XXI – The Spectator

Aedan wakes to a gentle song of slapping water.

Household goods and jars surround him, but they restrict less than the tight ropes binding his legs. He tugs at the manacles around his wrists and, with a caterpillar’s skill, gets to his feet.

His toes warm in the small band of light cast from a narrow slit above the door. Hopping toward it, he gets as close as his chains allow and presses his forehead to the opening. Mossy fish stink tickles his nose, and looking down reveals a wheel motionless on planks fused by pitch.

A violent lurch knocks him onto a pile of rolled rugs, their course undersides chafing his bare back. The wagon moves in fits and starts, and once its iron-ringed wheels traverse pebble-laden sands, they leave the raft and lake behind.

Faceless voices ring out near his prison.

“You will see me before Saturnalia,” promises Milky.

Fuckface responds, “Make sure Castor’s mother gets her house back,”

“Restoring evicted patricians to their homes isn’t first on my list of things to do,” Milky jests. “But I’ll prioritize it in the name of acquiring their gratitude,”

“Please do,” Fuckface says. “Imperator will need that gratitude when he returns,”

Anger fuels Aedan’s determination. He works at the ropes, picking loose the first of many knots made by Reed Eyes; luckily, the raven-haired ball sack cinched them in front.

The ascending wagon rocks on a sharp turn, and the horses grunt as bends become frequent. Cold air pebbles his skin as the day wears on, and before long, an unyielding thirst finds him shaking jars.

In a corner, the horse’s water pail beckons. Pushing away its flat cap, Aedan dunks his head and growls at the biting cold.

The wagon rounds another uphill curl, the steepest by far. He gulps with greedy abandon, anything to lubricate these painful, dry heaves. Nausea attacks in relentless waves, making him wonder if Fuckface’s seed took root.

No, he has no womb for such predicaments. Thorny gas grinds his guts while pressure hammers his sinuses. His stomach jumps again, forcing him to retch up an endless deluge of glistening pain.

Laughter breaks outside. “Your druid isn’t used to being up this high in the world,” comes a gravelly voice. “Didn’t they have mountains in Britannia?”

Aedan spends hours picking at the knots in his binding. After a while, he senses the wagon making more turns than straight advances. Icy fingers labor until the last knot loosens. He kicks free of his binds before standing tall and cracking the tension from his back.

Fuckface’s heady bergamot smell lures him to a box wrapped in cloth, and inside finds a cache of the bastard’s oils. He uncorks a brown-glass bottle, licks the stopple, and tastes the man’s foreskin. He huffs a sigh as his cock jumps; even now, that gorgeous fucker owns him.

Aedan feels a fool for believing he could possess such a man. No marriage binds them, no love sparks, and no permanence reigns—so says the bastard he thought would love him to death.

He shoves the bottle back in place and discovers two finger-length ampules. Red, viscous fluid fills the sealed glass tube, and the first bears the name of Lucius Vitus Servius. The second wears his mother’s name, written in Latin as Ciniod Cassia.  He clutches her blood tight as memories of their strange closeness scratch his brain.

Ancalite children spent little time with their mothers, and he was no exception until Fintan began wandering the continent. Aedan found himself stuck with her and his uncle nearly every day—and he stews the worst for it.

As if stung, he returns the ampule to its place, but before he ponders why the Roman saves these things, an owl feather pokes out of a gold-trim crimson cloak. Unwrapping the cloak dislodges tiny seashells that spill onto his thighs.

Before him are his feathery shoulder guards and owl mask. Beneath it are his tartan trousers—the ones he wore on the waterfall the day he came upon the alluring Fuckface.

Taking them out uncovers a leather chapbook of pressed leaves and flowers, but the sketches prove captivating. Coal-drawn trees, seen only from lying on the ground, touch something within.

Ashy grey and black battle scenes project more detail than he ever thought possible by human hands. Soon, he comes upon a faceless drawing of himself, lazing nude atop a long, thick tree branch in a storm of falling leaves. His large pinna juts out from the black curls on his head and bite marks cover his little buttocks.

Overcome, he tosses everything but his trousers back into the crate. The Lion is a sentimental imbecile—no—such mawkishness escapes the mighty Fuckface. No doubt, the Roman keeps these things as trophies.

The cumbersome restraints rattle as he pulls on his trousers. Each brace connects to a chain meant to secure the wagon’s goods; without them, a ream of colorful fabric topples. He unrolls a portion of the deep blue cloth and grips its thick hem with his toes and teeth, tearing free enough to swaddle his shoulders.

White smears the craggy peaks for miles, and their narrow gravel path offers no buffer against the massive gorge. The bluish-green river snaking through it is tiny from such heights.

Tree-covered hills give way to another rocky valley, its width broken by a bridge of multiple arches. The road rounds another bend, allowing him to inspect the bridge’s highest deck, where a watercourse splashes beneath weathered panels.

The bridge vanishes into the mountain as another turn takes them down into a new valley, where the gravel path becomes smooth, easing the ride.

Patchy sunlight marks endless green hills, warming the air, though not by much. A xanthous line emerges on the horizon, and Looir gallops through the grass with the handsome Fuckface on her back, their excitement palpable.

The line becomes a towering wall, surpassing any sacrificial platform Aedan has ever seen. Vibrant drawings of apple trees adorn its tawny length, while graven lion capstones mark its jagged top.

Past the wall is a vast valley surrounded by a slope of angular peaks. Water spills over the far crest, where another bridge stretches, its arches growing short on a descent toward the valley.

Another wall appears on a high ridge, much shorter than the first, with lifelike drawings of thick leafy oaks and green grass along its smooth white stoneface.

The wagon rounds again on a climb, where a grand house comes into view that appears to float on the lake beside it. Children’s laughter and women’s chatter grow on the other side of the wagon. With them comes the clucking of fowl and the sickening scent of dung.

No way to see, Aedan yanks at one of the chains until his arms ache. He plants his feet on the wall around its brace and pulls with all his might. It comes free, tearing a hole in the wood and sending him back onto the pile of spooled rugs.

Through the hand-size opening, he finds a low wall enclosing workspaces, miniature gardens, and a busy grain mill. The wall is anchored by smooth stone buildings, the largest of which is a pale blue two-story square with white-bordered windows. The roof, adorned with dark half-pipe tiles, emits gentle wisps of smoke from its chimneys.

Smaller buildings boast paintings on their front facing walls: horses grazing, chickens and rabbits wandering the greens, a cow floating in milk, and a giant fat pig with tiny wings etched on a doorless barn containing pens.

Farmhands gather, donning autumn leggings under their thick tunics. Their wives and children join them in eyeballing the wagon, and Looir trots past with the bastard on her back, eliciting greetings and laughter.

Lord Fuckface waves to them like a returning king, but then he dismounts and embraces many of the older men. He knows the women’s names and kneels to greet their children, asking who they are and what they did during the harvest. Their love for him is undeniable, yet his affection for them reveals none are slaves.

One of the young men chides ‘Lord Skipio’ for missing the apple yield—what in Annwin is an apple? An elderly stable hand approaches Looir, beaming with pride. Her tail jumps, and her long muzzle bobs as she moves into his embrace. According to him, he’s not seen her in over ten years…

Lord Fuckface jogs toward the wagon and Aedan retreats. The cabin rocks as the bastard takes his place beside the driver. Once they start moving, Looir gallops alongside; she is a blissful beast now that she’s home.

Back at the hole, Aedan takes in the countryside. Hillocks surround this ridge, the highest flat with freshly harvested fields. Knotty trees crowd the valley below, their generous arms unnatural in their flat extension; he’s never seen trees like this, and if there’s anything he knows, it’s trees.

That village grows smaller on the advance up the lakeside road. The valley behind it comes into view, offering a small field ripe with workers. Beyond it sits a sizable patch of woods, its lush and unruly trees reminiscent of the hazelnuts back home.

Rows appear among them, and this makes Aedan’s head swing. The occasional nut tree stands alone in the forest, with rare pairs fenced in by tribal elites, yet these fucking Romans cultivate them like they’re olives or grapes.

The inner ridge wall grows shorter as the wagon traverses even terrain, and lake water swallows it until only shoreline remains. When the wagon stops and boots hit the ground, Aedan snatches up the loom needles and stands ready.

“All right, time for your boney ass to get out of my cart,” comes a gravelly tenor as the door parts.

Someone shouts for the driver to step back, but once the doors open, Aedan lashes out, driving both narrow pins into the bearded man’s neck.

Little blood comes of it, only enough to coat the man’s fingers as he grasps his wounds and stumbles back. Uniformed wolves rush the door before Aedan can jump out. Merciless hands grip his arms and drag him into the setting sun.

Looir comes galloping up the road.

“You got yourself untied,” Reed Eyes rages through his teeth.

Aedan confronts the two-story villa’s tiled awning and falls still before the towering mountain above it. The closeness of this majestic peak is nature’s deceit, for many miles lay between it and the villa.

Clove-scented breath warms his ear. “Commit our rocky guardian to memory, druid,” whispers Fuckface. “It will be the last thing you see in this life,”

Aedan thrashes anew, his rage an untamable tempest that drives Looir to intervene until Fuckface takes her by the reigns.

“What in the name of Caturix!” An elegant man strides the porch, his long golden hair whipping in the wind like his amber tunic. Thick lips form a disdainful pout as large blue eyes widen. “You two,” he waves his arm as if cracking a whip, spurring two gawking boys off their backsides. “Get old Sullo to the village doctor before he bleeds all over my lilies,”

A young man in a twill apron steps out from behind the blond and displays a toothy smile.

“Niko!” Fuckface lifts the short-haired man off his feet in a bear hug. “I have missed you, friend. I have also missed your cooking,”

The blond points at another strapping civilian. “Take the carriage around to the loading porch.” He then places a hand on his flat stomach and straightens his back. “Your sister waits inside, Lord Skipio,”

Niko steps to the mare and holds out a green apple.

“Oh no no no,” Fuckface declares, taking it from him. “Luna makes bad choices and needs to learn there are consequences,”

The beast snorts as her master boldly bites into it. Niko speedily pulls out another as Skipio ascends the stairs. and covertly brings it to her mouth. The horse quickly takes it, chewing with her long nose down to avoid getting caught. The cook pats her head before scurrying away.

Aedan writhes in the two wolves’ clutches, planting his feet into the villa’s large oak door frame, halting his captors’ advance.

“Get his legs,” growls Reed Eyes, stepping in to contain Aedan’s arms.

“Is this the druid from Britannia?” the blond asks.

“My prisoner,” Fuckface clarifies, then barks at his men. “Get him to the butchering pad in the stores and chain him to the ring,”

Aedan struggles to wrench free as the scent of fragrant lilacs ushers in a shapely young woman whose lower face resembles the vile Roman.

“Put that boy down this instant,” she demands.

Fuckface comes between them. “Vita?”

Held like a wishbone, Aedan ceases struggling and observes their reunion.

“Skipio?” a nervous laugh escapes as she surveys him from head to toe. “What’s happened to the reedy boy who left me for Mediolanum?”

“You’ve…” Skipio’s attention drops to her ample cleavage. “You’ve grown as well,”

“It’s been fifteen years, brother.” She grabs his brawny arm. “You’ve grown far more than I have,”

“Swinging swords builds muscle,” he laughs, hugging her tight. She laughs with him until the prisoner’s rolling eyes grab her attention.

“I asked you to let that boy…” she notices his girthy cock. “Uh, man…Bye Jove, where are his clothes!?”

“This boy,” Fuckface gently pulls her aside. “Slit our father’s throat,”

Joy tugs at the corners of her mouth so quickly that no one notices except Aedan.

“Where’s mother, Vita?”

She replies without missing a beat. “Mother’s on her deathbed,”

Fuckface charges off to another part of the house.

“Who are you?” she asks Reed Eyes.

“Actus,” he says. “Strolo…you used to poke fun at my eyes,”

“Ursius,” Vita nods and then reminds him, “You used to tease Niko for being fat,”

Uncomfortable with their exchange, Reed Eyes orders his red-cloaked goons onward. They carry him through a painted narrow hall with three timber doors. On its left is a verdant inner yard where brazier fire reveals bushes, benches, and surrounding columns.

Through an open archway comes savory scents and lingering warmth until they enter the shadowy realm of an adjacent storeroom. Earthen stairs lead to darkness, where Reed Eyes drops him. Aedan’s head bounces as his captors drag him down, and Reed Eyes follows with a torch, illuminating a concrete slab upon the floor with a wooden hatch drain at its center.

“Get his belly on the ground,” he barks, stabbing the torch into a metal sconce.

The uniformed duo follows through, pinning Aedan down as Reed Eyes pulls a leather collar over his head. He cinches it tight around Aedan’s throat—the thick chain attached connecting to a bracketed iron ring on the wall.

Once secure, the trio scrambles clear, avoiding the druid’s deadly kicks.

Aedan lunges and is swept off his feet, gagging from the collar. The ring proves a strong anchor, and he tugs at his chains, teeth set like a rabid dog.

“Settle yourself, druid,” begs Reed Eyes.

Aedan hocks a spit that lands on the man’s phalera-covered chest.

“You stringy bitch,” Reed Eyes roars.

“What’s this then?” Barks the blond, torchlight dancing over his angular face. Taking it down, he touches the flame to an oily wood pile, igniting it to reveal a hearth. “You should go, Centurion, before this foul temper becomes you,”

“Gladly.” Reed Eyes follows his men to the stairs. “Mind your distance, he’s not a civilized Gaul like you,”

Once alone, the blond returns the torch to the sconce.

“Civilized. That’s the Roman word for conquered.” His mastery of the Belgic tongue comes with a pleasing accent. “My name is Welletrix, and like you, I am a prisoner here. Though your status is considerably less elevated,”

Aedan studies him in silence. He is lean but not bony, masculine yet hairless, but for the long pale strands pulled back from his forehead. One of the pretty ones, as Aedan’s mother might say…

“This isn’t a cruel house,” he says, pulling a thick blanket from the darkness. “You’ll get back what you put out, though with Lord Skipio keeping you like this, I suspect you’ve done that dance already.”

“Welle,” the woman from above descends.

“Lady Vita,” he warns, tossing the blanket at Aedan’s feet. “You mustn’t come down here,”

She unwraps her palla and pulls it around her shoulders.

“Don’t worry about me.” When she smiles, it’s like seeing a replica of Fuckface when he’s happy. “I’ve known what happens down here since I was a child,”

“Of course, Lady Vita,” he says, nodding. “I grew up in a town where we got our meat in pieces from the butchery,”

“Coming of age here,” she says, stepping to the hearth to warm her hands. “We’re less sentimental about the animals we eat,”

Welle cautions. “Keep your distance, he maimed old Sullo,”

“That foul-mouthed pervert likely had it coming.” Vita squints from her position by the fire. “We cannot keep him here like this,”

“He cannot lie about our stores,” Welle’s head swings. “It’s unsanitary,”

“Bring him cushions to sleep upon,” Vita tells him. “Take them from the guestroom,”

Welle warns Aedan. “Do not harm her,”

After his departure, Vita studies him.

“Did you truly kill Vitus?” she finally asks. “If you did kill him, I thank you,”

There is an anger in her eyes that Aedan knows well, having seen it countless times in daughters desperate to root out their father’s sins. “When did he start using you like a wife?” he asks in Latin.

Vita swallows, and her nostrils flare. “He raped me for years after my brother left.” She doesn’t look away, though vulnerable. “I celebrate his death and hope he suffered to his last breath,”

“Your brother does to me,” whispers Aedan in Latin. “What your daddy did to you,”

Her mouth falls open in horror.
“I’ve heard talk of my brother’s brutal desires, but I never believed such stories,”

“Believe.” His grin sparks confusion. “His brutality is what I live for,”

One blink delivers uncertainty to her lovely face.

“Vita!” Fuckface drums down the stairs. “Keep away from him!”

“Lucius Skipio,” she scolds. “Indoor voice, please,”

“He looks like he couldn’t bend a blade of grass,” Fuckface says, his eyes roaming Aedan’s body. “But he’s a strong little bitch,”

Her attention volleys from Aedan to her brother. “Surely, we can’t keep him like this,”

“Oh yes, we can,” Fuckface declares. “The owl remains here until a proper cage gets built for him outside.”

Vita gasps and fixes her bright eyes on Aedan. “You’re the Owl of Britannia?”

“The what of what?” Fuckface utters.

“Everyone knows about the Owl King.” Her hands flutter as if they were wings. “Virgil Pontius sent his diaries to his brother in Mediolanum, and he publishes new chapters on the Ides,”

“Publishes?” Fuckface demands. “You mean actual scrolls?”

“Mister Owl, I’m a big admirer.” She opens her hand and places it on her chest. “You’re so acrobatic and fierce,”

“Pontius?” Fuckface rages. “That nosey little standard bearer,”

“Oh no!” Vita’s mirth fades when confronting her brother. “You’re the Lion, aren’t you? How could you murder and literally,” her eyes fall to his crotch, “pillage those innocent druid boys?”

“Innocent?” he argues. “You weren’t there, Vita. Those boys were violent little men who got what was coming to them.” His eyes confront Aedan. “Just like this little bitch is going to get what’s coming to him, everyday, for the rest of his pathetic life,”

“Do you hear yourself?” she rails. “Your ruthless words do not impress in ways you think,”

Fuckface grabs the torch from the wall and brings it to his scars. “You see this?” he demands. “He did this to me. After cutting our father’s throat and then lighting him up like a candle,”

Vita hides what joy whispers behind her lips by dropping her head, but Fuckface misunderstands and wraps a consoling arm around her.

“I’m home now,” he assures his baby sister. “We all miss Father, but I’ve commissioned a bust in his memory for the altar upstairs,”

Revulsion drives her detachment. “You commissioned what?”

“Don’t bother damning the druid,” Fuckface regards Aedan, oblivious to his sister’s anger. “This wily little savage doesn’t speak Latin,”

Vita drops her shoulders and retreats. “I’ll be upstairs,”

“While you’re up there,” he says. “Formulate a reason for why you let our mother die alone,”

She pauses on the stairs.

“That’s right, Vita, she’s dead. Her last words were begging for your forgiveness.”

Fuckface folds his arms, turning his back on Aedan.
“You employed strangers to see after our mother?”

“Are you, lecturing me, about family?” she demands.

Fuckface unfurls as if struck.

“You?” she then yells, finger pointed. “Who ran out on her the moment you got your manly gown?”

“Vita,” he says, her anger turns the mighty Lion into a sniveling cub. “As her daughter, you have a duty,”

“Don’t you come into this house talking down to me like I’m some child,” Vita aims a thumb at herself. “I not only kept this villa in our name at a cost to what little dignity I had left, but I did it while busting my tits to keep this place profitable after Rome excised this entire colony from the Republic,”

Fuckface stammers. “I’m not belittling your accomplishments,”

“Is that so?” she counters, stepping into him. “Changing your tone would be in your best interest,”

Fuckface raises his hands. “Fine,”

“I’m not your employee nor your property,” she cries.

“Vita!” Fuckface’s bellow silences her, and then from him comes a calmer voice. “We will discuss the plantation’s state of affairs at supper, but now, I need to know what Mother did to deserve your neglect?”

“Nothing,” comes her steely reply. “She did nothing, Skipio, and that’s why she died alone,”

Befuddlement is a look Fuckface wears well.

“Supper is prosciutto, grapes, and cheese.” Hem in hands, she stomps up the stairs. “Niko’s made crunchy bread pieces, but you choose your own wine tonight because you’re not getting any of mine,”

Aedan’s eyes carry his amusement.

“Don’t worry about this fire, A-Dawn,” Fuckface says in Greek. “I’ll be back after dark to rekindle it,”

The bastard gleefully jogs up the stairs, leaving a stout man in his wake. A friendly hand rises, wiggling fingers say hello, and his toothy smile, bright like the son, forms dimples in his wide cheeks. Two paces brings the silent chub into Aedan’s territorial bubble, where a hand slips out and offers a round, green-skinned fruit.

Aedan takes a bite when it reaches his lips. Breaking the skin brings crisp white flesh that turns delightfully sour on his tongue. Snatching it, he scarfs it as a gentle hand pats his curls.

And with that, the mute cook scurries away.