‘Sirona,’ Lucius said softly. ‘Are you unwell?’
‘No. I’m watching the fighters.’ Her green eyes were blank, nearly devoid of emotion, as she turned to look at him. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? Watch these poor creatures slaughter each other for the enjoyment of the crowd.’
‘This is far more than an entertainment,’ he said rather curtly. ‘The power and might of the Roman Empire is on show here today.’
‘Perhaps that is why this troubles me so much,’ she replied scathingly. ‘It displays nothing more than your Empire’s cruelty. These men are slaves, they care not for your power and might, they have no choice but to fight.’
‘Most of them are prisoners of war, slaves or criminals.’ He didn’t appear to like her questioning the morality of the games. ‘If they’d been in Brittania, as prisoners of your people, they’d most likely be dead already by now. At least this way they have a chance of survival.’
‘So we slaughter our captives, while you magnanimously force them to fight in the arena.’ She shook her head, her eyes suddenly blinded by unshed tears.
‘They are not your concern, he is! You’re scared he’ll die.’
‘Taranis will not die,’ she said defiantly. ‘He’s even more of a warrior than you are, Lucius. I’ve just no wish to watch him fight.’
‘You’ll stay, and you’ll watch,’ Lucius said determinedly.
Sirona forced herself to look down at the arena again. The recreation of the battle of Troy was just about to begin. If legends were to be believed more than fifty thousand Greeks besieged the city, but in this battle there were only about thirty or forty men on each side. The Greeks wore Roman military-style outfits, while the Trojans were dressed more finely with tall winged helmets on their heads.
Where was Taranis? she wondered worriedly. Lucius would have told her if he were one of those helmeted men in the arena right now and she was certain she would have recognised him even if his handsome face wasn’t visible to her. Yet her fingers still tightly gripped the narrow arms of her chair as she watched the fatal battle begin.
The Romans loved these elaborate forms of entertainment; it was like play-acting but the shouts and screams from the men fighting were all too real, as they cruelly cut and stabbed at each other. All fought bravely, and soon dead and wounded men littered the sand of the arena, while the battle appeared to have reached a stalemate of sorts and both sides drew back. A loud trumpet blast interrupted the proceedings and two men on white horses galloped into the arena. They had to be the two leaders of the opposing sides, King Agamemnon of Greece and King Priam of Troy.
Sirona couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, as the acoustics were not as good as in a Roman theatre. She turned to look questioningly at Lucius.
‘It has been decided that the battle will be settled by a champion from either side. Achilles for the Greeks and Prince Hector for the Trojans.’ He smiled coldly, as he added, ‘Your former lover is playing the role of Achilles.’
‘Didn’t Achilles win?’ Sirona said nervously.
‘Don’t count on it this time, my sweet. Nothing is set in stone here, these men battle to the death. Taranis is pitted against Demeter, a renowned fighter and the most famous gladiator in Pompeii.’
Taranis will win, she told herself, ignoring the ice-cold fear eating away at her heart. She recalled how bravely he’d fought in the final battle with Agricola’s legions. Then she had been convinced that her warrior lover could never die. However, she had also been convinced that they could not lose and here they were both prisoners of the Romans.
She glanced again at Lucius sitting beside her, his handsome face was set in a cold mask. Anxiously, she clenched her hands in her lap, determined not to show her fear for Taranis.
Sirona heard the roar of excitement from the crowd and saw her former lover, dressed in gladiatorial armour, but not wearing a helmet, stride on to the sun-drenched sands of the arena. He looked magnificent, his tanned skin gleaming, his blond hair loose around his shoulders. He wore a gold breastplate, thick gold bracelets around his muscular upper arms and the short Greek leather skirt left most of his muscular legs bare, apart from the golden greaves covering his shins. He was the epitome of perfection, Achilles himself reborn.
Sirona held her breath, as his opponent, also helmetless, entered from the other side. The muscular dark-haired man, almost a head shorter than Taranis, swaggered forwards. She heard the crowd yelling, some for Taranis, the majority for Demeter. Both men raised their swords in salute to the onlookers, but Taranis did not join Demeter in the gladiator oath – we who are about to die salute thee.
The battle between the two men began, the arena resounding to the metallic sound of sword clashing on sword, shields banging loudly together, as both men attacked. Sirona watched totally petrified and praying that Taranis would win, but she was expert enough in fighting to know that both men were equally strong and well matched, only the most skilled and the most cunning would survive.
She looked down on them battling it out on the bloodstained sand, hardly able to believe this was real. She saw Taranis thrust and parry, jumping aside nimbly, managing to dodge the cruel blows from his opponent as he lunged forwards and attacked time and time again. However, the last thrust from Demeter was frighteningly close to his side. They fought with the gladius, a Roman sword with a short double-edged blade designed more for thrusting and stabbing than elaborate swordplay. The polished iron blade was strong, but blunted quickly. She saw them swinging through the air, shining in the sunlight, as if this were all part of some terrible vivid nightmare she was having.
Both men attacked and retreated many times, driving forwards, being driven back, with both sword and shield being used in this determined onslaught. They fought long and hard, slashing at each other until both men were cut, only slightly, in a number of places. The iron blades swung through the air as they twisted and turned, swords clashing time and time again. She saw Taranis jump back, as Demeter’s gladius caught his arm, this time cutting it quite deeply but the thick gold bracelet had taken part of the blow, preventing the flesh from being slashed to the bone.
With blood dripping down on to his right hand, Taranis backed away and wiped his slippery palm on his leather skirt seconds before Demeter lunged again. Taranis side-stepped and twisted the sword in his hand so that the blade faced away from Demeter, whereupon he hit the gladiator on the side of the head with the heavy hilt. Demeter staggered back, half-stunned, while Taranis circled him slowly.
Sirona’s heart was beating so fast now she could barely draw breath, she was utterly caught up in the fevered excitement of the battle between these two men. She was so close to Lucius she could hear his laboured breathing, see his heightened colour, as the lust of battle poured through his veins. Suddenly, to her consternation, his hand clamped down on her knee and he began to pull up the folds of her skirt.
Trying to ignore his hand touching her, she kept her attention focused on the arena. Taranis had just managed to wound Demeter in the leg and he was hobbling a little, but by now the blood was flowing even more freely down Taranis’s arm. Both men backed away from each other, chests heaving, gasping for breath, while the crowd in their lust for blood screamed for them to continue.
Taranis raised his sword to salute his opponent then, to the crowd’s amazement, tossed aside his shield. He stood there looking infinitely weary, almost as if he could be beaten in an instant. With a low growl, Demeter lunged towards him, while Sirona felt Lucius’s fingers slide under her gown and creep up her leg. Swapping his sword to his undamaged arm, Taranis parried Demeter’s blows, edging back, never attacking, completely on the defensive.
‘He is tiring,’ Lucius muttered under his breath.
The scraping sound of sword upon sword set Sirona’s already fragile nerves on edge, yet she was also filled with a wild elated excitement. She could now more easily understand battle lust and why men fought to the edge of insanity and beyond, while she
felt Lucius’s fingers caress her inner thigh then ease their way between her pussy lips. She was sopping wet and she gave a soft moan, as they slid inside her. How could she feel so aroused when Taranis was fighting for his life, especially as his strength appeared to be waning fast?
There was a loud gasp from the crowd as Demeter’s attack became more frenzied and uncontrolled. The noise drowned out Sirona’s loud gasp of sexual pleasure, as Lucius shifted in his seat so that he could thrust his fingers even deeper inside her, while his thumb pressed hard against her aching clit.
Consumed by wild, sensual sensations, Sirona saw Taranis turn and sprint to the edge of the arena until he was almost directly under the magistrates’ box. She clenched the arms of her chair, drowning in sexual delight, as Lucius thrust hard into her pussy, while on the floor of the arena Taranis was losing his fight for life.
Demeter was taking his time now, walking slowly towards his near defeated enemy. Darting to his left, Taranis suddenly switched his sword to his right hand and quite literally sprinted towards his opponent. The intense orgasm ripped through Sirona’s body, as Taranis leapt high in the air and, with a sharp downward stabbing motion, he thrust his sword deep into the juncture where Demeter’s head and shoulder met.
Sirona sat there trembling in the final throes of her climax, as Taranis landed lightly on his feet and swung round, just in time to see Demeter fall face forwards on the sand. The crowd went wild as Taranis strode towards his dead opponent and raised his sword high in the air.
‘So he lives to fight another day.’ Lucius jerked Sirona to her feet, while the crowd still roared their support for Taranis. Lucius pushed her face forwards against the rough concrete wall of the box and lifted her skirt. Pushing aside his toga he pressed his belly to her buttocks and pushed his cock deep inside her vagina.
Taranis lives – the words formed an incantation in her mind, as Lucius thrust into her like a man possessed.
10
JULIA AWOKE NOT long after dawn and just lay there watching Taranis sleeping, feeling happier than she had ever been. She had never known what it was like to fall asleep in her lover’s arms and wake with him still beside her.
Cnaius had brought her to the barracks after the games had finished. Galen had already sewn up the deep gash on Taranis’s arm and, apart from a few scratches and cuts, he was unharmed and surprisingly cheerful. Cnaius had congratulated him and then left to celebrate the success of the games with a few of his dose friends. Cnaius had told the trainer that Julia could visit Taranis as often as she liked, so she had chosen to spend the night with her gladiator lover.
Taranis’s near exhaustion in the arena had just been a ploy to goad Demeter into becoming more reckless in his attacks. He still appeared to have an infinite supply of energy and they had made love a number of times. Not only did Taranis have a magnificent cock, but also he knew how to use it and was an impressive and inventive lover. Eventually, she had fallen asleep, her body pressed close to his, feeling amazingly decadent and in many ways an entirely different woman.
Time passed and Taranis still slept, while Julia wondered what the future held for them. Cnaius recognised a great fighter when he saw one and now intended to take Taranis to Rome to fight in the coliseum. There, if the gods were kind, he might become a famous gladiator and eventually gain both wealth and his freedom. If Taranis was sent to Rome, she would go with him, she had decided that already.
She was so caught up with her daydreams about the future, that she had not even realised that Taranis was awake. He was propped up on one elbow looking thoughtfully down at her. Julia smiled. Their relationship was still young enough for her to worry that her hair was a mess and her eyes were probably still swollen from sleep.
‘Awake so soon?’ Taranis said softly, as he kissed her tenderly on the lips.
‘Yes. I suppose I should leave.’
‘There’s no rush. Galen told me to rest and give training a miss for at least a week.’
‘You call last night resting?’ she teased with a cheeky smile, all her concerns for her looks deserting her mind. All she could think about when he was so close to her was sex. Her pussy grew moist at the mere thought of fucking him again.
‘Maybe not resting exactly.’ He played with her long brown curls splayed across the pillow. ‘But I can’t think of anything better to do, especially when you are around.’
All of a sudden, the bed started to tremble, as did the floor of the small whitewashed cell. Julia clutched nervously on to Taranis, until the shaking subsided only a few heartbeats later. Over the last few weeks there had been a number of very minor earth tremors in Pompeii. That wasn’t unusual, the tremors had happened in the past, most often at this time of year. Yet, every time she experienced one, Julia was reminded of the last terrible destructive earthquake all those years earlier.
‘It’s all right,’ Taranis reassured her. ‘There will be no more massive earthquakes. Cnaius told me that he consulted a seer before the games. She assured him that Pompeii would still be standing many hundred years from now.’
‘Do you believe that?’ she asked him, sighing contentedly, as he stroked her breasts and played teasingly with her nipples. Julia felt the familiar lustful drawing sensation dart through her groin as her pussy became moister still.
‘No.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I don’t place my trust in seers or even the gods. Only in the strength of my sword arm and my will to survive. However –’ his hand slid over her stomach and he ran his fingers through her dark springy pubic curls ‘– my strength elsewhere is also important to me – and perhaps to you as well?’
‘So very important,’ she murmured, her hand reaching for his cock.
Sirona was feeling almost as unsettled today as she had been before the games the previous afternoon. Yet she knew that logically there was nothing to be fearful of at present. Taranis was alive, he was well and she supposed safe at least for the time being. Perhaps it was just these strange unnatural earth tremors, she thought, as she strolled through the garden. The slaves had told her that they were not uncommon. Many believed it to be the earth resettling, as it dried out in the summer heat.
Lucius had left for Herculaneum that morning. He had wanted her to go with him, as Pedius Cascus’s wife, Rectina, had expressed a wish to meet Sirona. Their home, the villa Calpurnia, overlooked the sea and Lucius was convinced that Sirona would love it there. But she had declined to go, claiming that she felt unwell. That was a lie, of course, but she couldn’t forgive Lucius for forcing her to watch Taranis fight and she felt it better if she spent some time away from him. Their sex life was still passionate enough but the tension between them had not decreased.
One of the house slaves had recently returned from a shopping trip to the city. Apparently, a few hours earlier, the public fountains had dried up completely and even the supply to the villa had decreased considerably. The magistrates had distributed posters assuring the general populace that the necessary repairs would be completed before sunset, but there was still a sense of unease in the city. Some of the farmers working the fertile slopes of the mountain had come down to Pompeii, claiming that there had been some sort of explosion at first light and that many of their upper fields were now covered with a strange pale shroud of ash.
Sirona guessed that it was well past midday now, yet the sun appeared to be getting hotter. She stood in the shade of a tall plane tree as a sudden warm breeze rustled the plants and leaves, bringing with it a strange acrid smell.
She paused and shielded her eyes with her hand, as she looked towards the mountain. Suddenly the ground trembled beneath her feet with far more ferocity than it had done earlier in the day. There was a sharp gust of searingly hot air, which was tainted even more strongly with the strange acrid smell. Then she heard a loud booming sound. It was so incredibly loud that she crouched down and put her hands over her head. Her ears were still ringing from the noise, as she stood up and caught sight of the strange dark column exiting the tip of Vesuvius
and streaming straight up into the sky. It was as if one of the gods had reached down and was pulling the centre of the mountain up towards him.
She could still feel the searing heat that had briefly brushed her skin, the weird smell sticking uncomfortably in her throat, as she ran into the house. ‘Water,’ she gasped, as Amyria hurried towards her.
‘What is it, my lady?’
Somehow one of the slaves produced a goblet of water for Sirona. She grabbed it and drank it down greedily. ‘I don’t know.’ The anxiety she had felt before had increased a thousandfold. ‘The mountain – look.’ She grabbed Amyria’s hand and pulled her towards the portico, which surrounded one of the small peristyle gardens.
They both stared up at the mountain. The huge funnel was blossoming outwards like a flower, gradually forming a giant brown parasol high over the summit. It flowed slowly outwards in all directions, towards the sea, towards the villa and then Pompeii.
Gradually, the sky became darker and some of the slaves in the room behind them fell to their knees, praying to the gods to spare them. As the threatening cloud rolled closer to the villa, there were intermittent sharp bangs like claps of thunder. Sirona had no idea what was happening – had something like this occurred before in Pompeii? She watched in trepidation, as the dark cloud slowly enveloped everything in its path. Should she order the slaves to leave, or should they stay? She had no idea what to do – if only Lucius were here.
Suddenly, there was a loud clattering sound of hailstones pouring down from the sky, and Sirona and Amyria ran back into the relative safety of the house. They had to be enormous hailstones to make such a terrible noise. Then a number of the smaller ones bounced under the covered portico and in through the open doorway. One of the slaves curiously picked one up, waiting for it to cool a little before he handed it to Sirona.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ she said to the slave.
Hailstones in Brittania were small chips of ice but this looked more like stone. Although it wasn’t stone exactly, it was much lighter and looked more like a greyish white hard piece of sponge.
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