Last Gladiatrix, The (4 page)

She nodded helplessly as her body leapt in response to his closeness, his intense being. A hot throbbing set up deep in her centre like the relentless beat of a war drum.

‘Good.’ Titus stepped back, supporting the weight of her chains in his hands. ‘Follow me, and I will see it done.’

She stumbled along behind him, wondering where this new turn of events would take her. Why would this man help her?

Xanthe jogged to keep up with the centurion’s long legged stride. She noted the fine shape of his legs, wondering if the rest of him matched. Disgusted with herself, she followed Titus to his tent, where he indicated for her to sit outside and wait.

The centurion ordered her chains removed and food brought. Xanthe ate, watching as the soldiers packed up the mess tent and made ready to leave with the rest of the company.

Her belly was full, her furs safe for another night; these things she considered small triumphs. The rest Xanthe would deal with as it arose. Nothing would be gained by trying to anticipate what these crazy Romans might do next. She sat and resumed watching, looking for weakness and opportunity … waiting.

‘So, Sarmatian, do you possess a name?’ Titus had taken no chances. The woman’s chains had been replaced by ropes, but she remained tethered all the same. They had just begun the day’s march.

She shot him a sideways look as if considering whether or not to answer.

‘Xanthe,’ she said finally.

‘We have much work ahead of us. General Sextus is planning to have you fight in the Colosseum. His hope is you will make him some money. Xanthe, if you want to survive, we need to get you ready.’

‘Colosseum? I have no idea of what you speak of. I warn you—I am intending to escape at my earliest convenience, even if I have to slit your throat to earn my freedom.’

Titus threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘I admire your spirit, girl. I think you will discover I am offering you your best chance at freedom. I will see to it you are well-skilled before going into the Games. Then it’s up to you to fight and win your freedom.’

Xanthe frowned. ‘I don’t understand. What are the Games, and what is an arena? You speak in riddles, Centurion.’

Titus smiled. ‘The General will force you to fight against other warriors in front of crowds of Romans, all who will cheer for your death. He will make money if you live to fight more than once. That will make you valuable to him.’

‘And if I die?’

‘He will still make money. The General is counting on the crowds wanting to see a real, live Scythian warrior woman pitted against the best Gladiatrix in the Empire.’ Titus held up a hand as she protested. ‘I know, you are not Scythian, but what will that matter when the General is claiming his purse?’

Xanthe snorted. ‘He should be lucky enough to live that long!’

Titus chuckled. ‘He is odious, that is true, but right now this man holds the balance of your life in the palm of his hand. My job is to make sure you are ready for the trials of the arena.’

Titus stopped, holding her forearm. Xanthe halted mid-stride and turned to face him. He looked down into her twin pools of liquid green, and felt something catch in his soul. ‘I want you to win. I want you to live.’

The centurion’s touch sent licks of fire racing along her arm, racing to ignite a fire in her heart. There was no doubting the truth that lay in his eyes: he would take care of her.

They resumed marching, falling into an easy, monotonous rhythm, as she mulled over what he had said.

‘Why?’ A simple question, asked after a long league had passed beneath their feet in silence. Xanthe’s eyes remained upon Titus, yet he did not turn to meet her gaze, instead keeping his eyes on the road ahead. She waited for an answer but none came.

Rome lay several weeks’ march south, if the weather favoured them. As long as they fed her, she would keep up.

They trudged on, league after weary league. Xanthe had heard that the Romans were relentless, and now she was witnessing it firsthand. They stopped only briefly to eat before resuming their march. As she watched the column of armoured men trudge over the terrain, she grudgingly admired the bloody single mindedness which made them such a formidable force. A messenger rode past, his horse’s hooves thundering across the ground like war drums. Tired of the silence and her aching feet, Xanthe’s thoughts turned to Skudat. ‘Sarmatians are not meant to walk,’ she muttered rebelliously.

‘Truly? What are they then meant to do? Fly?’ These were the first words Titus had uttered in the longest time.

‘We ride. We are born to ride, not to walk like peasants. From the time Sarmatian children can stand, we are put on a horse and taught to ride.’

‘That goes some way to explaining your bow legs.’

Xanthe gasped in outrage. ‘I am not bow-legged! Just wait until I get these binds off, and I’ll show you exactly what my legs can do.’

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ Titus raised an eyebrow.

‘How dare you!’ she spluttered. Try as she might to hold onto her outrage, it was smothered by the leaping need his words invoked. Betrayed by her body yet again, she quietened down, deciding that marching in silence was for the best.

Xanthe’s resolve lasted the amount of time it took for a butterfly to beat its wings, before another question burst forth from her lips.

‘How do you come to speak Scythian? I thought Romans were too small-brained to learn.’

Titus turned to regard her, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘You wound me with your insults—and here am I, but trying to help you.’

A blush stole across Xanthe’s cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean … I meant—’

‘Oh, I know what you meant. I grew up on a farm, and my father owned a Scythian slave. He brought him to manage the stables, and the man did a very fine job. The slave taught me the care of horses and the Scythian tongue, although he was much gentler with it than you. Are all Scythian women prone to giving men such tongue lashings?’

Images of what Xanthe might do to this centurion with her tongue rose unbidden. She blushed deeper, a shudder of desire sweeping through her. ‘I am not Scythian,’ she muttered, eyes downcast.

‘So how did you learn the language?’

‘Sarmatians and Scythians are like cousins—sometimes we get along and sometimes we don’t, but there is enough similarity between us for me to understand their dialect easily.’ Xanthe shrugged in what she hoped was a careless manner and remained focussed on the bloom of dust her feet kicked up as they walked.

A smile crept across Titus’s face as Xanthe struggled to avoid his gaze. She was no more immune to his magnetism than he was to hers, that much was obvious. All their talk of tongues and legs had, almost unbidden, brought images to his mind of what she would look like naked. Did her tattoos extend all over her body? What swirling animals hid beneath her clothes? How he wished to trace each and every one with his tongue.

As much as the thoughts were arousing, they also disturbed Titus. Xanthe was a wild woman of the plains, not one of his kind. A Roman woman was elegant and tidy—at the very least clean and not prone to fighting with swords.

Then again, he’d never found a Roman woman who interested him half as well as this Sarmatian hellcat. He could imagine Xanthe on a horse, riding full-tilt across the grasslands, her hair streaming behind her in a fiery blaze.

Titus tore his eyes away from her and squinted into the glare of the sun. The horizon shimmered in the distance. Before long they would be in Rome; he had to keep his mind on his work, despite how much he ached to take her, to lay her bare before him.

The column ceased marching for the night, setting up a makeshift camp which could easily be dismantled in the morning before setting out again.

Xanthe squatted where the centurion had told her to wait. It would be fruitless trying to escape, surrounded by soldiers—a quick and futile death. Better to bide her time. Titus had said he would come and get her after he had eaten with his men. Her own fare was meagre but filling: hard bread and a hunk of meat. At least they fed her, which was more than the Huns would have done.

As she chewed, her thoughts drifted, first to her aching feet, and then to Titus. How his words had warmed her in her most secret places. He had a disconcerting way of tilting her world sideways.

‘Romans are scum,’ Xanthe thought, but the words sounded hollow; their meaning diminishing with every day spent in the centurion’s company.

Her eyes searched the camp throng for his form, and instantly spotted him; the way he moved, his lithe animal grace was unmistakeable. Xanthe’s breath caught in her throat as the deep throb of desire rose up inside her in response. As if like called to like, Titus turned and met her stare across the busy camp.

The centurion turned away, barking an order before spinning on his heel and striding towards her. Quickly, she swallowed the last of her meal and wiped her greasy hands on her leggings, suddenly conscious that her hair resembled a tangled rat’s nest. Her heart set up a frantic beat as he drew nearer.

‘Up!’ Titus commanded as he approached. Xanthe rose to her feet, hands still bound. He quickly untied her and threw her a short sword. Instinctively, she plucked it from the air, blinking with surprise.

He had armed her. Was he mad?

‘Follow me.’ Titus threw the order over his shoulder as he turned and walked out towards the edge of the camp. Xanthe jogged after him, surprised and a little unsure.

They stopped in a clearing just outside of a tent. ‘Mine,’ Titus said nodding towards it. ‘We won’t be bothered here while we practise.’ He grinned, and assumed a crouching position, his own short sword gleaming in the waning light. ‘Show me what you’ve got, Scythian.’

‘Sarmatian!’ Xanthe muttered between clenched teeth, as she too assumed a fighting stance. She welcomed the familiar weight of the sword in her hands; it felt like embracing an old friend. Xanthe had practised sword play with her brother and father since she had been strong enough to lift a blade.

She lunged at him; Titus parried the thrust easily. They danced back and forth for an age, the clang of iron ringing out in the dusk.

‘Not bad for a Scythian.’ He shot her a sly look, sweat dripping from him.

‘Sarmatian!’ Xanthe lunged quickly, taking him by surprise. He spun lightly, twisting out of her way and bringing his arm down on hers, forcing her to drop her blade. Titus twisted, deftly bringing his sword up beneath her chin, capturing her in his arms.

‘Never launch an attack out of anger. It makes you clumsy and provides your opponent an opportunity for a quick kill or worse still, to maim you.’

Xanthe’s breath came heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly with the effort it took to contain her emotions. Anger coursed through her; the centurion had a point. If she intended to survive the coming ordeal, she needed to control her emotions. He had beaten her too easily.

Titus waited until her breathing returned to normal before releasing her, spinning her to face him.

‘Again!’

Xanthe parried his thrusts as best she could. Her arms shuddered at the force of his blows. He was stronger, much stronger. She reminded herself that the gladiators she would battle—male or female—would be just as strong.

Staggering backwards, Xanthe fought to keep her footing. The golden evening light reflected off the smooth muscles of Titus's arms and shoulders as he raised his sword to come at her once again. She spun quickly to the left, using the momentum of his attack to put him off balance.

Sweat dripped down Xanthe’s back and across her ribs. Surely he felt the heat too?

Mesmerised, and aroused, she watched as a bead of sweat ran down Titus’s neck and disappeared beneath his tunic.

He used her momentary lapse to his advantage, quickly turning to trap Xanthe against him, an arm pinned behind her back.

Xanthe found herself face-to-face, breast to chest, with him. His scent, sweat and primeval masculinity filled her senses, causing a cascade of warmth that spiralled down the length of her spine. His eyes—tawny as the autumn fields of grass—bore into hers.

Titus cupped the back of Xanthe’s head with one calloused hand, not too caring if he hurt her, and roughly brought his mouth down over hers.

The pent up passion and fire of untamed anger coursed through Xanthe’s body and soul as she returned the kiss. As their tongues entwined, she began to explore his sculptured arms; muscle and sinew, hardened from years of soldiering, held her tightly to him.

Titus grew hard against her, and all logic flew from her mind. Her body throbbed in response, the beat of a primordial drum, and as ancient as the Earth herself. He threw his sword to the ground and lifted her up in one fluid motion. Xanthe gasped as the centurion carried her into his tent, too drunk with desire to fight.

The tent flap closed behind them. Titus laid her down on the pile of furs which constituted her bed, tugging her tunic free of her body. He paused a moment to take in the sight of her as she lay before him, half-naked and wonderfully feminine.

Titus touched one nipple, his fingertip sending a shiver through the length of her. He smiled as she responded, a heartbeat passing before the centurion bent to rip off her leggings and take what he wanted.

Xanthe rose to meet him, flesh-on-flesh, and glad to be rid of the barriers between them. She wrapped her lean legs around his waist, urging him to fill her immediately. She could not, would not wait.

Gasping as he plunged into her, Xanthe clung to his back and rode the wave of pleasure surging through her.

She couldn’t think; only the sensation of his body, hot and slick against hers, remained to anchor her to the world. Lost in that giddying spiral of desire, Xanthe exploded. Reaching the pinnacle of pleasure, shock waves rippling through them both, he joined her in that molten ecstasy.

Titus collapsed upon her, spent as she was spent.

They lay for a long while entwined, heartbeats synchronized. Titus raised his head and kissed her, tenderly unlocking a nameless need inside as he rolled gently to cradle Xanthe against him. They fell asleep entangled in each other’s limbs and in the silence of things left unsaid.