XIII - The Graticule

Rome wastes no time planting itself further along the Tamesa.

Planks from the fallen stronghold frame their new fort, a monstrous structure they will not burn as they do the spindly logs surrounding their marching camps.

Watchtowers crest their five corners, with red-caped archers pacing the connecting banquettes. Ditches line all three of the surrounding meadows, each trench so deep they look as if Taranis himself dug the soil out with his fingers. A wide portion of the river protects the southern wall, and as the days grow short, cold air collides with the heat, bringing downpours that expose the barrier’s waterline foundations. Such erosions go unseen on stormy nights, and this is how Aedan the Ancalite gets inside.

The wolves store nothing along their inner walls, yet the naked druid crosses the open stretch without fear as the stinging, heavy rain cloaks his presence. A timber pole bears two shiven wood strips, each with an end carved into a point and painted with strange letters. The top sign leads to a trail lined with leather-bound tents, where somber voices drift from drawn flaps. Another pole with a sign points to a path with 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 him to cut the livestock free, but his mission takes precedence.

He ventures unseen to the smaller lodge alongside. Atop its roof, he drops down into 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 lie among them, and one wakes upon seeing his figure against the wall.

Hair braided and face flushed, she elbows the girl beside her, and soon, word of the Owl King’s arrival travels to their sanctioned leader. Before long, the square-jawed druidess, Eadaoin, sits cross-legged before him.

“Tell me Ostin survived,” she says.

Aedan swings his head.

“He came here, you know,” she says. “Offering your life up for the Lion.”

Aedan smirks, “So I heard.”

“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 says. “We’d all be pregnant,”

“Pregnant or worse,” gripes a third.

Eadaoin rolls her eyes. “He’s got his advocates.”

“Where are my bitches?” asks Aedan.

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

Aedan starts. “The Lion?”

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

“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 speaks out.

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 or waif, that is,”

“Then it’s good there are no male druids among you,” he says, until Eadaoin’s anxiety rules her face.

“Who is it?” asks Aedan.

Eadaoin 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, looks at Aedan with bright acorn-colored eyes. Hair braided like the women around him, Alon’s fox-like face appears clean, and his pointy chin, shaven.

“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.”

“They call him Castor,” adds Eadaoin.

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

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

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

“He’s called Skipio by his friends,” says Alon. “Decurion by his underlings, most of them are Gauls from the continent.”

“The battle king calls him Lucius Skipio Servius,” Eadaoin tells him. “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 glares at him. “Did you or Kelr tell Lord Lion of our stake defenses?”

“He couldn’t have told them anything,” Eadaoin shakes her head and raises a protective arm before her brother. “We’ve been prisoners here since Taran’s stronghold fell.”

“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?”

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

“I don’t know,” she tells him.

“They don’t take you outside the wall to collect water.”

“No,” she answers. “There’s a sluice inside the southern wall, near the third tower. Water runs through it and then seeps through a cloth. We draw this filtered water and carry it to that boiler.”

“Are the buckets dry when you get them?”

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

“In the morning, you’ll reach under here when you arrive at the sluice.” Aedan draws that 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, one pushing Alon aside.

“It’s filled with yew juice paste.” His words elicit smiles. “Smear your buckets with it before the water assembly begins, then make sure that water gets to the heat.”

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

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

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

“Carbilius is here?” asks Alon.

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

Some of the women retreat while others suck their tongues.

“It’s just a matter of time before one of this lot reveals him to the Lion,” she says with volume.

Aedan scowls. “I do not care.”

“You will take him,” Eadaoin warns. “Or line the buckets yourself.”

Aedan considers doing the job alone, but knows he cannot. Grousing, he climbs to the transom. “I count to ten, then I leave alone.”

A moment later, out in the downpour, Alon drops into the mud behind him. “Stop looking at me,” Alon snaps. “Your ugly face turns my stomach.”

Aedan dips his head to look him in the eyes.

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll fuck it.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Alon grimaces. “I heard how you defiled that head on the battlefield, and then sullied poor Castor.”

Aedan thinks of drowning the little fox on the walk back to the signage pole. Together, they scramble across the clearing under stinging rain.

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

Aedan sprints back down the path and takes cover under a canopied stall. Three horses chow from their buckets, and one is his war prize. Beaming, he kisses Looir’s long muzzle and mouths her name without voice. The beast merrily bobs her head before emitting a squeal.

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

Three heartbeats pass before the muscular Roman emerges naked, his thick manhood swinging as he struts to his horse. Hairless but for a golden thatch around his cock, the Lion takes up 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 wonders. “I dream of him, too.”

Aedan rises within his patch of darkness.

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

Overcome with desire, Aedan reaches out from the darkness, his fingers stopping short of the man’s smooth, sun-kissed skin. He desires just a handful of that taut, supple ass. Then, Reed Eyes intrudes like a bad smell.

“Pilus Junius took that little Gaul through the gate.”

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

“At the camp cistern,” says Reed Eyes with a grin. “Something about the Owl poisoning our water,”

The Lion’s face turns boyish as he laughs.

“The Owl fell for my ruse,” he boasts.

“The water crews will miss having those wenches refill the boiler every day,” says Reed Eyes, laughing with him. “They’ll have to go back to doing their duties.”

Aedan’s shaky Latin discerns that he’s been made a fool. After they depart, he wanders back to the wall, caring little if anyone spots him in the waning rain. He clumsily slips under the barrier and into the water, strokes over murky shallows.

What an utter fool the Lion has made of him. Anger fades onshore, where bootprints lead into the trees and reveal a dull glow. Aedan climbs a tree to its highest branch and spots Bitch Face below with the traitorous Alon under his torch.

“You’re sure he’ll come through here?” Bitch Face 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. “The women say you’ll be taking Prince Kelr with you,”

“I’d never take him with me. He’s an utter animal.” Bitch Face softens and pulls Alon close. “You’re not like the rest of them. You’ve got a Roman soul,”

Aedan considers hocking spit onto their heads but settles on rolling his eyes instead.

“There’s a grand waterfall about a mile from where the Lug meets the Stour,” Alon tells him. “Behind the first set of falls is an entrance to a large cavern.”

Bitch Face kisses him passionately.

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

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

Aedan allows the traitorous cunt a peaceful moment before descending to a lower branch. It will take a few moments to choke him if he uses his thighs rather than his—

“What’s a little thing like you doing so far from your sister?” roars Skipio Servius.

Alon throws the torch at the man and runs, but the Lion snatches him by the arm. With one hand around Alon’s throat, he lifts him off his feet and tears away Alon’s smock with a single tug.

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

“Please,” the Lion mocks. “I belong to Castor. Well, he used to belong to me, so I guess that makes you community property.”

Alon’s fingers go for the Lion’s eyes, and his skinny legs kick at the man’s corded stomach. Laughing, the Lion drops him, then backhands him into a stupor when he stands.

He pins his forearm to the fallen Alon’s back. “I’m going to use you like Jupiter on a lonely day,” says the Lion, spreading the waif’s thighs with his knees.

Aedan grips his growing arousal.

“You’re not my Owl,” the Lion grunts. “But if I close my eyes, you will be,”

“No, please! Listen, the Owl is here,” Alon cries as the Roman’s cockhead knocks at his door. “He’s above us, watching in the trees!”

The Lion’s gleaming green eyes find the druid standing naked atop a thick, lateral branch high above them.

“Finish him, Skippy-oh!” He demands in Greek. “Or are you too weak from your burns?”

A broad smile evokes a rare one from Aedan.

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

Aedan falls toward him, catching a low branch and swinging around, his toes just out of the Lion’s reach. His palms grow hot with each revolution until he gains enough momentum to launch. Sailing through the air, he swings from one hanger 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 exposed me,”

“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,” comes the raging man’s bellow, a 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!”

**

Lucius Vitus Servius once said that rivalry within ranks festers like flesh rot, and if a general ignores it, he’ll lose a man as quickly as a leg. Julius recalls his old friend’s observation as he watches the murdered man’s son scowl at Kombius, a prince of the continental Atrebates.

The more concerning bit of flesh rot, however, is Titus Labienus, who listens with jowls tight in resentment as the noble speaks of his time as an Ancalite prisoner.

Before their first campaign on the island, Julius had sent Kombius ahead with a mixed group that included Roman emissaries. The aging Ancalite king, a man of Belgic blood, took Kombius and the emissaries prisoner, killing Labienus’s son in a spilling of Roman blood yet sparing the Atrebates.

Young Skipio and the older Titus have lost more than most, certainly more than Julius, whose aunt’s youngest son, Planus, engages too eagerly with the esteemed Kombius. The hirsute Gaul’s blond locks spark more than conversational interest, and as he regales the smitten Planus, his light eyes steal glances at Skipio’s lion-headed helmet.

“In your time among them,” Skipio says, and Planus aims an anxious glance at Julius. “Did you ever talk with the druid, Fintan?”

“The Owl counseled Cassibelanus to anticipate Rome,” Kombius answers. “He wanted no part of it until his wife whispered poisons in his ear that led him and his chariots to Belgica.”

“We know this woman,” says Julius. “Is she a druidess?”

“She would’ve been,” Kombius replies. “Getting pregnant made the old archdruid—”

“Ostin,” Skipio cuts in, and Kombius sets down his cup.

“Ostin, yes, the druid you murdered,” he cordially reminds before returning his attention to Julius. “Ostin excluded her for this and other reasons. She retains a high position among her people. However, she is still a king’s daughter.”

“Clearly,” Julius pushes a cup of wine at Skipio. “Since there’s been no repercussions for her ambushing and murdering my friend,”

“My father,” Skipio interjects.

Yes, the Lion, as he’s known to warriors and druids alike, inches ever closer to thirty, his waning twenties lost with his father’s demise. His campaign of brutality against the island’s druids evokes more fear among the locals than the presence of Rome’s legions.

“Our spies say that since Fintan’s death,” Julius fills the Gaul’s cup. “It is her brother Taran who whispers in Cassibelanus’s ear,”

“My source tells me that he’s made her half-brother, Lugotrix, leader of the Ancalites.” Kombius stares into his cup. “Most of the gathering kings disagree with his choice, putting their faith in her son, a young druid that Cassibelanus dislikes immensely.”

Skipio raises his head as if freshly woken. “Why would this warlord dislike a strategist who’s won him battles?”

“Strategist?” asks Julius.

“He speaks of the Owl,” Planus says softly.

“Yes, but Aedan the Owl King is of two extremes,” Kombius tells them. “Cunning beyond measure, and brutally whorish beyond shame,”

“How is one brutally whorish?” asks Planus.

Kombius smirks. “For him, a fistfight is foreplay.”

Julius finally understands. “Is that what’s made you a child seeking a new toy, Skipio?”

The young Servius remains silent, keeping his thoughts on the deadly druid to himself.

“Fintan was a reasonable sort until he married,” adds Kombius.

Planus wonders, “Does anything make a man more unreasonable?”

“Forgive him,” Julius raises his cup. “Planus carries little taste for women.”

Planus says, “I speak of matrimony, not women.”

“Matrimony and women go hand in hand,” laughs Julius.

“How now, uncle,” Planus smirks. “Men also forge bonds in Juno’s month,”

“Despite our laws ignoring such ceremonial unions,” Skipio gripes.

“Are you married, dear boy?” Julius teases Planus.

Pearly teeth peek out amidst a face full of hair.

“If I were, mother would be the first to know,”

“Then I would be the last,” Julius jokes.

Planus and Kombius laugh, but Skipio broods while Labienus scowls.

“Your men have many wives, then?” Planus asks.

“It is our women who have many husbands,” Kombius answers. “Bonds form when life begins.”

Planus blinks. “You’re married to every woman you get pregnant?”

“You Romans and your writs. There’s no need for contracts if proof of your partnership lies swaddled and crying in your arms,” Kombius shrugs his bony shoulders. “I’ve rutted many a man when the mood strikes, but what I leave him can be wiped away or pushed out with a good fart,”

“And with that, I take my leave.” Labienus rises. “I bid you goodnight and thank you for your hospitality, Imperator,”

Julius raises his cup. “Thank you for supping with us, Tribune.”

The man departs, and Kombius sighs.

“I’ve made him uncomfortable,” he says.

“He doesn’t trust you, nor do I,” Skipio reveals. “You left camp this morning without informing the watch.”

“Yes,” Kombius nods. “And you would know, wouldn’t you?

Julius sets down his cup. “What’s this about then?”

“Legate claims our Kombius ventured into the woods without acquiring leave,” Planus explains with hardened eyes on Skipio. “No one brought it up this night, as you dislike camp politics spoken of at supper,”

“Speaking on bonds between men,” Kombius hopes to change the subject by addressing Julius. “You asked me to reach out to an old lover, and that’s what I did.”

“Then why not inform the watch?” Skipio asks.

“Because I didn’t want you killing him,” Kombius snaps. “Each covert meeting I’ve arranged finds you showing up and murdering everyone in attendance.”

“This is an acceptable reason,” Julius decides. “Thank you, Kombius.”

Planus, the consummate de-escalator, stands.

“We should take our leave, Skipio.”

“I trust you, Lord Planus,” Kombius says, taking his wrist. “More than I trust any other man in this camp,”

Julius apes insult. “You too, Kombius?”

“I’m sorry,” the Gaul grins, eyeing Skipio. “You’re still my battle king, but your Legates do not trust me farther than they can throw me.”

“Except for our dear Planus,” Julius baits.

“Full disclosure,” Planus says. “My interests come tainted,”

Skipio tempers his tone. “May I ask this lover’s name, Kombius?”

“To what end?” Planus laughs over his agitation.

Kombius answers, “His name is Taximagulus and he leads the Cassi.”

“And what words did he share?” asks Julius.

“A high-placed woman seeks an audience with Rome,” Kombius tells him. “She wishes to settle hostilities between you and her family.”

“And how does she intend to do that?” Julius wonders.

“She’ll divulge the location of the Catubellauni stronghold,” Kombius reveals softly. “In return, she desires safe passage to Belgica for her and her son.”

Skipio quakes, “The nerve of that bitch,”

Julius raises a hand for him to settle. “Kombius, arrange this meeting.”

Skipio jumps to his feet, silenced by Julius’s hand.

“Planus,” Julius adds. “Go with him to these negotiations, and when you do, inform the watch guard of your exit.”

Kombius stutters, “Caesar, she’s n—”

“I know the woman who seeks this meeting,” Julius assures him. “Go now with Planus and arrange it.”

Kombius departs, concern plaguing his brow, while Planus follows, delivering a wordless warning for Skipio to remain calm. The moment they’re gone, however, the Servian heir takes up his mane-covered helmet.

“You will remain, Lucius Skipio Servius,” says Julius.

He gnashes his teeth. “How can you even think of making a deal with the bitch who killed my father?”

Julius eyes the space beside him. “Sit down, boy.”

“Boy?” Skipio roars. “You’re not my father,”

“Rome is your father now,” Julius tells him.

Skipio shakes his head. “I won’t discuss the needs of Rome over justice for my father,”

“You’re behaving like a wild boar,” Julius shouts. “Must I cage you like one?”

Skipio comes to attention.

“Apologies, imperator, for my lack of respect.”

Julius sits up and pats the space beside him. “That’s better, now sit,” and as Skipio moves to do so, he scolds, “Put that damned thing on the floor.”

The fleece-covered helmet finds a place between their feet.

“Take a breath and count to ten,” Julius orders softly, but when Skipio sighs in frustration, he barks: “You’ll do it, or I’ll send those rolling eyes tumbling out of this tent.”

Skipio swallows his pride, takes a breath, and, in his mind, counts to ten. Julius joins him, the scent of bacon and barley from the half-empty plates perfuming the room. No doubt, thoughts of the Owl boil within the Lion beside him, but hopefully, this momentary settlement will dampen his fire.

Julius reaches down and pinches an ear on the lion’s head. “Did your father ever tell you where this came from?”

“A beast from Bithynia,” says Skipio.

“It was our first campaign together,” Julius nods. “I was younger than you in those days, but I’d allied with the wrong people. I was desperate for a high position in the House of Jupiter,”

Skipio turns to him. “You were a high priest of Jupiter?”

“Oh yes,” says Julius. “Until those that got me there picked a fight with the wrong man. They lost, just as my mother said they would, and for that, and for refusing to divorce my wife, the victor exiled me to military service.”

“You never chose to serve?” asks Skipio, shocked.

“No, and neither did your father,” Julius tells him. “He’d gambled away your mother’s dowry and needed a soldier’s pension to get it back.” Julius raises a finger. “He never gambled again. Your father made mistakes, but never made them twice.”

Skipio lowers his gaze.

“Back in those days,” Julius continues. “I dabbled in men on occasion, not like you and Planus, who live for cock like it’s your religion. Knowing this, my legate sent me to negotiate for ships at the Bithynian court.”

Skipio provides his full attention.

“Your father came along because he was a sturdy hairless sort,” says Julius, grinning. “The type their King fancied,”

“Did my father—?”

“Bye-Jove, no,” Julius laughs. “I did the heavy sitting on that mission, and thanks to your father prancing around half-naked, the King proved a rather uncomfortable chair.”

“Father never spoke of his time in the east,”

“It’s not the sort of thing a man tells his son,” says Julius. “Our host, the Bithynian King, kept a lioness in his menagerie. She came from lands far south of Egypt, and Vitus brought one of her cubs back home. Your grandfather—”

“—Red,”

“Yes, old Rufus.” Julius grabs the decanter and drinks from it. “Rufus named that cub Leonidas. Taught him to take down deer and boar that got into the orchard,”

Dried blood dots the fleece’s ears.

“I saw the beast many years later,” he says, offering Skipio a drink of his wine. “Your grandparents threw an orgy to celebrate your birth. Cornelia was pregnant then, and she desperately wanted to hold you.”

Taking back the decanter, Julius empties it with one swallow.

“We didn’t know that shortly after your birth, Leonidas had gone peculiar. The beast had mauled some harvesters and then attacked two horses.” His fingers scratch into the fleece’s stiff mane. “That night, after we’d gone to sleep, Leonidas climbed out of his pit, entered the house, and killed your wetnurse.”

The lion’s snout stares back at him, its whiskers broken and bent.

“Your grandfather died protecting you. Vitus and I nearly died taking the damned thing down.” Pain clouds his memory. “Cornelia lost her baby that night. A boy. What there was of him in her piss bowl, we buried with your grandfather,”

Remorse colors Skipio’s face. “I’ll burn it, Imperator.”

“You will not,” Julius says, patting Skipio’s knee. “This thing meant too much to your superstitious father. He brought it on every campaign. He said that Minerva came to him in a dream, telling him that the beast that tried to devour his boy would protect him when grown.”

Skipio’s eyes pool with water. “I remember one winter, the snow came early and made a white mountain in the impluvium. Father gathered handfuls of it and lobbed it at everyone in the atrium,”

Julius runs a paternal hand across his back.

“I remember this one Saturnalia, father wore my mother’s womanly robes and jokingly swaddled Vita.” Skipio wipes his nose. “My first harvest, it went on long into the night, and father put me on his shoulders. I swung at all the low-hanging fruit with my grandfather’s stick.”

Julius puts a hand upon the young man’s shorn head.

“When I see you in this, Skipio, I see that lion gone mad,” he tells him. “I’m begging you, as one who also mourns your father, please, get ahead of this madness. Do not make me put you down the way we did this damned beast.”

A low groan escapes Skipio’s throat before fierce sobs cover his chin with spit.

“There it is,” Julius’s arm curtains those broad shoulders. “That’s what Romans do. We weep for those we lose, not rage for what we’ve lost.”

Skipio cries for several moments.

“You cannot let anger consume you,” says Julius, releasing him. “Not when you must take your father’s place in Comum,”

Skipio’s head rises. “Comum?”

“You’re going home,” says Julius.

“I can change.” Skipio jumps to his feet. “I will change,”

“It’s not a punishment, boy,” Julius assures him.

“There’s no reason to send me home,” Skipio says. “Not when I’ve proven myself capable on the battlefield,”

“The Senate has stripped the people of Comum of their citizenship.” Julius stands with him. “Even families founded in Rome are not immune,”

Skipio’s mouth opens. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“Resentment and jealousy,” Julius tells him. “Novum Comum’s representative in the Senate, your father’s cousin, killed himself after being whipped like a dog in public by Marcus Claudius.”

Skipio growls, “That arrogant Claudian bastard,”

“Arrogant, yes, and powerful.” Julis grasps his muscled arm. “This is why I’m making you Tribune of the Comum battalion,”

Skipio recoils.

“I cannot accept such a high position,” he says. “I haven’t been a praefectus yet,”

“Madness has ruled you for too long,” Julius chuckles. “Do you think I would’ve allowed a simple decurion to lead the missions you’ve carried out these past weeks?”

Skipio’s mind turns behind distant eyes.

“You’ve been Praefectus Vigilium for some time now,” Julius reveals. “You and your riders have protected the marching legions far better than we’ve deserved.”

“But, Caesar,” Skipio whispers. “I’ve only hunted druids for personal—”

“—You’ll wear the purple stripe,” Julius interrupts. “Rebuild the garrison at Comum, and from there, aid Crassus Titus Flavius in Mediolanum and our dear Planus in Bellagio.”

“Comum houses so many youthful trainees,” Skipio warns. “They know more of work than weapons.”

“Marcus Castor Junius will use the youth in rebuilding Octodurus,” Julius decides. “Those going home with you will reestablish the road-watch network and protect our colonial loyalists.”

Skipio comes to attention. “I will not fail you, Imperator.”

“No,” Julius grips both his shoulders. “You must not fail Comum.”