Last Gladiatrix, The (2 page)

He turned to Gaius Gegania. ‘As you know, one must be seen to encourage the barbarians in their efforts to please the Empire.’ Returning his attention to his aide-de-camp, he asked: ‘Is the gift worth receiving?’

A crooked slash of a smile crossed the man’s cruel features. ‘I believe you will be most intrigued, sir.’

‘That settles the matter!’ Clapping his pudgy hands together and straightening his tunic, he loudly exclaimed, ‘Bring the barbarians forward. Let them pay homage to the Great Roman Empire!’ His excitement reminded Titus of that of a little boy promised sweetmeats; behaviour hardly befitting a man of his rank.

The guards shoved the rag-tag bunch of tribesmen farther into the warmth of the tent. The Huns stared about themselves, mouths agape. Titus watched as they shuffled before General Sextus, pushing and shoving each other until the woolly creature that passed for their leader found himself at the front of the pack.

‘My Lord,’ he spoke with a thick, almost incomprehensible accent, bowing with a flourish which bordered on disrespect. The General seemed not to notice. ‘We have brought a precious gift to honour your superior Roman race.’

The General sat taller in his chair. ‘It is my honour to receive your tribute on behalf of the Emperor.’

‘You may want to keep this gift for yourself,’ the leader said, an ugly smirk spreading across his dirty face. He gestured to the men crowded behind him. They pushed the woman forward, still bound in chains.

She stumbled into the light and fell to her knees, chains clanking, ringing out her impending fate. She raised her face to General Sextus, her eyes flashed with a fierce anger and her generous mouth twisted in contempt. The candlelight flared against the dark auburn of her hair, which fell about her shoulders in untidy ropes. The light showed the dirt that smeared her creamy skin; no one had thought to tend to her grooming.

As General Sextus stood to inspect his prize, the woman lunged forward, snapping her teeth at his outstretched hand. He pulled back in fright as she growled a warning.

Titus wondered at the motivation behind this gift. Did the Huns hope to buy their freedom with this woman? Or did they perhaps hope their wild captive would finish off General Sextus for them?

Gegania chuckled as the General retreated. The General whirled around at the sound. ‘My Lord, I am shocked you find such behaviour amusing! I could have lost a hand.’

‘I mean no offence. The woman’s action took me as much by surprise as you,’ he said by way of apology. Sextus eyed him suspiciously, unsure if the man mocked him or not. He began to walk around the woman, this time keeping to a safe distance. ‘She certainly has well-formed limbs: lithe and strong, pleasing to the senses. The tattooing is odd yet I must admit that it lends an exotic appeal.’

Titus had little time for women; combat and the military brotherhood of men kept him occupied. Lesser men chased after females as sport, but women served no purpose he could fathom except to distract a man from his function. Still, sensations he had no name for snaked through him as his eyes rested upon the girl with the auburn hair.

These could surely be nothing more than the stirrings of lust, easily sated.

‘What am I to do with this repulsive creature?’ whined the General, nursing his hand as if teeth had indeed sunk into his flesh.

‘A good question. Perhaps those who made the gift are better suited to give answer?’ Gaius Gegania turned to indicate the Huns who huddled together in a cluster.

‘She is Scythian,’ said the leader. ‘She can fight better than any man we have ever seen. It took ten men to capture her, and only three of them lived to tell the tale.’

Gaius Gegania raised his eyebrow. ‘Really? A Scythian woman warrior. I have heard tell of such females.’

Titus glanced at the woman with renewed interest. He’d thought her only a forager—a woman of war intrigued him. He’d heard tell of Scythian women fighting on horseback side-by-side with their men. Yet, the news of the death of seven Huns surprised Titus, as they had made no mention of such an event, nor had there been any evidence to suggest one had occurred.

‘Maximus!’ cried General Sextus. ‘See to it these men are fed and escorted from the camp.’ His peevish tone indicated his displeasure. Maximus herded the Huns out of the room. The tribesmen willingly went, throwing worried glances over their shoulder as if concerned the General might make them take the Scythian back.

The General waited until there was silence in the tent. ‘What am I going to do with her?’ he asked no one in particular. ‘The girl is clearly too dangerous for bedding.’

Titus swallowed a hoot of laughter, as the image of the portly General trying to mount the warrior woman flitted through his mind.

‘I think you have your hands full, General. Perhaps you can trade her. Or, perhaps you can give her to the Emperor.’ Gaius Gegania took a swig of wine, clearly enjoying the Sextus’s discomfort. Titus knew full well that the General would never risk any harm coming to the Emperor, especially if it meant the Emperor’s wrath might fall upon him.

‘I know!’ The General’s countenance lit up. ‘I can take her to Rome and enter her in the Games.’ He clapped his hands and spun around to face Titus. ‘Oh! Think of the money to be made! I will call her the ‘Queen of the Scythians’. With all those ghastly tattoos she will surely be a sensation, and I will be famous!’ His delight could not be contained and he danced a jig, trampling what little dignity he possessed in the process.

Xanthe despised Romans even more than she hated the Huns. But these Huns had been easy to kill; her sword slipping through their guts like hot iron through snow. Caught alone and unawares, she had not been prepared for an ambush and they had overwhelmed her. This was a mistake she would be careful never to repeat when she regained her liberty.

The Huns had been cruel but sloppy captors. Up until this point Xanthe had been convinced that if she waited and watched, an opportunity for escape would present itself. She had not factored in being given in tribute. Being given to this filthy, fat Roman General not only repulsed her, it fanned the flames of rage burning in her heart. Yet, who she was given to made no difference; Xanthe would kill them all and make good her freedom.

As she knelt on the floor before the Romans, Xanthe waited for her opportunity, muscles tensed in readiness. Her eyes followed the men around the room, flicking from one to the other as they spoke, and while she didn’t speak their language, Xanthe believed she understood the gist of what they were saying. If that sorry excuse for a commanding officer laid one hand on her, she’d bite it off, along with any other body part he might be foolish enough to expose.

Only the centurion who’d escorted her into the room seemed different to these others; typically Roman, and yet not. His bearing, the way he moved, exuded a powerful presence, reminding her of something wild yet perfectly contained, tempered by steel-hard discipline. His thick dark hair carelessly fell across his brow. What little Xanthe could see of his body under his cape looked honed and muscular; the body of a warrior. There was nothing soft about him, not like the other men in the tent.

It was strange, but whenever the centurion passed close by Xanthe, every part of her body seemed to yearn towards him as if drawn by ropes. She clenched her fists in her lap, chains rattling with the movement. Perhaps it would not be so bad if General Sextus gave her to this soldier as a reward.

Xanthe gave a little shake of her head to clear the foreign thoughts from her mind. Lusting after any Roman, regardless of how handsome he may be, constituted a betrayal of her people and her culture. Letting the flow of conversation between the men wash over her, she applied her mind to the problem at hand.

Should she manage to escape, how could she make her way home? Her horse, her beloved Skudat, had been taken from her by the Huns. Xanthe prayed to the Gods of the Plains that the Huns realised the animal’s value and superior breeding and took care of him accordingly. Unless she could steal a Roman’s horse, a long and dangerous walk lay ahead of her. There had to be a better way.

Distracted by these thoughts, she did not notice General Sextus had given the order for her to be removed from the tent. She looked up—startled—as hands closed about her arms. Instinctively Xanthe thrashed about, kicking and bucking within the bounds of the chains. The leg irons bit into her flesh, drawing blood, and yet her determination to make keeping her captive as difficult as possible for the Roman scum meant she paid no heed to her own pain. Hands tightened about her, and she threw her head back, scoring a direct hit on a Roman nose. The sound of bone cracking was reward enough for her efforts, and she smiled for the first time that day.

Suddenly, the centurion stood before her. At his command, the soldiers immediately stopped struggling with her, although they did not loosen their grip.

He addressed her then, in a deep melodious voice. She looked up into the centurion’s eyes, and they were as dark as the deepest night. They seemed a gateway to his soul, and she found herself gazing into forever.

Mesmerised, she stilled. He spoke again.

‘Stop struggling if you know what’s good for you.’

Xanthe froze. While she was not Scythian, she understood the dialect well enough. She found that his words seemed to cast some strange sorcery over her; she could not turn from him. The centurion’s dark eyes held hers and for a moment, it was as if they were the only people in the tent.

‘Things will go better for you if you stop fighting. Do you understand me?’ Xanthe nodded her head. He regarded her for another long moment. As their gaze held, something stirred, uncoiling deep in her belly. Her traitorous body responded to the gentle tone of his voice and the dark mystery lying deep within his eyes. The air shimmered between them for an instant.

Titus felt his world tip as he looked into the woman’s eyes, as if the earth beneath his feet had become momentarily unstable. Something about her called to him, drew him to her; a sense he’d met her somewhere long ago and only now remembered. A gruff order from the General shattered the spell that bound them. His guards dragged Xanthe unceremoniously from the tent.

Titus dismissed his men, watching the Scythian woman’s departure with something akin to regret. Images of great grass-filled plains that rippled in the wind under vaulted blue skies lurked in her eyes. For a moment, as he had gazed into her soul, Titus had tasted the freedom of the nomads, a people who were free from the constraints of order and obligation embedded in the culture of the Roman people.

He shrugged as the tent flap closed behind him. The woman had lost her freedom, perhaps forever. Fate could be a cruel mistress, who better than a soldier to understand that?

Overhead, the glittering stars wheeled in the cold, black sky. Titus’s breath clouded in the frigid air as he deeply exhaled. Food and bed beckoned, yet he found himself hesitating. An idea began to take shape in his mind, almost against his will. Deep in his belly, resolve uncoiled and rose to fortify his spine. Compelled by a force he could not name, Titus turned back and re-entered the tent.

‘What is it, Centurion? Don’t tell me the woman has had the guards’ heads off already?’ General Sextus chuckled at his own joke; his mood had clearly improved ten-fold in Titus’s absence.

‘General,’ Titus said as he stood to attention, ‘have you someone to train your new attraction?’

‘Train her?’ The General’s startled look indicated he had not given it any thought. ‘Why would I do that? She can fight perfectly well, if the Huns speak the truth, and if she cannot …’ He held his palms out and grinned, the gesture showing that the surety of gold lay in either outcome. She lived, she died; either way there was a fortune to be made.

Titus watched as General Sextus ambled about his tent, humming with happiness. He had all but forgotten the presence of his dinner guests in his excitement. Not for the first time, Titus wondered if the others present found Sextus as repugnant as he did.

Titus passed a hand over his face and stifled a yawn. The evening’s activities had wearied him more than he’d realised. Perhaps he would have better luck convincing the General tomorrow. Requesting permission to take his leave of General Sextus, Titus made his way to his own tent.

Wandering through the camp, he drank in the noises of warriors preparing their equipment for the next day and winding down from the activities of the day just past. He smiled. A soldier’s life held truth and order; for him, this was beauty. The Scythian could keep her fertile plains and wild ways. Nothing could compare with the structured perfection of Roman military life.

Titus drew his cloak about him, inhaling the chill air deeply. The night carried snow, so the General intended to begin the long journey back to Rome on the morrow. It was not a journey Titus looked forward to, although he’d be grateful enough to put the north behind him and return to the sunny south of Italy.

Carefully picking his way through the mud and camp debris, he came to his tent. Titus paused to scan the sky; clouds obscured the stars. Soon he would return to the warmth of Rome and the enjoyment of decent food.

His eyes travelled over the assembled tents, stopping at a figure huddled under a cart. The Scythian woman crouched there, garnering what little shelter the cart offered while restricted by her chains. She was bound to the cart’s wheel.

Titus frowned and pushed forward into his tent.

‘Gather those furs and take them to the woman prisoner,’ he said to his attendant, a young legionnaire assigned to assist him. The soldier scooped up the bundle of furs. ‘Wait! Take her some meat and bread also.’ The attendant saluted and carried on his way.

Titus unfastened his cloak and threw it on a chair. Sighing, he lowered himself into another. His tent, while not as sumptuous as the General’s, held plenty of good food and wine, providing an oasis of peace amongst the clamour of army life. Titus poured a cup of wine, savouring the sweet scent before taking a swig. The liquid warmed his insides as it flowed through his tired body.