His name is Lucius Scipio Servius, or Skipio to those who call him a friend. He stands taller than most, his robust frame and shorn head shining like golden wheat. Piercing, verdant eyes appear darker than river rock moss, and his face, chiseled like a precious gem, boasts a captivating mouth no man can resist.

Lucius Vitus Servius is his creator. He is a patrician farmer with a vast orchard in the Lepontine Alps that includes a thriving walnut grove. Despite this, his only son eagerly trades farm life for the sword, and Vitus allows this diversion since he, too, serves the Roman legions.

Skipio crosses the Alps with his father to face his first real skirmish in uniform. Boyhood friends Crassus Titus Flavius and Gaius Planus Caesar ride with him. After four years serving the garrison at Mediolanum, each is ready to face the invading Gallic horde.

To their dismay, the Veragrii, a tribe known for their purposefulness, are nothing more than men without swords and women with children. A stark disparity from the formidable opponents the trio anticipated, they heed the order to engage such feeble combatants, leaving them profoundly disillusioned.

United by this shared melancholy, they find redemption under Publius Crassus’s command. A man of their years and temperament, Crassus is a master of delegation, fostering pride within the trio after each plays a part in the Sotiatian siege, and the mutual armistice that follows.

Bloody fights claim the lives of many, but Skipio keeps his head and takes those of Rome’s enemies. He returns to Caesar in northern Belgica, along with Titus and Planus, each earning a coveted place in the general’s Legio X Equestris.

Still, sudden elevation to the rank of decurio doesn’t keep Skipio from the action. Never one to watch from the flanks, he rides in when holes emerge amidst the front lines, swinging his gladius like he swings his cock at the brothel for painted boys.

*

Having not seen his son in many months, Vitus finds him kneeling outside the engagement field while the infantry lingers restless some distance away.

“Why are we not determining formation?” Vitus asks Crassus.

“Decurion Servius says something’s not right,” the young leader tells him.

Titus Labenius comes alongside, his horse nervous like the others. “Our enemy comes at dawn. We must assign formations before nightfall,”

“I’ve learned to trust Servius the Younger’s instincts,” says Crassus, his voice firm. “We’ll begin troop placement after he clears this field of whatever ails it,”

Vitus winks at his frustrated friend, Labenius, before walking to the decurion. The meadow stretches toward a coastal hillock, its stiff grass born of sea-soaked bedrock. Almost immediately, Vitus sees what troubles his son.

“Watching the weeds grow, Skipio?”

“Look at it,” his son says, uneasy. “It grows light in linear patches,”

“An abandoned farm?”

“No, there’d be uniform lines from years of plowing.” Skipio and his father, hereditary draftsmen, see the world behind its skin. “It’s as if the moles came to this field and left, but moles never leave,”

“What does that tell you?” Vitus asks with certitude.

Skipio blinks. “The moles are Gauls,”

*

Crassus, an astute strategist, explains the situation to their leader, Caesar, outlining a plan to uncover the enemy’s tunnel. He then tasks Skipio with mapping out where he believes this tunnel runs beneath their battleground.

The Servian heir, known for his unconventional methods, makes no map. Instead, he works closely with Planus and his engineers, digging until they uncover a hollow corridor unfit for a grown man’s body.

Skipio, with a promise of roast duck, persuades a slave boy to crawl into the tunnel to find its end. As the boy emerges several yards behind their battle camp, craftsmen begin shaping clay pipes that are then fed into the passage.

A bonfire fills the pipes with smoke, and soon, whisps of white rise from the meadow like gray sea worms dancing out of benthic sand. Titus and his archers, their movements precise and stealthy, assemble quickly, aware that spies might be watching from the trees. They fake a drill, and with each formation halt, a few of their number covertly fill each air hole with sand.

No battle cry sounds when the enemy arrives before dawn. Shrill cries fill the waning dark as unarmed men in skins and war paint dig up the battlefield. Women sob while pulling their suffocated children from the ground, and this obscene harvest stabs at Skipio’s heart.

“You didn’t put those boys on the battlefield,” Vitus assures him.

“Minerva warned me.” Skipio’s lips turn down in a contemptible sneer. “When none of us could fit in that tunnel, she sent me a child.”

“What does that tell you?”

“We could’ve collapsed it. Men could’ve stood at the exit to protect our supplies.” The back of Skipio’s hand rises to blunt his tears. “There was no need to choke the enemy out,”

“If their goal were only to set fire to our munitions,” Vitus says. “There would not have been so many air holes.”

Skipio stares at him. “And if the holes weren’t for breathing?”

“You didn’t put those boys on the battlefield.” Vitus grabs his son’s shoulder. “Now, dry your eyes before the others see you.”

Skipio refuses to hide his shame, and one young man among the lancers stares longer than acceptable. Marcus Castor Junius is shorter than most, with a maiden’s beauty and the physique of a teenage boy. He no longer endures the handsome Skipio’s rough affection, but his heart weeps at the man’s rare vulnerability.

Back on the field, Caesar orders no attack, allowing the enemy to remove their dead. The tribal warriors retreat by midday, yet sundown finds them back with a deadlier strategy.

*

As twilight descends, the Romans surge onto the field, their advance met by a suffocating fog that reeks of salted earth. Chariots, like specters, race from the thick, ominous haze, cutting a deadly path through the lancers. Headpieces ablaze, the druids hurl gourds of poisonous mist, their battle cries hidden behind frightening masks.

The lancer’s commander falls amid the chaos, but before the line crumples, novice Castor, his heart ticking with reactionary fear, seizes control.

Skipio rides in to defend his former lover, while Vitus follows to protect his son.

On the front line, Vitus calls for the men to form a wall of spears within, and Skipio joins Castor, spear in hand, and plants his knees in the mud.

“Hold the line, and do not falter,” he bellows, sensing their reluctance to harm a horse with this deadly barrier. “Give their steeds a path to escape or grant them a noble death,” he adds.

A collective shout rises as the first chariot appears. On the heels of Mercury, its painted driver fails to change course in time as his sidelined carriage careens into the spearmen.

Skipio breaks formation as its beast kneels to protect itself and quickly slices its tethers. The horse flees before the chariot’s collision sends its masked handler flying over them, his flaming head spitting embers into the night sky.

The druid warrior’s body rolls across the earth like a discarded doll, stopping at the elder Servius’s booted foot. With two swings of his sword, Vitus liberates the man’s head from his shoulders.

A mighty howl grabs his attention. Another druid stands outside the smoke, sobbing like a child behind his painted mask. He hurls an axe at Vitus, but Skipio appears and lets his shield take the blow. Swift as a desert cat, Skipio advances with a sword ready, but to his surprise, the wailing man is gone, taking the druid’s head with him.

Rome is victorious, and morning reveals the ground as a ruddy soup of severed limbs and foul-smelling entrails. Skipio gathers with his horsemen on the ridge, where they discover a vast and restless surf; this isn’t their Mare Nostrum but an untamable sea at the edge of the known world.

Days become weeks, and these weeks become a month.

Now a veteran leader, Skipio commands a thirty-man unit of teenage Gauls. Some years ago, Caesar made them war orphans, and they serve the Servian heir blindly after he personally funds their training to ensure horses and better rations.

His second is a fellow Roman named Strolo Actus Ursius. The son of a merchant known for his travels east of the Zagros, the Comum-born decurion’s narrow eyes go unmentioned, much like his mother’s Sinaean ancestry, if one wishes to keep his jaw intact.

On this particular day, Skipio takes charge of the inspection as the camp surgeon tends to Actus’s decaying tooth. The teens and their horses assemble with remarkable precision, their round metal shields reflecting the sunlight, their fat daggers glistening, and their faces freshly shaved.

After meticulously reviewing and praising his horsemen, Skipio seeks out his oldest friend, Planus. The legion’s master engineer grumbles about the state of his catapults but deeply admires his older engineers, who make do with spit and whatever is sturdy around.

Along the walk, they happen upon three infantrymen making short work of a woman. The gallic matron fights with every ounce of strength, her resolve weakening as Skipio intervenes.

“We rape no women here.” He pulls the sobbing matron free of them. “If your decurion thinks otherwise, he can discuss it with me.”

All but one heeds quietly.

“That’s rich coming from you,” says the upstart.

Skipio walks to the loudmouth. “Heard of me, have you?”

The tall upstart, his family just as wealthy, steps into him.
“Everyone knows about you, Servius.”

Skipio drives a fist into the man’s solar plexus. “It’s good a thing you’re not to my liking,” he booms, loud enough to draw attention from others nearby.

The two flee as Skipio steps over their fallen leader.

“Such righteousness from a man who enjoys forcing his lovers,” teases Planus.

“I make no apologies for my vigorous desires,” Skipio shrugs, ignoring the woman’s thanks. “Girls cannot match a man’s strength. Therefore, it’s not a fair match,”

“Sex isn’t a combat sport,” Planus scolds with a smile.

“We shall agree to disagree,” says Skipio.

“Tell me, friend, how did carnal bliss become such a violent enterprise for you?” Planus asks without judgment. “We grew up together, our shared desire for men bone-deep, yet I’ve no desire to beat my lover senseless,”

Skipio regards him with amusement.
“Do you recall our first trip to Rome?”

“I’ll never forget it,” Planus says. “Our balls were bald, and our heroes infallible,”

“Remember that bestiary?” he asks. “Where the trainers were breeding a lioness,”

Planus conjures the scene.
“I recall her not wanting the male they shoved into her yard.”

“She wouldn’t let him mount her,” he nods. “Out of nowhere, her young son jumped on the older male, picking a fight,”

“That I remember clearly.” Planus walks ahead. “It was the first time I’d seen a male animal attempt to breed another of his sex,”

“That young lion wanted a violent rutting all along,” he says.

“My friend, you and I saw a very different show,” Planus laughs. “The older lion nearly chewed off the younger’s leg. The poor thing had no means to run when the male mounted him.”

Castor’s airy voice finds them before they hash matters further.

The petite lancer jogs toward their position, his blue tunic flapping in the wind. “Those druid-drawn chariots hail from that island across the channel,”

“Caesar made landfall there last year,” Skipio says. “While we were in Veneti,”

“Britannia?” asks Planus.

“No one will say its name,” Castor whispers. “Other than defeat,”

Skipio smirks. “Father claims it was a reconnaissance mission,”

“Recon, indeed,” Planus cracks. “The sort where the enemy tribes line up onshore for inspection before you can land,”

Skipio smiles as an anxious Castor stares.

“What says Caesar of this development?” Planus wonders.

“We’re setting sail after the last snow,” Castor reveals.

“He truly hates us, doesn’t he?” Skipio grouses. “Wintering us this close to the coast,”

“More glory before the common man.” Planus mocks under his breath, then hardens his brow. “There’s no reason for a campaign across the water but to feed Rome slaves and make him a legend.”

Castor beholds their disrespect in silence.

Skipio drapes an arm over his friend’s shoulders.
“Do you doubt your mother’s cousin’s intentions?”

“His intentions became bare when he tasked us to murder unarmed civilians at Octodurus.” Planus notices young Castor’s glare. “Never fear, little brother. I follow orders and only question them among my closest friends,”

“Your bitterness is palpable,” the young man pouts.

Skipio grins. “Our Planus still pines for that Veragros,”

“Quiet, you,” he snaps, walking ahead.

Castor wheedles, “Did someone catch your heart?”

Planus answers with silence.

“He fell in love with a reedy Gaul,” Castor teases. “Whose hair is the color of straw,”

“None of that matters now,” Planus comes to a halt. “He’s dead.”

“Then who is currently serves my mother her midday wine?” asks Skipio.

Planus turns. “Welletrix lives?”

“Welle?” Castor comes between them. “I took him to the Servian plantation myself,”

Planus turns back to his friend, eyes wide like the moon.

“I saw how you looked at him,” Skipio confesses. “So, I purchased him.”

Boyish laughter infects Planus.
“You’ve never been so thoughtful,”

“He’s not yours,” Skipio clarifies, arms folded. “Welletrix belongs to my house, and since you’re not the sort to ravish a man, you best behave when visiting.”

“Praise the Fates,” Planus laughs. “I’m going to write him this very day,”

Castor watches the bearded man sprint for their city of tents, while Skipio watches the sun filter through Castor’s fine brown hair. A strange need overtakes him, and before he can negotiate why he shouldn’t, his hand finds Castor’s throat. His mouth hungrily devours the young man’s soft lips, which press tight against his tongue.

Teeth defend with a soldier’s strength, forcing Skipio back before he’s bitten.

“I told you, no!” Castor retreats, holding his neck. “No more,”

“You said you loved me,” Skipio pouts.

“We said many things to each other these past years,” Castor gasps. “Your brutal love felt exciting at first, but now it just hurts.”

Skipio grabs for him again, but the pretty lancer pulls his dagger.

“I said no,” Castor growls. “Touch me again, and I shall report you to Crassus,”

“Does our leader know of your lust for men?”

“I told him last month when he saw your teeth marks on my backside.” Castor’s fearful eyes seek witnesses. “I revealed my carnal habits because I knew you’d use them against me,”

Anger fuels Skipio’s desire. “Why not just tell my father?”

“Lord Vitus was told of my wounds without being told of my name.” Castor lowers the knife. “He said no self-respecting Roman would allow himself used in such a way,”

“You think my affections lack respect?”

Castor lowers his voice but keeps his dagger raised.
“Love shouldn’t make a man bleed,”

Disappointment slows his heart.
“If nothing binds our bodies, then steer clear of me,”

“Don’t be like this, please,” Castor begs.

Skipio marches for the trees, a tempest brewing in his groin.