus,” says the doctor. “I’ll come find you,”

Skipio grins and speaks Greek. “I shan’t make you come look for me, sir.”

The lines around the man’s eyes tighten.

“I’m sorry about Vitus,” he says softly. “I knew him in my youth,”

Fingers dig into Aedan’s arm.

“He died bravely,” says Skipio. “Minerva saw to that,”

Suddenly, the ship’s fully armored captain, fat like his helmsmen, bellows a command Aedan cannot decipher. Shipmen move like ants, each group grabbing up their portion of the thick ropes. Two square doors centering the deck rise, and from the giant hole that their parting creates comes the stink of hay and horseshit.

Another shout from the captain parts the men, making way for a single-file line of horses. The beasts trot over the deck, each led by a young cavalry attendant, and with them is Skipio’s reedy-eyed underling.

“Actus,” his Roman bride calls, tugging Aedan along. “How many are we taking?”

“Krokodilo’s emptied her grain,” Reed Eyes grins. “We’ve got room for all eight hundred,”

“Looir,” Aedan whispers, twisting free.

She feels warm, and her long nose is rough on his lips.

“Step away, druid,” barks Reed Eyes. “You’re holding up the line,”

Skipio’s rough fingers thread into his hair as Greek finds his ears.
“Get out of the way, A-Dawn,”

He wrenches free and walks with Looir into the belly of the ship. They move between the oarsmen, one sitting high and another sitting low, the visible stains in the armholes of their tunics.

Another deck down, stale sweat gives way to pungent grass. Oil lamps in blown glass hang by thin ropes, each tiny flame toiling to illuminate the darkness.

Looir moves into a narrow berth and loudly sniffs the bundled trimmings as Aedan finds a wooden water pail and brings it to her mouth.

“You must be thirsty,” he whispers as she sloppily drinks.

“Set that down.” Skipio’s bark makes the other beasts snort nervously. “Luna doesn’t need you to drink,”

“Looir,” Aedan mumbles.

“Her name is Luna.” Magnificent eyes dare him to cross an imaginary line that promises pain without ecstasy. “You best remember that, or I’ll sew those whore lips of yours shut,”

Sensing the danger, Looir pushes her long nose between them.

“We’re going home, girl,” his Roman bride speaks sweetly as if the horse is a child. “You’ll get to dine on Alpine greens and munch apples,”

Looir whinnies and rocks her head with delight.

Aedan lifts the pail’s slimy tar-pitched rim to his lips, spilling some of its coolness down his chest as he gulps his fill. He places it at Looir’s feet, belches loudly, and dries his mouth with the back of his hand.

Skipio regards him with an endearing glance as if he’s the only man in the world. A scowl comes, however, when he digs into the leather pouch around his waist. 

“Those rags you’re wearing stink.” He shakes the folds from a pale blue cloth and tosses it at him. “Put this on,”

Its softness tickles Aedan’s feet, so he kicks it away.

“You get dressed, A-dawn, or I will dress you.” Skipio invades his space, smelling of rosemary. “And I guarantee, if I dress you, you won’t like it.”

Aedan burns at the prospect of being taken among the horses. He plucks the tunic up and finds it beltless; giving an Ancalite any form of rope is deadly business. His eyes set on the hopeful Roman, he pitches it over his shoulder.

Green eyes blink in amusement, and they’re so mesmerizing that Aedan fails to see the fist coming for his head.

---

Light brings voices.

Salty air cools the cleave in his ass as he cranes his neck to find sandaled feet treading, each step bouncing his face against soft yellow cloth. Under that cloth is the firm swell of the Roman’s buttocks.

A strong hand grips the back of his thigh and squeezes when Aedan raises his upper body to face the midday sun. Pressing his hip into the Roman’s right tit, his fingers find purchase in the man’s shoulders.

“You woke just in time,” Skipio says, dropping him.

The planks yield nothing but pain that worsens upon finding the absurd blue frocks covering him from neck to knees.

“This,” he drones. “Is the color of oceanic farts,”

“Water doesn’t fart, A-Dawn,” says his Roman bride.

“If it did, Skippy-O,” he counters. “It would look like this,”

The Roman regards him again with affection, and he looks away as the notion of it terrifies him.

Wolves without armor inhabit the surface deck, their colorful shirts billowing to expose loin wraps and hairy legs.

None feel the chill, for they, like Skipio, come from mountains where winds blow cool even in the hottest months. Conversations litter the air as they sit upon thickly knotted rugs, filling their faces with food brought by lesser ranks.

A shadow reeking of meadowsweet crosses Aedan’s legs.

“Is that a bruise on your cheek?” Avalin’s toothy smile opposes her false concern. “My, how you’ve fallen, Owl King,”

“Take no pleasure in his pain,” Kelr yells from the far side of the deck. “For he takes too much pleasure in it.”

She tightens the squirrel fur around her neck and sashays toward her son. A brazen smirk on his childish face, the muscular redhead makes room for her but gently swats her hand when she begins fussing with his hair.

Kombius, their minder, observes with a laugh.

Skipio’s hand curls tightly around Aedan’s arm.

“Behave yourself, A-dawn,” he warns. “Or I’ll beat you senseless,”

When shoved, he lands on a woven rug, and his Roman bride sits beside him. Inching away, he discovers his ankle tethered by his mother’s betrothal rope. Its presence isn’t unnoticed by Avalin, who calls from her position across the deck.

“I was there when Ostin tied that around Fintan and your mother’s hands,” she yells, but then her humor fades. “And to think, you used it to choke the life out of her,”

“That’s not what happened.” Planus, the milky man with a clever tongue, struts between them, speaking the Brittonic tongue. “The Owl cut her throat, yet she provided the blade,”

Laughter comes from those also capable of speaking it.

Aedan thinks little of Ciniod other than their final embrace. He fights this sentimental invasion with memories of their bickering and how Fintan gave his life after her hounding him away to the continent.

Moments later, mud-skinned Titus arrives, passing gas before sitting beside Milky, who scolds him bitterly for the foul smell.

Bitch Face, a reed basket in his hand, plunks his prissy ass down between Aedan and his Roman bride. He sets out a bowl of dark fluid that smells of vinegar and adds water from their drinking bladder. Done mixing, he spoons some out with a cup and hands it to Mud Face.

“No one prepares wine quite like our Castor,” says Milky.

His Roman bride shuns a cup, and that’s when Bitch Face notices the druid.

“Must this mutt dine with us?” he demands.

“Stop your grousing,” teases Milky, “and go get our cattabia,”

“Yes,” Mud Face begs with hands together. “I’m starving,”

Bitch Face returns with a dish of yellowish porridge riddled with deep green flecks. The concoction smells of goat cheese, fish, and herbs, and around its creamy dome are hard, flat rolls with center holes too small for even a finger. Smiling brightly, the pretty Roman pulls out a hand-sized slab of ice.

“It’s not peak snow from back home, but it’ll do,” he says, using his dagger to shave up a fluffy pile of white that he pushes onto the porridge.

“Ah yes,” Milky beams. “A proper sala cattabia,”

Each of them grabs a roll and uses it to dig deep rivets into the porridge.

Skipio devours his, grabs another roll, and mines it into the mess before offering it to Aedan. Mud Face and Milky chuckle when he turns from his Roman bride’s offering.

Bitch Face balks. “You’re not feeding that thing our food.”

“That thing is my wife,” says Skipio.

Bitch Face departs in a huff and joins Kombius, where Kelr greets him with pathetic joviality.

After their moment of drama, tempers settle while everyone dines. The ship’s deck gently rises and falls as Aedan struggles to comprehend their language. Talk consists of ranches, farms, plantations, and orchards—all near a place named Comum. The large lake there holds meaning, along with the state of their republic.

It isn’t long before the manlet’s glower at Aedan from afar becomes loud insults. Bitch Face giggles like a boy while Kelr ruminates on Aedan’s rangy body, large ears, and vile face. No other Roman finds humor in his rant because their Tribune isn’t smiling.

Aedan pays little mind, as Kelr’s daggers are nowhere near as sharp as Ciniod’s.

“Let’s keep our voices to us,” Kombius warns. “It’s best not to court trouble,”

Kelr scoffs, “You think I fear that Ancalite?”

Avalin agrees. “You’ve nothing to fear from him, my boy,”

“No one does,” adds Bitch Face in their tongue.

“What sort of depraved animal finds pleasure in being raped,” Kelr wonders.

Suddenly, a painted woman in fine red silk, some centurion’s Belgic war prize, kneels beside Skipio and whispers a translation.

“He expected me to force him on the regular,” Kelr adds. “As if any man in his right mind would indulge that sort of thing,”

Bitch Face loses his grin and glances anxiously in their direction.

“You could do so much better, my boy.” Avalin wipes wine from her son’s lips. “And you will when we reach our destination,”

Skipio motions, bringing over a uniformed man.
“Take that fire-crotch Gaul below decks.”

The man salutes, “Yes, Tribune.”

Another man joins him, each taking one of Kelr’s arms.

“What’s this now?” Avalin cries as they haul away her griping son. “We’re not prisoners,”

“No, you’re our guests,” Skipio says calmly in Greek. “As such, you’ll carry yourselves with dignity.”

Kombius follows Avalin when she pursues her son.

“Remind him that vomiting ill sentiments is unwise,” he warns her softly. “If the very sight of the druid triggers him, he should remain below,”

Avalin stops to stare at Skipio.

“Those stories about you raping our priests are true,” she says in her language, of which the Lion knows little. She then addresses Aedan, “You’ve found your true mate, haven’t you, boy?”

He hugs his knees and rests his head between his Roman bride’s shoulders.

“Curse the Gods for rewarding you,” she utters before seeing to her son.

Bitch Face returns. “Must you insult those under Caesar’s protection?”

“Your fox-haired toy inadvertently insulted Scipio,” Titus scolds.

“Indeed,” adds Milky. “Remind him and his mother that the Lion outranks Kombius on this trip, and Mark Antony will never side with her against a Tribune,”

Aedan waves to Bitch Face as he descends into the galley.

“Owl King, your people have an expression,” Milky says in his language. “Never prod an eel from its crag.”

 “I’ve been bitten by plenty of eels,” says Aedan. “None has yet to kill me,”

---

A massive tin tub sits on the lowest deck, and the man tasked with keeping it clean removes what the wolves leave behind. He dips his two-prong rod into the water and drags it until the cheesecloth between its dual tendrils collects hair and all forms of spittle.

However, the arrival of Servius Tribune and his druid sends the lithe Egyptian behind a freshwater drum like a rat evading a clowder. He peeks out when the stringy man’s palms strike the floorboards.

“Pleasure me,” Servius orders in Greek, pulling up the hem of his tunic.

The druid turns from the man’s bulge as if disgusted, but a hand finds his head and bounces it against the tub steps. He shakes off the blow before the Roman takes his neck. “Pleasure me,” he growls again.

On his knees with a sour countenance, the druid frees his captor from the loincloth and is struck in the face by the man’s loose erection. Almost smiling, he takes it in hand, hocks a thick wad of spit upon it, and tugs masterfully, his thumb rubbing the piss-hole.

“That’s right, look at me,” Servius leers. “Injure me with those black eyes,”

His captive obeys, watching lustily as the Roman’s head tips back. A virile knot in the man’s neck trembles with each shallow gasp, and desperate for a taste, the druid opens his mouth. Without warning, a bolt of seed cuts across his slack lips, and hands box his ears, holding his head as more seed paints his face.

Servius Tribune howls in relief. “I needed that, A-dawn,” he declares, and with a handful of the druid’s hair, drags him to the tub and pushes his head into the water. A cruel hand stirs him about before allowing his captive up for air.

The druid makes a fist as his captor tucks his cock back into his loincloth; one punch to the balls—oh yes, just one—but the handsome brute’s golden curls tickle his nose when he unties the cord binding their ankles.

“I’m going to take a shit,” says Servius, standing over him. “There’s fifty-oarsmen between here and the surface deck, along with a dozen armed men. If you manage to get past them and jump overboard, I’ll fish you out of the sea myself and break your legs.”

Servius kisses the angry druid’s forehead hard before walking to the ramp. His captive takes the cord in his hands and pulls both ends to test its strength—oh yes, he’ll die choking this fucker out, but it’ll be a glorious death.

His captor stops on his way up the ramp. “Fire-crotch is likely on the rowing deck with Castor by now,” he speaks without facing the druid. “You stay put until I get back, understand?”

Malice churns behind those lifeless eyes, and it terrifies the old Egyptian.

---

Lovers stand a breath apart in the darkness, each with a handful of the other’s arousal. Deft tugging brings on the pretty Roman’s climax and spurs that of his lover. Bodies collide with a contentment that lingers after they tuck away their spent flesh.

“I’ve seen you talking with that Bibroci,”

“Which one?”

“The one that sleeps near your horse,”

“Again, you need to be more specific,”

“He’s small and beautiful,” Kelr murmurs. “Just like you,”

“Alon?” Castor grins. “That thing is a mere prisoner.”

“Is that thing going to Rome with you?”

“I’m not going to Rome.” Castor kisses his lips. “I’m going home.”

Kelr pouts like a boy denied a sweet.

“He’s a slave,” laughs Castor, tousling his Gallic lover’s red hair. “He’ll be sold when we make port in Genua,”

“I want to go to Genua,” Kelr sulks.

Castor moves into the Gaul’s beefy arms.
“And be sold as a slave?”

“I want to be your slave.” Kelr kisses him deeply, mouth working and voice humming like he’s eating some tasty mutton.

Dalliances with little effort impress only those involved, making their interlude cumbersome for the druid watching them in the shadows.

“Caesar insists on you and your mother’s presence in Morini.” Castor detaches carefully, a cat stepping gingerly around the moody house dog. “I’ll see you in the morning,”

“Where are you going?” Kelr demands.

“I’ve got a private meeting with Tribune Servius,”

Kelr takes his hand. “That monstrous Lion?”

“He’s a brute, you know.” Castor hugs himself. “He rapes his lovers and enjoys it when they fight back.”

Aedan’s lips curl—yes, his Lion is the greatest fucker to ever fuck.

“His violent desires are why the Owl still lives,” Castor adds with a frown. “That druid has a disturbing hold on him, and it turns my stomach to think of him as a war bride.”

Aedan frowns—he’s no bride.

“I hate them both equally,” Kelr proclaims. “That bastard Lion killed too many of my men to deserve peace, and that wretched Owl King is why I can never go home.”

Castor grabs the neckline of Kelr’s shirt and kisses him hard on the lips.

“And what of your mother?” he asks, compassionate. “She deserves none of this,”

“Things will get better for her on the continent,” Kelr whispers. “I’ll take her back someday or die trying.”

“Kelr.” Castor takes the manlet’s face in his hands. “If you kill him, I’ll give you an alibi,”

“Who?” asks the idiot. “And what’s an alley buy?”

“If the druid manages a broken neck, I’ll tell Mark Antony that you were with me.” Bitch Face glows at the thought. “No one need know you ended that monster’s life,”

“The Gods will know,” says the manlet, eyes wide.

“They won’t care.” Bitch Face has a point.

“You don’t speak for the Gods,”

“And the Owl does?”

Aedan smirks in the dark.

“What if,” the manlet stammers. “What if his life isn’t mine to take?”

“He’s no magical being.” Bitch Face’s smile fades. “He’s a man who bleeds and dies as easily as the rest of us. Proof of that is his capture.”

Kelr considers these words.

“You’ve nothing to fear from him,” Bitch Face sweetens the lure. “And everything to gain.”

“If I kill him,” Kelr narrows his eyes. “Will you take me with you?”

“If you kill him,” the pretty Roman kisses his lips. “I will keep you with me forever.”

Aedan’s eyes reel—forever is a short trip when you’re stupid.

“Wait,” Kelr says as Castor ascends the ramp. “Why do you want him dead?”

Castor stands in the light. “Why don’t you?”

Moments alone in the dark give Kelr time to reflect. Silence leaves the rhythmic breathing of the rowers above deck, their huffing a cadence for his paces.

Aedan gracefully swings down onto the planks with Fintan’s wisdom rattling about his brain: treachery occurs no matter how peaceful one’s life is, but how one deals with it sets the terms of one’s character.

He steps to the manchild’s back.
“How hard is it to plan my death?”

Kelr’s skin pebbles as he reels about with hateful eyes.
“You ugly cunt,”

“You’re still an imbecile,” goads Aedan. “He’s keeping the Bibroci,”

“Alon’s a slave,” Kelr gnashes his teeth. “He’ll sell him, and I—”

“—you’re his man,” Aedan mocks. “By the tides, Kelr, you’re the only welp I’ve ever known that gets dumber with age,”

“Shut your freakish mouth,” he growls.

“You’re shit on Bitch Face’s boot,” he taunts. “A wet turd he’ll wipe off at Morini before getting his cock sucked by the Bibroci,”

Kelr comes for his head, but Aedan squats and strikes the fool’s gut with the ball of his foot. One leap gets his hands around the rafter, and kicking back, he swings forward with his legs spread and traps the manlet’s head between his thighs. The ridiculous blue frock gathers around the fool’s rusty strands but keeps the manlet’s fingernails from breaking the hairy skin above Aedan’s knees.

Every ounce of him goes holding on to the rafter, and with his ankles locked, he clamps the man’s neck between his legs and squeezes.

Soon, the Kelr’s vicious grasp weakens to lazy slaps. Spittle bubbles from the fool’s mouth, wetting Aedan’s thigh. Laboring breaths give way to lazy slaps. His thick arms fall, and his knees buckle as he takes his last gulp of air.

Aedan betters his grip and unlocks his ankles, catching the manlet in the crook of his leg before his corpse falls. Both knees press into Kelr’s thick cheeks before Aedan twists his hips and brings forth a satisfying snap.

The manlet drops to the floor, his landing interred within the rhythmic breathing from the oarsmen above deck. Sore hands release the wooden beam, and he shakes the pain from his arms and cracks his back with a stretch.

Rifling through the manlet’s pockets yields a knife belonging to the blond beard, Kombius. Unsheathing it from its leather sleeve, he catches light from the open hatch and joggles the blade, making the ghostly patch dance upon the planks.

*

Skipio listens with a strangely calm mind as Castor details his plan to utilize the criminal element in Octoduras in rebuilding it. Clarity comes from fucking the druid, whose contentious nature calms Skipio’s stormy desires.

“We must talk of personal things.” Castor’s hand finds his arm. “You cannot take the druid to Comum,”

He studies the petulant young man, wondering if he still washes his foreskin with mint oil. “Are you telling your Tribune what he can and cannot do?”

“Please,” Castor softens. “Can we speak as friends?”

“When were we ever friends?”

“Oh, come now,” he purrs. “We were friends before we were lovers,”

“And soldiers before that,”

Castor moves the back of his hand over the front of Skipio’s tunic.
“Then, let’s speak as ex-lovers,”

He recalls the countless reproaches since the pretty Roman ended their physical relationship and makes a mental list to mention each one until something strikes the deck nearby. A round lump rolls between them, the veiny tendrils under its chin leaving a slick trail through the torchlight.

It is the severed head of Kelr the Cenimagni.

Castor cries out in horror, but laughter bubbles within Skipio’s chest, erupting when the head tumbles back the way it came with the rising stern.

A nearby centurion blows his horn, gathering the men.

Like their Tribune, some chuckle at it roll to and fro, leaving behind a twisty red trail with each pass. Actus freezes when it careens toward his boots, and he kicks it on instinct, forcing Skipio to volley it back.

Castor emits a shrill cry and falls upon it.
“What sort of men make a game of this atrocity?”

Skipio aims a disapproving glare at Actus, who shrugs with hands raised, sparking laughter from their leader, Marcus Antonios, whose amusement catches his men. 

“This man is Caesar’s guest,” Castor howls. “Slaughtered off the battlefield without a hint of honor,”

The humor dies when Kombius appears with the dead man’s mother. Seeing her son’s head, she falls faint, and Actus, for all his noble upbringing, steps aside rather than catch her.

“Pick her up,” Antonios scolds. “She’s a guest of Caesar,”

The collective roar of delight draws Planus and Titus to the surface.

“This isn’t a comedy,” Castor rages at them, then focuses on his Tribune. “I thought you a better man than this,”

“At least you thought me a man,” sighs Skipio.

The mob’s glee infuriates Castor, who hands the head to an underling.

“This is the Owl’s doing,” he shouts, hushing the crowd.

“Is that so?” Antonios asks.

“Impossible,” Skipio says, arms folded. “He’s tied up in the baths,”

Kombius wraps the head with a cloth.
“Are you sure of that, Servius Tribune?”

“Are you unsure of it, King of the Atrebates?” asks Skipio.

“Someone cut off the poor bastard’s head,” says Antonios.

“He could’ve cut it off himself,” Actus says.

Castor balks. “You think he cut off his own head?”

“I’ve seen druids cut their necks very deep,” Actus tells him.

“Anything to avoid being ravaged by The Lion,” Planus adds, nodding.

Skipio looks at their superior.
“It’s amazing what these Britons are capable of,”

“Kelr didn’t cut off his own head,” Castor declares calmly.

“There’s no proof he didn’t,” says Actus, the men around him nod.

“He cut off his head, and it walked up here without his body,” Castor’s eyes water in fury. “And then tossed itself at me and Servius Tribune?”

“I’ve seen chickens flail about a good ten minutes without their heads,” Antonios posits, bringing murmurs of agreement from his men.

“Do you hear yourselves?” Castor screams. “You’re all morons,”

“Bye Jove, decurion,” Planus scolds.

                 Skipio warns, “Settle down, Castor,”

                            “Calm those tits, boy,” laughs Antonios.

                                   “Mind your tone,” says Titus.

“The druid’s mother,” Kombius addresses Antonios. “Ciniod cursed Kelr,”

“That bitch is dead,” reminds Skipio.

“Such vengeance cannot go undealt,” Kombius whispers to him and ignores Skipio. “She died by her son’s hand, and the price for that is dealing out her last wish,”

“Her last wish was for her boy to ride my cock.” Skipio brings up his arm with a sinew cord tied around it. “Got the bind right here to prove it,”

The men laugh, yet Antonios frowns.

“Chaotic wedding aside,” says their leader. “If the Owl enacts vengeance against someone under the protection of Caesar,”

“Jupiter’s balls,” Skipio laughs. “The druid is tied up in the baths,”

“We’ll see about that!” Castor pushes through the men.

Titus rushes after him with Skipio, Planus, Kombius, and Actus on his heels.

The men, for want of some proper entertainment, follow.

A motley crew of tunics and talking passes through the galley stables, eliciting curious snorts and stares from its resident horses. Castor pulls at the hatch door, leading them down and between the rowers, some pausing their labors to join the parade.

All descend into the Krokodilo’s bowels, with Castor leading those in front to the ship’s baths. Hanging votives reveal the naked druid folded tight in thick netting and hanging like a teardrop over the tub.

“You,” Antonios points at the Greek skimming the water with a blue cloth-covered duel prong rod. “How long has this ugly thing been hanging here?”

“Since supper,” the man declares. “And he needs a good wash after what the Tribune done to him,”

Leers follow the laughter.

Castor marches over and takes hold of the netting.
“I know you killed him, and I’ll prove it.”

“I have an alibi,” the druid says.

These words disturb Castor enough to step away.

Planus stands behind their leader and nods knowingly at the Greek, who sets down his staff, steps off the platform, and pulls a pin from the rope wheel between the tubs.

The wheel spins, splashing the net-bound druid into the water.

---

Unseen on the inland, the burning Iuliobona darkens the stars with her smoke.

First light reveals the coast, where corpses tumble from massive carts over the mounts, lifeless refuse that piles upon the shore and reddens the surf. The uprising is a failure, and Rome wipes it, and the Caleti, from existence.

The tide takes those in leather and helmets first, while the remaining litter the sands for miles, unholy heaps of tits, bellies, and miniature limbs.

Aedan witnesses it from the portside ledge, cock in hand, but no piss comes. Abject rage seizes him, an overwhelming powerlessness that swallows everything he knows before this moment.

Sandalwood invades his space as clove-heavy breath warms his ear.
“Brittania’s shores will look like this by year’s end.”

Aedan turns and sends a stream of piss across Skipio’s sandalled foot. The first blow strikes with a furious sentiment. This isn’t the violence he longs for, and he counters with a kick that brings his captor pain.

No, this isn’t their brutal love, but a hateful clash that ends when the Owl gets struck hard enough to usher in the black.