by Nhys Glover
Lionslayer’s
Woman
Nhys Glover
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. With the exception of historical events and people used as background for the story, and those in the public domain, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in this work come wholly from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
Published by Belisama Press
© Nhys Glover 2013
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
About the Author
Nhys Glover is an Australian teacher, historian, international presenter and author, who now lives and writes in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales of England. Here she looks out over Bronte Country, and is inspired to write romantic (and a little bit hot) tales of adventure that feed her Soul and inspire her readers.
Please visit www.nhysglover.com to find out more about Nhys and her many books.
CHAPTER ONE
12 September 81 CE, ROME
Decaneus staggered slowly to his feet. The guards who had dumped him on the hot, hard-packed sand of the arena were already making their hasty exit. They’d removed his chains just after dragging him from his dark cell. Now his arms felt oddly light after having worn the manacles for so long. The skin where the iron had rubbed was raw and already putrefying. He knew that unless his wounds were treated soon they’d kill him.
But maybe he wouldn’t live long enough for them to kill him. He became aware of the sounds around him now. People. Crowds of people. He looked up from studying his wrists to see in the stark midday sun thousands of people arranged in tiered rows around him. Few seemed to be looking his way. Most were chatting, oblivious to the predicament of a lone barbarian prisoner-of-war standing in the centre of the bloodstained oval.
He wasn’t stupid, nor was he ignorant. He may come from the Dacian hills in the wilds north of Illyria, but even there they’d heard of the Roman arenas where brutal spectacles were staged to amuse the masses. He knew where he stood.
But it was the size that overwhelmed him in that moment. This amphitheatre was monstrous. It stood three stories high and happily contained tens of thousands. More people than Decaneus had ever seen in his life.
He heard a short trumpet blast. His eyes were drawn to the northern gate above which stood an ostentatiously decorated box, complete with canopy to protect its occupants from the sun. It had to be the Imperial box, he decided, and there were richly dressed people in it who were only now beginning to rise to leave. Were they not staying for the fun?
A few less jaded members of the audience suddenly gasped. Decaneus registered their excitement and followed their gazes. They weren’t looking at him. Instead, they stared, open-mouthed at a lone lion that was loping into the arena to join him. The creature looked as stunned by his situation as Decaneus was.
He had never seen a lion before, but he recognised it from descriptions he’d heard. A huge golden cat with a ragged, brown ruff that made its head seem too heavy to carry. It roared ferociously at the crowd as it paced forward, obviously drawn by the smell of the fresh blood that laced the sand around them so liberally. Would it be as hungry as he was?
His thoughts were slow and sluggish. He knew he was facing danger and possible death. He knew he needed to think. But in that moment, all he could do was watch the approaching creature with awed bemusement. Those teeth were so huge and sharp. He knew how painful a domesticated cat’s teeth could be. Being bitten by its huge cousin would be infinitely worse. And the creature before him had to weigh more than two men. It would knock him to the ground in one leap and be done with him in an instant.
His gaze was diverted back to the Imperial box. He saw a flash of bright blue, as a woman threw a stola over her shoulder. Then, for some reason, the woman turned to look at him. She wasn’t young – a mature matron from her appearance – but she was still a beautiful woman in the ornate and over-coffered style of the Roman nobility. Her gaze showed curiosity. And then, when her attention was drawn to the lion by its roar, it suddenly showed concern.
It was that concern that drew him from his numbed state. It was as if the goddess Bendis looked out through that woman’s concerned eyes. Suddenly his situation was crystal clear.
The lion was turning away from the crowds above him now focusing on the only available victim for its wrath. Him. In moments, the beast would be on him. Without weapons or even a shield, he had no way to defend himself.
Did he?
He had his hands. Could he do much damage with his closed fists? Unlikely. Could he choke the beast with his fingers around its thick throat? No, the neck’s massive, shaggy mane would make getting even his arms around its neck too difficult.
A memory flashed into his mind. A piece of cloth from a washing line wrapped around his throat and from behind him childish hands pulling it tight enough to suffocate.
That had been his older brother’s work when Decaneus was only seven. His older but shorter brother, Borieus, had thought it was so funny to hold him captive that way, strangling the life out of him. If a sharp yell from an observer hadn’t stopped him, Decaneus would have died that day. It was only a joke, Borieus had said afterwards. It had always just been a joke for Borieus.
But now he remembered how effective that innocent piece of fabric had been. Had his traitorous brother done him a favour teaching him that lesson? While the lion loped closer, Decaneus whipped off his filthy loincloth, the only covering on his body. It was a single length of fabric that might only just be long enough to wrap around the lion’s neck.
Pushing down his desire to run from the danger, he wrung the cloth tight like a piece of rope. He knew cats were in their element chasing after their prey. This cat would be no different. The only advantage he could garner in this moment was surprise. His actions had to be sudden and unexpected. He had to go on the attack!
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the silence that had fallen over the arena. All the talking had stopped. Every eye was on him. They watched as he stalked his prey, stunned by the reversal of roles being acted out before them.
When he was close enough, he threw up his arms and yelled aggressively. The beast startled backward and turned away, looking for a way out. Decaneus took the opportunity. With a burst of speed and agility fuelled purely by terror and the desire for survival, he dashed forward and leapt onto the back of the confused lion. He whipped his arm around its neck with the tightly wound cloth in one hand.
The lion twisted to dislodge him but he clung on. In seconds, he’d successfully managed to get one end of the cloth into his other hand while he yanked the other end up to join it at the back of the beast’s neck. Pulling tight, he felt the lion rear up and fall backward. It took everything he had to keep himself from being crushed under the massive weight of the beast as it fell. One leg was caught though. As he wrestled to tighten his grip on the cloth and draw it even tighter around the lion’s neck, the pain from his crushed leg was excruciating. Black spots appeared before his eyes.
Don’t black out! Not now!
The beast scrambled to its feet. It threw its head from side to side, trying to dislodge the suffocating pressure on its throat and the weight of the man on its back. When that didn’t work, it tried to use its back legs to claw at him. At the same time, it threw itself down again, twisting and turning its massive bod
y like the wild thing that it was. A set of back claws as sharp as knives ripped down his thighs, gouging into his flesh. He screamed out his agony but clung on to the noose he’d created. The spots in front of his eyes turned red. His head grew light.
Just a little longer. Just hold on a little longer!
As the last of his strength was used up, the great lion slowed to a drunken standstill. In what felt like the next second, Decaneus found the great beast lying on the ground, its head resting heavily on his shoulder, his head pillowed on its thick mane. In death, the hold he still retained on his opponent’s neck reminded him of a lover’s embrace.
When he was sure the last breath had left the lion’s lungs, Decaneus finally let go. It hurt almost as much as holding on had done. The torn flesh on his hands burned as fiercely as the gashes on his thighs. His right leg was broken, if not pulverised. Agony inventoried his wounds for him, as he dragged himself off the lion’s body.
He glanced down at his leg. The bone wasn’t protruding from the skin he noted absently. That was something. It was just twisted wrongly from below the knee.
As he hauled himself away from the dead beast, he suddenly became aware of the silence. Then, as he struggled to stand on his one good leg, his blood running freely down his thighs in sticky rivers, the arena erupted. The noise was deafening, and it wasn’t anger and abuse raining down on him as he expected but delight and mad jubilation.
The crowd was elated by his victory!
‘Hercules, Hercules…’ they screamed at him. ‘Cor Leonis! Cor Leonis!’
He knew of Hercules, the legendary hero, but knew nothing of Cor Leonis. Whatever it meant, it was a badge of honour being granted to him for his audacious victory. He looked up and around him, dazed. The pain was increasing now that the rush of battle was wearing off. Staying on his feet was going to take everything he had, but he wouldn’t let these fickle creatures see him felled.
Not now, not ever!
He noticed that the people in the Imperial box hadn’t left after all. They were watching him as if he were some strange mythical creature. What were they thinking and what was to happen to him now?
When Livianna Honoraria had glanced back to see what the trumpet was announcing, she’d seen the lone man standing in the centre of the arena. He was tall and slim, with golden hair shorter than the average barbarian’s but longer than a Roman’s. His handsome face was covered by a short beard, darker than the hair on his head. Even from a distance with the filth of captivity crusting his body, Livianna could tell he was an extraordinary young man and a warrior by his stance.
The young man had turned in her direction. Their gazes had meshed for a moment before hers had moved on to the other curiosity in the arena. After a morning spent watching bestiarii hunters fighting all types of animals – bears, cheetahs, leopards and even bulls with all manner of weapons, Livianna now saw an unarmed man facing down the fiercest of them all – a huge, male lion.
With disgust and concern, she realised that this was no contest at all. The man would be taken down in a moment. This was not a battle. It was damnatio ad bestias – condemned to the beasts. Obviously a criminal, the young man had been assigned this death rather than a crucifixion or burning. It would be a quick death, if not a painless one, she realised.
Her husband Titus Flavius Sabinus, first cousin to Emperor Titus himself, seemed to be drawn by her interest. He broke off his conversation with Caesar, who had just admitted to not feeling well, and followed her gaze.
‘What interests you, my love?’
‘I don’t know. This is obviously the first of the executions. We’ve left leaving for lunch a little too long…’
Emperor Titus, a solid, middle-aged man of average height and the stiff ways of a seasoned soldier, turned to see what his companions were looking at.
‘The lion will make quick work of him, Livianna. Come…’ he said with disdain.
In that moment, the condemned man did something quite unexpected. He tore off his loincloth and wound the cloth up in just the way a washerwoman would wring water from her washing.
Her eyes tried to look away, but she was unable to take her gaze from the well-endowed body that was now on display.
‘What is he doing?’ Sabinus asked, giving the man his full attention now. The Emperor did the same.
When the man charged at the beast, she wasn’t sure who was more shocked, the lion or the crowd. There was more than one audible intake of breath around her. Suddenly, she realised how quiet it had become. If this had been a Graecian amphitheatre, they could have dropped a coin in centre of the arena in that moment and it would have been heard by every one of the fifty thousand witnesses to this spectacle.
Turning from the warrior, the lion looked for a way out. The naked man dived onto the beast’s back. Before her eyes registered what was happening, the filthy grey cloth was wrapped tight around the lion’s neck and the man was hanging on tight, like a horsemen clinging to the reins of a rearing horse. But the lion fell backward and the man only managed to shift out of the way enough to save his torso from being crushed. His leg didn’t fare so well.
In seconds, the lion was up again, thrashing from side to side, using its hind claws on its attacker’s thighs. Then it twisted and fell back to the ground again, stirring up a dust storm in its wake. Blood from claw marks arced through the air as the man screamed out his agony. The sound was louder than the lion’s angry roars, but the warrior wouldn’t release his death-grip on the cloth.
The slip of fabric seemed to be achieving its purpose. The man was slowly strangling his foe.
When the beast finally stopped struggling and lay in the man’s arms, Livianna felt her heart go out to the magnificent animal. Usually, she cared nothing for the creatures that were killed before her and only marginally more for the gladiators who fought, often until death, as entertainment in the arena.
It wasn’t that she enjoyed the carnage, the blood and the struggle; it was more that she found it all too disgusting to care about. If not for the direct invitation from the Emperor, Livianna wouldn’t have come this day. She’d managed to avoid all the other ninety-nine days of the inaugural games that Titus had declared for the opening of the Flavian Amphitheatre.
It had been an expensive and garish display, designed to take Rome’s mind off the series of disasters that had befallen it since Titus took up the mantle of Imperator from his father Vespasian in ‘79. First, there had been the eruption of Vesuvius, which had almost cost the life of her daughter Livia. Then there had been a fire in Rome that rivalled that in Nero’s time. Along with that fire had come a plague that had blown through the city, leaving hundreds dead in its path. For the superstitious, it might look as if Titus’ rule was not approved by the gods.
But this lavish entertainment had done its job, even at the cost of 9,000 animals and hundreds of human lives over the course of the last year. The people were fully behind Titus now. He could begin to undertake his more ambitious plans for the city and the empire.
And here was the unexpected crowning glory of the extravaganza on the very last day of the festivities! This execution had turned into the most exciting contest of the day, or even the hundred days. And she felt elated for the warrior’s victory and saddened by the animal’s death. It was all so unexpected and so shocking.
‘By the gods, what man is that?’ Caesar had moved to the very edge of the box and was leaning out toward the fallen man and beast, his illness forgotten. He gave a little grunt when the man pulled himself off the lion and struggled to his one good leg. Blood was pooling beneath the warrior as he tottered there, staring out at the hysterically cheering crowd.
They were giving the man the accolade of Hercules. They were calling him lion-heart. It was the highest honour. Of course, the people would know the story of Hercules defeating the Nemean lion. This victory now equalled that legendary tale in their eyes.
‘Who is he?’ demanded Caesar of Senator Maximus Sula, who was officiating in the
Emperor’s place during the lunch break.
‘A Dacian prisoner-of-war. No, not of war… nothing so grand. He was caught in a skirmish on the Moesian border,’ the Senator answered grudgingly as he consulted his scroll. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that the Dacian had survived.
‘Why was he not sent to a gladiator’s ludus? Such a warrior shouldn’t have been wasted on execution.’ The emperor was growing annoyed now and Livianna knew him well enough to be wary.
‘He was unwilling to fight. Short of killing him where he stood, the decision was made to give him the opportunity to entertain Rome with his death. No one expected…’
‘No one expected that he’d turn out to be the greatest bestiarii of all time!’ The Emperor seemed to have forgotten his ill health completely now as his eyes lit with fire.
‘No, Caesar, no one expected this.’
‘You cannot condemn him to death after such a display, surely,’ Livianna found herself arguing before she thought better of it.
It was not her way to interfere in male concerns such as this. What did it matter to her that this young man was saved? But he reminded her of her son-in-law somehow. Not in looks – for Allyn was a Celt, with hair as dark as this man’s was light. In fact, the Dacian’s hair was very close to the colour of the lion’s tawny pelt. She had noticed it while the beast lay in the warrior’s arms. Cor Leonis was a fair name to award him.
No, he didn’t look like Allyn, but there was something about the arrogant disrespect the warrior exuded that reminded her of Livia’s husband. This man had no more love of Rome than Allyn did.
‘I can’t grant him his freedom as I would a gladiator,’ Titus announced angrily. If Livianna had to guess, she’d say his anger was directed at his own powerlessness rather than at her. He was supposed to be a god, but instead he was at the whim of the filthy masses just as every emperor before him had been.
