Twenty-two days find them at Gades, where the narrowest waterway divides the northern isle of Eritheia from its southern sister, Kothinusa.

A patchwork of linen canopies spread with barely a sliver between them while trade and circumstance carry on loud enough to rouse the dead. The air carries a disgusting mix of shit and saltwater, but Aedan inhales deeply with his face in the sun.

His captor tugs at the sinew cord, irritating his neck; it’s a shameful use of his mother’s blessing but a suitable punishment for his escape attempt. Looir stands with her kind atop the seawall, getting a good scrub before she boards the Portuna Harena.

The largest ship he’s ever seen, her mighty masts piercing the sky with sails bound tight. Three rows of oars dangle from her fat side. “Why does she have rowers if her sails are this big?”

Golden strands frame the handsome Roman’s thick lips as wheat-shaded coils tremble over his brow. “This deck belonged to a warship.” He leads Aedan up the ramp to board her. “Now she carries goods and troops bound for home,”

In times of war, coastal delivery remains superlative—but which coast is a mystery; the Briton knows none other than his home shores. Skipio jerks his leash.“I realize a druid’s purpose is to think, but you think too much, Ay-dawn.”

Under the curved shadow of the ship’s swan neck, the druid imagines kicking his Roman bride to death. He’ll castrate him and keep his thick member as a toy to sustain his obscene appetites.

“There’s those evil eyes,” says his bride, close enough to kiss him. “When you die, I’ll have them plucked and coated in glass.” ♡

Aedan’s nipples harden at such a beautiful sentiment.

“Tribune,” says Actus, joining them. “They’ve loaded the last horse,”

“Are the prisoner’s accommodations prepared?”

Actus frowns at Aedan. “Everything’s ready,”

Below decks, floral oils dull the stench of saltwater burlap and faint perspiration. In the rowing room, colorful glass votives in thick chains direct a kaleidoscope upon the Roman’s tunic.

The wind whistles through narrow windows, each long enough for three stacked oars. A narrow plank path divides the sides, forcing Aedan to walk behind his Roman bride. Oarsmen file into uneven outboard seats, overlapping shelves setting one rower high and a third beneath the middleman.

All of them are Celtic, but Aedan doesn’t recognize their tribal markings or tartan britches. A massive water barrel sits at the aft beside a small table. Thick rolls of parchment quiver atop its rickety chair, held from the wind by an inkwell and quill.

A firm hand shoves Aedan onto the floor of a meager space walled by wooden cargo shelves. His damp prison holds stacks of excess oars with a twine hammock strung up between two supports.

“There we go,” his Roman announces, slamming the rattan door and securing its chains. “Only the best travel accommodations for our month of honey,”

Aedan serves up his most cunty glare through the square holes of his cell.

“When you look at me like that, my cock weeps.” Skipio’s smile fades. “Don’t think I won’t quarry your ass before so many witnesses,”

Those oarsmen fluent in Greek turn for a look.

Aedan sits up on his elbows and spreads his knees.
“If you want it, Skippy-oh, come take it.”

“What’s this then?” an anxious voice demands.

With skin as black as southern sand, he boasts square red nails and wears a long silken tunica matching his bold yellow cap. A red band binds his stringy braids, and silvery blue dust shimmers over the elegant facial scar along his right cheek.

“Superintendent Gauda,” Skipio faces the sweet-smelling man. “I am Servius,”

“Forgive me, Tribune,” says this Gauda with a slight bow. “I don’t think we’ve ever had someone of your rank down here with us,”

“I’ll not be staying, but my prisoner will be,” says Skipio. “He’s not to be let out, spoken to, or even looked at if you’ve got a brain in that pretty head.”

Gauda gives Aedan a curious inspection, a spread hand over his chest.
“Is he that dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough.” Skipio snatches a discarded sail from the floor and, with a fisherman’s skill, casts it over Aedan’s cage. “Sleep well, my love.”

“My love?” Gauda’s voice questions. “Servius Tribune, you should know that I don’t approve of that kind of prisoner,”

Skipio sounds as if he’s smiling.
“It’s a good thing you’re not in charge, then, Supervisor,”

Gauda’s breathing distances itself from Aedan’s leather drape.

Seagulls cry outside, and soon, Gauda’s voice drowns them out. He speaks a familiar Celtic tongue, one Aedan knows from when his father hosted visitors from the continent.

“You’re all here today because your leader sold you to Rome. You’ve spent your captivity inland training to work these oars, but do not fret about your circumstances.”

Gauda paces the narrow walk.

“Under my care, you will eat daily, drink plenty of water, and get nine hours of sleep each night.”

What a fantastic turn of fortune, thinks Aedan.

“At this moment, you’re an investment, but one day, each of you will be a Roman citizen.”

No derisive exhales or hisses come from the rowers.

“I see doubtful eyes, but I assure you that I’m a man of truth, and my truth is the most merciful thing any of you could ask for in this circumstance,” Gauda tells them. “Now, this journey takes twenty days, and you’ll be rowing fifteen of them, from sun up to sun down.”

Why unfurl the sails at night?—Rome isn’t that close.

“You’ll be doing more than labor on this ship. By this time next year, you will have learned Latin and earned the right to leave this boat.”

Silence indicates some are calculating on this promise.

“To that, this will be the last time I speak in your tongue,” adds Gauda. “Your drummer, Atticus, sets the beat, and I shall reiterate your lessons on that beat.”

Aedan rolls gingerly into the buckskin hammock and eagerly awaits the drum; twenty days is plenty of time for him to master this shit language.

“You will listen, you will learn, and eventually, you will know.” The drummer begins, and Gauda’s pleasant tenor declares two simple words on each thump: Vero. Possumus. Vero. Possumus. Vero. Possumus.

Aedan wakes in darkness, and the chill forces him fetal.

The drape over his cage is gone, as are Gauda, Atticus, and the oarsmen. Lamplight reveals his Roman bride’s muscular back. He stands in his loincloth before an elderly man who peels away translucent skin from burns, each flake dandruff shaken from the giant’s head.

“A good swim in the salt will toughen this up,” says the old man.

Skipio grunts. “I’ve no time for a swim,”

“You’re on a boat, young Servius,” he lends a critical gaze. “There’s always time for a swim,”

Aedan slinks from his hammock.

“Fortuna smiles upon you,” the old man adds. “Not many can walk away from these druid’s burnt offerings,”

Skipio turns his head, his eyes catching Aedan’s.
“My father took the brunt of my misfortune,”

“I served with Vitus in Alexandria,” says the old man, cleaning his glum patient’s new skin with soapy water. “He often bragged that his boy could swim the entire width of the Larius many times before tiring.”

Skipio stares down at him. “He spoke of me?”

“He was very proud of you,” he nods, patting him dry. “He said you were the reason he woke up in the morning and the reason he came home at night.”

Aedan deciphers what he can and conjures Fintan’s words to him as a boy: ‘When I look to the stars, I see you among them and find my way home.’ Fintan’s long absences left Aedan lonely, and as a boy, he met his return by running into his arms.

Behind him, a door slams. Skipio stands within his cage, those green eyes promising retribution. That hairy face displeases him, but Aedan sees only the smooth, masculine beauty beneath it.

“You should do as the doctor advises,” Aedan speaks his most formal Greek. “And while taking the salt, drown yourself in its depths,”

“If Poseidon grabs my heels,” Skipio grins. “I’ll be grabbing yours,”

“Tell me,” Aedan taunts. “Did your father float like burnt wood?”

Strong fingers dig into his throat. “You dare make light of your crime.”

Aedan’s feet lose the ground, and his head collides with the wooden siding.

“You don’t even pretend you did it for your mother,” his bride growls.

“I did it for my father,” Aedan says, choking. “I’d do it again,”

He slides to the floor when free and spins on his tailbone, striking the Roman’s molded core. Before long, their brutal exchange finds Aedan on his stomach with a mouthful of blood and a reeling head.

An unforgiving hand anchors his cheek against the floorboards while a weeping cockhead stabs his lower back. He tucks his knees and raises his ass before a thumb pushes in deep, pressing down and cruelly stretching his tightness.

Aedan reaches back and digs into his Roman bride’s scarred pectoral, eliciting a hoarse cry. The hand on his face retreats to a handful of his curls.

“You druid pig,” he mutters, yanking Aedan’s head upward.

“Take me like a man,” Aedan growls. “Or are you still a little daddy’s boy?”

“There’s nothing little about me, you druid cunt,”

A dry stab invades him with stinging pain, and pleasurable agony clouds his senses. Driven by Aedan’s sultry cries, the Roman thrusts, and when he arches his back, his bride pulls him to his knees.

“You feel so good,” Skipio growls through his teeth, wetting the druid’s ear. “I’m going to breed you like a broodmare,”

Aedan latches onto the stony arm around his midriff until a sudden draft cools his back. Light floods the open ramp where Gauda peers in through the darkness.

“What in Aman’s name,” the man gasps.

His attempts to drape the cage fail before some oarsmen appear on the ramp. He tries corraling them back up, but there are too many. The freshly fed Celts file past, watching the Roman plow him to idiocy.

Heavy breaths feather his sweaty back.
“You love it, don’t you, you druid pig?”

Aedan pushes back into the virile bastard’s thrusts.
“Fuck me to death, Skippy-O,”

The Roman bucks faster, his grip strong enough to bruise Aedan’s hips. Tiring of the rut, Aedan bears down, his insides grasping the Roman’s weapon. His bride tenses and pulls out, leaving a mess on Aedan’s spine.

“Waa-hoo!” the fuckface howls, drumming his backside. “You’ve got no rump to brag about, druid,” says the Roman, grabbing a buttock and shaking it. “But it’s so bouncy,”

Aedan twists in his grasp until those glorious teeth come together in his flesh. Another bite, this one deeper, robs him of breath and delivers an anguish like no other. A final chomp tugs at the skin near his hole, tightening his balls. His body sparks like colliding flint, and his cock spits across the planks.

The Roman drops his limp body to the floor and struts past the oarsmen. At their drinking barrel, he splashes water over his genitals before fastening his loincloth.

Aiming a boastful nod, he paws at Gauda, who slaps him away with a closed fan. Servius Tribune departs to their laughter as their supervisor falls into his chair, snaps open his fan, and cools his outrage.

Aedan rolls onto his back, heart pulsing in his torn hole. Curious fingers seek the bites, and their warmth makes his heart smile.