by Ric Bern
Crimson and Steel
by Ric Bern
Breathless Press
Calgary, Alberta
www.breathlesspress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Crimson and Steel
Copyright© 2011 Ric Bern
ISBN: 978-1-77101-011-5
Cover Artist: Victoria Miller
Editor: Jackie Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.
Breathless Press
www.breathlesspress.com
Crimson and Steel
by Ric Bern
Chapter One
Noricum, c. 200 AD
It was a hectic day in the forum. Vendors had set up stalls and kiosks all along the edges of the broad plaza. With colorfully striped awnings and a myriad of offerings, the agora surged with a multitude of shoppers. Hawkers with pushcarts dotted the vast expanse, as did all manner of entertainers, poets, and philosophers. These men and women of letters stood at lecterns, at podiums, or on simple boxes, and argued passionately in hopes that passersby would pause in their shopping to favor them with a coin or two.
Looming over all of this was the forum market: a semicircular, two-story affair with an arcaded front. Built into the side of a hill, the forum market was the abode of the permanent stores and boutiques that offered manufactured and exotic goods to those of the patrician class. Rich and poor, young and old milled about the piazza. Children ran in packs, roasted meats were served on flat bread, and the scent of exotic perfumes wafted on the air along with the cacophony of a dozen arguments.
It was to this place that Asmin the pleasure slave was brought for sale. Her owner led her and a train of fellow slaves into the forum. Riding on a gray mule and swaddled in orange robes, Javad smiled and nodded to all those who cast their eyes his way. The thick chain that tethered the slave girls together rested easily in his pudgy palm. He gave it a sharp tug now and again to force the line of supplicants into a shuddering lurch. At this he would laugh, his many jowls shaking. The corpulent slaver would bellow a joyous cackle and slap his belly, his golden earrings tinkling. Riding at the rear of the train was a Scythian guard who donned a spired iron helm that was held in place with a tightly wound turban. His mount was an enormous black destrier, and he sported a tulwar tucked into the sash of his caftan. He often leered at the captives with his coal-black eyes. An old scar ran along his right cheek, and it was so taut his visage was locked in a permanent sneer.
“Papaios, we are here,” Javad called to his bodyguard and slave wrangler. “Ready them.”
With a heave and a grunt, the saffron-festooned slaver dismounted and climbed the few steps of a low, wooden stage set up before a tall column. The towering edifice had been erected by the emperor responsible for building the forum, and it bore friezes that spiraled all along its length depicting said imperator defeating his enemies. With the conqueror long dead and nearly forgotten, the tower was now known as the Tower of Slaves, as this was the appointed spot in the forum for traders in flesh to auction their wares.
“Come gather ‘round, you fine men of the Empire,” Javad cried out, cupping his hands around his hairy lips. “You have not seen beauties as fine as these in a great long while, nor will you see them again once I have left. Come see exotic faces from faraway lands, learned in the ways of pleasing men. Why rut with your cook when you may lie with a dusky-skinned girl plucked from the seraglio of a sultan from the East? Come, you fine gentlemen! Does your washerwoman’s hand caress you like a scouring pad? Suffer her no more! Buy one of my girls and feel the caress of buttery flesh. Stolen straight from the zenana of a Pannonian noble. Just for you!”
The slave master went on for some time as Papaios took the chain in hand and tied off their mounts to an eyelet in the column. He then lined up his master’s property near the foot of the steps and glared at any who would venture too close. Only those who had coin to spend were allowed to examine the merchandise. Javad’s lovelies tended to attract all manner of mendicants and wastrels. Even the slatterns would take an interest. They would have precious few customers until the excitement of the pleasure slave auction was through, and so they looked on with a mix of curiosity and jealousy.
“And now, fine sirs, it is time,” Javad said loudly once a lively throng of men of sufficient wealth had gathered. “Let the auction…begin!”
Papaios released the first slave from the tether, and Javad took her up onto the stage.
“This, gentlemen, is Kell.” Javad’s tone took on that of a proud father’s. “She comes to me from the far reaches of your empire, from beyond Britannia. I traded for her knowing I would receive an excellent price for her beauty in your city. Yes, I see your reaction; you are men of taste. Her hair is of spun gold, her flesh alabaster, and her eyes burn like sapphires.”
“Her hips are too narrow; she will not breed,” shouted a man in the crowd.
“Yes, but such a delicate thing is not for breeding.” Javad shooed the question away. He then pulled back her thin, gossamer garment to reveal her bosoms. Kell cast her eyes to the wooden planks at her fidgeting feet as Javad groped and teased her pale pink nubs to full erection. Her fair skin burned as the men looking on made lewd noises.
“Come, who will pay a silver piece to inspect her before making a bid?”
“I will,” responded the same man who had made the comment about the lack of width in her hips.
The tall, stern-faced man mounted the platform and flipped Javad a silver coin. He then wound his toga around his forearm to free up his right palm. Looking down his aquiline nose at her, he tilted her face up by her chin.
“Look me in the eye when I address you,” he said, authority in his tone. “Do you speak our language?” he asked as his palm smoothed down her shoulder and cupped her pear-shaped mound of aroused flesh, testing its weight.
“Yes, Lord,” she managed to eke out as his thumb rolled over her nipple. A trickle of her nectar wet her thigh.
“Not frigid. That’s good. How much, Javad?” he inquired as both hands caressed her firmly and toggled her stiff, sensitive nubs. “She’s a tall one; I like a woman I can look in the eye.”
“For you, Lord, twelve gold,” Javad replied with a meek smile and a bow, his palms pressed together.
“I’ll give you ten, considering I already gave you a silver for the inspection.” He haggled, still looking over his potential purchase. He cupped her sex and felt her moisture leaking onto his fingers. Kell inhaled sharply and pressed against his touch, a shiver shaking her shoulders.
“You offend me, Lord, but this I will do for you,” Javad consented with great drama.
The tall man sampled the flavor of Kell’s fluids, barely flicking his tongue across the pads of his fingertips. He gave both of her flanks a good squeeze and a swat before nodding to his assistant. The buyer’s secretary paid Papaios, who then released Kell’s manacles.
Asmin watched all of this with great interest. She hoped she’d be purchased this time. Traveling from town to town was becoming tedious, and she was not at all opposed to serving as a pleasure slave. In fact, it was her profession. She was trained in the sensuous arts and had been lost by her most previous master in a wager. Nothing would suit Asmin more than to find a place in the home of a prosperous master who could appreciate her charms. The dust of the road stifled her. When it was her turn she eagerly
mounted the steps and presented herself seductively for the crowd of admirers.
“From the mountains of Armenia comes this next trollop,” Javad cried out, crowing like a carnival caller. “From the land of Noah’s descendants, this doxy will tease and delight the senses. She has served in the harems of Arabian satraps and was the prized bedmate of faraway imperial governors.”
Asmin turned and strutted over and again, fluttering her kohl-darkened lashes and tantalizing the mob with peeks at her curvaceous rear and ample chest through diaphanous, fluttering harem attire. Her deep brown gaze scanned the crowd for wealthy men as she jangled tiny cymbals betwixt her fingers and danced. With the expertise allowed by years of practice, she chimed the brass plates in rhythm with her swaying hips, tantalizing and mesmerizing the assembly. Javad had seen fit to allow her to retain this one possession, for they both knew it would aid her in finding a permanent home. She should fetch a handsome price, yet in all their travels he had not received a bid that he had found worthy of her beauty and talents. However, in truth, the slaver was ready to be rid of her; she was forever complaining about life on the road. She needed to seduce a master, and the sooner, the better. Never again did she wish to gaze out upon an endless track of rural byway.
Searching faces as she spun about to reveal her flesh, she noticed one who was entranced. She stopped midspin, and her silks twirled around her. Asmin gasped sharply. A hard-looking man in a crimson tunic was raping her with his gaze. She could practically feel his fingers digging into her flesh and the weight of his intent by the glare that bored into her core. With his hairy arms folded across his deep chest, he smiled a rapacious grin that only broadened when their eyes met.
“I’ll have a look at this one, you fat, Persian whoremonger,” the curly-haired, grinning stranger said as he made his way to the stage. The hem of his tunic was trimmed in cloth of gold, and he wore a thick silver chain around his neck.
“Of course,” Javad replied politely, his change in mien revealing that the man’s discourtesy had wounded him. The slave master accepted the coin and stepped back to allow the burly man access.
Asmin froze in place on the planks. Gruff, leathery hands gripped her by her chin and yanked her to stare up at the red-clad ruffian. One of his bottom teeth had been replaced with a canine of pure gold. Asmin focused on this because the rest of his visage was too horrible to behold for too long. His presence was that of a scavenger seeking a left-behind morsel. Asmin’s belly clenched, and she was reminded of the bug-eyed buzzards that soared near Mt. Ararat, circling over a mountain cat’s kill, waiting to pick bits of flesh from the bones of an already-defeated enemy. Her body quaked, and she moved to turn away when his hold relented, yet he snatched her tight once more and restrained her quivering lips inches from his own.
“You have much fear in you,” he murmured softly so only she could hear. “I will devour your fear. I will drink it up like a succulent wine. Yes. You will do nicely.”
Asmin whimpered and felt something hard bump her hip. Thinking it his erect prick, her eyes darted downward, and his fingers unclenched to allow her to look. She saw a coiled whip of braided leather attached to his broad leather girdle. He sneered and gave a low, rumbling chuckle.
“My lips will never caress you, but you will become as familiar with the kiss of my whip as you are with your own name,” he taunted with a satisfied twinkle in his wicked eyes.
“She is mine! There will be no other bidders,” he said loudly and then glowered over the crowd. The other men were shocked into silence. He turned to Javad. “I am only giving you five gold coins. I am Braxus, the mayor’s champion charioteer in the arena. Say a word about the price, and I’ll have the mayor tax you out of all your earnings today,” he threatened, yanking Asmin down the steps by her wrist as he spoke.
Javad considered the ruffian for a moment with a pallid expression on his face, his baggy eyes drooping. He opened his mouth as if to speak and raised his finger as if to make a pointed gesture, but then surrendered. Casting a knowing glance to Papaios, the slave master accepted the paltry coin from the charioteer as Asmin was loosed from her manacles.
A thousand thoughts raced through Asmin’s mind all at once and clogged her senses. This was not how she had envisioned a new master. This man meant to terrorize her with a whip, not hide her away in the apartments of a well-appointed manor. Her eyes darted around the crowd, but no other men dared look her. Only a group of painted street trulls minded her, and they mocked her and her plight.
“Careful with that one, foreign girly,” said the lead doxy. “The last one he bought from old Javad there didn’t last three days. City guards found her floating facedown in a cistern. There was hardly enough skin left on her to consider her a human anymore.”
The group of whores hooted and cackled as horror prickled along Asmin’s spine. Anger throbbed in her temples as the sluts took pleasure in her discomfort. A shiver overtook her, forcing her to shake her head sharply, and she no longer thought; she only reacted. She would survive this. It was not a conscious thought, yet it was as absolute a conviction as ever she had felt.
As Braxus finished paying and reached to take hold of her wrist, Asmin balled both hands into fists and slammed them into his groin as hard as she could. He doubled over and let out a shuddering exhale. Javad and Papaios appeared stunned by the actions of their otherwise meek slave girl. She sought their eyes, hoping they would understand by her expression, hoping that they knew she meant to cause them no trouble, but she had no words and no time to say them. Javad had treated her well enough, but she had to get away. Before anyone else moved, Asmin had bowled over a trio of now-shrieking slatterns and was crashing through the crowd.
“Don’t just watch,” Braxus managed to say through clenched teeth. “Go get my property, or I’ll have you brought up on charges of fraud.”
Javad gaped for a moment, looking to the escaping girl and then to his powerful, irate customer, who was still bent over wheezing. “You h-heard the man,” Javad stammered, trepidation in his shaking voice. “Papaios, bring her back!”
Asmin ducked and jumped to overcome obstacles in the forum. Mostly it was the seemingly senseless ambling of people that slowed her. In her slave silks she was nearly naked, and as she ran into people and dodged about, stares followed her. Trying to avoid a group of children playing tag, she ran directly into a young man juggling. His multicolored orbs crashed to the ground, shards of glass shattering everywhere as he cursed and looked to see who had interrupted him, but she was already gone.
Papaios bullied his way through the crowd, shoving men and women aside gruffly. He was able to track her by following their staring eyes. While this made it easier to see where she had gone, it also caused quite a bottleneck for him to force his way through. He ran from the forum and toward the gate where they had entered the previous evening. Sure enough, there was Asmin, padding down the muddy street in her sandals. The Scythian guard drew his sword and advanced on her, plodding in his sturdy boots. The crowd parted before him as they saw an armed man striding with such purpose.
“Asmin,” he cried out, “Asmin, you are a runaway!”
That she knew all too well. Her life was forfeit. Were she to be caught, she could be killed on the spot if her master deemed it so. And now her master was a sadist who took pleasure in flaying his slaves. No, by Ishtar, she would not die like that. Looking over her shoulder, she ran on, despite the futility. Soon Papaios would wrap his weathered fist around her throat and drag her back to the slave market. She would be taken to the home of Braxus and be treated to his horrors.
Then she saw a golden glimmer of hope. Standing unattended on the street was a palomino pony. With neither saddle nor bridle, it looked as if it was waiting to be dressed for a ride. Without losing a stride, Asmin gripped the blond mane of the ruddy horse and leaped upon the mount bareback. A yell and a quick kick later, the pony was galloping down the muddy avenue with Asmin clinging for dear life. What ragged silk was left on her
was flapping behind her as she raced through the streets and toward the open gate. Papaios watched helplessly as she disappeared. With a curse he spit into the effluence of the street and headed back to retrieve his mount from the column in the forum.
Chapter Two
“Javad, what is the cause of this disruption?” Marcus, the tall man with the aquiline nose, barked over the commotion.
“Forgiveness, Praetor,” replied the slave master, bowing in courtesy for the elder man’s rank. “One of my girls has run off. It is of no great concern. I have sent my man out to fetch her. All is well.”
“Like hell it is, you piggish Persian prick,” said Braxus, now recovered from the blow Asmin had served him. He shoved Javad, then tugged at his orange robes, jostling him as the crowd that was assembled to observe the slave auction looked on.
The throng of citizens—nobles, whores, beggars, and thieves—gathered in the forum teemed with movement. Susurrations, shouts, and shrieking laughter blended into a cacophony that assaulted the senses, and amid the jangling strife stood these three men. Situated at the base of a high tower built in honor of a conquering emperor, they shouted above the din to be heard. A dispute was to be settled, and the eagle-nosed man with graying temples was fitted for the job.
“Braxus, still yourself,” Marcus said sharply. “Harass Javad no longer. Stop it at once, I say, or I’ll have you arrested and put in chains!”
“Just you try, Praetor,” Braxus challenged, stepping back from the Persian. “The mayor would release me within the hour and have something to say to you, no doubt.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Marcus said with mock recollection. He stepped toward Braxus. The praetor paused and pierced the charioteer with his cold, black gaze, looking through him. “You are one of the mayor’s toys. Think me not as one of the pieces on the good mayor’s game board.”
