Last Gladiatrix, The (5 page)

Day followed night in an interminable rhythm; they marched through the day, trained in the early evening, made love all through the night. Xanthe lost herself in the passage of days. Rome lay many days’ march to the south, the city representing the ending of the comfortable rhythm between them. As far as she was concerned, there was no hurry to arrive.

Titus taught her much about the use of weapons. Her body became strong and hardened, honed in readiness for the battle which lay ahead. She now marched at his side, her bonds more for show than true restraints.

Casting her eyes sideways, Xanthe glanced at her centurion. Titus remained a mystery, despite that fact she knew every inch of his body and hungered for more.

‘If you grew up free on a farm, how did you come to choose a life as a soldier?’ she asked. It was a question Xanthe had much pondered as she considered the differences between them.

Titus shot her a cursory glance. ‘I might have been born on a farm, but I was not born a farmer. Some men are destined to hold a plough; I was destined to hold a sword.’ He shrugged. ‘As for Rome, it is a city of the kind of opportunity that cannot be found in a field.’

Xanthe shook her head. ‘I was born in a felt-covered wagon on the Great Steppe, and every season we move our herds to better grazing. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t on a horse. I could never give up my freedom and move to a city.’

Titus laughed. ‘No one is truly free, my sweet. No one. Have you ever been to a city?’

Xanthe had to confess she hadn’t, but had heard about them from others who had. Cities didn’t sound like somewhere she wanted to be.

‘Wait until you see Rome,’ he said. ‘There is nowhere like it on earth. We have public baths where the water runs hot. When was the last time you had a bath, Scythian?’

Xanthe ignored his jibe. Hot baths, indeed! How could hot baths possibly compare to the great vaulted sky, arched over endless grasslands as far as the eye could see? She held her tongue, even though she was sure that if Titus saw the Great Steppe for himself he would have given up hot baths in an instant. She longed to show him.

Sighing, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

In the short time they had known each other, Titus had become essential to her survival in many ways. Xanthe’s reliance on him extended beyond the physical; extended to her heart, and beyond to her soul.

He marched beside her now, sure-footed, his presence belying the precariousness of her position. All that stood between her and death was this stranger who spoke her language, who risked his own neck to save her skin.

Xanthe knew the risk they ran each night, as she crawled into his bed and let him possess her. If they were discovered, it would be the end of them both. This thought had eaten at her, until Xanthe had realised the end would inevitably come, sooner or later. Whatever she did, the course of fate would not alter. The end of her story would be the same.

Titus gazed straight ahead, eyes on the horizon, unwavering in his stride. His solid surety kept Xanthe strong in those moments, when the weight of all she had lost bore down upon her so heavily she could barely stand. How she would’ve loved to reach out and take his hand in hers. Impossible!

Sighing, she refocussed on the rhythm of the soldiers’ marching feet falling on the hard earth as they trudged ever closer to Rome. Xanthe had taught herself not to think, to lose herself in the marching and empty her mind of all but the
thud
of so many feet.

At the end of the day, when they stopped to make camp for the night, she assumed her place as a captive secured to something immoveable. There Xanthe would sit until Titus came to her for their evening lesson.

Tonight, she sat tied to a supply wagon, content to stretch out her legs after a long day’s walking. Xanthe hummed a hunting song, off-tune and with bits of the melody missing; she had never been one for remembering the words of her people’s traditional songs, yet the tune comforted her.

Titus’s form appeared in the chaos of the camp, and her heart leapt in response. Even before seeing his face clearly, she knew it was him. The way her centurion moved, the confident strength and beauty of his body, were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

Xanthe held her breath as he strode towards her, remembering the previous night’s lovemaking and anticipating the coming evening. How she longed to remove his tunic and explore that hard flesh beneath!

As he came closer, she saw the centurion carried something, an unfamiliar shape in his hands. Xanthe frowned. What could it be?

For a moment, fear crept into her heart. What if Titus had changed his mind, no longer wanted to help her, had grown tired of her, and had come to bind her properly as a prisoner-slave? Yet the smile on his face, the way the centurion’s eyes lit up when he saw her, told a different story.

‘I have something special for you,’ he said, throwing down the bundle of ropes. Xanthe raised an eyebrow as she eyed the pile cautiously. Titus laughed, reading her like a scroll, and bent to untie her binds.

‘Come,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Time passes and there is much to teach you.’

Xanthe took his hand, the warm skin welcoming. Their eyes locked as she stood, and a smile played about his lips telling her that he enjoyed this part of the day as much as she.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ she said. ‘I’ve been ready to beat you all day.’

‘You have? Strong words … for a woman.’

Xanthe pushed him in mock outrage. He caught her easily, hands around her waist, holding her for a second longer than necessary before releasing her.

‘Pick that up and follow me.’ Titus turned on his heel and strode away. Xanthe grabbed the pile of ropes and raced after him. The centurion led her to an area outside the camp’s perimeter, far from the prying eyes and ears of curious soldiers.

‘Today we are going to work with the
rete
.’ He nodded towards the bundle Xanthe carried in her arms.

‘The what?’

‘
Rete
, or net in your language. I have reason to believe the General plans to pit you against a
retiarius
. If this is so, we must be prepared. Now, put it down and ready yourself for the lesson.’

‘What is a
retiarius
? Surely it’s only fair I know what that is before I kill it.’

Titus laughed at her bravado. ‘Fair enough. A female fighter is called a gladiatrix, and normally women only fight other women. A
retiarius
, however, is the lowest form of gladiator, fighting only with a net, trident, and dagger. The General hopes to capitalize on the spectacle by having you, his Scythian Warrior Queen, fight a man.’

He squatted and drew a picture of a trident in the dirt. ‘This I know you will instinctively understand, and a dagger you are no doubt well-acquainted with. The net, however, may hold some challenges for you. Get caught in the net and the fight is over. I need to teach you how to stay free of its reach.’

Xanthe studied the drawing. She nodded slowly. ‘I don’t suppose it matters that I am no queen.’

Titus smiled up at her. He stood, wiping a hand on his tunic. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it matters not, as long as the people believe it. Come, pick up your sword and begin.’

She took a wooden sword from the small pile of practice weapons Titus had prepared for her. It was heavy, much heavier than the sword she would use in the Colosseum. Assuming a fighting stance, their evening lesson began.

In the beginning, Xanthe found herself easily caught up by the net, far too often for her liking. Soon she was learning how to twist out from under its deadly grasp, now able to predict the way it would fall.

‘You must learn to move faster. A professional
retiarius
will be far swifter than I,’ Titus warned her.

Before long her shoulders ached from the effort of lifting the heavy practice sword. Xanthe’s thigh and calf muscles screamed in protest as she twisted and lunged in unaccustomed moves. Her breath was ragged, her skin slick with sweat.

‘Halt!’ Titus gestured for her to lower her sword. ‘Enough for today. You learn quickly, warrior woman. We may yet make a professional gladiatrix of you before we reach Rome.’

Xanthe stood, panting from the exertion. ‘Tell me, Centurion. If I survive my first fight, how many others will I have to battle before I am free?’

Titus shrugged. ‘It is not for me to say. The General owns you; I do not. My job is only to make sure you have the skills to win, your job is to survive. It is that simple.’

Her stomach clenched at his cold words, yet Xanthe already knew deep down in her heart that they were true. She must concentrate in the moment, as it was all she could control; the future could take care of itself.

She nodded her understanding before gathering up the net from the ground where it lay.

Titus shouldered the other weapons. ‘Come, I will find food for you.’

Once at his tent, he ordered that water, wine and bread be brought. Xanthe stood awkwardly, shuffling her feet and waiting for instruction. She had been in his tent many times now, had shared his food and bed, yet every time felt the balance of power against her. Whatever happened, Xanthe was no longer a free woman, a fact which rankled.

Titus indicated with a quick gesture that she should sit. Xanthe perched on the edge of a chair, aware of her stench and the film of dirt covering her body. She watched as he took off his breastplate and sandals and longed to remove them for him, to uncover the hard flesh beneath his soldier’s uniform.

‘Remove your garments also,’ he said.

She hesitated, feeling shy to do so in front of his valet, who went to and fro bringing Titus the items he needed to bathe.

The centurion noted her reluctance. ‘Ignore him,’ he said. ‘He is of no consequence and will not speak of what he sees here.’ Titus stood and crossed the tent to stand before her. ‘You are safe with me,’ he said, cupping Xanthe’s chin in his hand and turning her face to the light.

The flash of her green eyes in the candlelight reminded Titus of the verdant wild forests of Northern Italy, which they had recently left. He rubbed a smear of dirt from her cheek with his thumb, and then, taking her hand, he raised Xanthe up to stand. With deliberate, slow movements he unfastened her tunic, letting it fall from her shoulders to pool on the ground at her feet.

Xanthe made no move to stop him. Their eyes locked, her fear and trust clear to see. He slid his fingers beneath the waist of her leggings and tugged them down over her hips, leaving her naked, standing there before him.

Titus took a sponge and dipped it into a bowl of warm water, letting it soak before applying it to Xanthe’s flesh. He washed her with firm yet gentle strokes, and as the water ran over her skin it dripped deliciously from her breasts. The centurion bent his head and licked at a droplet, pleased to feel her shudder in response. Her nipple hardened, inviting him to explore further. He needed no invitation. Xanthe had to summon all her self-discipline to stand still while Titus explored the curves of her body. His touch turned her core to molten fire; she could barely contain her need.

Taking the forgotten sponge from his hand, Xanthe took control, a great delight coming over her as she turned the tables and watched the desire grow in his eyes. She let the sponge roam across the broad expanse of his chest, along his taunt belly, travelling down the length of his muscled thighs.

He grabbed her upper arms and crushed her to him, finding her mouth with his hot tongue. She surrendered willingly to her centurion’s mastery of her body. His lips, his hands, took her to places of pleasure where she no longer remembered her name, or that she was a prisoner and he was her keeper.

Xanthe cared for nothing but the way he possessed her, driving her body to new heights of ecstasy. In the throes of such raw passion it was easy to forget the fate awaiting her in Rome.

Lying spent on his bed, legs entwined, Xanthe felt deliciously light and peaceful. Titus played with a length of her hair, cradling her in his arms. She could hear his heartbeat, drumming out a steadfast rhythm. Outside, the wind played with the tent awning and the distant sounds of soldiers going about their evening business were carried to them on the breeze.

‘Tomorrow we will practise with the
rete
again. It is a most dangerous weapon when in skilled hands. I don’t want you making any stupid mistakes in the arena.’

Xanthe rolled over to face him. ‘How far out from Rome are we?’

‘A week’s march, maybe less if the weather holds fair.’ He did not meet her eyes but remained intent on the lock of auburn hair coiled in his fingers. ‘I suppose that back home you are married to some hulking Sarmatian bear?’

Xanthe snorted. ‘Me? I haven’t met a man worthy as yet. My mother says it is not enough to be able to kill a man in battle. A woman must know how to keep a man alive with her cooking.’

‘So you’ve killed a man with your cooking?’

She aimed a soft punch to his stomach by way of response.

‘So, no then? How about in battle?’ Titus captured her hand and held it to his chest. His heart beat strongly against the palm of her hand.

Xanthe shrugged. ‘A Sarmatian woman cannot marry until she has been blooded. It’s the cooking part I struggle with. I don’t see why I should fight side-by-side with a man all day, then go back to camp and cook for him as well.’

Titus shook with laughter as he held the plainswoman tight with one arm. Xanthe studied him, his chiselled face that was already so dear to her. The incomprehensible thought of being separated shouldered its way into her mind. Surely the Gods would not allow it; surely the Fates would not bring them together only to tear them apart in such a cruel manner. ‘Why?’ She rested her chin on his chest.

‘Why what?’ Titus dropped the length of hair he’d been playing with and met Xanthe’s gaze.

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘That is a question you never tire of asking.’

‘I think it a fair question to ask. You risk much, and for what?’

Titus looked away, as if considering his answer. He took his time, and she began to fidget. He responded: ‘You nag like a camp woman.’