Vibrant tunics litter the grasslands, their owners hacking away at the forest. Another group surrounds them, collecting newly cut trees and rolling them over a ribbed assembly of smaller logs. Workhorses form lines at the roping station, their twitchy legs eager to haul fresh timber to the carpenters near shore.

Nothing matches the hardness of a tree against one’s ass when a climax comes. Britannia’s narrow forests make Skipio long for the thick oaks of home, ageless alpine giants with massive ground roots that nested his many one-handed pleasures.

Today, he and Planus join the lesser ranks in butchering the woodlands, coppicing what they must for firewood. Sweat saturates every hair, even the short and curlies, and when the work stoppage horn sounds, they stand in line with the others at the water station with a silent understanding; neither drink before anyone else.

This fellowship sets them apart from the other squad commanders, who linger under tightly strung canopies, watching the labor from a comfortable distance.

“How many of those bastards learned to piss in the pot before we did?” Skipio complains. “Yet there they sit, wary of a splinter,”

“Given our enemy’s habit of targeting the upper ranks,” Planus says, plucking someone’s tunic from the grass and drying the wetness under his arms, “I doubt any of them will be with us much longer,”

“Why do they kill the decorated?” asks ink-haired Actus, still wearing his tunic. He wipes his face with the hem, bearing his chiseled stomach and protruding navel.

“Gauls haven’t advanced much since the gods made man,” Planus explains in a scholarly fashion. “Back when we fought over caves if an army’s leader fell, his men left the battlefield.”

Skipio takes his turn at the water barrel.
“Our enemies are cavemen now?”

“I speak of what I see,” says Planus, joining him. “These Celtii think killing a superior will compel our battalions to depart.”

“If they were here,” Actus says, scowling at the hillside observers. “They’d have a sizable target,”

“Oh, they’re here.” Skipio empties another bowl over his shorn head, finding solace in the cool rinse behind his ears. “They’re watching us right now. Counting every tree we cut, planning to add one of our heads for each,”

Planus fills his bowl again, gulps its contents, then belches. “If that’s the case, they’re watching from the clouds, for the birds linger undaunted, shitting on us and singing about it,”

Laughter erupts from the line.

“Speaking of shit and song,” Skipio says with a grin. “Where’s Titus?”

“He set sail yesterday,” a sullen Actus replies.

“Pity,” Planus says. “No one knows more about chopping trees than he does. His family supplies more lumber to Rome than the Mare Nostrum does salt,”

“He gets to return to the continent,” Actus grouses, drinking his fill. “While we bust our asses in Vulcan’s backyard,”

“Given his love of sail,” Planus argues with a smile. “I imagine Titus would swiftly sign his life over to Pluto for any chance at trading places with us at this moment,”

Skipio huffs a laugh. “Indeed,”

“He’s the only man I’ve ever met that cannot float,” Planus declares, leading the pair uphill. “We all grew up in Comum. Our fathers tossed us into the Lario at one point least expected. How has he never acclimated?”

“He doesn’t like his wool getting wet,” Skipio chuckles.

Though also friends with Titus, the younger Actus keeps silent; as a mere second in command, he must maintain respect.

“You think we’ll leave when he returns with more ships?” he says instead.

“Oh no, we’re not going anywhere.” Planus speaks as if standing on a stage. “Our leader will never leave until he defeats the most powerful man on this island.”

Skipio levels a silent warning to his old friend, who ignores it.

“This invasion,” Planus adds, “was never about acquiring resources—”

“—for which this shitty island has none,” Actus interjects.

“Indeed,” concurs Planus, “no, we’re here recovering his lost face,”

“Not in front of the lesser ranks,” Skipio whispers.

Planus nods his compliance as a shirtless Drusus appears, his skin and hair dripping, and muscles taut from the day’s labor. Actus offers to fetch some water, but the young man claims that too much liquid sours his stomach; he will replenish his blood’s salt with the day’s fish.

“A ship landed with dispatches and some food,” Drusus shouts over the tree cutters’ rhythmic hacking. “Planus, your honeyed curds are here,”

“Edesia be praised,” rouses Planus, “We shall have libum tonight,”

Skipio grimaces at the notion of ricotta, or any spreadable cheese.

“Our cooks always made libum cake for the altars.” Drusus stands close enough now to speak at a reasonable volume. “If we got caught sneaking a piece, we got our hands whipped,”

Actus hotly interjects. “I’ll never understand any adult that strikes a child,”

An older soldier passes by them, axe in his hand.
“Spoken like a man that’s never had a child,”

“Go get your water, grandad!” Planus barks in good nature. “And don’t spank any boys along the way.”

Playful caws rise from the line, even the passing axe man chuckles.

“What’s that?” Actus asks, a hand over his narrow eyes.

A powdery tan horse appears on the horizon, its rider laying low.

“Castor,” whispers Drusus, sprinting out to meet it.

A new horn sounds when the watchmen see the beast. The mare falters into camp, burns covering her hindquarters with crimson revealing a gash on her shoulder. Castor bounces listlessly atop her, without his helmet and lance. Actus grabs her reigns as Skipio takes her by the bit.

“We’re under attack,” Castor gasps, his jawline bruised. “Foraging north, they came out of the woods,” He falls into Drusus’s arms but reaches for Skipio. “They surrounded your father. His legion is all that remains,”

“They took out three legions?” says Planus.

Actus hands off the mare’s reigns to the arriving stable hand.
“Take her to water and tend her injury,”

“The farm you found,” Skipio says, kneeling to face his ex-lover. “It was a trap,”

Castor struggles to stand and nods.
“Vitus sent me off as more emerged from the trees,”

“Mars demands us,” Planus whispers.

*

Smoke shrouds the valley as riderless horses seek any place that won’t get them killed. Roman corpses form a gruesome fence around Vitus and his men, keeping the tightly woven mass of painted fury at bay.

The enemy chips away at their barrier, driving fiery carts into the Roman dead, filling the air with stench of singed hair and burnt flesh. Vitus sees the mastermind of this torment—a gangly druid with painted brown skin that bears white skeletal bones. His mask resembles a woodland owl, and the wicker sticks in his crown burn with flames that give no smoke.

Suddenly, the druid hops from his chariot and sprints for his footmen, a long finger pointing at something in the east. Through the smoke comes Skipio, leading his red and silver battalion down the hill in V-formation. Before anyone can holler down the line, the Roman battalion pierces the Gallic offensive.

Skipio’s horse, a foul-tempered replacement for Luna, knocks aside a thick-bellied Gaul and stomps him to death beneath the hoof. The beast makes space, aggressively paddling his front legs and kicking his hindquarters, twirling about as Skipio’s blade cuts down those unlucky enough to enter their orbit.

Drusus and the lancers enter the skirmish line, further diluting the blue skin formation. The spearmen’s leader, Castor, isn’t supposed to be among them, yet he fights wounded alongside his lover.

Roman horses ride in from the south, Planus leading them to trap what remains of the Gallic footmen—most of them women. On the hill, mounted archers await the signal to dismount, their arrows ready to strike any Gaul running from the chaotic swarm.

The smoke thins and before long, fatigue captures the first horse. In battle, when one beast falls, others follow in short measure.

A spear strikes Skipio’s beast, and he quickly dismounts as it stumbles. When its convulsions cease, he hops onto its corpse, defending his position in the woad-covered swarm by swinging his spatha. Arms leave bodies, necks split, and innards spill, covering Skipio with pungent spatter.

He punches a painted chest with his sandaled boot when something brushes over the plume on his helmet. Overhead, an owl-masked man soars, tartan skirt whipping aside and exposing his spindly legs. Head aflame, the acrobatic skeleton hops from one Roman shoulder to the next, slicing chin straps and yanking off helmets.

Skipio hacks a path to the newly vulnerable, protecting them until their helmets return. He moves from man to man, keeping time with the agile druid whose aerial flips come on a song of flapping cloth.

Then, the wiry bastard lands upon Terentius Drusus Valerian.

Skipio’s world slows as the young man’s helmet drops from his head.

The agile druid rises like a spear, flipping his body mid-air with the graceful symmetry of the god, Glykon. His rangy bare feet reclaim Drusus’s shoulders before his long, bony arm dips. He drags a narrow blade across the young man’s neck and before the line there turns red, the druid moves on to the next Roman, a deadly bee pollinating a ghastly bouquet.

Castor’s cry returns a proper cadence to Skipio’s world.

The spearman falls onto his lover, his mud-slick hand unable to stop the blood. Rage takes hold when his efforts fail and with tears in his eyes, he takes up his lance, Pushing through his comrades, Castor pursues the druid before planting a foot and hurling his weapon.

The deadly lance coasts above the melee with fearful speed, sailing into the spry Gaul’s path and forcing him to land. Castor collects a fallen man’s spatha and confronts the monster painted as death. They circle one another without words, each calculating the best way to kill and move along.

Rage hastens Castor’s sword, and he lunges while the weedy druid leaps skyward, his foot bouncing off Castor’s blade. Above him, the man’s narrow body curls before nimble fingers pluck free Castor’s helmet, exposing his dark hair.

Castor attacks when the druid lands, but his lanky opponent is too quick, hopping over low strikes and ducking high swings. Soon, the walking bones tires of the dance. He drops to his hands and knees and whips out a painted leg that sweeps Castor behind the ankles.

The druid crawls speedily over a compatriot’s corpse and snatches an axe from her stiffened hand. He vaults over a burning chariot, descending like an owl about to collect a rabbit, his reedy arm back with an axe destined for his victims head.

Skipio steps grabs his bony ankle, and with one swing of his powerful arm, slaps the thin bastard into the mud. He follows through by thrusting his sword, but the druid tucks into a ball and begins spinning on his tailbone.

A foot lashes out, striking his sword-bearing arm and sending his spatha across the battlefield. The long-limbed owl rolls backward to stand, and pauses to study his adversary’s silver-plated face.

The Roman raises his metal mask and the owl’s dark eyes widen. Small nipples harden beneath their painted sheen. “It’s you,” comes a steely voice.

“I don’t speak your shit language,” snarls Skipio.

An ornery smile forms beneath the hem of the owl mask as long fingers pull aside the tartan skirt.

Skipio fights to keep his eyes on the mask, but Venus whispers in his ear. His gaze drops in time to catch painted toes colliding with his chin. Teeth come together with a crack, filling his jaw with a pleasant agony and the crafty druid seems amazed that his grinning opponent still stands.

“Take him,” Castor screams. “He killed Drusus.”

A new Roman appears behind the druid, bringing his spatha down.

The agile Gaul launches skyward, turning heels over ass and landing atop the man’s shoulders. Another cut chin strap. Another helmet torn free. He drops, trapping the Roman’s head between his skinny thighs and before the poor fool can stab upward, a quick twist of the druid’s lower body snaps his neck.

Such a magnificent kill brings fire to Skipio’s throat. Minerva awakens his resolve when the druid dismounts and sprints from the battlefield. Grinning like a child, Skipio snatches a fallen spear and pursues the fiery-headed bastard out of the melee.

Free of the smoke, he takes aim at the flapping tartan before hurling the lance. It lands precisely where intended, nailing the fabric into the ground and jerking the narrow-ass bastard off his feet.

A flaming headpiece rolls across the grass as the druid finds his feet and begins tugging viciously at his caught skirt. Unable to free himself, he measures the brawny Roman’s advance before raising his mask and letting loose a sharp whistle.

Skipio shortens the distance between them until a familiar horse gallops past.

“Luna,” he cries.

The white mare stops mid-trot and slowly turns her neck. Mane unbraided and her back filthy, she dips her muzzle like she did when caught prowling the orchard for low hanging fruit.

“Looir,” yells the naked druid, a skull painted on his face.

Skipio ignores his exposed body—not an easy task given the man’s girthy cock.

“Luna,” he shouts anew when she trots toward the druid.

The mare stands with her head pivoting between them.

“Looir!” The druid then screams to her in Greek, “Time to drink!”

Luna charges off, speeding past the druid whose long arm catches her around the neck. One fell swoop finds his belly on her back, and the strapping Roman pursues, gaining ground with arms and legs pumping.

Skipio focuses on Luna’s stringy mane, its lower portion wedged within the crack of that painted cretin’s tight little ass. The druid brings up his hand and makes a round hole with his fingers. He brings it to his open mouth and thrusts his tongue out.

The Roman slows with a smile, not at thoughts of shoving his cock into that mouth, but at the inevitable disaster as Luna approaches the tree line. Abruptly, the mare stops, jarring the druid, who turns to find a low-hanging branch inches from his face.

Thankful, the druid lays flat and kisses her rump.

“Luna,” Skipio pouts, watching as they enter the trees.