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Gladiator

By: sensible_007



Jonathan ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, feeling the warm wind on his face. He stepped through the stone archway onto the hot sand of the arena, stretching his arms toward the sky as the breeze shifted the sand around his feet. He bent and moved side to side, trying to stay loose inside his thick leather clothing. A short man jogged by, toting a coil of heavy rope. “Jesi today, champ,” the man grinned and went on his way laughing. Jonathan smirked at the nickname, and then forced the steely visage back onto his tanned face. He never lost, but that was no excuse to get cocky. The consequences of losing could be all too serious. He had no desire to become a eunuch.

Jonathan’s composure nearly left him, though, when he saw this ‘Jesi’ heading toward the ring. It seemed she had the wrong idea about the contest. The flyer had clearly said, “the first fighter fully nude will be declared the loser,” but this shapely, tall girl only wore three strips of leather, each about an inch wide. Two of them came down diagonally across her nipples and joined the third just above her navel, which ran down between her legs, not leaving anything but a tiny bit of flesh to the imagination. She had long, brown hair, broad shoulders (for a woman), and long, slightly muscular legs. Her breasts were larger than any Jonathan had ever seen; they were distracting, but he didn’t miss the subtle muscling along her torso. This girl was well made. She bent at her trim waist, and stepped through the rope barrier into the arena, causing her breasts to bounce lightly when she straightened. Her nipples peeked out from behind their meager covering. Jonathan felt his cock stirring, and had to adjust himself through his tight leather outfit. 

She confidently strode up to Jonathan, knotted her long, brunette hair into a loose ponytail and locked her fingers behind her head, showing off her perfect and large breasts, making Jonathan’s erection stand out clearly through his pants. Smiling devilishly, she unlaced her fingers and moved her arms in a wide arc, ending by touching him on the neck, licking her lips. “You ready for me, big man?” She ran her fingers down his chest and to his belt. Jonathan could hardly believe her boldness when she flicked her finger against the front of his pants, sending shivers along his hard shaft.

DING!

The instant the bell rang, Jesi revealed a small dagger she’d concealed in her extended hand and slashed the razor-sharp blade down the front of his crotch, scoring his pants deeply enough that they burst open from the pressure of his erection.

Jonathan gasped at the surprise attack, but had the presence of mind to step back and draw his own knife. He almost laughed as the girl stared at his 9-inch unit, but decided it was more important to win. She would see it up close soon enough. 

He measured her next attack, waiting for a chance to turn the motion against her. She lunged forward with a stabbing motion, presenting the opportunity for which Jonathan had been waiting. He allowed the tiny knife to come within an inch of his all-too-unguarded shoulder, then spun along her outstretched arm, ducking down and shooting his own arm inside hers, then up and over her shoulder. Jonathan half-turned, digging his hip into her firm, bare buttocks, then heaved with all his strength, hip-tossing her by her entangled arm and shoulder. Jesi gave a startled cry as she went airborne, which ended in a muffled grunt as she landed a good ten feet away on the top of her back and shoulders. The momentum carried her over in a backward somersault until she ended her tumble facedown and motionless, her arms and legs sprawling in different directions, and her hair releasing itself from the crude knot into which it had been tied. With her thick brunette locks no longer covering her back, Jonathan noted that her “armor” joined at a single clasp between her shoulder blades, with the lower strap fitting her like a thong between her buttocks before it joined the other two.

The crowd cheered at the magnificent display of fighting art, then held its breath as Jonathan walked over to Jesi’s prone form. The judge stood on his platform and raised his scepter, preparing to give the signal of victory.

Jonathan bent low and grabbed the leather straps just below the clasp. He pulled the leather up with enough force to bring a groan from the semi-conscious girl. She instinctively raised her hips to relieve the pressure the rough strap was placing on her most private area, which excited both Jonathan and the crowd to greater levels. He cut the two straps above the buckle and jerked even harder, forcing the entire outfit to pass between the beaten girl’s legs, bringing a louder groan from her lips. He held the tiny tangle of straps aloft for a moment, and threw them into the center of the arena. The crowd erupted as the Judge lowered his scepter in Jonathan’s direction. “Name her punishment!” the Judge bellowed. 

Jonathan ran his hand down her naked back, grabbed her round ass and muttered, “I love these rules.”

Jesi woke with a strange throbbing in her head, and growing pain in her nipples. She felt rough hands moving about her vagina, up between her lips and then handling her clitoris quite meanly. She opened her mouth to protest and tried to move away from the intruder, but stopped as the pain intensified in her nipples and newly manifested in her clitoris. She opened her eyes and found that she was lying on her back, naked, on the arena sands. By looking down at her body, she saw the source of her sudden discomfort. Each nipple was held in the jaws of a tiny clamp, which were connected to chains, held by one of the arena workers. She looked past her painfully stretching nipples to see a third chain leading down into her pussy. “Oh, no…” Jesi began trembling in fear, realizing that she had lost the fight.

“Get her up!” Jonathan shouted at the arena worker, who complied by pulling on the chains hard enough that Jesi scrambled up from the gritty sand. The man pulled the chain connected to her clitoris, causing a fiery blossom of pain throughout her crotch that made Jesi cry out involuntarily. The crowd laughed as the man steered her around the arena like a horse by alternating the pull on each of the chains. Jonathan smiled as he watched her thrust her hips forward to lessen the stress on her most sensitive organ, stuttering between screams and gasps as the man tugged each chain. Another of the workers joined in, holding her back by her hair to make the pull on her privates more insistent, and spanking her hard and often enough that her buttocks were soon pink from the abuse.

“All right, bend her over that bench.” Jonathan instructed the worker holding the chains. He led her to a wooden bench, about level with Jesi’s hips. He stood on the other side and grinned evilly. “Please,” she begged as she sensed the worst about to begin, “don’t.” The man ignored her pleading and pulled the hardest yet on the chains, forcing Jesi to scream and bend her body around the bench. He pulled the chains tightly enough to make her squirm, then fed them into a tiny crank attached to the arena floor, turning it slowly, tightening the pull on her organs with each ‘click’ of the gears. She yelped and pressed her body onto the bench as hard as possible, but every time she moved to lessen the pull of one chain, another tightened and made her cry out again.

Click. Her legs nearly buckled from the strain on her most sensitive areas.

Jonathan approached as he watched the show, enjoying how her body quivered, liking the now clear view of her pink, hairless pussy from behind.

Click. Jesi screamed and let her arms hang lifelessly, having no desire to provoke her captor further.

Jonathan slapped her ass hard enough to make her entire body jolt and the bench move slightly. Her hair flung about wildly as she tossed her head in reaction to the torture. She stood, helplessly bent over as Jonathan ran his hands over her body. He had removed his pants, and his organ stood out hard. Jonathan walked around to her face, giving her a perfect view of his monstrous pole. She obediently opened her mouth as Jonathan inched closer and set the warm head of his cock between her trembling, pouty lips. He grabbed a handful of her thick hair and lifted her head slightly as he forced his entire package down her throat.

Click. Her muffled exclamation was all that could be heard through her cock-filled mouth.

He worked his hips back and forth slowly, reveling in the sucking pull of the blowjob. Suddenly she was being awfully quiet…was she actually enjoying this?

Jonathan pulled out of her mouth, noting that she sucked harder as he pulled back, almost as if she truly wanted his cock. His head popped out of her mouth with a loud smacking noise, and he strolled around behind her once again. He spread her legs, then placed the head of his penis into her ass, and slowly slid his cock into her. She released a guttural moan as he pushed all the way in and began grinding against her, the clamps straining against the fully wound crank. There was no question; Jesi was enjoying this. Jonathan intensified his attack, rocking the bench over which Jesi was bent. She felt the clamps pulling tightly and screamed as her nipples stretched and the constant pain of the assault on her nether regions grew worse. Just as she thought it could get no more barbaric, Jonathan pulled back and rammed into her so hard that the clamps all popped off, causing a sharp pain, then a strange numbness in each of the overly sensitive areas. She gasped in relief at the sudden boon, but found herself pulled off of her feet then dropped down onto the hot sand. 

In frustration, Jonathan flipped her onto her back and forced her legs apart. He half expected her to fight, but found her actually moving toward his cock, trying to get it inside of her. Jonathan decided to give her what she wanted, determined to make her scream one more time. He enjoyed hearing her inhale deeply when he rammed his penis inside her. He began moving in and out, turning his hips slightly to catch the walls of her vagina. Her breathing became labored as he continued to pound into her, and she felt the entire region between her legs tingling, nearing the peak of excitement. She entwined her legs around his waist, and buried her hands in the sand of the arena floor. She gritted her teeth at the nearness of her climax, then let out a primal roar as the wave crashed over her.

He exploded into her at the same time of her orgasm, and the two of them lay there panting. Just before she collapsed into sleep, she reached up and stroked the back of Jonathan’s head. “…Thank…you…” she panted, then closed her eyes and slept. She dreamt of the next time she would see Jonathan in the ring.

Gladiator



An intense thread on the Sexual Role Playing Boards of Literotica inspired this story. Special thanks to my co conspirator rhev, for helping me develop this random thought into something worth typing. In my word processor this story occupies 37 pages, and the story does not have a clear cut happy ending. Enjoy, but for now I consider these characters to have told their story.

Gladiator

Bastion hated being in his cold dark cell, he could not understand anything the scrawny ones said and they treated him poorly. He lashed out at everyone around him and it was not long before he was sent to the Gladiatorial pits. At least there his massive size and strength served him well. Eventually he had the privilege of a private cell, which was kept clean in order to maintain his good health. He still struggled with their strange language and unusual customs. A while ago about seven days ago, a thin blonde female had been tossed into his cell, she had been rather weak and he had broken her ribs accidentally when she pathetically tried to mate with him. Bastion hated being alone and now he wished he had treated the blonde thing a little more carefully.


Margaret hated being a slave; it had all started with a fire, which had taken her family, her home, and her freedom. Slavers had found her covered in ashes and frozen in shock. They had tried to clean her up but when anyone tried to touch her she lashed out. She was strong for a girl, as she had worked hard her entire life. She had been so numb that somehow they chained her up even as she severely injured any man who dared touch her. After breaking a man's wrist she had been whipped and her clothing removed. Margaret had a square compact build and things only got worse when her clothing was removed and her surprisingly full breasts were revealed. The whippings grew more frequent as she scratched, bite, and injured any of the slavers who tried to touch her. Which had led to numerous welts across her back and legs. Her long dark brown hair was a tangled mess and she heard them complaining that she would not fetch a good price at auction.

"Even with those breasts, her thighs are too muscular, and she is filthy. If we are lucky and can get her cleaned up she might fetch a good price as a cow."

Margaret's hearing was excellent and she listened to every word, her eyes closed tightly to keep from crying. She was surprised the next day when one of the female slaves approached her when they stopped for the night, with a washing basin and a comb. She had received a severe lashing during the day and her body was covered in red throbbing welts. Even the slave woman seemed scared as she moved closer. Margaret's hands had been tied up but she managed to undo the best knots and pretended her hands were still bound as the woman approached. 

The slave spoke softly and pleaded, "Please do not give them reason to hurt me." Margaret stood still as the woman tended to her wounds and then to her hair. 

Eventually her dark brown locks were confined in a series of fine braids, she rather liked it as when she shook her head the braids lashed out like tiny whips. The slavers would arrive in town tomorrow and agreed that she would fetch a fine price for a cow.

She had never heard the term cow applied to a human and could only guess at its meaning. The rest was a blur and eventually she was taken to a dark cell and shoved in. It was early morning by her reckoning, and she was restless despite having been awake for the last thirty some hours. She had already endured the appraising stares all day and they had spoken so she could not hear what they said. She had not eaten in days and shivered in the cold cell. She could hear someone else breathing heavily, probably asleep she figured. She finally sat down in a corner, pulled her legs up, and prayed.

Bastion had been having the most wonderful dream. He had been back in his homeland, long before the invaders had taken him as a slave. Working his land alongside his brothers, the sweat on his body and soreness in his muscles were offered up as a sacrifice to the gods in exchange for a good crop. His honest work would allow him and his family to eat well, and have leftover crops for market. Perhaps after his older brother was married, the matchmaker would go about finding him a wife. One who would not mind his brutish size, a woman who would see what a hard worker he was, and who could bear him many sons to take care of him in his old age. It had been a pleasant dream, a memory of his shattered past, one that he did not have very often. Lately all he dreamed of was the act of killing. The feeling of hot blood spraying across his face as he wounded another man, the feeling of bone and sinew stretching under his grip filled his mind at night. All he was good for to these invaders was the spectacle of fighting. He was a massive giant compared to them and they loved to see him hurt people. Sadly it was something that he excelled at. His old life was dead, his old dreams nothing more than ashes. So why not hurt others? Why not give back a bit of the pain that he had experienced?

His favorite fights were when they sent their own people against him. Bastion guessed that some were crowd favorites, professional fighters; the crowd always went wild for those types. Oh how he loved to smash their faces in, make them hurt, make them bleed, make the fighter feel his rage for the entire country. Their cries in their devil tongue as they lay there on the ground clutching broken noses, arms, or deep wounds were like a balm. They eased his pain, if only for a short while.

Some of his opponents were probably criminals or slaves, and he knew some of them were captured thralls like him. It did not matter, as long as he kept winning, or at least pleasing the crowd, they kept treating him better. He would never be going home, so he may as well earn a nicer cell, better and more food, and the occasional diversion.

Yet, he had been having the dream of home, something that had not happened in a long time. It softened his heart, made him remember that he was not an animal no matter how much they tried to make him into one. Despite what he did to that woman in a fit of passion and rage, he was still a man.

The noise that awoke him was not the door of his cell being opened. He had long ago given up hope of trying to escape. He had tuned out most of the noises of the compound that was his jail, including other slaves exchanging his slop pail and bringing him his meals. They knew not to disturb him; they knew to leave the food on the floor near the door. The morning meal was never anything that held his interest anyways, some bread, water, maybe a few figs or olives. A step up from the slop they used to serve him, but no meat, no cheese, and certainly no ale. No, meat and cheese were for the evening meal perhaps, but never breakfast.

No, the cell door opening barely even registered in his slumbering mind. What woke him from his slumber, from his dreams of home, was the gasp. He had heard and on some level understood that someone was being pushed into the cell with him. His warrior instinct took him from deep sleep to full alertness in a heartbeat. Maintaining his deception, he cracked one eye open and watched the scene unfold before him. A woman was being roughly shoved into his cell. The small window high on his cell provided ample light for him to make out her face. She was not a gorgeous creature by most people's standards, but had a beauty that seemed to be hidden. Despite a nose that looked like it may have been broken a long time in the past and fading bruises on her face, she had an inner beauty. Her eyes shone in the reflected light, moist with perhaps unshed tears. Her form was strong and muscular, one used to working long hard days. Her legs especially, she looked like she could take on Athena in a foot race if she needed too. Her solid shoulders seemed rippled with muscles, as if she had spent a life carrying water up hills. Her breasts were large and full, with pert dark nipples capping them proudly. Nestled between her legs was a dark thatch of brown hair that matched her tight braids. To him, she looked beautiful, almost angelic. As if someone had granted his secret desire for a woman with substance. Certainly she was much more then the wisp of a thing they had sent to him a few days ago. Summoning up his willpower, he decided not to move immediately. Despite his stirring erection he was determined not to jump at this woman. He would treat her better and take his time with her, he would not ruin his chance to savor her. As he watched her, he noticed her apprehension. She could not see him sleeping on his pallet of hay in the darkened corner of the cell. Her eyes had probably not adjusted to the dim light. He kept his breathing low and slow, as to not alert her that he was watching her every move. She glanced around the cell, and shivered, wrapping her arms around her bare body. Hunkering down in the corner near the door she pulled her legs in tightly around her and began whispering softly under her breath.

Praying, he thought, the woman was praying. After looking at her for a few moments, he was able to get past his initial lustful reaction. He noticed more about her than the taut muscles of her stomach and the soft curve of her neck. He noticed the still red, healing welts on her body. He noticed the fading bruises and the gooseflesh on her arms. Finally he noticed the curve of her abdomen and the faint outline of her ribs. 

His rage grew again against his captors. Here was a beauty worthy of tales and she had been beaten, whipped, and starved. Then, finally tossed in here for him to have his way with. They probably thought that he would rape her and be done with her, and if she were to be broken, then it would be no great loss. Well, if they thought that frail blonde girl was a beauty, and then he would pass on these strange people's idea of beauty.

Deciding it was time to finally make some sort of contact with the woman he allowed a yawn and sat up on his hay pallet. He gazed at her intently, but without any stern facial expression, not wanting to scare her. He stretched and stood up from the pallet, his muscles rippling over one another, his semi hard erection pointing down towards the floor. After another deep yawn, he pulled the single blanket off the hay pallet and wrapped it around himself to hide his nakedness. Then showing what he meant, he took it off and held it out to the woman, as his other hand extended to help her stand if she wanted.

'Her pride will come first, that is the one thing they took from me which I miss the most,' he thought as he held out the blanket to her to cover her nudity.

She huddled in the corner, praying it was all a dream. She closed her eyes and rocked, feeling the cold from the wall slowly invade her body, numbing the pain slightly. It was all too true and she blinked away tears and sighed softly, now she knew what a cow was. She was to provide enjoyment and hopefully many children for this gladiator, and undoubtedly many others if she allowed her spirit to be broken. 

She had not noticed all the sore spots on her body now, defending herself and moving around had forced her to ignore the pain. Now in the quiet of the cell her body ached and she longed for a hot bath or to swim in one of the secluded ponds of her home. Her senses were on hyper alert so when the man finally moved she focused intently on him.

He was big, far taller than any man she had met; she could easily see what made him a good fighter. Her eyes stopped between his legs and she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She had been throw in with a beast of a man, one who would not stop if she bite him or scratched him. She watched him looming over her and she felt despair for the first time. 

Then strangely enough he took the blanket from his bed wrapped it around himself and then offered it to her. She hesitated for a moment, then stood slowly stretching her body out and shivered slightly. He had not spoken to her and she wondered if he was mute, had his tongue cut, or considering his size and coloring simply did not speak the local tongue. 

"Thank you," she whispered softly and reached out her callused hand to touch his briefly. She hoped the gesture would carry her meaning even if the words had not. She covered herself because she was cold; her modesty had long ago been trashed. Margaret looked around noticing the little things, the presence of a cot, the fresh hay that did not smell like a barn.

The last thought made her miss her home so much that she very nearly lost hold of everything that had been bundled inside and wept. She did not want to show any sign that could be considered weakness in front of the man who appeared to be studying her. Then again she was the probably the most interesting thing in the place.

The blanket slipped off a shoulder as she took her hand and placed it over her heart and whispered. "I was called Margaret," she doubted he understood but felt it was important to try and introduce herself.

Her words sounded strange in his ears but her voice told him much. She was afraid, afraid of him, her surroundings, he did not know for sure which. He smiled slightly, trying not to make it look like a leer as she stood, giving him another look at her body. His lust stirred again, causing his cock to twitch slightly. Fighting back his primal urge to take her, he was glad when she took the blanket. Placing her hand over her heart she spoke to him in her language. He guessed at the meaning of her words. Margaret her name was? It sounded odd on his tongue and he tried to say it back to her. "Mahr-gah-ret?" he asked.

He thumped a fist on his chest and told her, "Bastion." Repeating it again so she would know who he was, "Bastion, my name is Bastion."

He glanced over at his large food dish; he supposed he could skip breakfast for this woman. Knowing that she would not understand his words, he spoke anyways, hoping that the act of conversing would keep his animal lust for this woman down. "Are you hungry Mahr-gah-ret? I have food here." He walked to the plate and picked it up, popping an olive into his mouth. He also picked up the jug of water and went over to her, moving close enough to catch her scent. She smelled freshly bathed, and not scented like some of the women he had seen around here. Again his passion stirred at her nearness. "You may eat something if you are hungry. Sit on my pallet if you like," Bastion said gesturing to his hay-covered pallet. With both hands filled, one with the food plate, the other with the water jug, held out to her in offering, he hoped that he appeared less intimidating.

His voice was rough and his speech guttural and it made him seem that much more primitive and intimidating. Her eyes kept trailing down his body stopped by what stirred between his legs. She listened as he repeated her name and strove to say his in the same growling manner, "Basschun." She nodded and watched him as he moved about as if he were trying to make her feel at home. Home, she blinked away tears and reminded herself that she no longer had a home.

She had not noticed the food until he pointed it out and for a moment she was stunned by the volume and then considered that as a fighter, he would need it. She took the smallest heel of bread and dipped it in what passed for some sort of soup. She shivered still feeling cold as she ate. She gave up being neat or polite as the blanket fell from her body as she ate the crumbs and drops of soup ended up on her breasts. It was only when the bread was finished that she once again noticed his eyes upon her. Her breasts were one of the few areas left undamaged, and she suddenly felt shy. "You can call me Maggie if you would like," she almost added that everyone else did and fought back tears. She felt as if she was balanced on a very thin ledge and at any moment she would burst into tears and topple over. She was suddenly aware of the masculine scent of the pallet, sweat, blood, perhaps other things mingling together to create an aroma that was not entirely unpleasant.

Bastion was not the world's smartest man. He knew that, his brother had always been quicker to understand things. His friends had always teased him for being the big lumbering ox, but he was not stupid. He watched with delight as Mahr-gah-ret wolfed down the food that he offered. It was obvious that she was very hungry. The blanket slipped from her body and pooled around the floor as she ate ravenously. He set the jug of water down near her feet and collected the blanket, smoothing it back out on the pallet.

She paused in between bites and said something more to him in a soft voice. He supposed she was thanking him. He walked over to her, and pulled the tray from her gently, and moved over to the pallet and sat on it. Then he pointed at her, and the pallet next to him. He then patted the soft hay covered by the blanket and smiled in what he hoped was the least disturbing way. He was afraid that he might still scare her, and that was not what he wanted.

"Please," he said, "Mahr-gah-ret, come sit with me and eat, it would be much more comfortable then standing." He then picked up some of the bread off the tray, broke it in half and began eating one half, while holding the other out to her. He knew that the small piece of bread she had eaten would not be enough. She looked like she could easily eat most of the food on the tray, even despite her slight size. Sitting on the bed his mostly turgid cock lay along his muscled thigh, twitching occasionally at the sight of her.

His mind whirled with thoughts of what he would like to do with her, no, to her. He pushed those thoughts down and tried to remember that once he had been a civilized man. The longer he looked at her, the more the animal instinct in him cried out. Cried out to take her, to ravish he, to suck on her pert nipples and bite at her neck. He wanted to feed his lengthy manhood slowly into her, inch by inch. Feeling her envelop his stiff cock in her warm wetness.

These thoughts made his cock jump again, and he tried to ignore it, instead patting again the pallet and indicating that he wanted her to sit down. He hoped that she understood his more noble intentions as he ate the half of bread he held.

When he pulled the blanket away she realized how exposed she was, and she shivered slightly and watched him carefully as he spread out the blanket and invited her to sit next to him and eat. She felt more afraid than when she had been dealing with the fire. She doubted he was as primitive as he looked; after all he did possess some language skills and was not trying to maul her. The fact that animals only mated for procreation purposes aside, as she had lost track of her cycle and had figured the stress and malnourishment were messing with her natural cycle at the moment anyway. 

She was not sure she wanted to be so close to him, but she was cold and the food looked so very good. She probably could have eaten it all, but she did not wanted to seem ungrateful. Margaret knew that he could do what he wanted to her and she fervently hoped it would not hurt, especially considering the current size of his partially engorged dick. She sat next to him, close but not touching as she took the piece of bread. She took smaller bites trying to make the food last. She took a slow drink of water, knowing that if she ate too much it would make her sick. For some reason her eyes kept drifting down between his legs, it was a clear reminder of her new role in life and she wondered when he would begin demanding more of her. The slavers had wanted a passive woman and when she fought back they lost interest. She doubted it would be the same here, as she was perhaps his only available partner.

She mumbled, "Thanks," as she tried not to shiver and realized that it was like a cellar, mostly below ground and far cooler than the upper floors. The stone sapped what little heat there was and she unconsciously moved closer to him as his large body radiated heat.




Gladiator



Bastion resisted the urge to paw at her as she moved close to him while eating. Poor thing was probably just cold; despite dropping the blanket on the ground she still had gooseflesh. As gently as he could, he wrapped one massive arm around her shoulders, and rubbed her arms. He feared that he was being too rough with her still bruised flesh, but being this close to her was spurring his desires. When she sat this close, he could smell her natural scent. Her hair had been recently washed and braided into tiny little braids. He imagined wrapping one of his meaty fists in that braided hair and pulling her head back, forcing his mouth onto hers, forcing his tongue into her, feeding his cock into her mouth.

He shook his head and ran his other hand down his thigh, as if nervous. His cock leapt at the accidental brush he gave it. He knew that he had to have this woman, and soon. But he did not want to ruin her. He did not want to see the fear and hatred in his eyes that so many others gave him. 

He popped another olive in his mouth and began to murmur under his breath a fairy tale his mother had once told him as a child. Anything to get his mind off her warm flesh pressed into his side and the soft feel of her skin underneath his heavy calloused hand.

She forced herself to not pull away when his arm touched her, and she was pleasantly surprised that he did not try to pull her against him. She was still very afraid of him and more afraid of him rejecting her and being sent someplace worse. She felt comforted especially by his stream of words. It was so different from the harsh curses she had endured the past couple of days. She rested her head against his shoulder and knew that she might come out of this with a protector. Her leg was pressed against his and her eyes had drifted down again. It was both horrific and amazing; she was glad she was not a virgin and began thinking of whether he would hurt her unintentionally due to the increasing size and length of his cock. He was uncut and at it took her a while to realize this and she wondered briefly where he had been born. 

His words stopped, she watched as he ate another olive and spoke again. She shook her head, as she did not understand unaware that the soft braids were caressing his body. Her life had completely changed and she was now faced with two choices. One live in fear and dread - close herself off and ignore the world, or two-face reality and try to make the best out of a bad situation.

She was already thinking of how it could be worse and how Bastion was not the devil incarnate, just another poor enslaved soul. She sniffled, and realized she had been crying all the tears repressed for weeks were now flowing freely. 

"I am sorry," she mumbled feeling rather pathetic, her muscles ached, she was cold, and she was crying. Margaret was about to wipe away the tears when she felt his hand gently touch her face and he did so for her. The last thing she was thinking about was mating and she knew it was probably the first thing on his mind. "I am used to being free." She knew the words did not translate but she said it all the same. More than her body hurt, her heart hurt, and she just wanted it to all go away. 

His hands remained on her face and she became still uncertain of what response would be the correct one.

"The food is good, yes?" He asked her, knowing she would not understand, but saying it anyways simply to talk, to feel more human and less like the animal he wanted to be. He had no idea that the words he spoke in an attempt to comfort her would have the exact opposite effect.

She sniffled first, and then began crying. Her tears had been held back a long time that much had been quite obvious. His first impression of her as a strong woman may have been correct, but now he was seeing her emotionally bared. As the sobs began to wrack poor Margaret's body Bastion first took hold of her firmly. Then as she began to lose control of her tears he gently turned to face her and took her face into his rough hands as gently as he could. He did nothing but look into her wet eyes, spilling hot tears down her lovely face.

She spoke to him through sniffled sobs, talking again despite the fact that they both knew they would not understand each other. As he gazed into her face he realized that it did not matter. That their captors had turned them into slaves, into beasts, beings that did not need communication, living only to serve, in the arena like he, or the bedroom like she.

Her words falling on his ears in between sobs reminded him of the nobility he once held, and how far he had fallen. Her body trembled, and he realized that it was part from crying but also part from the chill. He felt foolish, of course she was probably still cold. She had not been used to living in the dark like he had, her skin was a golden bronze, used to the sun, which shone much hotter here than in Bastion's homeland.

Still cradling her face as gently as he could, he whispered to her, "Mahr-gah-ret, please do not weep. I will not hurt you. I know how they treat us, and it is not right. A farmer would not treat his cattle this way. But we are not cattle, you and I. We are man and woman. I will not hurt you. I will make you understand, even though you can not understand my words."

He then took the tray of food and set it on the ground near the bed. Laying back on the bed, he gently, but firmly pulled Margaret to his side, she stiffened at being moved about forcefully, but he smiled as softly as he could, as a father would to a child, to convey that he meant her no harm. 

With her at his side he folded the blanket around the two of them, covering her shoulders but leaving his arms outside of the nest. He wrapped his massive arms around her, outside of the blanket and began to softly stroke her, working the blood flow back up, warming her with both his hands and with his body that she lay against.

He spoke again softly, almost under his breath. His words did not have any real meaning, he just began telling her of the dream that she had woken him from. Perhaps the talking would relax her.

She was not sure how it had started or where it was going to end but the tears finally stopped and he moved again, with such grace it was difficult to imagine him fighting, killing, and she was compliant as he pulled her body against him. She had no idea the effect of a crying woman has on a man as she felt her body touch his wrapped up feeling the warmth of his body. It was soothing and his voice was pleasant as he rambled. She had no idea what he was saying it was like a lullaby. She tried to recall when she last felt so peaceful as she closed her eyes and snuggled in, she had not realized how tired she was, having been on alert for weeks. She yawned and became aware of the wounds on her back each time she moved. 

Margaret opened her eyes as the pain pushed her thoughts to the present; she cautiously, slowly, deliberately rolled over. She felt awkward facing him, but she would not be able to rest on her back or sides for a while, she had rested half standing or sitting while among the slavers. She felt small compared to him despite being more muscular than most of the slavers. She was still surprised by the feel of his manhood against her belly, and she wondered how long he would give her before demanding that she tend to his needs. "My wounds," she started to explain her movements it seemed so futile. The look in his eyes was of concern and more. The more she was not ready for, she figured she was just another breeding cow, not that it might be anything more.

It took Bastion a few moments to realize what she was trying to say to him. One of her words sounded somewhat familiar, "Woohunds" she repeated. He knew he had heard the people of this land say that. His mind flashed to the last time he had heard that said. Ah yes, after a particularly vicious match he had quite badly injured his opponent. He remembered the slave master berating him in the other language, yelling the word repeatedly and pointed to the half broken man.

"Woohunds," he repeated back to Margaret, not quite understanding if he understood what she was saying correctly. Then when she nodded at him, he suddenly realized what a fool he was. He cursed his ignorance and short sightedness; of course he had seen her injuries. She was still in pain. Disentangling himself from her smaller form, he stood from the bed. Covering her back up gently he went to the door of his cell. Raising one massive fist, he began pounding on it.

"MARAXIUS!" He bellowed at the solid wooden door, calling out the name of the guard who often brought him food. He was a pleasant enough fellow who did not seem entirely bad, and never made Bastion feel too much like dirt. Often times he would point at the food tray, laden with extra food, and give Bastion a sly wink. Bastion suspected that Maraxius had won quite a bit of money on his arena matches over the last few months.

"MARAXIUS!" He bellowed again, pounding on the door almost hard enough to damage it where it met hinges and lock. "Get your filthy dog loving ass down here you piece of shit." He added in the last part knowing that no one around would understand it anyways. Secretly he did enjoy Maraxius's company more than most of the other guards.

Eventually however Bastion heard the turning of a key in the lock in the door. He quickly backed away from the door, as it swung open quickly. Maraxius stood in the doorway with five other armed guardsmen behind him. They probably assumed that he had hurt this woman also.

"Maraxius," Bastion started calmly, then faltered, digging for the word he wanted in their strange language. "Mahr-gah-ret," he pointed to the woman laying on her side on his pallet, "Woohunds." He frowned and put on his scariest most fierce scowl at that word. "Maraxius," He pointed at the somewhat befuddled guard then down the hall, indicating that he should go, "Bahn Dodge Ihess." He finished with a solid grunt, and then changed his mind. "Bahn dodge ihess," he started in their tongue, then forgetting the word that he wanted, he switched back to his native tongue, knowing they would not understand him. "And also some water and balm." He finished by pointing to his water jug, and mimicked drinking from it, and then pointed to a scar on his arm and brushed his fingers gently over it, mimicking the action that applying a balm would have.

Maraxius spoke to him in the drawling tongue of his and gave him a little leer and wink. Bastion was not sure what he meant, so he repeated himself firmly. "Mahr-gah-ret, woohunds, bahn dodge ihess." He crossed his arms across his chest and stood there, defying any of the guards to enter the cell without the items he asked for. He could see Maraxius thinking things over for a minute before nodding and moving off, closing and locking the cell behind him. Bastion moved over to the pallet again and sat down on the edge, gently rubbing Margaret's body through the blanket.

"There now Mahr-gah-ret, do not worry, if anyone can get me some bandages, Maraxius can. I have dressed quite a few wounds in my day and will be very gentle with you. As gentle as I can." Bastion continued talking to her softly, about how he was very good both on the field of battle and afterwards, tending to a broken leg, or cut arm. Meanwhile, he waited for Maraxius to return.

She saw a flash of understanding and then he was in motion, he reminded her of a wild animal that had stumbled into the village one day and had terrifying and undoubtedly scared. She listened to him shout and bang on the bars and only understood the way he said her name and wounds, it took a few times to understand he was asking for bandages. She heard the guard leer and say something about Basschun being rough towards her. She almost felt ill as the guard winked, but Bastion kept shouting and repeating his request.

When the slave had washed her it had helped clean most of her wounds, but many were fresh or tender in spots that were repeatedly hit. She could only imagine that her backside was a map of red lash marks, bruises, and such. She kept still as Bastion's anger while aimed at the guards was still on his face. 

"You had better take good care of this cow, I doubt your master will pay for another if you break her." The main guard said as he slide the tray into the cell.

"She looks pretty damn sturdy, I would not mind giving it to her," another guard teased.

"Lets just hope she does not affect his performance in the stadium." The last guard stated before they headed away, content that neither of them would be going anywhere soon.

She shivered at how they talked about her like she was not even there. She watched Bastion gather the items. She was warmer now and hoped it was not a fever as she slipped the blanket down revealing the red whip marks as well as green and purple bruises. She would have to let him touch her, and it took a great amount of will power not to pull away when his large hands approached her.

"Mahr-gah-ret, do not be so afraid of me," Bastion said, his huge hands reaching for her slowly. He saw her body tense slightly, still afraid of what he may do to her, and it saddened him in a way. All he would ever be is a big lumbering ox. Of course this woman would be scared of someone barely human like himself. Why was he even fooling himself into thinking he was anything other than a fighting slave, there to entertain his masters. No, he must not think that way!

His mind thought to the way the guards had looked at Margaret and made comments. He could not understand their words, but he knew the tone they took and the way their eyes raked her body covered by the blanket. He had wanted to smash them right then, but Maraxius had brought bandages and salve, so he had thanked him as best he could before they closed the door and locked the two of them in again.

She was nearly trembling as he drew the blanket back off her body. Again the sight of her body stirred him sexually but he pushed that down. He knelt on the floor at the pallet and softly turned Margaret so that she was laying on her stomach. Bastion hissed in anger as he saw the layer upon layer of crisscrossing welts and cuts on her back. His jaw clenched in determined rage and he vowed that if ever had the chance to find out who did this to her, he would make that person pay ten fold for every stroke of pain they had caused her.

Making gentle shushing noises, as he would to a child, Bastion began slowly rinsing off the worst of the wounds with a cloth and cool water. Resisting the urge to let his hands linger on her firm, muscular butt, he washed her as gently as his rough hands would allow. He heard the small whimpering noises as he washed the raw cuts, and again made cooing noises, in an attempt to put her at ease. He rubbed the salve into the worst of her wounds and bound the worst of her cuts as he could. Still, looking at her back he realized that he was no doctor. There was still a lot of raw flesh on her back, and it would be days in healing fully.

Standing up, he made a tsk'ing noise, partially unhappy with his job, the best he could do, but mostly unhappy with whoever would do something like that to her. He moved the bandages and salve to the wall of his cell, and as gently as he could slide back onto the pallet along with her. As softly as he could manage, he lay on his back and positioned her so that she was laying on her side, her warm breasts squished into his side. Resting her head into the hollow of his right shoulder he made sure that as little of her back was touching the pallet, or his body as possible.

He hoped that he had done everything he could to make her as comfortable as the situation allowed. While he felt that there was probably no way a woman such as this would ever love a beast like him, he hoped at the very least, she may consent at some point to willingly partnering with him. He had been without the touch of a woman for so long his body ached for her. Her touch at his side was both painful reminder of such, and yet, at the same time, it also made him feel wonderfully lightheaded.

Bastion sighed knowing that no matter what happened, tomorrow was another match and whenever he entered the arena, there was always a chance he would not be walking back out. Fear gripped him and he suddenly thought of something. What if Margaret was only to stay in this cell for today? What if they came to take her away while he was fighting for his masters in the arena? The thought made his body tense, and he squeezed her fearing that she may already be slipping away.

His hands were strangely tender, as if he wanted to cause as little pain as possible. She flinched a little in the beginning from the pain and when his hand lingered just a little on her firm behind. She had been given no instructions, what if they were going to pass her around? She did not want to think about it or what might happen if she did not conceive a child. That was her real purpose, to bear the gladiator's child who would in turn be enslaved. Her body ached, and as she lay pressed up against him she hoped she would remain with him. He had shown her such kindness and she resolved that she would return the favor. She was lulled by the steady beat of his heart and got used to the feel of his turgid manhood pressing against her belly. 

She wondered how he had ended up here as she drifted off to nightmares of crackling fires and the sound of whips cracking. She awoke to the sound of metal on stone and realized she had napped away the morning, as first she thought it was the sound of more food and then realized that it would be foolish to feed slaves more often then needed and as she was not being required to work and Basschun had not been doing any exercises this morning. She wondered how much she had interfered with his routine, perhaps they had forgotten about her; perhaps she was just intended to mate him before being dragged away to clean or to the next cell. 

It was the sound of the guards dragging their weapons along ground, the sound enough to make anyone resting take notice. She listened to their conversation hoping for some clue about what would become of her, but unfortunately they were talking about Bastion's next fight. The more they talked the more nervous she grew, what if he was seriously wounded or worse? Would she be left to the guards' mercy?

She felt so safe against him; she dreaded moving, except that she needed to go to the bathroom. The water she had so eagerly gulped down had worked its way through her body. She did not want to soil his bed and was unsure of where exactly she was expected to relieve herself. There was no privacy and as the guards' voices grew louder she doubted she would get any peace. The one from earlier Mar-something was talking to Bastion.

"You know if you fight good I might let your lady friend give you a private bath after the fight." The way he said lady made her shudder even as she hoped to get bathing privileges. She felt his arms tighten slightly and she groaned slightly.

Bastion had not even realized he had drifted off to sleep with Margaret in his arms until late that night. He had awoken slightly stiff from laying as perfectly still as he could, cradling her in his arms. Not wanting to wake her, he stretched out and used the covered slop pot in the darkened corner to relieve himself. Then he figured he should at least work out a bit. He did not want to be stiff from lack of movement tomorrow. However the fact that they had not taken him out of his cell for exercise today told him one of two things. Either they wanted him to be stiff so that he would have a bad match or they were trying to give him enough time with Margaret to satisfy his desires. He thought more on that as he gazed down on her sleeping form.

Why had the masters given him another woman after the first? Were they rewarding him for a job well done in the arena? He hoped that was so, but on the same note, he had heard that spilling your seed before a battle made you lose the fighting edge. He did not know if that was true or not, but if the masters did want him to lose they may be taking a few extra shots at costing him his edge.




Gladiator



He felt the rage swelling up inside of him as he considered this possible ruse. Were these people so sneaky that they had nothing better to do than try to weaken him with female flesh? Perhaps he was over reacting, but then why had they not taken him out of his cell today to train for tomorrow morning's battle?

Quaking with pent up anger, he resolved to at least stretch out his muscles, and get some exercise in tonight. He would be as quiet as possible so as not to awaken poor Margaret. He started by stretching out on the stone floor as far as his muscles would allow. Some fighters were as big as him, but lost mobility because they neglected to stretch their muscles as well as building them. After he was nice and loose, Bastion began doing silent exercises in the cell. First he stood on his hands, his bare ass against the wall, and began pushing his entire body up the wall. His arms corded mightily under the strain of pushing his body directly upwards, and when his arms were almost fully extended he held the position for as long as he could. He did not bother keeping track of how long it was, just letting the burn fade into his arms as he sat there, looking upside down at the woman asleep on his pallet.

Just before he felt his muscles about to give out, he let himself slowly down. Quietly he rubbed out his screaming arms, soothing away the ache with more stretches and some rubbing. Bastion continued his work out silently pushing his body to screaming levels of ache before silently backing off. Making his body loose, then punishing it with various exercises.

Several hours passed in the night of him working silently. Finally when he was satisfied that he could not exercise much more without room to run or without making too much noise to awaken Margaret, he allowed himself to cool down. Sitting on his cool floor, he used some water and some of the linen bandages to scrub off the worst of his sweat before slowly crawling back under the blanket beside the warm woman.

His heart swelled at the feeling of soft woman flesh pressed against him, and he quickly fell into a deep slumber. The morning light streaming in through the window awoke Bastion early. He was not used to such long periods of inactivity. Margaret still slept, but if her back was any indication, she probably needed the rest badly. He cradled her and listened quietly as the slave pens underneath the coliseum came to life slowly.

He could hear above him the sounds of crowds beginning to gather for this morning's spectacle. The chill air in his cell from the night had crept into every stone, but with Margaret at his side, he could not feel a thing of it. He was ravenously hungry however, and noticed that they had not brought him his evening meal last night. He wondered again if this was a ploy to get him to lose today.

The sounds of Maraxius coming down the hall roused Margaret. She stirred in his arms, and he finally got out of the blankets. Waiting by the door for Maraxius to open it, Bastion stood ready for today's fight. He spoke to Bastion after opening the cell door. Bastion had a feeling it had something to do with Margaret, but he was not sure. He did however make one thing clear, despite the language difference. Bastion pointed at the woman sleeping on the pallet, then the floor of the cell. She was to stay here; no one was to take her. He again pointed to her, then the cell floor, and then mimicked the door closing and a lock turning in a key.

He hated the though that she may think he was saying she was to be locked in here, a prisoner in this cell. But he could not risk having her not be here when she was gone. Stepping out into the already warming hallway with Maraxius, he lightly tapped the guard on the shoulder.

"Who do I fight today?" He asked in his native tongue, mimicking a sword fight, and then shrugging his shoulders while looking around.

The guard seemed to understand and said a few things, then added a gesture, drawing a finger from his hairline down the side of his face in a ragged line. "Ahh, that man is a good fighter," Bastion thought to himself. There was no doubt who Maraxius meant; his opponent was the only one in the pens with a long, jagged scar running from jaw to brow.

Bastion paused a moment as if thinking, then decided to try communicating one more time. The cell door now closed and locked he pointed at his cell, "Mahr-gah-ret," he then thumbed his chest emphatically, "Bastion's" Maraxius nodded and seemed ready to turn off and lead the giant man down the hall, but Bastion had one more thing to say.

Tapping on Maraxius's coin purse, and then shaking his fist as if rolling dice he asked, "Do you bet on the games? Do you bet on me?" pointing again to the purse then to himself and shrugging his shoulders.

Maraxius looked at Bastion in an odd manor. Bastion was not sure if he was being misunderstood or if the guard just did not want to admit to gambling. Bastion continued on anyways. "Sillius," Bastion said naming the scared man who he was to fight, then raising his arm, and slowly bringing it down as if a tree falling. "Sillius falls in 30 seconds." Bastion then held out his hands and began counting from 1 to 30 as he ticked off on his fingers. When he reached 30, he again made the falling motion with his arm and said again, "Sillius." He concluded by crossing his arms against his chest and daring Maraxius to disagree with him.

Maraxius looked at Bastion for a long moment as if he was pondering the situation. He then spoke to the giant and then flashed his open hands three times, then said "Sillius" and pointed to the floor. Satisfied that Maraxius had understood him, Bastion allowed a huge grin to spread across his face as he nodded.

A short while later he was standing in front of the weapons rack to pick out his weapons. They had dressed him in ridiculous garb. He imagined it was what these people imagined people of his homeland dressed like. It was mostly furs and leathers, covering most of his legs, but leaving his chest bared. Another set of leathers and furs covered his left arm, for no reason that he could imagine. Determined to not let the ridiculous garb slow him down, Bastion selected his weapons. A well used, and slightly blunted javelin and a massive club. One that no doubt most would wield with two hands, but that he was able to swing with only one mighty fist.

The morning stretched on as he waited for his match. The furs were hot and uncomfortable, and all Bastion could think of was Margaret downstairs in his cell. He prayed that she was still there. The more he thought about it the more he felt the animal rage taking over him. The urge to hurt his captors was replaced by a new sort of rage. He thought of people taking her from him, he thought of people beating her, of whipping her. A red haze blurred his vision and the sounds around him began to grow quiet as his inward focus became all consuming.

Finally he heard his name being called from far away. A hand jostled his elbow. He spun, club raised in his meaty right fist, only to see the face of Maraxius. The guard was pointing to the open tunnel indicating that it was his time to fight. Barely able to control his rage, feeling as if it was a red hot blanket settled about his shoulders, Bastion stomped into the dueling ground.

The light of the late morning sun was almost blinding and it took him a few moments to adjust his eyes after the darkness of his cell. But there were the crowds of people in the stands. Calling out either his name or Sillius's. Across the sand arena, he saw his opponent. Sillius was dressed in a very ornate, yet very functional suit of mail. He held a small shield strapped to his left arm and a sword in his right. The helmet on his head was mostly open, but had a nose guard that did not interfere with the man's vision.

The two of them closed to within a hundred feet of each other then turned and bowed to the royalty box, awaiting the horn that would start the match. Bastion felt the anger burning through his veins. He looked at Sillius and saw only the person who would hurt Margaret, the person who would take her from him. Bastion released a primal scream from deep in his chest just as the horns blew to start the match.

Sillius was waiting for Bastion to make the first move, not willing to close with the giant if it meant falling into a bad position. But Bastion had planned for such a non-offensive. In his head he counted out the seconds. Three seconds had passed since the horns blew, twenty-seven seconds left to take the man down.

He hefted the javelin in his left hand, and began to charge at the armored gladiator. Six seconds down, twenty-four seconds to spare. As he closed, he passed the point where one would normally have tossed the javelin. But he was not planning on using it, as they would expect him. Eight seconds down, twenty-two seconds to go, he had closed more than half the distance to the armored man, and finally he hurled the javelin in a predictable, but very near arc. As expected, Sillius raised his shield and dodged slightly to the side to deflect the easily thrown javelin, nine seconds down, twenty-one to go.

However what Sillius was not expecting as he came up from the dodge, lowering his shield, was to see the huge, heavy mace also flying, airborne directly towards him. Bastion had tossed it the second he had seen Sillius go down into a defensive crouch to avoid the javelin. As Bastion had hoped, the armored man stood up directly into the flight path of the whirling mace.

Even from a few dozen feet away Bastion could hear the crunch of bone as the metal nose guard crumpled inwards, crushing the man's nose, twelve seconds down, eighteen left. As Sillius recoiled from the massive hit to the face, he stumbled backwards, off balance. That would prove to be his crucial error. Bastion had never stopped running, slamming into the armored man full speed while his shield and sword arms were spayed out to the side. The massive hit lifted the smaller man into the air a good four feet. When he came crashing back down onto his back, several feet behind where he had been standing only moments ago, Bastion was already standing over him. One foot on his chest, his large hands pulling Sillius's sword out of his weakened hands.

Holding the sword tip to Sillius's throat, already beginning to be coated in blood from his smashed nose, Bastion loosed a roar. Twenty-one seconds after the first horn blow and Sillius was looking up at Bastion, his own sword loosely held to his neck.

A few seconds went by as the stunned crowd absorbed what it had just seen, then broke out in thunderous applause. Over the noise of the crowd and the blood raging in his veins, Bastion almost did not hear the sounds of the closing horns, registering only twenty-seven seconds after they had blown to start the match. Bastion dropped the man's sword at his feet and strode back to the gladiator tunnel amid thunderous applause. He knew that he was going to get yelled at by the slave master. These people liked long matches, long bloody matches. But Bastion did not care. He wanted to get back to Margaret as quickly as he could. He knew the baths would come first, and he hoped that at the very least he had repaid Maraxius for the bandages and salve from the other night. He strode into the slave tunnel ready to accept whatever fate had in store for him.

Time blurred as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and watched him go, she wanted to rest more but her body demanded she get up. The guards had drifted off and again and she finally found the refuse pot and used it. Her stomach growled but she was used to such hunger even as she wondered why Bastion would be fighting on an empty stomach. She drank a little water and used the rest to clean up a little bit, as the bandages were a temporary fix at best. She had been too groggy to hear what he had said to the guards but she could hear them now.

They spoke about how fierce his opponent was and how they hoped he had enjoyed her while he still could. She bit her lower lip and wondered if perhaps she should have tried, but he had not woken her and she vowed to attempt to reward him regardless of the outcome. A different set of guards came on duty and spoke regretfully about not being able to see the fight that was due to start any minute. They unlocked her cell and pulled her roughly from where she had sat huddled in the corner. She listened hoping they would think her unable to understand them. One even went so far as to call her terrible names that she could not repeat. They mentioned she was going to be tending to all the big man's needs if she was lucky. The room she ended up in was just as secure as the cell, but there was a steaming tub, several sponges, and a towel of sorts. She prayed that he had won and she would not be facing his opponent.

Margaret heard a horn in the distance and shuddered, taking the time to look over the items provided. The next blare of horns startled her, it surely had not been enough time for the match to be completed. She dreaded the sound of heavy footfalls even as she hoped it was him walking to her. 

Her hands fidgeted, one moment attempting to conceal her breasts, holding her legs close together, feeling jittery, as she looked towards the other door. She had been holding her breath and she let it out a soft murmur of thanks, "Basschun," she would have run to him if her feet would have allowed it. As it was he seemed happy and surprised to see her and she hoped the water would have cooled down some. His garments made him seem all that more gruff and as she was not sure how they were held on, hoped he would take them off or she would be forced to reveal her ineptness as removing such outlandish gear.

"Bath?" she asked softly her fingers flicking the surface of the steaming water. She could feel a new bruise forming on her arm where the guards had grabbed her but ignored the pain hoping to get a smile out of her Bastion. It surprised her how quickly she thought of him as hers, or at the very least her protector. She had heard one of the new guards mention raping her, but the others had dissuaded him by reminding him that Maraxius had said that any such use of the slave would be obvious to Bastion and something about how it would be stupid to get him angry over some cow.

Striding into the gladiatorial pens, Bastion had been prepared for a long match of shouting, and perhaps even a few lashes of the whip for a match that had gone by too quickly. However he was actually surprised to see the slave master and several of the guards laughing and cheering his name as he came back. Maraxius gave him a grin and wink and things dropped into place. Maraxius must have shared his tip with his guard mates and they were probably all quite happy over their winnings. Either that or the thunderous applause from the stands had stopped them from beating or even berating him today.

Maraxius even clapped him on the back good naturedly as Bastion went to the food table to blunt his hunger. Normally they would bring him a large meal in his cell after he had cleaned up, but there was a small tray of food in the ready area. Bastion ate a few figs while listening to the men talking. About his fight, their winnings, or perhaps the next match, he did not know.

Meanwhile in the arena

Alexander sat in the luxury seating near the royalty boxes in the stands. "Did you see that my dear?" He said turning to his wife," That fight could not have lasted more than thirty seconds. That Giant moved so fast, I would have expected him to be slow and cumbersome like the big man a few fights earlier. I think he would be the man we want if he is a slave and we can convince the current owner to sell him. Think of the prestige having a gladiator like that would bring to our house."

Alexander's wife Julia nodded her ascent as she watched the mountain of a man stride out of the arena and into the darkened tunnel. She personally wondered as to what he looked like up close. What was he like, he looked like a brutish barbarian, but the strategy she had just seen belied an ignorance often found in those from the northern horde. Licking her lips, she responded, "Yes dearest husband, I think we should definitely see if that one is for sale."

"You stay here and enjoy the rest of the matches my dear," Alexander said standing, "I shall go make inquiries about purchasing him."

In the bathing area:

Bastion sighed and walked to the bathing room to get cleaned up. He wondered mildly which slave would be there to wash him. He hoped it was the one boy with the funny hair, that child was very pleasant, often chattering on while washing Bastion. He thought that the child perhaps looked up to him in a strange way.

What Bastion was not prepared for however was the sight of Margaret in the bathing room. While he was used to his casual nudity for most of the time, the heat in this land seemed non stop, he still was taken aback by seeing this woman standing in the room bare before him. 

He thought he caught a glint in her eyes, a look on her face of something, some emotion, was it joy? Was she as glad to see him, as he was to see her? Smiling at the woman, she said something to him and ran her hand in the large tub of water. He walked over towards her slowly, and ran one finger across her jaw line, and kissed her gently on the top of the forehead.

"Mahr-gah-ret, I am very pleased to see you here. Are you to bathe me after my victory? I hope that it will be something you may enjoy, I know I will. I hope perhaps you will want more than to just clean me." He said to her, knowing that his words would not be understood, but hoping that his point may come across with his husky tone of voice and his eyes, which combed across her body.

He loosened the laces holding the leathers and furs to his arm, then to his waist, pointedly ignoring the bulge that was growing in the front of his pants at the sight of her. He then turned with his back to her and raised his arm to allow her access to finish removing the dress, as a bathing servant should.

She was happy to see he had survived and with no obvious injuries. She heard his tone and she nodded fairly sure of what he meant. Margaret was glad for the space of room, as it was not as closed in as the tiny cell. He loosened his garments and once she figured out how they were lashed on her nimble fingers set to undo the rest of the laces and remove the clothing. She piled it by a wall figuring it would need to be returned somewhere. She wondered if they kept the gladiators naked because of the heat or to further prevent escape. 

His skin was warm and she could feel and see the sweat. She looked at him shyly as her hands traced old scars along his chest and arms. She had seen naked men before, but it was different with Bastion, and she was unsure of how to proceed as it was not like she could just asked him what he wanted. 

She stepped towards the large tub figuring that cleaning him was probably a good first step, her fingers skimmed the water testing the temperature. "It feels nice, I would join you in the tub but I think you are going to take up most of the space." She smiled and picked up a sponge and soaked it in the water, her own nudity made her more aware of her body and how it moved. She splashed him and smiled again, seeing him alive and well had given her a glimmer hope. 

"The guards said I am going to take care of all your needs, and while you do not understand what it means. It is a very good thing," Margaret wished she had knew more about hand signals but figured they would work things out, because they had too. She was not quite sure what he was used to, as usually she would have soaked in the tub, wash herself, and then scrub off the dead skin with a towel. She took his hand and gently tugged him towards the tub, "Bath," she repeated splashing the water again. She was glad for the braids in her hair as it made her hair low maintenance, even as she looked forward to washing his hair. After all she had seen many slaves with shaved heads or mangled chopped haircuts.




Gladiator



Author's Note: There is archeological and written historical evidence to confirm that women fought as gladiators. While many were slaves from conquered territories, women from all classes of Roman society fought in the Coliseum and just about every arena in the Roman Empire. 

A carved relief from the 1st century AD depicts two female gladiators with shields, swords, helmets and dressed similarly to their male counterparts. 

Written evidence, though limited, suggests that female gladiatorial combat was a very popular form of entertainment rivaling that of the men. Pairs fighting in the arena were scheduled during afternoon or early evening, an indicator of their high importance to the games. It is interesting to note that the women always fought before the men. 

While segregated from the men, women trained at the same schools, in the same types of combat disciplines and enjoyed the same rights and privileges. They were accorded the same type of hero worship by the Roman citizenry and were the super star athlete's of their day. 

Gladiators of both sexes were a highly valued and expensive commodity to their owners. They were treated well with the fortunate few winning their freedom. 

The two main protagonists in the story are from the conquered Roman provinces of Gaul and Ethiopia. Captured female warriors from Gaul were prized for their strength and ferocity. The use of Ethiopian women in the games is first mentioned in writings dating from the time of Nero, approx. 60 AD. 

Tarentum: 

As we stood in the sweltering heat of the equipment room in the arena at Tarentum, number eight appeared highly agitated. 

"The matron just told me that a very wealthy Senator wanted only the best gladiators for a festival in honor of his forefathers'. He specified that the gladiators are to fight to the death and paid a vast sum of money to the school for the privilege," number eight said with loathing to our group. 

A pervasive feeling of gloom descended on us from number eights sobering news. The gladiatorial school that owned us was wise to keep this information secret until we were about to step foot in the arena. 

As I laced up my leather fighting sandals and leggings, the pairings for the afternoons combat were announced. I had grown to despise killing, an affliction seriously detrimental to the well being of a gladiator. 

"...Number eleven and number twenty three..." the school director barked.

I froze dead in my tracks.

"No, this can't be," I said quietly trying to hide my distress. 

"I told you this day might come," twenty three said resignedly and stood still as her manica or arm guard was fitted into place. 

Twenty three had her game face on but I could see that she was shaken by the news. 

The glow of the oil lamps cast eerie shadows on the brick walls as twelve gladiators prepared for the combat that would end the life of six. 

"I won't fight," I said to twenty three in a voice bordering on hysteria. 

"Then I will kill you," she replied in a chilling voice.

I stared at her, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. We were the best female gladiators at our school. It made no sense to pair us in a fight to the death when the availability of well trained women was scarce.

Fights to the death were uncommon. Occasionally, a gladiator was severely injured during combat and died as a result. If a gladiator disgraced themselves or showed cowardice the spectators could demand his or her death. 

The thought of fighting the woman I cherished above all others to the death, had me in the depths of despair. My mind searched vainly for a way out of this awful predicament but there was none. 

On the journey to Tarentum, I had seen several tiny towns that reminded me of my home and in an attempt to ease my growing panic, I tried to remember what my village looked like and...

Gaul 90 AD

My village was in the region the Romans referred to as Gaul. In my mind I saw the huts, the green fields and the smell of roasting meat on the spit; usually a fresh kill my father made in the surrounding hills. 

We were a warrior people, made so by the conquest of the Roman legions. Our tribes had withstood the attacks from before I was born or so my father said. But, our numbers had declined dramatically, especially among the fighting men.

With the shortage, many able bodied young women fought alongside their fathers, brothers, cousins and neighbors. Some women were more powerful than their male kin and fought with a ferocity that frightened the enemy. I was tall and lanky for a girl of fifteen but also quite strong. 

The Roman broadswords that were taken from the vanquished after skirmishes, was our main weapon for fighting. Even at my young age, I handled it with a two fisted grip that impressed my father.

"Daughter, if I didn't know better, I'd swear you were a boy," he would say to me with admiration. 

But, head on confrontation with the Romans was suicide. There seemed to be an endless supply of Roman soldiers and far too few of my people. Our chief strategy was to lie in wait and ambush patrols or cohorts that were lost or separated from the main force. 

It was during one such skirmish that I made my first kill with an upward thrust through the neck that nearly severed it. My foe lay at my feet, blood spurting in all directions but it didn't last long. In a matter of moments he was dead. 

Carefully, I examined his still face and thought that he was probably no older than my brother. His was a handsome face, a youthful face only a short time ago filled with the promise victory. 

"Daughter, we must make haste. The enemy will regroup and fall upon us in greater numbers," my father bellowed at me. 

During the forced march back to our village, I couldn't shake the image of the dead young man from my mind. My earliest recollections are of the elders teaching us not only to hate the Romans but to fear them as well. 

Although I hated the Romans, I had no fear or hatred for the fallen soldier. 

"Why do the Romans hunt us down like animals?" I asked my father one evening by the fire. 

"They are an evil people who enslave all they don't kill. Many of our kinsmen have been captured and only a handful escaped to tell the tale of their ordeal," he answered forcefully and with disgust. 

My father thought I was too young and stupid to hear the grisly details. He thought that all women were dim-witted and foolish but I was smarter than my brothers. I was as skilled a fighter and just as savage.

Even though I fought side by side with the men in my village, I was not treated as an equal. I always had to wait for my father and brothers to eat first just like my mother and sisters who stayed at home.

At tribal festivals during the year, acts of bravery, fearlessness and courage during battle were told but rarely about a fighting woman. Many rounds and toasts of strong drink were hoisted in honor of the heroic but only by the men. 

At one such festival when I was sixteen, I was promised to my oldest brother's friend Etr as his betrothed. I disliked him intensely but I had no say in the matter. The men in my village made all the important decisions. 

Our union was turbulent because I didn't fear him or respect him as a man. I believed he lacked the sound judgment and strength of character that a man should have when making important decisions.

We quarreled most of the time and because we lived with his kin, I had no allies when the fights reached chaotic proportions. When our first child, a son, died during childbirth, he was furious and blamed me. 

During battles, Etr took it upon himself to fight alongside of me. I warned him to stay away but he ignored me like any man would. His fighting style was haphazard and lacked discipline. 

When I complained to my brother, he roared at me in anger.

"He is trying to protect you! You stupid girl!" 

"I need no one to protect me! I can fight better than him and most men" I screamed angrily in reply. 

Of course, it was no use arguing. Etr would do as he pleased; I had no say in the matter. But, unfortunately for him, it would lead to his death. 

During winter, the Roman campaigns against us would cease or lessen to just a few. We knew they remained in their forts and outposts with a false sense of security. It was the only time of the year when we made hit and run attacks that minimized our casualties but totally disrupted the Romans. 

But, regardless of the weather, The Romans sent out patrols to assess our size, strength and location. 

Our scouts tracked down many patrols because the ground was snow covered and their footprints clearly visible. Often they got lost in the thick forests; easy pickings for us. 

On a snowy afternoon a Roman patrol was spotted in a dense part of the forest, obviously lost. They camped for the night with sentry's posted every fifteen feet. It was decided that we would attack at dawn before the sunrise. 

With the light growing brighter in the east, we poured down the hillside, yelling our war cry. We caught many Romans in their tents and I dispatched two with ease. 

A small number of soldiers regrouped and took up a defensive position. With the main part of our force on the other side of the encampment, it would have been prudent to wait until they rejoined us. But, my oldest brother, impatient and bull headed, decided to charge. 

During the charge, Etr as usual was at my side. As we ran at full speed toward the Roman line, he kept glancing at me sideways and smiling.

"I will bring much honor and glory to our village today," he boasted in a useless attempt to impress me. 

I ignored him because he was making a critical mistake by not focusing his attention on the enemy in front of us. The first line of Roman defense used a long spear in a fixed position to repel the first wave of an attack. 

An agile warrior could avoid and break the spears, then engage the enemy. As I approached the soldier directly in front of me, I wielded a swift sword stroke at his spear and it broke in two. 

With only a shield for defense I hacked at him until I severed an arm and disabled him. Suddenly, I realized that Etr was not at my side and as I turned to look, I saw him lying on the ground with a spear through the center of his body. 

Etr was alive but barely when I got to him. His face had the unmistakable look of imminent death. I was saddened by his passing but only because it meant one less warrior to defend our people.

When we returned to our village, my oldest brother publicly condemned me and held me responsible for Etr's death.

When I explained the fatal error Etr made during the charge, he ignored me. I was forced to give my account before the elders and they refused to believe me. 

"You are an ill omen girl, no man will want you now for fear he will die in battle!" My father bellowed. 

I kept my silence and in spite of my fear that I would be ostracized, I was allowed to remain in the village and continue fighting as a warrior. But, my father was right, no man wanted me. 

For the next two years, the Roman campaigns were sporadic and ceased altogether in the winter. It was during the summer, at the start of my eighteenth year that I was injured in battle. A sword sliced across my belly and almost gutted me. 

Most who were injured died with high fevers and half out of their minds with visions. I feared the worst and was taken to a hut on the outskirts of the village.

I was cared for by a young woman who happened to be Etr's sister. Her man had fallen in battle soon after their union was consummated. She was childless like me and forced to live with what little family he had left.

Although she was the same age as me, with the scarcity of eligible men, her prospects for another union were poor. 

She applied roots and herbs to my wound several times a day. Each time the searing pain almost made me cry out but I bit my tongue as any good warrior would do. 

Eventually, the pain lessened and the fever that signaled death did not appear. 

"You will recover, the wound is healing" she said confidently one day as she changed the dressing. 

Her words relieved my troubled mind and sleep came easily. Later, she told me that I slept for almost three days. 

As my body mended, I found that I enjoyed her company and missed her when she went to do the work that was required of all women in the village. Sometimes, she was gone for many hours and I would wait impatiently for her return. 

She was kind and caring towards me even though village lore branded me as responsible for her brother's demise. 

"Etr was a good brother but many times he was careless. I was told what you said to the elders and I believed what you testified to be truth," she said with conviction. 

Certainly, I was indebted to her for saving my life and one day I expressed my feelings.

"I would do the same for any warrior, man or women. Your gratitude is accepted," she said and smiled at me.

I looked at her kind face and realized that my heart thumped at a quicker pace. A warm feeling enveloped my body and my desire to be in her presence grew stronger.

One very hot day, I was waiting for her to return from her labors in the village. She had taken my clothes to wash in the river and I lay naked and sweating from the stifling heat in the hut. I was still too weak to go outside without help.

As the heat grew worse, I felt light headed and dizzy. Finally, I passed out and was unaware when she returned. She brought fresh straw for our bedding but left it outside when she saw my unresponsive body.

I awoke in a pile of straw under the shade of a tree. She was dabbing my forehead with cool water from a wood bucket. 

"You are kind to me woman," I stated thankfully.

Using a cloth saturated with the cool liquid, she gently wiped down my face, neck, arms and started on my chest. She paused for a moment and stared at my arms with an amused smile on her face.

"Warrior, you have muscles like a man," she stated clearly still smiling. 

No one had ever said that to me. In fact, not since I was a little girl had anyone showed me tender caring like her.

As she slowly proceeded to wash the rest of my body, she hummed a song that sounded both happy and sad. When she finished the cleansing, my body was tingling as though a colony of ants had taken up residence under my skin. 

She sat next to me with the same serene smile, gazing at my body.

"You have a strong body like a man but there is no doubt that you are a woman," she said with a lilt in her voice and looked between my legs. 

Indeed, most of the tingling seemed to come out of this area when she washed it. 

"You coupled with my brother. Did you not enjoy it?" she asked me with a serious look.

The look in my eyes was all the answer she needed as the tingling feeling increased inside of me. 

Her hands were softly running up and down my arms and she was still smiling but it had a different quality. It reminded me of the look Etr got when he wanted to shove his manhood between my thighs. 

When her hands moved to my chest her fingers played with the two bumps sticking up. No one including Etr had ever touched me there and it felt good.

The thumping of my heart was faster and my breathing heavier, as though I was going into battle. One of her hands moved over my belly and delicately traced a line along my sensitive scar.

My body jerked in pain from her touch.

"Are you hurting?" she asked while looking at my wound 

"No woman," I lied with a warrior's stoicism. 

Nonetheless, she stopped touching me. 

"You're weak as a newborn pup," she said with some pity and helped me to sit up. 

No self respecting warrior would admit to weakness and despised the pity of others but the words failed me. 

Gradually, my strength improved and I started training for the eventual return to battle. After my convalescence, I returned to the hut I occupied with Etr's family and was turned away. 

"We don't have the means to provide for you," Etr's father said wearily with a troubled look. 

His youngest and last son had died in the same battle I was injured. With many mouths to feed, the wife of a dead son was a burden he could no longer bear. In truth, I was capable of eating as much if not more than a man.

I had no quarrel with Etr's father and walked the short distance to my fathers' hut. My oldest brother greeted me with the same hostility he showed the enemy. 

"You are no longer welcome here girl," he sneered at me. 

The hut was full to bursting with my brothers, sisters and their off spring. My father, once the most feared warrior in our village, was sick and probably dying from wounds he received in a recent skirmish. I agreed to go but wondered why my brother, my kin hated me. 

When Etr's sister saw me walking toward her hut, she had a broad smile on her face. 

"I am homeless woman. Can you help me?" I asked with a rare dose of humility.

"You are welcome here!" She answered enthusiastically.

"Perhaps you should ask for your father's permission," I said reminding her of basic tribal law governing such matters.

"He is a kind hearted man and has already consented," she stated succinctly.

I was impressed. Her actions required forethought and planning, an admirable quality in a woman or a man.

Because it was mid summer, I avoided the stifling heat of the hut and erected a sturdy weather proof lean two under the shade of an enormous maple tree. 

My days were spent training with the warriors. In the evenings, I sat or reclined by the outside fire with Etr's sister as she sewed or wove cloth for garments. We spoke very little and she would softly sing or hum a tribal song. 

One evening as she sang a sad song about a fallen warrior, I was fascinated by her golden hair and pale skin. In contrast, mine was dark brown and my complexion a little darker. 

"What is your name woman?" I asked gently.

"Blanka," she replied shyly. 

In our language it literally meant white one. When I was much younger, my father told me that during the time of his father's father, our tribes made peace with the vicious tribes of the far north. They were very tall with golden hair and had the most terrible war cry he ever heard. Their language was harsh but easy to learn and inter marriage was encouraged as a way of joining our peoples together. 

Their customs were crude but over time a middle ground for co-existence was established. During my lifetime it was common to see people with gold hair in the villages that made up our tribe. 

There were times when disputes and bad blood ended in battles but we learned to stop fighting each other and the Romans became our common enemy. However, they were undisciplined fighters who simply charged and fought with more guts than brains. The Romans were terrified of them and as allies they were invaluable. 

Blanka was smiling at me in a demure posture that a wife would assume for her husband. She wanted me to accompany her to the river but with the sun low on the horizon, it was ill advised but I agreed anyway. 

"You and your clothes need a wash," she said charmingly.

That afternoon my hunting party killed a large deer and I was coated with blood, guts and dirt. Blanka grabbed a small sack and walked briskly, matching me stride for stride. 

At a secluded pool in a narrow bend of the river, Blanka made me sit on a rock with the water lapping at my waist as she washed my clothes. She was using a root that produced a kind of foam. 

Finally, she turned her attention to me and used the same root. As she washed my hair, some of the foam fell on my hand and I discovered it was slippery. 

Blanka was humming a tune as she covered my upper body in foam. When I stood up, her hands gently washed the rest of me. She splashed water over me as a rinse than stood back a little and looked me over. 




Gladiator



"You have a handsome body warrior," She said with admiration.

My body was already tingling from Blanka's soft fingers when she leaned against me and put her arms around my neck. My heart was pounding in my chest.

"I am a female or have you forgotten?" I asked weakly and put my brawny arms around her.

Blanka pulled back a little and gazed at me with that look. She wanted something and slowly it was dawning on me just what that was. 

"I desire to be with you, like a wife with a husband," she said with yearning and ran her hands over my front causing me to moan. 

It was well known in our village that sometimes women had desires for other women. They were free to pursue such interest but it was frowned upon after marriage. 

Because I trained as a warrior, I was segregated from the day to day activities of women. I knew little about their world and interacted with them in a masculine way. 

Blanka was breaking down that barrier by boldly expressing her want. But, with darkness gathering around us, it was imperative that we return to the village. 

When we reached my lean two, I lay back on a bed of fresh straw. Blanka flung herself on top of me and tenderly licked the skin on my neck, shoulders and chest. She was fascinated with the bumps on my chest and licked them, sending shivers throughout my body. 

Soon Blanka's licks turned into sucking and indescribable feelings surged over me. Her hand parted my pubic hair and a finger twirled up and down the center where Etr had forced his manhood.

I was lost in the marvelous feelings that Blanka was drawing out of me. An entire Roman legion could have attacked the village and I would not have cared.

The sensation between my legs was so intense that the urgency to urinate started to build. And, it built with enough force that I was powerless to stop it. My body shook with a sensation that was entirely new to me and I cried out with each passing upsurge.

Gradually, the feelings died out as embarrassment over my inability to keep from urinating took hold of me. With Blanka still on top of me, I felt along the straw bed for the telltale signs. Much to my surprise, I discovered that the bedding was dry.

When I confessed this to Blanka, she smiled and said it happened to her also. I fell asleep with her wrapped in my arms. 

As the summer waned, Blanka was a frequent visitor to my outside living quarters. She looked after my needs with a caring that was usually reserved for a husband. 

The Roman campaigns ceased and it was the most peaceful summer that I could remember. But, it was strictly temporary and patrols were spotted dangerously close to our village.

When my father died, my eldest brother became the unofficial leader of the warriors. I considered him to be too brash and reckless for the position but the male majority said otherwise.

We clashed about his proposed plans and tactics for fighting the Romans. Instead of moving the village to safer ground, he wanted to establish a defensive position and fight it out. He was abandoning our hit and run strategy; a strategy that worked to our advantage because of our much smaller fighting force. 

At a warriors' council, I made my feelings known. I thought that his plan was sheer idiocy and would bring ruin to us all but I was shouted down. 

"Stupid female," was yelled by half the men.

The Romans were anything but stupid and sent twelve cohorts against us on a cool autumn morning. When the second wave struck, we were overrun and retreated in the direction of the village. 

About one hundred yards away from the village, we tried desperately to reestablish a defensive line but the volume of Roman attackers overwhelmed us. People in the village were running helter skelter in a vain attempt to flea but the Romans surrounded us and cut off all avenues of escape.

Small pockets of warriors fought bravely as the Romans advanced toward the center of the village. But, defeat and disaster were looming on the horizon. 

I fought in a group of ten warriors near the village square. My eldest brother was next to me with a look of terror on his face. He had let the unthinkable happen and paralyzed with fear, he fell quickly as the Romans pressed forward. 

I lost track of how many Romans I slew as one by one my comrades fell around me. I was fighting with all the courage and stamina I could muster until I saw the last warrior of my group fall with multiple wounds to his body.

The circle of Romans moved back as did the soldier I was fighting. Completely exhausted and demoralized by the loss of my comrades, I dropped to my knees and awaited the sword thrust that would end my life. 

When none came, I looked up to see an important looking soldier walking toward me with a man in non military clothing. 

"Drop your weapon and stand up!" the soldier barked at me in Latin. 

Immediately, I did as requested but kept my head down. 

"An impressive specimen captain; she will command a princely sum at the slave market for gladiators," the man in civilian clothing stated. 

"Guard, chain her to the others," the captain ordered. 

"Just a moment captain, I want her kept separate from the other women. She is not to be raped or abused by your men. It will lower her value. Do I make myself clear?" the civilian stated with authority.

Still distraught by the horrendous defeat inflicted on my people, I suddenly grasped who the civilian was and his authority over a captain in the Roman army.

He was a slave merchant who followed the armies and sold any survivors from battles into slavery. A percentage of the profit from the sale of slaves was returned to the army as a kickback. It was in the captain's best interest to comply with the slave merchants wishes as monies filtered down from the general in charge.

How did I know this? A fellow of his ilk was captured during a winter raid on a fort. He was tortured for three days before he expired but lasted long enough to tell us everything about his trade. 

I was chained to five men and when I looked around I realized that was all that remained of our warriors. A terrible sadness fell over me and for the first time in a very long time, tears fell from my eyes.

For two days we walked in a driving rain until we came to a fort. I noticed a small group of women and children from the village but Blanka was not among them. 

Inside the fort, we were kept under guard in the courtyard next to the soldiers' barracks. When night fell, the women were separated from the children and taken inside the barracks. In a matter of minutes, the sound of screaming and crying descended on our ears as the soldiers raped them. Young or old, the Romans made no distinction.

On several occasions we heard the guards say that another group of the vanquished was expected and then it was off to Rome. When they arrived, we could see they were from a village to the east of ours. Unfortunately, we recognized none of them. 

At sunset, the new group of captive women met the same fate as ours at the hands of the Roman soldiers. I can still hear their anguished cries.

Except for a little water, small piece of hard bread and a bowl of clear soup, we were given nothing else. Under an armed guard of a hundred soldiers or better we began the march to Rome. The journey would last for three weeks and claim the lives of half those in chains. 

As we marched over a hillside on the Appian Way, the city of Rome could be seen in the distance. In spite of all the hardship and sorrow that I had endured, I marveled at the sheer enormity of the metropolis. 

Rome 93 AD

The throngs of people in the streets staggered the mind as we were led to the slave market. A massive oval building with a gleaming marble façade, grew larger and larger as we navigated the narrow streets. The size and scale was such that my entire village would fit inside. 

At the time, I had no way of knowing the life and death struggle that the grand structure would play in my life.

We were put into crowded holding cells to await the next auction. All the comrades that I was chained to survived the journey but a terrible fate awaited us all.

The sounds and sights of the slave auction were terrifying. I watched helpless as the women and children from my village were sold one by one. The five men I was chained to were sold to different gladiatorial schools. 

When I was led to the block, I tried my best to look defiant and fearless in the face of my captors. The bidding was vigorous and loud with the auctioneer desperately trying to maintain control. 

When the final bid was knocked down, the crowd cheered wildly. As I was pushed to an oxcart, a guard shouted in my ear, 

"Look happy slave, you've just been sold to the best gladiatorial school in Rome."

Instantly, the words of the slave merchant rang in my ears as I stood defeated before him in my village. 

Two oxcarts, one with men and the other with women, moved slowly through the streets until they stopped before a high gated fence. Inside the open courtyard, two story brick buildings lined the sides. The oxcart with the men went to the right of a wood barrier and ours was directed to the left. 

We were told to get out and line up according to height. A short but stout woman attired in what appeared to be some type of fighting gear walked up and down the line stopping to look at each woman. 

We were assigned a number according to height; the shortest one and the tallest twelve. I was number eleven. My previous identity ceased to exist and from then on I was referred to as number eleven. 

A long list of rules was barked at us and we were expected to remember them. A guard led us into a fenced area and we saw women training on various apparatus as we walked by. 

Because of possible lice infection, each woman's head was shaved. In a separate room, we were told to remove all our clothing then marched down a long circular stair to a very large room filled with steaming water. 

We were handed a sponge and something called soap. I followed the line into the hot water and mimicked what the others were doing. Bathing was a rarity among my people but I learned to appreciate it when Blanka washed me in the river. 

Stark naked and dripping water we stood according to height in a low ceiling room waiting for someone called a physician to examine us. As he inspected each person, he made various comments and observations that were transcribed on a roll of paper by a young man. 

"Number eleven," the young man called out.

"Captured in Gaul, approximately eighteen years old," the young transcriber stated to the physician. 

I stood motionless in front of the physician as he looked over my body.

"Hmm...above average muscle tone," he stated and the young man scribbled something on the paper.

"Open your mouth," he ordered and spent a long time examining my teeth. 

"Teeth are in good condition. No sign of infection or disease" he stated dryly. 

As I lay on a stone table, the physician poked and prodded most of my body but made no comments. Finally, he examined my pubic hair very closely. 

"Good, no lice. That's all," he barked and I returned to my place in line.

A clean white tunic was issued before we were seated at a communal dining area with many other women. Talking was forbidden and a punishable offence. 

A thick soup with meat and vegetables was served along with bread and wine. A veritable feast by the standards of my village and I ate ravenously.

As discreetly as possible, I looked around the room and was amazed by the different varieties and types of females that lined the benches. I recognized no one from my tribe. 

There was a tall, dark skinned woman with a regal bearing that intrigued me. She was seated along the far wall with a woman of similar color. 

'She's beautiful," I thought to myself. 

A loud whistle burst announced the end of the meal and we were marched to a dormitory with windowless rooms. One slave per room only the rooms were cells with locked doors.

The next day after a breakfast of porridge and dried fruit, all the newcomers were given a wooden sword. The basic moves and skills of gladiatorial combat were practiced with military precision until a bell rang signaling the end of practice.

The bath was filled to overflowing with sweaty females. I noticed that the water was scented with oils that were pleasing to the senses. A few women were accorded the luxury of a rubdown by the attendant slaves. 

When we were seated for the evening meal, I cautiously looked for the dark skinned woman. She was seated in the same spot only this time she caught me looking. I was drawn to her but for the life of me I knew not why.

The training grew more difficult each day. A newcomer from Greece was badly injured during an exercise and a woman from Spain was whipped in front of us for disobedience. Most women cooperated and applied themselves to the training with dedication. I was among them. 

At dinner, I looked for the dark beauty and she caught me every time. Sometimes, she would smile at me and while it made my heart flutter, I always looked away without smiling in return. When she ate, her movements were graceful and mannered. Compared to her, the rest of us ate like swine. 

One afternoon after a grueling practice, I was finishing in the bath when I noticed the dark woman receiving a rub down. The brown skin on her back glowed from the oil the slave was kneading into her flesh. She was lean with highly defined muscles that radiated power. 

She was facing away from me so I used the opportunity to linger in the bath and steal glances at her. I saw the slave attending to her whisper something in her ear. She turned her head with a smile that lit up her pretty face. My heart was beating wildly in my chest. 

Our training progressed to practice combat against an opponent using our wooden swords and shields. Long days in the rain or sunshine, cold or heat were spent endlessly rehearsing the various moves then applying them with a combatant.

"Listen up slaves," our instructor barked.

"Twenty three will demonstrate the repertoire of moves that are essential for survival in the arena," she yelled.

When I saw that it was the woman with exotic brown skin, my heart skipped a beat. 

I stared in total admiration at twenty three as she moved fluidly and gracefully through the different movements. Her fighting style was extremely refined and polished; far superior to my own and most of the women at the gladiatorial school.

"I need a volunteer..." the instructor bellowed.

Immediately, twenty three pointed her wooden sword at me. I was surprised and struggled to maintain a blank expression. 

When I faced off with twenty three, I was mesmerized by her beauty and gazed into her vibrant dark eyes. She was taller than me but leaner. The instructor yelled for us to start, and while I knew I was hopelessly outclassed, I gave it my all.

With an economy of movement, twenty three blocked each sword thrust and parry with nimble agility. As I grew more frustrated, I forgot the discipline that I had been taught and brought my raw power to bear.

With amazing swiftness, twenty three's wooden sword fell against my neck in what assuredly would have been a death blow. The lesson was over. 

As the instructor droned on about the fatal consequences of abandoning our skills during a fight, twenty three was staring at me with a smoldering expression. We were breathing heavily from our exertions and my body was tingling with a familiar sensation. 

That evening, as I lay on my bed, my door was unlocked and it shocked me. When we were placed in our cells at night, the doors remained locked until morning. 

"Number eleven, follow me," the guard commanded.

We went up a staircase and down a long corridor, stopping in front of a door similar to mine. The guard opened it and pushed me inside. Much to my astonishment, twenty three was seated on her bed with a mercurial smile on her beautiful face. 

Earlier, I heard a soldier assigning companions both male and female to the women scheduled to fight in the arena tomorrow. I knew twenty three was fighting...the realization slowly sank into my head. 

I stood motionless in front of twenty three as her intense gaze bore into me. Suddenly, I felt shy in her presence and lowered my head. Never in my years as a warrior did I blush, show bashfulness or weakness of any kind to another person. Yet, here I was acting like the village virgin in front of this strikingly sensual woman.

When twenty three spoke it startled me. Talking was forbidden in the school and except for whispered conversations in the bath, was strictly enforced. 

"You are surprised?" she asked in a lilting voice of heavily accented Latin. 

I nodded my reply, too afraid to speak. Twenty three gestured for me to sit next to her. When I did so, the intoxicating smell of oils from the bath entered my nose. 

The close proximity to twenty three was like drinking too much wine. I felt light headed but shifted my gaze up to her face.

"She's even more beautiful up close," I thought to myself.

Twenty three's brown skin was flawless; her dark eyes sparkled with curiosity but there was some sadness in them as well. Her black shiny hair was cut short and looked like a tightly woven basket. 

"You're beautiful," I stated in a gushing voice and hoped I used the appropriate Latin word.

Twenty three smiled broadly and laughed. My anger started to rise because I thought she was mocking me. 

"So, you think I'm fat," she said in a chuckling voice.

Quickly I realized my mistake and blurted out the correct word. Twenty three's demeanor changed and she looked at me with those intense dark eyes. My insides were churning with desire from her gaze. 

"I am glad you chose me" I said humbly and looked away. 

Twenty three gently pulled my chin so that I was looking directly at her. She moved closer and grazed her warm soft lips over one cheek and then the other. A warm prickly sensation washed over my body and I involuntarily moaned. 

Twenty three held me in her muscular arms and brought her sensuous lips to my neck. As they glided over the sensitive skin, her tongue tip added an entirely new feeling.

My body was fiery with passion when twenty three pulled my tunic up and over my head. Her hands caressed my body with a skill inherited from the gods. 

When her fingers reached the scar on my belly, they traced along the length with incredible delicacy. 

"You were a warrior among your people," she stated without surprise as though she already knew. 

"Yes...umm..." I answered in a breathless voice and moaned.

Twenty three's fingers slowly rubbed the center between my legs and strong sensations rushed through my body. 

Gasping and moaning from the intense pleasure twenty three accorded me, I experienced the overwhelming feeling of peeing myself but realized that it was the new and wonderful sensation that I had enjoyed with Blanka.

As the feeling went away, I was at a loss as to what I should do for her. 

"Why do you look unhappy?" she asked with annoyance.

"I do not know how to please a woman," I answered with shame for my inexperience. 

Twenty three laughed in a most charming way.

"In due time, my fiery Gaul; I will teach you all that I know. Now, I must rest," she said in a soothing voice. 

As twenty three tenderly embraced me, I gazed at her peaceful looking face.

"How did you come to be here?" I asked innocently.

Twenty three's face changed as a shadow of pain passed over it.

"It is a sad story. My father was king of my people. When I was in my fifteenth year, the Roman's came to my country. Many were killed by the soldiers and many were taken as slaves. 

The Romans made my father swear an oath of loyalty. He was to pay money every year to them. If he paid this money, he could be king. But, they don't trust my father. The soldiers take me, my sister and my brother to Rome. We are made to live in a small house with soldiers always watching. 




Gladiator



In my eighteenth year, the soldiers tell us my father is dead. No money is paid to the Romans. The soldiers rape my sister and me. Then, take us to slave market," 

Twenty three's eyes filled with tears and her voice was cracking. 

"I am sold to this gladiatorial school. My sister and brother are sold. For twelve months now I don't see my brother and sister. I don't know where they are..." she cried and couldn't go on. 

As twenty three regarded me with sorrowful eyes, she pulled me close in a gentle embrace.

In the days that followed, I learned that twenty three lived in a less restrictive part of the gladiatorial school. She had proven her worth in the arena and was accorded many privileges. 

Although she was a slave, she was allowed to keep most of the purse money from her appearances in the arena. Most female gladiators fought once every eight to twelve weeks. Because of our popularity and scarcity, we were too valuable a commodity to our owner to risk more than was necessary. 

Twenty three befriended me and took me under her protective wing. We trained in the same fighting discipline and her insights and advice were invaluable. Under her tutelage, I achieved a greater amount of skill. 

At her request, I was permitted to spend one night per week with her. Later, I learned that she had to bribe the matron and guards for the extra privilege. I was glad for that.

On the eve of twenty three's departure for gladiatorial games sponsored by a wealthy landowner south of Rome, I was allowed to visit her. When I entered her room, her beautiful face and radiant smile greeted me. 

I was giddy with happiness and ran to her arms. 

"You are in high spirits, my fiery Gaul," she said caringly.

In the short time that we had known each other, twenty three had awakened the female side of me that I had repressed as a warrior with my people. 

I was number eleven; the barbarian from Gaul, easily tamed by the majestic dark skinned woman. I was acting and responding like a female for the first time in many years. 

As I playfully nuzzled her wonderfully scented neck, my hands massaged the bumps on her front. 

"You are eager tonight," she breathed in my ear. 

My fingers found their way under her tunic and caressed the small mounds on her chest as my lips grazed the silky skin of her cheeks and forehead eliciting a few moans.

When I looked into her eyes, my heart was pounding in my chest. Words could not describe the joyous feeling inside of me but I think she knew. 

For a long time, my lips slid over twenty three's velvety skin. When I reached the hard little bumps, I used my tongue tip. She gently held my head all the while panting and groaning. 

Twenty three's hips were undulating and she was pushing the place between her legs against my thigh. I felt something wet and was curious to see what she looked like. I knew she was different from me but I wanted to look more closely.

Twenty three's skin was darker there and her pubic hair was wound in very tight curls. I saw that the center was open a little with a pinkish inside and was damp with moisture. 

Whatever want or desire took hold of me, I can't be certain but I reasoned that if my tongue tip felt good on other parts of twenty three's body it would feel just as good there. 

Slowly, I ran it up twenty three's center and kept repeating it. She cried out with pleasure as I worked more of my tongue into the wet groove. Some of her wetness trickled into my mouth and although it tasted strong, I found I liked it. 

Twenty three was bucking her gluteus maximus and pushing more of her center against my lips. I wanted to please her in the worst way and kept at her groove. It wasn't long before she cried out again and her body shook.

Some of her wetness clung to my lips and when she sat up, she slowly licked it off. 

"Was it pleasing to you?" I asked shyly.

Twenty three's answer was to pull me on top of her and hold me tightly with her impressive strength. As we lay facing each other with our arms wound tightly together, she seemed sad.

"Are you afraid?" I asked referring to the journey and gladiatorial games in a different arena.

"No, I am confident but I dislike causing another's death," she said with distress in her voice.

I was looking at twenty three curiously. I had killed many in combat as a warrior for my people but always out of necessity. 

"My people believe that how a person conducts their life in this world determines their fate in the next. I have brought dishonor on them and myself by fighting and killing for the enjoyment of others," she said solemnly.

I gazed into twenty three's dark troubled eyes. "Often, I see the faces of the lives I ended and it shames me," she whispered with heart rending sadness and lowered her tear filled gaze

My heart ached for twenty three and as I held her firmly against my body, tears coursed down my cheeks. 

For two long weeks, I waited impatiently for twenty three's return. On several occasions during training, I was verbally reprimanded for not paying attention. I was thinking about twenty three.

When twenty three returned, I heard whispering in the bath house that her first opponent was inept and the crowd demanded death. She hesitated in executing the woman and was being reprimanded and confined to her cell.

It was nearly another two weeks before I saw her.

When the guard closed the door, I fell into twenty three's arms. Overcome with emotion, my tears stained her bare shoulder. 

"Why do you cry?" she asked me tenderly.

"I am glad to be with you," I blubbered like a child and held on to her as though my very existence depended on it. 

"You have much feeling in your heart for me?" she asked in the sweetest voice.

My mind searched for the Latin word.

"Love," was my one word answer. 

"My fiery Gaul, I have allowed you to enter my heart. Love for you has grown there and grows stronger each day," she said with emotional yearning. 

At that moment, I knew that I loved and cared for her and always would. Passionately, we explored each others bodies until we were too tired to go on.

As my initial training reached its conclusion, I was informed that I would fight my first combat in the Coliseum. When I learned that twenty three was fighting also, it took some of the edge off my nervousness.

On the eve of the contest, a banquet was given by the school for the gladiators scheduled to compete. Outsiders and Roman citizens were allowed to mingle with us. 

Several men and women went up to twenty three or Amazon, her arena name, and complimented her on her fighting style. She graciously thanked them with a smile. 

Later, I was accorded the privilege of spending the night with twenty three. Her demeanor was serious and she insisted that I spend time reviewing the skills of our fighting discipline.

As twenty three went through the various moves from basic to complex, I watched transfixed as her lithe body moved with an elegant, fluid style that resembled a graceful dance and not combat.

"You are not paying attention my fiery Gaul," she lightly admonished me. 

"I think I will do well tomorrow," I stated with some confidence.

"I have seen you in training. You are quick to anger and have a savage way of fighting. It can be both good and bad for you," she said with caring in her voice.

"Will I have to fight you someday?" I asked in a somber way. 

"There may come a day when we face each other. It will be a sad day for me," she said with quiet despair. 

I clung to twenty three like a baby to its mother. Her brutal honesty made my heart ache the likes of which I had never known.

A contingent of guards and slaves marched beside us through a tunnel that connected the gladiatorial school to the sub basement of the Coliseum. 

As we emerged into a labyrinth of poorly lit passageways, the smell of death hung heavy in the stifling air. The roars and cries of various beasts were deafening and resonated in air. 

Gladiators stood impatiently as slaves working wondrous machines and devices lined the corridors leaving little room for passersby. 

Twenty three was stoic and had her game face on. All gladiators were expected to conduct themselves with a quiet and serious demeanor. Talking, while not forbidden, was restricted and we spoke in whispers or with glances. 

The thick, soupy and foul air was nauseating me. I was a veteran warrior of many battles but this was appalling to the senses. 

As we waited for a lifting device to take us to the floor of the arena I looked at my opponent, a sullen but capable Thracian woman. When we emerged in the bright light of the Coliseum, the grandeur and size of the structure staggered me.

I had little time to appreciate my surroundings as we saluted the Imperial box and faced off with our opponent. The Thracian fought with skill and patience while my ferocious style, honed from my years of fighting the Romans erupted with a fury. 

However, I never gained an advantage and we fought to a draw. Twenty three's opponent was on her knees begging the crowd for mercy. The mob was in a forgiving mood and her life was spared. 

Afterward in the cleansing waters of the bath, I smiled at twenty three as she washed her lithe form. She exuded a sexuality and power that lit my senses like a roaring fire. But, her companionship was just as if not more important to me. 

Over the next six months, I fought twice in the Coliseum and once in Capernum. The exhibition in Capernum was the first time I had to kill my opponent. 

A woman from the Roman upper class, she was poorly trained and gave a bad performance. Defiant in defeat, she refused to ask the crowd for mercy and none was granted. 

As I stood over her, she bowed her head and held my thigh in the proper pose for a death blow. Because of my hatred for the Romans when I was a warrior, I had no qualms about killing. But, this was different. I hesitated far too long and the crowd jeered and booed very loudly. 

"End it!" I heard her bark in perfect Latin.

When I thrust the sword into her neck ending her life, I understood why twenty three despised the killing. 

As punishment for faltering in the arena and with every female gladiator in the school present, I received five lashes and confinement to my cell for two weeks. I refused to cry out from the whip and received my penalty in silence.

My back was on fire with pain as I lay face down on my bed. I heard a key turn in the lock of the door and assumed it was the physician. 

Someone knelt beside me and when I turned my head, I saw it was twenty three. She was smiling with sympathy and holding a jar with something white inside. Tears of happiness filled my eyes. 

"You were very brave my fiery Gaul," she said passionately but quietly.

I nodded my head in gratitude but I didn't feel brave. 

"This will hurt but it heals," she warned me in a soft voice and gave me a piece of leather to bite down on. 

When twenty three applied the ointment to my back, I bit the leather to keep from yelling in pain. When it was over, she sat next to me and gently stroked my hair. In a very quiet but melodic voice, she warbled a soothing song that put me peacefully to sleep. 

Every evening twenty three came to change the dressing and softly sang me to sleep. 

"The healing is good," twenty three remarked as she inspected my back. 

I sat up and turned to put my arms around twenty three in gratitude. With my head on her shoulder, she gently rocked me. The wonderful feeling of security that I felt in her embrace was indescribable. I never wanted it to end. 

With four appearances in the arena, I was given more privileges at the school. My stage name in the arena was taken from a Greek mythic god but the crowd gave me the nickname "Barbarian" because of my ferocious fighting style and it stuck.

In spite of the three square meals a day, good health care and very clean living conditions, I was keenly aware that I was a slave with no rights except those granted by my owner, the gladiatorial school. 

While some gladiators were awarded freedom, a vast majority never left the confines of the school and died fighting in the arena. 

A cold winter wind was blowing the day a female gladiator who had been granted her freedom, returned to the school to fight again. 

Later, in the privacy of my cell, I asked twenty three about her but she seemed lost in thought. 

"Is it hard for gladiators outside the gates to the school?" I asked with curiosity.

"Yes, some miss the cheering crowds and the money," she said in a melancholy voice. 

"You are unhappy?" I asked with heart felt concern. 

Twenty three gave me weak smile but I knew that she was deeply troubled about something. However, she refused to speak about it. 

On a late winter afternoon at the Coliseum, twenty three was fighting an equally experienced gladiator but quickly gained an advantage. 

With her opponent on her knees, begging for her life, the spectators were evenly divided on sparing her. Luckily, the signal from the Imperial box was for her life to be spared. 

When twenty three told me what happened, I sighed with relief for her as she gazed at me with weary eyes.

"I don't want to kill anymore," she said with terrible sadness and openly wept. 

As I held the beautiful dark skinned woman in my arms, I tried to soothe her by stroking her back and nuzzling her neck. 

"You have love for me my fiery Gaul?" she asked tenderly while wiping her wet eyes.

"Much love," I answered passionately.

Twenty three had learned the Roman technique of kissing from a rich female patron of the school. Wrapped in my gentle embrace, she demonstrated her new skill. 

Twenty three's kissed over my body pausing at my chest to mouth my hard bumps. Her passion at times exceeded my own and I discovered that she desired to please me as much as I desired to please her.

Twenty three taught me the proper technique for licking her center and I derived much pleasure from it. She was panting in rapid breaths and gently held my head between her lovely brown thighs. 

As we were resting, I was suddenly curious.

"Do the women of your village...do...with other women..." I had a hard time thinking of the correct Latin words. 

Twenty three looked puzzled for a moment but understood what I was asking. 

"Yes, there are women who like women. A girl from my village taught me her secrets. It is acceptable among my people," she stated factually.

Twenty three was moving down my body until she reached the groove between my legs. For a long time, she showed me how superbly educated she was.

On a warm spring morning, twelve female gladiators were informed that they would participate in games sponsored by a very wealthy Senator. The games were to be held in the arena at Tarentum, a small city south of Rome. 

It was nothing unusual to fight in gladiatorial contests in different arenas. Sometimes, our opponents were from the local populace but mostly we fought each other. 

Twenty three and I were on the roster. With the permission of my instructor, she was allowed to assist in my training. 

For three weeks prior to our departure, twenty three drilled me over and over on the basic to advanced skills for the fighting discipline we trained in. 

After a very intense practice the hot water of the bath was very satisfying and soothing. I whispered to twenty three that I wanted to give her a rub down. 

That evening, I sat/kneeled in the area of her lower back to upper gluteus. Using the same oil as the slave attendants, I tenderly rubbed her back shoulders and neck.

"My fiery Gaul, you have talented hands," she sighed deeply.

I was enthralled with the texture and color of twenty three's skin and kneaded her exquisite flesh in a most loving manner. When I was finished, she turned on to her back and gazed at me with loving eyes.

Our passion knew no bounds that night as we used fingers and mouths until our bodies were sore. I loved twenty three. She meant more to me than life itself. As I slept in her comforting embrace, I had no inkling of the awful tragedy to come. 

Tarentum: 

The journey to Tarentum was uneventful and we arrived the following morning. The hot muggy air in the equipment room of the arena was almost unbearable. 

Everyone was sweating and in a surly mood. As far as we knew, it was a routine exhibition in the arena at Tarentum. When number eight informed us that the Senator had paid huge sums to see us fight to the death, a pall of overwhelming melancholy enveloped the entire room.

Twenty three was stoic, wearing her game face as she always did before a match. Our pairing was no accident, the Senator paid extra to see the exotic dark skinned gladiator fight the barbarian from Gaul. 

One of us would not leave the arena alive. My mind refused to accept the reality of the situation and I decided not to fight. Twenty three had to kill me. I wanted her to live. But, she was wise beyond her years and had a plan of her own. My body was numb, devoid of feeling as we waited in the dimly light passage for our entrance into the arena. As I stood in front of twenty three holding my helmet, she whispered in my ear, 

"Goodbye my fiery Gaul." 

A hand caressed my unprotected shoulder and gave a light squeeze of affection. 

Before I had a chance to respond, we were separated and twenty three was sent to the opposite wall of the passage. I could barely see her in the gloom.

In the oppressive heat of the late afternoon sun, six pairs of gladiator's saluted the figures in the Senator's box and commenced fighting. 

We were the least active of all the pairs as I kept circling away from her powerful left arm. I was determined not to fight the woman I loved but twenty three wisely knew that inactivity was deemed as cowardice and could result in both our deaths. 

"Fight, stupid barbarian!" she taunted constantly. 

Twenty three was clearly the aggressor. As she jabbed and feinted with exquisite skill, I easily blocked them with my shield. I had learned my lessons well. 

"People from Gaul are born in dung heaps," she spat insultingly, desperately trying to raise my anger. 

The crowd was restless and rightfully so; not one blow of consequence had been exchanged. Cries and whistles of derision filled the air. 

"Listen to them, do you want us both to die, you pathetic excuse for a gladiator," she said in a voice full of contempt 

Twenty three made several half hearted lunges at me that I avoided. Another series of tepid sword thrusts glanced off my shield. In the choking heat of the arena, she was expending precious energy in a bold effort to arouse my fighting instincts.

The crowd noise was deafening and filled with curses and howls. 

"I am a princess among my people. You are a stupid uncouth girl, a barbarian," she shouted scornfully in between sword thrusts. 

The insults and angry mob were having an effect on me. Slowly, the rage inside of me built to an unstoppable crescendo and the gladiator in front of me was no longer the woman I loved but an opponent. 

"Fight!" she shrieked at me. 

With tremendous ferocity, I rained blows on twenty three that staggered her and opened cuts on the unprotected parts of her arms and torso. 

Defensively, I circled away from twenty three's left hand as the crowd cheered wildly. The anger in my veins was not appeased and I waded in with a series of savage thrusts and parries that hit their mark. 

Twenty three was shaken and bloody but quickly went on a counter offensive that rattled me. Her attack was precise but lackluster and instinctively, I knew she was tiring. She fought with desperation and I intuitively understood that she was clinging to the futile hope that we would be granted a draw. 

As I doubled my assault, hammering blow after blow against her shield, she countered with sword strikes that opened wounds on my arms. She fought with every ounce of strength in her being but was visibly weakening with cuts oozing blood.