The Bucarati kips upon glossy mudflats.

A timber beetle with her tightly bound sales and dangling oars, she slumbers while men till the wet sands beneath her rudder so the incoming tide washes her away.

Alps-born legionaries crowd the surface planks, fur over their shoulders and wool on their extremities; none are clean-shaven, not even their newly minted leader, Lucius Scipio Servius, whose beard is the same color as short, golden coils crowning head.

A skeletal Celt crouches at his feet, his gaunt jaw presenting shadowy stubble while springy black curls fleece a once bare nape; this is Aedan the Ancalite.

The Roman takes a corner near the aft, his regal visage yielding little weight to his reputation, while Aedan scratches an itch behind the ear with a sharp-nailed toe.

Aedan probes the passing faces, nearly a thousand by his count, watching as they cluster into chatty groups. Oarsmen file into view and find their place between the carlings, fifteen to a side with no proper rowing benches.

“They’re not slaves, A-Dawn, they’re soldiers,” his Roman bride informs him in Greek. “You’ll find no allies among them,”

Aedan hugs his legs to his chest and tucks his button nose behind his knees. Foul breath curses him, for he’s consumed nothing that day but his captor’s seed. His aching hole reminds him of their last vicious coupling.

Two high-ranking men join their space.

Crassus Titus Flavius has muddy brown skin and hair like a lamb. He stands taller than most, his beard fuller and his eyes friendlier. Gaius Planus Caesar is kin to the Battle King, and his pallor confirms it. Unremarkably Roman, his clever mind sets him apart, though Aedan finds his wit and voice true treasures.

“How is our druid today?” asks Planus in Aedan’s language.

“I’m shocked he can walk after this morning.” Titus sits beside them. “Every man in formation heard the pair of you rutting in the trees,”

Aedan’s smile goes unseen, but Skipio’s smirk never hides.

“Watching trees has always been Skipio’s passion,” Planus teases.

Titus wonders, “Have the horses sailed?”

“They shipped out an hour ago,” says Skipio. “If you squint, you can see them on the horizon.”

Titus does just that as Marcus Castor Junius appears, his bitchy face brighter than usual. Though blessed with a maid’s beauty, his temperament sings a different song, one that Adean enjoys humming.

“All hostages depart at sunup tomorrow.” Bright eyes harden upon seeing the druid. “What in Tantalus is that thing doing here?”

“How now,” Planus said. “No sane man would allow The Owl King to perch among captive Gauls,”

“Not with his tongue intact and those legs unbound,” adds Titus.

“He stays with me,” Skipio declares. “He’s my prisoner for life.”

“Ah, a proper marriage then,” Planus cracks.

Titus drinks from his water bladder before passing it.
“Labenius told us what happened outside the senate hall,”

Skipio’s jaw tenses. No longer lost in his cups, he keeps silent, but three nights back, Aedan’s ears did what they do best.

“My mother wrote to me,” Castor reveals softly. “She’s no longer eligible to collect my father’s pension,”

Planus huffs. “Now we know why we’re disenfranchised,”

“It cannot be as simple as a money grab,” Castor opines.

“Oh, but it is,” Planus asserts. “Find me a dastardly thing unrooted in coin, and I’ll show you where Venus lives in summer,”

When his Roman bride smiles, Aedan damns his lacking Latin.

“My father’s accountant took his leases from the town court,” Titus tells them. “He’s moved them to Genua.”

“Is that why he wanted you on the first ship out?” asks Planus.

“He wanted me home weeks ago,” Titus nods. “My mother and sisters fled the villa,”

“Are they safe?” asks Skipio.

“Yes, she’s lodging in our townhouse, built before Comum’s existence.” Titus surveys the area before lowering his voice. “Every morning, she stands in line for water with the local women despite my father being the original commissioner of the community well,”

“Have the house staff abandoned her?” asks Castor. “My mother said many flee employment from the disenfranchised,”

“They left the moment she couldn’t pay them. Even the slaves have gone.” Titus offers the bladder to Skipio. “What of your lands?”

“We’ve got a well and direct access to the aqueduct.” Skipio takes a swig and offers some to Aedan, who stares balefully before turning away. “We’ve never owned slaves, but our employees have stayed.”

“It’s good they’re loyal,” Castor tells him.

“Years ago, Vita commissioned a vegetable garden and larder just for them,” Skipio says. “She felt this would ensure their longevity in times of war,”

“Clever as always, that one,” Planus muses.

“Oddly enough, my father forbade it.” Skipio chuckles. “The moment he departed, though, Vita did it anyway.”

“I want to know who is performing these evictions?” Castor says.

“Who do you think?” Planus asks.

“Surely,” Castor balks. “The Comum garrison remains loyal,”

“When we departed,” Titus reminds him. “That garrison was left with mostly low-class boys from Ticinum and Mediolanum,”

“Indeed,” Planus adds. “Former street urchins more than happy to turn the tables on some upper-class families,”

Skipio’s voice hardens like his glare.
“They’ll be dealt with upon my return,”

Those nearby murmur in agreement, and Aedan admires his Roman bride’s menace.

“Those cunts in the Senate think that with Caesar a continent away, they can commandeer the surrounding garrisons,” Skipio’s voice gains volume. “They’re about to find out what happens when they fuck with the Sons of the Alps,”

Haughty grunts rumble from the surrounding men, but before Aedan can snidely ask after those Gallic sons initially born in the Alps, the smaller sails overhead unfurl.

Without a preamble, the Roman rolls onto him, pressing his chest to the planks. Other soldiers fall back like a wave, locking their arms and ankles as the Bucarati begins teetering.

“Neptune’s giving us a proper shove,” yells Planus.

Water crests the Bucarati’s bow, tipping her up until her nose blocks the morning sun. Her giant sail comes undone with a violent thrash. Pregnant with wind, it balances the keel until the Bucarati lurches, her planks trembling beneath Aedan’s body.

Movement begins, slow at first, until speed brings a steady rhythm that induces his Roman bride to detach. Uncertainty torments Aedan’s gut; he’s made trips on rough rivers but never a wild sea. Several moments pass before he lays his head near the Roman’s thigh.

“Titus,” Skipio rests his arm on Aedan’s curls. “Planus will revive the garrison at Bellagio, and you will oversee the troops in Mediolanum,”

“What of those with undisciplined heads?” asks Titus. “I’ve no patience for problematic people, and sending them with Planus is not wise as he’s too agreeable,”

Planus stares, insulted.

“Castor will take them with the strongest backs to Octodurus,” Skipio says.

“Your command is my wish,” the young man brightens, setting off Aedan’s jealousy. “What are you gawking at? You bag of shit.”

“Must we carry on with this hostility?” Skipio sighs.

“He doesn’t speak Latin,” Titus adds.

“He? This thing killed Drusus,” Castor yells, silencing the surface deck.

Aedan sits up and dips his head into Castor’s line of vision.

“Your man killed eighteen that day,” he speaks without emotion as Bitch Face stares back at him. “Two of them women whose names were Gido and Tula,”

Skipio looks to Planus. “What’s he saying?”

“I do not mourn my bitches,” Aedan says, eyes set. “They came to fight and died protecting the river where they were born,”

“The druid speaks what most of us know,” Planus replies.

Castor looks to his lap.

“You’ve made your point,” Skipio whispers in Greek. “Get out of his face,”

“Your command is my wish,” Aedan parrots in Latin.

Castor’s glower is potent.

“What’s your plan, Tribune?” Titus asks as the druid returns to his back.

“Don’t call me that,” Skipio shakes his head. “Caesar wants a new fort at Comum, and I will build it within the city,”

“Inside the city, like a neighborhood?” asks Titus as the druid’s foot rises.

“I’ll incorporate watch billets within the walls.” Skipio draws an imaginary boundary on the planks, outlining a city only they have seen. “Instead of one central area apart from the town, we scatter the garrison into precincts along the wall.”

Though delighted by such a plan, Titus nor Planus can pull their eyes away from the druid’s rangy toe as it stops short of Castor’s cheek.

“We’ll widen the walls near the east gate and western port so overnight quarters can be built inside,” Skipio explains, oblivious to his druid. “A squad will reside within whatever portion their conscription covers.”

“That’s brilliant, Skip—” Castor turns to convey more when his lips part and take in the druid’s toe. The deck explodes in laughter as he jumps to his feet, spitting in disgust.

Aedan rolls over, presenting his back instead of his smile.

Skipio reclines, tucking Aedan’s bony hip under his arm like a couch pillow, and watches as the offended Castor takes a long drink.

“Can you run the orchard while overseeing all that?” Titus wonders.

Planus says, “He won’t have to worry about the plantation with Vita around,”

“So true,” Skipio grins. “She’s made that place more profitable than my father ever did,”

“If that thing touches me again,” Castor growls. “I’ll kill it,”

Skipio’s eyes shift. “This thing is my wife,”

“You’re not serious,” Titus gasps.

The stink of meadow sweet forces Aedan upward.

“What’s your trouble?” Skipio demands in Greek.

A woman’s giggle brings him to his feet, and he stalks toward the opposite bow without interference from Skipio. He finds a finely dressed Kombius beside a boisterous Avalin, and with them sulks Kelr, face down and legs crossed.

“Skipio,” Planus whispers, “He’ll kill them,”

Aedan climbs the net-rigging like a spider, and his Roman bride watches in amusement as Aedan works up enough spit before hocking a wad. It flies several feet and lands on the back of Kelr’s neck. The burly redhead wipes the slime away and looks up to find him.

Teeth together, the manlet rushes toward him, but his Roman bride takes the angry sod by his throat before he gets hold of Aedan’s ankle.

“Caesar may be cozy with your mommy,” Skipio whispers as the manlet struggles in his grasp. “But he’s not here, and I am,”

“That dumbass doesn’t know Greek,” says Aedan, eliciting laughter from those among the soldiers that do. “He barely knows our tongue without his mommy telling him the words,”

“Please, Tribune,” Kombius drifts toward them while Avalin scurries to the forward bow where the ship’s commander holds court. “Let’s keep a calm head,”

“I’m placid. Like winter ice on the Como,” says Skipio, generating amusement from his men. “Not one crack in me,” he says, his eyes shifting to Kelr, “if a fool treads lightly.”

Avalin appears, her lips trembling.

“Wipe that fear from your eyes, woman,” Planus says in her language while a hand on Skipio’s shoulder compels him to drop Kelr at her feet. “See there, he wouldn’t kill your boy in front of you,”

“I would,” says Aedan, inciting more laughter.

Skipio yanks him off the ropes, and the men merrily roar when Aedan goes limp like a toddling child. He then collects a leg and drags the druid back to the aft bow.

Fingers thread into Aedan’s hair as breath warms his ear. “Don’t waste your eyes on them. They’re going to the Morini, care of Kombius.” Brutal hands turn his face to the sea. “See that shadow on the horizon? Take a good look, A-dawn. That’s the last you’ll see of your land in this lifetime.”

Aedan wrenches free, giddy from the Roman’s manhandling. Green eyes hold him until his foot collides with that arrogant chin. The Roman reaches out blindly and seizes Aedan’s wrist, and though he twists like an eel to be free, the bastard’s hammering fist brings delectable pain.

Their bodies come together in a stuttering, violent dance. Cocks jab each other through cloth until their hips come together and trap them.

“Salacia’s tits,” growls Marcus Antonios, current superior of the Bucarati. “Come now, Servius, no one wants to watch you plow that scrawny little carcass again,”

Laughter quakes, and Aedan stills beneath him.

Skipio stands, impervious to the merriment, and clutching the druid’s arm, yanks him to his feet.

“What do you see in him, Servius?” asks Antonios, genuinely intrigued from his position on the center walk. “This one’s ugly enough to scare Charon off the boat. There are far prettier Gauls among the ranks,”

Skipio yanks the front of the druid’s trousers down, exposing his semi-aroused cock.

The mob emits a collective leer.

“That’s an impressive third arm,” Antonios declares. “So tell me, Servius, do you fuck or get fucked?”

Skipio’s grin speaks volumes, and the mob responds in kind.

“You’re quite large yourself from what I’ve seen,” says Antonios. “Didn’t know you girthy types fancied each other,”

Castor smiles behind his hand.

“You two python wranglers, keep yourselves cooled for this trip,” Antonios adds affectionately. “Hatch out your heat on the next boat,”

Skipio retreats with Aedan’s arm in his grip.

Bitch Face grins as they pass, and Aedan again parrots his best Latin.
“What are you gawking at? You bag of shit.”