(THE MONTH OFHONEY II - CONT)

Lovers stand a breath apart in the darkness, each with a handful of the other’s arousal. Deft tugging brings on the pretty Roman’s climax and spurs that of his lover. Bodies collide with a contentment that lingers after they tuck away their spent flesh.

“I’ve seen you talking with that Bibroci,”

“Which one?”

“The one that sleeps near your horse,”

“Again, you need to be more specific,”

“He’s small and beautiful,” Kelr murmurs. “Just like you,”

“Alon?” Castor grins. “That thing is a mere prisoner.”

“Is that thing going to Rome with you?”

“I’m not going to Rome.” Castor kisses his lips. “I’m going home.”

Kelr pouts like a boy denied a sweet.

“He’s a slave,” laughs Castor, tousling his Gallic lover’s red hair. “He’ll be sold when we make port in Genua,”

“I want to go to Genua,” Kelr sulks.

Castor moves into the Gaul’s beefy arms.
“And be sold as a slave?”

“I want to be your slave.” Kelr kisses him deeply, mouth working and voice humming like he’s eating some tasty mutton.

Dalliances with little effort impress only those involved, making their interlude cumbersome for the druid watching them in the shadows.

“Caesar insists on you and your mother’s presence in Morini.” Castor detaches carefully, a cat stepping gingerly around the moody house dog. “I’ll see you in the morning,”

“Where are you going?” Kelr demands.

“I’ve got a private meeting with Tribune Servius,”

Kelr takes his hand. “That monstrous Lion?”

“He’s a brute, you know.” Castor hugs himself. “He rapes his lovers and enjoys it when they fight back.”

Aedan’s lips curl—yes, his Lion is the greatest fucker to ever fuck.

“His violent desires are why the Owl still lives,” Castor adds with a frown. “That druid has a disturbing hold on him, and it turns my stomach to think of him as a war bride.”

Aedan frowns—he’s no bride.

“I hate them both equally,” Kelr proclaims. “That bastard Lion killed too many of my men to deserve peace, and that wretched Owl King is why I can never go home.”

Castor grabs the neckline of Kelr’s shirt and kisses him hard on the lips.

“And what of your mother?” he asks, compassionate. “She deserves none of this,”

“Things will get better for her on the continent,” Kelr whispers. “I’ll take her back someday or die trying.”

“Kelr.” Castor takes the manlet’s face in his hands. “If you kill him, I’ll give you an alibi,”

“Who?” asks the idiot. “And what’s an alley buy?”

“If the druid manages a broken neck, I’ll tell Mark Antony that you were with me.” Bitch Face glows at the thought. “No one need know you ended that monster’s life,”

“The Gods will know,” says the manlet, eyes wide.

“They won’t care.” Bitch Face has a point.

“You don’t speak for the Gods,”

“And the Owl does?”

Aedan smirks in the dark.

“What if,” the manlet stammers. “What if his life isn’t mine to take?”

“He’s no magical being.” Bitch Face’s smile fades. “He’s a man who bleeds and dies as easily as the rest of us. Proof of that is his capture.”

Kelr considers these words.

“You’ve nothing to fear from him,” Bitch Face sweetens the lure. “And everything to gain.”

“If I kill him,” Kelr narrows his eyes. “Will you take me with you?”

“If you kill him,” the pretty Roman kisses his lips. “I will keep you with me forever.”

Aedan’s eyes reel—forever is a short trip when you’re stupid.

“Wait,” Kelr says as Castor ascends the ramp. “Why do you want him dead?”

Castor stands in the light. “Why don’t you?”

Moments alone in the dark give Kelr time to reflect. Silence leaves the rhythmic breathing of the rowers above deck, their huffing a cadence for his paces.

Aedan gracefully swings down onto the planks with Fintan’s wisdom rattling about his brain: treachery occurs no matter how peaceful one’s life is, but how one deals with it sets the terms of one’s character.

He steps to the manchild’s back.
“How hard is it to plan my death?”

Kelr’s skin pebbles as he reels about with hateful eyes.
“You ugly cunt,”

“You’re still an imbecile,” goads Aedan. “He’s keeping the Bibroci,”

“Alon’s a slave,” Kelr gnashes his teeth. “He’ll sell him, and I—”

“—you’re his man,” Aedan mocks. “By the tides, Kelr, you’re the only welp I’ve ever known that gets dumber with age,”

“Shut your freakish mouth,” he growls.

“You’re shit on Bitch Face’s boot,” he taunts. “A wet turd he’ll wipe off at Morini before getting his cock sucked by the Bibroci,”

Kelr comes for his head, but Aedan squats and strikes the fool’s gut with the ball of his foot. One leap gets his hands around the rafter, and kicking back, he swings forward with his legs spread and traps the manlet’s head between his thighs. The ridiculous blue frock gathers around the fool’s rusty strands but keeps the manlet’s fingernails from breaking the hairy skin above Aedan’s knees.

Every ounce of him goes holding on to the rafter, and with his ankles locked, he clamps the man’s neck between his legs and squeezes.

Soon, the Kelr’s vicious grasp weakens to lazy slaps. Spittle bubbles from the fool’s mouth, wetting Aedan’s thigh. Laboring breaths give way to lazy slaps. His thick arms fall, and his knees buckle as he takes his last gulp of air.

Aedan betters his grip and unlocks his ankles, catching the manlet in the crook of his leg before his corpse falls. Both knees press into Kelr’s thick cheeks before Aedan twists his hips and brings forth a satisfying snap.

The manlet drops to the floor, his landing interred within the rhythmic breathing from the oarsmen above deck. Sore hands release the wooden beam, and he shakes the pain from his arms and cracks his back with a stretch.

Rifling through the manlet’s pockets yields a knife belonging to the blond beard, Kombius. Unsheathing it from its leather sleeve, he catches light from the open hatch and joggles the blade, making the ghostly patch dance upon the planks.

*

Skipio listens with a strangely calm mind as Castor details his plan to utilize the criminal element in Octoduras in rebuilding it. Clarity comes from fucking the druid, whose contentious nature calms Skipio’s stormy desires.

“We must talk of personal things.” Castor’s hand finds his arm. “You cannot take the druid to Comum,”

He studies the petulant young man, wondering if he still washes his foreskin with mint oil. “Are you telling your Tribune what he can and cannot do?”

“Please,” Castor softens. “Can we speak as friends?”

“When were we ever friends?”

“Oh, come now,” he purrs. “We were friends before we were lovers,”

“And soldiers before that,”

Castor moves the back of his hand over the front of Skipio’s tunic.
“Then, let’s speak as ex-lovers,”

He recalls the countless reproaches since the pretty Roman ended their physical relationship and makes a mental list to mention each one until something strikes the deck nearby. A round lump rolls between them, the veiny tendrils under its chin leaving a slick trail through the torchlight.

It is the severed head of Kelr the Cenimagni.

Castor cries out in horror, but laughter bubbles within Skipio’s chest, erupting when the head tumbles back the way it came with the rising stern.

A nearby centurion blows his horn, gathering the men.

Like their Tribune, some chuckle at it roll to and fro, leaving behind a twisty red trail with each pass. Actus freezes when it careens toward his boots, and he kicks it on instinct, forcing Skipio to volley it back.

Castor emits a shrill cry and falls upon it.
“What sort of men make a game of this atrocity?”

Skipio aims a disapproving glare at Actus, who shrugs with hands raised, sparking laughter from their leader, Marcus Antonios, whose amusement catches his men. 

“This man is Caesar’s guest,” Castor howls. “Slaughtered off the battlefield without a hint of honor,”

The humor dies when Kombius appears with the dead man’s mother. Seeing her son’s head, she falls faint, and Actus, for all his noble upbringing, steps aside rather than catch her.

“Pick her up,” Antonios scolds. “She’s a guest of Caesar,”

The collective roar of delight draws Planus and Titus to the surface.

“This isn’t a comedy,” Castor rages at them, then focuses on his Tribune. “I thought you a better man than this,”

“At least you thought me a man,” sighs Skipio.

The mob’s glee infuriates Castor, who hands the head to an underling.

“This is the Owl’s doing,” he shouts, hushing the crowd.

“Is that so?” Antonios asks.

“Impossible,” Skipio says, arms folded. “He’s tied up in the baths,”

Kombius wraps the head with a cloth.
“Are you sure of that, Servius Tribune?”

“Are you unsure of it, King of the Atrebates?” asks Skipio.

“Someone cut off the poor bastard’s head,” says Antonios.

“He could’ve cut it off himself,” Actus says.

Castor balks. “You think he cut off his own head?”

“I’ve seen druids cut their necks very deep,” Actus tells him.

“Anything to avoid being ravaged by The Lion,” Planus adds, nodding.

Skipio looks at their superior.
“It’s amazing what these Britons are capable of,”

“Kelr didn’t cut off his own head,” Castor declares calmly.

“There’s no proof he didn’t,” says Actus, the men around him nod.

“He cut off his head, and it walked up here without his body,” Castor’s eyes water in fury. “And then tossed itself at me and Servius Tribune?”

“I’ve seen chickens flail about a good ten minutes without their heads,” Antonios posits, bringing murmurs of agreement from his men.

“Do you hear yourselves?” Castor screams. “You’re all morons,”

“Bye Jove, decurion,” Planus scolds.

                 Skipio warns, “Settle down, Castor,”

                            “Calm those tits, boy,” laughs Antonios.

                                   “Mind your tone,” says Titus.

“The druid’s mother,” Kombius addresses Antonios. “Ciniod cursed Kelr,”

“That bitch is dead,” reminds Skipio.

“Such vengeance cannot go undealt,” Kombius whispers to him and ignores Skipio. “She died by her son’s hand, and the price for that is dealing out her last wish,”

“Her last wish was for her boy to ride my cock.” Skipio brings up his arm with a sinew cord tied around it. “Got the bind right here to prove it,”

The men laugh, yet Antonios frowns.

“Chaotic wedding aside,” says their leader. “If the Owl enacts vengeance against someone under the protection of Caesar,”

“Jupiter’s balls,” Skipio laughs. “The druid is tied up in the baths,”

“We’ll see about that!” Castor pushes through the men.

Titus rushes after him with Skipio, Planus, Kombius, and Actus on his heels.

The men, for want of some proper entertainment, follow.

A motley crew of tunics and talking passes through the galley stables, eliciting curious snorts and stares from its resident horses. Castor pulls at the hatch door, leading them down and between the rowers, some pausing their labors to join the parade.

All descend into the Krokodilo’s bowels, with Castor leading those in front to the ship’s baths. Hanging votives reveal the naked druid folded tight in thick netting and hanging like a teardrop over the tub.

“You,” Antonios points at the Greek skimming the water with a blue cloth-covered duel prong rod. “How long has this ugly thing been hanging here?”

“Since supper,” the man declares. “And he needs a good wash after what the Tribune done to him,”

Leers follow the laughter.

Castor marches over and takes hold of the netting.
“I know you killed him, and I’ll prove it.”

“I have an alibi,” the druid says.

These words disturb Castor enough to step away.

Planus stands behind their leader and nods knowingly at the Greek, who sets down his staff, steps off the platform, and pulls a pin from the rope wheel between the tubs.

The wheel spins, splashing the net-bound druid into the water.

Unseen on the inland, the burning Iuliobona darkens the stars with her smoke.

First light reveals the coast, where corpses tumble from massive carts over the mounts, lifeless refuse that piles upon the shore and reddens the surf. The uprising is a failure, and Rome wipes it, and the Caleti, from existence.

The tide takes those in leather and helmets first, while the remaining litter the sands for miles, unholy heaps of tits, bellies, and miniature limbs.

Aedan witnesses it from the portside ledge, cock in hand, but no piss comes. Abject rage seizes him, an overwhelming powerlessness that swallows everything he knows before this moment.

Sandalwood invades his space as clove-heavy breath warms his ear.
“Brittania’s shores will look like this by year’s end.”

Aedan turns and sends a stream of piss across Skipio’s sandalled foot. The first blow strikes with a furious sentiment. This isn’t the violence he longs for, and he counters with a kick that brings his captor pain.

No, this isn’t their brutal love, but a hateful clash that ends when the Owl gets struck hard enough to usher in the black.