Marcus, who easily dodged the first few blows, swung around and struck his opponent in the arm, producing a patch of red. The populace shouted its approval, the display satisfying their bloodlust. Marcus grasped the net that had been flung his way, dragging the man to the ground. His sandaled foot stepped on his chest, pinning him. The crowd roared with approval, as the victorious gladiator hoisted his sword into the air.
“Kill him!” Shouted the woman behind me. “Kill him!”
“Kill!”
“Kill him!” cried the masses.
The chant reverberated, and the Editor nodded, giving the go-ahead. Marcus said something to the man and then he slashed his throat with a single thrust. I looked away, not being able to stomach the sight. Shouts of approval rang out, while other gladiators fought on. When their rivals were dispatched, the match ended. The baby in my belly sensed my agitation, because tiny feet and arms kicked me vigorously. I rubbed myself, trying to calm the fetus.
“Is that all?” I asked. Please tell me it’s over.
“No,” said Titus. “They’ll fight more. Here comes the next group.”
My heart sank, and renewed worry settled into my bones. Fresh fighters appeared on the field as the dead ones were carted off. Marcus remained, although he had removed his helmet. Slaves brought out water and a wounded gladiator was attended to.
Female shouts rang out. “Marcus Ahala!”
“Marcus!”
“Marcus!”
Caelia clapped enthusiastically; a rapturous expression was on her face. “The ladies love him! Isn’t he handsome?”
“If you prefer your men sweaty,” quipped Octavia.
The next match was much like the first; the remaining secutors fought fresh retiarii, and Marcus dispatched his foe with surprising swiftness, but this time he stalked the sand and waved his sword at the crowd, who thundered their approval. Did he have to encourage them in this manner? Never having been at the games before, I was taken aback by the enthusiasm of the spectators and how easy it was for a winning gladiator to seek favor among the people. They loved the brutality, almost as much as they loved success. Whenever Marcus removed his helmet, the women screamed for him.
The fighting continued with additional matches, and each time, Marcus emerged unscathed. His comrades fell around him, one by one; the blood of the wounded flowed freely now. The sight was gruesome, but the roar of the crowd demanded more. I sat feeling ill, wishing the horror would end. The anxiety I felt each time Marcus faced a retiarii, made me want to weep and vomit simultaneously. Octavia and her offspring clung to the edge of the balcony, shouting and laughing, wanting more.
Chapter Seventeen
“Come now!” cried Octavia. “Get to your feet. He’s getting ready to battle again. Oh, how fun!”
I struggled to feel enthusiastic, because one misstep was all it took and Marcus would be dead. I stood feeling slightly faint, not wanting to watch, but having no choice. Another retiarius appeared ready to inflict damage. This one was larger and fiercer than the others, his muscles bulging from his arms and legs. The music died down, and the editor nodded, while the gladiators began to spar. Marcus was tiring, because his feet weren’t as light, and he struggled to dodge blows. The net was cast, catching his helmet, flinging the chunk of metal to the ground. Marcus slashed at his opponent, missing him. The arena thundered with cheers; the people shouted his name over and over.
I sat again, not being able to watch a minute more, and held my face in my hands, knowing that the end was near. He was exhausted, and yet, he continued to fight.
“Get him! Kill him!” shouted a man.
“Marcus! Marcus!”
“Yes!” screamed Octavia.
Someone grabbed me; it was Titus. “You must watch! Come, Floriana.” He grinned excitedly. He drew me to him, as we stood near the balcony. Two gladiators battled below. Marcus was without his helmet; the shiny metal tin caught the glint of the lights that illuminated the amphitheater. My lover dripped with blood, having been nicked repeatedly by the prongs of the trident. He deflected blows with his shield; the sound of metal hitting metal rang out along with the tired grunts of their effort. They circled one another, slashing and dodging, their feet kicking up sand. The crowd was nearly in hysterics, the match having lasted far longer than anticipated. When the heavy-handed strike of the trident sent Marcus sprawling, I buried my face in Titus’s toga, refusing to look again.
“Kill him!” shouted a man.
This was met with, “Marcus! Marcus!” The people wanted their hero to survive.
Through a veil of tears, I watched as he stumbled to his feet, swaying with exhaustion. His face was shiny from sweat and dripping with blood. He paused then, staring into the crowd, searching. The people, sensing something momentous was about to happen, quieted, the shouts and barbs silencing to a dull roar. The retiarius waited, biding his time, using the moment to catch his breath. Sensing that Marcus searched for me, I waved my arms, standing as close to the edge of the overhang as I could.
The gladiator snapped his head in my direction, spotting me. He lifted his sword. “Tibi magno cum amor, Floriana!” He had said: for you with great love. The crowd burst with applause, as shouts and screams reverberated.
Octavia gave me a look. “How touching.”
“But they love it, mother!” said Titus. “They can’t get enough.”
“Yes, the simple fools. We’ve given them plenty of entertainment this evening. We’ll be the talk of Rome for weeks to come.” Smug satisfaction settled on her face.
The people began to stomp, the pounding of thousands of feet created a thunderous boom, and the floor beneath me began to shake. Would their enthusiasm bring the entire amphitheater down?
“Kill him, Marcus!”
“Kill him!”
“The gods are on your side!” shouted a toothless woman. “Nerio demands victory!”
I clung to Titus, as the gladiators faced one another again, preparing to fight. There seemed to be a renewed spring to Marcus’s steps, as he dodged several attacks. His opponent seemed frustrated, and he swung recklessly, overstepping slightly and losing his footing. His strength prevented him from falling, but Marcus took the opportunity to hit the trident with the handle of his sword, knocking the weapon from his hands. The retiarius grasped his net, holding it before him. His stance was wide, and his expression was grim. They began to circle one another, kicking up sand.
“Kill! Kill! Kill!” chanted the crowd.
Octavia yawned. “My goodness this is going on forever. My feet ache. Won’t someone die already?”
Caelia and Titus were in near hysterics, shouting at the tops of their lungs. As the net flew through the air, Marcus met it head on, letting the mesh of rope fall over his head. The retiarius tumbled for the trident, but Marcus was upon him in a flash, straddling him, while his hands reached for his weapon. The thickness of his thighs held him to the sand, while he bucked and kicked, trying to dislodge him.
“Kill him!”
A brief nod from the editor was all Marcus needed to sink his dagger into the man’s neck, leaving his legs twitching involuntarily. Thousands of voices screamed in approval, their feet stomping the stone floor of the arena. The energy of their enthusiasm was palpable and heady, mixed with the triumph of a battle well fought. Although the editor declared Marcus the victor, this did not appease the crowd. They continued to scream and stomp, waving their arms before them. The body of the retiarius was carried out, leaving a dark patch of blood in the sand. Marcus glanced in my direction, his face a mask of grime and blood.
I grasped the cold marble of the balcony, waving to him, while tears of relief fell. “Is that all? Will he have to fight again?”
“No,” said Titus. “He was magnificent. The people love him.”
My ears were beginning to ring. “Why do they scream still? It’s over.”
“They want the editor to give him his due.”
“Oh. Then he can go home?”
“Well, what more do they want?” asked Octavia petulantly. “He’s won. They should be happy. He’ll be even more popular at the next munus.”
Words were exchanged between the editor and the emperor, who sat in his gilded box wearing a bright purple toga. A minion ran out carrying a laurel crown, which the editor made a great show of placing on Marcus’s head. The gladiator remained stoic, yet unmoved, his legs slightly bent. Far from appeasing the crowd, they shouted even louder, some throwing missilia: small wooden balls, gifts, and vouchers from their seats. These items pinged and fell like confetti all around us.
“Ha!” laughed Titus. “They demand his freedom! They want the rudis for him.”
“Well, that can’t happen,” said Octavia. “He’s our slave. We need him.”
Titus leaned over the balcony. “The emperor is speaking!”
A hush fell over the crowd, as his words of emancipation echoed. The Emperor Domitian had given Marcus his approval for the wooden sword, which would grant him freedom. My heart soared at the thought, but then my spirits sank just as quickly. He would leave the house of Getha now. There was no reason for him to stay. Cheers echoed, the spectators voicing their happiness, many jumping up and down and waving their arms over their heads. The wooden sword appeared, and it was handed to Marcus, but he refused to take it, stunning the editor.
“What’s happening?” asked Caelia. “What’s he doing now?”
“No!” screamed Octavia. “Don’t take it.”
“He’d be foolish not to,” said Titus.
“We need him. He’s improved our fortunes greatly.” There was commotion, and the crowds hushed, as ears strained to hear the words. “What’s he saying now?”
Titus leaned over the balcony. “He won’t take the sword. He says he wants freedom for another.”
Octavia looked confused. “What other? All the other gladiator are dead.”
Caelia glanced at me. “Her.” She pointed. “He’ll only take freedom, if she has it.”
I felt faint. Suddenly everyone around me stared, the voices having grown even quieter in that long, horrifying instance. “Floriana!” came the shout from below. It was Marcus. “Floriana!” He continued to shout my name until dozens of voices joined him. The utterances grew as hundreds of people shouted. Soon the entire amphitheater was screaming Floriana.
Titus laughed, throwing his head back. “This is even better!”
“How so?” asked Octavia, her brows furrowing. “It’s anarchy. Your father will never allow it.”
“He’ll have nothing to say, if the emperor demands it.” He grabbed me. “Let’s go down. They want to see you.”
“What?” I was horrified. Anyone foolish enough to enter the arena gave themselves over to the people, who held their fate in their hands. “No!”
“Don’t be scared, Floriana. The people demand it.”
While the crowd roared for my appearance, Titus led me out of our row, down steps and through a corridor. People stepped aside to let me pass, a sea of shining, interested faces. I clung to Titus, afraid of tripping and stumbling. My palms were sweaty, and I was nearly dizzy with anxiety.
“Floriana! Floriana!”
They screamed nearly as loudly as they had for Marcus. A fortified door swung open, and we entered the arena, which stunk of unwashed bodies and the metallic undertones of blood. Seeing Marcus this close revealed that he was injured in many places. He’d been nicked and stabbed in the thighs, arms, and neck. The flanges around his torso were intact, but his loincloth was soaked with blood.
“Floriana!” He approached, taking my hand. “Don’t look so frightened.” He lifted our joined hands. “Give us freedom!” he shouted. The crowd erupted in hysterics.
The editor seemed unimpressed. He glanced at the emperor. “What shall I do, Caesar? Freedom for both or only one?”
Thousands of screams resonated. If their reaction was any indication, they wanted freedom for both, but would their sovereign bow to their demands? The empress looked on impassively, her hair curled and adorned with a gold wreath. Marcus held my hand, his chest rising and falling with each breath, while he stared at the gilded box that housed the royal family. My eyes were on him, marveling that he had survived the day, but would he live a moment longer?
Domitian stood, holding the material of his toga over one arm. He was a tall man, with dark, expressive eyes, and a prominent nose. His hatred of the senate had garnered him respect among the populace, who loathed the corruption that had undermined the security of the empire. He stared at us for a long moment and then he spoke.
“You who fought so bravely and evenly are awarded rudis. You,” he pointed at me, “are granted manumission.” The crowd burst out with applause. He waved his arm before him. “Let the games continue!” A felt cap was placed on my head, the symbol of freedom.
“Congratulations,” said the editor.
Marcus held my face, his eyes shining with gratitude. “We’ve won, my love.”
“Are you all right? You’re bleeding.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What happens now?”
His smile was enormous. “We’re free.”
Our lips met; our breaths mingled for a lengthy kiss, which brought even more cheers from the audience, who couldn’t seem to get enough of the spectacle.
“Is this really happening?”
“It is.”
“I won’t wake up and find out it was all a dream?”
“No, my love. You’re awake. I’m awake.” He held his wooden sword, the symbol of emancipation. Then he touched my cap. “It looks good on you.” He waved to the crowd, and shouted. “Ad multo annos!” Marcus had thanked the masses. As he led me from the amphitheater, he kissed my hand. “Today was my lucky day.”
The End
Epilogue
Eight months later…
The feel of something hard pressing into my bottom woke me, but knowing what the object was, I welcomed it, scooting into it. A manly groan filled my ears, as hot breath fanned out over the back of my neck. The house hadn’t stirred yet, because it was deathly quiet, and I sent out a silent prayer that it remained so, long enough for me to enjoy my husband.
“Good morning, wife,” murmured Marcus.
“Ooommm…”
His lips left heated kisses on my neck, while his hand roamed over the curve of my hip, drifting between my thighs. Firm fingers stroked the dampened slit of my pussy, manipulating me to arousal. He slid inside, making his hand wet with my juices.
“Floriana…”
I reached behind me to grab his cock, encountering wetness. “What are you going to do with this thing?”
“Get on your stomach, and I’ll show you.”
It was one of my favorite positions, because I could slide my finger to my nub and rub myself while he drove in deep. He tossed aside the thin blanket and kissed my shoulder. We started the day like this whenever we could, and sometimes we indulged in sex during the day, if we had a moment to ourselves. The baby was a handful, and the farm required our full attention. Marcus had earned enough prize money to purchase the property, and he had bought his old land, growing wheat once again. We had also planted an olive grove. We needed a back up crop in case there was a drought. The olives were hardier in dryer conditions.
“Oh, Marcus…” He slid into me with one push, filling me completely. “It’s so good.” Rising over me, he took me rhythmically, making the bed creak from the force of his body.
“My lusty wife!”
“Shush! You’ll wake the house.”
He leaned over me, brushing my cheek with his lips. “Kiss me.”
I turned into him and our lips met, igniting a sweet, affectionate kiss that left me tingling pleasurably. “Go slower.”
“Yes, Mistress Ahala.” He took his time, easing into my tightness and retreating, over and over, while I massaged the lump of my clitoris that felt like the size of an olive. “Is this slow enough for you?”
“Oh Marcus…”
With every stroke, the sinuous threads of abandon threatened, growing stronger by the second. I arched my back, driving my bottom up, reaming myself on his cock. Burying my face in the sheet, I moaned helplessly, as the orgasm descended.
“Ooohhh…” He reamed me fluidly, allowing me to ride out my pleasure. “Oh, Marcus!” I collapsed tiredly, my pussy throbbing around him. “That was wonderful.”
“What shall we do for the grand finale?”
I giggled, “What would you like to do?”
“You could take me in your mouth.”
“Is that so?” I challenged.
“Unless you want to carry another child so soon.”
I turned to look at him, seeing a man with messy hair and bleary, yet happy eyes. “Give me your cock, gladiator.”
“Ah, not anymore, my love. I’m a farmer now.”
“And my husband.”
“Indeed.” I reached for his member, feeling sticky wetness. “Floriana.”
“You want me to suck this?” I smiled teasingly.
“That would be nice.” He fell to the bed.
“I suppose I could.” Closing my lips around the tip, I suckled the musky smelling phallus, tasting a tart saltiness. I alternated between sucking and licking, running my tongue over the curved tip. This was the object that had brought me such intense pleasure just moments before.
“Ooohhh…yes,” he hissed through his teeth.
I pumped the length, drawing out several clear drops of fluid. Then I slid my thumb over the crown, massaging him with his own juices. While thus occupied, I laved the length, running a wet path to his balls. Pulling the soft sacs from his body, I proceeded to suck each, massaging and compressing the pouches.
Conquest of the Gladiator (An Erotic Romance) Page 10
