XX – The Month of Honey VII

No bigger fool exists than a man blind with love. Mother cut his last nerve with that word, leaving him with no guilt for slicing her throat.

Discontent, he leans against the Roman, whose words gently tickle his back. Mud Face, Milky, Reed Eyes, and the others conspire at a shady roadside watering station. The two sides speak over a trough where their horses drink, and a civilian stands among them, his curls blacker than Aedan’s.

Large blue eyes watch Servius Tribune with a sensual familiarity.

Lucius, a public works officer from Mediolanum, talks of a festival called The Plebian Games. This city-wide party began yesterday and hosts many parades, including a military procession of new cavalry.

Skipio, freshly shaven and tan from his many days on horseback, will infiltrate the city using that parade.

Lucius will muster the graduates at the wrong procession point while Caesar’s returning cavalry don youthful armor and parade their way into the heart of Mediolanum. To delight the crowds, Milky suggests they wear the battle masks made every year by the local children.

Bitch Face’s attention turns from the raven-haired aedile to Aedan. Some men complicate things solely for entertainment, and behind this cunt’s girlish eyes stews a complication.

Skipio bids the aedile farewell with the same sickening gentleness he’s aimed at Aedan since last night—the cord around his neck tenses when Skipio dismounts. Firm hands reach under Aedan’s armpits and lift him from the beast’s back as if he were a child. He then tethers his leash to a fancy carriage before kissing Looir on her long nose.

“I’m going to change,” Skipio tells her. “Your mission today is to watch our things.”

Looir snorts and raises her head.

“You, stay here,” Skipio orders in Greek. “Get into the carriage if the sun gets too hot,”

His heart thunders as a firm hand grasps his chin.

“Did you hear me, A-dawn?”

“I have ears,” he drones.

“I’ll be back after the sun hits the middle,” says Skipio, finger skyward.

“I do not care,” he says blankly.

A boyish smirk crosses Skipio’s face.
“You’ll care the next time I’m up your ass,”

Hope sparks, but Aedan refuses its lure as his Roman bride departs.

“There he goes,” Bitch Face peers down from atop his horse, speaking Aedan’s mother tongue. “Walking toward Lucius Piso, a man far more handsome than you, and just as eager for a bruise.”

Absorbing this truth knots his stomach.

“You speak my language a bit too well.” He jams a finger up his nostril and digs out a snotty glob. He flicks it at the pretty Roman, who lets out a hiss before tugging the horse’s reigns to avoid it.

Aedan extends his arms skyward, cracking the tension from his arms.
“Take your anger with you as you leave,”

The pretty Roman grumbles under his breath before joining the others.

***

Skipio and his cavalry depart in groups, leaving their staff and servants behind. While this lot fills up on porridge and fruit, Aedan mounts Looir and rides to the cart bearing Bitch Face’s name.

A wealth of scents, trinkets, and fine clothing await him, but he rifles through the frocks for something more austere. Outside, he gingerly leads Looir onto the road and finds it runs through a city gate. Facing south, he recalls the western fork just miles before their passage through Placentia.

“We must go now,”

The beast jerks her head and nearly pulls him off his feet.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Looir utters a terse snort.

“We must get back to Britannia,”

She stomps a hoof and lowers her head.

“Your loyalty to him is admirable, but he doesn’t own you,”

A grunt and another hoof stomp surprise him.

“You embrace this servitude?”

She raises her muzzle to be free of his fingers.

“This is where we part ways, isn’t it then?”

A low groan escapes her as she moves into him.

“I kill the things I cannot keep, but you’re not mine alone.” Aedan hugs her tight, his heart aching. “I cherish you so much, Looir. Please, come with me,”

She backs away, her head dipping low.

“This is the land of your birth, and I understand why you cannot leave it.” Aedan wipes his tears. “I shall never forget you, Looir, my first Roman love.”

---

Mediolanum belongs to its lessor classes, and Bitch Face’s plain eggplant-colored tunic and leggings help Aedan blend into them. His mother’s cord scales his arm, hidden under a long russet sleeve. The streets sting his bare feet sting with their autumn chill, the pavers warmest near the braziers, where crowds gather sipping mulled wine.

No bread allotment exists here, where every pleb works to earn their crumbs. Even the wealthy, no matter their pampering, dirty their hands alongside those in their employ, and it is they, the patricians, who foot the bill for this festival.

Courtyards appear every five or so cross-streets, offering up carts with wooden panels displaying colorful art of pigs, cows, and fish. Far too many ducks and chickens adorn these panels—these Romans are bloody savages.

One cart offers steaming meat shreds laced with leafy greens, and the cook serves them in a thin, foldable bread, so their hungry patrons can eat while walking. He considers stealing a tasty wrap from an unsupervised child until familiar letters catch his attention through the narrow alley.

A round theater stands where three lanes converge, the whipping flags along its rim bearing the marks of Celtic tribes. Blocky red letters on the entablature are a mix of Roman and Gaulish, and from what Aedan deciphers, this is the Circus Insubrivius.

Impatient citizens clog all three entry stairs, the ground steps made of stone, and upper-level cases made of timber. He avoids the token taker, creeping around the spherical building to find a low window above a canal of shit.

Aedan hops and catches the window’s concrete trim with his fingers. Drawing himself up, he surprises two matrons busy setting sponge-topped sticks beside narrow floor canals. He cartwheels past them to a dark hall where chatter leads him to a circular theater.

Cushions in hand, spectators find their places among the ascending marble rows surrounding a white sandy yard.

Four scantily clad girls bearing Insubri war paint move along the yard’s edge, spreading a tightly woven net over the grains. They hook the web’s looped corners over phallic stone rungs until it’s tight enough to hover above the sand like a second floor.

Wood charcoal permeates the air, already thick with body stink and flowery oils. He climbs onto a wooden beam over the highest seats, his legs swinging and back slinking to the band’s drum, horns, and strings. Youthful vendors trawl among the spectators, offering warm wine, dried meat, and toasted legumes.

His foot drops when a manlet passes, and with a dextrous toe, he snatches a parchment fold of roasted almonds from his back sack. The warm, salty coating of the nuts satisfies his tongue and parches his mouth.

A reverberating gong ushers out a rotund woman, her sleeveless robe covering far too much of that thick body. Ambiani tribal marks line her wide arms, yet her braids speak a different tribe; his knowledge from Fintan, who drew many continental Celts from memory on leather canvasses for him.

She raises her flabby arms for silence, but Aedan shouts: “Show those tits, Bellovaci.”

Pale eyes squint upon hearing her language, and finding Aedan reveals her gold-painted teeth in laughter. Peeling off her robe, she displays her ample portions to the crowd’s delight. Taking her heavy tits in hand, she shakes them at Aedan, who holds the parchment in his teeth and greedily flexes his fingers, both hands grabbing at air.

Her bawdy Latin rises above the uproar, introducing two burly men marked in green Ambiani warpaint. Pectorals jump as bare feet navigate the mesh, each springy step making their flaccid hammers swing.

A hush befalls the Odeon when each man assumes a crouching position with one lording over the other. The bosomy mistress barks, setting her brutes off with a resounding slap of the skin. The chit-clutching crowd erupts into a raucous clamor of cheers, curses, and lucky prayers—these Romans would wager on the sun rising if there were a chance it wouldn’t.

Aedan’s cock itches for attention, but the almonds are just too good to put down.

The smaller man throws his opponent, sending his back to the ropes and his legs over his head. Thick cocks bounce as their shoulders come together in another charge. He gets the upper hand again, and like a cruel child flipping a turtle, he sends his adversary to the ropes for a second time; once more, the smaller man will win the match.

Aedan grows weary of this shouting crowd; skin games lose their allure if one cannot hear a fighter’s grunts or the fury of colliding flesh.

He ventures out the way he came, narrowly avoiding the shit pile outside the window. In the square, vendor carts line the pedestrian paths, where citizens gather in anticipation. Children clamor with excitement as tired parents chug their drinks. Maidens and groups of older men gather along the curb, all clutching flower bunches to their chests.

Distant clopping rouses many to their feet as the first uniformed horseman turns the corner. A two-by-two procession follows, each beast clad in silver and gold plates that shimmer in the midday sun. Riders file past in regal military garb, their clay masks adorned in a childish scrawl that charms the spectating mothers.

Overcome, the young girls tear at their bouquets, tossing petals at the riders as they pass. The older men do the same, marveling at the beefy size of the new graduates. Not one of these horsemen is fresh—no, this murderous lot are Caesarian veterans with Gallic blood under their nails.

Aedan sprints ahead of the procession, rounding a corner and passing onlookers who spare little interest in his charge. Another turn finds him on a quiet lane of apartments. A domus rests low among the insulae, and looming behind its short crown is the city’s northernmost wall.

Workhands lean on their shovels, watching laborers fill make-shift troughs with water—this is where the parade ends! Across from their position is another city gate, but to reach its inspection station, one must pass through the arch-tower of a citadel.

He climbs the domus to its roof, pausing at a square opening that looks down into the home’s grassy patch of yard. Romans are a strange bunch. He reaches the end of the terra cotta tiles and finds the wall unscalable.

Aedan searches the rectangular borders, desperate for mortar stolen by time. Several moments in, he catches many empty line patterns, but only one forms an uneven ladder to the top.

A running jump takes him over the moat, and he barely catches the hollow line’s edge. With throbbing fingertips, he digs in and reaches for another far to the right. His toes slip, the block’s crusty edges breaking his skin. Pain fades with gentle breathing. He struggles with a new urgency, keen to reach each new rung before his body rebels.

His resolve fades until his next blind reach finds flatness. Giggling madly, Aedan pulls himself onto the wall’s narrow summit, his fingers and toes worn beyond measure. To his dismay, not one building stands within jumping distance. A weary eye revisits the citadel, where a multi-story temple rests on the opposite side of the wall.

Sheets on strings whip in the wind atop its roof while incense bleeds from the highest windows. He speedily jumps over, one of the sheets parting to reveal a dark little girl holding a wash bucket.

“What is this place?” he asks in Latin.

Her lip trembles. “Pretania Lupa,”

“Pretan?” Aedan knows one word more than the other. “The Painted She Wolf?”

The girl’s tawny eyes glow as she recites the sales pitch.
“There’s no better Gaulish gash for a soldier to conquer,”

“There’s Gauls here?” he asks—these Romans are obsessed…

“More and more of them arrive every day,” she affirms brightly, pointing at the single braid parting her long hair. “We got lots of ladies last year. One of the older ones, Talusa, ties my hair every morning. See?”

“That pattern belongs to an Atrabatis maiden,” he says. “Where is she? This Talusa?”

“She’s entertaining,” the girl nods. “Licinius Tribune bought her himself for Lord Primo’s birthday,”

Aedan cocks his head. “What were you before you were Roman?”

“I was born here, but they call my mother a Nubian,” she frowns. “But my mother says we’re Kushite,”

“They call me Gaul,” Aedan smirks. “But I’m an Ancalite,”

“Ancalite?” the girl gasps. “Like the Owl King?”

Aedan narrows his eyes. “What do you know of the Owl?”

“The Owl King cut so many Roman throats that the rivers in Britannia ran red with blood,” she says, running a finger under her chin. “He even killed his own mother until the Servii Lion caught him.” She giggles and grabs her backside. “They say Lord Skipio clapped his little cheeks, but good.”

No longer amused, Aedan stalks past her and enters the stairwell.

“They’re in the Rumpus Chamber,” her voice echoes. “She’s very good at pleasuring gangs,”

“Of course she is,” he mumbles. “We Gauls love banging gangs,”

“It’s on the first floor,” her voice fades. “Follow the water sounds,”

If the Painted She Wolf stands as the norm, Roman brothels surpass even the grandest tribal fuck-huts.

No customers roam the upper floor, only women of every shape and color tending to themselves when unneeded. Prattling water lures him downstairs to a tile room with a grand fountain, where a shapely woman upon a clamshell stands before the water column, her smooth visage much lighter than the black waves of her hair. Gold dots the tips of her delicate fingers, and her artfully sculpted face reflects an ecstasy felt only during a lustful death.

Pleasurable whines and husky groans lure him to the railing.

This room overlooks a grander one, where furs hang on the walls and torchlight hints of spectator couches. Centering the room is a large round bed hosting a provocative scene: A bearded Roman on his back with an Atrabati woman tented over him, her belly up and her feet outside his legs. She moans as his cock drives up into her ass, and two men suckle each of her gigantic tits. A third buries his finger deep into her fleshy slit, his rough tugs shaking her flesh rolls.

The bearded moron beneath her growls as she climaxes. She brings her legs together on instinct, but the men on her tits pull her knees apart, singing no—not yet.

Arms weary and her ass numb, she tips her head back. Her eyes meet Aedan’s, and he raises his hand and signs the Atrabati words ‘no mercy.’ She howls and drops herself on the Roman beneath her. Reaching for their cocks, she boldly dares them to fill all of her holes.

The wolves close in around her, another of them stepping onto the bed with his cock in hand.

Without warning, the chamber’s double doors fly open.

A cadre of red capes enters, their swords making short work of those attacking from the shadows. The brothel mother pushes her way through them, a tall wig falling from her bald head. She wrenches the Atrabatis from the platform bed and speedily drags her from the room.

His Roman bride struts into the light, clad in his full Tribune regalia.

Mud Face and Milky follow, and when one of the naked men grabs a torch iron to attack them, Mud Face quickly raises his bow and drops the fool with a bolt through the eye. This death induces the civilian voyeurs from their darkness, and like snakes fleeing an upturned rock, they slither out the door en masse.

Servius Tribune steps onto the bed and stands over the bearded fool, whose oily cock still stands at attention.

“Crassus Primo Kaius.” Milky saunters onto the platform. “Why didn’t you invite us to your birthday?”

“That’s Kaius Legatus,” Primo snaps until a spatha tip finds his hairy chest. “Servius—wait—”

“Yes, wait a minute,” Mud Face says. “I’m Legatus here,”

“How now,” Milky wonders. “There can’t be two Legati in Mediolanum,”

“You follow Caesar,” Primo stutters, hands out. “Caesar’s a fugitive,”

“Caesar’s not here,” Skipio’s menacing tone delights Aedan.

“Governorship of the Province belongs to—” Primo stops when the his Roman bride’s spatha tip finds his lips.

Skipio tells him, “Comum is no longer Roman. As its son, I shall retire to it.”

“You’re… you’re wearing Tribune colors,” Primo says.

“Gaius Planus Caesar and his Praetors in Bellagio will take custody of the Laurio and the aqueducts it feeds,” says Skipio.

“Yes,” Milky nods. “We wouldn’t want Mediolanum and her farms and vineyards to go without water now, would we?”

“You can’t do that!” Primo tries to protest until a boot finds his chest.

“Oh, but we can,” Skipio reminds him. “The Laurian aqueducts were privately funded,”

“Yes,” says Milky. “Financed with colonial coin and built by colonial hands,”

“Make sure you tell Pompey that water will continue flowing to the lowlands,” Mud Face nods. “All the way to Genua, so long as the colonials north of Mediolanum are left alone,”

“The Praetors in Bellagio are loyal to Rome,” Skipio says, the blade still hanging over Primo’s chin. “They will oversee the aqueduct’s upkeep and protect their flow.”

“Until the Senate sees fit to send a new legion to relieve us,” Milky adds.

Out of the dark, a naked wolf attacks, but a rapid swing of Skipio’s sword decapitates the man, spraying those nearby.

“Please,” Primo screams, hands reaching.

“Lucius,” Skipio barks, conjuring the raven-haired aedile.

“I’m to inform you that Licinius has opted to remain Tribune of Mediolanum.” He sets a scroll atop Primo’s shriveling manhood. “And you, Decurio Kaius, will return to Rome with news that the sons of the province have left service to see after their families.”

Primo’s eyes dart about the room. “You left Caesar’s command?”

Skipio’s boot hovers over the man’s balls.

“Please, no, Skip—” Primo cowers. “—Servius Tribune!”

“Bye Jove,” Milky rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to geld the man with a foot, you might have brought the Owl.”

The corners of Aedan’s mouth reach for his ears.

“That druid can snap a man’s neck with his toes,” Milky tells Primo. “It’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen,”

“You haven’t seen those feet pleasure Skipio’s third arm.” Mud Face’s lips turn down. “Witness that, and you’ll know a frightful sight.”

Skipio’s boot retreats, allowing Primo some relief.

“Please, Servius Tribune. You cannot demote me to decurio,” he pleads. “I have worked so hard to maintain order—”

“—Order?” His Roman Bride demands. “Sending men to oust people from their homes?”

“Seizing their accounts?” adds Mud Face.

Milky roars, “Robbing them of citizenship,”

“That was Pompey,” Primo stammers. “We never forced anyone from their homes. We told that it would be in their best interest to go before their deeds got declared forfeit—”

“That makes you a proper jellyfish,” Milky stands, arms folded. “Scaring everyone out of the water for fear of being stung,”

“I was stung by a jellyfish once in Sicilia,” Mud Face recalls. “Tribune, do you remember what your father did to help with the sting?”

Skipio reaches under his pleated skirt and takes hold of his cock. Before the craven Primo can protest, piss strikes his face, then steams down his chest.

Chuckles move through the uniforms, but then Aedan’s laughter brings silence.

“Jupiter’s balls,” whispers Milky. “How did you get here?”

Green-eyed confusion turns to fury with a blink before his foot stomps down on Primo’s cock.

Aedan retreats as the man’s high pitch squeal fills the room and soon Skipio swings over the railing. Without time to think, he vaults over him, coming down upon the weeping Primo’s chest. He backflips over Milky and Mud Face, somersaulting into a narrow hall where the low ceiling sends him sprinting through a maze of doorless rooms.

A large vestibule appears, its grand entry promising freedom until his Roman bride’s body slides past, sweeping his legs. Cold ceramic creates pain, but he rolls to his feet when his Roman bride does the same with his sword still sheathed.

“This must stop,” Aedan shouts in Greek. “I cannot do this with you,”

“What are you on about?”

“I cannot live with these feelings,” says Aedan. “This must end,”

Puzzlement seizes his Roman bride.

“These feelings I’ve caught like a sickness,,” Aedan beseeches. “They’re new, and I cannot house them,”

His eyes narrow, and his head shakes.

“I’m not capable of this, this emotional shit, Skippy-O,” Aedan’s words surge like water from a broken dam. “I cannot feel things. That sort of madness is beyond me. I cannot love. I’m not designed for it.” Aedan’s eyes pool with water. “You must release me from this bond. This marriage, it cannot stand.”

“What are you on about, you crazy Ganymede bitch?” His handsome face twists in furious amusement. “Marriage? What marriage?”

The chaos within Aedan’s head fades.

“We’re not bonded,” Skipio rails.

Dryness fills his mouth, and his heart hardens.

“I’ve struck that ugly head of yours too many times, and now you’ve gone soft.” Skipio nods, a hand on his hip. “Bonded? What kind of insane shit is that?” He grabs his crotch. “You’re serving a life sentence under my cock. That’s the formula of this relationship.” He pulls his sword and points it. “For killing my father, you will live the rest of your natural life under my thumb.”

Aedan gazes at nothing over the bastard’s shoulder, and when it draws those green eyes and turns the fucker’s head, he launches his fist with the fury of a channel storm.

Unfortunately, just as on the battlefield, it’s not enough to drop the lofty Lion.

A blow to Aedan’s stomach robs his air and drops him to the tiles. He crab-crawls to the door with pawing hands dragging him back. A backward kick strikes a thigh, dropping the Roman cunt, whose strong arms quickly wrap around him.

“Skipio,” screams Lucius.

Aedan rushes out from under him, grabs the fallen sword, and launches his body over Lucius. Upon landing, he snatches a handful of the aedile’s curly hair and brings the blade to his neck.

“A-dawn, no,” the fucker jumps to his feet. “Let him go,”

“Why should I?” he asks, peering over the man’s shoulder.

“He’s not involved in this,” says the bastard. “He’s not involved in us,”

Aedan rests his chin on the frightened man’s shoulder. “What’s he to you?”

“He’s nothing.” Skipio raises his hands in defeat.

“That’s not what I heard,” says Aedan, sniffing the man’s large ear. “His ears are large, just like mine. Dark eyes, too. Quite thin, isn’t he? Far easier on the eyes…”

“A-dawn, he’s nothing to me,” the bastard’s chest heaves. “Just another punching bag that lost its allure,”

“Scipio,” Lucius protests. “I speak Greek,”

“But you need him, don’t you?” Aedan presses the blade into the man’s neck, silencing him. “You’re going to step aside, fuckface,”

“What did he just call you?” Lucius asks.

“He calls me that all the time,” says the handsome bastard. “I think that’s my name in his language,”

“Step aside,” Aedan snaps, yanking at the man’s hair.

The fucker shakes his head. “That’s not happening, A-dawn,”

“Oh, it is,” Aedan promises. “One more step and he dies,”

“Think about the logistics,” says the bastard. “My men are outside that door,”

“I’m going back to Britannia,” Aedan declares. “With or without this hostage,”

“Britannia’s gone,” his head swings. “Cassivellaunus surrendered the day we left,”

“You are a liar,” Aedan scowls. “My people still fight,”

“A-dawn,” the bastard falls to his knees. “The tribal leaders betrayed him, too,”

He absorbs this information. “My people?”

“Butchered and dumped into the sea,” gloats the fucker. “There’s no one left on that island, not even your Gods,”

“Britannia is no more?” Aedan whispers.

“Britannia? No, those Gauls are still there,” Lucius utters in Greek. “Caesar returned to the continent, leaving some king Maud in charge,”

“Shut up,” the fucker growls.

Aedan roars, “You cunting bastard,”

“You’re never going back,” the Lion grumbles, finger aimed. “You’re mine for the rest of your natural life,”

“Fuckface,” he taunts in Latin.

Skipio flexes until Aedan yanks Lucius.

“Come at me, you Roman cunt,”

Skipio nods, his eyes wet with menace.
“Don’t you tempt me, you druid whore,”

“Druid?” Lucius gasps. “Are you the Owl?”

“This is between you and me.” Skipio hardens. “Drop that sword and let him go,”

“Why should I?”

“A-dawn,” he warns. “If he dies, you die,”

“Death is preferable to loving you.”
Aedan drags the blade across the man’s throat.

Lucius clutches his bleeding neck, falling as Aedan runs for the door. Powerful arms enfold him, loosening the spatha from his grip. He kicks and writhes, but the fierce bastard is too strong.

The raging Lion appears over him as hands close around Aedan’s throat. Strong knees trap his legs together, so he aims his thumbs at those gorgeous greens, their fury dropping water onto Aedan’s lips. Stars explode before his eyes as breathing proves impossible.

Agony pulses through his heels with each strike of the tiles, and he gags while shredding the bastard’s muscular arms with what little nails his fingers possess. The world fades, its last offering a furious Roman whose beauty he knew would be his death.

A chilly wind rushes over him as daylight creates a halo around the Roman’s head. Hoof claps grow louder and bring when them a raucous squeal.

Pressure lifts from his throat as the Roman’s unbearable weight retreats.

“No,” Skipio’s roar grows distant. “Look at what he did!”

A snort follows a cloven hoof dragging tile.

“I know you never liked Lucius, but he didn’t deserve that!”

Two blurry legs rise before hardened tips hammer the tile.

“I said no, and I know you understand that word,” Skipio shouts over her squeaks. “It’s the first fucking word you learned as a colt. I know because I was there,”

The beast’s grassy scent finds him.

“No, this is not a negotiation, Luna!” cries Skipio. “We’re not going back and forth on this, do you hear me? Him dead is the only way this ends…”

---

The oak entry of the brothel swings open.

Servius Tribune emerges with an angry bruise along his jaw and wet crimson shrouding his nose and mouth. Two of his eight phalerae are missing from his harness vest, but a blood-soaked spatha still hangs from his hip belt.

He spares no words to his men, having spent most of them at Venus. He blames her for serving the wiry druid up to his starving heart—despite his lust gorging on the wiry Gaul’s peers in the name of Mars.

Luna trots dutifully behind him, an unconscious Aedan slung over her saddle.

“Bind his legs and wrists and bag his head,” he orders, lending no eye to the dead Lucius, brought out of the brother under a tarp. “Toss him into the goods cart bound for home and chain it shut,”

“Tribune,” Actus affirms with a nod.

“He comes out for nothing,” he adds, temper untamed. “Not to eat, piss, drink, or shit. His feet do not touch the earth until that cart stops at my front door,”

Actus nods, “Yes, Tribune.”

All watch him stalk down the road, and Luna follows once free of her druid.

“Poor Lucius.” Castor’s hand covers his mouth in horror. “I warned him about bringing that thing to Rome,”

“Your concern fools no one,” Titus declares, stepping to him. “Pull another stunt like this again, and I’ll make certain that Lion’s rage comes for you,”

Castor draws back. “I had nothing to do with this,”

“If that’s the case,” Planus muses. “You’ve nothing more to say on the matter,”

Castor turns his back on them and mounts his horse.

“I’ll await your list of ruffians going with me to Octodurus,” he speaks at Titus. “And for your apology,”

Planus folds his arms and watches the younger man gallop away.
“I don’t think the Owl ever considered Lucius a threat,”

“If Castor didn’t dangle Lucius in front of him,” Titus wonders. “Then what made him flee?”

Planus faces him and says, “Love.”