Writer Obscura

TAGS: Present Tense, Celtic Britain, Roman Republic, Roman Invasion of Britain, Druids, Masturbation, Serial Fiction, Re-Post

VII (II) The Lost and Found

The storm takes many ships, and Caesar’s legions rebuild them.

Infantryman labor under gray skies and humid, heavy air. They butcher forests, coppicing so the timber will serve future colonists. Trees in this land stand narrow but full-headed, ensuring no one loses themselves when walking alone.

 Scipio aches for the alpine forests of home, their massive ground roots a throne for his one-handed pleasures.  

Though decurion, he and Planus join the lessor ranks in rolling long-cut trunks over an assembly of smaller logs. The ribbed path leads to a roping station, where the horses drag coupled bundles to the building yards near shore.

In line at the water station, neither man drinks before anyone else; they all work equally hard and thus rest in the same.

Other decurions view the work from afar, under canopies or on horseback.

“Most of those bastards learned to piss in the pot just a few years before us,” Scipio complains. “Yet they sit up there, afraid of sweating,”

Planus nods. “Given our enemy’s habit of targeting the upper ranks on the sidelines, I doubt any of them will be with us much longer.”

“Why do they do that?” Actus wipes his face with the hem of his shirt, revealing a chiseled stomach and protruding navel.

Scipio’s duplicarius, Actus, is a son of Actus Strolo Ursius, a merchant renowned for his travels beyond Parthia, and his angular face and line-thin eyes go undiscussed, like his mother’s ancestry if one wishes to keep his jaw intact.

“Trophy count?” he ponders.

“Gauls haven’t advanced much since the Gods made us,” Planus speaks with scholarly skill. “Back when we fought over caves, if an army’s leader fell, his men left the battlefield.”

“They’re cavemen?” Scipio asks, leading them to the water barrels.

Planus shrugs. “These island Gauls seem to believe that removing a decorated superior on the sidelines will lead battalions to depart.”

At one barrel, Scipio grabs the wooden bowl floating inside.

“I think they’re watching us,” he says, bringing it to his lips. “Counting every tree we cut with plans to add our heads for each.” He tips another bowl over his shorn head and appreciates the coolness sluicing behind his ears.

Planus fills his bowl, gulps its contents, then belches before handing it off to Actus. “They must be watching from far, far off,” he says. “The still birds linger undaunted, shitting on us and singing about it.”

Laughter erupts from the men in line.

“Titus set sail yesterday,” Scipio reveals as Planus and Actus walk alongside.

“He and the Prefect get to return to the continent,” Actus gripes. “While we’re here busting our asses,”

“Given our esteemed Titus’s love of sail,” Planus reminds. “I imagine him signing his life over to Pluto for a chance to trade places with us,”

Scipio grins. “Indeed,”

“Crassus Titus Flavius is the only man I’ve ever met that cannot float,” Planus jests. “We all grew up in Comum. Our fathers tossed us into the lake when boys at one point least expected. How has he never acclimated?”

“He doesn’t like his wool getting wet,” Scipio reminds.

Actus says nothing more; though also friends with Titus, as a mere second in command, he must maintain respect. “You think we’ll leave when he returns with more ships?”

“Oh no,” Planus speaks quietly enough that only they hear him. “My cousin will not leave until he defeats the most powerful man here. It’s not about acquiring resources—”

“—For which this shitty island has none,” Scipio interjects.

“Truly,” Planus continues. “It’s about recovering his lost face.”

Drusus approaches shirtless, his skin slick and his hair dripping with sweat. Actus offers to bring him water, but the young man claims that too much liquid sours his stomach; he will replenish his blood’s salt with the day’s fish.

“A ship returned with dispatches and some food.” Drusus stands alongside them, speaking loudly over the rhythmic hacking of tree cutters. “Planus, your curds in honey have arrived.”

Planus animates. “We shall have libum tonight,”

Scipio scowls at the notion of ricotta.

“Back home, our cooks always made libum for the altars,” says Drusus. “If we got caught sneaking a cake, our hands were whipped.”

“I’ll never understand any adult that strikes a child,” Actus says.

One of the soldiers pauses as they pass, axe in his hand.

“Spoken like a man that’s never had a child,” he quips.

“Go get your water, old man,” Planus orders in good nature. “And don’t spank any tiro’s on the way.”

Everyone laughs at this, even the soldier.

“What’s that?” Actus asks, hand over his eyes.

All turn to the horizon, where a horseman comes into view.

“Castor,” whispers Drusus, sprinting out to meet him.

Scipio, Planus, and Actus dash out after Drusus when they see Castor without a helmet but carrying a sword.

A horn sings his arrival, and all work stops.

Castor’s horse, wounded on her shoulder, rears when Actus takes her reigns. Scipio takes her by the bit to calm her and sees the burns on her hindquarters.

“We’re under attack,” Castor cries, his temple dripping blood. “Foraging north, they came out of the woods,”

“Grab him a fresh horse,” Planus tells Actus, then shouts at a stable hand. “Take her to water, and tend her injury,”

Castor dismounts into Drusus’s arms but grabs Scipio.

“Your father is surrounded,” he says winded. “His legion is all that remains,”

“They took out two legions?” Planus asks.

“Vitus sent me off when more emerged from the trees,” Castor reveals. “It was sudden. I think the farm we found was a trap.”

Scipio and Planus rush back to camp, and pulling on their uniforms, they grab their weapons and muster their turmae and horses.

Caesar appears with Falax Antonius Fabius, his choice as Praefectus Cohortis for this mission; it is a good choice, for the elder is a shrewd tactician unafraid of a melee.

Scipio salutes Antonius and joins the other commanders in a huddle, with Drusus standing in for Titus. Only equites auxilia will ride this mission; the centurions and legionaries will remain.

Planus and his lancers will ride from the south, while Scipio and his swordsmen will enter from the east. Antonius will lead his horseman and Titus’s men under Drusus head-on into the Gauls war party, scattering their formations.

“Antonius,” Caesar grabs the man’s shoulder. “Bring back my friend,”

“He is my friend as well,” says Antonius. “He will live this day,”

---

Miles of grass without a shrub plague them until a steep weed-covered hill brings the noises of war and floating smoke.

Mutilated corpses form a gruesome fence around the skirmish as Vitus and his legion fight, their numbers thick with survivors of the two fallen.

The enemy is a tightly-woven mass of painted fury, pushing the Roman line as foraging carts burn and loose horses stampede for a place that won’t get them killed. Beyond the chaos, a barn house smolders, and behind it, thick woodlands loom.

Antonius orders the mounted archers to await Planus and Scipio’s advance, and when the troops collide with the enemy, they are to dismount, form a line, and aim at the trees—the Gauls’ only escape point.

Scipio orders his standard to follow without blowing a horn. Red and silver race down the hill in a V-formation and collide with the fray. His horse knocks aside a thick-bellied Gaul and stomps him to death when he falters beneath the hoof.

The beast finds his space and aggressively paddles his front legs, then kicks out his back, rotating Scipio, whose metal cuts through any Gaul unlucky enough to enter orbit.

Drusus leads Titus’ men into the thick of it, further diluting the enemy in a fight that lasts an eternity.

Fatigue captures one of the horses; when one horse falls, the others are never far behind. When the beast under him slows his spin, a spear finds its neck. Scipio quickly dismounts as it tumbles, swinging his sword to protect his space.

After the horse’s convulsions cease, he jumps upon its corpse to defend his position.

He hacks at the woad-covered swarm, separating arms from bodies and piercing chests and stomachs without earning a scratch.

Suddenly, a shadow flies past, but it’s no tossed javelin.

The owl-masked man, stained blue and painted with skeletal bones, hops from one armored Roman shoulder to the next, cutting chin straps and yanking free helmets. His wiry body and intense agility terrify all but Scipio, who sees only the bitch that stole his Luna.

Scipio slashes a path to the vulnerable, protecting them from enemy swords eager to slice a face. Once a man gets his helmet back on, Scipio moves on to the next, keeping time with the nimble bitch.

Then, the skeletal bastard lands upon Terentius Drusus Valerian. He cuts the young man’s chin strap before vaulting away. Scipio stands amidst the carnage, watching as time slows around him.

The druid floats in the air, his feet over his head before twisting his torso to reclaim Drusus’s shoulders. A long boney arm dips when he drags a narrow blade across the young man’s neck before hopping away.

Castor’s howl cuts through Scipio like a spear. The petite man falls upon his lover, his mud-slick hand unable to stop the blood gushing from the man’s neck. Castor wails into the void, embracing Drusus and rocking him back and forth.

The owl-masked druid hovers from one Roman to the next, a murderous bee pollinating a ghastly bouquet. Castor springs to his feet in time to confront the insect, sword drawn and eyes wet with rage.

His bare feet in the mud for the first time that day, the painted druid regards Castor with a cocked head before the pair circle one another.

Castor lashes out first, and the skinny druid jumps high, his foot bouncing off the sword’s shaft. He twists over Castor and manages to pluck free his helmet.

Head exposed, Castor lunges repeatedly.

The gangly druid leaps over low strikes and ducks high lunges until bored with the dance. He drops to his hands and foot and swings his panted leg, catching Castor behind the knees.

Scipio strides in their direction when Castor falls.

The druid speedily climbs a nearby soldier’s frame and arches backward, the blade in his hand destined for Castor’s throat until Scipio catches the flying druid’s ankle and hammers him into the ground with a mighty swing.

The agile bitch quickly rolls onto his back before Scipio can cut him down. He spins on his tailbone over the slick mud so fast that Scipio cannot make heads or feet of him until a foot heel punches Scipio’s sword-bearing arm.

Scipio reclaims his weapon before it hits the ground, but the diversion enables the lanky druid to swing his legs over his head and roll to standing.

Dark eyes find him through owl-mask holes as if intrigued at the warped reflection in Scipio’s facial armor. A flat chest rises and falls, and through the paint upon it, two nipples harden. A hand dips and long fingers pull at the tartan skirt.

Scipio fights to keep his eyes on the mask, but Venus whispers in his ear. He cannot stop himself from looking and glances down in time to see painted toe knuckles come for his chin. His teeth come together with a crack, and the wily druid seems shocked that Scipio still stands.

“Take him,” Castor screams.

The druid turns to find a centurion behind him.

When the man swings, he jumps higher than humanly possible by Scipio’s estimation, turning head over heels again before landing atop the centurion’s shoulders. His chin strap is cut, his helmet yanked free, the centurion stabs upward—but he’s too slow.

The druid drops and traps the man’s head between his spindly thighs. He twists his lower body sharply, snapping the centurion’s neck. Without haste, the druid dismounts and runs from the battlefield.

“Get him!” Castor yells.

Scipio snatches a fallen spear and follows the fleeing druid’s path through the melee. When clear of the fight, he plants his feet and hurls the spear, not aiming for the druid but for his flapping tartan.

It lands precisely where intended, pinning the fabric to the ground, and yanking the narrow-assed man off his feet.

The masked druid yanks viciously at the tartan as Scipio trudges forward, sword ready and sore teeth together tight. Unable to free himself, the druid raises his head and whistles.

Moments later, a familiar horse gallops past Scipio.

“Luna,” he shouts.

The beast stops mid-trot and slowly turns her neck; it is indeed Luna, her mane corded with thick braids, her back naked, and her coat filthy.

Scipio opens his arms. “Come, Luna.”

“Looir,” yells the druid, now standing naked, his thick cock flaccid between his hips.

The mare runs toward him.

“Luna,” Scipio cries.

She slows again, her head pivoting.

“Looir,” the druid calls to her in his language. “Time to drink!”

The mare charges at him then. She speeds past, and the druid’s long arm catches her around the neck, and in one smooth motion, his belly is on her back, his mask staring at the battlefield.

With arms and legs pumping, Scipio closes the distance. Through the slits in his face armor, he sees Luna’s braided mane wedged within the painted cretin’s crack.

The druid rises on his arms and lets out a taunting bellow.

Scipio grins, waiting for the inevitable as the mare approaches the tree line.

Luna stops, jarring the druid, who turns to find a low-hanging branch an inch from his face. Humble, the skinny man lays flat and kisses her hind before she trots into the forest.

Scipio stops running, unable to process such betrayal.

“Luna?” he says, pouting like a sullen child.

---

They’re nowhere near a river, but the wind stinks of fish and mud.

Vitus, a master sketcher on horseback, rides with a leather strap around his neck that is attached to a flat board propped against his belly. His stallion, Cletus, swats the occasional fly with his tail.

Scipio sleeps on his horse as a reward for standing the overnight watch. He doesn’t learn the beast’s name; he thinks only of Luna.

“The wood ahead,” Vitus calls over his shoulder, waking him. “Thicker trunks mean deep water.”

Trees line the horizon like a wall, and haze pollutes the distance. He longs for the towering gray peaks of home, where morning mist shrouds the mountain’s neck and blankets the highland lake.

They follow the forest’s shady border before goading the horses to enter.

The temperature drops within the trees, and leafy branches provide respite from the sun. Horses clop over gnarled roots, following the narrowest of paths only they can see. Hazelnuts crack beneath their hooves, their aromatic end quelling the mossy stench.

Vitus seeks a wild walnut tree but finds none.

Apples are the Severus family’s income, but their walnuts are renowned. The grove started by his great-grandfather produced its first harvest on the day of Vitus’s birth, and its next harvest comes this year.

Though his father wants him there, Scipio cares little for the orchard or the plantation. He’s never taken to agriculture, winemaking, or banging long sticks at branches to dislodge nuts. Distraction came first with horses and then with swimming.

After Scipio’s tenth year, Vitus insisted on him working the land.

Minerva heard his prayers at the Liberia festival when fifteen-year-old Scipio traded his boyish clothes for a manly tunic. She sent his father’s friend, Remus Plinius Castor, to their home and changed Scipio’s life.

A former military equestrian turned scholar, Master Plinius sought the wealthiest sons outside Mediolanum for his new school. His father wasn’t convinced until Scipio chose mapmaking, playing upon the man’s vanity.

Five years after leaving, however, Julius Caesar took control of the region and mandated that every young man in and around Scipio’s age serve two years in the legion. The poorest embraced such service, while Scipio’s class sought occupational training for a life outside the ranks.

“You hear that?” Vitus whispers.

The horses grunt softly as rushing water filters through the trees. Vitus lets his horse lead. ‘Always trust a thirsty horse to find the safest way to water,’ he often says.

Before long, Cletus veers off the path and, within moments, leads them to a steep eroded path. They dismount and carefully guide the horses to where massive boulders edge curling water. A few steps off is a stretch of muddy riverbank, and the horses leave deep prints in the muck before entering the water to their cannons.

Vitus sheds his boots and armor and joins them for a wash.

Scipio monitors the trees and avoids his father’s nakedness, a harbinger of things to come. Once strapping like his son, old Vitus is thick in places unfortunate, spurring his return to calvary life. By no means doughy like most men his age, his torso is solid, and his head shorn bare to hide the retreating gray.

Scipio inherited his angular cheeks and a strong jaw, but he and his sister possess their mother’s large bright eyes and bee-stung lips. Some portions passed cannot be denied—like the regal baldness without blemishes replacing a head of kinky wenge neither man holds dear.

While his father washes, Scipio clears the forest floor of sticks, depositing them into a hole for their fire. He pitches their tent and digs another hole behind a tree for their toilet. His father returns and orders him to the river for a wash.

At the water’s edge, he’s struck with an urge to swim.

The river moves steadily here, meaning a waterfall is somewhere along its path. Where there are falls, there’s a plunge pool. He walks the bank around a curve, climbing over a downed tree along the way, and hears the falls before he sees them.

Scipio smiles when he finds the deep basin is wide enough for a lap. He drives his sword in the soil, rests his helmet on top of it, sheds his armor and tunic, and unties the hip knot on his loin cloth.

He enters gingerly, and when the water chills his balls, he goes under, where the roar of the falls becomes a muted rumble. Unlike the glacial streams back home, the water here allows him to acclimate. It isn’t clear like Comum, but it’s close.

Scipio determines where the shallows begin before stroking his way across the pond. Mist tickles his back as his arms propel him, and near the opposite shallows, he curls into a flip and strokes back the way he came.

Five times, then five more, until his heart thumps in his ears.

He breaks the surface mid-lap, twisting over, he straightens his back and strokes under him as if rowing a boat. His toes crest, and cool air finds them. Above him are blue skies bordered by still trees.

After eight laps, he floats upright. Three strides to his left, he finds something to stand upon. Sunlight warms his head, the first rays he’s seen since arriving. Behind him, a prismatic patch hovers around the churning froth where falling water meets the pond.

Scipio’s breathing steadies when he realizes the birds have gone quiet. Sensing someone nearby, he whirls about to find an unpainted Gaul watching him from the waterfall’s knickpoint.

Two dark nipples dot his smooth chest, curtained by hints of hair peeking from the cleave between his arms. Black curls hang over thick brows but do little to hide his large ears. Thank Fortuna, the emaciated man isn’t armed with more than an unpleasant face—but for Scipio, a handsome face isn’t needed if a man’s ass is narrow and tight inside.

Cold eyes hold him in curious measure when Scipio stands waist-deep to display his muscled chest. Long-fingered hand pulls at the rope around his waist, shucking his blue tartan pants over his gaunt hips. A nest of fine black hair appears over shapeless obliques, and at its center is a thick cockroot.

Fear abandons Scipio when the Gaul takes out his arousal. The shaft’s length and girth make him giddy, but he remains guarded not to appear a novice.

The man’s stony visage never wavers as his hand twists and pulls. A large cock on such a skinny man entices Scipio, who falls playfully back into the water. The man’s parted lips almost spread in a smile, but he, too, is guarded.  

Scipio laughs without a sound, and opening his mouth, he extends his tongue. A mischievous gleam clouds his watcher’s eyes, and given a target, he works his arousal faster. Under the water, Scipio’s manhood grows.

The man’s body tenses, and he lets out a breath. Bars of unexpected sunlight stretches like heavenly censors, obscuring whatever his cock spits into the falls. Sated, the Gaul’s puffy lips turn down. He pulls a long knife from his back pocket and points it at him.

Scipio hardens, stepping onto another shale until water crests his thighs. Seeing his erection, the Gaul dares him with a wave of his knife and a closed hand.

If it’s a fight he wants, Scipio will happily oblige.

The horse grunts, drawing the Gaul’s attention to the riverbank, where the sword, helmet, and clothes reveal him, Roman.

Scipio turns to explain but finds the man gone.

He slaps the water and curses his dying arousal; now he’ll never know if the Gaul can take a punch, or if his ass splits when poked without spit. It’s just as well; rape isn’t allowed in ranks nor permissible outside the heat of battle.

On the march to Hispania, his brutal machinations with Castor got him a stern dressing down after his father spotted bruises on the young man’s wrists.

Gnats crowd his face on the walk back.

Through the trees, a woman’s shout forces him to crouch.

Through the ground cover, he spots Vitus hiding in a ravine. His father raises a hand, a signal for Scipio to stay put; right above his position, a druidess and four brutes tear apart the camp.

The men chomp into their dried fish rations while the woman ties their small barley sacks around her neck. After looting their saddlebags, she unties Cletus and slaps his backside, making him flee for the trees.

Scipio’s idiot horse takes off after Cletus without giving away his hiding spot—but the beast takes his sword and armor.

“Where do you think they went to?” one of the men asks.

“Down by the water, most like,” she says, then barks out: “Where you been?”

A low yet tempered voice answers, “Washing in the falls,”

Scipio raises his chin and discovers the raunchy Gaul from the falls. The lanky woman shares his obtuse jawline, but her eyes are light, and her long hair thread-straight.

“Washing?” she smirks. “Or rubbing at yourself?”

He stares at her with contempt, as any son might a mother so crass.

“Get your poisons out, boy,” she advises. “None of this lot’s going to smack you around as you like,”

The men laugh, but her son remains stoic; Scipio processes her words and imagines the slender Gaul putting up a fight.

She orders one of them to burn the tent, and this compels Scipio to glance at his father. Luckily, the man lies with his maps on his chest. Tied to his tunic is their fire-starting kit, and under his ass are their water pouches.

She gives her son’s big ear a gentle tug.

“Did you see any Romans by the water?”

He shakes his curly-topped head. “I saw no one.”

Scipio rolls over and stares at the trees.

Several moments later, the gang leaves a smoking tent.

Vitus rises, “They’ll be on the water searching for us,”

“What about the horses?” asks Scipio, joining him.

“They’ll find us,” his father assures.

---

The horses locate them on the other side of the forest.

They ride past sundown, their stomachs growling under a starless night. They speak of Rome and his father’s brother in the Senate. Each session brings new hostility for Caesar, and wealthy senators direct their resentment to those representing Caeser’s provincial cities.

Scipio hates politics.

“Fear not,” says Vitus, reading his face. “I’d never ask you to Rome.”

“It’s not that I’m incapable,” he says. “Surely there are other families,”

“The Severus represent Comum,” Vitus grins. “We helped build the colony, and since it became a city, we are one of the wealthiest families, despite our simple life.”

Scipio thinks of his nana, who was anything but simple.

“Grandmother lived in town,” he says.

Vitus laughs. “That city apartment cost a fortune to build,”

“We still collect rent,” he says. “Doesn’t that cover the upkeep?”

“We lease the ground floor shops and apartments over it, but the top floors belong to us,” says Vitus. “And they still sit empty,”

“Perhaps when Vita marries, she can move into them,” he says.

“Vita will remain home,” Vitus snaps. “Where she belongs.”

Scipio stares at him. “She should be married by now,”

“She’ll marry no one,” Vitus says, his smile gone.

“What happened to that boy from—”

“-There it is,” Vitus declares, riding ahead.

They come upon the Tamesas, a brown stretch that divides the marsh like a serpent’s corpse. They cross the narrowest point and dismount on some reeded flats so Vitus can sketch their arrival path.

“Farther west, there’s a settlement,” says Vitus. “An hour east is another,”

“Should we scout them?”

“Oh, they know us all too well.” Vitus finishes a crude version of a map. “The woodland locals know we’re here, and that’s mean we’re riding through the night.”

“You think they’ll find us?”

“They’re looking as we speak.” Vitus rolls up his illustration. “We’ll ride south to the coast and follow that back to the beachhead.”

“That keeps us out another day,”

Vitus promises, “We’ll live to see that day by avoiding how we came.”

After letting the horses drink their fill, they ride through the night. Vitus snores atop Cletus, and soon Scipio dozes, comforted by the crickets. Flatlands dominate the coastal plain, and an occasional cluster of rocks breaks up the landscape.

They find a wooden trap near a pond with four rabbits inside, and Vitus decides to help himself to two of them.

At the coast, they watch the sunrise.

“Those white cliffs we saw sailing in,” Vitus says, tying the horses to a boulder. “We’re standing on them.”

Scipio’s fire smokes in the hole he dug.

“We’re on top of them?” he asks. “Why are they white?”

“It’s chalk.” Vitus skins the first rabbit and points his head at sea. “That bireme out there with two of our cruisers, it’s filled with merchants picking away at it for the flint,”

 Scipio squints and sees only a dark patch on the horizon.

 “These cliffs are as large as those we passed at the end of the world,” Scipio notes his father’s stare. “I know the Pillars of Heracles aren’t the world’s end anymore,”

“The sea is larger than the sky.” Vitus hands him the skinned carcass, its red flesh streaked with white. “There’s more land beyond this island. I know it.”

Scipio lays the raw meat on his armor’s shin plate, now a frypan for the fire, and relishes the sizzle. After several moments, his father uses cloth-covered fingers to tip the metal plate, dripping what little fat the rabbit provides on the fire.

Fat-tinged smoke makes for flavorful meat when there’s no salt.

Scipio gnaws the cooked flesh from its bone.

“Locals won’t be happy to find their traps empty.”

Vitus cleans his lips with the back of his sleeve.

“That’s why we need to keep moving.”

Scipio doesn’t wipe his lips. He imagines the bland gamey meat to be the flavorful hares their cook, Nikonidas, prepares on worship days. A Greek boy raised alongside Scipio, he took over as house cook for his father after the man passed away some years ago.

“What’s swimming behind those eyes?” Vitus asks.

“Is Niko still fat?”

“Oh yes,” says Vitus. “Your sister says he’s grown quite tall, though,”

“Niko never spoke much, did he?”

“He was learning his words when his mother died of the pox.” Vitus turns thoughtful. “He’s not mute. He just never learned to express himself like the rest of us.”

Scipio stares at him.

“That Gaul that joined the others, he saw me swimming,”

Vitus goes wide-eyed.

“We saw each other,” says Scipio. “But he said he saw no one,”

“It’s careless, washing on your own,” Vitus scolds. “You should’ve washed with me,”

He gets up and walks to Cletus. “You saw each other, did you?”

“Something like that,” Scipio says, grinning.

Vitus sighs. “Tell me you didn’t interfere with him?”

“If I had,” Scipio replies. “He wouldn’t have been able to return to his mother.”

Vitus chuckles. “You never grew out of your attraction to boys,”

“No, I didn’t,” he brags.

“Neither did Planus, I’m told,” Vitus says. “Have you two thoughts of making a match?”

Scipio curls his lip. “Me and Planus?”

“He’s your sort, isn’t he?” asks Vitus.

“We’re the same sort,” Scipio declares, “but not sorted for each other,”

“You’ll find a wife when we get home,” Vitus decrees. “And you’ll ensure she knows nothing of whatever Catamitus you install in the city apartment.”

“Is that fair to her?” Scipio asks, then mumbles. “Is that fair to me?”

“Life isn’t fair, so we make the best of unfairness with private diversions.” Vitus stretches until his back cracks. “My mother was a notorious lady-lover until her last day.”

Scipio gawps in shock.

“It’s true,” Vitus adds, mounting his horse. “More women than my father,”

Scipio gathers their things and kicks dirt over the fire. He stands too quickly, then, and the headrush knocks him back. He turns and sees his father slide off the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.

“Father,” his words come slow like a molasses drip.

His face collides with the ground. His arms and legs disappear, and his eyes grow too heavy to stay open. Through wisps of smoke, covered feet appear, and with them come distant voices.

“I told you they would ride to the coast,”

“Yes, you did, my clever boy, yes you did…”