Gladiator Ch. 02

I had five sisters and all of us fought the Roman's. In my fourteenth year, I married but bore no children. My man was killed when the soldiers attacked our village. He was a good mate and treated me well. I was deeply saddened by his death," she said with sorrow and her eyes filled with tears.

"A man from my village resented our leader and told the Roman's where to find us. Everyone fought bravely but many were killed and the rest of us were sold at the slave market. I was chained to three of my sisters and we were sold to gladiatorial schools," she stated with sorrow and her shoulders visibly sagged from the painful memories.

I held number eight in my tender embrace to help ease her burden.

I received an invitation via messenger from Octavia to join her and her cousin Livia at her villa. I sent an acceptance with the messenger forgetting that number eight was scheduled to fight in the coliseum the day after.

Number eight assured me that she was capable of handling herself. In spite of her belief that she lacked the temperament to be a gladiator, she displayed remarkable courage and was fearless in the arena. Nevertheless, I felt uneasy about her next combat.

At Octavia's villa, a very fat slave guided me through the maze of rooms until we reached the bath. She was reclining on a divan.

"Welcome gladiator," she stated warmly.

Octavia handed me a goblet of wine.

"Before we go further, I wanted to explain what it is I want from you. When I am finished, if it is not to your liking, I will see that you are safely transported back to the gladiatorial school.

My cousin Livia is in her eighteenth year and is to be married next month. Recently, she confided to me that she has a strong desire to be with a woman, more specifically, a female gladiator.

Livia has seen them fight in arena and is attracted to the strong body, like me. As a gift, I offered her the opportunity to spend the night with a woman of the arena and she accepted. She leaves for Ostia tomorrow and will not return until her wedding.

Gladiator, you were my first and only choice. If this is of interest to you, I will introduce you to Livia. You will not be disappointed," she stated with certainty.

I wasn't sure what is was that appealed to me but my body was tingling with anticipation.

When Octavia ushered Livia into the bath, my breath caught in my throat. She was right, I was enthralled. Standing shyly next to Octavia was a breathtakingly beautiful young woman with alabaster skin and long braided brown hair.

Octavia excused herself and with wine goblet in hand, I sat with Livia on a stone bench next to the bath. Despite her shyness, she looked directly into my eyes.

"I saw you fight in the Coliseum," she said in a sturdy voice.

Livia's luminous brown eyes were gazing intently at me.

"You were magnificent," she gushed admiringly.

I expressed my gratitude with my hand over my heart and a slight bow.

We sat and drank several goblets of wine as Livia spoke in a most charming way. She asked me about the gladiatorial school and fighting in the Coliseum. My answers were brief, but seemed to satisfy her. But, time for talk was over.

I stood and slowly removed my tunic and undergarments. Her eyes were wide with surprise

‘Your body looks powerful," she stated with awe and I helped her shed her diaphanous tunic.

I took Livia's hand and led her into the bath. Her body was lean but gloriously feminine with pomegranate size mounds. As she sat on the marble seat, I ran my strong hands coated with richly scented oils over her upper body, pausing at her mounds and concentrating on the hard swelled ends.

Livia gasped and moaned from the pleasure I was giving her. After I sponged the excess oil from her body, I suckled her tight pink bumps until her squeals of pleasure filled the room.

I licked Livia's center voraciously, digging my tongue into her groove for the wetness that clung to her flesh. Her taste was like the sweet sour nectar of an overripe fig and lit my senses like a bonfire.

My appetite for Livia was boundless. She howled with ecstasy and pressed her moist groove against my lips until the succulent skin yielded its dewy ambrosia with abundance.

Livia looked like she was lost in a world of wonderful new sensations. Her body trembled and tightened, growing in intensity until it went completely rigid. Cries and yelps escaped her mouth until a long unbroken wail poured from her throat.

Livia took my hand and led me to her room. A brazier was burning brightly imparting much needed warmth as we lay on her bed.

Livia was fascinated by my body and ran her delicate fingers over my skin for a long time. Her touch was very pleasing and produced a vibrant tingling between my thighs.

I gasped as Livia's raspy little tongue raked my hardened bumps with skill. As I panted breathlessly, Livia turned her attention to my center. At first she seemed cautious but gentle licks soon turned into long needy ones in my throbbing groove.

Livia's craving for my center rivaled her cousins'. She toiled with an urgent hungry need and massive waves of sensation scorched my body. When the last scintilla of feeling ebbed, I let out a loud sigh of satisfaction.

Surprisingly, I was fatigued but Livia looked fresh and awake.

"It was a most gratifying experience, better than I expected!" she stated brightly.

I looked down the length of Livia's body and it glowed with the freshness of youth. A desire to please her once more started to grow. Slowly, I moved lower and parted her velvety thighs. The wet pink flesh glistened and beckoned me forward.

The air in the room had grown colder and as I cuddled close to Livia for warmth, she gazed at me with extreme curiosity.

"You eyes tell me that you are deeply troubled about something," she said intuitively.

Livia's very sharp and accurate observation surprised me.

"Someone you cared for very much is gone from your life," she said with sympathy.

"How did you know?" I asked with astonishment.

"It is a gift that I have had from a young age," she said without conceit.

As thoughts about twenty three entered my mind, my eyes blurred with tears but I remained silent. Livia held me firmly and soothingly, nothing was said or needed to be said as she had divined the truth from my eyes.

After spending a lustful night with Livia, I was anxious to return to the school as number eight was fighting in the Coliseum that afternoon.

Octavia insisted on presenting me with a gift as a token of her gratitude and adorned my body with a simple necklace of gold and dark red stones. She called them garnets.

"I am flattered and appreciative," I stated warmly.

Octavia wanted to show me the results of her informal gladiatorial training and went to retrieve her wooden shield and sword.

As I waited for Octavia to return, I thought about Livia's extraordinary perception about me. Twenty three once told me,

"The eyes are a reflection of the heart."

Twenty three's smiling countenance appeared in my mind and I knew that my love for her was just as strong maybe stronger. Still unable to cope with her death, tears of sorrow coursed down my face.

Hurriedly, I wiped my eyes when I heard footsteps approaching. It was Livia. She was leaving for Ostia and wanted to express her gratitude. As we tenderly embraced, she looked at me with a thoughtful expression.

"I hope that you find the peace that you seek," she said in a gentle voice and hugged me very tightly before she left the room.

In the glow of the fire from the braziers, Octavia went through a rudimentary series of moves. Newcomers to the school learned more advanced skills in less than a week. Her style lacked finesse and rhythm.

Patiently, I showed her some of the basic exercises until a slave announced that the horse cart had arrived to take me to the school.

When I crossed the courtyard, the matron informed me that number eight and the rest of the gladiator's fighting that afternoon had left for the Coliseum.

It was the first time number eight was fighting a gladiator trained in the combat discipline employing a net and trident. I was concerned for her and wanted to review the proper strategy before she left. Angry that I missed the opportunity, a sense of foreboding invaded my mind.

I nervously awaited her return at the top of the steps above the tunnel that led to from the Coliseum. The sky was dark when I finally heard voices and saw torches at the bottom. I recognized the gladiators ascending the stairs and asked about number eight. Their bleak faces were all the answer that I needed.

"She fought bravely to a draw but is injured," twenty nine said proudly.

A wooden stretcher bearing number eight arrived at the top of the stair. When she saw me, she clasped my hands strongly to hers.

"It only hurts when I breathe," number eight said in soft croaking voice with a weak smile on her face.

Unexpectedly, number eight squeezed my hands tightly as a painful spasm gripped her body.

I pulled aside the sheet covering her and saw deep puncture wounds from the trident on her chest and unprotected shoulder. Blood oozed from the cuts and her ashen color a sign that she was very weak.

The fact that number eight fought to a draw with wounds of that severity was a testament to her fearlessness and courage.

In the physicians room, I stood at the head of the wooden table holding number eights hands as he worked to stop the bleeding. When the pain became too severe, she would grip my hands very hard until it passed.

"I've done all that I can," he said with a dour expression.

Number eight gazed at me with affectionate eyes.

"Thirsty," she said barely above a whisper.

As I held number eight's head up so that she could drink the wine from a cup, she gazed at me with loving eyes.

"I am not afraid to die" she said very softly and winced in pain.

Number eight's words pierced my heart like an arrow and tears sprouted from my eyes.

"Who will teach me proper Latin?" I asked in a breaking voice.

The bandages that the physician applied to her body were already soaked through with blood. Her breathing was ragged and shallow but her eyes were alive and fixed on me.

I loved number eight more than the sisters I lost in my village that fateful day in Gaul.

"I have love for you my sister," I said in an anguished tone.

Number eight's eyes softened and tears ran from the corners. She slowly blinked at me as if to say, she felt the same. Suddenly her body was wracked with pain and she gripped my hands until it passed.

When I bent to press my cheek to her forehead, number eight's hands went slack and body limp. With extreme gentleness, I closed her blank unseeing eyes with my fingers.

I wept bitter tears as I gazed at number eight's peaceful face and held her cold hand until the slaves came to take her body.

Once more, I was alone and friendless.

My heart ached with sadness. Nightly, I sat in the dark deserted courtyard as the cold winter winds whipped around me and lamented the loss of number eight.

My compassionate and loyal surrogate sister whose tender caring mattered most when I despaired over the loss of twenty three, was gone.

As I hugged my knees tightly to my body, I sobbed with abandon. My heart was barren and desolate. The awful futility of fighting in the arena was never more apparent to me.

More than once, I prayed to the gods of my people for death to visit me and for the second time in my short life, I lost the will to live. My spirit was weary and desperately desired peace.

At the top of the stairs on the right side of my dormitory corridor was a tiny alcove lined with shelves containing diminutive stone tiles.

The always inquisitive number eight learned that it was a memorial for gladiators who fell in the arena. For a fee, a stone mason would carve the gladiator's arena name and country of origin.

After number eight's death, I asked the stone mason to prepare two stone tiles and paid him extra for their speedy completion. One for twenty three and one for number eight.

In the quiet hours before dawn, I stood in the privacy of the alcove, gazing at the installed markers. As tears of heart rending sorrow streamed down my cheeks, I recalled the memories of the women that I loved.

In the weeks that followed, I declined all invitations from my admirers for companionship including Octavia. Except for mandatory training, I interacted as little as possible with the other gladiators and stayed in my room.

As I sat on my bed staring at the opposite wall, I kept thinking that the gods had cursed me. Slowly, my sadness and grief turned to anger.

At my next gladiatorial contest in the Coliseum, I fought with intense anger, disabling my opponent who later died from her injuries. When I learned of her death, I was deeply saddened and regretted my actions.

Because I felt responsible for her demise, my training exercises lacked the spark and fire that exemplified my style.

In truth, after four years of fighting in the arena, my spirit was drained and bleak. Sometimes the faces of my slain opponents invaded my dreams and I would wake suddenly breathing heavily.

My nights were lonely. Although I no longer openly grieved for twenty three and number eight, I missed them terribly and longed to see them.

Although I had a good rapport with my fellow gladiator's, I was extremely wary of developing new friendships. I interacted with them in a strictly cordial but friendly manner.

As I walked across the courtyard to assist in a training session, a wagon of newcomers was emptying and lining up. I paused to see what the new crop looked like. I examined each face stopping at one that shocked me. It was Octavia.

It was hard for me to understand why a Roman woman with such high status would renounce all her rights and privileges to become a gladiator, a slave.

Each new gladiator was given a number and thirty two was assigned to Octavia. From that moment onward her old identity ceased to exist and she was known as thirty two.

I knew that thirty two was not gladiator material but maybe with some training, she would improve enough to fight in Coliseum.

During roll call one morning, the matron informed us that everyone would participate in the Imperial games. They were usually very lavish and lasted for many days.

The training was more intensive before the games and rightfully so. The reputation of the gladiatorial school was on the line.

On the eve of the games, I went to thirty two's cell. I wanted to see how she was holding up since this was her first combat. I had seen little of her because I was involved with a different group of newcomers.

When I saw thirty two, she looked nervous but was glad to see me and the feeling was mutual.

"You look well…ah…" she stuttered.

"Number eleven," I said furnishing her with my name.

Briefly, we talked about Livia and the lusty nights at her villa. But, instead of calming her, it seemed to make her more agitated.

I got up and showed thirty two all the basic moves of our fighting discipline and made her follow along. After rehearsing them several times, I was impressed with her progress.

Thirty two's movements were sometimes hesitant and unsure. Against a seasoned fighter she didn't stand a chance but she would most likely fight someone of a similar skill level.

When I stopped, thirty two looked scared and I embraced her hoping to calm her. She sighed contentedly and we spent the night in each others arms.

In the sub basement of the Coliseum, I waited with the first group that was scheduled to fight. I was paired with a highly skilled Celt who at the moment was missing.

The matron showed up and informed the director that the Celt or forty one was very ill. Several gladiators remarked that she was out most of the night at a Bacchannal and staggered into the school after the morning meal. She was found passed out in the toilet room and was in no condition to fight.

The director was incensed. The first group would move toward the lifting device any minute. He charged over to the second group and grabbed the first gladiator he could put his hands on then dragged her over next to me.

When I looked through the visor of her helmet, I recognized thirty two, Octavia. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. The thought that I might have to end her life tore at my mind.

Thirty two looked petrified. In the next instant, we were moved to the lifting device and on the floor of the Coliseum.

After saluting the Imperial box, we squared off but thirty two's movements were leaden and stiff.

"Don't stand there, charge me!" I yelled but she was rooted to the same spot.

I parried and thrust my sword at thirty two hoping to stir her to action but she stood defensively not moving a muscle.

"Fight!" I yelled to no avail.

The crowd was whistling and jeering their disapproval of our performance.

I went on the offensive and made multiple mild sword strikes against her shield and protective gear but it wasn't fooling anyone, especially the spectators.

Unless I wanted to risk the forfeiture of my life as well, I had to initiate a full scale attack. Hopefully, it would rouse her to action and we could fight to a stalemate.

I moved back a few feet then waded into her with much harder blows. As I steadily drove thirty two backwards with many savage hits, she dropped her shield.

With sword in hand, thirty two gamely blocked shot after shot until a ferocious blow knocked her helmet off her head and staggered her.

I delivered many sword clanging shots that thirty two blocked but steadily weakened her. Another brutal flurry had her swaying unsteadily. Finally, she dropped to her knees.

The mob jeered deafeningly their displeasure with her performance.

Thirty two's sword was hanging limp by her side and she was gasping for air. When she looked up at me, her face had a devastated look of total despair.

But, the strangest thing happened. Thirty two's face blurred and went out of focus and I saw the images of the women that I had killed in the arena. One by one they appeared with startling clarity.

My heart sank in anguish. All the weariness of combat and death for the last four years descended on me with incredible strength sapping swiftness. I longed for peace and unwittingly, I dropped my guard.

My prolonged hesitation gave thirty two a chance to recover. She thrust her sword upward, driving it deep into my scarred belly. It was the only blow of consequence that she delivered.

My shield and sword clattered to the ground as intense searing pain forced me to my knees. I knew that my time had come.

With considerable effort, I removed my helmet and set it on the ground next to me as my life's essence flowed from my fatally wounded body.

As I knelt before the victor, holding my agonizingly painful belly, the crowd was cheering wildly for my life to be spared. But, it was too late.

Thirty two looked at me with sad eyes.

"Why did you hesitate?" she asked in a sorrowful voice. Speech was beyond my capability as the ache in my gut was excruciating. I wanted to say,

"Because it is my time to die"

As I hugged my shaking body in a vain attempt to ease the terrible hurt, I lowered my head only to see a large pool of blood on the ground under me. It was over, no more killing.

Suddenly, I had the uncanny feeling that someone other than my opponent was before me.

When I raised my trembling head, twenty three was standing in front of me clad in a white tunic with nary a wound, cut or scratch on her body. Her lovely face was smiling down at me and my heart leapt with joy.

"I have been waiting for you my fiery Gaul" twenty three said with gentle impatience.