VII – The Foraging Trap

Vibrant tunics blanket the knoll, their owners busy chopping the forest. The harsh sun bakes the skin, leaving the Romans and their Gallic recruits slick with sweat.

Muscles aching, the younger men imitate their elders and wrap their foreheads in rags before dusting their hands with more chalk. Each axe swing brings a grunt and the thump of metal on wood, and by midday, their labor silences the rolling ticks of lonely cicadas.

Nearby, camp immunes, who are laborers forbidden to fight, keep things running smoothly. Wearing goatskin gloves to their elbows, they roll trunks over ribbed logs. Gravity carries the trunks to roping stations, where workhorses wait, restlessly pawing the ground, ready to drag the timber to shoreline carpenters.

Skipio laments butchering such beauty.

Nothing matches the comfort of being cradled within hard tree roots. The roots of this valley’s narrow trees never break the surface, but their hidden presence makes him long for the thick oaks of home—ageless giants with massive aerial legs that once sheltered his daily self-pleasures.

Today, he and Planus join the centurions to help the infantrymen cut these woodlands. They coppice young growth for firewood, should the invasion last into winter. Sweat covers every hair, even the short and curly. When the stoppage horn blows, they join the water line. Neither drinks before the others, unlike their equite peers who rest beneath canopies with the tribunes.

Ink-haired Actus wipes his damp face with his tunic hem, showing his chiseled stomach and bubbled navel. “They sip mint water up there while we roast in Vulcan’s pocket.”

“How many pissed in the pot before us?” Skipio sneers. “Yet there our elders are, avoiding real work, scared of splinters.”

Planus plucks a tunic from the grass and wipes the wetness from under his arms. “Given our enemy’s habit of targeting upper ranks, I doubt any of those older man-children will be with us much longer.”

Skipio breaks into a broad grin, while others nearby stifle their laughter, glancing at the officers to avoid being noticed.

“Why do they kill the decorated?” Actus wonders.

Planus speaks sagely. “Gauls haven’t advanced much since the Gods made man. Back when we fought over caves, if an army’s leader fell, his men left the battlefield.”

Skipio takes his turn at the water barrel. “Our enemies are cave dwellers now?”

“I speak of what I see,” says Planus, joining him.

Actus scowls at their observers lazing on the hill. “If any of them are watching,” he mutters, “they’ve got a sizable target today.”

“Oh, they’re watching,” Skipio says, emptying a bowl over his shorn head and relishing the cool sluice behind his ears. “They’re counting every tree we cut, planning to add one of our heads for each.”

“If that’s the case, they must be watching from the clouds.” Planus fills his bowl again, lifts it to his mouth, gulps its contents, and belches. “These birds linger unbothered, shitting on us, singing about it.”

Laughter erupts from the line.

“Speaking of shit and song,” Skipio says, “where’s Titus?”

A sullen Actus replies, “He set sail yesterday.”

“Pity,” Skipio says. “No one knows more about chopping trees than he does.”

Planus closes his eyes to the sun. “Indeed. His family supplies more lumber to Rome than the Mare Nostrum does salt.”

“He gets to return to the continent,” Skipio grouses. “While we bust our asses in Vulcan’s backyard.”

Planus leads them back toward the tree line. “Given his love of sail, I imagine Titus would swiftly sign his life over to Pluto to trade places with us.”

“He’s the only man I’ve ever met who cannot float,” laughs Skipio.

“We all grew up in Comum. Our fathers tossed us into the lake at one point, least expected,” Planus muses. “How has Titus never acclimated?”

Skipio shrugs. “He hates getting his wool wet.”

“Water doesn’t trouble his brothers’ wool.” Planus’s eyes twinkle as he reveals too much. “One of them is a show diver in Paestum. He jumps naked as his birthday before a crowd of wealthy matrons who summer over to get away from their husbands in Rome.”

Though also a friend of Titus and his family, Actus refrains from joining their banter. A mere second in command, he must maintain respect.

“All those amorous old ladies. I’m sure Titus curses his inability to swim after hearing of his brother’s vocational pursuits.” Skipio looks at his old friend. “Does that brother still braid his hair?”

Planus nods. “Thickly roped in proper Nubian fashion by his wife, the genius behind his dive show. Behind every successful man is a woman with the brains of three successful men.”

Actus wonders, “You think we’ll leave when Titus returns with more ships?”

“We’re never leaving,” says Planus. “Not until our leader beats this island’s strongest.”

Skipio catches his friend’s eye and gives a small, warning shake of his head.

Planus ignores it. “This invasion has never been about acquiring resources—”

Actus breaks in, “—of which this island has none.”

“Indeed,” says Planus. “No, we’re here recovering our Imperator’s lost face.”

Skipio passes by him, whispering, “Not in front of the Miles.”

Planus notes how the lowest ranks stand with their heads down, weighing his words. He acquiesces with silence, but the damage is done; a centurion gathers his quieted men and leads them back to their axes.

Soon, the next gang of workers approaches the water barrels, and among them is a shirtless Drusus, hair dripping, muscles taut from labor.

Actus offers, “Water?”

Drusus shakes his head. “Too much in this heat will sour my stomach. I’ll replenish my blood’s salt with today’s fish.” Drusus then shouts over the cutters’ hacking. “A ship landed with dispatches and some food. Planus, your honeyed curds are here.”

“Edesia be praised,” Planus roars. “We shall have libum tonight.”

Skipio grimaces at the notion of ricotta. “Pity my father is out foraging. Libum is his favorite.”

“Our cooks always made libum cakes for the altars.” Drusus stands close enough to speak at a reasonable volume. “If we got caught sneaking some, we got our hands whipped.”

Actus hotly interjects. “I’ll never understand any adult who strikes a child.”

An older soldier passes, axe in hand. “Spoken like a man who’s never had a child.”

Planus jeers, “Go get your water, grandad, and don’t spank any boys along the way!”

Playful caws rise from the line. Even the passing axe man chuckles. As laughter fades and workers disperse, Actus shades his eyes and scans the horizon.

“What’s that?” he asks.

A powdery horse appears on the ridge, its rider slumped over the back, swaying as the animal approaches camp. Drusus runs out to meet it, knowing its Castor, while Skipio gives chase.

The alarm sounds as watchmen spot the mare falter at the trees, burns streaking her hindquarters. Actus reaches them first and takes hold of the mare’s reins as Skipio steadies her by removing the bit between her teeth.

Drusus catches Castor when he falls, his lover’s helmet and mask gone.

“We’re under attack,” Castor rasps, shaking, jaw bruised, nose crimson. “Came out of nowhere. Hit us pulling cabbage.” His hand claws Skipio’s arm. “They’ve got your father. Only his cohort remains.”

Planus stares, eyes wide with dread. “They took out two legions?”

A youthful stable hand arrives, and Actus hands him the reins. “Water her and tend her injuries,” he orders.

Skipio kneels to face his ex-lover.

“What were their numbers?” he asks.

Castor tries to stand. “Vitus sent me as more came from the trees,” he says, then collapses against Drusus.

Actus’s voice drops to a raw whisper: “Mars demands us.”

Skipio’s eyes burn with grim determination.

“Then he’ll have us.”

---

Smoke shrouds the valley where riderless horses seek any place that won’t get them killed.

Roman corpses form a gruesome fence, encircling Vitus and his men. These bodies serve as a barrier, keeping the woven mass of painted assailants from overrunning them as enemy chariots close in, their wheels grazing the deathly perimeter. Fiery gourds splatter flames onto the defenders, ushering in the stink of scorched hair.

The mastermind is a gaunt druid with chalky bones etched upon his brown painted skin. His woodland owl mask, crowned with burning smokeless wicker, hides his upper face but not his fearsome grin. Suddenly, this living avatar of Dis Pater jumps to another chariot and jabs a long, accusatory finger at something beyond the battlefield.

Through the smoke comes Skipio, leading his red and silver horsemen into the blue-painted mob. His new steed, a sleek black demon, charges forward, swinging its massive head to knock aside a thick-bellied Briton and bringing down a hoof with crushing force, cracking the man’s ribs. Kicking with its hind legs and spinning on its forelegs, the ill-tempered beast clears a circle, while Skipio’s blade cuts down anyone foolish enough to enter their orbit.

Roman horses trample the native axe men while Skipio signals for their riders to form a proper skirmish line for the incoming infantry. Freed from the deadly crush, Vitus and his men scramble over the corpse barrier and seize their fallen shields. At his command, they flood the ranks and clash with painted foes, fierce and unyielding.

Drusus, his wounded lover Castor sharing his saddle, orders his lancers on horseback to encircle the melee and toss their spears into the enemy’s formation. From the south, Actus and his Gallic cavalry arrive, beginning a deadly game of run-off with the natives’ chariots. On the hill, archers dismount and let their arrows fly, cutting down any native fleeing the swarm.

Fatigue overtakes the first Roman horse. In such battles, when one beast falls, others soon follow. As the conflict intensifies, a spear strikes Skipio’s steed, forcing his dismount. He lands beside the fallen animal, then scrambles atop its body to prepare for the approaching woad-covered swarm. Both swords in action, he severs arms, splits necks, and disembowels until pungent guts paint his skin and armor.

Then, something lashes Skipio’s helmet.

The owl-masked druid, tartan whipping, spindly legs exposed, leaps from Roman shoulder to shoulder—head aflame—slicing chin straps, yanking helmets, and cutting throats with deadly grace.

Skipio keeps time with the fiend, who darts through the Roman ranks with the deadly precision of a bee pollinating a ghastly field. Roman men fall, their throats spraying blood as their knees buckle.

Then, the wiry bastard lands upon Terentius Drusus Valerian.

Time slows, and the sound of battle fades.

The agile druid leaps into the air, body straight as a spear. He flips head over heels toward Drusus, grabs Drusus’s helmet—adorned with the emblem of the Tenth Legion—and yanks the silver cap free. Landing with his feet on Drusus’s shoulders, the druid—ghastly and swift—draws his sickle across Drusus’s neck and then jumps away. Blood pours as the druid departs, leaving Drusus to collapse.

It is a flawless kill that pierces Skipio’s soul.

Castor’s wail snaps Skipio out of his trance, as if breaking Medusa’s gaze.

Skipio turns and sees Castor atop his lover, trying to stop the bleeding with a mud-slick hand. When Castor realizes Drusus cannot be saved, rage overtakes him. Tears streak his face as he grabs a lance. He elbows past his comrades, fixes his sights on the druid, and hurls the lance with all his grief and desperation.

The spear misses, but its force brings the druid down from the air.

Castor grabs a fallen gladius and faces the wiry native. They circle in silence: one calculating how to kill and move on, the other seeing his enemy’s head on a spike. Wrath speeds Castor’s sword. The druid leaps, taps Castor’s blade with his toe, then somersaults over him.

The agile druid slices Castor’s chin strap and backflips, ripping away his helmet to reveal his dark hair. Castor spins and lunges as the druid lands, but the druid is fleeter, springing back to evade low cuts and ducking high ones. Disdainful, the druid drops to all fours, sweeps Castor off his feet with a painted leg. Rising, he hurls his sickle aside and snatches an ax from a dead comrade.

Skipio arrives just as the druid leaps through the air, both arms cocked back with an axe ready to strike Castor. At the last instant, Skipio grabs the descending druid’s ankle, yanking him away and violently slamming him into the mud. The druid’s mask rolls away, revealing a painted skull with stark pupils. Skipio stabs his spatha down for the kill, but the fast druid rolls free.

The gangling druid’s foot lashes out, striking one of Skipio’s sword-bearing arms, sending his weapon into the throng of battling bodies. The long-limbed druid rolls backward and springs up to stand. He pauses, catching his reflection in Skipio’s metal mask. As Skipio lifts it, the druid’s eyes widen in sudden recognition.

“It’s you,” comes a steely voice.

“I don’t speak your shit language,” says Skipio.

The druid’s head tilts, an ornery grin stretching beneath his round nose. Small nipples peak under their painted sheen as long fingers drag aside the tartan skirt.

Skipio keeps his eyes on the man’s painted face until Venus whispers in his ear. His gaze drops in time to catch the druid’s painted toes as they collide with his chin. Teeth come together with a crack, filling his jaw with a pleasant agony. The druid appears shocked that his grinning opponent still stands; taken aback further by Skipio’s outburst of laughter.

“Take him,” Castor screams into their moment. “He killed Drusus!”

A centurion comes alongside them, his spatha swinging. The alert druid leaps into the air and executes a nimble flip. He lands upon the centurion’s shoulders, slicing the chin strap and yanking free his metal cap. The painted druid drops down, ensnaring the centurion’s head between his narrow thighs. Before the Roman can strike, the druid twists his lower body and snaps the centurion’s neck.

It is another magnificent kill that thrills Skipio, until Minerva steels him. He gives chase as the druid sprints from the battlefield. Heart racing, he snatches a fallen spear and pursues the deadly minx, watching in giddy excitement as the druid speedily puts distance between them.

Skipio takes aim at the man’s flapping tartan skirt and hurls the lance. It soars high, then drops precisely where he intended, nailing the tartan to the ground.

Caught, the druid gets jerked back and lands hard onto his narrow ass. Frantic, the murderous native yanks at his snagged skirt, his dark eyes measuring Skipio’s advance. Unable to free himself, he lets out a whistle.

Suddenly, a familiar horse gallops past Skipio.

“Luna,” he cries.

The white mare stops mid-trot. Her mane unbraided and her back caked with dirt, she lowers her muzzle and advances, slow and deliberate—her tactic when caught prowling the orchard for low-hanging fruit, as if moving so gently renders her invisible.

“Looir,” yells the druid, free of the trapped tartan and naked for his trouble.

Skipio tears his eyes from the druid’s ample manhood.

“Luna,” he shouts anew as the mare trots toward the druid.

The white horse stands, her head pivoting between them.

“Looir!” The druid then screams to her in Greek, “Time to drink!”

Luna charges, her hooves kicking up mud behind her. She races past the druid, who, with a swift motion, catches her around the neck. His lithe body swings over her, landing belly-first onto her back.

Skipio pursues, arms and legs pumping. As he gains ground, he focuses on Luna’s stringy mane, its lower portion wedged within the crack of that hung cretin’s tight little ass.

The painted druid goads him onward by curling his hand into a hollow ring, then pressing it to his open mouth. When the druid thrusts his tongue out crudely and shimmies his wrist, Skipio slows with a smile; it’s not the druid’s whorish antics that amuse him, but the inevitable disaster awaiting the druid as Luna races for the tree line.

Abruptly, the mare stops, jarring the druid, who turns to protest and finds a low-hanging branch inches from his face. Saved by her quick reflexes, the druid lies flat, and as Luna moves on, he thanks her with a kiss to the rump.

Skipio watches them enter the trees.

“Luna,” he pouts.