Writer Obscura

TAGS: Present Tense, Ritual Violence, Consensual Non-Consent, Celtic Britain, Druids, Drug Use, Homosexuality, Serial Fiction, Re-Post

IV – The Set Stage

The high sun makes the sea shine, and from the horizon’s haze comes a shadow, then five, and then ten. Before long, the indistinguishable becomes too many ships to count.

“The Roman wolves paddle through the storm,” says Aedan.

Their charioteer, a short oaf with more muscles than thoughts, grunts softly.

Begat, a crone older than dirt, smirks. “Ships can’t crawl over land.”

“No,” Aedan squats on a rock and studies the fleas nesting in her oily hair. “But ships carry horses hungry for grass, and soldiers thirsty for blood.”

Their bulky escort jogs toward his chariot.

“That one will die first, I reckon,” says Begat.

Aedan agrees. “One of many to greet Dumnorix before we do,”

Laughter fills the space between them.

Rumors from the continent said that Mandubracius allied with the Romans after fleeing his inherited territory. Naturally, the rash Cassibelanus listened to reason when Ciniod, the widow of his former advisor, suggested they send spies to confirm.

Those men and women returned with assurances that the defeated Dumnorix was biding his time until the Romans set sail; he planned to follow in his ships and sabotage their crossing.

The Roman’s arrival confirmed that Dumnorix had died failing.

Wind follows their journey to the hilltop fort.

Never one for close quarters, Aedan rides the chariot’s horses, a bare foot placed upon each of their wide backs. Wind lifts his smock, and the charioteer gawks at his naked ass with curiosity and disgust.

Most men don’t mind Aedan’s gaunt body after tasting his hole; it’s his soul they find unpalatable.

The horses climb the hill, their breaths shallow and violent. They charge at the tall plank gate without slowing; they know the double doors will open. The tree-log panels part long enough to allow passage, then quickly come together.

Inside, old Begat hops off the rider mount and scurries into the shadows to tell her truths.

Aedan hops from the horses and cartwheels past newcomers shining their swords in the sun. He strolls into the largest roundhouse and finds his mother, Ciniod, whispering to her brother over his sand-filled high table.

Taran, the druid, his uncle, and his blood-father, is the chief thinker of this settlement. Plans are drawn with his fingers in the sand, and Aedan glances at them while eagerly announcing the Roman arrival; truth is a wicked stew, and he enjoys serving it.

“They got more ships than the sea got fish,” says the charioteer, joining them.

“Seven hundred and ninety-three fly Roman colors,” Aedan says. “Three, fly Treberoi colors,”

Ciniod inhales. “Indutiomarus sails with Rome?” 

“Cingetorix rules now, so he has no choice but to sail.” Cassibelanus enters like a bad smell, and with him comes an entourage of delicious warriors, the youngest of which steals glances at Aedan. “If the wolves are here, then Dumnorix is dead.”

The sole redeeming quality of the bearded Cassibelanus is his habit of surrounding himself with strapping hairless types with faces that announce them as barely weaned from their mother’s tits.

Aedan studies the one staring at him and finds his honey-colored hair pleasing but dislikes the reddish strands along his jawline. The ruddy warrior stops gawking to ask Cassibelanus why the leader of the Treberoi would fight alongside his enemies.

“Their families are under the knife, so they fight,” Aedan answers, eyes roaming the young man’s muscled tits and freckled arms. “If they flee or revolt, their kin die.”

“It’s called being a hostage.” Cassibelanus intentionally comes between them with his back on Aedan. “Go get your mother, Kelr,”

Kelr regards Aedan’s interest oddly before exiting.

Cassibelanus, however, slaps Aedan on the back, and it’s not a touch he savors. He stares at the lofty warlord with menace as the man lumbers over to Ciniod. He lifts her in a bear hug, and she laughs like a girl never bled.

“You’re looking well for a widow,” he booms.

“I’ve been worse,” she bears her blackened teeth. “Put me down, you fool,”

“My words are true even if foolish.” He sets her down. “You’ve aged beautifully,”

“Still clever with words,” she flirts back.

Aedan retches loudly.

“Enough of that,” she snarls at her son.

Aedan frowns, “How can you carouse when my father remains undigested by the Gods?”

“We’ve bigger concerns,” says Taran, focused on his plans in the sand.

“Indeed,” Aedan agrees. “Nearly eight-hundred concerns land as we speak.”

Cassibelanus appears thoughtful, then vexed.

“You remember Imanuentius’s cattle?” Aedan asks, and when the man’s eyes find him, he says, “Before you killed him, he owned six hundred heads. Eight hundred is more than that.”

The warlord’s arms darken, and the skin turns to that of a plucked goose.

“Taran,” comes the birdlike voice of Avalin.

A sixth child and only daughter of the man who called Cassibelanus his heir, she floats in like walking joy and embraces the gangly bearded Taran, who steps aside so that she may also hug Ciniod.

“Aedan,” she sings. “You’re so grown,”

She smothers him with kisses and tousles his hair, much like she did when he toddled. Chunky, perfumed, and pretty, Avalin’s the sort that mothers every child no matter their nature. No doubt, if the Romans brought their children, she would love them as her own.

“My son tells me the wolves are back,” she says, her bright brown eyes on Taran before finding Ciniod. “Remember the first time we saw them? How we joined our men and fathers on the cliffs?”

“I’ll never forget,” his mother displays a false smile, hiding her jealousy.

The wheat-haired Avalin commands many, relying on Cassibelanus, a man she raised since he was a pup, to keep them in line. Childless most of her days, the Gods blessed her in old age, enabling her birth of the man-child Kelr, long after her bleeding became irregular.

“Are we ready for them, brother?” she asks Cassibelanus.

Taran answers for him, “We’ll set out before sunrise and attack their beachhead.”

“Is that wise?” Cassibelanus wonders.

No, it isn’t.

“They’ll not be waiting for you,” Aedan snaps. “They’ll march the bulk of their forces through the night and find this place.”

Taran frowns. “They don’t know this land,”

“Don’t bet against that,” Aedan argues. “It’s not their first visit,”

“I’m aware,” Taran reminds him, “I faced them on and off this island,”

“You faced them,” Aedan counters. “And lost your face,”

Avalin lowers her eyes, and Cassibelanus grins.

“You would have me send fighters in the night?” Taran mocks. “Their torches targets in the trees?”

“I would have the night hunters set traps along the widest swaths of the wood,” Aedan replies. “Romans march four by four on their own roads and three by three through natural paths.”

Taran stares at him, as does everyone else.

“I read my father’s letters,” he says further. “Your frontal assaults failed on the continent, and they’ll fail here.”

“I know this land,” Taran tempers his rage. “I’ve killed for it.”

“And I’ve killed to see its future,” Aedan reminds. “All I ask is that you plan a contingency for when your morning beach attack fails.”

“That’s a fair request,” Cassibelanus says. “Fortify a nearby river,”

“Agreed,” Taran nods, then looks at Aedan. “We’ll gather at the Avona.”

“It’s too close,” Aedan says quickly.

“I was thinking farther north,” Cassibelanus whispers.

Taran gives his head a shake. “They’ll not cross the Avona,”

“Oh, but they will,” Aedan says. “And our dead will be their bridge.”

Ciniod puts a hand on her son’s arm. “Is that what you saw?”

“He saw nothing,” Taran exclaims. “Bloodlust clouded any divination.”

Aedan aims his signature blank expression at Taran.

“We’ll hold half the force east of the wood,” Taran says. “If they manage to cross the Avona, we’ll fight them in the grass—”

“-Romans are strongest on an open field,” Aedan interrupts.

Taran taunts him, “Faced many Romans, have you?”

“You’ve faced them and learned nothing,” Aedan speaks calmly. “They’ve bested you time and again in open-field skirmishes on the continent, and here you are, humping the same leg like a brain-addled dog.”

Cassibelanus turns from the enraged Taran and addresses Aedan.

“What do you suggest, boy?”

“Send an emissary to open talks,” he replies.

Taran scoffs. “You’d have us invite them for some mutton?”

Laughter erupts from the line of warriors.

“This Avona is too close,” Aedan jabs a finger into the sand where the eastern grasslands run alongside the river. He draws a line to the stone representing the hilltop fort. “Their horsemen will follow your retreat and burn this place to the ground.”

“Get out,” Taran snarls until Ciniod comes between them. “I’ve tolerated him because of his father,” he whispers to her. “But no more,”

“I thought you were my father,” Aedan taunts.

Cassibelanus lowers his head as Avalin steps to Taran, taking his big ears in her hands.

“He lost his father, and you lost your…” she eyes Aedan, then walks from Taran and gently touches Aedan’s cheek. “Let’s speak on this when your tempers have settled.”

Aedan exits without another word, with Taran’s sour regard tickling his back.

“The boy lacks his father’s temperament,” says Taran.

Cassibelanus hums. “Yet wields his father’s cunning.”

Aedan lingers outside the thatched door and listens as the warlord declares his plan to return north and amass numbers.

Taran sounds hurt. “You won’t fight with us at the Avona?”

“Our line will be the Tamesas,” says Cassibelanus. “By then, I’ll have gathered the numbers needed for an open-field fight against the Romans.”

Taran’s voice wavers. “Are you of this thought?”

“I wish for no fight at all,” Avalin placates with a lover’s assurance. “But if there’s to be a confrontation, we shall await it on the Tamesas.”

“I stand with my brother at the Avona,” says Ciniod.

She awaits Cassibelanus to beg her to accompany him north, or provide her with a detail of guards. The latter will prove he’s not ready to share her bed out of respect for his father.

“I saw you at the ceremony, Owl King.” Kelr’s breath tickles his neck.

Aedan faces him silently.

“My mother is right,” Kelr’s lips twist. “Your eyes are darker than the new moon sky,”

“Can you see yourself in them?”

“No,” Kelr shakes his head. “Am I supposed to?”

Aedan cranes his neck and sniffs the young, then, without warning, shoves him.

Kelr grasps his narrow upper arms and hurls Aedan to the ground, his face a perfect mixture of shock and anger.

Excited by it all, Aedan bites his lower lip, opens his legs, and bucks his hips.

Kelr blinks with a protective hand cradling his gut.

Bored with the indecision, the limber Aedan rolls backward to standing.

“When you’re ready to be a man, come find me.”

Kelr’s footfalls catch his heels. “Why did you hit me?”

Aedan mounts the water well and climbs atop the bucket brace.

“I hit you. You beat me. We fuck.”

“That’s insane,” says Kelr. “Why would I beat you?”

Aedan’s dark eyes gleam. “A punch to the face feels good.”

Kelr swallows hard. “You like that?”

“I like that,” Aedan parrots, then softens. “I like you,”

Several moments pass with the world going about its business as the two men stare each other down.

“I can try,” says Kelr, unsure. “If that’s what you like,”

Aedan backflips and lands on his feet.

“I need a man that does, not a boy who tries.”