Writer Obscura

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

III – The Calm Before

Roman victory kills more than those on the battlefield.

Like locusts, the legions consume everything within miles. Hungry soldiers ravage crops and slaughter livestock, leaving the defeated unfit for enslavement, to starve without a forest or animals. Rebuilding is not an option when Roman blacksmiths melt every bit of metal, from anvils to plows, for new arrows and spearheads—or in this instance, plank spikes and anchors with chains for Caesar’s new fleet.

Snow dunes ripple between the building yard and their winter camp.

An oak forest once stood where long-house quarters reside, each butchered tree a beam for Caesar’s flat-bottom boats and every branch burning in a barracks stove.

Scipio shares quarters with Titus and Planus, while their three horses reside in attached stables. He kicks snow from his fur boots and enters to find the dark-skinned Titus huddling over a concrete fire bowl, both hands precariously close to its tiled rim.

“How fares your father?” asks Titus, his nappy beard dried by the cold.

Scipio tosses his cloak at the lump that is Planus under his furs.

“Vitus is out of camp looking for another forest,”

Titus wonders, “How many more ships do we need?”

“Five legions and two-thousand cavalry.” Scipio joins his heated space. “We can’t get there on a few biremes.”

Quiet laughter from the lump that is Planus: “His preferred mode of travel,”

Titus pouts. “I don’t like penning my horse below a deck,”

“You can keep your girl company this trip,” says Scipio. “We’ll all be below decks.”

“At least the ships have flattened bellies,” Planus’s voice adds.

“Let’s pray Fortune provides us a beach upon which to land them,” Titus says.

Planus sits up, and his blanket falls, revealing a jawline riddled with hair.

“How much snow fell in the night?”

“No more than yesterday,” Scipio tells him. “The shipbuilders dusted their wood this morning and returned to work.”

“You think our Legate will let the builders stay?” Titus asks.

“Labienus? The same man who goaded us to slaughter migrating innocents?” Planus snaps. “Hardly. He’ll work the craftsmen to a near-death state and put them on the first boats out.”

Titus and Scipio trade glances; no man proves suitable for senatorial service than Gaius Planus Caesar. His prowess on the battlefield pales to his social conscience.

Scipio touches the fire bowl’s rim and recoils with a smirk.

“You know it’s hot enough to burn,” Titus scolds.

“Yes,” says Planus. “That’s why he touches it.”

“What of that well-dressed Gaul from Britannia?” asks Titus.

“My father says the tribal prince gave him a layout of the river,” Scipio adds.

“A traitor to his people?” Titus asks.

“His people serve a new king.” Planus watches as Scipio, unable to resist, gingerly taps his fingers against the scalding tile trim again. “His royal rudeness is why we’re working through winter,”

Titus and Scipio stare at Planus with a need for further clarity.

Bulky and bearded, the gravelly-voiced Mandubracius arrived onshore before the first snow. After bathing and wine, he relayed his situation to Caesar and the tribunes. The man wished to reacquire his position and would enable Rome in their quest to take the island so long as he was planted as King.

Planus had sat in on the dinner as optio of their group and found the Gaul surprisingly uncouth, considering his alleged proclamation as the actual ‘King of the Trinovantes.’

“The fallen Prince is as free with his words as he is with his time.” Planus smiles wide. “He was appalled when the goose arrived at the table,”

“You dined on goose?” Titus sulks.

Scipio sulks. “We ate rabbit, again.”

“Oh, imagine the Prince’s horror if we served him a rabbit,” Planus laughs. “His tier of islander does not eat rabbit, goose, or chicken,”

Titus knits his brow. “How does one regard such tasty birds as unappetizing?”

“It’s not about taste. To them, the fowl is sacred,” Planus explains. “Yet they’ve no issue raising the cocks to kill each other for sport,”

“You’re telling me chick and hare populations run unchecked in Britannia?” Titus huffs. “It’ll be a paradise for camp trappers.”

“No, I suspect only royalty and the religious abstain,” Planus shakes his head. “Common people get hungry, and hungry people eat what’s common.”

“Speaking of eating when hungry,” Titus hugs himself against the chill and regards Scipio. “How goes Castor?”

Scipio spits his mouthful of tea onto the coals and holds his face over the steam.

“Castor’s got a new lover,” he says. “I’m happy for him.”

Titus and Planus join their stares before sharing a hearty laugh.

“I am happy for him,” he reiterates.

Planus goads, “You don’t miss him at all?”

“I’ve no use for a man that fears my desires,” he states.

Titus suggests, “Perhaps women are more inclined to your brutal lusts,”

Scipio’s lip curls, making his friends howl

“When did you start hating women?” Titus demands.

“He doesn’t hate women.” Planus scratches his bedhead into something manageable. “He just doesn’t like their splits and breasts.”

“Big tits are wonderful.” Titus elbows him. “I’d think you live to punch them.”

“You think wrong,” Scipio says. “I’m a nipple man, so long as it’s not attached to a flabby bag.”

“How now,” Planus wags a finger. “That’s no way to speak of the esteemed Pompey’s ample chest.”

Titus and Scipio crow at this truth.

“I warned that boy about you,” Titus confesses as Scipio stands to stretch. “Young for his years, Castor was smart enough to have sat with us before our instructors yet stupid enough to ignore my words.”

“You spoke ill of me?” Scipio asks, hurt.

“We’ve all spoken ill of your violent pursuits,” says Planus. “Still, little Castor followed you around like a love-struck puppy.”

Titus smirks, “I bet he thought he could change our Scipio.”

“Change him, indeed,” Planus giggles like a child. “As if Scipio’s shat his pants,”

Even Scipio finds humor in that retched notion.

“The first time Castor showed up at muster with bruises,” Titus recalls. “I knew his time with you wouldn’t last.”

“I’m an acquired taste,” Scipio quips.

Planus nods, “A rare few develop a taste for a punch in the face,”

“Yes, and they’re all whores,” Scipio quips.

Titus asks, “Does your father know?”

“I do not discuss my carnal habits with Lord Vitus,” says Scipio.

“My father took me to my first brothel,” Titus says. “I laid with his favorite,”

“Yes,” Scipio rolls his eyes. “We’ve heard this story many times.”

Planus shrugs, “My father passed before my virginity,”

“Yes, heard that fact just as many times,” he adds.

“My taste for women must bore you two.” Titus’s eyes volley between them. “Forgive me for not regaling you with tales of being balls-deep in a clean-shaven boy half my years,”

“Oh no,” Planus scoots to the cot’s edge. “You should seek forgiveness for regaling us with tales of being balls-deep in a clean-shaven woman double your years.”

Scipio chuckles. “Her husband wanted your wooly head on a stick,”

“She claimed he worked nights.” Titus loses himself in the memory. “I didn’t know his nights were worked on the street watch next door,”

“I’m shocked an arrest warrant wasn’t issued,” Scipio teases.

“Speaking of that,” Titus stares. “How is it you’ve never been arrested?”

“Not his father’s wealth, that I can tell you,” Planus assures. “Old Vitus would let you rot in the cells for what he doesn’t know.”

Scipio boasts, “I’m very clear about my intent before any hands are thrown,”

“Do you draw up a contract?” Planus teases, but Scipio’s cat-that-ate-the-songbird expression kills his smile. “Do you draw up a contract?”

Titus goes wide-eyed. “Written on a scroll? And signed?”

“Verbal.” Scipio strips naked before slipping under the furs on his cot. “I tell them what I give, and they tell me what they’ll take,”

“You? Honor a catamite’s boundaries?” Titus asks, shocked.

“I negotiate,” Scipio replies.

“Negotiate?” says Planus. “Or wear them down until you get what you want?”

“Male whores cannot be worn down,” Scipio reminds. “Novices like Castor, though, let you get away with enough to keep it exciting.”

Titus looks at Planus. “Why is he like this?”

“Most men hear the story of Pluto and Proserpina and learn what not to do.” Planus lays back and pulls the furs up to his chin. “Scipio hears the same story and uses it as a guide,”

“Novices are fun at first,” Scipio reveals. “But soon become tiring.”

Planus winks at Titus. “You mean, soon they tire of you?”

“No one tires of me,” Scipio says, closing his eyes.

Titus wonders, “How do you not tire of yourself?”

“It takes work,” Planus teases. “Kicking the shit out of a man before you fuck him,”

“Not so hard.” Scipio’s eyes grow heavy. “I’ve yet to find a man with enough fight in him to challenge me,”

---

Spring brings warm days, with nights cold enough to keep the ground hard.

Workhorses drag completed ships to shore while legionnaires and cavalry horses participate in bloodless drills from dawn to twilight. Cooks prepare rations, and craftsmen bang away at armor plates, all in preparation for the great crossing.

The Roman cavalry numbers two thousand by mid-summer, each man his beast, after many teenage Gauls choose service over slavery. As the days grow longer, Scipio and Planus drive five-hundred-plus horses to greener pastures, sometimes with Titus when the Legate allows him.

Titus’s second-in-command dies after his horse, frightened by a snake, rolls on him, and his replacement is young Terentius Drusus Valerian, otherwise known as Castor’s new lover.

The son of a wealthy Genua horse breeder, the new duplicario earns Scipio’s respect with his equine knowledge. Castor’s constant company, and Scipio’s complete disinterest, aren’t unnoticed. No taunts disguised as casual observations move him, not even when cast by Planus, master of verbal nets.

---

Summer’s waning month finds them leaving camp for Britannia, and Caesar’s flotilla contains eight-hundred vessels, including those captained by profiteers and slavers.

Scipio oversees thirty men and their horses, as does Planus and Titus, their ninety-man squads joining over five-hundred others on one ship. Castor sails seven days out with the food and another flotilla of merchants and traders. Scipio comes upon him and Drusus, fingers threaded and foreheads together; young Castor’s bedded the man—such truths are self-evident.

Such tenderness turns his stomach. It’s not jealousy but self-hatred that nags; he cannot give and accept affection like most men, no matter how hard he tries. He swallows his anger—there’s nothing wrong with him, and not everyone lusts delicately.

Someday, he’ll find a man capable of desiring his brutality.

They depart Portus Itius among the first ships, and Scipio, an attentive decurio, gets no sleep on the six-hour journey. A cavalryman since arriving in Hispania, he’s nose blind to horseshit yet praises the engineers for designing opened troughs along the middle seam. Below decks, the lowest ranks shove flat iron brooms from the berth to the forward, pushing horse droppings out openings in the rear aft.

He walks the berth, visiting his swordsmen and their horses. Veterans of the first Britannia landing say little and disastrous memories crease their brows. The young Gauls under his yoke quell their nervous energy by shining shields, sharpening blades, or brushing their horses.

Titus performs the same rounds on his lancers and Planus, his archers, before convening where they started, back alongside their horses with Scipio.

“You think they’ll be waiting for us?” asks Drusus.

Scipio realizes for the first time that this man is a younger version of himself, with a darker scalp and brown eyes. “Possibly,” he says. “The tribes greeted Caesar on his last landing.”

“Hundreds of thousands,” Titus speaks with a mischievous sense. “All ready to chop our horse’s legs and take a Roman head to hang on their chariots.”

The young man puts on a strong face, but his eyes project anxiety.

“Don’t tell the boy such things,” Planus scolds, scuffing him about the neck. “The beheadings are true, dear Drusus, but a Gaul, no matter where his birth, would sooner eat a man than a horse.”

Many of the young Gauls in their ranks laugh softly.

“Repelling a legion is hungry work,” Scipio muses.

Titus nods. “And we Romans are rather tasty,”

Drusus sighs, “Castor warned me about you lot,”

His superiors crow like satisfied women at a sales booth.

“They’re not monsters, they’re men,” Planus says plainly.

“If the druids we faced are any indication,” Drusus muses. “They’re master strategists,”

“Not every islander is a druid,” Scipio tells him.

“I imagine Britannia has a surplus since the Nervii imported their share.” Titus elbows Drusus. “And not every islander on the battlefield is a man.”

“I saw women among the Nervii,” Drusus nods. “How frightful for them.”

Planus sees agitation among the Gallic horsemen nearby.

“Women are formidable, with or without a weapon in their hands,” says Planus. “They’re survivors,”

Titus fingers his horse’s braided mane. “I want a chariot from Britannia,”

“Minus the painted warrior driving it?” Scipio asks.

Drusus leans onto his horse. “Will their women fight us as they did here?”

“Here?” Scipio points his head at nothing. “We’ve left the continent behind.”

Drusus follows him up the scaffold and to a port-side piss hole.

Through it, a landmass looms on the horizon, blurred by heat coming off the water. He lets loose a strange laugh, excited at the prospect of their arrival and dreading it all the same.

Planus calls up to them. “How does it look?”

“Fuckable,” says Scipio.

Laughter ripples through the hold, but young Drusus doesn’t smile.