XVIII – The Month of Honey V

Farewells are the worst things. Sometimes.

His cage’s wooden walls lay in a stack, and the oars, upright in bronze brackets, rest without their rowers. Even the desk and its stool sit alone, with no sign of the well-dressed supervisor.

A shadow on the ramp becomes his Roman—the red-comb helmet under his arm shimmering in a lone ray of sun. A thicker tunic peeks out from his modest breastplate, and wool leggings run from its leather skirt to his boots.

“Let’s go, A-Dawn.” He tosses a xanthous cloth at his nakedness. “It’s time to meet your new world,”

Though conscious of his own accent, Aedan cannot resist poking.

“When you speak,” he taunts. “You sound like there’s a cock in your mouth,”

The Roman considers his words calmly, then plants a fist in his gut.

Aedan recovers with a grin, his belly sore.

“Dress. Now.” He presents a balled-up hand. “Or you’re going to sound like you have a mouthful of this,”

Aedan snatches the flowery-scented garment off the floor and pulls it over his head. Its sleeves are long, and its hem to his ankles. He’s seen no tunica like this on any other man except Gauda.

Outside, daylight blinds him, and with the chilly wind comes the yammering of gulls.

Once teeming with red-cloaked wolves and shirtless seamen, the surface deck contains just two men wielding push-brooms. Around his neck, the leash tightens; he has no choice but to follow the Roman across the ramp.

Genua is seen before it is heard. Massive ship huts line the farther shore, where rows of rocky jetties stretch like fingers upon the surf. Boxy structures climb the slope, the urban garnish between them green despite the season.

Horses collect along a boardwalk so long that neither end nor start is visible. Looir is not among them, but Gauda is, with a smile in his braided beard.

“I’m a new person for having met you, young Ancalite,” he speaks Greek, keeping Aedan’s recent Latin skills a secret. “I shall pray that your life satisfies for the length you have it.”

Aedan embraces the man, an unusual gesture that feels small given their surroundings. For his part, Gauda accommodates, despite his smell.

“You’ll do fine,” he whispers in Latin, petting Aedan’s curls. “Your kind always does,”

The Roman smirks. “No hug for me, Supervisor?”

“I bid you a safe journey, Tribune,” Gauda says. “As your station warrants such sentiment,”

The Roman opens his arms.
“No more than a warranted sentiment?”

“Your hands are a bit too coarse for my liking.” Gauda folds his arms. “I bid you farewell from where I stand,”

Without warning, the Roman gathers Gauda up and twirls him about, amusing the onlookers. The well-dressed man cries out, slapping at his rouster’s broad shoulders as those wielding brooms laugh.

---

Gull-song fades the farther they trek from the ship.

He strolls with a sinew cord around his neck behind the Roman over clean cobblestone. They come to a warehouse, its open-air storefront adorned with the letters SERVII.

Beyond the reception porch looms a vast room where wooden shelves stand high with cork-crowned amphorae and hundreds of the grandest barrels Aedan’s ever seen.

A clean-shaven lummox greets them.

Darker than the deepest wood, he reveres the Roman before expressing sympathy for the departed ‘Lord Vitus.’ His Roman bride says nothing to this, requiring only ‘some coin from the stores.’ The black man returns with a jingly satchel and a painted cork-top amphora. The Roman expresses pleasure upon taking it, then tugs Aedan’s leash before walking him out the door.

Hungry for his bride’s brutality, he goes limp and falls to the ground. The Roman seizes his arm, yanking him to his feet before heaving him over his brawny shoulder.

Before long, they arrive at a massive house with four steaming domes. Inside is a warm, hazy world of painted walls and hollow voices.

Naked feet amble past, but Aedan cranes his neck with the arrival of sandaled toes belonging to a wispy man with a hawkish nose. Clad in sheer silk, the aging fool scurries behind them with a thick towel under each arm and sandals in both hands; is there no man in this city who doesn’t kiss Lord Skipio’s ass—wonders Aedan, as his face bounces against it.

He stands when dropped, and after his Roman bride roughly pulls the tunica over his head, a vise-like hand finds his throat. Off his feet, he collides with water colder than a winter sea. He clamors for the deep pool’s tile edge, but the naked brute traps him in a hug and takes him under, the chill numbing more than it should.

Aedan gasps for air upon surfacing, thankful when his captor transports him out of the icy swill. A tepid pool swallows him next, its prismatic surface holding frothy islands with tumorous bubbles. His shrunken pores tingle in this oily stew, but his pleasure lives short as firm fingers rake through his curls and create a lather that stinks of overripe fruit.

The Roman’s hand pushes him under and pulls him up repeatedly until his hair comes clean. Free of the brute’s clutches, Aedan recovers on the stone steps, watching as the virile beauty lathers up his muscular body. The bastard goes under several times until clean of suds and steps over Aedan before reaching down for another handful of hair.

Aedan’s backside skids over smooth tile, colliding hastily with a stone bench. Standing over him, the Roman drags the long side of a blunt-ended sickle up his beefy forearm, gathering oil along its fine edge without cutting his skin.

A dip in the water bucket clears what it collects before the Roman scrapes clean another stretch of gorgeous brawn. Aedan fingers the cord around his neck, content watching the man mow that strigil over an inguinal fold and up to his swollen pec.

Curse the Gods for rewarding you…curse them indeed, thinks Aedan.

***

Scipio sits on the bench and stares at the druid’s manhood, hanging thick from the bush between his bony hips. Ribs crown a flat belly, where that strange naval begs for a man’s juice. He twists the cord around his hand and yanks the druid into his arms.

Bony fingers grip his thighs as the druid raises his face to the steamy expanse. His jugular pulses against Scipio’s lips and the citrusy brine on his captive’s skin tantalizes as wet curls drip aromatic water onto his knuckles. A lick and a kiss provoke nothing until Scipio’s teeth sink into the flesh beneath his jawbone. Limp for no more than a blink, the druid’s dark eyes roll, and his fingers dig deeper into Scipio’s thighs.

“Have you admitted defeat, A-dawn?”

The druid’s head drops, and lusty eyes promise anything. He wavers on his feet. Pouty lips open just enough to let slip the tip of his tongue—CRACK—pain floods Scipio’s skull after their foreheads collide.

The skinny fucker flies over the pool with his arms out and his legs split.

One dive propels Scipio across, taking him to where he lands. Rage and desire burn away the pain as he catches the cord and gives it a mighty pull.

The wily bastard tumbles into the water, where Scipio bends his spindly body onto the pool’s edge. A brutal thrust takes him deep, and the druid’s pleasurable whine rewards his savagery. His cloying hole squeezes, and Scipio resists despite the mouth of Venus coaxing his balls to empty their bounty.

Anxious bathers flee, yet a strange few remain.

Moments into their ferocious encounter, the proprietress arrives with desperate hands clapping. When she demands they satisfy their lusts elsewhere, loose coins fly at her from the darkest corners, pelting her sweaty bosom. Hungry observers, desperate for release, demand she leave. She collects her bounty in full before acquiescing while the lovers continue their dance.

Feral hearts care not of witnesses.

---

Across the street lies the Argo, where strange spices mingle with the stink of salty fish. Over its stony threshold, steam drifts above the bartop’s many dolia, where jovial conversations drown out a nearby lyre’s song.

Scipio joins Titus and Planus, shoving his leashed captive against the wall beside the bar. Agile as a long-tailed monkey, the druid scales a mortared barrier dividing the thermopolia from its neighbor. He curls his toes over the top cap, brings his bony knees to his chest, and stretches his tunica tight between them.

A perspiring server ladles a steaming portion of plum-skinned chunks onto a serving bowl alongside rounds of transluscent green. Each nugget boasts a pale bottom, their circular suckers glistening with a yellowish sheen. Beside them, hair-thin cuts of cucumber rest in the same sauce, spicey flecks dotting their seedy middles.

Planus, his face freshly shaven, smiles brightly.
“You took the liberty of ordering,”

“Not me,” Scipio assures with hand upright.

“I ordered it.” Castor arrives in uniform and with a blue-combed helmet in hand. “It’s not like we’ll get polypus once we’re home,”

Scipio moves left and, with a nod, invites Castor to take the end spot. The druid’s toes wiggle as the junior officer steps into place beneath him.

Titus pops a chunk into his mouth, the buttery sauce running down his naked chin.

“It’s been too long,” he hums.

“Indeed,” Planus agrees, collecting his bit of tentacle with a slice of cucumber. “It’s a bit tough, but cooking polypus is more a skill than a vocation,”

Scipio chews the dense flesh with a scowl. “This oenogarum’s too sour,”

“That’s not sour,” Titus advises. “That’s savory,”

“We’re on the coast, where the cooks use wine made from grapes.” Planus fills Scipio’s empty cup with water. “You’ve been raised on that apple wine,”

Scipio nods. “All warm sauces should be sweet,”

“Agreed,” Castor says with a boyish laugh.

The druid parrots his giggle, silencing pretty Roman.

Upon seeing the owl, Castor steps away from the bar.
“Why in Jove’s name has this thing not drowned yet?”

“Because he can swim,” Scipio offers.

Titus hides his smile, yet Planus laughs.

“Do you all mock me now?”

“How now, Castor,” Planus tosses a polypus chunk over their heads, and the druid catches it with his mouth. “That was the Owl, not us,”

“Do not give that thing a morsel of food I paid for,”

“Here,” Scipio pulls out two coins. “For his portion and mine,”

Castor regards him coldly. “His guts have driven you mad,”

“Yes,” Scipio sighs. “Moreso than when I was inside yours,”

The druid chews slowly, his eyes shifting from his captor’s head to the pretty Roman.

“This isn’t the place for hashing out such things,” Titus scolds.

“Yes,” says Scipio, his attention drawn to the street, where a centurion appears with a finely-robed Gallic man. “Time is best spent tending to your war prize,”

Alon the Bibroci, a waif whose triangular face suggests a timid fox, evokes none of the hostility the druid kept for the boyish man, Kelr.

“Forgive my tantrum,” Castor says humbly. “I’ll leave for Dertona at once,”

“That’s not necessary,” Planus scolds kindly. “We’ll ride together,”

“Agreed,” maintains Titus.

“Either finish your share or await us at the stables,” Scipio says.

Castor brings his heels together in an informal salute.
“By your command, Lord Scipio,”

Titus lowers his eyes to the bar while Planus huffs a sigh.

“I’ll allow you this moment of disrespect,” Scipio warns. “And I’ll grant you another to speak your mind. But know this. I’ll suffer no more of your childishness after today,”

Titus and Planus admire his response, but Castor stands as if backhanded before taking the opportunity.

“I’ll say this, and with it, bring our friendship to an end.” He lowers his volume. “You are a rage-filled husk that will bring no man joy.”

A long silence follows Castor’s departure.

“Who will eat his share?” Scipio wonders.

“You’ve not even eaten yours,” cries Planus as Titus’ shoulders shake in mute laughter.

“I cannot wait to taste Niko’s cooking again,” Scipio mourns.

“If his father hadn’t passed,” Titus speaks while eating. “I would’ve made an offer,”

“Niko’s not for sale,” says Scipio.

“Being a free man and thus,” adds Planus.

“Neither is Welletrix the Veragros,” baits Scipio as the druid’s hand snakes down and plucks up a piece of Castor’s polypus.

Titus stops chewing. “I know that name,”

“You should,” Scipio nods. “He stole your horse,”

Titus snaps his finger. “Stringy golden hair with the large blue eyes,”

“Welle absconded with the beast to get his grandmother and sisters clear of the battle,” Planus defends.

“You were supposed to interrogate him,” Titus protests. “Not fall in love,”

“I didn’t fall in love,” claims Planus.

The druid’s foot slinks down, his deft toes clutching the lip of Castor’s water cup.

“That Veragros was in your tent every night,” Scipio laughs.

“I allowed him to sleep in my bed,” Planus points a finger. “Not share it,”

Scipio starts. “You never touched him?”

“My respect for Welle is boundless.” Planus throws another chunk that the druid captures with his mouth. “Among his people, he was our equal before we unceremoniously slaughtered them,”

The druid studies their shame over the rim of his cup, and when Actus appears, the trio relaxes.

“Our caravan is ready.” Almond eyes fall to the mostly eaten plate. “Castor left for Octodurus with that little Gaul of his,”

The three friends exchange soulful glances.

“Are you hungry?” Scipio asks.

“I wasn’t until I came here, Tribune,” says Actus.

Scipio pulls him to the bar. “Stop calling me that,”

Actus eagerly shovels bits into his mouth.

“I can taste the lovage,” he says, noisily sucking his fingers. “This sauce is too sour,”

Titus huffs when Scipio gestures ‘you see’ with his hand.

“What’s to be done with young Castor,” Planus wonders.

“We’ll catch up to him in Dertona,” Scipio answers.

“He’s hurt,” Planus reminds. “Feelings heal slower than bruises,”

“I wouldn’t know,” Scipio says, finishing his water.

“On that subject,” Planus sounds. “How many more love wounds will the pair of you tally up before arriving home?”

Scipio suddenly recalls the shiner on his forehead.

“You can’t have your mother seeing the pair of you like that,” adds Titus.

“Surely you’re not taking that thing into your father’s house?” Planus grins until Scipio’s bold expression provokes. “You’re not taking that thing into your father’s house?”

“This thing belongs to me,” Scipio says. “As does my father’s house,”

---

Stone walls flank the northbound road, a crushed gravel path that stretches toward the mountainous horizon.

Trees dip over the passage, shedding seasonal yellow leaves onto the ox cart’s bonnet. She strides behind its iron-rim wheels, her Master and barbarian son sitting back-to-back upon her.

Master scouts the bordering pastures for trouble while her son studies his new surroundings.

Afternoon finds them on the first mountain, where the road rises with each new turn until they reach a high valley. The city, now a tiny collection of colorful spots flush against the vast haze of the sea, cannot compete with a cool water bucket.

Past the first valley, her group veers onto a wider road. She trots alongside their four-wheeled beast, driven by the same gruff coot who packed it with fabric reams, oil jars, a hefty salt crock, and bags of beans and feathers. Somewhere within that bounty is Master’s new overnight tent, a grand one fit for a Tribune.

A tug on her reigns guides her to a walkable overpass, where a bucket drops near her mane. Master pulls some coins from his purse, drops them inside, and retrieves a green-knotted rope he secures to her harness.

“Is this his road?” her son asks in Greek.

“No, the Postumia belongs to Rome,” Master answers.

Her son blinks. “It has a name?”

“You Gaul’s name hills and passes all the time,” says Master, urging her ahead with a gentle kick. “You’re not ignorant, A-Dawn, and acting so makes you uglier than you already are,”

The cart rolls ahead of them.

“Some we name,” says her son, “but none require coin for existing,”

Master grins. “Roads require tolls to maintain them,”

“Everything costs something with you Romans,” her son muses. “Even the street toilets,”

Master tuts. “You expect the men cleaning those toilets to work gratis?”

“Gratis?” Her barbarian son retains his ruse.

“Gratis means free.” Master stretches his tense back. “Lean your back onto mine and keep it there,”

Her son mocks. “By your command, Lord Skippy-oh,”

“You’re begging for the belt,” Master warns.

“What would your sister and mama say?” her son smirks. “If I appeared before them, black and blue?”

Master speaks no more, his mind conjuring a solution

**

Torchlight brings a dull glow to the Postumia’s black pavers, and their convoy often halts for a drift to the left, giving those going downhill the right of way. Southbound traffic thins upon reaching another ascending portion, each mile ending with a semi-circle turn.

Aedan’s eyes grow heavy as the shit trail behind Looir becomes scant.

“She’s tiring,” he whispers in Greek.

His Roman bride releases a forceful bark that moves everyone to the wall. He asks Reed Eyes about Libarna, and the man tells him it’s just a mile ahead. Reed Eyes will accompany their goods to Dertona, but before the carts depart, Mud Face and Milky order their tents taken out.

Looir joins the other beasts in hopping a portion of the wall broken down by the men. As they repair their deconstruction, Aedan realizes the barriers stand tall enough to impede beast-drawn carts yet are scalable to anyone on foot.

If there’s coin earned anywhere in this land, Rome’s white robes find ways to take their share of it. On that, he thinks about how the tribal leaders back home did the same, with druids taking their portion of it through sacred rituals.

Twenty horsemen take off in the dark, boisterous boys on an adventure.

Milky’s familiar crow brings torches together to illuminate the edge of a forest. The paternal Mud Face warns them to mind their flames in seasons without rain. Aedan’s eyes fight to see the trees, and a short trek brings rushing waters that excite the horses.

Unable to stay awake, he slips off Looir like a corpse after his Roman bride dismounts. He misses the rumbling brook, snoring away as the men step over him while shedding their tunics.

Later, he wakes naked within four canvas walls.

Alert eyes adjust and find his bride’s armor on wooden shoulders, with a sword, sandals, and red-comb helmet beneath them. Light dances atop a modest trunk, revealing a small wooden owl with two large eyes beside a half-shell of burning oil.

Aedan takes comfort in her presence.

He ruminates on why the wolves call her Minerva when the tent flap opens and jars the oily flame. He rolls away, the rabbit fur under his ass soft and the sheet around his body, crisp.

Bare feet shamble closer with the pleasant smell of his Roman bride.

“Aaaayyy-dawn,” whispers a wine-sodden drawl.

No matter how much loathing he musters, just hearing the brutal fuckface, hardens his nipples. Still tender from their morning bath, his anticipation holds sway for several moments, but when nothing comes of it, Aedan rolls onto his back.

A hand clamps over his mouth, bringing the Roman’s weight down.

“Not a sound, my ugly little owl.” Mossy orbs sparkle with madness as three fingers push past his lips. “Not a sound, my men need their sleep,”

Aedan’s teeth long to attack, but he holds back, savoring the brackish fingertips that tickle his gag spot. Rigid flesh dabs his arousal, leaving a slick trail as it moves to his navel. He resists until the handsome bitch captures both his wrists with a free hand.

“What did I say?” he demands softly, pressing on his tongue and poking further into his gullet. “Not a sound,”

Fierce green eyes capture Aedan as dexterous thighs wedge beneath his ass and raise his legs. Without guiding hands, the Roman’s cockhead brushes his hole.

“You let me in,” he whispers. “Or I’ll tear through your door,”

Aedan’s ring gives easily from the day’s earlier invasion.

Pain is pleasure, but every moan finds him gagging from fingers eager to enforce silence. It is a strange and delightful restriction. Ruthless eyes hold him as each deep stroke forces his cock to weep.

The Roman’s hips quicken as his fingers burrow, forcing him to retch. Unbearable fullness compels Aedan to let slip the faintest cry, but his Roman bride’s slick muscular tits heave, and his head swings another warning.

Aedan pulls back his lips and presses his teeth gently to the skin.

The virile bitch’s supple mouth purses before he gives the slightest of nods.

Biting a man never felt so good.

That cock retreats and then brutally returns, forcing throaty cries from them both.

The torn hand withdraws, freeing Aedan’s most pleasurable cries. Overcome with lust, his foot strikes the man’s jaw, sending blood and spit across the earthen floor.

The hand securing his wrists flees only to return as a fist.

Pain explodes in his eye, sending the world into a tailspin. That brutal cock jabs again into his gaping flesh, sweet bombardments moving in time with his Roman bride’s lewd grunts. It is a magnificent song for his cruel hand as it wrenches out a punch-drunk Aedan’s climax.

Suddenly, warmth floods his guts, and his sweaty Roman bride collapses.

---

Sunrise finds Lord Scipio sour, his hand bound in white.

A young medic cuts the contusion on the sinewy Ancalite’s eye to lessen its swell. When the Tribune finds him, he displays that signature uneven sneer, earning him a fist to the stomach.

Back on the road, the homeward-bound legionnaires share bread and berries. All swig from the same water bladder, except the druid, who drinks only from the horse’s bucket. No one mentions the angry bruise along their Tribune’s left jowl.

They make short work of the black-stone highway, and by noon, a modest village wall appears on the hill.

Lord Scipio dismounts and the druid joins him, cracking his back with a stretch. Together with Lord Titus and Lord Planus, they devise a strategy for passing the village.

The Ancalite, unbound for the first time, hops onto Luna. He encourages her to trot ahead, guiding her past the caravan toward what he hopes is freedom—until the beast halts at a carriage.

Lord Scipio emerges from the carriage in a Tribune’s armor.

Its golden breastplate forms like a second skin, detailing the muscular pads of his torso, while long lappets hang from the plate’s hem, a skirt of tongues as red as the cloak on his right shoulder. He mounts Luna, jostling his captive to assume his usual seat.

Back on the road, it isn’t long before the eastern mountains fade, and the western river beside them narrows to a sliver. An arch bridge scales the meager flow, connecting another paved byway called the Aemilla-Scauri.

A longhouse with stables stands at the fork, and as they pass, soldiers emerge, some young and trim—most aging and fat. All eyes follow with whispers not even the druid’s large ears can deny.

Past the fort comes another junction, this one named Fulvia. She hosts a parade of flatbed carts hauling colorful jars and ornaments in tall wooden racks; glass blowers are rare in Britannia, but it seems Rome possesses many.

A horseman darts through the brush ahead, his steed trotting under the bridge before regaining the road and charging north.

“And there he goes,” declares Lord Planus.

“Should we slow him down?” wonders Lord Titus.

Lord Scipio mulls it. “No, let’s give them time to prepare,”

“You’re always spoiling for a fight,” Lord Titus grins.

“And you’ll get one if that boy makes it before us,” warns Lord Planus.

“I can intercept him,” Actus says, joining their line.

Lord Titus nods. “I think that’s best,”

“It’s certainly best for the locals living around the garrison,” says Lord Planus.

The Ancalite, his back to Lord Scipio’s, turns to investigate.

“Mediolanum is yours, Titus,” Lord Scipio proclaims. “Do what you think is best,”

The duo trade smiles as Actus, on his mare, charges off in pursuit.

“We’ll send Castor out after you,” Lord Titus calls to the eager centurion. “If his parcel reads what I suspect it does, keep him at Clastidium until we arrive,”

“Yes, Legatus,” he yells back, blending in with the crowd.

Their caravan moves forward, the trio rejoining their factions.

The druid’s head drums Lord Scipio between his shoulder blades.

“Why does Reed Eyes address Mud Face and Milky as Legati?”

“That’s what they are,” he replies.

“At the port, they were Prefects,”

“What does that tell you?”

“It tells me we’re not in Rome anymore,”

Luna stops with a tug of her reigns.

“This is Rome,” says Lord Scipio.

“I’m sure it was when you left, but the white robes have asserted power in the Battle King’s absence,” the Ancalite says further. “You lot plan to take it back,”

Horseman pass, some casting weary eyes while others watch boldly, anticipating another interesting interlude between their leader and the owl.

“You think too much, A-dawn,”

“You don’t think enough, Skippy-O,” the Ancalite counters. “Riding into an established garrison fully dressed as Tribune? Puts a target on your back,”

“It’s a good thing you’re sitting there to take the spear when it comes,”

“I’ll not die for you,” he snaps.

“You’ll not die until I kill you,” says Lord Scipio.

“Reed Eyes catching that messenger stops nothing,” he says without emotion. “Your enemies will know you’ve arrived the minute certain men from this group enter ahead of you,”

“Only a chosen few are entering Mediolanum,”

“So you say, but after you appeared fully decorated,” he shares. “The same eight men that have distanced themselves since leaving port, now convene at the rear,”

Lord Scipio listens, his eyes shifting with his face still.

“They approach now,” the Ancalite murmurs without looking, “and given their robes when not in uniform, I reckon they are not from this territory.”

Eight lancers bring up the rear and, in passing, lend Lord Scipio his propers.

“They’ll salute you without a second glance, but make no mistake, they’ve chosen on a side,” says the Ancalite. “And that side is not your Battle King’s.”

Lord Scipio gives Luna a soft kick, filing behind the last of them.