Roman horses smell more of their kind across the river as tension hangs heavily and tightens their nerves.

A durable palisade guards the opposite bank, with an elderly man favoring his staff on a rampart behind it. Wind lashes at his long white hair, revealing facial cracks that prove him the oldest man on this island.

“This is as far as you go, Rome!” cries Ostin the Ageless, his grasp of Latin impressive. “I do have an offer for you if you’re willing to entertain it,”

Caesar, the Roman battle king, yells back, “Negotiation is a most honorable path.”

“My loyalists will depart this fight,” says the archdruid as braided heads rise above the wall and swivel in confusion. “But in return, I want the Lion brought to me in ropes.”

Laughter ripples through the Roman ranks.

“I might fulfill that condition,” Caesar speaks with amusement. “If you’re inclined to hand over the Owl and his mother.”

Angry howls from warriors fluent in the Roman tongue rise up the wall, and the old druid’s slow deliberation begets anger that finds him pulled down from his position.

Caesar raises a hand and lets it fall, ushering in his fiercest cohort, the Seventh, their numbers heavy with Gauls from the continent. Prisoners fighting for their captors is a tradition older than the Roman war machine, for the desire to live outweighs the bitterness of defeat.

Briton hostages sit idly behind the Roman baggage train, their lives bought by the noble Cenimagni’s revelation of the river’s defenses—yes, those deadly stakes hidden below the waterline.

Infantrymen enter the narrow strip of the water, coming together with shields rising to form a testudo. The tortoise advances, inches coming little by little as engineers trawl through their legs and pull up stakes.

A shout from below levels the shields before another cry brings swordsmen rushing across the new bridge.

Briton archers pop up along the banquette to meet the advance, their flaming arrows raining down upon the legionnaires. One voice carries above the barrier, urging the bowmen to ignore the advancing swordsmen and focus on the creeping bridge. Within moments, the shields become unassailable, their surfaces riddled with fiery bolts.

Roman lancers tread to the waterline, their lances striking three of every five archers whose hasty replacements lack the same deadly accuracy.

A pair of scaffolds rise like boxy sentries behind these fledging defenders. Slingers climb the birch bones, their leader a masked man with a gaunt body. A skeleton marks his nakedness both in front and behind, while fire burns his wicker crown.

It is the Owl King, whose vicious cunning haunts many a legionnaire.

Stone set, he spins his flax sling until it becomes a floating circle hovering above his head. He whips his first stone at a lancer’s bronze mask, denting hard enough to crack the man’s skull. Another strikes a Roman’s throat, his legs buckling before he splashes down into the red water. Each lethal toss shortens the spear line, returning momentum to his archers.

After his last stone is spent, the Owl crawls down the scaffold, long limbs spidering him from one slinger to the next. Words spoken behind his mask direct their stones to the shield men’s knees, and soon, the testudo’s front collapses, exposing the men beneath pulling up stakes.

The druid hangs from his legs like a bat and directs his incoming spearmen to toss their javelins down, taking those fat, sharpened tips dangerously close to the stake-pullers.

Dread nags Caesar’s heart for young Planus is among them.

A command travels from legate to legate until it finds the dark decurio, Titus. He and his horse-bound archers ignite their tips and rain fire upon the scaffold. As flames devour birch, slingers fall from sight, and the gangling Owl leaps onto the palisade. There, he takes a moment to examine the enemy’s formation.

Worry blankets Caesar, for when the Owl focuses, he’s thinking. Romans die when the Owl has time to think.

The skeleton-clad druid vanishes behind his side of the wall, and smoke engulfs the second scaffold shortly after. Its bones quickly immolate and teeter in the wind before a warning cry sends the wall archers scrambling. The burning rostrum soon topples onto the palisade, breaking in two and shedding its fiery top onto the riverbank.

A lethal cloud billows into the Roman shieldmen, collapsing their formation.

The deadly Lion slips through the faceless ranks, his powerful body clad only in a phalera vest, a loincloth, and boots. Born Scipio Servius, he dons a lion-face pelt on his head and two swords in his hip belt.

Without haste, he calmly shepherds in new soldiers to replace the choking shield bearers. His second, Actus, follows him, whisking those fallen to safer ground as shield alternates protect the next batch of stake-pullers. Together, they liberate Planus, tossing his unconscious body onto a horse and slapping the beast’s rump to hasten its departure.

As stakes by the hundreds drift downriver, the Owl, born Aedan the Ancalite, hops from one painted shoulder to another until reaching his leader, Cassibelanus. The hulking warlord mounts the tower, observing with his sword undrawn. Hot words spill from the druid, his spindly arms flailing while Cassibelanus listens coldly.

Suddenly, the spiky tortoise sheds its shell.

Shields return to their proper place, and swords emerge. Infantrymen splash through the narrow crossing and collide with the barrier wall. Bending at the knees, they put their shields on their backs so the second cohort can rush in and ascend. Roman horsemen splash through the shallows after them, hooking their ropes around the wall archers and yanking them down.

Cassibelanus rushes toward the rising tide, his fiercest men at his heels. Spears jab along the smoldering rampart as blue-stained defenders repel climbing legionnaires.

A Roman rope loops around the palisade’s tallest plank, and with a hatchet in hand, the Owl quickly cuts it. Other ropes take hold, but his leader’s men are too engrossed in stabbing at Roman helmets to sever them.

Below him, the Lion leads three heavy-hooved beasts into the water. The fearful Owl slings a stone, stinging one of the beast’s hind quarters and sending it back across the river. Shieldmen hastily rush in to protect the remaining beasts while the Lion secures ropes around their compact necks.

The strapping Lion’s roar drives the thick-hoof pullers forward until resistance pulls them up on two legs. The horses regain their footing and till onward, stretching those Roman ropes strewn about the palisade’s anchor joists.

Fractures appear as a portion of the wall comes loose, wrenching noiseless amidst the bluster of metal strikes and profanity. The narrow panel wobbles like a loose tooth before breaking free and flying across the water with the horses.

Roman footmen crowd into the opening and collide with a horde of Britons. The fighting mass comes together with maces flying and swords reeling. Never one to hurry, the Lion marches into the melee with a spatha in each hand and cuts through the painted mob with abandon, severing limbs and spilling entrails.

Soon, the mud becomes a foul, heady mix of blood and shit.

A flaming net falls from above and lands upon the Roman side of the mob. Wet with whale oil, the burning ropes ignite helmet combs and sear horse hide. Beasts buck when their hides taste fire, shedding their riders before escaping to the river.

Another blazing web lands, blanketing a trio of horsemen, and the brief crackle of fire kissing skin tickles Scipio’s scars. Swallowing his fear, he marches to the men, scoops the flaming net with his sword, and then tosses it aside.

Far across the yard stands the Owl, his torch a beacon through the smoke.

Images of that night in the shack haunt Scipio. He whistles for his beast, Luna, who gallops past, collecting him. She charges toward the clutch of rotund women, each holding their portion of a stretched net while the druid ignites it.

Scipio rushes Luna into them as the net is cast. He dismounts as the Owl contends with two centurions bent on taking his head, but the deadly matrons put up a wicked fight when Scipio’s reputation for mercy to their gender proves false.

Screams from the river signal that Hanni joins the fight. The massive gray beast lets loose a mighty trumpet, her long trunk, an agile hammer sidelining all those in her path.

Armor plates protect her hide, and four archers man the houdah on her broad back. She is the largest horse this island’s beasts have ever seen, and her every step shakes the earth beneath their hooves.

When the pachyderm punches down what remains of the palisade, the horses shed their painted riders and gallop for the trees. Many foot warriors follow suit, fleeing a monster clearly sent by the gods.

“It’s just an elephant, you cowardly cunts,” Aedan screams, tearing off his fiery headpiece and drawing up his mask. “Hannibal brought hundreds to conquer Rome, and now Rome conquers us with one!”

Scipio hears the druid’s words. Unable to decipher them, he finds himself aroused by the murderous bastard’s fury and admires the skull drawn on his angular face.

A spear comes for the druid’s back, but the spry man leaps high, his long body twisting mid-air and hurling an axe. It splits the lancer’s faceplate and cleaves his skull as the nimble druid races over blood-soaked mud.

Aedan collects a hand scythe from a fallen comrade before vaulting off a portion of the banquette. He hurls himself skyward, flying over the melee and toward the elephant. Fearless, he collides with the golden plate between her eyes and scrambles up her forehead to the houdah.

He drags his curved blade across an archer’s neck as two others take aim. His victim proves an effective shield until his corpse grows heavy with bolts. He shoves the spiny body at the duo, sending all three over the bulwark, but before his blade tastes the final archer, a reedy-eyed legionnaire climbs over the parapet.

Actus swings his spatha, but the druid drags his curvy blade into the houdah’s beam and uses it to swing his body all the way around.

He breaks the final archer’s nose with his foot and, on his second revolution, catches the man’s head between his feet. Pushing his toes under the man’s chin, he jabs a heel into his cheek and snaps his neck.

Tight quarters do not suit Reed Eyes, whose sloppy charge exposes his back. Aedan stabs the tip of his scythe into his neck, conjuring a painful scream before hooking it into the man’s collar and yanking his armor down. Given a tunic canvas, he rips a line across the Roman’s shoulder blades, bringing the bastard to his knees.

Aedan crooks his arm to slice the fool’s neck, but a broad hand finds his chest and pushes with enough force to steal his breath.

Much taller within spitting distance, the Lion’s body glistens. Blood coats his firm thighs and dots those corded pelvic folds where a golden thatch peeks above his loincloth. Raw burns mark the skin over his left tit, and this makes Aedan smile with pride.

Mossy greens flash before the Lion stabs his two swords into the parapet walls.

After dusting off his buttocks, the Owl tosses aside his hand scythe. Little fists rise in a sparring stance that provokes the Lion into spreading his thick lips.

“Don’t be shy, A-dawn,” says Scipio in Greek, and the druid’s dark eyes glow at the sound of his name.

Aedan’s balled-up hands move in little circles, and when sure these movements catch the Lion’s attention, he kicks upward—missing the man’s jaw as a fist collides with his mouth. Agony pulses through his teeth as his back smacks the wooden railing.

Blood seeps from the Owl’s split lip and drips upon his nipple. He drags a finger through it, collecting a slimy dollop before fixing his eyes on the Lion and sucking the digit clean.

“If you’re hungry,” Scipio grabs the front of his loin cloth. “I got something for you to gnaw upon,”

Aedan serves the most malicious glare in his arsenal.

“That look, right there,” the Lion leers. “I want to see that when I unload on your face.”

♡

The elephant stops moving.

The battle carnyx falls silent.

There are no gods. No Tamesa.

No Rome and no tribes.

There is only Aedan and his Lion.

♡

—until a fucking spear comes between them.

Bitch Face climbs into the box, bringing a beefy centurion with him. The handsome Lion steps away, giving the pretty Roman’s thug room to move, and when the druid’s eyes demand a reason, the Lion only shrugs.

“Kill him!” cries Castor.

The centurion reaches for Aedan, who catches his beefy arm and breaks it in half with a bony knee. He tumbles over the parapet, taking his simpering victim with him. The centurion softens the landing, his neck breaking when they hit the mud.

Aedan wrests a dagger from the dead man’s hand and begins stabbing maniacally at his neck, hacking into the bone as if it were a tree root. Many furious blows later, the head rolls from the man’s shoulders.

“He’s so damn fierce,” says a smitten Scipio.

Castor stares in disbelief. “That wiry scumbag killed your father,”

“My father killed his father,” Scipio tells him.

“He must die,” Castor growls. “For Drusus,”

Scipio purses his lips in doubt.

“What version of Psyche runs foul within you?” asks Castor.

The elephant lumbers onward as the Lion jumps from the houdah, his loincloth flapping and his third arm there for all the world to see. Bitch Face follows with little care for his own safety while Reed Eyes carefully climbs his way down.

Aedan flees the scene, splashing through the shallows with a severed head in his hand. He pushes into the fighting mob, hopping onto a horse before vaulting off its back with a single hand. He lands on a Roman shoulder before leaping away, his long feet making lily pads of more shoulders until clear of the melee.

He pauses to regard the crumbling fortress until the strapping Lion strolls into his view with a freshly armored Reed Eyes beside him. Bitch Face stalks past them, dropping his spear like an angry child as Aedan begins tugging at his cock.

“That’s right,” the pretty Roman cries in Brythonic. “Keep it out so I can cut it off and shove it down your throat!”

Aedan aligns the corpse’s head and stabs his erection into its slimy mouth. Bitch-Face’s delicate features twist in disgust while laughter erupts from the Lion. Reed Eyes recoils before vomiting into the grass.

The druid’s elation is short-lived as he tears himself from the Lion’s smile long enough to confront Bitch Face. He pulls out of the corpse’s mouth, his arousal bouncing as he brings the head across the pretty Roman’s skull.

Skipio retrieves his former lover’s discarded lance from the ground.

“Give me that piece of the fire crotch,” he says to Actus, who hands over a strip of the Cenimagni’s tartan skirt.

A spear comes for Aedan with Kelr the manlet’s colors tied to its shaft. He stands against its approach, but when it impales the head, tearing it from his grasp, his cock spits onto the unconscious Bitch Face’s hair.