The tribune let out a soft chuckle in her ear. “I know, little princess.”
Without warning, he spun her around to face him. Raising a thumb to her lips, he brushed them softly. She closed her eyes and parted them, raising her hands to touch him.
“No! They stink of garbage.” She stopped instantly and opened her eyes to look into a cruel smile. “Behind your back, I think.”
Rheydyn obediently placed her hands behind her back and looked up at him, frightened. “Please, Quintius. It has been so long.”
Without warning, he slapped her and then squeezed her chin in one hand. She glared at him and brought her fingers to her lip, but he raised his hand again.
“Behind your back.”
She instantly obeyed, knowing the consequences well.
A satisfied grin split his face. He brought his hand again to her lips. “On your knees, little princess.”
That arrogant baritone voice sent waves of wanton desire through every inch of her skin. Rheydyn tried to resist those dark notes as they caressed her ears and sent shivers down her neck. There was no defense against it, not for her. She would let its master do whatever he wished. Her conditioning had been absolute.
Rheydyn searched the open door at the back of the Great House several yards away. The yellow light of the fires sent a ghostly illumination into the garden.
“They will catch us,” she said softly, struggling against incredibly strong hands and decades-trained muscles.
“So what if they do. I am going to meet Marius in battle. I could die tonight. No one would begrudge me a last moment of pleasure. Especially with a whore of your obvious talents.” His smile faded and Rheydyn sank to her knees, knowing the look well.
“Do not say that,” she whispered as Quintius removed his balteus. “I could not bear it if you died. I love you.”
“Then be a good little slave slut and please me.”
“I was a queen…” she whispered and immediately wished she had not. The hand seemed to appear from nowhere, the strike to the face fierce. Rheydyn’s hands struck the ground, wrenching her wrists. He grabbed her before she fell any further, snapping her back to her knees.
Quintius bent down to ensure she saw his eyes. “Now you have to say it.”
“No, please Quintius. I beg you. Do not make me say it.”
The dagger appeared in his hand so quickly Rheydyn did not see where it came from.
“Say it.” His voice was cold, almost nonchalant as he brought the blade dancing in front of her eyes. “You do not want that pretty face of yours mangled, do you?”
Terror suffused her face and she trembled. “No, sir,” she whispered contritely. “Please do not hurt me, sir. I will do anything you ask. Do what you wish and I will submit.”
Quintius granted her a slow dominant glare when he put the knife away. She watched him pull out his swollen erection and stroke it, taking her chin in his other hand.
Rheydyn hated herself for being his slave, but could not stop the rush of moisture that saturated her when she saw him touch himself. A flush of craving ran through her body when she saw how large it was, how swollen with lust. The pain, the pleasure sent crashing waves through her limbs. Her body was greedy for his touch, shameful, wicked. When she let out a muted gasp, he put the head at her lips, forcing them open.
As he entered her mouth, she could feel him swell, could feel the hiss of rushing blood running through the veins along the side of the muscles as they contracted and expanded. She wanted desperately to feel the pulsing shaft in her hands, but Quintius would not allow it.
He roughly pushed his hands into her hair. She closed her eyes as her scalp stung when he tightened his grip. Slowly, easily, he slipped himself deeper and deeper into her mouth with each thrust of his hips.
“Look at me,” he said, tilting her head back.
When she opened her eyes, his face was set into a grimace as he clamped his teeth together and released his passion. Cascades of pleasure ran through her. She tasted the salty intrusion, relishing the satisfied groans that came from his throat, the anticipation making her almost release.
Quintius tilted her head further back until he could slide his hardness down her throat. Concentrating, Rheydyn breathed through her nose, allowing him to force open the gate of her esophagus and to relax as he had taught her. He then moved in and out. Her throat stung from all the abuse, but it was soon over.
When Quintius suddenly pulled from her mouth, she almost fell forward onto him, but he caught her and yanked her to her feet. Taking her into both hands, he whirled her around and pushed her against the rough wooden fence. She could feel the loose dirt sliding into her sandals, the timbers cold on her breasts. Quintius grabbed her tunic and tugged until it fell around her feet, leaving her completely naked in the night. He pressed his body into her back, the chilly bite of the armor much worse than the wood. His erection still exposed, he grabbed the base and slid it between her legs until she opened to him. He rubbed the length of it back and forth, back and forth, never quite entering. It made her mad with desire, but she could not move with his body pressing her to the wall.
“You are moist, little one. Anxious for me?”
“No,” she lied, as always ashamed at how quickly he could bring her to this point, this abandonment. She did not fight him anymore, not for a long time now. He had rescued her from poison those many months ago, saved her life. Rheydyn vaguely remembered a kind man then, a gentle man who made her forget everything she was before. That seemed like an eternity ago. His slow continued abuse had eventually subdued her. She loved Quintius more than life. She would do anything he asked of her.
“Open for me,” he whispered.
She spread her legs and closed her eyes.
His erection was soaked with her. He pulled back to push the head of it into the soft heat, grabbing her wrists and holding them to the fence. Gradually, tortuously, he slid into her, biting her shoulder, her neck, her ear, taking his time. Rheydyn laid her cheek against the wood and let him force the full length into her body until she could feel the base quiver against her. A shivering sigh went through her as he pulled it back quickly and then thrust into her again. His hands left hers and wrapped around her to find her breasts. Pinching the nipples between two of his fingers, he wrapped the warmth of his hands around them and squeezed, only tenderly this time.
Quintius was being kind, kinder than he usually was. He must want something.
The notion tumbled out of her head as he plunged deeply into her, beginning a rhythm that would please her. Her body responded to the beat, the muscles within her core clamping down on him. Up and down, he carried her, repeatedly, slowing when she would succumb to passion and then quickening when she seemed to fall away. The eruption of their satisfaction was so intense Quintius lifted her from the ground and pinioned her body against the fence. Neither of them made a sound, both knowing the danger they were in, but muted noises of pleasure leaked through clenched teeth and air hissed back into their lungs at the end.
Then Quintius did something he had not done in a long time. He folded Rheydyn’s shivering body in his cloak and rocked her in his arms for a few glorious moments, the warmth of the wool and compassion feeling wonderful, wrapping her in forgotten memories.
“I received your message. You are certain Marius is the liberatio?”
The abruptness of the question jarred her out of her momentary joy.
“Yes,” she said, more of a question than answer. “I saw the mask myself. Heard them talking.”
“Good.” He stroked her hair and then wound his hand through it, pulling her ear to his mouth. “You remember what you need to do, little princess.”
Rheydyn touched his arm lightly, feeling the course hairs prickle under her fingers. “Yes.”
“Destroy them for me, Rheydyn.” His deep voice was a luxuriant wave washing over her devotion. “Use your skill, your mind, your sweet little body to drive a wedge between them. Remember, Marius is only a man
with the same appetites as any other. Do it for me, for us. I swear you will sit on the throne of this island, as its only queen.”
A flash of shame ran through her that she was certain Quintius could not see, but she smoothed it over just the same. The marks of fresh beatings ached, sparked by his demands.
“Yes, my love,” were the only words she would allow herself to say.
The guilt did not matter anymore. Nor the dishonor of her betrayal. None of it mattered. There was no more will, no more question of obedience.
Rheydyn would do anything Quintius asked.
The Edge of Honor
Chapter VI
The crowd of men wedged into a tight circle around two giant Roman soldiers wrestling at its center. A deafening roar went up from the throng. Torches flickered around the ring every few feet, casting the arena in shadows. The flames hissed and shifted in the night breeze when a soft mist blew in from the forest. The voices of the men billowed from loud to soft and back again with each hold or counter hold.
Marius called for dancers early in the evening to get the serving women out of the Romans’ grasp and arranged for more lively male entertainments to distract them until midnight. The games included a javelin throwing competition, a series of wrestling matches between the century champions, and a new Celtic toss game that involved throwing large boulders or wooden poles as far as they would go. The Roman soldiers took to the sport quickly and many participated. The sword exhibition with Quintius was the last event on the program.
He ran his hands along the metal segments of the lorica armor, amazed that it, like the leggings and helmet, still fit. He had not worn it since the day they had defeated Boudiga. When they strapped the metal to his chest, a kind of pleasure settled in. The nostalgia sent a spark of guilt through him. He shook it off so he could concentrate on the battle to come.
Marius glanced at the wrestlers distractedly while one of his aides helped him don the heavy gladiatorial helmet he would wear for the meet. It was bulky and uncomfortable. Earlier, Marius had sworn at the Roman sword master who insisted he wear it and kicked it across the sand.
“This is a slave’s helmet,” he protested loudly. “I am no gladiator.”
The Roman officer picked it up and thrust it into Marius’ arms. “If you wish to fight in my arena, you will wear it.”
He knew it was useless to argue. The sword master walked away smugly, calling over his shoulder, “It is just an exhibition.”
Marius knew better.
A final cheer went up from the men as one of the wrestlers pinned the other into the sand.
Marius had been warming up for the last hour. He took one final swing with his sword before slamming it into its sheath and handing it back to the trainer. For the exhibition, they would use gladii provided by the master.
He spotted Quintius on the other side of the arena. The Roman aides were scrambling to get him ready. Marius wondered where the tribune had been. Quintius said something to the aides when they brought him the gladiatorial headpiece and Marius smiled. They argued but Marius could not hear what they were saying. Quintius returned a curt reply, but the two men insisted and the tribune had to capitulate. Like Marius, he wore the helmet and Roman armor only.
Marius felt naked without the scutum shield he normally took into battle, but he had fought without it before. It would be difficult to get the tip of a blade through Quintius’ lorica, he thought absently, but he knew how. All he needed was an opportunity.
A hush fell over the crowd; the only sound was the exchange of coins for payoffs on the wrestlers and final bets on the upcoming match. Gambling was brisk but quiet, the murmured last call rippling through the mass of scarlet tunics.
Marius heard he was the favorite, with odds of two to one, the smallest he could remember. He must be getting old or the tribune really was as good as they said.
I wish I could have seen him fight before now.
He would just have to watch Quintius move during the opening drills they must complete before the blades could touch one another. It would have to do.
Servants finished smoothing the footprints and blood out of the sand and Marius moved forward.
When the two men entered the arena, the soldiers pushed closer, but Suetonius gave a loud stand down and the men settled well away from the two opponents. The smug look on Quintius’ face as he ambled across the sand irritated Marius.
Their seconds, two fully armored centurions, stood at the center of the arena. The officers were back to back, each holding a sheathed sword in front of their chests, the sculpted scabbard looking distinct in the flickering torchlight. The mist gave way to an icy midnight frost, freezing the clouds out of the sky and allowing the three-quarter moon to dominate the fires. Its brilliance turned the shadows to blue while the soldiers looked like black marble statues. Thousands of night insects creaking in the darkness broke the quiet.
Marius squared his shoulders and looked at his second. Kuna said nothing as he held out the gladius to his ex-commander. Wrapping his fingers around the polished grip and pulling it from the scabbard, the old feeling crept through Marius’ shoulders and into his neck. A rush of battle readiness, a surge of lightning exhilaration made his sinews flex in preparation. It had been many months since his blood boiled to the battle making him fierce and ready. The feeling was deeply sexual, violent, and he could not stop the surge honing the finer muscles to take their position, whispering to the more subtle parts of his mind to prepare for overall strategies, forcing him to focus his eyes and watch for every nuance.
This feeling was why he loved to fight, even though he had to debate with his higher sensibilities every time. He turned away from Kuna, arched his back as far as it would go, and roared up at the pale moon. This usually unnerved his opponent. The answering cheer from the crowd was gratifying. He leisurely scanned the line of men, making certain he caught each pair of eyes. Half way through, he stopped and could go no further.
At first, he thought it was Delia come back from the villages. It was not Delia.
Rheydyn was dressed in long black veils that clung to her body and hid all of her face, except the eyes. She tugged the veil from her face and looked at him boldly, pulling away the layered fabric beneath her throat. The tops of her breasts rounded softly in the moonlight. He hated the woman for what she had done to Delia. That she was here in an obvious show to distract him, made his mouth tighten in anger. Why was she doing this?
Rheydyn removed a length of material from her side until her hip and leg were fully exposed. She did it seductively, in the heat of the moment, an obvious sexual temptation. Marius glared at her suspiciously. Without taking her eyes from him, she ran the piece of veil up her body until it came to the white flesh of her breasts. Looking down demurely, she tucked her veiled hand underneath a breast and ran her thumb on top of the hidden nipple. Even from that distance, he could see it harden. The soldiers on either side of her cheered, but her arrogant eyes watched only Marius. Removing the piece from her breast, she signaled a guard to take it to Marius.
When it arrived, it was soaked with her scent and the fragrance made his head swim. There was something strangely compelling about the smell and Marius frowned down at it. He was going to order it taken back to her, but when he glanced her way, she had disappeared into the crowd. He irritably tucked it into his balteus so it would not tangle in his feet, deciding to have Evyn return it later with a harsh reprimand.
“A token from a beautiful lady.” Quintius approached swinging the sword to warm up. “You do get around, and at your age.” He clicked his tongue and did a perfect double flip with the sword. “I imagine your Briton bitch would not approve. Do not worry, old man, Delia will not be alone tonight. While they are sewing up your disfigured body in the surgeon’s tent, we will keep the queen company. It is something I have been looking forward to.”
Marius tossed his own sword into the air, twice as high as the tribune’s attempt, and caught it at his back, sending a loud c
heer up from the crowd.
He gave Quintius a languid smile. “Do you want to talk or fight?”
Without waiting for a reply, Marius moved over to the very center of the arena and took up his drilling position, followed by Quintius.
The aged Roman drillmaster stood in front of them, covered in armor and decorations, a permanent sour expression engraved on this face. An ancient officer’s helmet tilted on his head. It had seen better days. Marius smiled at the fifteen inches of mustache hanging askew from the metal encasing his face. As ridiculous as it made him look, Marius knew better; he was the finest trainer on the island. The old man came close to them with his hands behind his back.
“You both know the rules of exhibition, yes?” he shouted, even though the arena was quiet. Marius knew he was hard of hearing. “Together, you will do Advanced Drill III through XXV, without flaw, or you will begin the process again. Am I clear?”
“Clear, sir!”
“Tria!”
The two men stood at rigid attention with their swords held perpendicular to their sides, face to face. This was the first drill, a test of strength and endurance. If a man failed, he would lose the competition immediately. After several moments, the two men had not moved, so the drillmaster released them.
“Quartuor!” he shouted and the two men pivoted in exact mirror precision on their heels. “May you both fight well.”
The trainer held up his hand. Marius took five steps back and saw Quintius do the same. The master’s arm came down.
Ave Imperator! Moritori te salutant! Hail Caesar! Those who are about to die salute you! The words inside Marius’ head came from some recess he could not control and he wondered why they chose that moment to emerge.
They began with the thrusting lunges and continued without stopping through the others. Each step of the drills became more complicated than the last, until they completed the first ten: the engagement, the three thrusts, the three steps. From the corner of his eye, Marius could see that Quintius was as meticulous in his accuracy as he was. Even though Quintius was a few inches taller than Marius, they came within fractions of completing each drill in the exact same position. The drillmaster and the crowd seemed impressed.
The Edge of Honor Page 5
