Both gladiators began to gasp in that uncontrolled way that was the precursor to orgasm and the sound of it pushed Illeana over the edge. She cried out, shuddering in ecstasy as they pumped their seed into her, and was dimly aware of Pyrrha gasping in the midst of her own excitement.
Heart thudding hard, Illeana rested her face in the neck of the German as the fire of their pleasure was slowly doused. For a few moments, she rested, her body entwined with his and that of Hylas’s before she reached around and patted him on the thigh. ‘All right,’ she said. He pulled out of her; it had hurt just the right amount and now she felt both sluttish and fulfilled. She raised herself from Voicon and stood, enjoying the feeling of their issue gently leaking out onto her inner thighs; she glanced over at Pyrrha and grinned.
‘Well?’ she said, reaching for a cloth.
Pyrrha blew a sweat-drenched curl from her face. ‘All right,’ she laughed. ‘I needed that.’
‘Of course you did.’ Illeana sat languidly on her couch. ‘More wine!’ she ordered the men. They had, for now, served their purpose.
‘I needed that too,’ she conceded as Hylas poured for her. ‘Those of us who fight live on the edge, Pyrrha. There has to be a balance, though. It’s not all about training and hard work. Like I said – there is such a thing as over-training and there is more to life than just killing on the sands. If you don’t appreciate life’s pleasures then – when you’re pushed hard – you might forget what else there is in life.’
‘Yes.’ Pyrrha looked at Voicon a little guiltily and flushed when he winked at her. ‘But despite what just went on, I do have feelings for Valerian.’
‘And what just happened doesn’t change that one iota. Women have needs, just as men do – we just show more decorum.’
Pyrrha laughed. ‘You weren’t showing much decorum from where I was sitting,’ she commented. ‘Two men at the same time! Really, you are just like Julia Augusta,’ she referred to the daughter of Rome’s first emperor.
‘Hardly,’ Illeana snorted. Then she too laughed. ‘Well, maybe a little, but I don’t plan on taking on the whores of Capua in a competition anytime soon.’
They lapsed into silence for a while; Pyrrha, Illeana noted, was gazing at her a little tipsily, her expression that of someone who wanted to say something but could not find the words. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I think… no… you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
You’re perfect in every way.’
‘Of course I am.’ Illeana made light of the statement, taken aback and, despite herself, a little embarrassed at this sudden declaration.
‘What’s it like?’
‘What is what like?’ Illeana motioned for more wine.
‘Being you. Gladiatrix Prima. One of the best in the world and the most beautiful as well. Everyone loves you, Illeana. You’re like a goddess made flesh.’
‘Pyrrha, I think that you’re a bit drunk,’ Illeana said quietly, realising that that was true of herself as well.
‘In vino veritas, ’ the young gladiatrix tried to sound sagacious which made both women laugh. ‘But really – what’s it like?’
Illeana reflected for a moment, fuzzed with booze and post-coital warmth. ‘It’s good,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Look – it’s not as though I go through life marvelling at my own good looks. But I know that I’m not Medusa by any stretch of the imagination. And it happens that, along with my looks, I have a talent for survival.’
‘Or killing.’
‘If you like,’ Illeana shrugged. ‘I came from humble enough beginnings, Pyrrha; but I was lucky in marriage and, when my husband died, I was left with enough money to do what I wanted with my life. This is what I wanted to do: the fact that I’m beautiful helps.’
Illeana felt somewhat awkward talking about herself in this way.
‘I wish I was more like you,’ Pyrrha said. ‘Beautiful, I mean. I know I’m a good fighter.’
‘You’re very beautiful, Pyrrha,’ Illeana replied. ‘And you’re more than good: if you weren’t, I wouldn’t be wasting my time training you. Some day, you’ll be as good as me. Not better,’ she grinned.
‘But just as good. You do need balance, like I said – so I find evenings like this helpful in maintaining some perspective. Not to mention that it feels damn good,’ she glanced at the two men who were beginning to revive, their eyes on the flesh of the gladiatrices.
‘I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy myself,’ Pyrrha admitted.
‘Even if it’s all a bit extreme.’
‘Ah. Well, we live an extreme life,’ Illeana explained – almost to herself as much to the younger woman. ‘We experience things that few others do. It’s not like being a soldier, say, where it’s you and thousands of other people fighting to survive. You step out onto those sands and it’s just you and your opponent. You survive because of your skills. There’s no shield mate there to help you if you’re in trouble, no centurion to help you with your nerves when you’re afraid.
But when you win the high is enormous – you know this now. My appetite for victory is insatiable – I love winning. I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. As such – my other appetites are equally as intense. I don’t often drink like the barbarians do, I don’t gamble like some and I don’t let myself grow fat between fights. But I enjoy sex. I can be pleasured in many ways and I consider it my right to experience those pleasures. Men, women, two men, three…it doesn’t matter. It matters only that I’m satisfied and my lusts are sated so I can focus on my first love: winning, as I said.’
‘I’ve never been with two men,’ Pyrrha noted.
‘That,’ Illeana said, ‘looks as though it’s about to change.’ She lay back, her hand moving to between her legs as Voicon and Hylas advanced on Pyrrha, stiff and eager once again. For her part, Illeana decided that she had participated in one bout already and this time she would watch and take pleasure from her young charge’s performance.
XXIX
Sextus Julius Frontinus was tired. He was no longer a young man; no, by the gods, he was an old man! He should have retired years ago and finished that treatise about aqueducts he had started. Frontinus was an engineer at heart, but Rome was a demanding mistress and she still had need of him. Funisulanus Vettonianus had made a pig’s ear of his governorship in Moesia, turning a semi-stable province into a hotbed of rebellion. No one had yet quantified the damage that had been done – but it was huge.
Domitian had summoned him to the palace for ‘ a final meeting on the Dacian issue. ’ Frontinus had a fairly good idea of what would happen to Vettonianus and an even bet on who would be replacing him as governor of that gods-forsaken shit-hole. That, Frontinus mused, was the problem with successfully defeating barbarians. You got a reputation as a man who could be counted upon in a crisis and, after Britannia, Frontinus was known as such a man. Pity the uprising could not have been in Crete, Greece or even Judaea again: somewhere temperate that would be easy on the bones. One could not even trust the barbarians to rebel in the right places.
‘I’ll make sure that I take all the notes,’ his freedman Diocles said for the umpteenth time that day. The Greek was in a state of excitement, having never been to the Palatine before. ‘I won’t miss anything out, sir, I guarantee it.’
The two men were in a lectica being borne at a fair speed to Domitian’s new palace. ‘Diocles, you’ve worked for me for how many years now?’ Frontinus asked.
‘Twenty-three, sir, thirteen of those as your freedman,’ the Greek’s response was exact and prompt.
‘And in that time, have you ever not taken down all the notes?’
‘Of course not, sir – my meticulousness is one of the things that you value about me, is that not so?’
‘Yes,’ Frontinus agreed, ‘but not your constant nagging and need to state the bloody obvious. Yes, it’s the emperor, but it’s just another meeting in another big room stuffed with soldiers, sycophants and half-wit adviso
rs. I know that you’ll take all the notes.
Now stop acting like a bride on her wedding night.’
‘Just as long as it’s only soldiers, sycophants and half-wits, sir, I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ Diocles replied primly. ‘I just hope there aren’t any senile old curmudgeons who let their peevishness get in the way of seeing a good thing when it comes by.’
Frontinus chuckled. ‘You’re not so far ingrained in my good books that I can’t have you executed for insulting me, Diocles.’
‘Of course I know that, sir. If you’re able to find out how to contact the executioner and what paperwork needs to be done, I’ll happily walk to the cross on my own.’ The Greek grinned at him. Frontinus relied heavily on Diocles to ensure that his affairs were in order. As a freedman, he had every right to pursue his own career, but had opted to stay with his former master. Frontinus was rich and Diocles liked the finer things in life; thus the arrangement suited them both. And, Frontinus supposed, working with a ‘senile old curmudgeon’ was infinitely preferable to acting as pedagogue for a snotty little brat.
With a soft bump, the lectica was put down by the slaves that bore it. ‘Ah,’ Frontinus said. ‘We’re here. Try to keep your tongue in your mouth at the amazing wonders you are about to see.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Diocles said, easing himself out of the carriage. ‘I trust you’ll be able to get out unassisted.’
‘Just give me a hand,’ Frontinus muttered. The Greek did so, and Frontinus fancied that he could actually hear his joints creaking in protest as he was hauled out of the carriage. ‘You’d think they’d make those things bigger.’ He glared at the lectica in disgust. ‘I could have ridden here, you know.’
‘Yes, but then your toga would have been ruined. Let me see...’
Diocles stepped closer, rearranging the folds of the heavy garment so it would sit just right. ‘There,’ he eyed Frontinus critically. ‘You look like a most venerable consul, sir.’
‘Let’s go, shall we?’ Frontinus said, as a squad of Praetorians approached them. After they had seen the necessary paperwork – provided by Diocles – they escorted the two men into the heart of Domitian’s palace. It was beautiful by any standards, but a little too opulent for Frontinus’s taste: it was even larger than that monstrosity he had lived in during his tenure at Halicarnassus and that had been big enough. Perhaps being Emperor just made you want everything to be bigger than it needed to be. Even Vespasian – a sensible chap from humble beginnings – had ordered the building of the huge amphitheatre in the heart of the capital – the biggest of its kind in the world. It was a shame that he had not lived to see its completion.
What, Frontinus wondered, would Vespasian have done about Dacia? The truth of it was, if the old emperor had still been in power, Dacia would never have happened – he was too much the canny warrior to have allowed things to slip. But his sons were not soldiers of his prowess, even if Domitian was wise enough to keep the army sweet. Titus might have grown into a fine general, but had died young: some said that Domitian had murdered him, but Frontinus refused to give that any credence. The boy’s grief was too sincere – as was his fear of taking a role for which he had been ill prepared. No one could have expected that Titus would keel over in his prime and thrust his younger brother into the purple.
They were led through the palace to Domitian’s private quarters – which were as large as the governor’s house in Halicarnassus. The Emperor and some twenty officers likely to take part in the forthcoming campaigns were in the tablinium. Domitian was seated on a curile throne in front of the men who made do with stools and benches.
The only other comfortable chair was occupied by a wizened, white-haired stick of a man with skin the texture of ancient parchment. He smiled at Frontinus and nodded a greeting. This was Quintus Vibius Crispus, the ultimate survivor of Rome’s body politic, an octogenarian of supreme wit and cunning. Crispus was the only member of the senatorial classes to have outlived every single one of Rome’s eleven emperors save only Domitian himself.
He was now half-way through his third term as consul, Rome’s highest elective office. That his first and second terms had been served under emperors as different in character as Nero and Vespasian was a remarkable testament to his versatility and skill at adapting to the winds of change. Crispus was Domitian’s most trusted coun-sellor and administrator and, though the official reports of the empire’s provincial governors were nominally addressed to the emperor, it was Crispus who received them and devoured every detail assiduously before advising Domitian of the state of the empire and of what needed to be done.
A huge map dominated the tablinium, the most up to date one of Dacia that they had. Arrayed around the room also were tables groaning with fine food and wine, the smell of the former making Frontinus’s mouth water. In his supposed Greek wisdom, Diocles had him on some sort of diet that forbade him eating anything he actually enjoyed. But he could have murdered a fat, greasy ham just then.
As he was announced, he snapped to attention and raised his right arm in salute. ‘ Ave, Caesar!’
‘Frontinus!’ Domitian walked towards him, arms extended in greeting. He had managed to keep the weight off, Frontinus noted, and it looked good on him, though his face still had that actorish softness that women seemed to like. ‘Good of you to come at such short notice, my friend.’ He embraced him briefly, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘I am but the instrument of Caesar’s will,’ Frontinus said diplo-matically – there was nothing wrong with a bit of flattery after all.
‘Tish,’ Domitian turned away. ‘You were slaying monsters when I was still a mewling babe. Peace, General – be at ease. You are among friends here and I won’t have any sycophancy – my Imperial Order is that we dispense with formality and speak plainly – if that’s not too much of a contradiction.’
Frontinus laughed, covering Diocles’s ironic cough at the mention of sycophancy. ‘No, Caesar – I can be counted on to speak plainly.’
‘Excellent, excellent. Come – join my council of war.’ Domitian turned and made his way back to the map, but inwardly Frontinus groaned. He would have to stand for the duration of the whole damned meeting.
Domitian introduced all the men present, some of whom Frontinus had met before, but it would be impolitic to remind the Emperor of that. Those that knew him – the older ones – nodded appreciatively at him, the younger ones regarding him with expressions that ranged from curiosity through to condescension and some to outright hostility. New blood brought in to hear a strategy to be devised, no doubt, by himself and Tettius Iulianus, to whom he nodded briefly.
Hawk-faced, dark-eyed, with his black hair close cropped to hide a bald crown, Iulianus resembled the Divine Julius in more than just his physicality. He was a military man through and through, a skilled tactician and harsh disciplinarian whose devotion to Rome was unquestionable.
Domitian now stood with one hand resting on the curile throne ready to introduce the business of the day.
‘Gentlemen, I am sure that none of you need to be possessed of the talents of augurs to know why we are here. In the ensuing weeks since the disaster at Tapae there cannot be anyone from Nabataea to Britannia who is ignorant of what transpired there, nor any loyal citizen of Rome who does not burn with the desire for retribution and to see her honour fully restored.
‘It’s said that the loss of Quintilius Varus’s army in Germania sent our predecessor, the Divine Augustus, to an early grave. Whether or not that is true, it would appear that, after the passing of more than seventy years, that dismal episode has finally been surpassed in its ignominy. Now… I don’t intend to die any time soon…’
Domitian smiled as he acknowledged the laughter that rippled around the tablinium. One of the young tribunes shouted ‘ Vivat Imperator!’ and Domitian nodded as the assembled company roared their assent.
‘…but five legions, gentlemen…’ The emperor’s face was stern now. ‘Never before in the annals of the empire has such a
n army suffered defeat. The Fifth Alaudae is no more: slaughtered almost to the last man; its eagle taken. The Fifth Alaudae… a praetorian legion… my legion… a legion so old and distinguished that it served the Divine Julius on his conquest of Gaul! And now it is gone forever…’ Domitian paused as his audience murmured angrily to one another.
Frontinus noted that there was one ignominy of which Domitian had been careful not to remind them. Domitian had been in nominal command when he and Fuscus had initially defeated the Dacians and pushed them out of Moesia. As such, the emperor, eager to enjoy the same military honours of his late father and brother had hurried back to Rome to award himself a triumph, leaving Fuscus and his five legions to pursue the retreating Dacians across the Danube. When Domitian, crowned with laurel and riding a gilded chariot, basked in the adulation of the crowds on the Capitoline Hill, nobody was aware that the crows were already feasting on the bodies of Fuscus’s legionaries – but everyone in the empire knew it now, and how Domitian must have burned with shame and fury at the hollowness of his achievement.
‘Now, sooner or later,’ the emperor continued, ‘I am sure that you expected us to determine how best to exact our retribution, regain our military honour and bring long term stability to our north-eastern provinces. But though I have thirsted for these things as much as all of you – perhaps even more so – I had supposed that we would need more time to gather sufficient men and materiel to make our victory an absolute certainty – a victory substantial enough to deal with the Dacian problem once and for all. But it would seem that time is no longer on our side. Please enlighten us, Crispus…’
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