Rome never wastes time establishing roots.

Cut trees frame their new fort, their penetration lasting; unlike the spindly logs around their marching camps, they burn before advancing. Lofty watchtowers crest the corners, with connecting banquettes full of pacing archers.

Ditches mark the land on three sides, deep rips that look like Taranis dug the soil out with his fingers. A stretch of the Tamesa protects the southern wall, and as days grow short, cold air collides with the heat, bringing downpours that expose the barrier’s foundations.

Such erosions go unseen on stormy nights, which is how Aedan gets inside.

Romans store nothing along their inner walls, yet the naked druid crosses an open stretch without fear, the heavy rain cloaking his presence. He comes upon a pole of wood strips, each skinny board bearing strange letters that point to grassless paths.

Leather-bound tents line one trail, the voices of tired men drifting from their drawn flaps. Another road boasts larger tents, each with a partnering three-horse stable.

Looir is in none of them.

An innermost lane reveals two longhouses without windows. A pair of sentries walk around them, meeting in the middle and making small talk before repeating their orbit.

Inside the first, he finds cattle separated by sacks of barleycorn. Wooden racks hang from the rafters with animal skins stretched tight over their grills. His ornery spirit nags at him to cut the livestock free, but his mission takes precedence.

Aedan climbs to the roof of the smaller lodge and drops in through an air transom. Here, the Bibroci women sleep with nothing more than some hay to keep them from the dirt. None of his bitches from the farmhouse raid are among them.

One wakes upon seeing his figure against the wall. Hair braided and face flush, she elbows the girl beside her, and soon, word of the Owl’s arrival travels to their sanctioned leader, the druidess Eadaoin.

Soon, the square-jawed woman appears and sits crossed-legged before him.

“Tell me Ostin survived Tamesa,”

Aedan swings his head.

“He came here, you know, offering your life up for the Lion.”

Aedan crouches to her level and smirks.

“That Lion,” she adds. “He’s as strange as you when full of blood,”

A voice rises from the darkness. “He keeps us safe,”

“Without him,” another speaks. “We’d all be pregnant,”

“Pregnant or worse,” gripes a third.

Eadaoin rolls her eyes.
“The Lion’s got his advocates here,”

“Where are my bitches?” he asks.

Eadaoin averts her gaze.
“They planned an escape and got killed for their trouble,”

“The Lion?” he presses.

“No,” she tells him. “He wasn’t here when it happened,”

Aedan mourns his women, brave to the end.
“Are there no men left among you?”

“Is there a man among us?” Eadaoin speaks over her shoulder and grunts when no one says a word. “Nothing nice to say about your Lion now, have you?”

“We got one man that we know of here,” one girl grouses.

Eadaoin snaps, “Who said that?”

“It makes no matter,” Aedan speaks. “If he hides among you, he’s safe.”

“No man is safe around the Lion.” Eadaoin swallows hard. “No druid, that is,”

“Then it’s good there are no male druids among you,”

Eadaoin sighs and then kicks the nearest sleeper.

“Get up,” she says, then turns to Aedan. “My brother is among us,”

Alon the Bibroci, a failed druid’s apprentice, rolls over and regards him with those bright acorn-colored eyes. Unlike the others, his face is clean, his pointy chin shaven, and his short locks in braids.

“Tell the Owl what you know,” she orders.

The petite man’s diminutive voice comes like a whisper.
“One of them knows I’m here, but he says nothing to the Lion,”

“His name is Castor,” adds Eadaoin.

Aedan simpers. “The pretty one with the bitchy face?”

“That’s him,” Eadaoin replies, nodding.

“What is…” Aedan tests Alon. “What is the Lion’s name?”

“He’s called Skipio by his tent-mates,” says Alon. “Decurion by his underlings,”

Aedan knows how his bitches ended up dead.

“The battle king calls him Lucius Scipio Servius.” Eadaoin puts herself between his glare and her brother. “All these damned wolves have three names. Some go by the middle name, and others by the first,”

“Marcus Castor Junius calls him Skipio,” says Alon.

“Marcus Castor Junius calls him Skipio,” Aedan snidely apes. “Have you picked out a bridal garland for your wrists yet?”

Soft laughter ripples through the dark.

“I could ask the same of you,” Alon counters. “Castor tells me you stalk Lord Skipio like a smitten letch,”

The Owl’s smile fades.
“Was it you or Kelr who told Lord Lion of our stake defenses?”

Alon goes wide-eyed. “What defenses?”

“He couldn’t have told them anything,” Eadaoin shakes her head. “We’ve been prisoners here since Avona,”

“You’ve all been here too long.” Aedan looks past her and at the many lumps in the shadows. “Tonight, we’ll begin your first steps to freedom.”

Eadaoin leans closer, her eyes eager.
“Will there be an attack?”

“Where are the buckets used to refill their above-ground well?”

“I don’t know,” she answers.

“Do they take you outside the wall to collect water?”

“No,” she tells him. “There’s a sluice outside the southern wall, near the third tower. Water runs through it and then seeps through a cloth. We draw the filtered water.”

“Are the buckets dry when you get them?”

Eadaoin shakes her head.
“No, they’re floating in the clean water pond when we get there,”

“In the morning, you’ll reach under here.” Aedan draws part of the fortification’s wall in the dirt between them. “There’ll be a bucket against the wall, where the tower-walker cannot see,”

Other women join their huddle, and one pushes Alon aside.

“It’s filled with yew juice paste,” he says to their smiles. “Smear your buckets with it before the water assembly begins, then sink it in the pond,”

“Wait,” Alon objects. “Won’t that kill them?”

“Some of them will die,” Eadaoin laughs. “Most, it will make too sick to fight,”

“You do your part,” Aedan nods. “And your uncle’s men will be back at sundown,”

“I have one condition.” Eadaoin asserts. “Take my brother with you,”

Some of the women retreat, others suck their tongues.

“It’s just a matter of time before one of this lot outs him,” she says with volume, and when Aedan aims a wordless scowl, she adds, “You will take him or line the buckets yourself,”

He climbs to the transom. “I count to ten, then I leave alone,”

Outside in the downpour, Alon drops into the mud behind him.

“Stop looking at me,” the Bibroci snaps. “Your ugly face turns my stomach,”

Aedan dips his head and stares into him.
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll fuck it,”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Alon grimaces. “I heard how you defiled that centurion,”

Aedan says nothing as he thinks of how the Bibroci will drown on their way back to the hideout. Together, they scramble across the clearing under stinging rain.

“We must hurry—” Aedan finds Alon no longer there. “Smegma licking cunt!”

He sprints to a canopied stall, where three horses stand while chowing long grass. One is his war prize, and beaming, he kisses the beast’s long muzzle.

“Looir,” he mouths the word without a voice.

The beast merrily bobs her head before emitting a squeal.

“Luna?” a husky voice calls from the tent.

Three heartbeats pass before the muscular Skipio emerges naked, his thick manhood swinging as he struts to the horse. Hairless but for the golden thatch around his cock, he snatches a brush from the saddle stand.

“Did you have another dream, girl?” This gentle voice becomes him. “You’ve had quite an adventure on this island, haven’t you?”

Looir moves into his embrace as he brushes her shoulder.

“Do you dream of the Owl?” he asks her. “I dream of him, too,”

Aedan shivers in his patch of darkness.

“Did he braid your mane and make you a barbarian?” Skipio drags the brush over her croup, his lips down in prideful admiration. “I’m going to fuck his ass hard enough to make his mind go feeble,”

♡ Aedan lifts his back from the wall. ♡

He reaches from the darkness, fingers stopping short of the man’s smooth, sun-kissed skin. He longs for a handful of that taut, supple ass—but then, like a bad smell, Reed Eyes intrudes.

“Pilus Junius took his hidden Gaul through the gate.”

“Where are they?” Skipio demands, tossing the brush.

“At the camp cistern,” he replies. “Something about the Owl poisoning our water,”

Skipio’s face turns boyish when he laughs.
“He fell for my trap,”

“The water crews will miss having those wenches refill the cistern every day,” Actus laughs with him. “Now they’ll have to go back to doing their job,”

Aedan slips out of the stall, his shaky Latin discerning he’s been made a fool.

Caring little if the watch guards spot him, he stomps back to the wall and clumsily slips under the barrier. He strokes through the murky depths to where the undertow cannot catch his legs, and he breaks the surface, pouting like a wronged dog.

Bootprints lead into the trees along the opposite bank, where a dull glow awaits.

Aedan climbs a tree to its highest branch and finds Bitch Face with the traitorous Alon under his torch.

“You’re sure he’ll come through here?” he asks in their language.

“That sandy patch is the only way to cross without getting pulled away by the river,” the Bibroci explains. “He’ll swim there, and if he comes through here, then I know for sure where he’s going,”

Bitch Face wraps a gentle arm around him.
“If you know where he’s going, please tell me,”

“I want assurances,” Alon fingers the man’s hair.

“I’ll take you with me,” Bitch Face promises. “You’re not like the rest of these painted animals. You’ve got a Roman soul,”

Aedan considers hocking spit onto their heads.

“There are some small falls two miles from where the Lug meets the Stour,” Alon reveals. “Behind the first set is an entrance to a large cavern,”

Bitch Face kisses him passionately—it’s enough to make Aedan retch.

“Stay here until I return,” he hands him the torch. “Do not go near the fort until I retrieve you,”

“I won’t,” says Alon, a proper lap dog.

A few peaceful moments pass before Aedan descends to a lower branch, debating how long it might take to choke the treacherous cunt out between his thighs.

Suddenly, a tunic-clad Skipio strolls from the trees.

“What’s a little thing like you,” the brawny man sneers. “Doing so far away from your sister?”

Terrified beyond reason, the stupid Bibroci throws the torch at him and makes for the woods. The Lion catches his throat and hoists him high before tearing away his smock with a single tug.

“Please,” Alon screams in Latin. “I belong to Castor,”

“Please,” Skipio mocks. “I belong to Castor,”

Alon’s pathetic fingers go for the Lion’s eyes, but the man lets him drop before backhanding him into a stupor.

Aedan touches his cheek, thirsty for a blow like that.

“You belong to Rome.” The Lion pins his forearm to Alon’s chest and spreads the waif’s thighs with his knees. “I’m going to use you as Cupid intended,”

Aedan grasps his erection and smiles.

“You’re not my Owl,” he grunts. “But I’ll close my eyes, and you’ll do just fine,”

“The Owl is here,” Alon cries as the Roman’s cockhead knocks at his door. “He’s above us, watching,”

Aedan’s heart swings when those gleaming greens find him.

“Finish him, Skippy-oh!” He thrusts out his tongue. “Or are you too weak?”

The Lion’s broad smile evokes a rare one from the Owl.

“Get down here, you skinny Ganymede bitch,” he chuckles in Greek, wagging his arousal. “Let me poke that throat,”

Aedan tips over, catching a low hanger and swinging around it many times for the momentum to launch. Flying high through the trees, he lands and then leaps from branch to branch, an agile squirrel with a Lion on the forest floor in pursuit.

Ciniod studies her reflection in the glass, confident that she’s not the reason why the tribal kings align against her brother. Her pride stings from Cassibelanus’s decision to demote her for a sniveling man-cunt, but there’s no time to revisit such an insult as a scream from the cavern pebbles the skin on her arms.

Frightful cries reveal Roman infiltration as the cavern erupts into madness. Aedan appears, speeding down the rocky corridor to where she stands, foliage stuck in his raven curls.

“We must flee,” he pants.

She grabs hold of his large ears.
“Did they follow you?”

His head swings. “A prisoner among them revealed us,”

“Which one?” she growls.

He takes her hand. “Makes no matter in this moment.”

Back in the cavern, they put their backs to the wall and side-step along the precipice toward the path leading out. Beneath the rocky decks, red capes and helmets spill into the grotto, Romans with swords drawn and torches waving.

The Lion marches through his men, his headdress wet from breaching the water curtain. He hacks his way past the first round of warriors, his powerful arm showing no mercy for a woman or child.

Tara rushes him, blowing dust from his hand, but the poisonous spray clings to the furry snout, protecting his princely face. A ruthless sword pushes into the druid’s stomach as distant mossy eyes savor the kill.

Ciniod screams for her brother, catching the Lion’s attention.

“Toss your torches into the water,” he bellows, his gaze on the pair. “Then get against the wall and hold your breath,”

Aedan seizes her wrist and pulls her into a crevasse, where a slow and careful climb down into the darkness begins.

Suddenly, a blast rattles the world around them, and a hot rush of air carries through the crack, jarring their hold on the slippery rocks. As if born to such perils, mother and son hug their knees on the way down, dropping into the narrow torrent that snakes below.

Aedan crawls under the safety of a boulder, groaning in agony as he rolls onto his back. Cinoid follows, edging beside him with her lips to the sand.

Somewhere above, the Lion’s roar echoes.
“Bring me the Owl, my cock wants him alive!”

The corners of her son’s mouth twist up, denting his cheeks.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” she warns. “Or by Karnon’s hand, I’ll sew that hole of yours up myself,”