Last Gladiatrix, The (13 page)

Titus nodded. ‘I long to see the great plains of the east.’

Maxitani grinned, indicating he understood Titus immediately. ‘Of course you do and why not? You will need a guide. I hear the journey can be wild and dangerous for a man alone.’

It was Titus’s turn to grin. ‘I hear the same. Do you know of anyone suitable?’

Maxitani shrugged. ‘I have heard of someone who might be of use to you.’ He began to clean his nails with his dagger. ‘Of course, she may not be available to travel this time of year.’

‘It would be a pity indeed. Perhaps she could be persuaded?’

‘No doubt, for a price I could arrange it.’ Maxitani looked directly at Titus, leaving him with no questions about whom they both spoke. The whites of Maxitani’s eyes glistened in the darkness, and Titus was grateful this warrior intended to help and not hinder Xanthe’s rescue.

‘Could I meet her? Just to determine her suitability, of course.’ Titus needed to see her, to see she wasn’t harmed in any way.

‘She is otherwise … occupied at present. I will see what I can do. In the meantime, share some wine with me while we wait.’

Sullen, Xanthe sat inside the goat-skin tent, the sounds of the troupe making camp filtering through the walls. Her injured arm meant she could not help with the work—that and the shackle fastened about her ankle. It seemed Scaevola did not trust her, yet where on earth could she go? They were in the middle of nowhere, and she had no way of traversing the countryside, even if she knew where they were headed.

Xanthe had contributed to her own ill-luck yet again. Had she not gotten into a fight with the troupe’s strongman and broken his nose with a wine flagon, she would probably be sleeping out under the stars again tonight. Xanthe had seen the way the so-called strongman had looked at her.

The big man had deserved his injury. How dare he insult her! If Xanthe hadn’t knocked him down he might have believed he could take what he wanted. She snorted at the memory. Strongman, indeed! More like fat man.

To add to her burden, the boil-infested wretch Scaevola had insisted she spend the night in his tent. Giving the chain a rattle, Xanthe tested its strength. One end was fastened securely around her ankle, the other wrapped around a flimsy pole at the centre of the tent. One good yank and she’d have the lot down on top of them. But then what?

Xanthe sighed. What indeed? Her only friend in the troupe was Maxitani, and she wasn’t sure if he really was her friend. Perhaps he was only being friendly. The test of their friendship was yet to come, and she wasn’t convinced it should be tonight. Better to wait until she was sure of him and of what to do next. Perhaps when the troupe arrived at a town? There might be a greater chance of stealing a horse.

The thought comforted her, and Xanthe smiled in the creeping darkness. Yes, a horse. A sword to go with the horse would be good. Closing her eyes, she let the sounds of the camp wash over her as she imagined how she might come by a decent fighting sword.

The tent flap opening alerted her to Scaevola’s return. Xanthe kept her eyes closed. There was no need to see him; she could smell him well enough. He shuffled around the tent like a pig looking for truffles, with Xanthe willing him to leave with all her might. With any luck, she would be sound asleep when he returned from the cook fire.

After a few moments, her wish was granted and Scaevola left the tent without a word spoken. She took a deep breath, exhaled with relief and stretched the muscles in her neck before laying back on the ground. It was no harder than the back of the cart had been. No harder than the cell floor in the Colosseum. Sleep quickly claimed.

Xanthe woke with a start. Pain shot through her shoulder as a rough hand covered her mouth. Hot breath panted across her cheek and a knee forced her thighs apart. She jerked in reaction but the man’s weight proved impossible to shift. Scaevola!

He pinned her good hand above her head and fumbled with the ties on her leggings, all the time puffing his foul breath in her face. The urge to retch was pushed aside by the urge to break every bone in the puny man’s body.

Scaevola may have bought her but he did not own her!

Rage surged through her as she bucked against him. If she could just get purchase—never had she felt so helpless, as the brute’s weight held her pinned to the ground. Such a little man and yet she could barely move beneath him. Yet, Xanthe had not survived Rome to be taken by a pustule of a man such as Scaevola.

She bit down on his ear lobe, the only bit of him freely available to her. Xanthe was rewarded with a yelp of a pain. Scaevola gave her a sharp backhand across her face.

‘Filthy bitch! I’ll teach you better manners,’ he screamed.

Xanthe tasted blood, her own or his she could not tell. Scaevola pulled back to slap her again, and in that moment the advantage became hers. With a quick twist of her hips she threw him off balance, just enough to surprise him with a head butt to the bridge of his nose.

Scaevola screamed with pain and rolled off her, clutching his face. ‘I’ll kill you for this, you Scythian whore!’ he yelled, fury causing his voice to shake.

Xanthe rolled to her feet, momentarily forgetting her shackles. Scaevola realised her predicament in the same moment, a sly smile spreading across his ruined face.

‘Nowhere to run? What a shame. You’ll have to take your punishment where you stand.’ He unsheathed a dagger, and it glinted in the half light.

Sweat broke out on Xanthe’s brow. The situation had suddenly become more precarious. She looked about for a weapon of her own, finding none at hand. What could she do?

There was nothing for it. Xanthe had one chance and one chance only. Scaevola came at her then, crouched low with his knife held out awkwardly. She dropped to the floor, sliding her feet forward and aimed a scissor-kick at his ankles. No warrior, he stumbled and fell, the dagger flying from his hand.

Xanthe yanked her leg chain with all her might, bringing the centre pole down and the tent on them both. She could see nothing but goat-skin as she flailed, seeking an opening. Scaevola thrashed beside her. Shouts and cries echoed in the darkness as the troupe were alerted to the struggle.

Xanthe found the edge of the tent and fought free. The light from the cook fires lit up the night and she could clearly see Scaevola still struggling, fighting to free himself. Bending down, she picked up the chain still shackled to her ankle.

Scaevola grabbed her from behind, his dagger against the soft skin of her throat. Taken by surprise, Xanthe stumbled. The blade pressed into her flesh, burning as the sharp edge revealed a thin line of blood.

‘Now what are you going to do, you stupid whore?’ he hissed in her ear as he twisted her arm painfully behind her back. ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’

Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest for a moment that she thought it was the beating of drums from somewhere in the camp. Her breath came hard and fast. Think!

The other members of the troupe stood about in small groups watching. No one made a move to help, and Xanthe realised she was on her own. Either she triumphed over this brute, which would mean killing him, or she remained a slave forever. Her next move would decide her future.

As suddenly as Scaevola had appeared, he was gone. The fetid man gave a soft grunt and simply let her go. Startled, Xanthe looked about. The faces of the people gathered around her showed shock and disbelief. What happened? Spinning quickly, lest a new foe take advantage of her, she came face to face with …

‘Titus!’

‘Is he dead?’ Xanthe asked.

‘Good to see you again, too!’

‘Is he dead?’ She repeated between clenched teeth.

Titus prodded Scaevola’s body with his toe and shrugged. ‘Looks that way.’

‘Then we need to get out of here as fast as possible.’ She bent down to examine the fetter about her ankle. ‘Check his body for keys to this thing.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’ Xanthe ignored Titus’s mocking tone and his bow. If they didn’t make good their escape immediately, they may find themselves arrested and in chains before morning. Xanthe had had her fill of Roman justice, enough for a lifetime.

Titus squatted down opposite Xanthe as he rifled Scaevola’s body. ‘A little gratitude might not go astray.’

‘Gratitude for what exactly, Centurion? Saving me?’

‘Well, yes. If I remember recent events correctly, this pestilent creature had a knife to your throat when I arrived. If I hadn’t finished him off, you’d be lying here in a pool of blood.’

‘I could have managed him myself. There was no need for you to leave the luxury of your new life in Rome to save me. I can take care of myself.’

Titus rocked back on his haunches, smiling. ‘True. You have done a magnificent job of looking after yourself ever since the Huns first grabbed you in the forest.’

Xanthe shot him her darkest look. ‘I would have been fine. It was nothing I could not handle.’

‘As I recall, I saved you that day as well.’

‘You do realise if we don’t get out of here immediately we may end up right back where we started—in chains.’ Frustration spilled over, her voice growing sharp. ‘I hope you have a plan.’

‘Of course.’ He removed a ring of keys from Scaevola’s person and threw them to Xanthe. ‘You’d better hope the right one is amongst those.’

She fumbled, searching for the key to release the lock. ‘So what is it?’

‘What?’

‘Your plan.’ She inserted a key and heard a satisfying click as the lock eased open.

‘Originally, I had planned to sweep you off your feet and ride off into the night with you, but after the lack of appreciation you’ve shown me, I might begin to reconsider.’

‘Titus!’ Xanthe stood up in one fluid motion. ‘Can you please be serious?’

He rose to face her. ‘I am serious. No gratitude, no rescue. What hero would choose to rescue such an ungrateful creature as you without a little sweetening?’

‘I am grateful,’ she said stepping closer to him. ‘But right now I’m more concerned for my hide than my heart.’

Titus smiled down at her, his eyes dancing. ‘If only you’d trust me.’

‘I do trust you, even though you are infuriating. Right now I wish you would try to be more subtle and less … soldierly.’

Standing so near to him was a mistake. Xanthe’s traitorous body swayed closer. Her centurion grabbed her face between his hands and drew her to him, kissing her fervently. His tongue plundered her mouth, which opened without protest at the touch of his feverish lips. How could she resist him when every fibre of her being cried out for him?

‘It will do for a start. Now stop yapping and get your belongings,’ he said, releasing her as suddenly as they’d embraced. Xanthe swayed, heat invading her body and causing her to tremble as weak as a newborn kitten. ‘You can show me the rest of your gratitude later.’

‘I have the horses.’ Maxitani appeared out of the darkness, leading three horses, two clearly taken from Scaevola’s cart.

‘Good. Then we are ready to go, are we not?’ Titus took the reins of the bay mare from Maxitani and threw himself up into the saddle. ‘Xanthe, get on the horse.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t we cannot make good our escape.’

‘Not that,’ Xanthe said, exasperated that he pretended not to know what she meant. ‘Why are you doing this—saving me?’

‘You always ask too many questions. We can talk later. For now, I need you to get on this horse and ride.’ The centurion’s horse pawed the ground, as impatient as her master.

Xanthe sighed and mounted the horse Maxitani held for her. ‘And why are
you
doing this?’ she asked the dark man.

He smiled generously. ‘Why would a man wait to earn his freedom when he can merely take it?’ Xanthe had no fitting reply, so she turned her horse to follow Titus.

They rode through the darkness, with no light but the moon to guide them. Xanthe lost all sense of direction. Rome could be over the next rise for all she knew. Did Titus intend to return to his life in Rome once they were far enough away from the troupe? She could not survive in Rome; could he survive elsewhere? He had come to liberate her, yet by this very act he had condemned himself to the life of an exile.

Maxitani whistled, the sound piercing through the silence. Titus brought his horse to a stop. Xanthe did also and waited for Maxitani to cross the short distance to join them.

‘My friends, I must leave you here,’ Maxitani said. ‘I intend to travel north.’

‘Britain?’ asked Xanthe.

‘I think Spain might be warmer, and I have a hankering for home.’ The black gladiator smiled and patted his horse’s neck. ‘I thank you Centurion Titus Valens for liberating me.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Xanthe, ‘he might ask you for a kiss to show your gratitude.’

Maxitani let loose a great bark of laughter. ‘He is welcome to take one.’

Titus scowled at Xanthe. ‘I’m sorry to see you go, Maxitani. Travel with care. There may be those who will hunt you for this evening’s events.’

Maxitani shrugged. ‘Few of the troupe were there by choice. You will find they have scattered to the four winds, never to be seen again. I fear not. Farewell friends; perhaps we will meet again!’ He wheeled his horse and took off down the road in a flurry of hooves, the darkness swallowing him.

‘So,’ said Titus, ‘only you and I remain.’

‘You don’t have to do this.’ Xanthe spoke quickly, before the words died on her lips unspoken. ‘If you ride with me tonight there will be nothing for you but hardship. Your people will treat you as an outlaw, and you may never return home.’

The centurion sat still for a long moment, his eyes intent upon her face. ‘Home is with you,’ he said softly. ‘Rome means nothing to me now. That life is behind me. I knew what it meant when I slid my knife through that worm’s belly. I also knew I could not live my life without you by my side, whatever the cost.’

Xanthe’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But—’

Titus moved his horse closer to hers, gently tugging on the reins until their thighs touched. He cupped her face in his calloused hands, gently catching a tear as it spilled down her cheek. ‘Hush now. My decision is made. I love you.’ Titus leaned in and captured her lips in a tender kiss. ‘Whatever happens, we go forward together.’