VIII - The Sacrifice

After several miles on foot, father and son hear their stomachs growl. Vitus continues with his mission, despite losing half of their weapons and all of their food. The river he seeks appears to them as they crest the hill, and it twists through the valley like a brown serpent’s corpse.

Vitus leads Skipio into the reeds, hunkering down at the river’s narrowest point to sketch their surroundings from sight.

“Further west, there’s a settlement,” he whispers. “An hour east is another.” He finishes a crudely sketched map. “The woodland locals know we’re here, which means the settlements along the river will dispatch hunters.”

“You think they’ll find us?” Skipio asks.

“Not if we leave now.” Vitus rolls up his illustration and ties it with a blade of long grass. “We’ll jog south to the coast and follow it back to the beachhead.”

“That keeps us out another two days.”

Vitus sours, “Yes, and we’ll live to see more—”

“By avoiding the way we came.”

“I don’t need an orator,” Vitus scolds.

Out of the reeds, their jog away from the hills lasts ten minutes before his winded father must march. He passes the time with words of his cousin, a Comum orator serving the Senate.

Each new session brings greater hostility for Caesar, with wealthy senators heaping resentment upon those representing the man’s provincial cities. “Fear not,” says his father. “I’d never ask you to serve in Rome.”

“Why would I?” Skipio tells him. “Planus is more suited—”

“He is of the Caesares.” Their pace quickens as gulls appear in the cirrus. “Long before they arrived in the Lario, it was we Servii that quarried the stone, and the Flavii who cleared the trees,”

Skipio measures his words. “There are far wealthier families among them than ours.”

“Despite our simple life, we are one of the wealthiest families.”

Vitus stops walking.

“Did you just refer to those in Comum as ‘them?’”

No further words came on the journey south.

Under the half-moon’s light, they traverse the coastal plain, an endless flat with the occasional cluster of boulders, some large enough for shelter. Father slumbers between two rocks while son dozes in the warm night wind.

By morning, they’re moving again with more gulls cavorting overhead in the pale white. Conversation returns, for being Servii means never staying angry at those you love. His father talks of possible uprisings back on the continent, and strangely makes no mention of going home to his wife and daughter.

At midday, they come upon a wooden trap that provides four rabbits; his father takes only two. They reach the coast at sunset and watch the sun melt into the distant surf.

“You recall those white cliffs we saw sailing in?” asks Vitus, tossing his fire-starter pouch onto the ground.

Skipio digs a hole for their fire with one of his shin plates, as their camp shovels fled with the horses. “My Gallic horsemen say they’re made of bone.”

Vitus takes two flint stones from the pouch and sits while his son drops a ball of patchy wool into the hole and surrounds it with tiny bits of kindling. Cracking the stones together produces a spark, and Skipio gently blows upon the first sign of smoke until a flame appears.

Skipio gathers what sticks he can to stoke their fire, but the results prove meager. He maintains the flames as his father cuts the first rabbit in three places, then removes its fur with one mighty tug.

“These cliffs aren’t made of bone, they’re made of chalk,” says Vitus. “See that merchant bireme out there?”

Skipio squints at the dark patch on the horizon.

“She’s filled with slaves who’ve been picking away at it since we got here,” Vitus tells him.

“These cliffs, they’re larger than those at the end of the world.” Skipio catches his father’s stare. “I know the Pillars of Heracles aren’t the world’s end, not anymore.”

“They never were,” Vitus grins, handing him the skinned carcass. “This sea here, it’s not like our Mare Nostrum. It’s larger than the sky. Mark my words, Skipio, there’s more land beyond this island.”

Skipio places his other shin plate over the flames and tests its heat with spit before laying the red, white-streaked flesh upon it. The sizzle fuels his hunger, which gives him the courage to ask after his sister.

“What happened to Vita when I left for Mediolanum?”

His father says nothing, and Skipio presses.

“She was to marry that—”

“—We’re not talking about your sister.”

“You won’t even say her name.”

His father stares at the fire, offering no words.

“Did Vita shame us in some way?”

“Your sister would never disgrace this family,” Vitus says coolly. “That’s the last words we’ll have on it.”

Skipio pulls the browned meat from the metal when he’s sure it won’t stick, and lays the raw side into the bubbling juices.

“Can you at least tell me if Mother has improved?”

His mother fell ill shortly after their departure, and both men actively avoid reflecting on the inevitable with typical Servii avoidance. He knows his father’s distance on the matter is a coping strategy, one he’s never been good at emulating.

“She’s taking care of herself,” Vitus tells him, sullen. “As she’s always done.”

They make short work of the rabbit, and he pretends the bland, gamey meat is a flavorful hare concocted in their villa kitchen by dear Nikonidas. The boy, raised alongside Skipio, took over as the Servii cook after his Greek father passed away.

“Is Niko still fat?” he asks, licking his fingers.

“Your sister tells Planus he’s grown quite tall,”

“Is he still a mute?”

Vitus offers a look of displeasure. “His voice came as his mother lay dying. He’s not mute, he merely doesn’t express himself like the rest of us.”

And with that, Skipio decides to confess. “That native with the others at our camp. He saw me swimming,”

Vitus goes wide-eyed.

“It was careless, washing on your own,” he scolds.

“We saw each other,” Skipio clarifies. “But he said he saw no one. He answered her first in Greek.”

“Then he knew we were hiding nearby.” Vitus offers a wily glance. “You saw each other, did you?”

Skipio grins, and his father sighs.

“Tell me you didn’t interfere with him?”

“If I had,” Skipio brags, “That bitch and her gang would’ve seen his bruises,”

Vitus regards him sternly. “It’s one thing to never grow out of your attraction to boys, but this roughness of yours, Skipio,”

“You have things you don’t discuss,” he tells his father, “and I have mine.”

“Planus never grew out of his attraction to men either.” Vitus turns thoughtful. “Have you thought of making a match?”

Skipio curls his lip. “With Planus?”

“He’s your sort, isn’t he?”

Skipio balks at his father.

“We’re the same sort, but not sorted for each other.”

Vitus sucks the rabbit from his teeth. “In that case, you’ll get a wife and ensure she knows nothing about whatever catamite you keep at our insula in Comum.”

“Is that fair to her?” Skipio mumbles. “Is that fair to me?”

“Life isn’t fair.” Vitus declares, standing to crack his back. “We all make the best of unfairness with private diversions.”

Skipio keeps his tongue, rising with him and kicking dirt over their fire. Vitus suddenly falters, stumbling back and hitting the ground with a thud.

“Father!” A sudden rush to Skipio’s head forces him to his knees. His face collides with the ground. Numbness finds his feet and fingers, then his arms and legs disappear. Eyelids drop as distant voices find his ears.

“I told you they would ride to the coast.”

“Yes, you did, my clever boy, yes you did.”

*

This captive burns hot when he sleeps, never waking, no matter how indelicate a druid’s touch. Here lies the beauty of the falls, the lion from his vision.

Aedan’s thumb pushes at an eyelid, revealing a lily pad floating in the white, and its dark center widening with exposure to the light. His smooth skin stinks of cooking fire, and his soft nipples taste of roasted rabbit. He sits upon the strapping prisoner and delights in how the man’s muscular gut feels his bare crack. Cock in hand, he guides the tip over the man’s swollen bottom lip.

“You’re mine,” Aedan asserts softly, drawing a glistening line across the man’s cheek with his cockhead. He anoints his brow before tapping that imperfect nose. Someone broke it once, if only Aedan had been there to see it.

“Every inch of you belongs to me,” he whispers.

“What are you doing!?” Anger colors Kelr’s face.

Aedan lazily tips his head back.

“Marking what’s mine.”

The manlet stands with no words to spare while his fellow brutes laugh like children around their campfire. Amusement holds sway when it’s a Roman prisoner being humiliated, but their mistress, Ciniod, knows her son’s dangerous fixations.

“Stuff that thing back in your pants,” she growls, slapping the back of his curly head. “This one must remain pure,”

Aedan stands, his semi-arousal still in hand.

“This one belongs to me.”

Ciniod snatches her son’s britches from the dirt.

“Nothing belongs to you, boy.”

Blue and red tartan strikes the back of his neck, tickling his ass on their way back to the ground.

“His blood will answer for their incursion,” says his mother, pulling the burlap sack back over the handsome Roman’s head. “You lot,” she snaps, and her lackeys jump as if the Gods themselves spoke. “Get this one back over there with his superior.”

Aedan ties up his pants and moves to follow them until Kelr blocks his way. Without a word, he walks around the stewing young man, but when Ciniod steps into his path, he halts.

“We’ve got an important meeting with the gods tonight,” she reminds him, intent on keeping her lustful son at bay. “Gather some reeds from the gulley, make some masks for me, you, and that war horse of yours.”

Aedan looks at the mare, pacing with her head down around the wicker hut they built on the cliff’s edge. Its back wall teeters precariously, its many foundation stones holding it in place against the wind. It took days to gather the wicker and river rock, days more for the mud holding it together to dry.

Aedan walks long to the mare.

“Looir,” he says, bringing her long nose up and speaking to her in Greek. “They must answer for invading our lands.” He tries to pet her underbelly, but she walks away from his touch.

Aedan walks an hour from their cliffside encampment.

Along the ditch, he finds many aging hollow reeds in various shades of brown, their clusters rising around top-heavy cattails as if protecting the long, dark cobs from harm. He cannot smell the ocean’s salt here, and another week without rain makes the creekbed dry. Using his uncle’s long, wide blade, he cuts enough stalks for three masks and ties them to his back for the return walk.

Within the wicker hut’s shade, he fashions three masks to his liking. He creates a new owl face for himself and weaves blades of soft-green marsh grass to fashion a muzzle cover for Looir. His mother gets a weasel’s face, which she will mistake for a squirrel after he paints it with bloodied mud, white chalk, and soot-ink. He delights at finding enough wicker bits for a proper headdress, but his mother’s shrill call for him to come eat sours his mood.

The Roman lion from his vision remains tied to the tree with his elder. Slumped over with his head hidden by a cloth, he entices Aedan more with each passing moment. His violence at the offering gave insult, and now the Gods punish him with dreams of a perfect fuck they make real before dangling him out of reach.

After a meal of porridge loaded with auk, Kelr drags the older Roman before Ciniod, whose hateful countenance wounds like a sharp blade. Kelr’s forceful hand compels the bound man to his knees, where Ciniod hurls questions like stones.

Unable to decipher her language, the barrel-chested Roman sits unmoved by her insult-laden interrogation, staring coldly at something they couldn’t guess. His stony demeanor wavers when Aedan appears holding Looir’s reins. The druid studies the elder Roman and sees a bit of the lion in his broad face.

“Do you speak Greek?” he asks, crouching before him.

The hawkish Roman blinks.

“Holding us hostage will get you nothing.”

Ciniod walks behind him. “What does he say?”

“He thinks we’re holding him for ransom,” he tells her, then speaks to the man. “We’ve no use for Roman coin or Roman negotiation.”

The man’s nostrils flare.

“Why have they come back?” his mother demands.

Aedan asks, “Why have you returned?”

Silence becomes the man, so Aedan talks for him.

“The white-robes hate your ambitious Battle King, not because of his sway over their warriors, but because he holds the common man’s love.”

The man regards his words thoughtfully.

“Warriors are as loyal as the spoils they acquire, or whatever coin the white-robe’s dole out. Your Battle King needs the common men and their love, for it is the one thing the white-robes will never have. That’s why you’re here. Common men love Roman victory, along with a side dish of slaves.”

The man speaks. “You’re rather astute for a boy that’s never left this island.”

“The sea brings boats,” Aedan tells him, “and boats bring much talk of Rome,”

“Caesar wages war for glory,” the man confers with a slow blink. “And yes, his position within the Senate comes from his popularity with the common man. As for the Senate, whom you call white-robes, hate is a strong word.”

“All words are strong.” Aedan looks into his pale eyes. “Wealthy men administer your republic, yet commoners hate the wealthy as much as the wealthy hate common warriors who forget their place.”

“What’s he saying to him?” Kelr whispers to Ciniod.

“He speaks that Greek gibberish his father taught him,” she replies. “Let him go. If he’s talking this much, he’s got something going on in that head of his.”

“If the tribal leaders declare your Battle King victorious,” Aedan wonders. “Will he leave our island?”

Kelr strides behind the prisoner, glaring at Aedan. “This is the most I’ve ever heard you speak,”

“Your leaders decide nothing,” the man accuses. “Without your ilk whispering in their ears,”

Aedan’s eyes widen. “My ilk?”

“How many of you came to the continent?” the man asks. “With your masks, poisons, and strategies,”

Aedan stands. “It is we priests you seek to destroy?”

“You druids hold the power,” says the man.

Ciniod nags, “What does he want?”

“If you leave by the next moon,” Aedan ignores her. “The tribal chieftains will allow Rome a port, and the priests here will ignore any uprisings in Belgica.”

“There are uprisings afoot in Belgica?” the man feigns shock.

Aedan almost grins. “You will return to your Battle King and counsel him back to Belgica.”

“I cannot leave my son,” the man says. He studies the druid’s reaction and then narrows his eyes. “Though that is what you want, isn’t it?”

Aedan’s tight lips reveal his truth.

“My son is a disturbed man,” the Roman warns. “His lusts are violent, too violent for most.”

“You entice me with such words, but our shared violent desires need not concern you.” Aedan levels his gaze. “Why does your Battle King remain here? He’s more reason to return to Belgica,”

“We still have men on the continent,” the shrewd man affects. “Belgica is no priority other than a shared goal to restore a king to his throne.” The man talks as if speaking a fresh truth. “A reasonable king, the true king of this island,”

Aedan scoffs. “Mandubracius won’t guarantee you a foothold.”

Ciniod gently bats her son’s spindly arm.

“What are you saying to him about Mandubracius?”

“He’ll turn on us the first moment he can,” the man shrugs in agreement. “But until then, he’s our port in the storm.”

“A port made of rotted wood.” Aedan purses his lips. “Fine. I will help you. The tribal leaders won’t consider you a threat until you defeat Cassivellaunus.”

“Why are you saying his name like that?” Kelr demands.

“Hush now,” Ciniod scolds the manlet.

“I will talk to them,” Aedan says. “But I need assurances that his head is all your Battle King requires to depart.”

Before the Roman can answer, Taran’s screaming incites chaos. “You!” The sobbing druid falls upon the prisoner. “You killed Fintan!”

Aedan draws his dagger, his stomach twisting into knots. His mother orders her thugs to remove Taran.

Mournful eyes shift to Aedan. “The druid charioteer, the owl,” the Roman sobs. “He tried to kill my son. In war, men kill each other, men die,”

“There would be no war,” roars Aedan. “If you hadn’t invaded lands, not yours.”

Ciniod confronts the Roman.

“You fucker,” she growls, slapping his face.

“He says killing my father was the fault of war,” Aedan tells her.

Ciniod spits in the Roman’s face before kicking him in the stomach. “War you started!”

“Let Taran kill him!” Kelr puts himself between them. “Then we’ll give his underling to the Gods for their incursion,”

“Taran gets nothing!” Aedan’s shouting stops everyone. “I shall provide the Gods with Fintan’s killer, and they will devour his flesh in the ritual fire.”

“That’s right, my boy,” Ciniod laughs. “A proper sacrifice.”

Kelr points at the sleeping beauty.

“Let the Gods have his underling.”

“His son is mine,” Aedan decrees.

Ciniod gives a start. “His son?”

Kelr growls in her ear, “We cannot let him live.”

“His blood,” she whispers, her mind turning. “His blood will bring clear visions.”

“I see clearly enough,” barks Aedan.

Ciniod turns on him. “His blood belongs to the Gods.”

“I am a god,” Aedan counters.

Her open hand stings. “You’re no god,” she tells his downturned face. Silence consumes the camp until Kelr puts an arm around Ciniod.

“Perhaps we should call upon Ostin,” he murmurs.

“He’ll have no part in my vengeance,” she reveals. “Aedan has conferred with the gods before. He’s more than capable.”

Kelr hesitates before nodding. “I trust your judgment.”

“That murderer will die for his crime,” Ciniod decides. “And his son’s life will show us a path to victory.”

Aedan stalks away, his mother’s glare warming his back.

**

Cloth blinds him, and the familiar terrain of a tree presses between his shoulder blades. Skipio moves, but his arms, pulled back tight around the tree, stress his muscles to their breaking point. Rope bites cruelly into his wrists, and wiggling his fingers finds the small of his father’s back.

“Can you see anything?” he asks his father.

“I see our imminent deaths,”

“How many are there?”

“Seven in all, but it’s not their numbers that defeat us.” His father’s voice strains. “The owl charioteer from Belgica. His son and wife are our captors.”

That last battle on the continental coast replays in Skipio’s mind. The felled chariot, the flying druid in his burning owl mask, his father taking the dead man’s head.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“The owl’s son and wife demand blood for blood,” Vitus tells him. “And do so in the name of their gods,”

“Do they speak Latin?”

“The young druid speaks Greek.”

Skipio rubs his head against the tree, but cannot shed the cloth over his eyes. He wonders aloud, “How is such a fate possible?”

“Minerva punishes me,” his father’s voice breaks. “She orders the Fates to cut my line in this horrid place,”

Skipio turns to his father’s voice, though the man sits on the other side of the tree, behind him. “Minerva punishes no man for his actions in war.”

“When you left home, boy,” Vitus sobs. “You took my goodness with you.”

Suddenly, a rancid odor invades.

Flesh strikes flesh with a grunt from Vitus.

Before Skipio protests, a skull-rattling blow ushers in blackness.

When the world returns, it comes with pain and the stink of tar. Torchlight filters through wicker tendrils, where dark figures move to melodic chants.

Skipio turns to find his father beside him. Both hang upside down from a timber beam, thick ropes binding their ankles to it, and the coils of sinew around their torsos trapping their arms to their sides. A cold draft kisses his back. He twists around and finds a spacious sliver in the tendril wall. Through it sets the glowing sun, a Parthian orange becoming one with distant, dark water.

“Skipio?” his father’s voice labors. “Our captors intend to butcher us like swine.”

“We’re still on the edge of the white cliffs,” he whispers, examining their small makeshift prison. “We must swing our bodies and tip this thing over the precipice. Once we’re at sea, we’ll swim for the merchant ships. We saw one off the coast, remember?”

“If we survive that long drop, if,” Vitus says. “The rocks below will cut us to pieces,”

Skipio counters, “I’d rather die on the rocks than be butchered like a hog.”

The wicker door swings open, revealing a druid whose painted nakedness peeks out from a wind-swept smock. His reed mask, the face of a large, monstrous owl, promises nightmares, with the red twilight sky looming behind it.

“I want you to know, Skipio, that we’ll meet again on the River Styx.” Vitus closes his eyes. “Perhaps we’ll be reborn through Jove’s good graces,”

“Stop saying goodbye,” he begs his father.

Another masked figure, naked without her robe, touches her torch to the owl’s, forming a blinding light that makes both captives avert their eyes. Wearing the face of a reddish weasel, her bony shoulders shake in laughter that jiggles her small, sagging tits.

The knife-wielding owl sheds his smock and enters their cage. Light dances with the shadows, bringing the feathers painted upon his skin to life. Skipio’s eyes adjust to the firelight, and taking inventory of the owl’s body, recognizes the gangly druid’s cock.

“It’s you!” gasps Skipio. “Do you remember me? From the waterfall?”

The hideous mask cocks with its wearer’s head.

“I don’t speak your pathetic language.”

“I remember you,” Skipio speaks to the dark eyes within the mask’s holes. “Please, please remember me.”

The owl’s long, slender blade shines as it rises.

“No!” Skipio twists as the owl nears his father. “Show mercy, do not take him, take me!”

Vitus rumbles, “Stop groveling, boy, you’re a Roman!”

The blade touches his father’s neck.

“I’m yours.” Skipio cries in Greek.

The owl stops, and his head slowly turns.

“I’m yours,” Skipio says again. “Do what you will with me,”

Cold, glassy eyes regard him through the holes.

“Slaughter me. Eat my flesh. Fuck me into dust. I don’t care,” Skipio pleads. “Just don’t hurt him. I’m yours to hurt. Take me.”

The owl stands as if beholden to Medusa.

A shadow appears as the weasel-masked woman joins them. Her tit flat against the owl’s shoulder, she whispers words Skipio cannot understand. The blade returns to Vitus’s neck.

“Please,” Skipio implores, tears dripping hot over his brow. When the mask finds him again, he begs, “My life is yours. I’m yours to take. Please. Take me.”

Hope sparks only a moment as icy orbs fix upon Skipio. Those eyes do not waver as the blade slides under his father’s chin. Blood veils his father’s face, and white bone crests the gash as the man chokes on his last breaths.

Skipio howls with rage. “You Ganymede bitch!” He twists violently in his binds, striking his father’s trembling body until they’re both rocking like wind-swept cocoons.

“I’m going to cut your heart out,” he snarls in Greek. “And then fuck the hole in your chest!”

The hut’s walls begin hopping on their rocky foundation, but the owl takes no notice as his hand comes to rest on Skipio’s thigh. Narrow eyes indicate an unseen smile when long fingers graze Skipio’s fear-driven erection.

“Aedan!” Comes the weasel’s shrill, and the owl recoils as if woken from sleep.

The blade comes for him, and Skipio welcomes it.

“Yes, kill me, A-dawn,” he seethes. “Kill me!”

The owl is dumbstruck.

“Kill me,” Skipio taunts. “Or the next time we meet, my cock will rearrange your guts!”

The blade lowers, and that owl mask comes close enough to kiss. The druid’s dark eyes gleam with desire as the torch touches the wall. A bluish-white wave speedily climbs to the overhead beam, where it begins devouring its thickness. Like water, the flames crawl to his father’s feet.

Skipio screams as the hanging man beside him ignites and the owl departs, closing the door behind him. Beside his father’s immolating body, Skipio’s trembling screams beg Minerva for strength. He curls upward in the searing heat and unfurls, repeating until his back aches. With each drop, he arches more, and his momentum builds. Little by little, the hut slides from its foundation, letting in air that stokes the flames and breeds more smoke.

The burning portion of the roof collapses, swinging Vitus’s flaming corpse into Skipio’s chest. He shrieks like a newborn child as flames burn his skin. They also burn his sinew binding. His arms free, Skipio desperately fingers the steaming ropes that hold his ankles. His father’s corpse finds him again, searing his upper arm with a crackling sizzle. Skipio wails, allowing deadly smoke into his throat.

Oh, Minerva! To die in a place like this…Suddenly, a charging force barrels through the fiery wall, toppling the hut and ushering in a wave of cold air.

Skipio falls, the full moon and stars growing distant.

His back collides with the waves, rattling his bones as if he’s struck stone.

The ocean steals his breath, its salty depths baptizing his burns. A long-faced mask floats within reach, its black ashen knots dancing in the froth.

Above him, a silhouetted Luna gallops through the surf, her spindly legs working as Neptune intended.