Writer Obscura

TAGS: Ritual Violence, molestation, murder, druids, ancient rome, celtic britain, the roman invasion of britain, serial fiction, present tense.

VIII – The Sacrifice

Every man burns hot when he sleeps, the Roman is no exception. His skin carries the scent of a cooking fire, and his nipples taste of roasted rabbit.

Aedan studies the sleeping man’s rugged face and finds the beauty from the falls is the lion from his vision; what games Gods play. The elixir given to the rabbits keeps the man unawares, no matter how indelicate a druid’s touch.

Sitting bare-assed on the slumbering man’s stomach, he relishes the hardness against his crack. His thumb forces open an eyelid, revealing a deep mossy green. A hungry hand slips under the prisoner’s loincloth and discovers flesh thicker and longer than his.

Aedan drags the moist tip of his cock over the sleeping man’s swollen lips. “You’re mine.” He draws a glistening line across the man’s cheek, his forehead, and down that gorgeous nose. “Every inch of you belongs to me.”

“What are you doing?” Anger reddens Kelr’s face.

Aedan lazily tips his head back. “Marking what’s mine.”

The brutes around the fire laugh at what they think is the Roman’s humiliation, but their mistress, Ciniod, knows well enough.

“Stuff that thing back in your pants,” she slaps the back of her son’s head. “That one must remain pure,”

Aedan stands, cock in hand. “He belongs to me,”

“Nothing belongs to you.” His mother snatches his britches from the dirt; they strike the back of his neck and tickle his ass when they fall. “Their blood will answer for the incursion.”

She pulls the sack down over the Roman prisoner’s head and orders two of her lackeys to secure him to the oak with his superior.

Earlier that day, her warriors fashioned a hut of wicker in stones under the baleful eye of Taran, whose passion for life has waned since losing everything.

Hoping to curb her lanky son’s desire for the strapping Roman, she tasked him to fashion reed masks for her, himself, and his newfound beast, settled with these prisoners in their midst..

After eating their fill of porridge loaded with auk, the strongest drags the older Roman before Ciniod.

Kelr yanks his ropes, forcing him to his knees before Ciniod who hurls questions like spears.

The older Roman’s stony visage never wavers, his hawk nose high and his fierce eyes set upon something beyond his captors. Unable to decipher her language, the man sits unmoved by her insult-laden interrogation.

Aedan unfolds his arms and sits cross-legged before the Roman.

to decipher a word of her language, he remains unmoved by her insult-laden interrogation.

Finding a bit of the lion in this man’s face, Aedan unfolds his arms and sits cross-legged before him.

“Do you speak Greek?” he asks in that language.

The older man blinks. “Holding us hostage will bring you nothing.”

Ciniod kneels beside her son. “What does he say?”

“He thinks we’re holding him for ransom,” he tells her, then addresses the man. “We’ve no use for Roman coin or Roman negotiation.” 

The man’s nostrils flare.

“Why have they come back?” Ciniod asks.

Aedan speaks to him. “Why have you returned?”

When silence becomes the man, Aedan answers for him.

“The senators hate your Battle King for his ambitions. His power comes from common men and warriors, and he needs them to love him more than they love the senators. To impress them, your Battle King destroys those, not Roman.”

The Roman regards him thoughtfully.
“You’re rather astute for a boy that’s never left this island,”

“The sea brings boats,” says Aedan. “Boats bring mouths that talk of Rome.”

“Caesar wages war for glory,” the man confers with a slow blink. “And yes, his position within the senate comes from common men. Hate, however, is a strong word.”

“What’s he saying?” Kelr whispers to Ciniod.

“He speaks the gibberish his father taught him,” she replies.

“All words are strong.” Aedan looks into the Roman’s eyes. “We, too, are common,”

“You and your ilk are anything but common,”

“If the tribal kings declare him victorious,” Aedan wonders. “Will he leave our island and take Rome with him?”

“Your kings make no decision without your ilk whispering in their ears,”

“My ilk?” Aedan’s eyes widen. “It is we druids he seeks to destroy?”

“You hold the power, not the tribal kings,”

Kelr paces behind the prisoner and stares at Aedan.
“This is the most I’ve ever heard you speak,”

Ciniod nags, “What does he say?”

“If you leave by the next moon,” Aedan ignores them. “The tribes will allow you a port and ignore any future uprisings in Belgica,”

“Are uprisings afoot?” the Roman stares at him.

Aedan’s smile fades.

“We’ve come to restore a king to his throne,” the man talks as if speaking a fresh truth. “A reasonable king, the true king of this island.”

“If you’re victorious in his name, he becomes the King that sets the terms for all tribes.” Aedan then scoffs. “Mandubracius won’t guarantee you a foothold,”

Ciniod gently knees her son’s spindly arm.
“What are you saying to him?”

“He’ll turn on us the first moment he can,” the Roman’s shoulders drop. “but until then, he’s our proverbial port in the storm.”

“His port is rotted wood,”  says Aedan. “I will speak to the other kings,”

“We tried this,” the man counters. “Our emissaries never returned.”

Aedan smirks. “The tribal kings will not consider you a threat until you defeat Cassivellaunus,”

Before the Roman displays understanding, Taran’s scream cuts through him.

“You!” The sobbing druid falls upon him. “You killed Fintan!”

Aedan stands, knife out and his stomach in knots. The notion of trading words with his father’s killer leaves a foul taste upon his tongue.

Ciniod orders her thugs to remove Taran.

“The druid charioteer, the owl,” the older man’s eyes shift from Aedan to his knife. “He tried to kill my son. In war, men kill each other, men die,”

“There would be no war,” roars Aedan. “If you hadn’t invaded lands, not yours,”

“What’s he saying,” Kelr begs.

Aedan scowls. “He says that killing my father was the fault of war,”

“War they started!” Kelr spits in the man’s face and then kicks him in the stomach. “Let Taran kill him. We’ll give his underling to the Gods for their incursion.”

“No,” barks Aedan. “The Gods shall drink the blood of my father’s killer and then devour his flesh in the ritual fire,”

“That’s right, my boy,” Ciniod returns. “A proper sacrifice.”

Kelr points at the sleeping man tied to the tree. “The Gods must have his underling,”

“His son is mine,” Aedan snaps.

Ciniod’s eyes narrow. “His son?”

“We cannot let him live,” Kelr says in her ear.

Ciniod nods, “His blood will bring clear visions,”

“I see clearly enough,” Aedan snaps. “His son belongs to me,”

Ciniod steps into him. “His blood belongs to the Gods,”

“I am a god,” Aedan counters.

Her open hand stings less than his backside hitting the dirt.

“You’re no god.” She glares down at him as quiet consumes the camp. “Now, get some red-capped tea in you.”

“The shack is built.” Kelr stares at Aedan while whispering to Ciniod. “Perhaps we should call upon Ostin,”

“He’ll have no part in my vengeance,” she murmurs. “That murderer will die for his crime, and his son’s life will show us a path to victory.”

Aedan moodily strides toward the shack, where coastal winds billow his britches and whip the curls upon his crown.

It’s wicker walls rattle, and the stones around its foundation sit flush against the cliff’s edge. Inside the shade of its small room, he grasps the overhead beam, an unpolished tree-trunk. Both arms prove strong enough to pull him up to his chin; the trunk will hold the two Roman lambs long enough for his fire to consume it.

---

The world is a shit-colored cloth that blinds him.

A tree fills the space between his shoulder blades, and rope chafes his wrists and neck. Tension pains his arms, stretched tight behind him. Flexing his fingers reveals the small of his father’s back.

“Can you see anything?”

Vitus answers, “I see our imminent deaths,”

“My throat is trussed to this blasted tree,”

“Go back to sleep, my son,” Vitus whispers. “Worse pain awaits.”

“How many are there?”

“Seven in all,” says Vitus. “It’s not their numbers that defeat us,”

“I don’t understand,”

“The owl charioteer from Belgica,” his father sounds hollow. “His son and kin are our captors.”

“Are you sure?”

“The druid that hurled the axe that splintered your shield,” Vitus reveals. “He’s among them. The owl’s son and wife demand blood for blood, which they do in the name of their Gods.”

“They speak Latin?”

“The young owl speaks Greek.” Vitus’s voice breaks. “Minerva punishes me. She allows the Fates to cut my line in this horrid place.”

“Father,” He drags his head against the tree but cannot shed the cloth over it. “Minerva punishes no man for his actions in war,”

“No, she punishes my misdeeds at home.” Vitus starts sobbing. “When you left, you took my goodness with you, Scipio.”

Suddenly, a rancid odor invades his space. Flesh strikes flesh, and before Scipio protests the abuse against his father, a painful blow rattles his skull, ushering in blackness.

*

When the world returns, it brings pain and a heavy stink of tar.

“Scipio?” his father’s voice labors.

“Father,” he whispers, his head numb.

They hang upside down from a timber beam, their ankles tied by thick Roman ropes and their arms bound closely to their sides with sinew cord. Bodies move outside this dark prison and through wicker tendrils comes torchlight and melodic chants.

A cool wind kisses Scipio’s back, so he twists enough to turn his shoulders. Through a spacious sliver, the distant sun sets like a Parthian orange floating upon the placid waters of home.

“We’re on the edge of the white cliffs,” he says, examining their makeshift prison. “We must swing our bodies, tip this thing over the precipice.”

Vitus resigns. “Our captors intend to butcher us like swine,”

“Listen to me,” he presses. “We can tip this thing over the edge. Once we’re at sea, we’ll swim for the merchant ships. We saw them off the coast, remember?”

“If we survive that long drop, if,” Vitus says, “The rocks below will cut us to pieces,”

“I’d rather die in the rocks than be butchered like a hog,”

The door swings open to reveal a druid whose painted nakedness peeks from a wind-swept smock. His thickly braided straw mask resembles a monstrous owl, and in the red twilight sky behind him, it is the dreaded sort born of nightmares.

“I want you to know, Scipio, that you are my son, and we’ll meet again on the River Styx.” Vitus closes his eyes. “Perhaps we’ll be reborn through Jove’s good graces.”

“Stop saying goodbye,” he growls. “We’ll not die this day,”

Another masked figure, naked without her robe, touches her torch to the druids, forming a blinding light. Her gusty laugh shakes her bony shoulders and modest tits.

The knife-wielding druid sheds his smock and enters their cage, his heat-bearing torch revealing a familiar nakedness. It’s long beauty makes Scipio’s mouth water, even now as the body owning it brings certain death.

“It’s you,” he says, staring at the emotionless mask. “It’s me from the water. Do you remember me? I remember you, please!”

The druid moves as if without ears, his long slender blade shimmering in the firelight.

“No,” Scipio’s body twists in protest as the druid nears his father. “Show mercy, do not take him, take me,”

Vitus rumbles, “Stop groveling, boy, you’re a Roman!”

“I’m yours,” Scipio cries in Greek as the blade touches Vitus’s neck.

The druid’s head slowly turns.

“I’m yours,” Scipio pants.

Glassy eyes regard him through the mask holes.

“Do what you will with me,” Scipio pleads. “Slaughter me, eat my flesh, fuck me into dust, I don’t care. Just don’t hurt him.”

The druid stands as if beholden to Medusa, until the masked woman appears. Her tit flat against his shoulder, she whispers in a language Scipio does not understand. Her words compel the druid’s blade back to Vitus’s neck.

“Please,” Scipio whispers. “Take me.”

The druid gawks again at Scipio.

“My life is yours.” Tears drip hot over his brow. “I’m yours…”

The druid’s eyes never leave him as the blade slides under Vitus’ chin.

Blood veils the man’s choking face before pink flesh and white bone spill from the thick gash in his neck. Scipio howls in a rage, twisting his torso violently, striking his dying father until they’re both swinging like wind swept bats.

The druid presses an eager hand to Scipio’s sweaty chest, his mind oblivious to the wicker walls torn free of their rocky foundation.

“You Ganymede bitch,” Scipio snarls in Greek. “I’m going to cut your heart out and then fuck the hole in your chest.”

The druid nods, his eyes narrowing in the holes from a hidden smile. His cock bounces as he grabs Scipio’s fear-driven erection.

“Aedan,” the masked woman shrills.

Woken from his daze, the druid recoils and, with a cold countenance, brings his blade into Scipio’s space.

“Kill me, A-dawn,” Scipio growls. “Kill me, or I will find you,”

The druid hesitates as if struck.

“Kill me,” Scipio warns through his teeth. “Or the next time we meet, my cock will rearrange your guts,”

The knife retreats, but the druid does not. Without a moment passing, he touches the torch to the wall. Fire crawls up its length and races over the wooden beam, devouring his father’s feet.

Scipio screams for Minerva, begging her for the strength to free himself as the druid closes the door behind him.

His father’s hanging corpse immolates, bringing heat that roasts the senses.

He curls upward and unfurls, stretching his back to build enough momentum to topple the hut. Thick smoke binds his lungs as the roof over his father collapses, bringing the flaming man’s corpse to rest against Scipio’s upper arm and pectoral.

Agony swallows him while flames sear the sinew binds. He howls in pain, his body bent and fingers digging at the thick ropes around his ankles. Fire catches the ropes and soon licks his feet. He lets loose a shriek unknown to even him.

Suddenly, something crashes through the hut, tearing it asunder.

The full moon above grows distant in the new darkness until his body strikes the sea as if colliding with the earth. His breath flees before the water’s embrace baptizes him in salt and foam. Saline stings his eyes yet numbs his burns.

A long-faced mask floats past him, its knots ash and black.

Luna gallops through the current, her four spindly legs working by Neptune’s design.