Skipio leads his scouts ahead of the legions until the roar of wind-swept trees overcomes the drum of infantry boots. Night marches are perilous without a torch or stars. It is lonely work, and anxiety consumes the hours. No one speaks, not even to their horse.

A reedy marsh confronts their small procession, its insects and amphibians cavorting so wildly that they drown out the men’s thundering hearts. Somewhere within the swaying bobtails lies water, yet entering foreign wetlands invites death.

Actus rides off to measure its length, and after several moments, the wind dies, allowing a strange smell to surround them. Skipio signals with a raised fist for his men to pull down the metal masks tucked within the crowns of their helmets.

Distant clopping draws near and reveals Actus. Out of breath upon his arrival, he notices their masks and quickly lowers his before shaking his head; the marsh runs too long to march around.

Skipio and Actus dismount, as do three others, their horses left in the care of the scouting group’s youngest, a Gallic youth not yet twenty.

All five create a line with a liberal distance between them, and together, they enter the reeds. The deafening toad song stops when their swords begin hacking, and a snake darts past Skipio’s boot, sending a jolt of fear through him.

A quick glance behind him reveals the narrow path he’s cut, along with Luna, whose anxious fidgeting tells him they’re not alone.

“River sign,” yells a man, his burning arrow climbing into the darkness and presenting his location.

“Praise Occasio,” Skipio mumbles. “If I take another step in this muck, I’ll open a vein.”

Chuckles resound from his unseen comrades.

Then, without warning, balls of flame rain down from the black.

Birds take to the wing in a chaotic departure that blinds him. One of his men appears alongside another young Gaul from the continent. Before he can speak, an arrow strikes, its steaming metal tip wet with blood as it juts out the other side of his neck.

Skipio raises his shield, protecting his head as he retreats through the chaos. Horses cry, their agitation a beacon that leads him out of the reeds. Several perilous moments later, he finds the youth left behind with the horses. Headless, armless, and without legs, his leaking torso stands like a starter log atop a gruesome nest of amputated kindling.

From the dark comes a warrior, her naked body painted blue from nose to tits. She wields a flaming club as if born to it, striking one of his men dead with one blow. Skipio sidesteps her blazing strike and with a sword thrust, cuts into her under the shoulder, cleaving a bone.

Another enemy appears without the courtesy of howling and jabs the fiery tip of her spear at his mask. Its glossy metal takes the heat, warming his nose yet burning his eyes. The scorching flame retreats once his blade finds purchase with her neck.

More come, some in pairs, and all fall, covering Skipio with their blood. One of his men crawls over the grass, his legs missing below the knees. Two blue-shaded women leap upon him, their short blades jabbing with maniacal ferocity.

Amidst the chaos, Scipio is suddenly struck by the sound of hooves. He turns to see the horses charging towards him, their reins in the hands of Dis Pater, the God of Death. His head ablaze, Death stands upon Luna’s back as if she were his chariot.

Skipio, unafraid, strides into their path and finds no God, only a druid with captivating eyes that regard him from behind the holes of a wooden owl mask. The druid steers the horses around him, firelight exposing the white bones drawn on his coal skin.

Actus emerges from the reeds with two blue skins on his heels. Only he and Skipio remain as Brittonic mavens surround them. They stand with their backs together and fight the deadly swarm on all fronts.

Metal clangs against metal until it becomes a dull ring in Skipio’s ears. Blades swing an eternity before the legion horn sounds off from the trees. The first column appears, their frontmen breaking ranks with swords in hand. Vitus storms in after them, dismounting with spatha drawn as Gaius Trebonius sends his footmen to follow.

An attack line forms across the burning reeds when throngs of paint-heavy men cut through the smoke. Romans caught in the melee pair off in a backs-together stance as the nearby legion forms a wide column. Spears out and shields up, they advance on the fight, carefully allowing their free-standing brothers a chance to get clear.

Unable to push back the Roman line, the natives retreat into the marsh, protected by fiery arrows that rain down and bar their enemy’s pursuit.

Pre-dawn’s light reveals a river beyond the smoke, and the enemy gathers on higher ground on the opposite banks. They hurl rocks and javelins amidst a new wave of flaming arrows.

Skipio lends his round shield to the infantry’s four-sided buffers and joins their blind march toward the embankment. Arrows pelt their surface, their fiery tips poking through and scorching the leather arm straps. Water treads his knees as they advance under the safety of the shields.

A familiar horn rings out—Mars be praised, it is Titus and his archers. Skipio and the infantry crouch low and brace themselves. Within a breath, Roman arrows whip overhead like low-flying osprey, sending the first dead Britons down onto their shields.

Another onslaught of bolts sails over them, bringing more falling corpses that drive Skipio into the mud. Sunlight floods the horizon as the number of native arrows lessens. Unable to take any more weight, Skipio sheds his burning shield. Eyes shut and lips together tight, he drives his head into the water, cooling the metal mask before it burns his face.

Planus and his engineers splash into the shallows, rafts of hastily tied-together tree branches on their shoulders. They drop the panels atop the smoking reeds, covering the tangle of discarded shields and burning corpses. Quickly, the footmen advance, with Actus tossing Skipio another sword so he can protect their position with lethal double-handed skill.

Before long, the momentum shifts.

Roman soldiers pile onto the grassy ridge, buckling the sandy crag beneath it. They swarm over the enemy’s shallow barrier and spill into the trench with grunts, growls, and gnashing teeth. No man employs a shield in the deep narrow, where only murder and malice rule.

The foul reek of split entrails conquers the coppery stink of loose blood. Sword song dies as a rainless gale clears the smoke and dampens death’s rancid perfume. A distant horn calls for retreat, and it is not Roman.

Behind the morning sun looms an angry blue sky—a storm whose mightiest moments rock the coast. Blood coats Skipio’s mask, and entrails blot his sword, but he thinks only of Luna.

Long after their enemy vanishes into the trees, Skipio walks a stretch of grassland where horses await Consus to take their ghostly reigns. Cavalrymen wander in a daze, some beside their fallen equines and sobbing as a father might for his dead child.

Unable to locate her, Skipio thanks Neptune for sparing Luna.

A paternal hand finds the back of his neck as Vitus appears, his bald head slick with sweat and shirt stained with blood.

“Is she here?” he asks.

Skipio’s lips turn down as he fights the tears. “I do not see her,”

“Minerva watches over her,” says his father. “As she does you,”

“Vitus,” comes the winded voice of their commander-in-chief, his fine blond hair retreating like his father’s; well into his forties, the illustrious Caesar remains as fit as a man half his years.

Skipio and his father come to attention, but the exhausted general waves off such formalities.

“We’ve got a problem, friend,” says Caesar.

Skipio pivots his attention between them. “We are victorious this day,”

“Yes,” Caesar nods, catching his breath. “And we’ll camp here because of that,”

“We should pursue,” Skipio urges. “Their chariots fled into those woods,”

Caesar’s head swings. “Woods, we do not know,”

“Father mapped this land last year,” says Skipio.

“Yes, and that’s our problem,” Caesar grins at Vitus. “Your cart is razed,”

“My maps?” asks Vitus.

“All taken,” says Caesar. “Along with your private letters,”

Vitus pushes out a sigh. “How in Juno’s tits did that happen?”

“According to your clerk,” says Caesar. “Dis Pater ransacked the cart before burning it to ashes.”

“He’s no Lord of Death,” Skipio frowns. “He’s a man,”

“Another painted Gaul?” asks Caesar.

“He took Luna and our horses,” Skipio tells them. “He wears a burning wicker crown above an owl’s face,”

Caesar and Vitus exchange soulful looks.

“How did he know where the maps were stored?” Skipio asks.

“Because he’s clever enough to know a camp slave from a free man,” Vitus spits in frustration. “Greek is the language of the world, my boy.”

“Someone marked our carts in Greek,” Caesar nods. “And that owl took every last scroll before burning four carts of grain,”

“Wiley fucker,” Skipio storms away from them. “He’s also got Luna,”

Neither man calls after him, knowing best when to let a stormy heart settle.

Downriver, weary men wash the blood from their bodies as servants of the wealthiest scrub their masters’ armor and tunics. Across the water, Skipio finds his friends pitching tents for their superiors.

Castor studies the angry blue sky. “This storm’s from the sea,”

“If it’s damaged any ships,” says Planus. “We’ll be forced to return.”

“We must keep going,” says Skipio.

Castor turns, “I’ll ask your father if I can scout,”

“They’re not far from here,” Skipio takes the tent from him and points at the woods. “Chariots fled through those trees, so there’s an escape path,”

“How now.” Planus tosses tent spikes at him. “Castor is your father’s footman,”

“I give the order,” he asserts.

“Speak with Lord Vitus first,” Planus warns as Castor makes to depart.

“My father is blind for now,” says Skipio, planting the spikes. “That death-painted druid took his maps,”

Planus throws the tent clothes down in anger.
“The same owl-masked bastard that burned our grain?”

Skipio picks the canvas up and shakes the folds from it. “He also took Luna.”

“They revere horses,” Planus says softly.

“Thank Neptune for that,” Castor mumbles.

“Epona is her name,” says Planus. “She watches over the horses, from battle to farm,”

“They’ve far more goddesses than we do,” Skipio says.

“Yes,” Planus stares into the woods. “Perhaps that’s why their women are so damned fierce,”

A mass of flocking geese blackens the sky as shouts draw attention to an approaching horseman—Terentius Drusus Valerian, there by order of his superior Titus.

The trio arrives as Drusus addresses the gathering of legates. After glancing affectionately at Castor, the young man informs Caesar that the storm tore through a sizable portion of the offshore fleet.

“That’s it then,” says Caesar. “We return to the beach,”

The gathering legates agree, including Vitus.

“Imperator, they’re not far from here,” Skipio steps in and addresses Caesar. “Let me lead a contingent—”

“—And if you find them?” asks Gaius Trebonius, another of his father’s contemporaries whose hairline retreats like the tides.

“When we find them, Legatus,” Skipio looks him in the eye. “We’ll burn their camp to ashes,”

“In the pouring rain?” Vitus asks, hand to the darkening sky. Thunder rumbles with a flash of light as if Jove repeats his question.

“Please,” Skipio begs Caesar. “If we find nothing by sundown, we’ll rejoin the march back,”

“What say you, optio?” Caesar asks his cousin’s youngest.

Planus folds his arms before answering.

“I see no harm in it,” he eyes Skipio. “But no horses,”

Skipio stares at him as if betrayed.

“Fifty swords,” Planus raises a finger. “And yes, I’ll join you.”

A smile spreads across Skipio’s face.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Caesar decrees. “Even if our Skipio catches them unawares, I cannot afford to lose such a talented tongue in a skirmish with the defeated.”

Planus uncrosses his arms and pouts.

“Let me lead the contingent,” Skipio begs. “I’m expendable,”

Vitus goes wide-eyed. “What in Mars’s balls gives you that notion?”

Caesar regards Skipio with interest after he proves to be the only man among them who doesn’t jump when thunder booms strong enough to shake the ground beneath them.

“Please, Imperator,” he asks again, the blood on his skin drying in the wind. “Let’s weaken their position now so we can repair our fleet in peace,”

Caesar eyes his old friend Vitus before announcing his decision.