XVII - The Month of Honey III

Twenty-two days find them at Gades, where the narrowest waterway divides the northern isle of Eritheia from its southern sister, Kothinusa.

A patchwork of linen canopies spread with barely a sliver between them while trade and circumstance carry on loud enough to rouse the dead. The air carries a disgusting mix of shit and saltwater, but Aedan inhales deeply with his face in the sun.

His captor tugs at the sinew cord, irritating his neck; it’s a shameful use of his mother’s blessing but a suitable punishment for his escape attempt. Looir stands with her kind atop the seawall, getting a good scrub before she boards the Portuna Harena.

The largest ship he’s ever seen, her mighty masts piercing the sky with sails bound tight. Three rows of oars dangle from her fat side. “Why does she have rowers if her sails are this big?”

Golden strands frame the handsome Roman’s thick lips as wheat-shaded coils tremble over his brow. “This deck belonged to a warship.” He leads Aedan up the ramp to board her. “Now she carries goods and troops bound for home,”

In times of war, coastal delivery remains superlative—but which coast is a mystery; the Briton knows none other than his home shores. Skipio jerks his leash. “I realize a druid’s purpose is to think, but you think too much, Ay-dawn.”

Under the curved shadow of the ship’s swan neck, the druid imagines kicking his Roman bride to death. He’ll castrate him and keep his thick member as a toy to sustain his obscene appetites.

“There’s those evil eyes,” says his bride, close enough to kiss him. ♡ “When you die, I’ll have them plucked and coated in glass.” ♡

Aedan’s nipples harden at such a beautiful sentiment.

“Tribune,” says Actus, joining them. “They’ve loaded the last horse,”

“Are the prisoner’s accommodations prepared?”

Actus frowns at Aedan. “Everything’s ready,”

Below decks, floral oils dull the stench of saltwater burlap and faint perspiration. In the rowing room, colorful glass votives in thick chains direct a kaleidoscope upon the Roman’s tunic.

The wind whistles through narrow windows, each long enough for three stacked oars. A narrow plank path divides the sides, forcing Aedan to walk behind his Roman bride. Oarsmen file into uneven outboard seats, overlapping shelves setting one rower high and a third beneath the middleman.

All of them are Celtic, but Aedan doesn’t recognize their tribal markings or tartan britches. A massive water barrel sits at the aft beside a small table. Thick rolls of parchment quiver atop its rickety chair, held from the wind by an inkwell and quill.

A firm hand shoves Aedan onto the floor of a meager space walled by wooden cargo shelves. His damp prison holds stacks of excess oars with a twine hammock strung up between two supports.

“There we go,” his Roman announces, slamming the rattan door and securing its chains. “Only the best travel accommodations for our month of honey,”

Aedan serves up his most cunty glare through the square holes of his cell.

“When you look at me like that, my cock weeps.” Skipio’s smile fades. “Don’t think I won’t quarry your ass before so many witnesses,”

Those oarsmen fluent in Greek turn for a look.

Aedan sits up on his elbows and spreads his knees.
“If you want it, Skippy-oh, come take it.”

“What’s this then?” an anxious voice demands.

With skin as black as southern sand, he boasts square red nails and wears a long silken tunica matching his bold yellow cap. A red band binds his stringy braids, and silvery blue dust shimmers over the elegant facial scar along his right cheek.

“Superintendent Gauda,” Skipio faces the sweet-smelling man. “I am Servius,”

“Forgive me, Tribune,” says this Gauda with a slight bow. “I don’t think we’ve ever had someone of your rank down here with us,”

“I’ll not be staying, but my prisoner will be,” says Skipio. “He’s not to be let out, spoken to, or even looked at if you’ve got a brain in that pretty head.”

Gauda gives Aedan a curious inspection, a spread hand over his chest.
“Is he that dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough.” Skipio snatches a discarded sail from the floor and, with a fisherman’s skill, casts it over Aedan’s cage. “Sleep well, my love.”

“My love?” Gauda’s voice questions. “Servius Tribune, you should know that I don’t approve of that kind of prisoner,”

Skipio sounds as if he’s smiling.
“It’s a good thing you’re not in charge, then, Supervisor,”

Gauda’s breathing distances itself from Aedan’s leather drape.

Seagulls cry outside, and soon, Gauda’s voice drowns them out. He speaks a familiar Celtic tongue, one Aedan knows from when his father hosted visitors from the continent.

“You’re all here today because your leader sold you to Rome. You’ve spent your captivity inland training to work these oars, but do not fret about your circumstances.”

Gauda paces the narrow walk.

“Under my care, you will eat daily, drink plenty of water, and get nine hours of sleep each night.”

What a fantastic turn of fortune, thinks Aedan.

“At this moment, you’re an investment, but one day, each of you will be a Roman citizen.”

No derisive exhales or hisses come from the rowers.

“I see doubtful eyes, but I assure you that I’m a man of truth, and my truth is the most merciful thing any of you could ask for in this circumstance,” Gauda tells them. “Now, this journey takes twenty days, and you’ll be rowing fifteen of them, from sun up to sun down.”

Why unfurl the sails at night?—Rome isn’t that close.

“You’ll be doing more than labor on this ship. By this time next year, you will have learned Latin and earned the right to leave this boat.”

Silence indicates some are calculating on this promise.

“To that, this will be the last time I speak in your tongue,” adds Gauda. “Your drummer, Atticus, sets the beat, and I shall reiterate your lessons on that beat.”

Aedan rolls gingerly into the buckskin hammock and eagerly awaits the drum; twenty days is plenty of time for him to master this shit language.

“You will listen, you will learn, and eventually, you will know.” The drummer begins, and Gauda’s pleasant tenor declares two simple words on each thump: Vero. Possumus. Vero. Possumus. Vero. Possumus.

Aedan wakes in darkness, and the chill forces him fetal.

The drape over his cage is gone, as are Gauda, Atticus, and the oarsmen. Lamplight reveals his Roman bride’s muscular back. He stands in his loincloth before an elderly man who peels away translucent skin from burns, each flake dandruff shaken from the giant’s head.

“A good swim in the salt will toughen this up,” says the old man.

Skipio grunts. “I’ve no time for a swim,”

“You’re on a boat, young Servius,” he lends a critical gaze. “There’s always time for a swim,”

Aedan slinks from his hammock.

“Fortuna smiles upon you,” the old man adds. “Not many can walk away from these druid’s burnt offerings,”

Skipio turns his head, his eyes catching Aedan’s.
“My father took the brunt of my misfortune,”

“I served with Vitus in Alexandria,” says the old man, cleaning his glum patient’s new skin with soapy water. “He often bragged that his boy could swim the entire width of the Larius many times before tiring.”

Skipio stares down at him. “He spoke of me?”

“He was very proud of you,” he nods, patting him dry. “He said you were the reason he woke up in the morning and the reason he came home at night.”

Aedan deciphers what he can and conjures Fintan’s words to him as a boy: ‘When I look to the stars, I see you among them and find my way home.’ Fintan’s long absences left Aedan lonely, and as a boy, he met his return by running into his arms.

Behind him, a door slams. Skipio stands within his cage, those green eyes promising retribution. That hairy face displeases him, but Aedan sees only the smooth, masculine beauty beneath it.

“You should do as the doctor advises,” Aedan speaks his most formal Greek. “And while taking the salt, drown yourself in its depths,”

“If Poseidon grabs my heels,” Skipio grins. “I’ll be grabbing yours,”

“Tell me,” Aedan taunts. “Did your father float like burnt wood?”

Strong fingers dig into his throat. “You dare make light of your crime.”

Aedan’s feet lose the ground, and his head collides with the wooden siding.

“You don’t even pretend you did it for your mother,” his bride growls.

“I did it for my father,” Aedan says, choking. “I’d do it again,”

He slides to the floor when free and spins on his tailbone, striking the Roman’s molded core. Before long, their brutal exchange finds Aedan on his stomach with a mouthful of blood and a reeling head.

An unforgiving hand anchors his cheek against the floorboards while a weeping cockhead stabs his lower back. He tucks his knees and raises his ass before a thumb pushes in deep, pressing down and cruelly stretching his tightness.

Aedan reaches back and digs into his Roman bride’s scarred pectoral, eliciting a hoarse cry. The hand on his face retreats to a handful of his curls.

“You druid pig,” he mutters, yanking Aedan’s head upward.

“Take me like a man,” Aedan growls. “Or are you still a little daddy’s boy?”

“There’s nothing little about me, you druid cunt,”

A dry stab invades him with stinging pain, and pleasurable agony clouds his senses. Driven by Aedan’s sultry cries, the Roman thrusts, and when he arches his back, his bride pulls him to his knees.

“You feel so good,” Skipio growls through his teeth, wetting the druid’s ear. “I’m going to breed you like a broodmare,”

Aedan latches onto the stony arm around his midriff until a sudden draft cools his back. Light floods the open ramp where Gauda peers in through the darkness.

“What in Aman’s name,” the man gasps.

His attempts to drape the cage fail before some oarsmen appear on the ramp. He tries corralling them back up, but there are too many. The freshly fed Celts file past, watching the Roman plow him to idiocy.

Heavy breaths feather his sweaty back.
“You love it, don’t you, you druid pig?”

Aedan pushes back into the virile bastard’s thrusts.
“Fuck me to death, Skippy-O,”

The Roman bucks faster, his grip strong enough to bruise Aedan’s hips. Tiring of the rut, Aedan bears down, his insides grasping the Roman’s weapon. His bride tenses and pulls out, leaving a mess on Aedan’s spine.

“Waa-hoo!” the fuckface howls, drumming his backside. “You’ve got no rump to brag about, druid,” says the Roman, grabbing a buttock and shaking it. “But it’s so bouncy,”

Aedan twists in his grasp until those glorious teeth come together in his flesh. Another bite, this one deeper, robs him of breath and delivers an anguish like no other. A final chomp tugs at the skin near his hole, tightening his balls. His body sparks like colliding flint, and his cock spits across the planks.

The Roman drops his limp body to the floor and struts past the oarsmen. At their drinking barrel, he splashes water over his genitals before fastening his loincloth.

Aiming a boastful nod, he paws at Gauda, who slaps him away with a closed fan. Servius Tribune departs to their laughter as their supervisor falls into his chair, snaps open his fan, and cools his outrage.

Aedan rolls onto his back, heart pulsing in his torn hole. Curious fingers seek the bites, and their warmth makes his heart smile.

*

Malaca shows her Phoenician roots with an overabundance of stone and the absence of timber. Roman horses trot over her rocky jetty, each eager for a roomy stable with ample feed and fresher water.

Scipio comes ashore with Planus and Titus to heave their ship into dry-dock.

Much lighter without her cargo of men, horses, and grain, the Portuna Harena floats along a man-made canal. Her destination is a massive shed with concrete colonnades capped by a double-thatched roof.

Two hundred Romans strip down and saddle their shoulders with thick ropes. They drag the crewless vessel up the greasy slipway, and her hull rolls smoothly up two timber ramps coated with fat. Lugging her is the easy part. Keeping her slanted is the trick—her rudder must remain in the open space between the timber ramps.

After this backbreaking task, Scipio takes to the sea with the others, where local widows happily scrub them clean for a price.

Desperate for a hot soak and to poke his prisoner, he returns to the ship, where the legion’s physician intercepts him. The old Greek chastises him anew at finding his healing burns torn. There’s no blaming his violent games with the druid this time. The physician bans him from future dry-dock hauls.

Scipio, lounging on a treatment bench, dozes as the man dabs him with ointment.

Cold, dark water.

Mountains and mist, air thick with pine and rotting apples.

He hugs the driftwood as if lying atop Luna and rides the current with his head up and eyes open. The aqueduct, whose fiercer flows rival the most tempestuous river, carries him under a sky of wicker. Light filters through and casts tiny dots over his small body.

Mother’s voice tells him how the local women weave each screen to cap the elevated canals. Air must be allowed, and bats and birds kept out. There are missing screens on his journey, and father appears on the walk-over, his arms folded.

He floats to him, under him, and then onward…

Scipio wakes with a start.

A new moon brings the most distant stars to light. He curses himself for falling asleep. He drags his hand across his lips and coats his knuckles with something wet. It’s tangy and tastes nothing like ointment.

Furious, he plants an angry foot on the pebble-laden sand and finds the druid on a blanket beneath him. Luna lets out a soft snort, standing with her eyes shut and her tail twitching.

A strong autumn sun warms the chilly sea breeze.

The sinew cord around the druid’s neck tethers him to his captor’s arm as they stroll the crowded narrows of Malaca. Boulders line the shore, many made flat by artisans so the local vendors can entertain with food.

Roman’s donning warm weather tunics sit upon rugs, each group awaiting someone to deliver their midday meal.

Scipio joins his friends amid a discussion.

“There’s our little runaway,” Planus declares. “After he and Luna disappeared, we thought him charging through Hispania on his way home by now,”

Scipio says nothing, he just pretends to admire the sea. The druid sits behind him, hugging his bony knees as Planus offers Scipio some water.

“Castor took off after him.” That elicits a bold stare from the druid.

“You sent Castor to hunt down my bride?” Scipio asks.

“No,” Titus laughs. “He took off without orders,”

The druid rolls his dark eyes and stretches his legs.

“You’re not truly taking this one home as a prisoner?” asks Titus.

“He will serve a life sentence for what he did to my father,” Scipio says.

“Yes,” Titus says. “But to call him your bride,”

“A life sentence,” says Planus. “If that’s not matrimony, I don’t know what is,”

“Worry less about my domestic affairs,” Scipio tells him. “And more about yours,”

“You hear that, Titus,” Planus teases. “You best get an affair of your own,”

“My mother has already arranged a bride,” Titus says. “One that will tie our family to the Ursii,”

Scipio grins. “Which sister?”

“Actus won’t tell him,” Planus laughs.

“I pray it’s the fat one,” Titus sighs. “Her beauty is timeless,”

“As is she,” says Planus. “Her first marriage took place the year Actus was born,”

“Age is a number,” Titus defends. “And at hers, I’ll never be burdened with children,”

Suddenly, a local appears with a steaming tray.

The bearded man sets a metal disk in the center of them, then removes the upturned bowl on top of it, letting out a puff of aromatic steam. Boiled eggs, their whites sculpted to resemble seashells, surround a thick tuna square covered with dark glossy sauce. Arugula peeks out from beneath the fish, each leaf a deeper green than the pickled cucumbers in tiny bowls alongside.

Scipio pulls a spoon from his tunic belt and uses its pointy end to dust off any chopped bits of hard-boiled egg from his portion.

“Eggs are good for you,” says Titus. “Especially at sea,”

“I want nothing to do with them when cooked this way.” Scipio carves a bit of tuna out with his spoon. “And nothing to do with you after you’ve eaten them cooked this way,”

“Your hardened egg gas, Titus, fuels nightmares,” Planus agrees. “I pity anyone with an open flame near your hole tonight.”

The tuna is tangy, salty, and good going down. Its sauce tastes of pepper, onion, honey, and vinegar, with hints of lovage and mint.

Actus joins their meal, spoon out before his ass hits the rocks.

“You were supposed to watch him,” Scipio scolds.

“I did watch him,” says Actus, sparing the druid a glance. “I followed him and Luna right to you,”

“Was I asleep?” Scipio asked.

“Yes,” Actus says, spoon in his mouth.

“How now,” Planus grins. “At least our Actus waited until your prisoner fell asleep before fucking off to places best not mentioned.”

Scipio levels his gaze. “What did he do before he slept?”

Actus stops chewing, unwilling to answer.

“Indeed,” Titus scolds, unaware of their understanding. “What if he cut our Scipio’s throat after you left?”

Actus swallows. “He has no blade,”

“Oh, he has a sword,” Scipio says.

The druid smiles behind his knees.

“Does that thing speak Latin?” Titus wonders.

“One wonders.” Planus spoons some tuna into his empty cucumber bowl and sets it near the druid before speaking his language. “You must be hungry,”

“Go on then,” Titus presses. “Eat, it’s a fish,”

“He comes from an island,” Planus reminds. “He’s well aware of fish,”

“I doubt he’s even human,” Actus says, shell-shaped egg in hand.

Scipio smirks. “His hole feels human enough to me,”

“Must you be profane?” Planus asks.

“I, too, wonder if the bitch understands Latin,” says Scipio.

“Given that glare,” Planus nods at the druid. “I think he understands the word bitch in any language,”

“Tell me, Ay-dawn,” Scipio says in Greek. “Do you understand Latin?”

The druid meets his captor’s stare and, without warning, spits.

Scipio wipes it from his nose and cheek, then backhands him, stinging his knuckles.

Blood wets the druid’s thick bottom lip until his tongue laps it away.

“That’s for the mess you made on my face last night,” Scipio declares.

The druid hocks more spit onto the tuna in its little bowl.

Scipio retrieves the bowl and tips the spittle-covered fish into his mouth, chewing with his green eyes set upon the druid’s.

Planus observes their exchange in horror. “You two need Salus,”

**

The prisoner’s behavior improves on the sail to Carthago Novum, but it is not until they pass Dianium that Gauda realizes he’s been listening and learning. In time with the drums, Gauda’s lessons fill the waking hours and are the druid’s only sustenance besides water.

They sail many nights before arriving to dry out in Tarraco.

It is the first port on their journey that feels Roman—colorful walls, intricate columns, vibrant tunics, and the blessed mutterings of Latin. Due to Gauda’s lessons, the druid understands most of what he hears while led on his leash through the city, yet his nights left aboard ship prove lonely.

His captor, young Servius the Tribune, forgoes visiting below decks. He communes daily with his most trusted, and Gauda hears whispers about reestablishing Novum Comum in the name of Caesar. Arguments occasionally prevail, but all eventually align with the Tribune’s plan.

Gauda’s eavesdropping brings trepidation—should strife break out between the Senate and Caesar, his new class of oarsmen will indeed be enlisted to fight.

Weeks pass, and the druid weakens from hunger. Still, he refuses anything brought to him by a concerned Planus, who notices the Celt drinks water offered by Gauda.

Planus is a handsome Roman with flirtatious eyes and a witty tongue. He offers the well-dressed supervisor of the oars a deal: get the prisoner to eat something and earn some extra coin for days in port. Gauda considers it, of course, if allowed to spend some of that extra coin on dining with Planus.

Servius the Tribune is unaware of their arrangement, and on the eve of their arrival at Massilia, he appears with bread and oysters. He threatens the druid: eat willingly or have the food chewed up by one of the rotted tooth rowers and forced down his throat.

The druid calls his bluff, knowing the Tribune won’t bother the oarsman.

Servius enters the cage and, after some ugly wrangling, forces the druid’s mouth open. He shovels oysters into it, clamping his jaw shut and pinching his nose until the druid has no choice but to swallow.

The Celt wrests free, but instead of kicking his captor like usual, he grabs the Tribune’s hefty manhood, jerking it violently until it’s fully erect.

Servius gives in and jams his member into the Celt’s mouth—warning him that if bitten, the druid dies. Yet even Gauda sees the Celt’s scheme for what it is when he chokes on it, bringing up the oysters and then laughing at the mess.

Furious, young Servius grabs the Celt’s head and forces it down, determined to make him eat his vomit until Gauda protests. He begs the Tribune to please allow him to clean it. His passion cooling, young Servius shoves the Celt aside and angrily returns to the upper decks.

Later that night, Gauda brings the Celt some bread and dried meat and politely asks him, in Greek, to please eat. When the Celt does, Gauda’s nerves settle.

The days pass, with Gauda bringing him antipasto meats from Planus. It’s peaceful for a time, until one day, Servius the Tribune appears clean-shaven and with his golden curls shorn. He drags his prisoner topside for a good wash.

The Celt’s grasp of Latin is nearly fluent, and he quietly countermands an order given to the ship’s steward to shave him bald. He asks the man with his strange blades to shorten his top and cut close almost everything behind his ears and on his nape.

Young Servius finds this pleasing since his captive resembles him from their first meeting. No longer weak from hunger, the Celt suddenly backflips to starboard and cartwheels into the sea. Servius dives after him not a second later, stroking over the choppy surf until he overtakes his prisoner. They struggle in the depths, but the larger man wins, as always.

Furious, he hauls the wayward Celt back and begins beating him on deck. The Celt counterattacks, and onlookers cheer him with every landed kick. Soon, his agile limbs fail to keep his captor at bay, and one punch to the head ends their fight.

Scipio finalizes all of their Comum plans on the overnight at Forum Iluii.

He wanders town with the others, finding little to interest him at a local boy brothel, not even Castor, who offers to share a man with him. He skulks back to the ship, eager to catch the druid sleeping, but instead hears the supervisor, Gauda, supping on wine, cheese, and meats with his prisoner.

“We shall speak Greek,” says Gauda, watching the druid make short work of the cappacola. “To answer your earlier question, we haul the ship ashore every other port because she’s wooden. Wood gets water-logged and must dry out after so many days to maintain her hull,”

Scipio listens at the ramp’s entry, confident the druid understands.

“Does she get a new painting of pitch?”

“Of course,” Gauda says. “I’ve answered your question, Aedan.”

“Now, you wish me to answer a question?”

“Yes,” Gauda says. “That’s how conversations work,”

Silence comes as the druid acquieses.

“How did you end up in such a predicament with our noble Tribune?”

“Noble?” huffs the Owl.

“I’ve heard his lust comes with a dose of violence,” says Gauda. “But from what I’ve witnessed these many weeks, you’re the sort to crave such violence,”

“There are others like me,” the druid says between bites. “I thought myself alone,”

“Not alone, no,” Gauda sounds amused. “So how is it that you two found each other?”

The druid speaks his truth—and Scipio’s.“I murdered his father. His father murdered my father.” The silence lasts a blink. “My mother murdered us all.”

“Where is your mother now?” asks Gauda.

“Dead,” says the druid with a burp. “She did right by me, though, as was her way, even when I toddled at her knees.”

“You’ve got the Tribune’s cord around your neck today.”

Scipio’s eyes fall to his arm; when did the bastard take it?

“It’s not his bind,” the druid explains. “My mother bound us in marriage with it before giving her life to the Gods,”

Gauda gasps. “You married your mother?”

“No,” the druid speaks with little emotion. “Your noble Tribune is my bride,”

Scipio balks in the shadows. “One might say you’re the bride, Aedan,”

“Whatever I am, it’s temporary,” says the druid.

“I’m a bit too refined for that sort of man-woman construct,” Gauda confesses. “But as far as husbeasts go, you couldn’t ask for a better-looking man,”

“He’s beautiful,” the druid abandons his Greek. “Like thunder striking the sands,”

“Your Latin is much improved,” Gauda beams.

“I’ll not need it when I go home,” he says in Greek.

“When I was a boy, Rome destroyed my world.” Gauda finishes his wine. “I don’t remember the gods who failed to protect me, my parents, or my brothers.”

“We will prevail,” the druid declares. “Our tribes will outlive their Republic,”

“I prevail by surviving,” says Gauda. “I’m a Roman citizen and afforded the right to choose my destiny.”

The druid muses, “I suppose there’s a dignity in getting to choose where they bury you,”

“Someday, dear Owl,” laughs Gauda. “You will be a Roman citizen,”

“I’ll die first,” he tells him.

“You may become a father,” Gauda says, and the druid frowns. “Or a true bride. Either or, dear man, when it happens, you’ll understand that your name need not be Defeated.”

And to that, Scipio leaves without showing his face.