Caesar Gaius PlanusIII Kal. Nov.Niko, my eyes and ears in the Severan hearth, your letter reached me on the Ides of Sextilis, just four days before Imperator Caesar put us onto the Bucarati bound for home. Our coastal journey took over thirty-five days, and we boarded two additional ships, the Krokodilo and a merchant behemoth named Portuna Harena.
Thank you for providing me with details of recent events. Learning that Lady Vita relies heavily on Welltrix to run the household while she tends to Severan business brings me joy. I’ve written to him but received no response. I fear my ignorance of his being alive after marching for Hispania has damaged his opinion of me.
Still, it comforts me that he’s grown accustomed to Roman life and developed a taste for morning puls with honey and cheese. I shall happily provide for his sweet tooth upon my return.
You say his hair is long again? Tell me, Niko, is your hair still short?
You Grecian men dislike having your ears covered!
On that, Lord Scipio is now clean-shaven again.
In her last letter, Lady Vita tasked me with keeping Elder Scipia’s condition from him, yet your details of her decline tempt me to break this oath. Worry not. I will speak of this no more, but keeping such a secret is the antithesis of a true friend’s behavior.
In your last letter, you asked about Scipio’s ‘wife,’ and it’s high time I confess with elaboration. He’s found his match in Brittania with a MAN. Born with the name Aedan, he’s called the Owl by those who encounter his frightful cunning on the battlefield.
I tell you that this match is born of Venus and Mars, for the Owl is as talented at instigating carnal violence as Scipio is at serving it. Their couplings are strange and disturbing, yet this man’s insides calm Scipio’s beastly nature, an ugly thing that grew monstrous after Lord Vitus’ demise.
I’m loathe to detail their frequent communions, but each encounter is fraught with hateful lust. Luna keeps them from killing one another, as she’s developed a rather intense fondness for the narrow-bodied druid.
Oh yes, that reminds me, I must tell you how Luna came to be in the druid’s possession! Our beloved mare was a Gaulish warhorse for several weeks before Scipio got her back.
It happened along the first river we encountered, The Stour…
No bigger fool exists than a man blind with love. Mother cut his last nerve with that word, leaving him with no guilt for slicing her throat.
Discontent, he leans against the Roman, whose words gently tickle his back. Mud Face, Milky, Reed Eyes, and the others conspire at a shady roadside watering station. The two sides speak over a trough where their horses drink, and a civilian stands among them, his curls blacker than Aedan’s.
Large blue eyes watch Servius Tribune with a sensual familiarity.
Lucius, a public works officer from Mediolanum, talks of a festival called The Plebian Games. This city-wide party began yesterday and hosts many parades, including a military procession of new cavalry.
Skipio, freshly shaven and tan from his many days on horseback, will infiltrate the city using that parade.
Lucius will muster the graduates at the wrong procession point while Caesar’s returning cavalry don youthful armor and parade their way into the heart of Mediolanum. To delight the crowds, Milky suggests they wear the battle masks made every year by the local children.
Bitch Face’s attention turns from the raven-haired aedile to Aedan. Some men complicate things solely for entertainment, and behind this cunt’s girlish eyes stews a complication.
Skipio bids the aedile farewell with the same sickening gentleness he’s aimed at Aedan since last night—the cord around his neck tenses when Skipio dismounts. Firm hands reach under Aedan’s armpits and lift him from the beast’s back as if he were a child. He then tethers his leash to a fancy carriage before kissing Looir on her long nose.
“I’m going to change,” Skipio tells her. “Your mission today is to watch our things.”
Looir snorts and raises her head.
“You, stay here,” Skipio orders. “Get into the carriage if the sun gets too hot,”
His heart thunders as a firm hand grasps his chin.
“Did you hear me, A-dawn?”
“I have ears,” he drones.
“I’ll be back after the sun hits the middle,” says Skipio, finger skyward.
“I do not care,” he says blankly.
A boyish smirk crosses Skipio’s face.
“You’ll care the next time I’m up your ass,”
Hope sparks, but Aedan refuses its lure as his Roman bride departs.
“There he goes,” Bitch Face peers down from atop his horse. “Walking toward Lucius Piso, a man far more handsome than you and just as eager for a bruise.”
Absorbing this truth knots Aedan’s stomach.
“You speak my language a bit too well.” He jams a finger up his nostril and digs out a snotty glob. He flicks it at the pretty Roman, who lets out a hiss before tugging the horse’s reigns to avoid it.
Aedan extends his arms skyward, cracking the tension from his arms.
“Take your anger with you as you leave,”
The pretty Roman grumbles under his breath before joining the others.
Skipio and his cavalry depart in groups, leaving their staff and servants behind. While this lot fills up on porridge and fruit, Aedan mounts Looir and rides to the cart bearing Bitch Face’s name.
A wealth of scents, trinkets, and fine clothing await him, but he rifles through the frocks for something more austere. Outside, he gingerly leads Looir onto the road and finds it runs through a city gate. Facing south, he recalls the western fork just miles before their passage through Placentia.
“We must go now,”
The beast jerks her head and nearly pulls him off his feet.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Looir utters a terse snort.
“We must get back to Brittania,”
She stomps a hoof and lowers her head.
“Your loyalty to him is admirable, but he doesn’t own you,”
A grunt and another hoof stomp surprise him.
“You embrace this servitude?”
She raises her muzzle to be free of his fingers.
“This is where we part ways, isn’t it then?”
A low groan escapes her as she moves into him.
“I kill the things I cannot keep, but you’re not mine alone.” Aedan hugs her tight, his heart aching. “I cherish you so much, Looir. Please, come with me,”
She backs away, her head dipping low.
“This is the land of your birth, and I understand why you cannot leave it.” Aedan wipes his tears. “I shall never forget you, Looir, my first Roman love.”
**
Mediolanum belongs to its lessor classes, and Bitch Face’s plain eggplant-colored tunic and leggings help Aedan blend into them. His mother’s cord scales his arm, hidden under a long russet sleeve. The streets sting his bare feet sting with their autumn chill, the pavers warmest near the braziers, where crowds gather sipping mulled wine.
No bread allotment exists here, where every pleb works to earn their crumbs. Even the wealthy, no matter their pampering, dirty their hands alongside those in their employ, and it is they, the patricians, who foot the bill for this festival.
Courtyards appear every five or so cross-streets, offering up carts with wooden panels displaying colorful art of pigs, cows, and fish. Far too many ducks and chickens adorn these panels—these Romans are bloody savages.
One cart offers steaming meat shreds laced with leafy greens, and the cook serves them in a thin, foldable bread, so their hungry patrons can eat while walking. He considers stealing a tasty wrap from an unsupervised child until familiar letters catch his attention through the narrow alley.
A round theater stands where three lanes converge, the whipping flags along its rim bearing the marks of Celtic tribes. Blocky red letters on the entablature are a mix of Roman and Gaulish, and from what Aedan deciphers, this is the Circus Insubrivius.
Impatient citizens clog all three entry stairs, the ground steps made of stone, and upper-level cases made of timber. He avoids the token taker, creeping around the spherical building to find a low window above a canal of shit.
Aedan hops and catches the window’s concrete trim with his fingers. Drawing himself up, he surprises two matrons busy setting sponge-topped sticks beside narrow floor canals. He cartwheels past them to a dark hall where chatter leads him to a circular theater.
Cushions in hand, spectators find their places among the ascending marble rows surrounding a white sandy yard.
Four scantily clad girls bearing Insubri war paint move along the yard’s edge, spreading a tightly woven net over the grains. They hook the web’s looped corners over phallic stone rungs until it’s tight enough to hover above the sand like a second floor.
Wood charcoal permeates the air, already thick with body stink and flowery oils. He climbs onto a wooden beam over the highest seats, his legs swinging and back slinking to the band’s drum, horns, and strings. Youthful vendors trawl among the spectators, offering warm wine, dried meat, and toasted legumes.
His foot drops when a manlet passes, and with a dextrous toe, he snatches a parchment fold of roasted almonds from his back sack. The warm, salty coating of the nuts satisfies his tongue and parches his mouth.
A reverberating gong ushers out a rotund woman, her sleeveless robe covering far too much of that thick body. Ambiani tribal marks line her wide arms, yet her braids speak a different tribe; his knowledge from Fintan, who drew many continental Celts from memory on leather canvasses for him.
She raises her flabby arms for silence, but Aedan shouts: “Show those tits, Bellovaci.”
Pale eyes squint upon hearing her language, and finding Aedan reveals her gold-painted teeth in laughter. Peeling off her robe, she displays her ample portions to the crowd’s delight. Taking her heavy tits in hand, she shakes them at Aedan, who holds the parchment in his teeth and greedily flexes his fingers, both hands grabbing at air.
Her bawdy Latin rises above the uproar, introducing two burly men marked in green Ambiani warpaint. Pectorals jump as bare feet navigate the mesh, each springy step making their flaccid hammers swing. A hush befalls the odeon when each man assumes a crouching position with one lording over the other; it is deliciously erotic.
The bosomy mistress barks, setting her brutes off with a resounding slap of the skin. The chit-clutching crowd erupts into a raucous clamor of cheers, curses, and lucky prayers—these Romans would wager on the sun rising if there were a chance it wouldn’t.
Aedan’s cock itches for attention, but the almonds are just too good to put down.
The smaller man throws his opponent, sending his back to the ropes and his legs over his head. Thick cocks bounce as their shoulders come together in another charge. He gets the upper hand again, and like a cruel child flipping a turtle, he sends his adversary to the ropes for a second time; once more, the smaller man will win the match.
Aedan grows weary of this shouting crowd; skin games lose their allure if one cannot hear a fighter’s grunts or the fury of colliding flesh. He ventures out the way he came, narrowly avoiding the shit pile outside the window.
In the square, vendor carts line the pedestrian paths, where citizens gather in anticipation. Children clamor with excitement as tired parents chug their drinks. Maidens and groups of older men gather along the curb, all clutching flower bunches to their chests.
Distant clopping rouses many to their feet as the first uniformed horseman turns the corner. A two-by-two procession follows, each beast clad in silver and gold plates that shimmer in the midday sun. Riders file past in regal military garb, their clay masks adorned in a childish scrawl that charms the spectating mothers.
Overcome, the young girls tear at their bouquets, tossing petals at the riders as they pass. The older men do the same, marveling at the beefy size of the new graduates. Not one of these horsemen is fresh—no, this murderous lot are Caesarian veterans with Gallic blood under their nails.
Aedan sprints ahead of the procession, rounding a corner and passing onlookers who spare little interest in his charge. Another turn finds him on a quiet lane of apartments. A domus rests low among the insulae, and looming behind its short crown is the city’s northernmost wall.
Workhands lean on their shovels, watching laborers fill make-shift troughs with water—this is where the parade ends!
Across from their position is another city gate, but to reach its inspection station, one must pass through the arch-tower of a citadel.
He climbs the domus to its roof, pausing at a square opening that looks down into the home’s grassy patch of yard. Romans are a strange bunch. He reaches the end of the terra cotta tiles and finds the wall unscalable.
Aedan searches the rectangular borders, desperate for mortar stolen by time. Several moments in, he catches many empty line patterns, but only one forms an uneven ladder to the top.
A running jump takes him over the moat, and he barely catches the hollow line’s edge. With throbbing fingertips, he digs in and reaches for another far to the right. His toes slip, the block’s crusty edges breaking his skin. Pain fades with gentle breathing. He struggles with a new urgency, keen to reach each new rung before his body rebels.
His resolve fades until his next blind reach finds flatness. Giggling madly, Aedan pulls himself onto the wall’s narrow summit, his fingers and toes worn beyond measure. To his dismay, not one building stands within jumping distance. A weary eye revisits the citadel, where a multi-story temple rests on the opposite side of the wall.
Sheets on strings whip in the wind atop its roof while incense bleeds from the highest windows. He speedily jumps over, one of the sheets parting to reveal a dark little girl holding a wash bucket.
“What is this place?” he asks in Latin.
Her lip trembles. “Pretania Lupa,”
“Pretan?” Aedan knows one word more than the other. “The Painted She Wolf?”
The girl’s tawny eyes glow as she recites the sales pitch.
“There’s no better Gaulish gash for a soldier to conquer,”
“There’s Gauls here?” he asks—these Romans are obsessed!
“More and more of them arrive every day,” she affirms brightly, pointing at the single braid parting her long hair. “We got lots of ladies last year. One of the older ones, Talusa, ties my hair every morning. See?”
“That pattern belongs to an Atrabatis maiden,” he says. “Where is she? This Talusa?”
“She’s entertaining,” the girl nods. “Licinius Tribune bought her himself for Lord Primo’s birthday,”
Aedan cocks his head. “What were you before you were Roman?”
“I was born here, but they call my mother a Nubian,” she frowns. “But my mother says we’re Kushite,”
“They call me Gaulish,” Aedan smirks. “But I’m an Ancalite,”
"Ancalite?" the girl gasps. “Like the Owl King?”
Aedan slowly turns. “What do you know of the Owl?”
“The Owl King cut [CONTINUE TO FINISH CHAPTER 20]
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