Longhouses cover the white expanse while half-built ships stretch for miles along the shoreline. The majestic forest is gone, its slenderest remains fueling barracks stoves, its thickest trunks now backbones for Caesar’s flat-bottom boats.

Roman victory kills more than those on the battlefield.

Like locusts, the legions consume everything. They slaughter livestock and leave those natives unfit for enslavement to starve. One of them, Decurion Servius, marches through the snow, his furry boots crunching in the pre-dawn twilight. He quickens his pace as the frigid air, a relentless adversary, lashes at him beneath his wool tunic and pants.

His only ally against the elements is a full beard. Irksome throughout autumn, it now shields his face from the bitter cold. One ally he could do without is the golden coils atop his head. They keep the ears warm, which is why he hasn’t had them shorn.

Skipio kicks snow from his leather boots at his barracks door, its thump echoing in the ghostly stillness. The air is so cold that it seems to freeze the sound, leaving only the echo of his actions in the silence.

Luna, his gallant white mare, emits a soft whinny from the adjacent stables. Her name comes from the gray quarter-moon patch between her eyes, which his mother says makes her a sacred gift to the huntress Diana from her uncle, Neptune. A ripe mix of hay and horse takes him back to the day he left for schooling in Mediolanum as a young man. The ivory beast had raced alongside the carriage until the Servian plantation’s outermost wall halted her way.

Skipio steps inside and savors the weak warmth. The heavy scent of incense masks the stench of a long-eaten rabbit and his bunkmates’ tolerable body odor. The cramped space contains three cots, the middle dominated by a lump of layers that conceal his old friend, Planus. His third roommate, Titus, huddles over a concrete fire bowl, his nappy beard collecting bits of light.

“Servius Tribune departed camp before dawn, seeking another forest,” he speaks of his father while shedding his fur cloak.

“Haven’t we enough ships?” asks Titus.

“Five legions, thousands of cavalrymen,” Skipio joins him in the heated space, “we can’t get there on a few biremes,”

“His preferred mode of travel,” teases the blanketed voice.

Titus frowns at the lump on the cot.
“I don’t like penning my horse below a deck,”

“She’s a better swimmer than you,” cracks Skipio.

Layers tumble as Planus sits up and reveals himself.

“At least these ships have flattened bellies,” he says, hairs blackening his jawline.

“Let’s pray Fortuna provides us a beach upon which to land,” Titus says, his hands together and eyes rising. He shivers before shifting his attention to Skipio. “How much snow fell overnight?”

“No more than yesterday,” he replies, pulling off his boots. “The shipbuilders have already brushed most of it from their planks,”

Titus wonders, “You think Labenius will let the builders stay?”

“Ha! The same man who drove us to slaughter migrating innocents?” Planus tuts. “He’ll work those craftsmen to death and then put them on the first boats out,”

Titus and Skipio, their eyes meeting, share a silent understanding. No man is more suitable for senatorial service than Gaius Planus Caesar, whose prowess on the battlefield pales to his social conscience.

The flaming wood crackles, daring Skipio, who touches the fire bowl’s searing rim and recoils with a smirk.

“You know it’s hot enough to burn,” Titus scolds.

“Yes,” Planus says. “That’s why he touches it,”

Titus asks, “What’s the word on that well-dressed Gaul from Britannia?”

“Mandubracius is his name,” says Planus.

“He claims he’s royal,” Skipio adds.

Planus hums. “All I know is that he brought Kombius back,”

“Your thirst for lemon-haired Gauls is quenchless,” laughs Titus.

Skipio keeps testing his mettle against the bowl’s heat, the dull ache in his fingertips exciting his senses. “They took him hostage and released him on the last ides. Our tribal prince returned with him, and with a layout of the river,”

Titus watches Skipio gingerly tap the scalding trim.
“I wouldn’t trust a traitor,”

“He betrays no one in his mind, as his people serve a new king.” Planus stretches. “His royal rudeness is why we’re working through winter,”

Bulky and bearded, the gravelly-voiced Gaul sleeps in a grand tent near Caesar’s cabin. He bathes nightly in hot waters given to him by the locals and, after filling his belly with wine, tells anyone willing to listen of his desire to reclaim his position—his primary motivation for aiding Rome in their quest to take his island.

Planus, a generational relative of Caesar, often dines with the upper ranks. He finds the new Briton surprisingly uncouth, considering his alleged proclamation as ‘King of the Trinovantes.’

“He was appalled when the goose arrived at the table.”

“You dined on goose?” Titus sulks.

Skipio, glowering, fills his cup with lavender tea.
“We ate rabbit, again,”

“Oh, imagine our Prince’s horror if we served him a rabbit,” Planus chuckles. “His tier of islander does not eat rabbit, goose, or chicken,”

Titus knits his brow.
“How does one regard such a tasty bird as unappetizing?”

“It’s not about taste. To the Gauls, all fowl are sacred.” Skipio spits a mouthful of tea onto the coals and holds his face over the steam. “Still, they’ve no issue raising them to kill each other for sport,”

“You’re telling me chick and hare populations run unchecked in Britannia?” Titus huffs a laugh. “It’ll be a paradise for the camp trappers.”

“No, I suspect only royalty and the religious abstain,” Planus clarifies. “Common people get hungry, and hungry people eat what’s common.”

“Speaking of hunger,” Titus hugs himself against the chill and regards Skipio. “How goes our Castor?”

“Castor’s got a new lover,” Skipio tells them. “I’m happy for him.”

Titus and Planus join their stares before sharing a hearty laugh.

“I am happy for him,” he reiterates, staring them down.

Planus scoots to the end of his bed, pulling the covers to his chin.
“You don’t miss catching him unawares?”

“I’ve no use for a man that fears my desires,” says Skipio.

“Perhaps women are more inclined to your brutal lusts,” Titus wonders.

Skipio’s grimace makes both men crow.

“When did you start hating women?” Titus laughs.

“He doesn’t hate women.” Planus explains. “He just doesn’t like their splits and breasts,”

“Big tits are wonderful,” Titus sermonizes. “I’d think you like punching them.”

“Teats are tasty,” Skipio admits, “so long as they’re not attached flabby bags,”

“How now,” Planus wags a finger. “That’s no way to speak of the esteemed Pompey’s ample chest,”

Titus and Skipio bare their teeth in joy while Planus scratches his bedhead into something manageable.

“I warned that boy,” Titus confesses after a beat. “Castor was wise enough to earn a seat before our instructors yet stupid enough to ignore our words about you,”

“You spoke ill of me?” Skipio mopes.

“We’ve all spoken ill of your violent pursuits,” says Planus.

Titus simpers, “I bet he thought he could change our Skipio,”

“Change him, indeed,” Planus giggles like a child. “As if Skipio’s shat his pants,”

Even Skipio finds humor in this notion.

“The first time Castor showed up at muster, crying,” Titus recalls. “I knew his time with you wouldn’t last,”

“I’m an acquired taste,”

“Indeed,” says Planus. “A rare few develop a taste for a punch in the face,”

Titus yawns. “Does your father know?”

“I do not discuss my carnal habits with Vitus,”

“My father took me to my first brothel,” Titus says.

“Yes,” Skipio pinches his nose bridge. “We’ve heard this story many times.”

Planus sighs, “My father died before my virginity did,”

“Yes,” Skipio drones. “I’ve heard that fact just as many times,”

“My taste for women must bore you two.” Titus’s eyes volley between them. “Forgive me for not regaling you with tales of being balls-deep in a clean-shaven boy half my years,”

“How now,” Planus quips. “You should seek forgiveness for regaling us with tales of being balls-deep in a clean-shaven woman double your years,”

Skipio begins laughing.
“Her husband wanted your wooly head on a stick,”

“He chased him an entire eight blocks,” Planus snorts.

“She claimed he worked nights.” Titus defends. “I didn’t know he worked those nights on the street outside her door,”

“I’m shocked an arrest warrant wasn’t issued,” Planus teases.

“Speaking of warrants.” Titus pulls a blanket from Planus’s pile and drapes it around his face. “How is it our Skipio has never been arrested?”

“Not for the Servian name,” Planus reveals. “Vitus would let you rot in the cells for what he doesn’t know,”

“He knows well enough.” Skipio boasts. “As for whores, I’m very clear about my intentions before throwing my hands,”

“Do you draw up a contract?” Planus taunts, but Skipio’s cat-that-ate-the-songbird expression dulls his old friend’s cheer. “Do you draw up a contract?”

Titus goes wide-eyed. “Written on a scroll?”

“Verbal.” Skipio strips naked but for his socks and pulls back the furs on his bed, revealing a fat girl no more than twelve in a heavy tunica. “I tell them what I give, and they tell me what they’ll take.” His jerking thumb orders her out.

“How long has she been here?” demands Titus.

“You?” Planus accuses. “Honoring a catamite’s boundaries?”

“She’s been here since muster.” Skipio pulls a leather sack of dried meat and roasted nuts from the trunk beside his cot and hands it to the girl. “She warms my toilet seat and then my bed. As for my whores, I negotiate.”

The braided girl rushes to the door, jerky hanging from her mouth.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Titus asks as she departs.

“Because it’s wrong,” Planus chides. “It’s bad enough we’re conscripting her brothers and working her sisters in the shipyard.” His attention returns to Skipio. “Negotiate? You mean, wear them down until you get what you want?”

“Male whores cannot be worn down.” Skipio slips into his bed and relishes the warmth left behind by the child. “Novices like Castor, though, let you get away with enough to keep it exciting,”

Titus looks at Planus. “Why is he like this?”

“How now,” Planus teases. “Kicking the shit out of a man before you rut him takes work,”

Skipio’s eyes grow heavy.
“I’ve yet to find a man with enough fight in him to satisfy me,”

“Most men hear the story of Pluto and Proserpina and learn what not to do.” Planus lays down, pulling the covers over his head. “Skipio hears the same story and uses it as a guide,”

“Novices are fun at first,” Skipio mumbles, “but soon become tiring.”

Planus says, “You mean, they soon tire of you?”

“No one tires of me,” Skipio boasts, closing his eyes.

Titus wonders, “How do you not tire of yourself?”

Spring unfurls with warmer days, yet the nights persist in their chilly embrace. The absence of trees amplifies the pollen, creating a vibrant, almost violent, burst of blooms that paint the landscape a riot of colors, obscuring the grasslands and filling the air with a heady scent.

In this season of transformation, as Proserpina reunites with her mother Ceres, cooks diligently prepare rations, craftsmen tirelessly forge armor plates, and legionnaires, their beards shorn and hair cropped, engage in spirited drills as Sol traverses the rainy skies.

The days grow long by mid-summer, enabling Skipio and Planus to lead their turmae horses to greener pastures. Captives and workhorses drag completed ships to shore while an influx of Gaul youths, choosing service over labor, swells the cavalry ranks.

Titus, engrossed in training a new batch of archers, tragically loses his second. A man of remarkable skill, he loses his legs after a snake startles his horse, causing the creature to stumble and crush him. The camp is abuzz with the news, and the air is heavy with anticipation as everyone wonders who will fill the vacant position.

The answer comes in the form of Terentius Drusus Valerian, [REMOVED FOR TAPAS LIMIT]

Summer’s final month finds them sailing for Britannia.

Rome’s flotilla contains eight hundred ships, some captained by profiteers and slavers. Titus sails seven days out with the merchants and traders, leaving Drusus to lead his turma on the crossing. Skipio joins his men to Planus’s and the archers, leading them onto the same ship with hundreds of others.

It’s close quarters, and before long, he happens upon his former lover and Drusus, their fingers threaded and foreheads touching. Such tenderness turns his stomach. It’s not jealousy—he simply cannot give and accept affection like most men.

There’s nothing wrong with him.

Not everyone lusts delicately.

Someday, he’ll find a man capable of desiring his brutality.

They depart Portus Itius among the first ships, and Skipio, a horseman before arriving in Hispania, is nose blind to their shit. Still, he praises the engineers for designing troughs along the hold’s center seam; below it, the lowest ranks shove flat iron brooms from berth to the forward, pushing dung out openings in the aft.

An attentive decurio, Skipio gets no rest on the six-hour journey. His young Gallic charges quell their nervous energy by brushing the tension from their horses. The elders among them say little, their brows bent with disastrous memories of the first Britannia landing. Planus performs the same rounds on his footmen and Drusus, his archers, before convening with Skipio.

“You think they’ll be waiting for us?” asks Drusus.

“The tribes greeted Caesar on his last landing.” Skipio eyes Planus impishly. “Hundreds of thousands, all ready to chop our horse’s legs for stew and take a Roman head to decorate their chariots.”

Drusus pulls an anxious face.

“Don’t tell the boy such things,” Planus scolds, then cuffs Drusus about the neck. “The beheadings are true, dear boy, but a Gaul, no matter where his birth, would sooner eat a man than a horse,”

Laughter rips through Skipio’s youthful squad.

“Repelling a legion is hungry work,” Planus needles further. “And we Romans are rather tasty,”

More laughter comes as Drusus shakes his head.
“Castor warned me about you two,”

“Fear is normal,” says Planus. “But they’re not monsters, Drusus, they’re men,”

“If the druids we faced are any indication,” Drusus says, “they’re also master strategists,”

“Not every islander is a druid,” Skipio says.

“Indeed,” adds Planus. “And not every druid is a man,”

“Will there be more women on the battlefield,” asks Drusus.

“They’ve something to fight for,” says Skipio, nodding. “Just like their sons,”

Drusus fingers his horse’s mane.
“I want a chariot from Britannia,”

“Minus the painted warrior driving it?” asks Planus.

Drusus leans onto his horse. “I had a dream that I swam from the continent, but I didn’t drown until I came ashore,”

Skipio and Planus exchange soulful looks.

“We’ll be touching sand soon,” says Skipio, “So hold your breath,”

Drusus follows him to a port-side piss hole, and through it, a landmass looms within a veil of hot sea mist on the horizon.

“How does it look?” Planus yells at them.

“Fuckable,” says Skipio.

Laughter cuts through the hold, but Drusus doesn’t smile.