Sirona, now wearing a clean tunic, was led from the building by two burly slaves. Judging by the position of the sun, it was late afternoon, yet it was still very hot. The senator had totally ignored her both during and after watching Tiro bring himself to a swift climax. However, when Aulus had left the room, she had heard him issuing orders to have her taken to his house.
She could only presume that they were taking her there now, as she was bundled unceremoniously into a litter. The thick side curtains were fastened tightly down, before she even had a chance to look towards the harbour and see if the Cronus was still there. She wondered what had happened to Taranis, as she sat in the stifling, swaying darkness.
It seemed like ages before they stopped, and the curtains were pulled back. She saw that they were in a narrow paved street, lined by buildings on both sides. One of the slaves immediately took hold of her arm, pulled her out of the litter and through a plain-looking doorway into the senator’s house. The inside was luxurious. She caught brief glimpses of elaborate furniture and magnificent wall paintings as she was led to the rear of the building and into the small private bathhouse. There she was stripped by two surly-faced female slaves, her skin was oiled and then scraped until it stung and glowed bright pink. Her hair was vigorously washed a number of times with a strong-smelling substance, presumably to rid it of any lice. Then it was piled on top of her head while she was immersed in a pool of near-scalding water.
She was relieved that they had made no attempt to remove the body hair that the senator had found so repulsive. Surely, if he had wanted any sort of sexual relationship with her, he would most likely have ordered it removed. That reassuring thought and the heat of the water gradually made her relax and she began to feel a little better, hoping that they had almost finished with her and she would soon perhaps have a chance to rest, as she felt emotionally if not physically exhausted. Yet it appeared that there was to be no respite for her yet, as she was urged from the bath and handed over to a menacing-looking very muscular woman. She made Sirona lie down on a marble slab that had been covered with linen towels. The woman then massaged her vigorously with sweet-scented oils until her skin was as smooth as it could be and her muscles felt as though they could take no more abuse.
Feeling remarkably clean, Sirona was taken to a smaller less well-decorated part of the large house which she presumed must be the slaves’ quarters. By now, not only was she hungry, but also desperately thirsty. After her confrontation with the senator, she felt she had to continue in her subterfuge of not being able to speak Latin, so she was forced to resort to pointing to her mouth and simulating swallowing, hoping they would understand that she wanted a drink. Much to her relief, a few moments later, a mug of water flavoured with lemon and honey was thrust into her hand and she was given a couple of minutes to gulp it down.
Then one of the slave girls began to scrape any remaining dirt from under her fingernails, before manicuring and buffing them until they shone. Another girl started on her hair, working on the tangles and knots that had formed in her long locks since she’d become a prisoner of the Romans many weeks earlier. Sirona could not repress a few squeals of pain as they pulled roughly at her scalp. Eventually, every single knot and tangle was removed and her hair hung down her back in shimmering copper waves.
She had no idea why they were taking such care over a new house slave. Once again, she began to fear that the senator might have ordered all this because he still intended to bed her. She sat there mutely, trying not to think about him, let alone imagine what sex with him might be like, as she listened to the women’s chatter. They made no attempt to be friendly or communicate with her in any way and she began to feel even more fearful and totally alone in this alien land.
They dressed her in a long tunic of fine green linen that was almost the same colour as her eyes, and a plain white girdle was knotted around her narrow waist. Not more, Sirona thought wearily, as one of the women picked up a wooden cosmetic box. She was just about to outline Sirona’s eyes with black antimony when Tiro entered the room.
The servants immediately ceased their near-constant chatter and turned to look at him. ‘No, no make-up,’ he said firmly. ‘It is not necessary. Stand up, Sirona, let me see you,’ he continued in her language.
She stood up and slowly turned to face him.
‘An improvement beyond belief,’ he said. Tiro smiled at the women who had been attending Sirona. ‘Well done,’ he added, switching again to Latin. ‘Now, you may leave and get on with your other duties.’ He waved his hand dismissively.
They all did as they were told in a quiet but cheerful manner, as if they liked and respected him. So Tiro was a man of some influence in this household, Sirona thought, although she was unable to forget her previous sight of him meekly pleasuring his master.
‘It is good to feel clean,’ she said, relieved to be able to communicate with someone. ‘You may consider me a barbarian, but despite what you think of us we don’t enjoy wallowing in filth and squalor.’ She paused, then added, ‘However, I must admit I do not understand why they took such care over my appearance.’
‘The master considers neatness and cleanliness a necessity for all members of his household,’ Tiro replied, as if the care they’d taken of her was nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Now, come with me and I will show you around the house and acquaint you with your duties. Usually, that task would have fallen to one of your fellow slaves. However, I have decided to honour you with my attention because you appear not to understand Latin. I’m not a fool, Sirona. You are of noble birth so I am certain that you must know at least a smattering of our language, despite your mute behaviour earlier this afternoon. Heed my advice. It would not be wise to display such obvious reluctance and disobedience in future.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I suspect your actions stemmed more from a desire to resist than a lack of understanding. Now you have to concentrate on your survival. I’m certain you will soon become proficient enough in Latin to enable you to follow orders quickly and obediently.’
‘With your help, I am sure I will,’ she conceded sweetly, deciding it would not be wise to make an enemy of Tiro.
3
TARANIS PACED HIS small cell, ignoring his companions Leod and Olin. They were slumped on a straw-stuffed mattress in the corner, snoring softly, with their bellies full for the first time in many weeks.
The barred door of the cell faced the large peristyle, which was lit by flickering torches. When they were led into the building, Taranis had caught sight of a notice advertising a slave auction the following morning. They were preparing for it now, as servants laid out lines of chairs and benches. The chairs at the front were for the wealthiest and most respected citizens. The less influential would be seated on the benches, while the rest would be standing crowded together behind them.
Taranis was no stranger to slave auctions, and had attended some with his father. His family owned slaves just like everyone else and, when they died or became too old to work, they had to be replaced. As he grew older, he had gone to the auctions with his friends, not always to buy slaves but sometimes out of curiosity, most notably when it was advertised that they were selling prime pieces of female merchandise, as often such women were displayed totally naked. At the time, he had not even bothered to consider how the slaves might be feeling, let alone imagine that he might be forced one day to endure a similar indignity.
Compared to some of the establishments he had seen, conditions here were not too bad. The cells were clean, they had adequate bedding and they had been well fed. Nevertheless, Taranis was filled with apprehension, fearing what would happen the following day – death on the battlefield would be far preferable to the humiliation of being sold on the block.
Suddenly, he heard imperious Roman voices speaking, as they usually did, far too loudly. He stepped back in the shadows as a number of well-dressed citizens were led past his cell. Soon more guests arrived, laughing and joking, as they were escorted across the peristyle. A small niggling
concern formed in his mind. Was it possible that there was to be a pre-auction viewing? He recalled the many rumours that he had heard about them, as he tried to convince himself that neither he nor his companions would merit such an event.
Leod awoke, disturbed by the shrill giggles coming from a couple of women as they walked past the cell. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, stretching his arms and yawning.
‘Looks like there is some kind of party going on,’ Taranis replied casually. His two red-headed companions were simple men – warriors who had been raised far from Roman domination. They knew little of their captors’ ways. Taranis had no wish to increase their concerns; after all, he might be wrong about tonight. It was possible that the slave trader was just having a private party. ‘Go back to sleep, you need your rest.’
More guests strolled past the cell. Judging by their pure-white togas and fine jewellery, they were all wealthy. The majority were male but there were a few women as well, rich Roman matrons wearing fancy dresses, with their hair elaborately dressed. One man wore a senatorial toga; it was unusual to find such an important man so far from Rome.
Eventually, it appeared that the last guests had arrived and for a time there was silence. The peristyle was left in near total darkness and Taranis began to wonder if his uneasy presumptions were wrong as he stood there listening to the soothing sounds of the crickets, interspersed now and then with one of Olin’s loud snores. He stiffened as he caught sight of a number of flickering torches across the other side of the peristyle. The lights moved closer as the small group of guards advanced towards the cell.
The cell door made an ugly grating sound as it was pulled open and a gruff voice said, ‘The prisoners are to step forwards – the man from Gaul last.’
‘What?’ Leod mumbled, as he and his bleary-eyed companion sat up. They both understood only a little very basic Latin.
‘We are to stand up and move outside,’ Taranis explained. ‘One at a time. You go first, Leod.’
He stood back to let Leod leave first, then watched as the slave accompanying the guards took a pair of ankle irons, joined together by a short length of chain, from the basket he had placed on the ground beside him. The slave knelt and fastened them securely around Leod’s ankles. Then another pair of irons were used to fasten Leod’s hands together.
Olin stepped forwards nervously. As he was being shackled in a similar manner, Leod glanced questioningly back at Taranis, who was still standing inside the cell. He had no intention of even trying to explain that they were most likely to be displayed at a pre-auction viewing, where they would be prodded, poked and perhaps intimately examined by any number of the wealthy guests. Swallowing uneasily, Taranis forced himself to smile reassuringly at his two friends.
Then it was his turn to leave the relative security of his cell. Taranis was immediately chained as well, but unlike his companions his arms were not fastened in front of him but securely behind his back. ‘Let’s go,’ the man said gruffly, as he roughly grabbed hold of Taranis’s shoulder.
It proved difficult to walk in anything but a slow ungainly shuffle as they were led through the peristyle, then through another smaller courtyard and into a large brightly illuminated chamber. Taranis blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. The walls of the room were covered in brilliantly coloured paintings and the air was heavy with a sweet cornucopia of rich perfumes. A small group of musicians was playing an unfamiliar tune, which had a strangely compelling beat. The guests reclined on couches set around three sides of the room, watching two naked, large-breasted women performing an erotic dance in time to the music. Scantily clad male and female slaves stood by each couch ready to serve the visitors food and drink.
They were led to a spot just behind the dancers, close to the only empty wall in the room. This area was even more brightly illuminated and the heat from the lamps and torches made Taranis break out in a slight sweat.
‘What’s happening?’ Olin asked anxiously, as they were lined up.
Taranis was positioned between his two companions and one of the soldiers knelt to securely fasten their ankle chains to iron rings set in the mosaic-tiled floor.
‘Be strong, it will be over soon,’ Taranis whispered reassuringly, as the dancers moved out of sight and the music ceased.
All eyes were on the three men as the slave trader, Maecenus, walked towards them. He was a portly man with a large belly. His heavy features, scar-pitted skin and bulbous nose most likely made him repellent to women. Taranis knew that wouldn’t matter to him, as he must have many slaves who would be forced to pleasure him in every way he wanted. Judging by his ostentatious garments and heavy gold jewellery, he was as rich as Croesus himself. His long dark hair was oiled and hung in ringlets round his thick neck, and Taranis thought that he had never laid eyes on a more unattractive creature.
‘The tunic,’ Maecenus snapped.
A slave stepped behind the three men and unfastened the shoulder ties of Leod’s short blue tunic.
‘No,’ Leod protested, as the tunic fell at his feet, leaving him clad in only a brief white linen loincloth.
‘Steady,’ Taranis hissed. ‘Don’t move, Leod. Trust me, it will be even worse if you fight them. Hold your head high and ignore them all. It will be over soon enough,’ he added reassuringly.
Well used to obeying his commander, Leod stiffened and stared straight ahead. The slave then removed Olin’s garment, and he too stood to attention and stared straight ahead. The two men had strong muscular physiques, but their skin looked extraordinarily pale in the bright light. Romans often exercised in the nude but the Celts rarely uncovered their flesh. Both Leod and Olin had uncommonly pale, heavily freckled skin, which contrasted even more strongly with their red hair. In Brittania, like most of the Celts, they had both sported heavy beards and long moustaches but despite their protests all their facial hair had been removed earlier in the day in the bathhouse.
Maecenus began to point out the various virtues of the two warriors he was selling, making much of their many fighting skills. Leod and Olin didn’t really understand all he said, so they both looked questioningly at Taranis, as Maecenus politely invited his guests to examine the two slaves more closely.
‘They want to see what they are buying – most likely you’ll end up in the arena,’ Taranis said, as that was the only positive thing he could think of which might help to reassure them a little. Life or even death as a gladiator would be a far better fate for a warrior than being sold as a lowly slave.
Taranis felt proud of his companions as they stood there, not moving a muscle, never betraying their disgust or embarrassment as a number of the male guests crowded forwards to examine them both.
It was clear from the conversation that his assumptions were correct and both Britons were most probably destined for the arena. Taranis hoped that he too might be sold for gladiatorial training. He’d been well schooled in all methods of combat, and could best most men with either sword or spear. Gladiators, if they survived, could often earn enough wealth to eventually purchase their freedom. Some had become so loved and respected that they’d been welcomed into the upper strata of society. The majority of gladiators were slaves, or prisoners of war but it was not that uncommon for poorer citizens, drawn by the promise of untold wealth, to sell themselves to a gladiatorial school in order to help their families survive.
Fortunately for Leod and Olin, none of those present overstepped the bounds and examined them in an embarrassingly intimate manner. In fact, they all appeared more interested in gauging the strength of their muscles and their stamina, as they tried to estimate how well the Britons might fare in the arena.
Eventually, Maecenus stepped forwards. ‘Honoured guests, if you have all finished?’ he said with an oily grin.
They nodded and smiled, then began to move away, chatting among themselves as they returned to their seats. Maecenus, meanwhile, beckoned forwards a couple of the guards who had been waiting by the doorway. They strode forwards, released Le
od and Olin from the rings set in the floor, thrust their discarded tunics in their chained hands, and then escorted the young men from the room.
Taranis didn’t like being left to face these people without his companions, but at least Leod and Olin wouldn’t be here to witness whatever humiliation was in store for him. It was strange, he thought, he had been born and raised a Roman yet he felt not even the faintest affinity with any of the people in this room. Even before his capture, he had resided in a different world completely. Often he prayed now to the gods of his barbarian ancestors, fearing that Jupiter and the other Roman gods had deserted him.
Maecenus waited until the guests had been served more refreshments, then he turned to stare coldly at Taranis. ‘They tell me that you were once a Roman citizen. That you turned against your people and betrayed your heritage,’ he hissed. ‘Now you will receive your just desserts for such treachery,’ he added with immense satisfaction. ‘The tunic, Nubius.’
Taranis felt the slave’s hands brush his shoulders as they unfastened the ties of his tunic, and the fabric fell in a pool at his feet. He had been dreading this moment because the loincloth they’d made him wear was much briefer than those given to Leod and Olin.
A thin strip of fabric encircled his lean waist. Attached to that was an even thinner strip which threaded tightly between the crack of his buttock cheeks. The front piece was very small and just cupped his cock and balls, barely serving to cover them at all. Taranis had no idea how appealing he looked standing there almost naked and in chains. He was as handsome as a Greek god with his chiselled features and long golden hair. His skin, still lightly tanned, was covered with a thin film of perspiration, making it gleam in the flickering light.
Maecenus started talking, pointing out the physical perfection of the merchandise and the strength and ability of this powerful warrior who had been raised as a Roman but who had turned against his own and betrayed his heritage. Once he had finished his short sales pitch, he invited a number of the guests to examine the slave, pointedly listing them by name. Presumably, they were the wealthiest and most influential citizens who might be persuaded to make the highest bids at the auction tomorrow morning.
Barbarian Prize Page 5