One calculates the measure of a citizen by grading his empathy, benevolence, and financial worth. One measures a soldier’s value by the skill of his kills, his labor, and years in service. Sadly, no rubric exists for a citizen who is also a soldier.

Planus ruminates on such things in the shadow of Skipio’s recent brutality, all the while haunted by memories of rescuing him from the sea.

That day, Caesar, his leader and cousin, sent Planus on a routine inspection of the merchant ships harvesting chalk from Britannia’s colossal southern cliffs. After a pleasant tour of the owner’s vessel, he partook in a nightcap on deck, where all bore witness to the fireball tumbling over the cliffs.

Rowers retook their positions in the galley, and as the ship moved to intercept, moonlight’s silvery glow revealed the desperate Luna paddling through the surf. The deckhands speedily dropped a cargo loading deck into the waves and, with pulleys, ropes, and the weight of their anchor, forced it under the water far enough for the beleaguered mare to gallop onto it.

Planus felt his heart sink when a young watchboy cried out about a bald head floating in the waves. The realization struck like a Jovian bolt that the golden Servii heir met his end at the edge of the known world.

Anxiety faded to sadness when divers fished out the charred corpse of Lucius Vitus Servius, the red rips in his seared skin besieged by pilot fish with their noses buried deep. Another diver surfaced with claims that Skipio drifted in the lower depths.

Without haste, Planus, his fraternal love deeper than any sea, dove into the choppy waters fully clothed. Years of swimming the Lario made him strong, and he stroked beneath the waves to find his friend in Neptune’s embrace, his ankles and wrists bound by ropes.

Divers appeared as Planus’s urge to breathe threatened. Their skill born in rough waters, they easily lugged him and the unconscious Skipio to the surface, and then onto the bireme’s deck. Planus clung to his waterlogged friend, his fists pressing him under the ribs forcefully enough to break Skipio in two.

After what seemed like an eternity of rough tugging, his friend finally stirred and vomited seawater.

Memories of that night fade as Planus washes in the canal. With hair in need of a trim and a face full of stubble, his visage screams conflict until the water ripples, obscuring his reflection.

Loneliness is a woman’s game, so Planus seeks the company of anything other than his thoughts.

*

Three bodies cling to the thickest oaks, the white shards in their bloody palms nailing them in place. Boneless legs drip in the heavy breeze, flies massing upon them like a second skin.

Skipio’s turma linger, some fully bearded, all shirtless and painted with animal skins on their heads. Their brutal tactics keep nuisance raiders away from the legions, and led by Skipio’s violent delights, they’ve also thinned the enemy’s druidical ranks.

Actus, black hair feathering his ears, observes the scene without seeing it.

“Who are these men?” Planus asks.

“Druids,” comes a limp reply.

“Look at me, centurion,” Planus says. “What did they do to deserve this butchery?”

“We came upon them planning a raid on our march.” No remorse lingers in his narrow eyes.

Planus says, “Legate banned crucifixions,”

“Yes, to conserve metal.” Actus nods slowly. “That’s why Lord Skipio removed their shin bones. So we could break them down and sharpen them for the nails.”

His heart weeps. “Actus Ursius,” Planus steps into the man’s gaze, a hollow stare his reward. “What would your mother say if she saw you do these things?”

The young man’s brow dints before his almond eyes widen. A watery line falls down his cheek, and his bottom lip quivers. “Lord Skipio commands me, and I follow,” he sobs. “When he hurts, I hurt. When he is wronged, I am wronged.”

Planus cuffs the back of his neck. “Go back to your barracks and wash this violence from your skin. While you slumber, wash it from your soul.”

He searches the area for Skipio before continuing softly. “When you wake, put your uniform back on and remember that service to Rome comes before service to any one man, no matter how strong your admiration.”

Titus Flavius no longer stomachs what he does not see, his shame accusing collusion.

The willful ignorance of his grieving friend’s violence comes from having lost his father to war, but today’s savagery merits notice.

These four druids have fathers, who no doubt weep in the trees seeing their sons splayed with asses full of spears. Obscenely laid over the boulders, these men died before their impalement, but this brings no solace when one notices the teeth marks on their buttocks.

 “Actus and some others have returned to uniform.” Planus approaches. “I’m overseeing their inspections while—”

“—while our friend sinks further into depravity,” Titus demands.

“I tried speaking to him.” Planus liberates a spear from one druid’s anus, emitting a sickening squelch. “Skipio says no more than two words these days, much less any of his pain,”

“He did not attend his father’s cremation,” Titus reveals. “According to him, he watched his father burn already,”

Planus drops the spear as if stung by it. “The camp surgeon says he no longer visits,”

“His burns won’t heal if not treated daily,” says Titus.

“I don’t think he cares,” comes Castor’s airy voice. The young man views the gory scene without emotion and says, “The Owl will pay for Drusus—”

“-No!” Titus’s roar makes Castor’s shoulders jump. He isn’t prone to displaying his emotions, so his grievous volume gathers attention from those nearby. “My absence put Drusus into a worthy clash that gave him an honorable death.”

Anger guides his pacing feet.

“An honorable death is all a soldier can hope for,” Titus reminds him. “Forgetting this truth in a moment of loss speaks more of you than it does of your enemy!” He then points at the dead druids on the rocks. “There’s nothing honorable about this butchery,”

“Am I dishonorable, now?” Skipio’s voice invades.

“By Jove,” scolds Planus, as his friend struts past in only a loin cloth and boots. “Put your uniform on!”

Titus swings his head. “What happened to the man who had the sense to hide his violent whims while serving as an example?”

“I’ve lost too much to hide my real nature.” Skipio gazes into him. “On those words, was I ever really an example worth following, Titus?”

Silence fills the inch between them.

“Your cock’s viciousness was always your private mess.” Planus accuses. “Now, your savagery stains everyone, including your father’s legacy,”

Skipio turns his back on them.

“What festers within you, brother,” Titus pleads. “Kills our hearts,”

“They can join mine,” says Skipio. “It died weeks ago,”

Titus and Planus exchange soulful looks.

“Right now, it feels like all is lost,” whispers Titus, coming alongside him. “I’ve been where you are, Skipio, I know your pain,”

“We will find the Owl,” Castor suddenly interjects.

Green eyes harden before leaving Titus.

“What of the new prisoner?”

Castor follows. “Why are you so fixated on that one?”

“The same could be asked of you,” says Skipio.

“That hard body?” Castor balks. “He’s nothing more than a dalliance,”

Skipio bumps his shoulder as he passes. “He knows the Owl,”

Actus appears, saluting before coming to attention.

“Is that fire-crotch who witnessed my father’s death ready for questioning?” Skipio asks, and Actus affirms with a nod.

“Wait,” Castor’s eyes widen. “Kelr was there that night?”

Actus scowls. “It has a name?”

“Yes, and our Castor knows it, doesn’t he?” Skipio leers. “It doesn’t take you long to seduce these Gallic brats, does it?”

Titus turns on the young man. “There are others?”

“An interrogation tent isn’t a brothel stall,” Planus scolds.

Castor defends, “Flirting with this one makes him talk,”

“Flirting?” Titus grunts.

“The one posing as a girl?” wonders Skipio. “What makes him talk?”

Castor meets his gaze. “You, questioned Alon?”

“I spoke with the women hiding him,” he says.

Castor cocks his head. “The women love you, don’t they, Servius?”

Skipio’s chiseled face hardens. “Did you address me outside of protocol, Centurion?”

“As if protocol means anything to you,” cries Planus.

Castor draws back. “Decurion, my apologies.”

“That fire-crotch hates me.” Skipio pulls aside the front flap of his loin cloth and begins pissing upon one of his dead victims. “The druidess bitch leading him, she hungers for my blood.”

Titus tuts as Skipio gives his cock a shake.

“He made no mention of you or the Owl,” Castor assures. “I will speak to him again—”

“-you will talk to him with a scribe present,” Planus decrees.

“Yes,” Titus agrees. “I want every word he says documented,”

Castor salutes before leaving while Skipio turns from his friends and enters the forest.

“Off he goes,” Planus observes. “To sew the ground with his seed,”

Titus says, “We must speak with Caesar about his—”

“-already done,” Planus sighs. “He allows Skipio his freedom because it’s kept the nuisance raids in check,”

“His method is effective,” Titus mumbles. “The locals are terrified,”

“Wouldn’t you be if some marauding Lion-headed monster roamed your land, raping every mouth and hole with a druid attached?” Planus then stills. “After his first violent pogrom, I brought his savagery before our Legate, and do you know what he said?”

“He’s only buggering the druids,” Titus replies.

Planus gives a start. “You spoke to Labenius?”

“No, I spoke to Marcus Antonius,” Titus clarifies.

“It seems they’ve all conspired to formulate the same response.” Planus claws at his chestnut hair, gathering sweat under his fingernails. “Confrontation with this island’s central warlord looms close,”

“Yes. I’ll confer with Caesar,” Titus adds. “At least to have my thoughts recorded on their inaction,”

“I’ll join you.” Planus stares warily at the trees. “I’ll not allow this brutal island to consume what remains of our friend’s humanity.”

*

A uniformed yeoman sits in Castor’s tent, quills in formation upon his desk. Their eyes meet before shifting to the muscular redhead laying on the cot.

“They brought you here without a bloodied nose this time,” says Castor.

The man’s boyish face doesn’t fit his chiseled body.

“My language sounds strange when you speak it.”

“Graccus, leave us,” Castor says, removing his sword. The older man glints with suspicion. “I’ll call you back when I’m ready to actually question him,”

Happy to oblige, the man exits, leaving his bread and cheese behind.

Castor tears off a hunk of the wheel-shaped loaf.

“Are you hungry, Kelr?”

The young man snatches the bread offered.

“Is that old geezer one of your druids?”

“Elder Brutus?” Castor smirks. “No, he’s just a cleric.”

“What’s a cleric?”

“Someone whose job is writing things.” Castor pulls off his armor, sensing Kelr’s eyes upon him.

“Sounds like a druid to me,” he says.

Castor joins him on the cot. “Does your Owl write things?”

“He knows how to write,” he scoffs. “But he doesn’t write shit,”

“What does the Owl do?”

“What do you care?”

“I thought the Owl was in charge,”

“Oh no!” Kelr chews what’s left of his bread. “I’m in charge,”

“When you attacked,” says Castor. “He and his group watched from the hill,”

“Those women are all that’s left of his bitches,” Kelr says, then turns bitter. “At first, it was just the women hanging on his words. Now, all our best warriors follow him around like he speaks for the gods,”

“I thought all druids were wise,” says Castor.

“He may be wise, but he’s a freak.” Brown orbs shine like a boy tattling on his brother. “To him, fighting and fucking are one and the same.”

Without invitation, Castor kisses his hairless cheek and tastes the warm vestiges of vinegar from the brine bath given to him upon his capture. “Speaking of fucking,” he pulls his tunic over his head and reclines, “Have you told any of your fellow prisoners what you get up to with me?”

Kelr gazes lustily. “They’d kill me,”

“Do you hate us that much?” Castor’s hands gently grasp those brawny shoulders as a tongue wets his nipple. When no answer comes, he asks, “Would your fellow prisoners kill the Owl if he had a Roman lover?”

“He already does, in his own sick, weird way.” Kelr grinds his arousal against Castor’s thigh. “That freak lurks high in the trees, watching your Lion-headed general have it off with himself,”

Castor’s shivers as the Gaul suckles his chest.

“He’s got it in that ugly head of his,” Kelr whispers, “that the Lion is a gift to him from the gods.”

Skipio’s voice booms somewhere outside the tent, prompting Castor to slip out from under him. “You need to give me something more than that,”

Kelr protests, “I’ve answered every question,”

“Give me something I can tell my superiors.” Castor parts the man’s red hair with his fingers. “Or they won’t let me see you again,”

Kelr takes Castor’s hand and moves it to his crotch.

“We no longer fight alone. What’s left of the Bibroci, the Segontiaci, and Cassi now fight.” Kelr kisses him as Castor’s fingers dig into cock. “You’d be fools to march further inland.”

“Does each tribe have a king?” asks Castor.

Kelr hums. “Except the Ancalites,”

“That’s the Owl’s tribe,” Castor says.

“His father’s tribe.” Kelr nibbles on his collarbone. “His mother rules them through her useless brother, Taran.” He chuckles before expressing his thoughts. “Rumor says the Owl is Taran’s son, not great Fintan’s,”

Skipio barges into the tent, sending Kelr scrambling under the cot until Skipio flips it over with a booted foot.

“Stop,” Castor cries as Skipio snatches up the Gaul. “I can learn more from him!”

Skipio punches the struggling Gaul in the stomach before hooking and arm around his throat.

“Decurion, please,” Castor protests. “You kill him, and we get nothing,”

“Rival kings gather at the Tamesa,” Skipio mocks. “I got that much from the druids stupid enough to think I’d spare their lives if they sucked my cock.” He drops the man and then stomps onto the small of his back, pinning him. “This bottom feeder knows where the Owl is,”

“He stalks you at every camp!” Kelr growls into the fur-skin rug. “You need only look to the treetops to find him!”

Skipio removes his foot as Castor translates. “How does the fire-crotch know this?”

“He watches the Owl, watching you, watching the trees,” Castor tells him.

Skipio takes Kelr up by the throat.

“Have you fucked the Owl?” he demands. “How tight is that little ass of his?”

Kelr sees his face without the lion’s mane, and his eyes widen. “Your flesh is so foul the Gods vomited you out,”

“What did this dick-snot say?” he demands.

“You were there when the Owl killed Vitus,” Castor accuses Kelr. “Decurion, the Owl doesn’t fuck, he fights.”

Skipio tosses Kelr to the floor. “He does what?”

“The Owl considers fighting and fucking one and the same.” Castor grasps the horrid implication as delight clouds his ex-lover’s eyes.

“Ask him where the Owl sleeps,” Skipio demands. “Tell him he dies if he doesn’t know.”

Blood drips from Kelr’s nose and wets his thin lips.

“I embrace death over treachery!”

“There are two kinds of death now, Kelr,” Castor kneels to face him. “A warrior’s death under the sword of Rome, or a druids death under the cock of the Lion,”