Writer Obscura

TAGS: Present Tense, War Violence, Consensual Non-Consent, Ancient Rome, Gaul, Roman Empire, Homosexuality, Serial Fiction, Re-Post

I – THE LION

His name is Lucius Scipio Servius, or Scipio, to those who call him a friend.

Scipio stands a foot taller than most men, and his shorn head shines like ripened wheat. His body comes with an unobtrusive amount of muscle, yet these noble traits pale to his large green eyes—magnificent even to his rivals.

His father is Lucius Vitus Servius, and his family owns a vast apple orchard at the foot of the Alps, many miles north of Novum Comum.

Those closest to Scipio after the months became years are Gaius Planus Caesar, Crassus Titus Flavius, and Marcus Castor Junius.

They and Scipio learned their letters and trade before serving the garrison at Mediolanum. Last year, Vitus collected them to purge violent interlopers in Cisalpine Gaul under order from their great Governor Caesar.

However, they encountered migrating women and children, their men lost to northern enemy tribes. What men remained among them wielded no sword with intent, leaving Scipio and Planus greatly disillusioned.

Their melancholy fades on the march to Hispania, where fiercer tribes come in the form of ferocious Gallic hordes. Bloody battles ensue, and most of Rome’s best sons never get to stand before the noble Caesar.

Scipio and his friends survive, and at the end of it all, get handpicks for Caesar’s reimagined Legio X Equestris.

Elevation to the rank of decurio doesn’t keep Scipio from the action. He’s not the sort to watch from the rear flanks—no—Scipio rides in when holes appear along the front lines, swinging his spatha like he swings his cock at the brothel for painted boys.

Still, no amount of bloodshed prepares them for the fight against the Belgae.

Scipio, however, lives for such violence and comes into his own while fighting the Nervii, a tribe known for digging tunnels and popping from the ground like murderous moles.

An apprenticed mapmaker like his father, Scipio specializes in seeing what only engineers see. He enters one of the tunnels and soon finds its breathing holes—a weakness he fully exploits.

His legate, Titus Labenius, orders fires set and craftsmen to shape thin clay pipes. Smoke is fed through the holes before the next confrontation, killing every warrior inside.

That night, the entrenched Nervii retreats.

A final fight comes with the setting sun, and this fight feels different from the start.

Smoke rolls in from the trees, blinding the front lines as chariots swoop in from both sides and cut a swath through the infantry. Robed men drive these chariots, their wooden headpieces burning bright with fire. These flaming drivers hurl hardened gourds filled with poisonous smoke at the footmen.

Scipio charges in to protect his men, and Vitus follows to protect his son. The old man rallies the beleaguered, ordering the front line to plant themselves tight with spears tilted up and out. Scipio dismounts and joins Planus, shoulder to shoulder, knees in the mud, with their men as they hold steady their spears.

“Hold the line, and do not waver,” he shouts. Then, sensing men among them might be unwilling to hurt any horse in peacetime, he bellows: “Give their beasts a noble death, free them from their master’s yoke!”

A collective shout rises above their helmets.

The first chariot rushes them as if on the heels of Mercury. Its painted driver attempts to change course, but it’s too late. Scipio leaves formation when the beast kneels to protect itself. He speedily cuts its harness so it can flee without cracking a leg.

The sidelined carriage collides with the spearmen, ejecting its masked driver, whose flaming head spits glowing embers into the night sky. His body strikes the earth and rolls like a discarded doll.

With two swings of his sword, Vitus liberates the masked man’s head from his shoulders, but a howl grabs his attention before he can collect it. Another painted man with a head of flames stands outside the smoke, sobbing like a child. He hurls an axe.

Scipio is there with a shield, taking the blow for his father. When the shield drops, the crying man is gone, as is the masked head.

The fight is long, and soon the ground becomes a ruddy soup of severed limbs and foul-smelling entrails.

Rome is victorious, and when morning reveals the coast beyond the carnage, the men gather on the ridge to marvel at its splendor. This isn’t their Mare Nostrum; it is an endless sea at the edge of the known world.

---

Days become weeks, and the weeks become a month.

Decurions Scipio, Planus, and Titus inspect the squads under their command; there are ten units of thirty men and their horses, and each of the ten decurio relies on a duplicarius to maintain their order.

Scipio cares little for policing another man’s troop, but when he and Planus come upon a group making short work of a woman, he orders them to cease.

“No woman will be raped here,” he declares. “If your decurion thinks otherwise, he can discuss it with me.”

The threat is clear, and all but one heeds.

“That’s rich coming from you,” says a horseman.

Scipio walks to the man, a rare sort as tall as himself.

“Heard of me, have you?”

The man folds his arms. “Everyone knows about you, Scipio.”

Without warning, he drives a fist into the man’s solar plexus. Robbed of his wind, the man falls.

“It’s good a thing you’re not to my liking,” Scipio speaks loud enough for all to hear.

The man doesn’t get up, and Scipio steps over him and rejoins his friend.

Planus shakes his head.

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

“I make no apologies for my vigorous desires,” says Scipio.

“Tell me, friend, how did carnal bliss become a violent enterprise for you?” Planus asks without judgment. “We grew up together, our shared taste in men bone-deep, and yet I’ve no need to force or strike a lover.”

Scipio regards him with a gleam.

“Do you recall our first and only trip to Rome?”

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

“Remember our visit to the bestiary? The trainers were breeding a lioness, and she didn’t want the male they shoved into her yard.”

Planus conjures the scene as Scipio continues:

“She wouldn’t let him mount her, but her young son jumped the older male, picking a fight until the older male mounted him.”

“I remember,” Planus thinks back. “It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a male animal attempt to breed another of his sex.”

“That younger lion instigated,” Scipio says. “He wanted it all along. He just wanted it violently.”

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

Before he and Scipio hash matters further, Castor appears. Shorter than most at twenty-four, he is the son of a senator with the attentive eyes of a woman and the body of a teenage boy.

“Those chariots, and the druids upon them, hail from an island across the channel.” Castor’s airy voice masks his deadliness. “Caesar made landfall there two years back.”

“Britannia?” asks Scipio.

“No one will say its name other than defeat,” Castor says.

“It was a reconnaissance mission,” Scipio cracks. “So says my father,”

Planus asks, “What says Caesar of this development?”

“We’re setting sail within the month,” answers Castor.

“More glory before the common man,” Planus mocks under his breath. “There’s no reason for this continued hostility but to feed Rome slaves and make our leader a legend among the populace.”

“Gaius Planus Caesar.” Scipio puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You doubt your cousin’s intentions?”

Castor agrees by saying nothing.

“His intentions became bare when he tasked us to murder those Veragros,” Planus speaks plainly but sees the concern. “Never fear, Scipio. I follow orders as they are given and question them only among my closest friends.”

Scipio teases. “You’re pining for him, aren’t you?”

“Quiet, you.” Planus walks ahead, but Scipio follows—as does Castor.

Castor prods, “Pining for who?”

“Planus fell in love outside of Octodurus,” reveals Scipio.

“None of that matters now,” Planus speaks flatly. “He’s dead.”

“That tall light-haired thing with the blue eyes?” Castor laughs. “I sent him along to the Servius plantation myself.”

Planus grabs Scipio by the shoulders. “Welletrix lives?”

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

Planus howls. “You’ve never been so thoughtful,”

“He’s not yours,” Scipio clarifies with a raised finger. “He belongs to my house, and since you’re not the sort to ravish a man, you better be on your best behavior when visiting him.”

“Praise the Fates,” Planus exclaims. “I’m going to write your sister, Vita, this very day.”

Castor watches him run to the barracks city on the horizon.

“I never imagined our Planus the sort to fall in love,”

The sun strikes Castor’s hair, filtering through it, and Scipio is struck with the urge to kiss him. He surveys the area around them before taking him by the throat. He presses his mouth to Castor’s tightly pressed lips and nearly parts them before the young man wrenches free.

“I told you,” he gasps, holding his neck. “No more,”

Scipio looks hurt. “You said you loved me,”

“We said many things to each other these past two years,” he says. “Your violent love felt exciting at first, but now it just hurts.”

Scipio grabs again, but Castor pulls his dagger.

“I say no, and I mean it,” the words slip through his teeth. “Hurt me again, and I shall report you to my Legate,”

“Your mother’s new husband?” Scipio smirks. “Does he know of your lust for men?”

“I told him last month when he saw your teeth marks on my backside,” he says. “I aired my carnal habits because I knew you’d use them against me.”

Scipio seems betrayed. “Why not just tell my father,”

“Lord Vitus saw my bruises first.” Castor lowers the knife. “He said no self-respecting Roman man would allow himself to be used in such a way.”

“You think my love lacks respect,” Scipio asks.

“I know it does,” he answers. “Love shouldn’t make me bleed.”

“If we’re finished,” Scipio says, walking away. “Then steer clear of me.”