Lucius Vitus Servius once said that rivalry within ranks festers like flesh rot, and if a general ignores it, he loses a man as quickly as a leg.

Caesar recalls these words as the departed man’s son glowers silently while Kombius, a prince of the continental Atrebates, speaks of his time as an Ancalite prisoner. The concerning bit of flesh rot, however, is Titus Labienus, who eavesdrops with jowls tight in resentment.

On their first trip to Brittania, they sent Kombius ahead to the island with a mixed group that included Roman emissaries. The aging Ancalite king, a man of Belgic blood, took them prisoner, killing Labienus’s son yet sparing Kombius and his fellow Atrebates.

Planus speaks to the hirsute Gaul, the man’s blond locks sparking more than conversational interest. Though also smitten with Planus, the Gaul’s light eyes steal glances at Skipio’s lion-headed helmet.

“In your time among them,” when Skipio speaks, Caesar and Planus exchange tense stares. “Did you ever talk with the druid, Fintan?”

“The Owl counseled Cassibelanus to anticipate Rome,” the Gaul answers with a nod. “His wife, the first daughter of the old Ancalite king, whispered poisons in his ear that led him and his chariots to Belgica.”

“We know this woman,” says Caesar. “Is she a druidess?”

“She would’ve been,” Kombius replies. “Getting pregnant made the old archdruid—”

“Ostin,” Skipio cuts in, and Kombius sets down his cup.

“Ostin, yes, the druid you murdered,” he reminds. “Ostin excluded her for this and other reasons. Still, she retains a high position among her people.”

“Clearly,” Caesar pushes a cup of wine at Skipio. “As there’s been no repercussions for her ambushing and murdering my friend,”

“My father,” Skipio declares; the Lion, as he’s known to warriors and druids alike, inches ever closer to thirty years, many of those years lost with his father’s demise.

“My source tells me that since Fintan’s death, her brother Taran whispered in Cassibelanus’s ear, but recently, he’s made her half-brother, Lugotrix, leader of the Ancalites.” Kombius stares into his cup. “It was a costly decision, as the kings have more faith in her son, a young druid that Cassibelanus dislikes.”

Skipio raises his head as if freshly woken.
“Why would he dislike a strategist who’s won him battles?”

“They say the Owl King is of two extremes,” he tells them. “Cunning beyond measure, yet brutally whorish beyond shame,”

“How is one brutally whorish?” asks Planus.

Kombius smirks. “For him, a fistfight is foreplay,”

“Is that what’s made you a child seeking a new toy?” asks Caesar.

Skipio goes silent, his fantasies of the wiry druid his own.

“Fintan was a reasonable sort until he married,” adds Kombius.

Planus wonders, “Does anything make a man more unreasonable?”

“Forgive him,” Caesar raises his cup. “Planus carries little taste for women,”

Planus smiles. “I speak of matrimony, not women.”

“Matrimony and women go hand in hand,” laughs Caesar.

“How now, uncle,” says Planus. “Men also forge bonds in Juno’s month,”

“Despite the law ignoring such ceremonial unions,” Skipio gripes.

“Are you married, dear boy?” Caesar asks Planus.

Pearly teeth peek out amidst a face full of hair.
“If I were, mother would be the first to know,”

“Then I would be the last,” Caesar cracks, and the three laugh.

Skipio broods, and Labienus buries a scowl behind his cup.

“Your men have many wives, then?” Planus asks.

“It is our women who have many husbands,” Kombius tells him. “Bonds form when life begins.”

Planus blinks. “You’re married to every woman you get pregnant?”

“You Romans and your writs. There’s no need for contracts if proof of your partnership lies swaddled and crying in your arms,” Kombius shrugs his bony shoulders. “I’ve rutted many a man when the mood strikes, but what I leave him can be wiped away or pushed out with a good fart,”

“And with that, I take my leave.” Labienus rises. “I bid you goodnight and thank you for your hospitality.

Caesar raises his cup. “Thank you for supping with us, old friend,”

“I’ve made him uncomfortable,” Kombius sighs.

“He doesn’t trust you, nor do I,” Skipio says. “You left camp without informing the watch,”

“Yes,” Kombius nods. “And you would know, wouldn’t you?

Caesar sets down his cup. “What’s this about then?”

“Legate claims our Kombius ventured into the woods without acquiring leave,” Planus explains. “None one brought it up because you dislike camp politics spoken of at supper,”

“Speaking on bonds between men,” Kombius looks to Caesar. “You asked me to reach out to an old lover, leader of the Cassi, and that’s what I did,”

“Then why not inform the watch?” Skipio demands.

“Because I didn’t want you killing him.” Kombius snaps. “Each covert meeting I’ve arranged finds you showing up and murdering everyone in attendance,”

“This is an acceptable reason,” Caesar declares. “Thank you, Kombius.”

Planus, the consummate de-escalator, stands.
“We should take our leave, Skipio,”

“I trust you, Lord Planus,” Kombius says, taking his wrist. “More than I trust any other in this camp,”

Caesar apes insult. “You too, Kombius?”

“I’m sorry,” the Gaul grins. “You’re still my battle king, but your Legates do not trust me farther than they can throw me.”

“Except for our dear Planus,” Caesar teases.

“Full disclosure,” Planus chimes. “My interests come tainted,”

Skipio tempers his tone. “May I ask this lover’s name, Kombius?”

“To what end?” Planus laughs over his agitation.

Kombius answers, “His name is Taximagulus,”

“And what words did he share?” asks Caesar.

“A high-placed woman seeks an audience,” Kombius reveals. “She wishes to settle hostilities between Rome and her family.”

“And how does she intend to do that?” Caesar wonders.

“She’ll divulge the location of the Catubellauni stronghold,” says Kombius. “In return, she desires safe passage to Belgica for her and her son.”

Skipio quakes, “The nerve of that bitch,”

Caesar raises a hand for him to settle.
“Kombius, arrange this meeting,”

Skipio jumps to his feet.

“Planus,” Ceasar ignores him. “Go with him to these negotiations, and when you do, inform the watch guard of your exit,”

Kombius stutters, “Caesar, she’s n—”

“I know the woman who seeks this meeting.” Caesar raises a finger. “Go now with my nephew and arrange it,”

Kombius departs, concern plaguing his brow, while Planus follows with a silent warning for Skipio to remain calm. The moment they’re gone, however, Skipio takes up his mane-covered helmet to follow.

“You will remain, Lucius Scipio Servius,” says Caesar.

“How can you even think of making a deal with the bitch who killed my father,” he demands through his teeth.

Caesar pats the space beside him. “Sit down, boy,”

“You’re not my father,” Skipio roars.

“Rome is your father now,” Caesar explodes.

Skipio shakes his head.
“I won’t discuss the needs of Rome over justice for my father,”

“You’re behaving like a wild boar,” Caesar barks. “Must I cage you like one?”

Skipio comes to attention.
“Apologies, imperator, for my lack of respect.”

Caesar points his head to the space beside him. “That’s better, now sit,” and when Skipio moves to do so, he snaps, “Put that damned thing on the floor.”

The fleece-covered helmet finds a place between their feet.

“Take a breath and count to ten,” Caesar orders.

Skipio rolls his eyes and sighs in frustration.

“You’ll do it,” Caesar demands. “Or I’ll send those eyes rolling out of this tent,”

Skipio swallows his pride, takes a breath, and counts to ten.

The scent of bacon and barley drifts from their half-empty plates, and while thoughts of the Owl and his bitch mother boil within, this momentary settlement dulls his fiery mood.

Caesar rests his elbows on his knees and pinches an ear on the lion’s head. “Did your father ever tell you where this came from?”

“A beast from Bithynia.”

“It was our first campaign together,” Caesar nods. “I was younger than you in those days, but I’d allied with the wrong men for a high position in the House of Jupiter.”

“You were a high priest of Jupiter?”

“Oh yes,” says Caesar. “Until those that got me there picked a fight with the wrong man. They lost, just as my mother said they would, and for that, and for refusing to divorce my wife, the victor exiled me to military service,”

“You never chose to serve?”

“No, and neither did your father,” Caesar reveals. “He’d gambled away your mother’s dowry and needed a soldier’s pension to get it back.” He raises a finger. “He never gambled again. Your father made mistakes but never made them twice.”

“I never knew that about him,” Skipio whispers.

“Back in those days, I dabbled in men on occasion, not like you and Planus, who live for ass like it’s your religion,” Caesar says. “And for that, my legate sent me to negotiate for ships at the Bithynian court. Your father came along because he was a sturdy hairless sort, the type their King fancied.”

“Did my father—?”

“Bye-Jove, no,” Caesar laughs. “I did the heavy sitting on that mission, and thanks to your father prancing around half-naked, the King proved a rather inspired chair.”

“He never spoke of his time in the east,”

“It’s not the sort of thing a man tells his son,” says Caesar. “Now, the Bithynian King kept a lioness in his menagerie. She came from lands far south of Egypt, and Vitus brought one of her cubs back home, and your grandfather—”

“—Red,” Skipio says of a man he never met.

“Yes, old Rufus,” Caesar grabs the decanter and drinks from it. “Rufus named that cub Leonidas and taught him to take down any deer and boar that got into the orchard.”

Dried blood dots the fleece’s ears.

“I saw the beast many years later,” he offers Skipio a swig. “Your grandparents threw an orgy to celebrate your birth. Cornelia was pregnant then, and she desperately wanted to hold you.”

Taking back the decanter, Caesar drinks again.

“We didn’t know that shortly after your birth, Leonidas had gone peculiar. The beast mauled some harvesters and then attacked two horses.” His fingers fingers scratch into the fleece’s stiff mane. “That night, after we’d gone to sleep, Leonidas climbed out of his pit, entered the house, and killed your wetnurse.”

The lion’s snout stares without eyes, its whiskers broken and bent.

“Your grandfather died protecting you. Vitus and I nearly died taking the damned thing down.” Pain clouds his memory. “Cornelia lost her baby that night. A boy. What there was of him in her piss bowl, we buried with your grandfather.”

Remorse tightens Skipio’s chest.
“I’ll burn it, Imperator,”

“You will not,” Caesar pats his knee. “This thing meant too much to your superstitious father. He brought it on every campaign after Minerva came to him in a dream. She said, this beast tried to devour your boy, and now it will protect him until death.”

Suddenly, the decurion begins babbling about his father.

Snow came early one year, leaving a white mountain in the impluvium, and Vitus gathered handfuls of it and lobbed the balls at everyone in the atrium. One festive Saturnalia, his parents switched places, and his father wore his mother’s womanly robes and jokingly swaddled newborn Vita.

He recounts his first harvest went on long into the night with him atop his father’s shoulders. Vitus wore the lion-head then, while little Skipio swung at low-hanging fruit with his grandfather’s stick.

“When I see you in this, I see that lion gone mad.” Caesar’s hand rests upon Skipio’s shorn head. “I’m begging you, as one who also mourns your father. Please, get ahead of this madness. Do not make me put you down the way we did this damned beast.”

A low groan escapes Skipio’s throat, ushering in fierce sobs that redden his skin and taint his chin with sputum.

“There it is,” Caesar’s arm curtains his shoulders. “That’s what Roman’s do, boy. We weep for those we lose, not rage for what we’ve lost.”

The man cries for several moments before Caesar detaches.

“You cannot let anger consume you,” he tells him. “Not when you must take your father’s place in Comum,”

Skipio lifts his head. “Comum?”

“You’re going home.”

“I can change,” Skipio jumps to his feet. “I will change,”

“It’s not a punishment,” he assures.

“There’s no reason to send me home,” Skipio asserts. “Not when I’ve proven myself capable on the battlefield,”

“The Senate has stripped the people of Comum of their citizenship.” Caesar rises from the bench. “Even families founded in Rome are not immune,”

“Why would they do such a thing?” he asks.

“Resentment and jealousy,” Caesar replies. “Comum’s representative in the Senate, your father’s cousin, killed himself after being whipped like a dog in public by Marcus Claudius Marcellus.”

He glowers. “That arrogant Claudian bastard,”

“Arrogant, yes, and powerful.” Caesar grasps his shoulder. “This is why I’m making you Tribune of the Comum battalion,”

“I cannot accept such a high position,” he recoils. “I never even served as a praefectus,”

“You’ve been so lost in your madness,” Caesar scolds. “Do you think I would’ve allowed a simple decurion to lead the missions you’ve carried out these past weeks?”

Skipio stands, blindsided.

“You’ve been Praefectus Vigilium for weeks,” he tells him. “You and riders have protected the marching legions better than we’ve deserved,”

Skipio whispers. “I’ve only hunted druids for my own-”

“—You’ll wear the purple stripe,” Caesar interjects. “Rebuild the garrison at Comum, and from there, aid Crassus Titus Flavius, and our dear Planus, in taking over the forts at Mediolanum and Bellagio.”

“Comum houses so many youthful trainees,” Skipio warns. “They know more of work than weapons,”

“Marcus Castor Junius will use those youth to rebuild Octodurus,” Caesar verdicts. “Those going home with you will reestablish the road-watch network and place the senate loyalists.”

Skipio straightens his back and comes to attention.
“I will not fail you, Caesar.”

“No,” the man grips his shoulder. “You must not fail Comum.”

Skipio pulls on his long-neglected uniform and curses the irony. All this time, carrying the rank of praefectus with command of over forty cohorts—he could’ve utilized them instead of morally burdening his twenty-five most loyal.

His mustering equites await him as he sits on Luna in full cavalry armor. His helmet comb bears the color of a praefectus and explains why so many others now stand on the field, five across and five deep, with newly ranking decurion, Actus, to their right.

Skipio clears his throat before speaking loud enough for passers-by to hear.

“I stand before you, ashamed of my actions. In my grief, I polluted each of you with depravity and bloodlust. I seek your forgiveness and hope my actions and those I forced you to partake in, have not destroyed your humanity as they almost destroyed mine.”

Actus looks to the men before walking to Skipio.

“None of us blame you, Prafectus,” he speaks for them all. “No apology is warranted, though it is appreciated.”

The moment passes in silence until a joyous roar comes when he tells them they’re going home.

Frost coats the meadow until the mid-morning revives the green.

Today, the Roman sons of Cisalpine Gaul depart Brittania.