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.
