Barbarian Prize

by Deanna Ashford

  As he flicked his tongue across the small bud, it seemed to swell in size, until it was as firm and hard as a small sweet grape. Taranis clamped his lips around it and began to suck on it until she gave a pleading whimper of pleasure. He eased the tip of his tongue into her soft moist cunt while his hands reached for her small breasts. They were amazingly firm, and he kneaded them roughly. Then he touched her nipples, pulling and squeezing them with his fingertips, while his mouth went to work on her clit again. In seconds, her body was trembling beneath him and she gave a short sharp scream as she climaxed.

  Taranis was nowhere near finished with her yet; she was no longer his mistress and, at least for a short time, he was the master. Without any more preamble, he covered her body and thrust his cock deep inside her. He started to move, hammering into her as if he were part of an invading army, taking possession of the first woman he came across in a captured city. It felt good, so good; the blood sang in his ears as the bitterness and lust he felt magnified into something far stronger. Then it exploded in a climax of such intensity that it surprised even him. Beneath him, he felt her body buck and tremble as she came again with a low keening moan of bliss.

  Taranis stayed inside her, his groin still melded to hers, looking down at Poppaea as he supported most of the weight of his body on his arms. There was a contented expression on her face, but he waited, wondering if her satisfaction would soon turn to anger. He had treated her brutally and there was the distinct possibility that he had read this woman quite wrongly.

  ‘Worth every denarius,’ she murmured as she curled her arm around his neck and pulled his face close to hers, then she kissed him passionately on the lips.

  Taranis returned the kiss, knowing without a doubt that this could turn out to be a very long night. Maybe it was a good thing that he had been resting for the last couple of days, he thought, as he rolled on to his side and pulled her close. Employing a tenderness he did not feel, he caressed her breasts then ran his hands possessively over her slim body.

  As she kissed him, thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth, he heard a faint sound followed by the click of the door closing. Poppaea’s passionate moans must have sounded like a call for help to Salvo. Now he’d seen that Taranis was in her bed, pleasuring his mistress, and she was obviously enjoying every intimate minute of the experience.

  ‘This is all wrong,’ Sirona complained to Tiro, as the slaves finished dressing her. ‘My aunt would never have worn something like this.’

  ‘I know,’ Tiro agreed with a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. ‘But you cannot disagree with the master. You are to wear this when you perform tonight.’

  Nearly two weeks had passed since the dinner party and to her relief she had not laid eyes on Aulus again as he had been in Rome. The senate had been recalled when Emperor Vespasian had died after a short illness. Aulus had returned today, just in time for the celebration that he had been planning for some time. It was being held to honour the senator’s stepson. He was a legate, the Roman equivalent of a general, who had just returned to Pompeii after spending almost a year in Judea. Now, of course, it would also serve to celebrate the ascension of the new emperor, Vespasian’s son, Titus Flavius Vespasianus.

  The Romans loved spectacles, especially those celebrating the power of the Empire, so Aulus had decided to organise a masque, which would show the defeat and capture of the rebel queen Boudicca by the Roman army.

  Sirona was to play the part of her late aunt, Boudicca, the woman who had defied Rome and fought to drive the invaders from the shores of Brittania. Of course, the events Aulus planned to show were far from the truth, as her aunt had never been captured. Her father had told her that, after the terrible defeat and the death of almost eighty thousand of her followers, Boudicca had fled. Victory or death had been her battle-cry and, knowing that all was lost, she had taken a massive dose of poison then died in her brother’s arms. With the Romans hunting the last of the Icene down, Borus, his wife and baby Sirona had fled further north and taken refuge with a tribe of Brigante.

  Sirona was wearing a gold metal breastplate that was artfully moulded to her body and designed to cup and lift her bosom, but it was cut so low that it did not even cover her nipples. Her lower torso and thighs were barely concealed by a gathered skirt made of muslin. On her feet were delicate sandals held on by gold ribbons that criss-crossed her legs up to her knees.

  ‘I hate it.’ Sirona stared at herself in the mirror made of highly polished silver. Like all mirrors it distorted her image somewhat, but she could still see how sexually provocative the costume was. ‘This is totally inappropriate and more suited to the goddess Athena than a Celtic warrior.’

  ‘It is what the senator wanted,’ Tiro reminded her. ‘Now, do you know what you have to do?’ He’d gone over her part with her a number of times, although there had been no actual rehearsal of the event.

  ‘Of course, it is simple enough.’ She touched the wooden sword at her hip, which looked convincingly real. ‘My followers and I fight the men dressed as Roman soldiers. We lose, all my men are slaughtered and I am captured and taken before the general. He condemns me to death. End of story,’ she repeated a shade irritably.

  ‘Good.’ Tiro didn’t take offence, and he just smiled encouragingly. ‘I am sure your performance will be convincing.’

  ‘Just like the real thing,’ she replied, trying not to sound sarcastic; after all, this was none of his doing. ‘Except, of course, that I don’t get put to death,’ she added, feeling nervous and apprehensive.

  ‘Of course you don’t get put to death. This is a celebration not a Greek tragedy.’ Tiro patted her arm. ‘You worry too much, Sirona. Your situation is not as bad as you believe it to be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You will find out soon enough,’ he said cryptically. ‘Now let’s put on your helmet. You will need to be ready soon.’

  Sirona’s hair was pinned lightly atop her head. Tiro gently eased on the surprisingly heavy and far too ornate helmet, which was just as silly as the rest of her costume. It was topped by a large plume of white feathers that would make her a prime target on any battlefield.

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ he assured her, before leaving to check if the celebrations were running smoothly.

  Sirona picked up the filmy scarf that had been included with the rest of her costume and wound it around the top of the breastplate, so that it covered both her nipples and the upper part of her breasts. Suddenly, one of the slave girls, who had helped her dress, noticed what she was doing. As the girl went to grab hold of the scarf and pull it off, Sirona slapped her sharply on her arm. Nervously, the girl stepped back and made no attempt to touch Sirona again.

  Moments later, the door opened and a male slave appeared and beckoned to Sirona. She followed him along a corridor and into the stables where her chariot was waiting for her. It was less than half the size of a real chariot and was pulled by a pair of pretty white ponies. Trying to control her anxiety, Sirona jumped on to the footplate, grabbed hold of the reins and drew her sword.

  She waited, hearing the distant sound of the guests laughing and talking, probably eager for the entertainment to begin. The sudden loud trumpet blast made her ponies dance skittishly and she pulled at the reins, holding them back. Her followers, who looked nothing like true Celtic warriors, were assembled behind her. They were a dirty-looking bunch of men, dad in rags and animal skins and smeared with mud and grime.

  She heard another trumpet blast and the faint clatter of iron-shod sandals on the stone paving, as the small cohort of fake Roman soldiers marched into place. Perhaps she might have found this at least mildly entertaining if she had been in the audience watching and hadn’t been forced to take part in this travesty.

  At the third trumpet blast, just as she had been instructed, she began to move, guiding her chariot out of the stable, into the narrow road at the back of the villa. The wide doorway at the rear of the peristyle had been left open and, as she dr
ove through it, she flicked the reins.

  The soldiers looked a little nervous as her chariot thundered towards them, while Sirona yelled a Celtic battle-cry and waved her sword. She was skilful enough not to plough into them and the barbarians surging round her chariot to protect her, as one of the soldiers lunged forwards to grab hold of her lead pony’s bridle. The fight was reasonably convincing but very brief; wooden swords clashing on wooden swords, her followers screaming futile insults at their attackers. Sirona was barely aware of the audience’s shouts of encouragement as, in no time at all, the last barbarian was beaten to the ground and she was pulled from her chariot.

  She was dragged over to the man portraying the commander of the soldiers. They were supposed to be acting, yet she felt that these men were being unnecessarily brutal as they divested her of her fake sword and pulled off her helmet. Her glorious hair tumbled down her back as she was forced to her knees. Then she felt rough hands pull away the flimsy scarf covering her breasts. Angrily, she tried to fight them off but yet more hands moved to hold her down. One of the men produced a dagger, which had a frighteningly real, highly polished blade. He sawed through the straps of her breastplate and jerked it off, leaving her naked to the waist. Surely this wasn’t part of the planned masque? she thought, struggling furiously, as one of them reached for her skirt. She caught sight of Aulus sitting on his thronelike chair, smiling in amusement. The bastard, he had planned this all along, she thought, screaming in futile fury, as the thin muslin was ripped from her body, leaving her totally naked apart from her sandals.

  A hand was shoved between her thighs to roughly finger her pussy. Sirona was terrified that they were about to rape her, but first it appeared she had another humiliation to contend with, as she saw a soldier walking towards her holding a small knotted whip.

  Fear made her act instinctively to protect herself. Her skin had been oiled so that it gleamed in the lamplight and it was relatively easy now for her to wriggle out of the soldiers’ grasp. She punched one man in the solar plexus and he fell back, gasping for breath, just as another received a hard kick in the groin from her sandalled foot. Having rolled over, she sprang swiftly to her feet, just as another man tried to grab her. Instead of backing away, she lunged towards him, wrong-footing him completely. He half-stumbled, as she jerked the dagger from his belt and darted away before he could recover his balance.

  Holding the dagger in a defensive position, she stood there in the flickering light, staring menacingly at the small group of fake soldiers, who dearly did not know what to do next, while the audience was shouting and cheering, thinking that this was all a planned part of the masque. Aulus, however, was frowning angrily and talking agitatedly to the tall man standing beside him, who was dressed as a Roman general in full ceremonial regalia.

  Sirona was so furious at what had occurred that she could barely contain herself. Judging by the way the solders were milling helplessly around, they were as yet no real threat to her, so she had to decide what to do next.

  ‘Don’t stand there,’ Aulus shouted. ‘Grab her.’

  ‘No,’ his companion said angrily. ‘Leave her be!’

  Sirona focused on the one man she hated above all else, the one who had planned this humiliation especially for her. She moved menacingly towards the senator, dagger in hand, not realising how beautiful she looked: a stark-naked barbarian, her pale skin gleaming and her long auburn hair streaming down her back. She desperately wanted to plunge the dagger in Aulus’s chest. But could she get close enough to him? Probably not. Damn the Romans, damn the senator, she thought, as she aimed, then threw the dagger towards her target.

  5

  AULUS SHUDDERED IN fearful surprise as the dagger grazed his forearm and landed with a thump in the arm of his chair. The blade had pierced his toga, pinning him to his seat. He looked too terrified even to move as a scarlet stain spread slowly over the fine white woollen folds covering his arm.

  Total mayhem ensued. Now that she was without a weapon, the fake soldiers, who a few moments ago had been too nervous to touch Sirona, surged forwards. She backed away, fighting her automatic instinct to run, because, when she had glanced behind her, she had seen the senator’s servants trying to creep up on her from the rear. She looked around helplessly, searching for her friend Tiro, but he was nowhere to be seen. Yet she knew that it was impossible for even him to help her now.

  Many hands grabbed hold of her and she made no attempt to fight – what point was there in doing so? Judging by the senator’s angry expression, she had forfeited all rights to mercy. She had humiliated him in front of his friends and now she would be punished for her transgressions.

  ‘Aulus, thank the gods you are still alive,’ Gaius Cuspius said agitatedly, as he waddled towards the senator, mopping the sweat from his brow. ‘That barbarian bitch is a wildcat, is she not?’

  ‘So it seems.’ The senator’s voice was shaky, but he appeared to be making an effort to recover some semblance of composure.

  He looked questioningly at the man by his side. Lucius seemed untroubled by his stepfather’s close brush with death, as he calmly removed the dagger from the arm of the chair and tucked it in his sword-belt. With a trembling hand, Aulus pulled back the bloodstained folds to look at his wound.

  ‘It’s only a scratch, nothing to be concerned about,’ Lucius said dismissively.

  ‘Maybe to a soldier it is nothing, Lucius . . . er . . . general,’ Gaius, who was by nature an abject coward, said very agitatedly, not entirely sure how he should address this stern young man who was so very dose to the new Emperor. ‘The girl clearly intended to kill your father. You must have her executed immediately.’

  ‘No,’ Lucius replied loudly. ‘I will not.’ He raised his hand and from the shadows surrounding the peristyle marched a small group of obviously very real soldiers. ‘Bring the girl here now, centurion.’

  The excited chatter of the audience ceased. They stared in amazement, as the soldiers marched forwards with military precision. As they shoved aside the men surrounding Sirona and took hold of her, none dared to even try and oppose them. The servants had bruised her arms and dug their fingers into her flesh, but the soldiers held her lightly and she knew that their grip would only tighten if she tried to pull away from them. She still felt very scared as they led her forwards until she was standing directly in front of the senator and their commander.

  ‘She obviously intended to kill me,’ Aulus said, his voice still shaking slightly. ‘It was only by the will of the gods that I was saved.’

  ‘So you blame only her?’ Lucius asked coldly, keeping his voice low pitched. ‘Were you not about to have her whipped, then raped?’

  ‘Matters got out of hand, the men got overexcited and carried away in the heat of the moment. I ordered no such thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucius said with cutting sarcasm. ‘Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to believe you. No one who serves you would dare take matters into their own hands.’

  Sirona listened to their conversation in confusion. Aulus appeared to be a little scared and rather in awe of this man. If he was indeed the senator’s stepson, why was he acting so disrespectfully?

  ‘None of that concerns me now. We must deal with the matter in hand.’ Aulus took a damp cloth from a kneeling slave and dabbed awkwardly at his wound. Once the blood was cleaned away it was obvious it was little more than a deep scratch. ‘She still must be punished for trying to kill me.’

  ‘The girl wasn’t trying to kill you,’ Lucius said with derision. ‘If she planned to do that, the knife would be buried in your heart right now. Celtic women are warriors; they fight on the battlefield alongside their men. They are skilled in the use of weapons – the girl wanted to frighten you, nothing more.’

  ‘Even so she must still be punished. If we allow one slave to get away with such a crime.’ Aulus lowered his voice. ‘They outnumber us five to one, remember the other rebellions, Lucius.’ He winced as a slave placed a clean cloth soaked in a he
rbal healing compound over the wound. ‘She is beautiful, so I won’t do anything to mar that beauty. Once she has been suitably punished, you can take her away. I’ll be pleased never to have to lay eyes on her again.’

  ‘You have no right to do anything to her.’ This time Lucius spoke loudly so that all around could hear him. ‘Agricola sent this Icene princess as a gift to me –’ He paused. ‘Do you really want these noble citizens to see us arguing over the transgressions of a barbarian?’

  ‘No,’ Aulus was obliged to concede, as he saw his stepson’s face tighten in grim determination.

  ‘I should remind you that your slaves, all of them, are no match for my men.’ Lucius looked pointedly at the soldiers who had recently returned with him from Judea. They had gathered so protectively around Sirona that only Aulus, their commander, Lucius, and the people just behind him could see her at all.

  Sirona was still totally confused by this conversation. She didn’t know whether she should thank this man or fear him. Nevertheless, she was grateful to him for trying to protect her from the senator.

  ‘As you say, Lucius my dear boy,’ Aulus conceded unhappily. ‘She belongs to you and you alone decide her punishment.’

  Lucius nodded at his stepfather then stepped towards Sirona. ‘Lucius Brutus Flavius, Legate of the Fifteenth Legion of Apollo,’ he announced to her. Then, to her amazement, he added in her own language, ‘You have no reason to fear me, Sirona.’

  He took off his long cloak and draped it around her shoulders, pulling it close so that her naked body was hidden from view. His men retreated a couple of paces, as Lucius placed a protective arm around her shoulders. Then he turned to address his stepfather again. ‘I thank you for your hospitality. It is a pity, but it appears that circumstances have forced me to depart earlier than planned.’

  Taranis strode along the corridor towards Poppaea’s bedchamber. It was odd to think how much his life had changed recently and strangely enough he didn’t dislike his new situation half as much as he thought he would. He found Poppaea a challenge and the sex was certainly stimulating. Now that he was firmly ensconced in her bed, his position in the household had changed dramatically.