“He cares for you,” she stammers. “And you care for him,”

“He’s nothing to me,” he says. “Except in my way,”

“Please,” she cries. “If you’re your father’s son—”

“-You invoke Fintan to move me?” He remains calm. “The Owl would leave your boy to rot for telling the Romans of our river defenses,”

“Kelr wouldn’t, he would never,” she argues. “He’s a good man,”

“He’s an entitled little boy in a grown man’s skin,” says Aedan. “Perhaps some time among the Romans will mature him enough to be worth something before he dies.”

A tear falls down her cheek.

II

Rome wastes no time planting itself on the Tamesa.

Planks from the fallen stronghold frame their new fort, a monstrous structure they will never burn when abandoned, like the spindly logs surrounding their marching camps. Soaring watchtowers crest the corners while red-caped archers pace on the connecting banquettes.

Three sides host deep rips that look like Taranis dug the soil out with his fingers, while the river protects the southern wall. The days grow short, and 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 the Ancalite gets inside.

These wolves store nothing along their inner walls, yet the naked druid crosses an open stretch without fear, heavy rain cloaking his occurrence. He comes upon a wood pole bearing two skinny birch strips, each bearing strange letters and pointing out grassless paths.

Leather-bound tents line one trail, with somber voices drifting from their drawn flaps. Another road boasts larger tents, each with its own three-horse stable.

Two long houses without windows center the camp. A pair of sentries walk around them, meeting in the middle and making small talk before repeating their orbit.

Inside the first, cattle laze around sacks of barleycorn. Wooden racks hang from the rafters with animal skins stretched tight over their grills. Aedan’s ornery spirit nags at him to cut the livestock free, but his mission takes precedence.

He ventures to the smaller lodge and climbs to the roof. He drops in through an air transom and finds the Bibroci women sleeping with nothing more than some hay to keep them from the dirt.

None of his bitches from the farmhouse raid are among them, but 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.

Before long, the square-jawed woman sits crossed-legged before him.

“Tell me Ostin survived Tamesa,” she says.

Aedan swings his head.

“He came here, you know,” she tells him. “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 his cock’s 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?” asks Aedan.

She wastes no words. “They planned an escape and got killed for their trouble,”

“The Lion?”

“No, he wasn’t here when it happened,”

Aedan mourns them, 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,” a woman grouses.

Eadaoin snaps, “Who said that?”

“It makes no matter,” says Aedan. “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,” he says.

Eadaoin relents and then kicks the nearest sleeper.

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

Alon the Bibroci, a failed druid’s apprentice, 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 whispers, “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 friends,” says Alon. “Decurion by his underlings,”

Aedan realizes then, how his bitches got caught.

“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.

Aedan’s smile fades. “Did you or Kelr tell Lord Lion of our stake 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?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she tells him.

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

“No,” she answers. “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 for their well.”

“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 when you arrive at the sluice.” 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 them 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 this night,”

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 he aims a wordless scowl, she adds, “You will take him or line the buckets yourself,”

Aedan 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 at him. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll fuck it,”

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

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

“We must hurry—” he turns to find Alon no longer there. “Smegma licking cunt!”

Fearful of his position, Aedan sprints to a canopied stall, where three horses chow from their buckets. One is his war prize. Beaming, he kisses the beast’s long muzzle and mouths the word, Looir.

The beast merrily bobs her head before emitting a squeal.

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

Three heartbeats pass before the muscular Roman emerges naked, his thick manhood swinging as he struts to the horse. Hairless but for a 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. “I dream of him, too,”

Aedan shivers in his patch of darkness.

“Did he braid your mane and make you a barbarian?” He 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,”

Overcome with desire, Aedan lifts his back from the wall and reaches out from the darkness. Fingers stop short of the man’s smooth, sun-kissed skin. He longs for a handful of that taut, supple ass…until Reed Eyes intrudes, like a bad smell.

“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 a druid poisoning our water,”

Skipio’s face turns boyish when he laughs. “The Owl fell for my ruse,”

“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 that he’s been made a fool. He wanders back to the wall, caring little if anyone spots him in the pouring rain. After clumsily slipping under the barrier, he strokes through the murky depths where the undertow cannot catch his legs.

Onshore, bootprints lead into the trees, where a dull glow awaits. What an utter fool. Aedan climbs a tree to its highest branch and spots Bitch Face below with the traitorous Alon under a torch.

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

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

Alon fingers the man’s hair but says nothing.

“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 the young man his torch. “Do not go near the fort until I retrieve you,”

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

A peaceful moment passes before Aedan descends to a lower branch, wondering how long it might take to choke the treacherous cunt out between his thighs.

Before he can strike, 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?”

Terror in his eyes, Alon throws the torch at him and charges for the woods, but the Lion quickly snatches him back. With one hand on the little man’s throat, the Roman hoists his prey high before tearing away his smock with a single tug.

“Please,” Alon chokes out 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.” Skipio pins his forearm to Alon’s chest and spreads the waif’s thighs with his knees. “I’m going to use you like Jupiter on a lonely day,”

Aedan grips his erection and smiles.

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

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

Aedan’s heart jumps when those gleaming green eyes find him.

“Finish him, Skippy-oh!” Aedan speaks Greek and 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 his palms grow hot with each revolution as he gains enough momentum to launch. He sails through the air, grasping one branch and swinging to another, an agile squirrel speeding through the trees.

*

Ciniod studies her reflection in the glass, her pride stinging from Cassibelanus’s decision to demote her for a sniveling man-cunt. There’s no time to revisit such an insult as screams from the cavern tighten her arms.

Frightful cries reveal Roman infiltration. The cavern erupts into madness, and as Ciniod emerges to take up the fight, her son speeds toward her, hands raw and foliage 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 makes no matter in this moment,” he yells, pulling her into a narrow fracture.

She squeezes in behind him, side-stepping across the precipice when the wall before her vanishes. The warm wind catches her skirt, and the fearful howls of woken druids ring beneath it.

Helmets spill into the grotto below. Roman men with swords drawn follow the Lion, whose headdress drips from breaching the water curtain. He hacks through the waking warriors, his powerful arm showing no mercy.

Taran rushes the man, blowing dust from his hand, but the poisonous spray clings to that furry snout, protecting the bastard’s chiseled face.

A cruel sword pushes into Taran’s belly as distant mossy eyes savor the kill. Ciniod screams for her brother until Aedan’s hand strikes her mouth, but it is too late—she’s caught the Lion’s attention.

“Toss your torches into the water,” the steely man bellows, his cruel gaze on the pair high above him. “Then get against the wall and hold your breath,”

Aedan seizes her wrist and drags her into another crevasse, where no words come as they start a slow and careful climb down into the darkness. Suddenly, a blast rattles the rocks around them, and a hot rush of air bursts through the narrows, jarring her hold on the slippery rocks.

Ciniod falls with him, and as if born to such perils, he hugs his knees on the way down. She mimics him, dropping into the serpentine rapids. The torrent’s powerful rumble deafens her to his cry but rising above the froth, she feels his hand around her wrist.

She crawls under the safety of a boulder, groaning in agony while rolling onto her back. Her boy follows, edging beside her with his lips to the sand.

Somewhere above, the Lion’s roar echoes.

“Bring me the Owl, my cock wants him alive!”

The corners of Aedan’s mouth twist, 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!”