The storm takes many ships.
Caesar’s legions rebuild them under gray skies and warm, heavy air. Skipio and Planus join the lessor ranks in butchering the woodlands, coppicing where they can to ensure timber serves future colonists.
No sun shines today, but the sticky heat soaks every hair blade, even the short and curlies. Tunics lay neatly on the grass as off-duty soldiers roll cut trunks over a ribbed assembly of smaller logs. At the roping station, workhorses drag coupled bundles to the building yards near shore.
Trees in this land stand narrow, and Skipio misses the alpine forests of home, where massive ground roots provide a throne for one-handed pleasures. He stands in line with Planus at the water station, and neither man drinks before anyone else. They all work equally hard and thus rest in the same, while other decurio watch from afar, their canopies providing shade for their delicate skin.
“Most of those bastards learned to piss in the pot just a few years before us,” Skipio complains. “Yet they sit up there, afraid they’ll get a splinter,”
“Given our enemy’s habit of targeting the upper ranks,” says Planus. “I doubt any of them will be with us much longer.”
“Why do they do that?” raven-haired Actus wipes his face with the hem of his shirt, revealing a chiseled stomach and protruding navel. “Trophy count?”
“Gauls haven’t advanced much since the gods made man,” Planus speaks with scholarly skill. “Back when we fought over caves if an army’s leader fell, his men left the battlefield with his body.”
Skipio takes his turn at the water barrel.
“Our enemies are cavemen now?”
“I speak of what I see,” Planus shrugs. “These Celtii think that killing a superior will lead our battalions to depart.”
Skipio grabs the wooden bowl floating inside. “I think they’re watching us,” he says, bringing the bowl to his lips. “They’re counting every tree we cut with plans to add one our heads for each.” He tips another bowl over his shorn head and relishes the cool sluice behind his ears.
“They must be watching from far, far off.” Planus fills his bowl, gulps its contents, then belches before handing it off to Actus. “Because the birds linger undaunted, shitting on us and singing about it,”
Laughter erupts from the men in line.
“Speaking of shit and song,” adds Planus. “Where’s Titus?”
No one knows more about the excising of timber than Crassus Titus Flavius, whose father supplies more lumber than the Mare Nostrum does salt.
“He set sail yesterday,” Skipio tells him.
“Titus returns to the continent,” Actus follows the pair down the hill. “While we bust our asses in Vulcan’s backyard,”
“Given his love of sail,” Planus reminds. “I imagine Titus signing his life over to Pluto as we speak, just for the chance of trading places with us,”
Skipio huffs a laugh. “Indeed,”
“Our Titus is the only man I’ve ever met that cannot float,” Planus declares. “We all grew up in Comum. Our fathers tossed us into the infernal lake at one point, least expected. How has he never acclimated?”
“He doesn’t like his wool getting wet,” Skipio jests.
“That,” Planus laughs. “And always having a log to float upon,”
Actus remains silent; though he is also friends with Titus, he’s a mere second in command and must maintain respect.
“You think we’ll leave when he returns with more ships?” he asks instead.
“Oh no,” Planus speaks quietly. “Our leader will not leave until he defeats the most powerful man here. This invasion was never about acquiring resources—”
“—For which this shitty island has none,” Skipio interjects.
“Indeed,” Planus concurs. “This campaign is about recovering his lost face.”
A shirtless Drusus approaches, his skin slick and his hair dripping.
Actus offers to bring him water, but the young man claims that too much liquid sours his stomach; he will replenish his blood’s salt with the day’s fish.
“A ship returned with dispatches and some food,” Drusus speaks loudly over the tree cutters’ rhythmic hacking. “Planus, your honeyed curds arrived.”
Planus rouses, “We shall have libum tonight,”
Skipio scowls at the notion of ricotta, or any cheese one can spread.
“Back home, our cooks always made libum cake for the altars,” says Drusus. “If we got caught sneaking a piece, we got our hands whipped,”
“I’ll never understand any adult that strikes a child,” Actus says.
One of the older soldiers pauses, axe in
his hand.
“Spoken like a man that’s never had a child,”
“Go get your water, grandad,” Planus orders in good nature. “And don’t spank any boys on the way.”
Laughter comes from everyone within earshot, even the passing axeman.
“Who is that?” Actus asks, hand over his eyes.
On the horizon, a horseman comes into view.
“Castor,” whispers Drusus, sprinting out to meet him.
Skipio, Planus, and Actus dash after him.
A horn sings his arrival, and all work stops as Castor comes without his helmet or lance. His horse, wounded on her shoulder, rears when Actus grabs her reigns. Seeing the burns on her hindquarters, Skipio takes her by the bit to calm her.
“We’re under attack,” Castor cries, his temple dripping blood. “Foraging north, they came out of the woods,”
“Grab him a fresh horse,” Planus shouts, then hands the wounded mare to a stable hand. “Take her to water and tend her injury,”
Castor falls into Drusus’s arms but reaches for Skipio.
“They surrounded your father,” he says. “His legion is all that remains,”
“They took out three legions?” Actus asks.
“Vitus sent me off when more emerged from the trees,” Castor explains. “The farm we found had to be a trap.”
Skipio and Planus rush back to camp and hastily pull on their uniforms. Weapons ready, they muster their turmae and horses without a word from their legate. Caesar appears with Falax Antonius Fabius, his choice as Praefectus Cohortis for this mission; it is a good choice, for the elder is a shrewd tactician and unafraid of a melee.
They salute Antonius and join the other field commanders in a huddle, with Drusus standing in for Titus. Only the equites auxilia will ride this mission; the infantry will remain.
Skipio and his swordsmen will enter from the east, and Drusus will drive lancers into the Gaul’s war party, scattering their formations. Planus will lead Antonius’s cavalry from the south, while Antonius uses the archers to block any avenues of escape.
“Antonius,” Caesar grabs the man’s shoulder. “Bring back my friend,”
“Vitus is my friend as well,” he tells him. “And he will live this day,”
*
Smoke hangs heavy in the valley below, and within its shroud, Roman corpses form a gruesome fence around Vitus and his remaining men. A tightly woven mass of painted fury pushes their line toward the burning carts while riderless horses flit about for any place that won’t get them killed.
Mounted archers await the signal before dismounting; they’ll ensure no Celtii makes it to the tree line.
Out of nowhere, Skipio’s red and silver battalion races down the hill in V-formation, piercing the Gallic fray caught unawares. His horse, a foul-tempered replacement for Luna, knocks aside a thick-bellied Celt and stomps him to death beneath the hoof.
The beast makes space by aggressively paddling its front legs and kicking its hindquarters. They twirl about, and Skipio’s metal cuts through any Celt unlucky enough to enter their orbit.
Drusus leads his shield-bearing lancers into the thick of it, further diluting the enemy. Their leader, Castor, isn’t supposed to be there, yet he’s come to fight alongside his lover, Drusus.
Before long, fatigue captures the first horse, and when one horse falls, others are always close behind. A spear strikes Skipio’s beast, and when it stumbles, he quickly dismounts, swinging his spatha.
After the horse’s convulsions cease, he jumps onto its corpse and defends his position from the woad-covered swarm. Arms separate from their bodies, necks split and spill their innards. He punches a painted chest with his sandaled boot, and that’s when a shadow passes over his head.
The owl-masked druid sails through the air, his tartan skirt waving noisily. Drawn on his brown-stained skin are skeletal bones that cover his spindly body in front and behind. Head aflame, he hops from one Roman shoulder to the next, cutting chin straps and yanking off helmets.
That wiry body and intense agility terrify all but Skipio, whose rage devours his fear. He slashes a path to the vulnerable, protecting them from enemy swords until helmets find their place. He moves from man to man, keeping time with the nimble druid.
Then, the bastard lands upon Terentius Drusus Valerian, and Skipio’s world slows to a snail’s pace when the man’s helmet separates from his head.
The agile druid’s lean body rises like a spear, and in mid-air, his torso twists with the grace of Vulturnas before his feet reclaim Drusus’s shoulders. His long, bony arm dips, dragging a narrow blade across the young Roman’s neck.
Castor’s cry returns a proper cadence to Skipio’s world.
The petite lancer falls onto his lover, but a mud-slick hand cannot stop the crimson torrent spilling from his neck. He wails into the void as the druid hops from one Roman to the next, a murderous bee pollinating a ghastly bouquet. Castor drops the lifeless Drusus, takes up his lance, and shoves through his countrymen in pursuit.
His spear coasts above the melee with fearful accuracy, bolting through the druid’s path and forcing him to land. Castor confronts the insect, another fallen man’s sword in his hand, and his eyes wet with rage.
The walking bones cocks his head and studies the pretty Roman. They circle one another without words, calculating the best way to kill and move along. Rage steps in and hastens Castor’s spatha, but the weedy druid jumps high, his foot bouncing off the blade.
He tuck-jumps over Castor, plucking free his helmet. Head exposed, Castor lunges, but his lanky opponent is too quick, leaping over low strikes and ducking high swings. The druid lands on his hands and knees and whips out a painted leg, sweeping Castor’s legs.
Seconds pass as the druid crawls over a compatriot’s corpse, snatching the weapon from his stiffened hand. That gaunt body flies high, arching backward with a sword destined for Castor’s back—until Skipio grabs his bony ankle.
One mighty swing slaps the Owl into the mud. The bastard tucks into a ball, and before Skipio stabs, the nimble rascal spins on his tailbone, dizzying Skipio’s senses. From the swirl comes a foot, striking his sword-bearing arm, but Skipio does not part with his weapon.
The leggy druid rolls backward to standing. Through the holes in his wooden mask, dark eyes regard Skipio’s silver-plated face. His flat chest rises and falls, his small nipples hardening through the painted sheen.
“It’s you,” his steely voice declares.
“I don’t speak your shit language,” Skipio growls.
The druid’s hand dips, and long fingers pull aside the tartan skirt.
Skipio fights to keep his eyes on the owl mask, but Venus whispers in his ear. His gaze drops in time to catch painted toes colliding with his chin. His teeth come together with a crack, yet the crafty druid remains, shocked that Skipio still stands.
“Take him,” Castor screams. “He killed Drusus.”
A nearby Roman brings his spatha down, and the druid fires skyward, turning his heels over his ass in mid-air before landing atop the man’s shoulders.
A cut shin strap. A helmet falling to the ground. The druid lands upon his victim’s shoulders and traps the fool’s head in his spindly thighs. It is too late when the man stabs upward—a twist of the druid’s lower body snaps the Roman’s neck.
Such a magnificent kill pulls an admiring groan from Skipio’s throat.
Without haste, the druid dismounts and runs from the battlefield.
Minerva awakens within, driving Skipio to snatch up a fallen spear and follow the druid’s path through the combat. Out of the smoke, he aims for the flapping tartan and tosses.
It lands precisely where intended, nailing the fabric into the ground and yanking the narrow-ass bastard off his feet.
His flaming headpiece gone, the druid tugs viciously at the caught skirt, his skeletal face measuring the brawny Roman’s advance. Unable to free himself, he raises his masked head and whistles.
Skipio marches toward him, sword in hand, until a familiar beast gallops past on its way to the druid.
“Luna,” he cries.
The horse stops mid-trot and slowly turns her neck; it is indeed Luna, her mane corded, her back naked and filthy.
“Looir,” yells the druid, standing naked with his mask in hand.
Skipio pushes the druid’s exposed body from his mind—not an easy task given the man’s girthy cock—and when the mare runs toward the bastard, he yells for her again.
She slows once more, her head pivoting.
“Come girl,” he says, arms open.
“Looir,” the druid calls to her in his language. “Time to drink!”
Without a preamble, she charges at the druid, speeding past as his long arm catches her around the neck. One fell swoop finds his belly on her back, and through his mask, he sees the strapping Roman gaining ground, arms and legs pumping.
Through the slits in his face armor, Skipio focuses on Luna’s braided mane, wedged within that painted cretin’s crack. He smiles when the druid sits up and taunts him with a yell, eager for the inevitable as Luna races to the tree line.
Abruptly, the mare stops, jarring the druid, who turns to find a low-hanging branch an inch from his face. Thankful, he kisses her rump and lays flat so she can trot into the forest.
Skipio slows to standing and rips off his faceplate.
“Luna?” he pouts like a sullen child.
Fish and mud taint the wind, yet there’s no sign of a river.
Metal stylus in hand, Vitus sketches away on waxy sheets of cyperus, the leather strap around his neck attached to a board propped against his belly. His stallion, Cletus, walks slow enough to keep his master’s hand steady while swatting flies with his tail.
Skipio sleeps upon his beast, a reward for standing the overnight watch.
The horse’s name eludes him because he thinks only of Luna and of sinking his teeth into the buttocks of that scraggly druid.
“The wood ahead,” Vitus calls over his shoulder, rousing him. “Thicker trunks mean deep water.”
A forest takes shape within the horizon’s haze, but the terrain remains flat. Despite not living at home for years, Skipio longs for the towering peaks around their orchards. He misses swimming in the pre-dawn light when mists shroud the mountain’s neck and blanket the quarry lake’s surface.
The treeline extends many miles, and the horses need goading to enter.
Leafy branches provide respite from the sun, and their horses clop over gnarled roots along a narrow path only they can see. Hazelnuts crack beneath their clogs, their aromatic end quelling the mossy stench.
Vitus studies their surroundings, seeking
this island’s rendition of a walnut tree.
[CONT -->]
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