The northern road bends east, avoiding another of Saturn’s lost stones.
They enter Clastidium, an unremarkable collection of stables, eateries, and toilets catering to a daily procession of riverboats and bridge-crossers.
“You’re selling water,” Planus scolds the teenage merchant, “when the Padus flows just eighty paces away,”
“It flows, awight,” says the young man, unable to articulate his ‘R’s,’ “With the shit, piss, and spunk of evewy pewson living hew,”
Titus hands the merchant his
drinking bladder.
“The Owl noticed this?”
“He speaks little,” answers Skipio. “But observes much,”
“Them socializing isn’t unusual,” Titus says, handing over a large coin and getting back two smaller ones. “Valens Tacitus Hadrian leads the lancers now, and he and Valerius were always thick as thieves,”
“Yes, but the Hadrianes are no friends of Caesar,” Planus reminds.
“And let’s not forget,” Skipio adds. “Lysander Valerius and Gaius Pollio hold me in bitter regard,”
“My dear friend,” Planus says, “Not all men love your fists,”
“We were boys back then, and they were bullying Niko,” Skipio retorts. “They’re lucky they got away with just a beat down,”
“We cannot assume all of the lancers are in league with Tacitus,” says Titus.
“The druid saw Valerius riding from man to man,” Skipio reveals. “No doubt measuring the most loyal,”
“Did he now?” Planus grins at Titus. “The troublesome have a skilled nose for trouble,”
“On that, why would the Owl tell you anything?” Titus wonders. “You’ve done nothing but ravish him since day one,”
“Indeed,” Planus snorts. “I’m shocked he can still stand or take a shit after these many weeks under your graceless desires,”
Skipio smirks, “Venus finally smiles upon me,”
“How now,” Planus declares. “He’s found his true mate,”
“That’s a terrifying thought,” says Titus. “At least the druid’s biology lessens the horror,”
“Can you imagine if the Owl were a woman?” Planus laughs. “He’d be polluting that beautiful Servii bloodline with his ugliness,”
Skipio ignores the jab.
“Actus and the scout await us on Septus,”
“No one walks that lane this time of year,” Titus speaks with concern.
“Calm down, Actus hasn’t abused him,” Skipio assures. “There’s no need since he’s rather chatty. He said his mission is to inform Crassus Primo Kaius that the tenth’s Comum-born sons have returned,”
“Indeed we have.” Titus leads them back to their horses. “With a new Tribune and a Legate to replace his boss in Mediolanum.”
Planus adds, “Perhaps advertising our colors was a bad idea,”
“Hindsight is no victory,” Skipio says, glaring at his uniform. “I suppose we can return to our leathers,”
“To think,” Planus sighs. “I looked forward to peacefully rowing past Mediolanum,”
“There’ll be no bloodshed,” says Skipio, walking ahead.
Both stare at him until he explains.
“Under his uniform, Primo is still a street urchin,” he tells them. “And with no warning that we’re coming,”
“He’ll be in his cups,” Titus smiles. “Busy with his vices,”
A horsebound Castor gallops past.
“What of that one?” Skipio whispers.
“He’s not the enemy,” scolds Planus, jogging after him.
“I’ll see to him for now,” Titus assures. “I’ll send him to the river port at Placentia with our cargo.”
Skipio watches his friend walk on before rejoining Luna at the stables. The merchant’s slaves move brushes over her hide, carefully avoiding the sleeping druid’s dangling limbs.
“Get up,” he barks in Greek, hauling him off the saddle.
The graceful thing lands on his feet instead of his ass, wind gathering under his red tunica. Skipio shoves an empty water pouch at him and leads him to the merchant’s water pump—the druid ambles, rubbing sleep from his eyes while gently assessing the cord around his neck.
“Move it, A-Dawn,” he orders softly. “We need to get back on the road,”
The druid takes the water pouch, faces the merchant, and then drops it at his captor’s feet. Skipio clamps a hand around the back of his neck.
“We don’t have time for such things today,” he warns through his teeth. “Behave yourself, or you will walk behind Luna for the remainder of this journey,”
“Looir,” the druid mumbles.
“What?” barks Skipio collecting the pouch.
Castor arrives atop his horse.
“Have you seen Tacitus?”
“Not today,” says Skipio, handing the merchant two coins.
“I’ve not seen him in days.” Castor scowls at the druid before smiling at Skipio. “Some of my men are concerned and won’t tell me why. They say I should speak to him,”
“We’re in spitting distance of Ticinum.” Skipio folds his arms. “Maybe he hates being this close to home yet so far away,”
The druid’s laughter draws his attention—the merchant’s speech impediment.
“You think he broke ranks to visit his mother?” Castor shakes his head. “I never forbade it, but none of us get to come and go as we please while in uniform,”
“I hope he hasn’t,” Skipio says. “For his sake,”
“I’ll find Lysander,” Castor nods.
“Last I saw Tacitus,” Skipio says. “Valerius and Pollio were with him,”
Castor blinks. “I don’t understand,”
“Neither do I,” says Skipio, watching the pretty Roman ride away.
The druid whispers in Greek.
“You think Bitch Face conspires
against you?”
“It crosses my mind,” says Skipio.
“He knows nothing.” He takes the pouch from the merchant. “Besides, he would’ve come to you first thing if mutiny were afoot,”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Skipio counters.
The druid tips excess water onto Skipio’s sandal boots and grins when he jumps.
“Watch it, A-dawn!”
“Why would you doubt his loyalty?”
“Castor and I aren’t as close as we once were,”
“You were never close,” the druid says. “He tolerated you in the same of advancement.”
Skipio steps into the defiant Celt, who stares up at him boldly.
“He relies on your memories of his body to keep him in good standing. If I can see that much, so can his underlings.” The druid’s head swings. “They don’t trust him any more than you do. It’s why they’re using lessor men to feel him out,”
Skipio touches his nose to the druid’s, immune to his bad breath. “After the sun sets, my cock will have you howling like an idiot,” ♡
**
Crowds thin along Clastidium’s southside.
Septus runs longer than any other lane. Small concrete blocks dot her dug-out gutters, each with an iron ring for tethering horses. Timber booths line her wide path, each bound tight in leather tarps until the summer returns.
Soon, no one remains but three uniformed men walking shoulder to shoulder, with a stringy fourth in red lingering behind them. His baleful eyes wander until something on the ground hardens his gaunt face.
He stops, and when his leash gets a tug, he tugs back.
“You said Reed Eyes brought that scout here?”
Titus turns to Planus. “His Greek is better than ours,”
“More than two horses came through here,” says the druid. “Some tracks fresher than the others,”
The trio exchange looks before quickly slipping behind the nearest booth. Planus peers around it and raises four fingers after a beat. Skipio pulls his sword before jerking his head at Titus, who draws his bow and vanishes.
The druid follows his captor around the leather tarp and spies a small cottage where grass overtakes the road. Four horses stand outside its brick walls, while two stand nearby with tails twitching.
A balding youth emerges with his bearded leader, and the druid knows him as a spearman named Pollio. The scruffy Tacitus tells him to locate Strabo in Placentia. Without haste, Pollio mounts his horse and charges over the grass.
After the cocky Tacitus closes the cottage door behind him, Skipio taps his sword three times against the booth. A Sagittarian shadow appears as Titus, from above, lets loose a bolt.
Pollio lurches, teetering as his horse slows.
Skipio unwinds the cord around his arm, but the druid’s enthusiasm dies when he’s tied to one of the iron rings. He grabs at his captor, but the brute shoves him to the dirt and brings a finger to his lips.
Planus and Titus come together with Skipio, whispering as they close in on the shack. The fierce fucker kicks in the door, and when it closes, the druid can see nothing of what transpires next.
Shouts give way to distinct bellows, none belonging to anyone familiar. Metal collides in a song of close-quarters fighting, and beaten Actus emerges, shedding the rope from his wrists.
Late afternoon finds them back on the Postumia.
More mountains surface on the horizon, growing as they cross an arch bridge of tile and stone. Aedan’s small rump shares Looir’s saddle with his clean-shaven bride, whom everyone wrongly labels as his husband.
The large river runs wide here, an expansive vein reminiscent of where the Tamesa meets the sea. Flat-top barges drift slow enough that ferrymen can shuttle goods and people between without fear of collision.
“Is this the Tiber?” he wonders in Greek.
“No.” The Roman’s smooth head turns in agitation. “It’s the Padus,”
They speak no more in the next hour, sitting back to back through the cool shadow of Placentia’s eastern wall. Its ramparts conjure his father’s tale of the Carthaginian siege until their stop at a slate jetty quashes the excitement.
Soldiers dismount and speedily load their crates onto the first of three flatboats. The next is narrower, with cloth coverings strung between poles to block the sun; this carrier belongs to water barrels and their horses.
The last shade-crowning barge takes on the lancers, archers, and swordsmen. Its rug-heavy surface is home to water jugs, fruit, nuts, and cheese, all care of bare-chested men who flit about the sitting groups.
A fourth flatboat drifts into position along the jetty, and port hands roll his Roman bride’s carriage onto it, along with the goods cart. The port hands stack the trunks belonging to Mud Face and Milky alongside their duplicari, underlings quick to plant their asses under some wicker awnings.
Aedan clamors to join Looir on the first barge, but his virile brude tows his leash, forcing him onto the last.
Powerfully built men join them, standing along one side with their long sticks and pushing the flatboat away from the jetty. Farther out, half their number rush to the other side, all turning their lengthy sticks over and dipping the paddle ends into the depths. The river flows against them, and the gondoliers churn faster while two beefy pilots at the stern keep the rudder steady.
Bitch Face elicits laughter from Milky when he does a running jump and lands on their barge. After bowing to jovial accolades for his stunt, he glowers at Aedan, who sits closer to his Roman bride.
“Did Tacitus overnight in Dertona?” he asks.
“I saw Pollio at the baths in Clastidium,” Milky answers—a mistake.
His Roman bride corrects it. “That wasn’t Pollio,”
Milky proceeds with artful
ignorance.
“Who the hell was it then?”
“His name is Praxus,” Aedan explains in his tongue, speaking of some man who left Genua well before them. “They look very similar, but then all you wolves look alike,”
Milky chuckles at this.
“Fortunately,” Bitch Face snaps. “None of us look like you,”
“Maybe if you did,” Aedan taunts. “You’d be sitting where I am right now instead of jumping about like some hen that lost her chicks,”
Milky laughs heartily until a furious Bitch Face comes closer.
“You’re not worth bloodying my lance,”
Aedan stares. “It’s adorable what you tell yourself to feel stronger,”
“Come drink some wine,” Milky says, pulling Bitch Face away.
“I don’t know what you said,” Skipio speaks Greek. “But quit baiting him,”
“You quit tip-toeing around him,” Aedan says. “This subterfuge is unbecoming a man of your rank and station,”
Skipio frowns. “Shut your mouth, A-dawn,”
“Shut my mouth, Skippy-O,” he dares.
“Not here,” Mud Face pleads.
“Please, not here,” Reed Eyes parrots, curling his lip.
“I wouldn’t mind a little show,” shouts another duplicario.
One of them cries, “Poke his throat, Tribune!”
“Get that Gaul bitch pregnant,” yells a man.
Laughter ripples among their group when Aedan grabs his feet, lifts his legs, and spreads while thrusting out his tongue.
“We need to tell Castor,” Mud Face whispers.
“After Mediolanum.” Skipio reads his friend’s displeasure. “If there’s bloodshed, we can say they fell there,”
Mud Face sulks. “You truly think he knew of their betrayal?”
“We’ll know when we reach Mediolanum,” says Skipio.
“We should tell him and question him accordingly.” Mud Face scolds.
Skipio pulls Aedan up and
walks him to the carriage.
“Titus feels we should tell Castor what we’ve done,”
Aedan hesitates. “They would’ve enlisted him in port,”
“He’s not as innocent as he appears,” Skipio says.
“No, not innocent, but not guilty either.” Placentia fades with distance. “Bitch Face is too smart to side with the White Robes this early in the game. He waits things out by playing stupid.”
“What makes you think he’s aware of anything grander?”
“That lover of his that I killed, Drusus? Kombius said he spoke of having family among the White Robes.”
His Roman bride’s handsome profile seems childlike for a moment.
“There’s no way Bitch Face knows nothing because Drusus was a talker. His lips were moving long after I slit his throat.”
A moment of silence passes.
“How did you know his name?”
“I made it my business to know when he showed up leading Mud Faces archers,” Aedan tells him. “Stop acting like you never learned the names of every important druid you killed.”
His Roman bride smirks. “What do you know of our Senate, other than the color of their robes?”
“I know the only time bureaucrats challenge warriors is when they’ve got warriors within their ranks,” Aedan says. “Your battle king’s true challenger is a warrior hiding in a white robe,”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Your traitorous trio,” he replies. “Warriors take up arms against each other only when their commanders wish it. No warrior spills the blood of his brothers on the word of a bureaucrat,”
His Roman bride calls to Mud Face, telling him to collect Milky and Reed Eyes, then sends another man to find Bitch Face.
CONT PART 2 THE MONTH OF HONEY 6--->
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