The Bucarati kips upon glossy mudflats.

The vessel resembles a timber beetle with its tightly bound sales and dangling oars. It slumbers as men till the wet sands beneath its rudder, digging that will ensure the incoming tide washes her away.

Alps-born legionaries crowd her surface planks. They wear fur over their shoulders and wool on their extremities. None are clean-shaven, not even their newly minted leader, Lucius Scipio Servius, whose beard shines golden like the short coils on his head. His noble visage yields little weight to his reputation, but his pet druid speaks volumes.

Aedan the Ancalite crouches at his Roman bride’s feet, scratching an itch behind the ear with a sharp-nailed toe. A conquered islander, his springy black fleece covers his neck, though his gaunt jaw barely hints of stubble.

He probes the passing faces, nearly a thousand by his count, as they cluster into chatty groups. Oarsmen take their place between the carlings, fifteen to a side with no proper rowing benches.

“They’re not slaves, A-Dawn, they’re soldiers,” his Roman bride informs him in Greek. “You’ll find no allies among them,”

The druid hugs his legs to his chest and tucks his button nose behind his knees. Foul breath curses him, for he’s consumed nothing that day but his captor’s seed, and his sore hole brings memories of their last coupling.

This morning unfolded like all the others since their binding several days before.

Skipio, his Roman bride, untied his ropes before turning his back. He didn’t give chase when Aedan sprinted off—but once the druid entered the trees, his golden bride came running. When caught, and yes, Aedan is always caught, they tumbled along the forest floor, trading punches and kicks.

Two high-ranking wolves join their space.

Crassus Titus Flavius possesses muddy brown skin and hair like a lamb. He stands taller than most, his beard fuller but his eyes friendlier. Gaius Planus Caesar shares blood with the Battle King, but his milky pallor does little to confirm it. His clever words set him apart, and Aedan finds his voice a soothing treasure.

“How is our druid today?” asks Planus in Aedan’s language.

“I’m shocked he can walk after this morning.” Mud Face sits beside them. “Every man in formation heard the pair of you rutting in the trees,”

Many words make little sense, but those that do bring a smile to Aedan’s face, which he hides behind his knees.

“Watching trees has always been his passion,” Milky teases his Roman bride.

Mud Face glances at the bow. “Have the horses sailed?”

“They shipped out an hour ago,” says his Roman bride. “If you squint, you can see them on the horizon.”

Mud Face does just that as Marcus Castor Junius appears, his bitchy face brighter than usual. Though blessed with a maid’s beauty, his temperament sings a different song, one that Aedan enjoys humming.

“All hostages depart at sunup tomorrow.” Bright eyes harden upon seeing the druid. “What in Tantalus is that thing doing here?”

“How now,” Milky said. “No sane man would allow The Owl King to perch among captive Gauls,”

“Not with his tongue intact and those legs unbound,” adds Mud Face.

“He stays with me,” his Roman bride declares. “He’s my prisoner for life,”

“Yes, a proper marriage,” Milky cracks.

Mud Face drinks from his water bladder before passing it. “Labenius told us what happened outside the senate hall,”

Skipio’s jaw tenses. No longer lost in his cups, his Roman bride keeps silent, but Aedan’s ears did what they do best three nights back, and he learned some things.

An ambitious piece of work named Marcus Claudius Marcellus spent much of his career raging against Caesar and his governorship of Cisalpine Gaul. He proposed depriving the absent Caesar of his provinces and privileges. His peers struck this proposal; those colonies contained too many loyal citizens.

Yet, clever maneuvering enabled Marcellus to declare all colonies founded by Caesar illegal; their founding was not by an elected official but by a soldier. Taking away Comum’s legality made her people no longer citizens. Comum’s representative, one of Skipio’s kin, protested and reminded those supporting the notion that many of Comum’s founding families come from Rome, some older than the Claudian that bore Marcellus.

In a fit of anger, Marcellus had the man dragged outside and whipped, leaving horrid scars. From what Aedan could decipher, this man then took his own life.

“My mother wrote to me,” Bitch Face reveals softly. “She’s no longer eligible to collect my father’s pension,”

Milky huffs. “Now we know why we’re disenfranchised,”

“It cannot be as simple as a money grab,” Bitch Face says.

“Oh, but it is,” Milky asserts. “Find me a dastardly thing unrooted in coin, and I’ll show you where Venus lives in summer,”

Suddenly, his Roman bride smiles.

“My father’s accountant took his leases from the town court,” Mud Face tells them. “He’s moved them to Genua.”

“Is that why he wanted you on the first ship out?” asks Milky.

“He wanted me home weeks ago,” Mud Face nods. “My mother and sisters fled the villa,”

“Are they safe?” asks his Roman bride.

“Yes, she’s lodging in our townhouse, built before Comum’s existence.” Mud Face surveys the area before lowering his voice. “Every morning, she stands in line for water with the local women despite my father being the original commissioner of the community well,”

“Have the house staff abandoned her?” asks Bitch Face. “My mother said many have fled employment from the disenfranchised,”

“They left the moment she couldn’t pay them. Even the slaves have gone.” Mud Face offers the bladder to Aedan’s bride. “What of your lands?”

“We’ve got a well and direct access to the aqueduct.” Skipio takes a swig and offers some to Aedan, who stares balefully before turning away. “We’ve never owned slaves, but most of our employees have stayed,”

“It’s good they’re loyal,” Milky opines.

“Years ago, Vita commissioned a vegetable garden and larder just for them,” his Roman bride tells them. “She felt this would ensure their longevity in times of war,”

“Clever as always, that one,” Milky says.

“Oddly enough, my father forbade it at the time.” Skipio chuckles. “The moment he joined us in Octodurus, she did it anyway.”

“I want to know who is performing these evictions?” Bitch Face says.

“Who do you think?” Milky asks.

“Surely,” Bitch Face balks. “The Comum garrison remains loyal,”

“When we departed,” Mud Face reminds him. “That garrison was left with mostly low-class boys from Ticinum and Mediolanum,”

“Indeed,” Milky adds. “Former street urchins more than happy to turn the tables on some upper-class families,”

Skipio’s voice hardens like his glare.

“They’ll be dealt with upon my return,” he says, and those nearby murmur in agreement.

Aedan admires his Roman bride’s menace.

“Those cunts in the Senate think that with Caesar a continent away, they can commandeer the surrounding garrisons,” Skipio’s voice gains volume. “They’re about to find out what happens when they fuck with the Sons of the Alps,”

Haughty grunts rumble from the surrounding men.

Before Aedan can snidely ask after those Gallic sons native to the Alps, the smaller sails overhead unfurl. Without a preamble, his Roman bride rolls onto him, pressing Aedan’s chest to the planks.

Every soldier on deck falls back like a wave, locking their arms and ankles as the Bucarati begins teetering.

“Neptune’s giving us a proper shove,” yells Milky.

Water crests the ship’s bow, tipping it until its nose blocks the morning sun. A giant sail comes undone, thrashing violently. Pregnant with wind, the sail balances the keel, and the Bucarati lurches, her planks trembling beneath Aedan’s bones.

*

Movement begins slowly before speed brings a steady rhythm that prompts the golden Roman to climb off his prisoner. Uncertainty rules the druid’s gut. He’s made trips on rough rivers but never a wild sea. Several moments pass before the druid lays his curly head down by the Roman’s thigh.

“Titus,” Skipio rests his arm on Aedan’s curls. “Planus will revive the garrison at Bellagio, and you will oversee the troops in Mediolanum,”

“What of the undisciplined?” asks Titus. “I’ve no patience for problematic men, and sending them with Planus is not wise as he’s too agreeable,”

Planus stares, insulted.

“Castor will take them,” Skipio says. “Along with strongest backs to rebuild Octodurus,”

“Your command is my wish,” the young man brightens until he notices the druid’s steely glare. “What are you gawking at? You piece of shit.”

“Must we carry on with this hostility?” Skipio sighs.

Titus adds, “He doesn’t speak Latin,”

“He?” Castor barks. “This thing killed Drusus,”

The druid rises and dips his head into Castor’s line of vision.

“Your man killed eighteen that day,” he speaks without emotion in his own language. “Two of them women whose names were Gido and Tula,”

Skipio looks at Planus. “What’s he saying?”

“I do not mourn my bitches,” the druid adds, eyes set on Castor’s. “Gido and Tula came to fight, and they died protecting the river where they were born,”

“The druid speaks what most of us know,” Planus replies.

Castor stares silently at his lap.

“You’ve made your point,” Skipio whispers in Greek. “Get out of his face,”

“Your command is my wish,” the druid parrots in Latin.

Castor’s glower is potent, but the druid cares little, putting his back on Skipio’s.

“What’s your plan, Tribune?” Titus asks.

“Don’t call me that,” Skipio shakes his head, smiling. “Caesar wants a new fort at Comum, and I will build it within the city,”

“Inside the city, like a neighborhood?” Titus watches as the druid’s foot rises.

“I’ll incorporate watch billets within the walls.” Skipio draws an imaginary boundary on the planks, outlining a city only they have seen. “Instead of one central area apart from the town, we scatter the garrison into precincts along the wall.”

They listen, though Titus nor Planus pull their eyes away from the druid’s rangy toe as it stops just short of Castor’s cheek.

“We’ll widen the walls near the east gate and western port so overnight quarters can be built inside,” Skipio explains, oblivious to his druid. “A squad will reside within whatever portion their conscription covers.”

“That’s brilliant, Skip—” Castor turns, his lips colliding with the druid’s toe.

The deck explodes in laughter as Castor jumps to his feet, spitting in disgust. The druid lays down, presenting his back instead of a grin. Skipio reclines, tucking the druid’s bony hip under his arm like a couch pillow as the offended Castor takes a long drink.

“Can you run the orchard while overseeing all that?” Titus wonders.

Planus says, “He won’t have to worry about the plantation with Vita around,”

“She’s made that place more profitable than my father ever did,” says Skipio.

“If that thing touches me again,” Castor warns. “I’ll kill it,”

Skipio’s eyes shift. “This thing is my wife,”

“You’re not serious,” Titus gasps.

Planus huffs. “He’s always serious,”

The stink of meadow sweet invades their circle and forces the druid upward.

“What’s the matter?” Skipio demands in Greek.

A woman’s giggle brings the lanky man to his feet.

The druid stalks toward the opposite bow without interference from Skipio. He sees the finely dressed Kombius sitting beside a boisterous woman named Avalin. Near them is her sulking son, Kelr, who keeps his face down and legs crossed.

“Skipio,” Planus whispers. “He’ll kill them,”

The druid climbs the net-rigging like a spider, and Skipio watches, amused, as he hocks a wad of spit that flies several feet to land on the back of Kelr’s neck.

The burly redhead wipes the slime away and looks up to find the druid.

Kelr gnashes his teeth, rushing toward the druid on his net, but Skipio arrives at the same time and takes the angry man by his throat before he can get hold of Aedan’s ankle.

“Caesar may be cozy with your mom,” Skipio whispers in Greek as the manlet struggles. “But he’s not here, and I am,”

“That dumbass doesn’t know Greek,” says Aedan, eliciting laughter from those among the soldiers that do. “He barely knows our tongue without his mommy telling him the words,”

“Please, Tribune,” Kombius drifts toward them, speaking perfect Latin, while Avalin scurries to the forward bow where the ship’s commander holds court. “Let’s keep a calm head,”

“I’m placid. Like winter ice on the Como,” says Skipio, generating amusement from his men. “Not one crack in me,” he says, his eyes shifting to Kelr, “if a fool treads lightly.”

Avalin appears, her lips trembling.

“Wipe that fear from your eyes, woman,” Planus says in her language. He puts his hand on Skipio’s shoulder, compelling him to drop the red-faced youth. “See there, he wouldn’t kill your boy in front of you,”

“I would,” says the druid, inciting laughter among some Gauls.

Skipio yanks him down from the ropes, but before he can walk him back to their position on the deck, the druid goes limp like a toddling child. The men merrily roar when Skipio grabs the bastard’s leg and drags him back.

Fingers thread into those inky curls as Skipio whispers in his ear.

“Don’t waste your eyes on them,” he says in Greek. “They’re going to the Morini, care of Kombius.” Skipio takes hold of his head and turns his face to the sea. “That shadow on the horizon? Take a good look, A-dawn. That’s the last you’ll see of your land in this lifetime.”

His prisoner wrenches free, giddy from the manhandling. The ornery look in his eyes stokes Skipio’s desire. He boldly meets the druid’s gaze and doesn’t see the foot coming for his chin. Pain rocks his teeth, and he reaches blindly for the druid and seizes his wrist.

Skipio barely contains the bony bastard, who twists like an eel to be free. He lands a punch and then another, delivering tasty pain to his prisoner but a stinging ache to his knuckles. Their bodies come together in a violent dance, both caring little about the silence around them. 

“Salacia’s tits,” growls Marcus Antonios, current superior of the Bucarati. “Come now, Servius, no one wants to watch you plow that scrawny little carcass again,”

Laughter quakes, and the druid stills beneath him. Skipio stands, impervious to the merriment, and yanks the druid to his feet.

“What do you see in him, Servius?” Antonios asks from his position on the center walk. “That one’s ugly enough to scare Charon off the boat. There are far prettier Gauls among the prisoners,”

Skipio yanks the front of Aedan’s britches down, exposing his hefty flesh.

The mob emits a collective leer.

“That’s an impressive third arm,” Antonios declares. “Tell me, Servius, do you fuck or get fucked?”

Skipio’s grin speaks volumes, and the mob responds in kind.

“You’re quite large yourself,” Antonios laughs. “Didn’t know you girthy types fancied each other,”

Skipio retreats with Aedan’s arm in his grip.

“You two python wranglers keep yourselves cooled this trip,” Antonios calls out. “Hatch out your heat on the next boat,”

Castor grins as they pass, and it takes all Skipio can muster to keep from striking his lovely face. The druid, however, doesn’t hold back.

“What are you gawking at?” he parrots in perfect Latin. “You piece of shit.”