[CONT]
“The Owl King cut so many Roman throats that the rivers in Brittania ran red with blood,” she says, running a finger under her chin. “He even killed his own mother until the Severii Lion caught him.” She giggles and grabs her backside. “They say Lord Skipio clapped his little cheeks, but good.”
Aedan stalks past her and enters the stairwell.
“They’re in the Rumpus Chamber,” her voice echoes. “She’s very good at pleasuring gangs,”
“Of course she is,” he mumbles. “We Gauls love banging gangs,”
“It’s on the first floor,” her voice fades. “Follow the water sounds,”
If the Painted She Wolf stands as the norm, Roman brothels surpass even the grandest tribal fuck-huts. No customers roam the upper floor, only women of every shape and color tending to themselves when unneeded.
Prattling water lures him downstairs to a tile room with a grand fountain. A shapely woman upon a clamshell stands before the water column, her smooth visage much lighter than the black waves of her hair. Gold dots the tips of her delicate fingers, and her artfully sculpted face reflects an ecstasy felt only during a lustful death.
Pleasurable whines and husky groans lure him to the railing.
This room overlooks a grander one, where furs hang on the walls and torchlight hints of spectator couches. Centering the room is a large round bed hosting a provocative scene: A bearded Roman on his back with an Atrabati woman tented over him, her belly up and her feet outside his legs. She moans as his cock drives up into her ass, and two men suckle each of her gigantic tits. A third buries his finger deep into her fleshy slit, his rough tugs shaking her flesh rolls.
The bearded moron beneath her growls as she climaxes. She brings her legs together on instinct, but the men on her tits pull her knees apart, singing no—not yet. Arms weary and her ass numb, she tips her weary head back. Her eyes meet Aedan’s, and he raises his hand and signs the Atrabati words ‘no mercy.’
She howls and drops herself on the Roman beneath her. Reaching for their cocks, she boldly dares them to fill all of her holes. The wolves close in around her, another of them stepping onto the bed with his cock in hand.
Without warning, the chamber’s double doors fly open.
A cadre of red capes enters, their swords making short work of those attacking from the shadows. The brothel mother pushes her way through them, a tall wig falling from her bald head. She wrenches the Atrabatis from the platform bed and speedily drags her from the room.
His Roman bride struts into the light, clad in his full Tribune regalia. Mud Face and Milky follow, and when one of the naked men grabs a torch iron to attack them, Mud Face quickly raises his bow and drops the fool with a bolt through the eye. This death induces the civilian voyeurs from their darkness, and like snakes fleeing an upturned rock, they slither out the door en masse.
Servius Tribune steps onto the bed and stands over the bearded fool, whose oily cock still stands at attention.
“Crassus Primo Kaius.” Milky saunters onto the platform. “Why didn’t you invite us to your birthday?”
“That’s Kaius Legatus,” Primo snaps until a spatha tip finds his hairy chest. “Servius—wait—”
“Yes, wait a minute,” Mud Face says. “I’m Legatus here,”
“How now,” Milky wonders. “There can’t be two Legati in Mediolanum,”
“You follow Caesar,” Primo stutters, hands out. “Caesar’s a fugitive,”
“Caesar’s not here,” Skipio’s calm tenor delights Aedan.
“Governorship of the Province belongs to—” Primo stops when the spatha tip finds his lips.
“Your most loyal have vanished,” Skipio informs him. “Comum is no longer Roman. As its son, I shall retire to it.”
“You’re… you’re wearing Tribune colors,” Primo says.
“Gaius Planus Caesar and his Praetors in Bellagio will take custody of the Laurio and the aqueduct it feeds,” Skipio declares.
“Yes,” Milky nods. We wouldn’t want Mediolanum and her farms and vineyards to go without water now, would we?”
“You can’t do that…” Primo tries to protest until a boot finds his chest.
“The Laurian aqueducts were privately funded,” Skipio reminds him.
“Yes,” says Milky. “Financed with colonial coin and built by colonial hands,”
“Make sure you tell Pompey that water will continue flowing to the lowlands,” Mud Face nods. “All the way to Genua, so long as the colonials north of Mediolanuim are left alone,”
“The Praetors in Bellagio are loyal to Rome,” Skipio says, the blade still hanging over Primo’s chin. “They will oversee the aqueduct’s upkeep and protect their flow.”
“Until the Senate sees fit to send a new legion to relieve us,” Milky adds.
Out of the dark, a naked wolf attacks, but a rapid swing of his Roman bride’s sword decapitates the man, spraying those nearby.
“Please,” Primo screams, hands reaching.
“Lucius,” Skipio barks, conjuring the raven-haired aedile.
“I’m to inform you that Licinius has opted to remain Tribune of Mediolanum.” He sets a scroll atop Primo’s shriveling manhood. “And you, Decurio Kaius, will return to Rome with news that the sons of the province have left service to see after their families.”
Primo’s eyes dart about the room. “You left Caesar’s command?”
Skipio’s boot hovers over the man’s balls.
“Please…Skip—” Primo cowers. “—Servius Tribune!”
“Bye Jove,” Milky rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to geld the man with a foot, you might have brought the Owl.”
The corners of Aedan’s mouth reach for his ears.
“That druid can snap a man’s neck with his toes,” Milky tells Primo. “It’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen,”
“You haven’t seen those feet pleasure Skipio’s third arm.” Mud Face’s lips turn down. “Witness that, and you’ll know a frightful sight.”
Skipio’s boot retreats, allowing Primo some relief.
“Please, Servius Tribune. You cannot demote me to decurio,” he pleads. “I have worked so hard to maintain order—”
“—Order?” His Roman demands. “Sending men to oust people from their homes?”
“Seizing their accounts?” adds Mud Face.
Milky roars, “Robbing them of citizenship,”
“That was Pompey,” Primo stammers. “We never forced anyone from their homes. We told that it would be in their best interest to go before their deeds got declared forfeit—”
“That makes you a proper jellyfish,” Milky stands, arms folded. “Scaring everyone out of the water for fear of being stung,”
“I was stung by a jellyfish once in Sicilia,” Mud Face recalls. “Tribune, do you remember what your father did to help with the sting?”
Skipio reaches under his pleated skirt and takes hold of his cock. Before the craven Primo can protest, piss strikes his face, then steams down his chest.
Chuckles move through the uniforms, but Aedan’s laughter brings silence.
“Jupiter’s balls,” whispers Milky. “How did you get here?”
Green-eyed confusion turns to fury with a blink. Primo’s high-pitch wail signals a boot stomping his cock. Aedan retreats when his Roman bride ascends the railing. Without time to think, he vaults over him, coming down upon the weeping Primo’s chest.
Aedan backflips over Milky and Mud Face, somersaulting into the narrow hall where a low ceiling sends him sprinting through a maze of doorless fuck rooms.
A large vestibule appears, its grand door promising freedom until his Roman bride’s body slides past, sweeping Aedan’s legs.
Cold ceramic creates pain, but he rolls to his feet when his Roman bride does the same with his sword still sheathed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“This must stop,” Aedan shouts in Greek. “I cannot do this with you,”
“What are you on about?”
“I cannot live with these feelings,” says Aedan. “This must end,”
Puzzlement seizes his Roman bride.
“These feelings,” Aedan beseeches. “They’re new, and I cannot house them,”
His eyes narrow, and his head shakes.
“I’m not capable of this, this emotional shit, Skippy-O,” Aedan’s words surge like water from a broken dam. “I cannot feel things. That sort of madness is beyond me. I cannot love. I’m not designed for it.” Aedan’s eyes pool with water. “You must release me from this bond. This marriage, it cannot stand.”
“What are you on about, you crazy Ganymede bitch?” His handsome face twists in furious amusement. “Marriage? What marriage?”
The chaos within Aedan’s head fades.
“We’re not bonded,” Skipio rails.
Dryness fills his mouth, and his heart hardens.
“I’ve struck that ugly head of yours too many times, and now you’ve gone soft.” Skipio nods, a hand on his hip. “Bonded? What kind of insane shit is that?” He grabs his crotch. “You’re serving a life sentence under my cock. That’s the formula of this relationship.” He pulls his sword and points it. “For killing my father, you will live the rest of your natural life under my thumb.”
Aedan gazes at nothing over the bastard’s shoulder, and when it draws those green eyes and turns the fucker’s head, he launches his fist with the fury of a channel storm.
Unfortunately, just as on the battlefield, it’s not enough to drop the lofty Lion.
A blow to Aedan’s stomach robs his air and drops him to the tiles. He crab-crawls to the door with pawing hands dragging him back. A backward kick strikes a thigh, dropping the Roman cunt, whose strong arms quickly wrap around him.
“Skipio,” screams Lucius.
Aedan rushes out from under him, grabs the fallen sword, and launches his body over Lucius. Upon landing, he snatches a handful of the aedile’s curly hair and brings the blade to his neck.
“A-dawn, no,” the fucker jumps to his feet. “Let him go,”
“Why should I?” he asks, peering over the man’s shoulder.
“He’s not involved in this,” says the bastard. “He’s not involved in us,”
“There is no us, remember?” Aedan counters, then rests his chin on the frightened man’s shoulder. “What’s he to you?”
“He’s nothing.” Skipio raises his hands in defeat.
“That’s not what I heard,” says Aedan, sniffing the man’s large ear. “His ears are large, just like mine. Dark eyes, too. Quite thin, isn’t he? Far easier on the eyes…”
“A-dawn, he’s nothing to me,” the bastard’s chest heaves. “Just another punching bag that lost its allure,”
“Skipio,” Lucius protests. “I speak Greek,”
“But you need him, don’t you?” Aedan presses the blade into the man’s neck, silencing him. “You’re going to step aside, fuckface,”
“What did he just call you?” Lucius asks.
“He calls me that all the time,” says the handsome bastard. “I think that’s my name in his language,”
“Step aside,” Aedan snaps, yanking at the man’s hair.
The fucker shakes his head. “That’s not happening, A-dawn,”
“Oh, it is,” Aedan promises. “One more step and he dies,”
“Think about the logistics,” says the bastard. “My men are outside that door,”
“I’m going back to Brittania,” Aedan declares. “With or without this hostage,”
“Brittania’s gone,” his head swings. “Cassivellaunus surrendered the day we left,”
“You are a liar,” Aedan scowls. “My people still fight,”
“A-dawn,” the bastard falls to his knees. “The tribal leaders betrayed him, too,”
He absorbs this information. “My people?”
“Butchered and dumped into the sea,” gloats the fucker. “There’s no one left on that island, not even your Gods,”
“Brittania is no more?” Aedan whispers.
“Brittiania? No, those Gauls are still there,” Lucius utters in Greek. “Caesar returned to the continent, leaving some king Maud in charge,”
“Shut up,” the fucker growls.
Aedan roars, “You cunting bastard,”
“You’re never going back,” the Lion grumbles, finger aimed. “You’re mine for the rest of your natural life,”
“Fuckface,” he taunts in Latin.
Skipio flexes until Aedan yanks Lucius.
“Come at me, you Roman cunt,”
Skipio nods, his eyes wet with menace.
“Don’t you tempt me, you druid whore,”
“Druid?” Lucius gasps. “Are you the Owl?”
“This is between you and me.” Skipio hardens. “Drop that sword and let him go,”
“Why should I?”
“A-dawn,” he warns. “If he dies, you die,”
“Death is preferable to loving you.”
Aedan drags the blade across the man’s throat.
Lucius clutches his bleeding neck, falling as Aedan runs for the door. Powerful arms enfold him, loosening the spatha from his grip. He kicks and writhes, but the fierce bastard is too strong.
The raging Lion appears over him as hands close around Aedan’s throat. Strong knees trap his legs together, so he aims his thumbs at those gorgeous greens, their fury dropping water onto Aedan’s lips. Stars explode before his eyes as breathing proves impossible.
Agony pulses through his heels with each strike of the tiles, and he gags while shredding the bastard’s muscular arms with what little nails his fingers possess. The world fades, its last offering a furious Roman whose beauty he knew would be his death.
A chilly wind rushes over him as daylight creates a halo around the Roman’s head. Hoof claps grow louder and bring when them a raucous squeal.
Pressure lifts from his throat as the Roman’s unbearable weight retreats.
“No,” Skipio’s roar grows distant. “Look at what he did!”
A snort follows a cloven hoof dragging tile.
“I know you never liked Lucius, but he didn’t deserve that!”
Two blurry legs rise before hardened tips hammer the tile.
“I said no, and I know you understand that word,” Skipio shouts over her squeaks. “It’s the first fucking word you learned as a colt. I know because I was there,”
The beast’s grassy scent finds him.
“No, this is not a negotiation, Luna!” cries Skipio. “We’re not going back and forth on this, do you hear me? Him dead is the only way this ends…”
The oak entry of the brothel swings open.
Servius Tribune emerges with an angry bruise along his jaw and wet crimson shrouding his nose and mouth. Two of his eight phalerae are missing from his harness vest, but a blood-soaked spatha still hangs from his hip belt.
He spares no words to his men, having spent most of them at Venus. He blames her for serving the wiry druid up to his starving heart—despite his lust gorging on the wiry Gaul’s peers in the name of Mars.
Luna trots dutifully behind him, an unconscious Aedan slung over her saddle.
“Bind his legs and wrists and bag his head,” he orders, lending no eye to the dead Lucius, brought out of the brother under a tarp. “Toss him into the goods cart bound for home and chain it shut,”
“Tribune,” Actus affirms with a nod.
“He comes out for nothing,” he adds, temper untamed. “Not to eat, piss, drink, or shit. His feet do not touch the earth until that cart stops at my front door,”
Actus nods, “Yes, Tribune.”
All watch him stalk down the road, and Luna follows once free of her druid.
“Poor Lucius.” Castor’s hand covers his mouth in horror. “I warned him about bringing that thing to Rome,”
“Your concern fools no one,” Titus declares, stepping to him. “Pull another stunt like this again, and I’ll make certain that Lion’s rage comes for you,”
Castor draws back. “I had nothing to do with this,”
“If that’s the case,” Planus muses. “You’ve nothing more to say on the matter,”
Castor turns his back on them and mounts his horse.
“I’ll await your list of ruffians going with me to Octoduras,” he speaks at Titus. “And for your apology,”
Planus folds his arms and watches the younger man gallop away.
“I don’t think the Owl ever considered Lucius a threat,”
“If Castor didn’t dangle Lucius in front of him,” Titus wonders. “Then what made him flee?”
Planus faces him and says, “Love.”
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