Last Gladiatrix, The (3 page)

The image of the Scythian woman haunted him. Her spirit flamed with a burning anger, Titus had no doubt she could fight. But how would she fare in the Colosseum, against some of the Empire’s best? That he could not tell.

He could feel heat in his loins at the thought of her. He could walk out of his tent and take her at his leisure, her lithe, strong body writhing beneath his, her legs wrapping about his waist, inviting him …

Titus drained the cup and threw it across the tent. How could this rag-tag tribal woman have cast such enchantment over him in such a short time? Still, the base animal lust coursing through his veins could be sated easily enough, and without the complication of attachment. Camp followers trailed behind the army wherever it campaigned.

Titus rose, and stalking to his bed, threw himself across the furs and closed his eyes. Not tonight. Tonight he was tired and a long day’s march lay ahead of him tomorrow. His lust would have to wait until he was better rested. It did not take long before sleep claimed him and a flame-haired wild woman invaded his dreams.

The tall trees surrounding the camp loomed like sentries against the velvety darkness of night. Xanthe huddled beneath the cart, her arms wrapped around herself in an effort to keep warm. The Huns had taken her fur cloak, along with her weapons, leaving her with no protection from the harsh reality she now faced.

She watched the comings and goings of the camp. Fires burned, their lively flames keeping the soldiers warm against the bitter mountain night. She had no such comfort; the cold seeped up from the frozen earth into her bones.

Weariness claimed her. The adrenaline which had sustained her through her capture and final delivery to the Romans had long deserted her, leaving nothing but numbing fatigue. Xanthe’s heart ached, along with the rest of her. Anger seeped away, driven by the cold, and in its place fear and sadness welled. How could she have been stupid enough to allow this to happen?

Her stomach growled its displeasure. When did she last eat? At the Huns' camp, at least a day ago. There appeared little chance of the Romans feeding her. Speaking neither Latin, nor the crude Italian that she knew was common across the Empire, made it difficult for Xanthe to get a fix on what they meant to do with her.

At least she had managed to convince the fat general she would not make a good bed companion. She chuckled as she thought of his surprised expression when she had snapped at him. It had earned her a night out in the cold, but that was preferable to sharing the buffoon’s bed.

Xanthe’s thoughts returned to her parents. How they must grieve the loss of both their children. Instead of easing their pain, she had doubled it. And Skudat—what had become of her poor horse, beast of her heart? Had he, too, been given away or sold to some brutish idiot who would have no idea of the equine treasure he had come by?

She looked out at the forbidding, thick woods surrounding the camp. Even if she managed to escape she had no bearing on her location. How could she find her way home? Xanthe allowed a tear for Skudat and one for herself. She could afford no more.

A soldier approached. Xanthe stiffened and drew farther beneath the cart. The man carried a bundle, which he deposited in front of her. He mumbled something unintelligible. The only bit she could make out was ‘Centurion Titus Valens’ before giving a nod and leaving.

Tentatively prodding the bundle with her foot, Xanthe watched his retreating back with surprise. She dragged the package closer, unwrapping it slowly to discover thick, warm furs. She ran her fingers through their seductive softness, and then inspected the rest of the contents.

Inside was a hunk of meat and bread, wrapped in linen. The smell made her swoon, and she fell on the feast with little regard for the decorum befitting the daughter of a chief. So great was her hunger that the furs lay neglected, the promise of their warmth coming second to her deep hunger. The roasted meat and coarse bread were like manna from the heavens. In minutes, nothing remained except bones.

It was only then she noted her cold limbs and pulled the furs toward her, wrapping them about her body. Soon Xanthe was suffused with warmth and the protection that they provided.

Who had sent her these gifts? Surely not the fat general. She picked up a bone and idly began gnawing at it, her thoughts turning to the other man, the dark man who had been in the tent, a man not easily forgotten. Perhaps he was this Titus Valens? He carried himself with a power and authority like some men carried a sword and shield. Yet, Xanthe had not seen hatred or fear in his eyes, but rather a kind of curiosity about her and … something more.

She had experienced that extra something, too: a deep pull, a longing to touch his flesh, to run her hands across his smooth, golden skin, and feel his hands upon her. The moment their eyes had locked, Xanthe swore she had seen into the depths of his heart. What she’d glimpsed there left her in no doubt—she’d never encountered a man like him before.

The memory of him caused her body to stir in response. Perhaps it would be enough to keep her warm through the night? Smiling, Xanthe snuggled down into the furs, making herself as comfortable as she could upon the unyielding ground. Sleep claimed her quickly despite her discomfort.

Xanthe dreamt she lay on a bed of soft golden cloud, dressed in a diaphanous gown the like of which she had never owned in the waking world. The bed, warm and comfortable beyond belief, caused her to sigh with pleasure. The dreamscape sky, filled with stars, arched above her and the balmy air caressed her skin. A deep peace stole through her.

It took Xanthe a moment to realise that she was not alone.

The shape of a man loomed next to the bed. Starting in fright, Xanthe clung to the downy bed sheet attempting to cover her body. The dark face was slowly revealed in the starlight.

It was the Roman, Titus Valens.

Xanthe gasped as he joined her on the bed, his intentions clear in the lines of his face and the tension of his body.

Even as she scrambled up the bed as if to flee, her body felt the slow beat of longing deep between her thighs. The Roman grabbed her ankles and pulled her back down the bed, until she lay beneath him. His hand grazed her inner thigh, sending sparks of desire flaming through her. His body, hard and smooth beneath her hands, called to her. Xanthe scraped her nails along his broad, powerful back as his fingers sought her secret places.

Xanthe’s sleepy mind registered that this was nothing but a dream. If this Roman made love to her here, it meant nothing. So she yielded to the weight of him, as he pressed her into the bed, forcing her thighs apart. His mouth found hers as he pinned her arms above her head, his tongue plundering, all gentleness abandoned.

She writhed beneath him as he slid his one hand down her arm to cup her breast, his mouth tasting her nipple. Wild desire raced through her like a grass fire, bringing her body to fever pitch. She bucked against him, wrapping her legs about his waist, inviting him, urging him to take her.

He needed no encouragement. The searing hot length of him plunged into her, filling her, sending her dream self soaring on a wave of pleasure. Xanthe cried out as she reached the pinnacle of her desire, wave after wave of sensation rocking her body so intensely that she began to rouse, her waking body thrumming with the afterglow.

Xanthe lay there, throbbing in warm furs against the increasingly frosty night, wondering how a dream could give such real pleasure. How could this be possible? She sighed and drew the furs closer.

As she had no other comfort in this place, Xanthe clung to the idea of her imaginary lover. He would provide a welcome distraction, a distraction she needed to help push her predicament aside and rest. Rolling over, she drifted off to sleep, reliving her encounter with the mysterious Centurion Titus Valens.

General Sextus flicked a piece of gravy-laden bread at his favourite hunting dog, who wolfed it down in seconds. Breakfasting in the open air allowed him the opportunity to watch his men, which gave him great enjoyment, especially as they broke camp. It was a pleasant reminder of how far he’d come in his career.

The General loosed large burp, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. No marching for him today. He’d be carried every step of the way to Rome, in the comfort befitting his rank.

‘Sir,’ Maximus said, approaching the table, ‘the centurion is here demanding to speak with you.’

The General emitted another burp in surprise. ‘Demanding? Who dares make demands of me? Who is this outrageous man? What is his name?’

‘Titus. Titus Valens.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘He was the man who delivered the Huns and the Scythian girl to you last night.’ Maximus knew that General Sextus had no memory for faces.

The General grunted. ‘Is it not enough for the man to interrupt my dinner? What does he want that’s urgent enough to interrupt my breakfast?’

‘He says it’s to do with the Scythian woman, and how he might improve your purse in the arena.’

The General’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? How interesting. Let him approach but search him for weapons first, Maximus!’

Titus approached the table, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. The General squirmed with pleasure; he liked a man who knew his place.

‘Rise, Centurion. Speak!’ The General picked at his plate absentmindedly.

‘Sir. I come about the Scythian captive. You intend to pit her in the great arena upon our return to Rome. As you know, I speak Scythian, sir, and wish to offer my services to help prepare her for the Games.’

The General threw a quail bone onto a growing pile. ‘Train her? Why would I want to do that, Centurion?’

‘If she could survive more than one fight she would make you more money. Her value is greater alive than dead.’

‘Mmm.’ The General observed Titus, studying his face, trying to place it. They all looked alike to him. ‘So what’s in it for you?’

‘I confess, I like the idea of training gladiators once I retire from the army. To have the opportunity to train a gladiatrix for the great General, and have some solid wins beneath my belt, would only enhance my chances of developing a fine stable of fighters of my own one day. As you know, sir, it can be hard for a soldier to find honest employment outside the army in these difficult times.’

‘Indeed,’ said General Sextus, folding his hands across his ample belly and considering the centurion’s words. They seemed to make sense. ‘You are right. The Scythian may be more valuable to me the longer she survives. I can’t imagine she will enjoy a long career, not against our superior Roman stock, but if she survives a few battles it will mean more gold in my pocket.’

He picked at his teeth reflectively for a moment. ‘Yes, you are granted permission, Centurion. Train her well, and perhaps you and I can strike a partnership. Let’s say a small percentage of the winnings?’

The centurion bowed and struck his breastplate with his right fist. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, before turning on his heel and striding away into the morning mist.

‘Ah!’ said General Sextus, relaxing back into his seat. ‘It’s going to be a wonderful day.’

‘You cannot have them!’ Xanthe spat the words at the Roman soldier trying to yank the bundle of furs from her. She’d die before giving them up. At least this would be a clean death, as opposed to whatever the General had in store for her.

The soldier said something she could not understand, so Xanthe kicked him in the shin. ‘Arggh!’ she yelled. ‘I don’t understand a word of your ugly Roman language. Nobody here makes any sense.’

The soldier swore and raised his hand to hit her.

‘Go on. I dare you.’ Her eyes flashed with warning, and the man hesitated.

‘Hold your arm, soldier!’ A booming voice froze them in tableau.

Both Xanthe and the Roman turned slowly to see who had addressed them. A centurion stood nearby, his casual stance belying the great authority radiating from him. The soldier lowered his arm and snapped to attention.

Xanthe hugged her furs tighter to her body, preparing for another round with a more challenging opponent. The centurion rattled off an unintelligible command. The soldier marched off, the stiffness of his legs suggesting he had just received a dressing down. She watched him go, and then turned to meet the centurion’s direct stare.

He was tall for a Roman, with skin bronzed by the sun and eyes that danced with light. His thick, dark hair made her fingers itch with the need to caress it. She recognised him instantly, despite most Romans looking a little alike to her.

He was the centurion from the tent, the one who had sent her the furs and food. Titus Valens. He regarded her, a smile playing over his generous mouth.

‘You have spirit, Scythian,’ he said. Xanthe clutched her bundle tighter. He was not getting it back.

‘You speak Scythian?’

Titus nodded once by way of response.

‘Shame that I am Sarmatian, not Scythian,’ Xanthe sneered. ‘You Greeks can never tell us apart.’ She spat out the last as an insult.

The centurion shrugged, ignoring her jibe. ‘Still, we can communicate.’ He shrugged again and took a step closer.

Xanthe took a step back, coming up against the cart.

‘I am your only friend right now,’ Titus said, his voice low and deep. ‘Believe it or not, I am here to help you survive something that you cannot do without my help. So, pay attention, and do what I say. Do you understand?’ A faint hint of menace ensured her full attention.

Xanthe nodded, her eyes growing wider with each approaching step that he took, until she could feel his breath brush her cheek. She swallowed hard as Titus put his arms around her. The heavy clunk of chains fell; he had uncoupled her from the cart. The heady scent of raw masculinity invaded her senses: he smelt of sweat and leather and something indefinably male. Her pulse soared in response.

‘You are in my care now.’ The centurion took her arm and examined the raw skin where the restraints had bitten into her flesh. ‘I will see to it these irons are removed, on the condition you do not try to escape. If you try, I will be forced to kill you.’ He took her chin in his fingers, and they were rough against her skin. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Sarmatian?’