This violent summer is the hottest in memory.

A pretty Roman takes the time to cover the dead farmer and her children while his brothers hack away at her barley field.

Aedan the Owl squats on the highest branch, his foot rising to scratch the itch behind his ear with a toe. He sees Bitch Face, whose rage over a slaughtered lover burns hot, and smiles, a rare show of emotion that unsettles his cadre on the forest floor.

The leader of this Roman harvest, known on the wind as Gaius Trebonius, grows impatient and commits more to the reaping—an anticipated mistake.

Aedan drops from his perch, his feathery shoulder guards flapping about his face mask, and his warriors rise when his long feet strike dirt. Unlike other war parties, this druid’s faction employs no fierce charge or hearty battle cry. They slip from the trees, a mass of blue flanked by horse-drawn chariots that roll silently over grass.

Roman watchmen, eight in number, are the first to die, their isolation ensuring that their cut throats go unseen.

The Owl orders a man to ignite the whale oil spilled days ago around this field, but before that, his torch kisses the Owl’s wicker crown. Fire shapes a line around the harvesting legions, their chaotic panic a tasty sight.

Trebonius struggles to quell his men’s terror. Heart pounding, he watches in horror as his horsemen charge away from their trapped comrades to confront the Gallic advance.

Aedan’s arms give wordless orders from the basket of his fastest chariot. His most loyal, a collection of druidesses and noble matrons, pull their cabs behind the footmen. This lures the Roman horseman, and as the red-cloak cavalry plows into the painted horde, Aedan commands his bitches to retake their position.

The armored cavalry struggles at the mercy of barbarian slingers whose stone bullets crack arm bones and dent helmets while axes and swords torment their horses.

Suddenly, the fiery-headed Owl divides the chariot corps, breaking off and leading his chosen toward the burning barley field. They race around the fire ring, with slingers striking down any Roman brave enough to jump through the flames.

With the body count mounting, Trebonius dispatches three men to seek the nearby legions.

The trio barely breaks free before the relentless Owl gives chase. Two men succumb to the druid’s deadly stones, while the third, fearing his fate, brutally urges his horse forward.

Then, in a moment crafted by the Gods, Castor and a pair of sentries ride between the messenger and the druid’s chariot.

Aedan orders his charioteer to rush the northern ridge as Bitch Face gains ground. He presses her to remain on the path, his judgment resolute even as the pretty Roman gets close enough that Aedan hears his threat to drive a sword through his skeletal heart.

The brawny woman abides before turning at Aedan’s command. She yanks the beast’s reins, veering the chariot away from the bluff. Its left wheel hops the rocky precipice while Bitch Face, on his steed, deftly turns with them, ignoring the cries of his men and their horses as they tumble over the ridge.

Castor readies his lance for a toss as the Owl climbs his charioteer like a tree, curling his bare feet over her muscular shoulders. He loads a stone into his sling and begins spinning until a blurry wheel takes form over his flaming head.

A stone fires with frightening speed, forcing Bitch Face to toss low. Aedan hops from the charioteer’s shoulders as the spear pierces her back. He rolls over the grass, losing his fiery crown but regaining his feet. He sprints after the roaming chariot, grasping the woman’s corpse to climb back into its cab.

Castor’s steed hops over the woman’s body after the Owl takes hold of the reins and pushes her out. He comes alongside the racing cart and gropes for the Owl’s feathery cloak. A nimble leg flits out, and his faceplate bears the brunt of the druid’s heel.

Another powerful strike brings darkness.

The galloping steed slows as its pretty rider slumps. Sickle blade in hand, the Owl rounds the chariot and returns for the kill.

Aedan smiles beneath his mask until a swift horse invades, driving him asunder. Roman cavalrymen enter and surround the slumbering Bitch Face, and one of them is foolish enough to pursue. The man catches up quickly and reaches for the horse’s collar band. Aedan lashes out, dragging the tip of his curvy blade over the man’s hand, ripping the skin apart.

Along the hillside stands an endless row of legionnaires, united behind their battle king, Caesar.

At the far woods, another cavalry regiment dismounts, their archers shoulder to shoulder before launching a volley of arrows. The charioteers picking off burn survivors perish under a storm of projectiles, their horses fleeing the scene with arrows stuck in their hinds.

A second contingent rides out behind the archers, each horse carrying two Romans. They encircle the main corps of chariots, one rider cutting the horses free before the other jabs a pole into the wheels and sends the cabs skyward.

Aedan whistles for Looir, and the mare appears alongside the chariot’s beast within moments. He hops onto her back and rides her standing toward the fight.

Suddenly, the mare slows as a third Roman force crests like a wave consuming a tidal flat. Their strapping leader wears only a medallion-laden harness and a loincloth.

♡ A lion’s snout adorns his helmet, and a chain of owl skulls hangs from his muscular waist. The ferocious beauty descends upon the blue horde, sliding from his beast as if aided by the gods, his brutal blade cutting down everyone it touches. ♡

Aedan drops to his ass and then steers Looir toward the skirmish line, her hide pulsing between his bare legs. His urgent screams for the carnyx-holders to sound a withdrawal pierce the chaos.

Four hornblowers heed the call, while the fifth shrieks as a sword tip punches through his youthful chest. The boy falls away to reveal the ferocious Lion.

A snout and fleece obscure his face, but the angry cerise marks along his left tit tickle Aedan’s memory.

**

Retreat isn’t always a loss.

Cassibelanus greets Aedan with a bearhug, lifting him from the ground amidst raucous cries of admiration. He receives a victor’s welcome for completing his task—delaying the Romans at any cost.

Aedan cares little for the warlord and less for his followers, mainly young Kelr, whose once lustful eyes now carry envious scorn.

“Be nicer to him,” Ciniod whispers. “He might be your next father,”

Aedan thrusts his fingers down his throat.

“One day,” she shrills, jumping away as vomit erupts. “You’ll bring your stomach up through that gullet,”

Cassibelanus steps over the puddle. “How many legions?”

“We attacked two before three arrived.” Aedan wipes his mouth. “They killed most of my bitches and took the rest away in chains,”

“You draw women like flies to honey,” Cassibelanus shakes his head. “And cunt’s aren’t to your liking,”

The gathering men chuckle, but Aedan remains steely.

“He’s kept plenty of girls from motherhood,” Ciniod praises. “That warrants a certain loyalty,”

“When you explain it that way,” says the warlord. “It makes perfect sense.”

More laughter, none of it Aedan’s.

“What about my bitches?” he presses.

“We can’t spare any men or horses for a rescue mission.” Kelr passes with arms folded. “Your campaign today costs us over thirty chariots,”

“His mission succeeded,” Ciniod reminds. “Chariots can be rebuilt,”

“Women cannot,” Aedan adds.

“Well,” Cassibelanus smirks. “Not at the same speed,”

Laughter explodes as Aedan whispers to his mother.

“We must talk.”

Ciniod picks bits of flesh from his black curls.

“Why a skeleton?” she frowns at his body paint and how his obtuse cheeks and thick brows speak of sins with her brother best forgotten.

“The son of the old Roman.” He slaps her hand away. “He lives,”

Ciniod tuts. “No man could’ve survived that fall.”

“You took a totem from the old Roman’s things,” he says. “Where is it?”

“That wooden trinket? It was nothing special,”

Aedan thrusts out his lower jaw. “Where is it?”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“That trinket is a god,” he says coldly. “One that watches over his family,”

She hesitates. “I burned it with Fintan,”

“You stupid cunt,” he says, head shaking.

“Their gods are nothing,” she says.

“This god, Minerva,” he argues. “She guides warriors’ hearts and, along with the rest of her house, leads Rome to devour us all.”

Ciniod stares at him, fear tugging at her heart.

“What was the totem?” he asks. “a Leo?”

“A what?” she demands. “I never learned that Greek gibberish,”

“Was it a cat, a snake, a bird?”

“It was an owl,” she says, relief clouding her son’s miserable face. “I thought that bastard Roman took it from one of our fallen. They worship no owls,”

“Oh but they do, mother,” he sighs. “And your ignorance of her form may have saved you from her wrath, but not that of the Roman’s son,”

“Excite you, did he?” she accuses, her son’s glare its own reward. “You have so few weaknesses boy, but this strange lust of yours equals a thousand faults.”

Five days pass before scouts report of a Roman camp ten miles east. Cassibelanus speedily fortifies their position along the Tamesa, but he needs two more days to fully implement their defenses.

Fintan’s son, Aedan, proves a cunning little fuck whose influence grows at a frightening pace. The reverent Ostin suggests Aedan take his father’s role as advisor to the Catuvellauni, but Cassibelanus cannot stand the creepy druid.

Aedan the Ancalite’s strategic talent is undeniable, and this is why Cassibelanus bars him from interacting with the other tribal leaders, all conniving men eager to take control once the Roman incursion ends.

The noble Avalin believes that death in battle is a suitable fate for Aedan, an opinion that leads Cassibelanus to include him in Kelr’s war party. On that subject, many question his decision to allow Kelr to lead a raid on the Romans when the Ancalite proves time and again that he is far superior at it.

The fiercest charioteers among them are loyal to their ‘Owl King,’ a moniker that sickens Cassibelanus, and that’s why he elevates Kelr over a druid that may or may not be his best friend’s son.

Two days east, a legion crosses the grassy stretch near Cattle-Shit Pass, and the manlet, Kelr, formulates a center-line attack.

Aedan points out the invaders march two across in a single column, clearly a lure, but the manlet misunderstands his concern.

“Do you fear for Roman lives?” Kelr accuses.

“That’s an imbecilic question,” says Aedan. “None marching down there is Roman,”

Kelr ignores the snickering and mounts his horse.

“Romans march four men across on open terrain.” The druid reminds. “This legion is bait,”

“Fine, they’re bait,” Kelr decrees. “You and your girls will lead the charge into the center line and cut it in half. We men will roll in and fight the severed faction,”

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard today,” Aedan drones.

Kelr growls, “You get your bony ass onto a chariot, druid.”

The Owl King scratches at his skull-ridden face. The manlet lacks the guile for such intention—yes, sending him and his bitches on a suicide run is the work of Cassibelanus. At least now he knows where he stands among the Catuvellauni.

Looir comes alongside him. He climbs onto her back and leaves the formation, taking his bitches in their chariots with him.

Heavy gallops soon reveal the manlet.

“Where are you going?” He demands, moving his beast into Looir’s path. “You have no faith in my plan, then leave on foot.”

“Looir belongs to me,” Aedan says.

The manlet’s skin burns red through the blue woad. “Well, these chariots belong to me!”

Without urging, Looir begins a fanciful trot around the manlet’s horse, dancing aggressively until the manlet’s mare retreats from her position.

“Take this prancing Roman cunt and go,” yells Kelr.

Aedan speaks over his shoulder. “You are the only prancing cunt around here,”

Looir strolls onward, past many smiles but no laughter, and when they reach the overlook, Aedan turns and finds thirty faces behind them.

The Catuvellauni chariots below charge the enemy line, but the marching Gauls part like drapes when the first horse reaches it.

Roman horsemen spill from the trees, crossing the grassy plain under a cloud’s dark shadow. They surround the fight, trapping the chariots in a pell-mell with the continental Gauls.

The manlet’s death is assured; even if his warriors outfight the Gallic footmen, their exhaustion will aid the Romans encircling their slaughter arena.

Soon comes The Lion, naked but for his boots, owl skull baubles, and loincloth. Wielding a sword in each hand, he cuts through the raiders with abandon, his sweaty skin boasting a glorious red sheen.

A second wave enters the fray, lancers adept at thrusting their spears into chariot wheels. Here, the Lion shows mercy, cutting free the horses before their chariots upend. His head rises upon noticing the druids on the hill, revealing the phantom from Aedan’s vision, the beauty from the falls, the son of the man who killed his father.

The Lion grabs his cock through his loincloth and casts a menacing smile.

Aedan dismounts, his backside warming at the thought.

“Come and get me, fuckface,” he mumbles.

Suddenly, the Lion stalks toward their position.

“I think he heard you,” whispers one of the girls.

Looir shrieks as black horses barrel through their group, their armored riders swinging with deadly accuracy. With little care for themselves, the women surround him and the mare.

“Pick a rider,” he says. “Drag him down, take his horse, and flee.”

They move on command, one of them taking Looir as Aedan somersaults over a dismounted Roman. Sun warms his painted back as he drops onto his hands and sweeps the man behind the knees with a determined leg.

It is Bitch Face, whose tumble robs him of wind and lance. Aedan collects the spear and touches its deadly tip to the pretty man’s neck.

“Thank whatever gods you pray to. I’m allowing you to live another day.”

“I’m going to cut your throat,” growls Bitch Face in the Brittonic tongue.

A shadow cools his back, and he turns in time to block an incoming sword with the spear’s wood. Bloodlust shines in the Lion’s fierce green eyes, and with each sword strike, Aedan savors his delicious scent of sweat and death.

Unable to match the Lion’s strength, he begins twirling the spear, desperate to distract those verdant orbs. Fearless, the Lion thrusts his hand into the pinwheel illusion, seizing the rod’s middle and flipping Aedan from his feet.

He performs a backflip, but his lofty opponent tips back his head, clearing his jaw from Aedan’s powerful kick. The lance splits as Aedan somersaults over the grass, his metatarsals throbbing. Regaining his feet, he whistles for Looir.

Without words, the Lion closes the distance, and Aedan confronts his enemy as the mare swoops in and catches his arm. There are no calls for ‘Luna’ from the steely Roman this time as his horse races for the trees.

The cheeky druid forms a circle with his hand and brings it to his open mouth. His tongue out, he goads the delectable Roman into spreading those thick, blood-painted lips.