Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2)

by Amy Jarecki

  Let him return to Rome and consort with senators. Truly, I am convinced that’s where Theodosius’s talents lie.

  With Bacchus’s help, Titus felt certain the games would not disappoint Theodosius, though he wished a proper arena had been constructed nearby. Clearly, the former Dux, Fullofaudes, had not engaged in the circus, or else there would be one directly outside Vindolanda.

  Titus climbed the principia steps. Blast. Theodosius and Dulcitius were already there, glaring down their noses at him. He let out a deep breath and raised his hand in greeting. “The parade is about to begin, sir.” To his reprieve, the game’s chariot drivers rounded the corner and clopped down the flagstone lane leading to the principia. Titus clapped his hands loudly.

  Bronze reliefs on the chariots glistened in the sun. Each driver wore an immaculate uniform highlighted with polished bronze breastplates and helmets with red horsehair crests. Men carrying the flags of Rome rode in front and behind, followed by trumpeters announcing the grand procession until the retinue stopped before them.

  Theodosius spread his arms wide. “This shall be a great day for Rome and all who support the Empire!”

  Nodding his approval, the count pattered down the stairs to blaring trumpets. He stepped onto the first chariot. Following closely behind, Titus relieved the charioteer of his reins and stood beside the count. Dulcitius followed, riding with the driver of the second. Titus ignored the irritated scowl on the other centurion’s face. As primus, Titus had taken his rightful place at the head of the procession. He snapped the reins across the horse’s backs. Damn Dulcitius and his insufferable pride.

  They rode in a procession through the cobblestoned streets of Vindolanda and out the south gates to the arena Titus had hastily erected, encircled with a wooden fence. Along the far wall, more trumpeters blared the commencement of the games in concert with the trumpets behind. The fence was mostly lined with Roman legionaries, but as his chariot circled the arena, Titus noted a few locals had come to watch the spectacle.

  The chariots drove through the center of the arena and stopped for the officers to alight and climb the steps to the officer’s box. The procession then circled three times with the gladiators joining in the parade, cheered and jeered by the crowd.

  The legionaries roared and whistled until the parade rounded in the center of the arena and faced the officer’s box. Titus leaned toward Theodosius. “Would you care to do the honors?”

  Theodosius grinned and held up his arms. “Welcome, faithful servants of Rome. Today we shall celebrate the peace that we have again brought to the Empire. Let the games commence!”

  The procession filed out of the west entrance, and Titus looked to the east. As planned, soldiers quickly staged five targets in the center of the arena. Titus led the officers’ party to the commander’s box. He held up his hand, insuring he had everyone’s attention. Without a word, he sliced his hand vertically through the air.

  Elspeth spurred her mare to a gallop. Her bronze helmet glistened like a miniature sun, as her fiery locks flowed behind. The silken drapes of her chiton billowed, revealing a perfectly shaped leg as it bent and clutched against her horse. She looked like a warrior queen as she stretched her bowstring and aimed the arrow, reins in her teeth.

  Her motion blurred with the speed of her movement while she plucked arrow after arrow from her quiver and shot them into the bull’s-eye of each target. Coming up to the fifth, she snatched two arrows from her quiver and sent them straight into the center as if it were as easy as brushing a fly from her shoulder.

  The men whooped and applauded, and Elspeth spun her horse, galloping back to the center. She was supposed to stop for a bow. That was what Titus had instructed. But to his chagrin, she surged forward at full speed, plucking another arrow and shooting it within a hair’s breadth of the arrow in the middle target. His heart raced. What else will she do?

  Titus drew in a deep breath as she galloped the mare directly at the fence. Right before she collided with the rails, she skidded her horse to an abrupt stop. The mare’s hindquarters dipped so low, her rump nearly brushed the surface of the sand. Elspeth glanced over her shoulder and locked his gaze with a defiant set to her jaw. Held motionless in her vice, Titus could not pull his eyes away. How utterly exquisite she was, in control and powerful. Even though she’d done what was asked of her, she had added something of her own, and now she ensnared Titus and the entire arena with her commanding presence.

  Theodosius clapped. The others followed.

  Elspeth gave a toss of her head, and the horsehair crest of her helmet fluttered as she trotted back to center and lowered her chin as her horse bowed. The crowd whistled and yelled for more.

  Theodosius leaned in. “I admire her bravado. I hope you are watching your back, for that woman is positively deadly.”

  “She is at that,” Titus agreed. And not only because she could skewer a man in a heartbeat. Her beauty could make a man lose his mind.

  As planned, the gladiatorial contest was first. Titus ground his back molars, painfully aware he did not have sufficient talent to impress Theodosius, and he refused to put the lives of his better legionaries on the line. At least with the chariot races scheduled for the finale, Theodosius would depart with a favorable impression of Titus and his efforts.

  His first gladiator took the field and fell after the second clash of swords.

  “Just what kind of worthless vermin have you recruited against my champions?” Dulcitius asked.

  Titus looked skyward. “The poor bastards have had a week to prepare. How about yours?”

  Dulcitius jammed his finger into the rail. “That man looked as if he had never defended himself with sword and shield.”

  The trumpets announced the next fight and the arena grew silent. Bacchus had sent in their largest man. Titus clenched his teeth. What the blazes? We were going to save him until the end.

  The second fight lasted longer and ended with Titus’s man on his knees with the sword of the victor under his throat. As the men cried “kill!” they looked toward Theodosius for his final decision.

  “’Tis just for sport.” Titus frowned.

  Theodosius held up his thumb level with the ground. “Your men are ill prepared.” He turned his thumb down, and the victor ran his sword across the huntsman’s throat.

  Titus would have preferred to jump into the arena and fight himself rather than watch another mockery. Gladiatorial games were meant for warriors who had trained for months to fight. His third man went down, killed by a trident embedded in his chest.

  Bacchus gave him a thumbs-up when the fourth gladiator entered the arena. Titus shook his head. At least this travesty was nearly over, and the chariot races would begin. His optio seemed excited about the prospect of the stocky huntsman who entered the ring. Dulcitius’s gladiator stood as large as Titus’s biggest man. Titus wiped his hand across his mouth, wondering what bad mushrooms Bacchus had been fed.

  Dulcitius leaned in. “’Tis a pity you had such poor specimens from which to choose. No wonder you had no trouble securing the wall. The local beasts are all made of lard.”

  Hot prickles made the hair stand up on the back of Titus’s neck. “Gloat now, comrade. Your chest will not be so filled with pride when the chariots take the arena.”

  The centurion arched a brow. “Would you care to make a wager?”

  Titus smirked. “Are you eager to ease the burden in your purse?”

  “Perhaps not coin.” Dulcitius rubbed his palms together. “I would wager my finest steed against a night with your vixen archer.”

  “Elspeth?” Titus’s chest gripped taut. “She is no whore.”

  Theodosius slammed his fist against his armrest. “Dammit, Titus. Your love for the indigenous must stop. These people murdered our predecessors. Accept the wager and pay attention to your man. All is not lost on the field.”

  Titus caught Dulcitius’s satisfied grin. Bastard. He clenched his fists and glared down at the fight. His man displayed a
gility and cunning and used his shield to fend off blows. Dulcitius’s gladiator tired as Titus’s man hacked at him with his sword, advancing and wearing him down. The big gladiator stumbled backward. The huntsman rounded on him, pinning the brute in a death hold.

  The crowd bellowed, “kill!” Theodosius held out his thumb and turned it up, signaling quarter for Dulcitius’s gladiator.

  Titus dropped his jaw. “Why allow him to live with three of mine killed?”

  Theodosius flicked his wrist dismissively. “Dulcitius took these games seriously. He was ready. You were not.”

  Taking the games seriously? What about taking our actual work seriously instead of wasting our time with this show of pretense? He clamped his jaw until his teeth hurt. “Has our military effectiveness been reduced to judging our performance in the arena?”

  Theodosius frowned. “Have my officers been away from Rome so long they forget their station?”

  Titus’s stomach twisted, but he still bowed his head. “Apologies, my lord.” He gestured toward the field. “Shall we continue with the chariot races? My legionaries are fit and ready, sir.”

  “’Tis a shame we do not have the Circus Maximus on the frontier. But it will be a treat to watch our soldiers test their metal.”

  Titus and Dulcitius each brought eight teams of four horses to be driven by their century’s best charioteers in two separate races of seven laps. Titus applauded as his men passed in the prerace lap. Theodosius gave nothing away with his bland applaud, though Titus noticed he favored neither side as chariots crossed in front of the spectator’s box. When they circled to the starting line, silence fell.

  Bacchus drew out the anticipation, waiving a white cloth over his head, eyeing each charioteer and nodding. He dropped the cloth and roared, “Ride!”

  The horses burst forward. Whips cracked across their backs. The riding was fast and the fighting dirty as each team struggled for placement. Dulcitius’s men fought dirtier, and Titus’s men drove harder. In the end, Titus had been right. His men had more discipline and skill, and both races went to the host.

  When the cheering subsided, Theodosius stood and spread his arms, pushing downward with his palms. Silence again pervaded the arena. “Soldiers of Rome, it is with swelling pride that I congratulate you on your victory over the barbarians. We have reclaimed Britannia and Hadrian’s Wall. Emperor Valentinian is pleased. I commissioned these games to celebrate our victory and recognize our senior centurions, Dulcitius and Titus, for their robust leadership.”

  Titus ground his teeth. By using the general term “senior,” Theodosius had slighted Titus by ignoring his superior rank as Primus Pilus. With his father now an influential force in the senate, he wondered why the count would be so unconcerned about the distinction—Titus’s father could provide significant assistance to the count’s ambitions when Theodosius returned to Rome. Titus glanced at the aloof grin Dulcitius wore plastered across his face. Undoubtedly, Dulcitius weaseled himself into the count’s good favor.

  Titus had never been a friend of Dulcitius, though they had gone through officer training together. When they’d first met, it had been as if Dulcitius had taken an instant hatred to him, taking every opportunity to pass a cutting jibe, or face him in the sparring ring. It was no secret their fathers were sworn enemies. Flavius Augustus Romulus had been on the council that had investigated the scandal that lead to the beheading of Dulcitius’s father.

  Lost in thought, Titus didn’t notice Theodosius had reached the end of his speech until the crowd erupted in raucous applause. Titus clapped his hands loudly to cover his irritation. At least Theodosius had recognized all the legionaries for their efforts.

  The count held up his palms, again asking for silence. Of course he wouldn’t settle for such a short speech. “However, our games have not quite ended. We are tied with Titus winning the chariot races and Dulcitius the gladiator contest. I hereby command that our Centurions entertain us in a two-horse race of seven laps.”

  The legionaries boomed with excitement. Titus shook his head. “Sir, you never cease to amaze me. Pitting your senior officers in front of the common soldiers?”

  Dulcitius admired his immaculately clean fingernails. “Of course if the centurion is not up to it…”

  “’Tis all in fun, Titus. The men enjoy watching their leaders sweat,” Theodosius said.

  Titus bowed his head. “As you wish.” He glared at Dulcitius’s smug expression and his gut clenched. A turn around the arena in a chariot would be welcome. Bring on your best, you cod-sucking boar.

  Bacchus had a team of white stallions hitched to Titus’s chariot in no time. Running his hands over a horse’s hindquarters, Titus frowned. “Where is Petronius? I would prefer to race with my own stallion.”

  “There’s no time to run to the stables, sir.”

  Titus clenched his teeth and climbed onto the wooden planks of the chariot, adorned with a bronze relief depicting a race from the Circus Maximus. He wrapped the reins around his left wrist.

  Bacchus handed him a whip. “Watch Dulcitius. He’s a dirty bastard, that one.”

  “’Tis an exhibition. That is all.” But Titus looked across at his nemesis, boarding a chariot with two black stallions. In no way was this race for the men’s amusement. This was Theodosius’s sick way of watching the two centurions compete, and the victor would be elevated as his choice for dux. Titus lost a great deal of favor with the gladiator fight, though Dulcitius had received no such chiding for his defeat in the chariot races.

  Titus tightened his grip on his reins. He’d best win this race.

  His gaze darted to Theodosius in the spectator box, who raised the white flag. Beneath his helmet, Titus’s heart thundered in his ears as it had when he’d raced his chariot for sport at the age of nine and ten. Every inch of skin prickled. Theodosius toyed with them, fluttering the cloth in the wind. Titus slowly inhaled.

  The flag dropped.

  Titus roared and cracked the whip across the backs of his team. His expert skills honed from a decade of soldiering took over as he focused on his horses. The reins and the whip demanded a commanding touch to drive his team to victory.

  The wheels groaned as the horses lunged forward. From the corners of his vision, Titus saw Dulcitius surge ahead with a good start. The two teams lurched, the horses’ noses even. A half lap and they were still neck and neck. Titus jumped when struck with the savage tongue of a stinging lash. He let out a bellow of pain as hot blood streaked from his arm. Dulcitius drew his whip back for another strike. Titus ducked. The whip hissed above his head, catching the crest of his helmet and ripping it off.

  Titus took advantage of Dulcitius’s inattention to his team and wielded his whip to pull the horses ahead. At the turn, Dulcitius was a half-length behind. A slicing tongue of Dulcitius’s lash smashed against Titus’s mail and cut through the back of his thigh. Titus arched his back, falling into the front body of his chariot. With his fists, he pushed himself back to standing, but Dulcitius again pulled beside him.

  Titus drove harder. If he gave the slightest quarter, Dulcitius would lash at his horses and send them off course. Dulcitius drew his whip back and again cracked it toward Titus. Swapping his whip to his left hand, Titus snatched the vicious tongue. Like an asp in the desert, it coiled around his wrist, threatening to cut through sinew and bone. With a roar, Titus yanked the strap across his body. Dulcitius had no time to react. Pulled from the chariot, his body pounded into the ground, the reins tangling in his feet.

  Driving his team, Titus worked to unwind the lash from its tourniquet-like grip. Dulcitius bellowed with pain as his body was dragged through the dirt. With one last slap of his reins, Titus raced across the finish line.

  His men poured into the arena surrounding him with shouts of victory. Titus glanced back at Dulcitius, who shoved aside the offered hand of his optio, Paulus. From the officer’s box, Theodosius nodded his approval.

  Titus thrust his fist in to the air. “Let us celebrate our
victories with food and drink for all!”

  ****

  The raw skin on his thigh and upper arm stung while Dulcitius stomped toward his tent with Paulus on his heels. “The count will expect you in the officers’ mess, sir.”

  Dulcitius yanked aside the canvas, unbuckled his sword and tossed it on his cot. “Dammit, fool, do you not think I know what the count expects?” He inspected the open wound that oozed blood from his hip to his knee, and then examined the same on his arm. “Get the salve. That flatulent bastard will pay.”

  Paulus produced a stoneware pot. “This will ease the burn.”

  Dulcitius clenched his fists against the agonizing pain. “I knew there would be no way for Titus to prepare for these games. ’Tis your fault the charioteers faltered. I want them punished severely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They focused too much on fighting and not enough on driving their horses. They need to do both. If they are going to strike out at another driver, they must take him out and do so without losing ground.”

  Paulus gaped at him with wide eyes. His expression exposed his ill-placed doubt.

  “Hold your tongue. I stayed up with Titus and injured him mercilessly. My lashes will scar him for life, and every time he looks at them, he’ll remember my wrath.” Dulcitius hissed at the stinging pain in his thigh as Paulus rubbed in the ointment none to gently. “Watch yourself.”

  “The salve will start soothing soon, sir.”

  “I should murder that bastard.”

  Paulus chuckled. “That would end Theodosius’s indecision.”

  “Yes. And Titus needs to suffer.” Dulcitius clawed his fingers as if he could grasp the centurion’s neck between them. “A good lashing followed by a team of horses dragging the cur until he draws his last breath would suit.”

  “Hold your arm out, sir.” Paulus examined the bloody scrape on Dulcitius’s arm with a sly grin curling the corners of his lips. “I like how you’re thinking, sir. But you’d need good cause. Would you be so bold as to share your plans?”