Writer Obscura

TAGS: War Violence, profanity, druids, ancient rome, celtic britain, the roman invasion of britain, serial fiction, present tense.

IX – The Slaughter Arena

This violent summer is the hottest in memory. A dead farmer and her children bake in the sun until a decurion with a womanly visage covers their corpses with a blanket.

Aedan the Ancalite grins upon seeing Bitch-Face, whose rage over a slaughtered lover still burns. He squats low on a high branch, his bare foot rising to scratch an ear with his toe. His warriors sit among the trees, awaiting his next move as he watches the invaders hack barleycorn.

The harvesting legion’s commander, known on the wind as Gaius Trebonius, grows impatient and commits more to the reaping, an anticipated mistake Aedan’s been waiting for.

Aedan drops from his perch, the feather cape on his shoulders flapping around his head. His warriors rise as his long feet strike dirt. An army of countless blue hues moves out of the trees, and the horse-drawn chariots flanking them roll softly over the grass.

Fierce charges and hearty battle cries do not affect these invaders.

The first to die are those eight Romans on watch; their isolated positions ensure such violence goes unseen.

The first to die are those eight Romans on watch; their isolated positions ensure such violence goes unseen. Stealthily, they touch their torches to the whale oil spilled days ago around this field, birthing a line of fire that encircles the barley before the harvesting legionaries can drop their swords and flee.

Trebonius cannot quell their panic any more than he can control the uncompromised outside the ring of fire. Without a command, the horsemen charge away from their trapped comrades and toward the Gallic advance.

Aedan’s arms give wordless direction from the basket of his fastest chariot, leading the horse-drawn carts to fall back and distance themselves from the advancing foot force.

Roman cavalrymen ride fast into the painted infantry but soon find themselves at the mercy of Gallic chariots and their lethal archers. Aedan leads the remaining chariots around the burning field, striking down any Roman brave enough to escape the flames.

Trebonius slides from his horse, his legions divided and the body count rising. He dispatches three young men to seek reinforcements, but the Owl King gives chase, taking out two horsemen with his sling and stone. Suddenly, the masterful Castor with a gang of horsemen comes between the druid’s chariot and the third messenger. His wooden crown burning bright, the Owl King orders his charioteer to rush the northern ridge at full speed, and the driver knows her horse will be ready.

Bitch-Face gains ground, close enough that Aedan hears his threat to drive a sword through his skeletal heart. He presses the driver to remain on the path, and she does so, knowing her horse will be ready.

The charioteer yanks her reins, turning the horse to an impossible angle that takes her left wheel over the rocky precipice. The pretty Roman turns with them, ignoring the fading cries of his men and their horses as they tumble over the cliff.

The Owl King climbs his charioteer like a tree, digging his talons into her muscular shoulders before loading a stone into his sling. Castor readies his lance for a toss, his eyes on the blurry wheel spinning over the Owl King’s head. The stone flies with a gull’s speed, forcing him to toss his spear lower than his original aim.

Aedan hops from the charioteer’s shoulders as the spear enters her back. He hits the grass, shedding his fiery crown and rolling until he regains his feet. He sprints after the guideless chariot, grasping the woman’s corpse and climbing it back into the basket.

Taking the reins, he cuts her lifeless body free, and it tumbles out, forcing the Roman horse to jump it. Bitch-Face appears alongside, groping at his feathers until he lashes out with a nimble leg, punching the pretty Roman’s faceplate with the ball of his heel.

The horse slows to a gallop as its rider slumps onto its mane, and grinning, the Owl King turns the chariot and brings out his little sickle. Suddenly, a swift horse cuts off his path, ushering in cavalrymen bearing new colors.

They surround Castor, and one of them gives chase. The painted druid lashes out with his curved blade, cutting through the man’s wrist when he grasps his beast’s collar band.

Across the field, legions form a line across the entire hillside, and their battle king, Caeser, stands before them.

The first of his regiment charges from the far woods, half of them archers that target the Gallic charioteers picking off burn survivors. The remaining horses don two riders, one armed with a metal pole that sends baskets skyward when jabbed into chariot wheels.

Another Roman force arrives like a cresting wave over dry sand. Their leader’s muscular chest bears only a medallion vest, and on his helmet is the snout and mane of a lion. He dismounts at the fire line, sliding off his horse and into the carnage as if set down by the gods.

Aedan scrambles out of the basket and onto his horse. Unhooking her tether, he rides her back into the fight. At the fire line, he screams at the carnyx-holders to sound a withdrawal. Four of his hornblowers heed the call, rallying their fighters to retreat. His fifth lies dead at the Lion’s feet, a red sword withdrawn from his chest.

The ferocious Roman slaughters without passion or rage, his gleaming chest barely moving from his violent labors. A snout and fleece obscure his face, but the angry red scars along his left tit and bicep tickle the druid’s memory.

---

Retreat doesn’t always mean loss, and Aedan receives a victor’s welcome for completing what his new master sent him to do—the damage he and his druids inflicted will occupy the Romans for many days.

Cassibelanus greets him with a bearhug, lifting him from the ground amidst raucous cries of admiration. He cares little for this man and less for his followers, mainly young Kelr, whose once lustful eyes carry envious scorn.

“Be nicer to him,” his mother advises. “He might be your next father,”

Aedan thrusts his fingers down his throat until vomit erupts.

“One day,” she says, backing away from it. “You’ll bring your stomach up through that gullet,”

Cassibelanus joins them. “How many legions?”

“We attacked two before five arrived.” Aedan wipes his mouth. “They took my bitches away in chains,”

“I’m not sure how you got so many women to fight for you.” Cassibelanus seems amused. “I have it on good authority that cunts aren’t to your liking.”

The men around them laugh, but Aedan remains steely.

“He’s kept plenty of girls from motherhood,” Ciniod praises. “That warrants a certain loyalty,”

“When you explain it that way,” Cassibelanus grins. “It makes perfect sense.”

More laughter, none of it Aedan’s. “I need to free them,”

“We can’t spare any men or horses for a rescue mission.” Kelr passes him, arms folded. “Your campaign today costs us over thirty chariots.”

“His mission succeeded,” Ciniod reminds. “Chariots can be rebuilt. Women cannot.”

“Well, not at the same speed,” Cassibelanus smirks.

Aedan whispers to his mother. “We must talk,”

Ciniod sours as she picks bits of flesh from his black curls. Her only child’s obtuse cheeks, thick brows, and pouty lips whisper of sins with her brother best forgotten.

“The son of the old Roman,” he says, slapping her hand away. “He lives.”

She tuts, “No man could’ve survived that fall.”

Aedan thrusts out his lower jaw and gazes at the trees.

“Excite you, did he?” she accuses. “You have few weaknesses, boy, but your strange lusts equal a thousand faults.”

Aedan’s dark eyes burn through her.

“How big is his manhood?” she asks with a sly smile.

He speaks through his teeth. “He’ll kill you before he leaves this life.”

---

Five days out, the Romans march again, and their location ten miles east is too close for comfort.

The warlord fortified their position along the Tamesas but needed another two days to realize his defenses fully. With the druid lacking a full fighting force, he placed him in the next war party led by Kelr. Mere moments following his decree, Kelr asked that the Owl be removed as leader of his chariot forces.

The skeletal druid thinks like his father but acts like his mother, and for this, Cassibelanus has kept him away from the visiting tribal Kings, who seek control after the Romans depart. Still, he reminded his young tough that the fiercest charioteers are all druids who follow Aedan the Ancalite without question.

Young Kelr discards the warlord’s words while in the field.

He devises a center-line attack as the legions cross a grassy stretch near Cattle-Shit Pass. All agree, except Aedan, who points out that the invaders march two men across in a single column.

“They always march in a line. You said so yourself,” Kelr reminds. “Their narrow formation is a gift from the gods,”

“This is no gift,” says Aedan. “This is a tempting lure,”

“Do you fight with us or them?” Kelr demands.

“That’s an imbecilic question,” Aedan counters. “None of those marching down there is Roman.”

Kelr mounts his horse, ignoring snickers from the younger druids behind Aedan.

“Romans always march four men across open terrain.” The skinny Ancalite walks alongside. “Expendable troops are mere bait,”

“They’ll join you when the time comes,” says Kelr.

Aedan stares at him.

“You and your fifty will lead the charge into the center line,” Kelr explains. “You cut it in half, then we roll in and fight the severed faction,”

“I’ll not die for you,” Aedan declares.

Kelr points his sword. “You get your boney ass onto a chariot.”

Laughter rings out among the warriors as Aedan does as he’s told, but when his hand signals the chariots away from the formation, Kelr rides around and confronts him.

The druid’s face sits as lifeless as the skull painted upon it, and Kelr wonders what ever led his loins to desire such a gangly monster.

“You have no faith in my victory, then you leave on foot.” Kelr’s skin burns red through the blue woad. “These chariots belong to my tribe,” he yells past the druid, “Any wishing to follow me shall remain.”

Aedan steps off the chariot’s basket and leaves the war party. He’s unsure if anyone follows until he reaches the overlook and finds thirty painted heads behind him.

From the ridge, they watch Kelr’s chariots charge the narrow line, and before the first horse makes contact, the armored Gauls part.

“It’s as if they were waiting,” someone mulls, inciting laughter.

Roman horsemen emerge from the trees and advance within a cloud’s shadow across the green grass. They encircle Kelr’s forces within moments, trapping them in a pell-mell with the continental Gauls.

The Catuvellauni war party’s failure is assured, for even if they win against the infantry, their exhaustion will aid the cavalry waiting outside the slaughter arena.

Suddenly, another group swoops into the conflict, led by the lion-headed horseman. He dismounts on the skirmish line, naked but for his boots and loincloth, and wielding a sword in each hand, butchers Kelr’s men with abandon.

A second wave arrives, with lancers adept at thrusting their spears into chariot wheels. The Lion reserves his benevolence for the horses, and for every attacked chariot, he untethers them before they’re struck by debris.

Then, the Lion notices the druids on the hill.

Aedan rises from his squat, standing with arms akimbo when the Lion raises his head and reveals his face. He is the phantom from his vision, the beauty from the falls, the son of the man who killed his father.

“He’s coming for us,” a druidess whispers.

“No,” a different druid says, “He watches the Owl King.”

The Lion points his sword at them before reaching under his loincloth. His lips twist into a sinister smile as he grabs himself.

Heat burns Aedan’s rump. “Come and get me, fuckface,”

The first horse gallops into them without warning, ushering in eight beasts whose armored riders swing their steel with deadly accuracy.

Five druids surround Aedan as if he’s more vital than those losing life and limbs. He whispers to his stalwarts: “Pick a rider, drag him down, take his horse, and flee.”

Each disburses on command, and Aedan delights in choosing Bitch-Face, who catches his feathery cloak with a spear. He somersaults over the dismounted Roman, the sun warming his painted back. He drops onto his hands and sweeps the pretty man with a determined leg behind the knees.

Bitch-Face hits the grass, the tumble robbing him of wind and his lance. 

Aedan collects the spear and touches its deadly tip to the pretty man’s neck. “Thank whatever gods you pray to, Roman, that I’m allowing you to live another day.”

“I’m going to cut your throat, you filthy druid,” he growls in Aedan’s language.

The wind shifts at his lower back, compelling Aedan around in time to block a sword with the spear’s wooden staff. He parries, though unable to ignore the alluring bloodlust in the Lion’s green eyes. The man smells deliciously of sweat and death, yet Aedan keeps his head long enough to begin twirling the spear.

Suddenly, the virile Roman thrusts his hand into the pinwheel illusion, deftly catching the rod’s middle and liberating it from the druid’s hands. He leans away when the painted man flips backward, saving his jaw from the powerful foot that shoots up and splits the lance.

Metatarsals throbbing, Aedan backflips from the scene, landing in the grass many yards away. He grins at the Lion stalking slowly toward him and raises his arm in time for a druid on horseback to hook him in and hoist him onto the beast’s rump.

As the distance between them grows, the Owl forms a circle with his hand and brings it to his open mouth. His tongue out, he goads the delectable Lion into baring his bone-white teeth.