Gladiator Heart

by Alyssa Morgan

  “You may eat if you’re hungry.” He indicated an empty seat at the table with a wave of his hand and took a long swallow from his flagon of ale.

  He could have some of the spiced wine they’d taken from the fort brought for her if she preferred it, then he immediately banished the thought. He would do nothing to make the woman comfortable. Her days of lounging around, eating olives and drinking wine, were over. Life in the north could be cold and harsh, and she’d learn to find pleasure in much simpler things. Like vegetables and fresh water.

  She was unsteady on her feet at first, but she made it to the table and seated herself on one of the stools. Tristan pushed the silver platter of food towards her, then tossed some ale out of a flagon and filled it with fresh water from the pitcher. He set it in front of her and continued to sip from his own cup as he watched her with curiosity.

  Vulnerable as she was, there was also a strength to her. A depth of courage not many possessed. She held herself with confidence and ease, and her eyes, ever watchful, glistened with the knowledge of some secret known only to her. She ate with practiced manners, taking small, unhurried bites, though she must be half-starved. It only served to remind him of how different her world was from his and how he shouldn’t be entertaining tender thoughts about her. She was a Roman. Her people had killed his parents, his three brothers, his wife and their unborn child. They had destroyed his homeland and enslaved those who survived. He could show a Roman no mercy. Not this one, not at any time, not for any reason. Ever.

  Valeria didn’t notice Tristan watching her, his malevolent stare darkening as she devoured the meat and vegetables as fast as her graceful manners would allow. She had a voracious appetite and feared she might finish off the entire platter of food. Every few bites she forced herself to drink some of the water and take a deep breath before tearing into the food again. Soon, the hollow pit in her stomach was satisfied and she was able to wish for other things, like a comb for her hair, or a hot bath. Perhaps some warm, clean clothes and some leather boots or sandals. Anything to cover her feet.

  “What were you doing at the fort?” Tristan’s deep voice sliced through the silence in the tent.

  Valeria raised a worried gaze to meet his grey eyes, which were stony with anger. She had better answer his questions, considering he was giving her shelter, and now food and water. If he asked anything that might compromise Rome, she’d lie to him. “I was there to see my uncle.”

  “Who is your uncle?”

  What would he do to her if he knew she was the Emperor’s niece? She might be illegitimate, conceived from an illicit affair, but he still claimed her as family.

  “His name is Rufus Paulinas.” She gave the name of her dear protector, sworn to watch over her since the day she was born. He was probably dead so he wouldn’t begrudge her the use of his name to keep up her ruse.

  “This uncle approved of you travelling to enemy territory?” Tristan appeared outraged by the idea.

  “The wall is not enemy territory,” she argued. “It’s well-guarded and perfectly safe.”

  Tristan placed his hand on the table and leaned towards her. “Your current predicament would prove otherwise.”

  Valeria was caught in his penetrating gaze, unable to look away from him. He was right. Had the wall been safe, she’d still be there, clean and warm and…safe. It appeared Rome didn’t have as strong a hold on the wall as her people were led to believe.

  “I wonder why you would travel so far to see your uncle.” Tristan leaned closer to her, so close she could feel his warm breath on her face.

  “I missed him.” Her voice was barely a whisper and she stirred uneasily.

  His eyes searched hers. Did he have some way of knowing she was lying? The smile he gave her was wide and friendly, flashing his even, white teeth, and she relaxed under his scrutinizing stare, believing he bought the lie.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that if you expect to fool me.” He thrust his flagon of ale down on the table and went over to the fire, where he added more kindling to the small orange blaze.

  Valeria swallowed hard, trying not to let her fear show. Tristan wasn’t going to let her go without giving him the truth, and that was something she could never give him.

  Chapter Three

  The water was cold and clear and it enlivened her senses. Valeria submerged the cloth in the basin of fresh water Tristan had brought for her, rinsed it, and then wrung it out before swiping it over her neck and chest. Bumps of gooseflesh rose on her skin and she shivered from the cold. It was a small price to pay in order to be clean. Never again would she take a lazy, warm bath for granted.

  Tristan had instructed her to wash and then he’d left her alone in the tent. She immediately took the opportunity to get a look at what was on the other side of the door, and retreated back inside when she was met with a look of disgust from Angus. She didn’t know if he stood guard to keep her in, or to keep others out. Valeria may not like him, but she felt safer with him there.

  She kept her tunic on while she washed, focusing on her face and neck, her hands and arms, and lastly her feet. The water was brown and murky when she finished and her skin raw from being scrubbed and polished. After raking her fingers through some of the tangles in her hair, she was slowly returning to herself.

  The minutes dragged on, feeling like hours, and still Tristan didn’t return. She poked around in his tent searching for personal items or anything that might hint atthe kind of man he was. She found nothing, only a few changes of clothes and his warm furs. The maps spread open on the table gave no hints as to strategy or where his other armies might be camped. Not that she’d be getting out of here alive to tell anyone, and if she did, who would she tell? Her uncle was most likely dead, and any new leader wouldn’t listen to her. The only value she had as a woman was to make a strong alliance through marriage and give her husband strong, healthy children who would carry on his lineage.

  Valeria plopped down on one of the stools at the table. The idea of such a boring, tedious existence did not sit well with her. She was a patrician with noble blood in her veins and had been bred and pampered as such, but she’d also been allowed a great measure of freedom in her life. Her mother died giving birth to her, and knowing nothing of her father, she’d been taken in by her uncle and raised mostly by the household servants. Her family was more concerned with their political aspirations and accumulating wealth than her comings and goings. Half the time they forgot she even existed.

  More depressed than she was before, she checked the three flagons on the table for something to drink. Not water. She wanted something stronger. Tristan’s cup held some ale and she took a long, gulping swallow.

  Valeria didn’t mind being alone. She’d gotten so used to being ignored that she found the recent interest in obtaining a husband for her rather insulting. Who were these people to dictate her life? They didn’t know anything about her. Begging for her uncle’s compassion and understanding would be the only way to save herself from a life of misery and servitude.

  She took another heavy swallow of ale, finishing the drink this time. Her belch was hardly ladylike and she laughed as she imagined what a husband would think of such crude behavior. Would she be beaten? Publicly flogged and thrown into the arena with the Gladiators? She burst into a hysterical fit of laughter, while at the same time troubled tears burned her eyes. Maybe she was losing her mind. And maybe the Gods had answered her prayers after all by sending Tristan. He was one way to escape her awful fate.

  Hearing Valeria’s laughter, Tristan barged into his tent, ready to kill Angus for leaving his post and seeking out her company. He was surprised to find her seated alone at the table, laughing, with tears running down her clean face. Her wild mane of blonde curls had been somewhat tamed and her beauty was even more evident with the layer of dirt removed.

  “What amuses you so?” he demanded, still angry with her for trying to deceive him when he’d questioned her earlier.

  Sh
e sobered, ceasing her laughter and looking up at him from under her dark lashes. “Nothing.”

  “Were you not just laughing?”

  “No.” Her chin trembled as if she was about to cry, but she held back her tears.

  Gods!

  The woman was exasperating. Tristan marched over to the table and picked up his flagon of ale, not prepared to find it empty.

  “Did you drink this?” He turned it over and a single drop splashed on the wooden surface of the table.

  “Yes.” She smiled up at him, seeming pleased with herself.

  Well, at least she’d told him the truth. Perhaps the ale would help loosen her tongue. “Tell me why you were at the wall.”

  Valeria groaned and rested her head in her hands. “I already told you.”

  “I don’t believe your story.” Did she really mean to keep up with her lies? Had she been there to deliver a message from Rome? They often used women as unsuspecting spies.

  “Is it so strange that I’d want to see my uncle?” She lifted her head from her hands and looked at him. “He wasn’t coming back to Rome anytime soon.”

  Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her carefully, watching for any sign that she was lying to him. “There must have been a good reason for you to put yourself in danger.”

  “Aren’t you getting tired of asking me the same questions?”

  “Not until you tell me the truth.”

  “You want the truth?” She gave a deflated sigh. “I travelled to the fort to beg my uncle to change his mind about forcing me to marry.”

  Tristan bellowed a laugh. Her new lie was even less believable. “It’s been my experience that all women want to marry. You’d do better telling me the real reason.”

  “That is the real reason,” she insisted. “I have no wish to be wed to a stranger who cares nothing for me. I am not property to be traded and sold.”

  “Slavery is the only currency Rome knows,” he said. “You’d best get used to it.”

  The Gods knew Tristan had already treated this woman better than the Romans treated their slaves. He was sure she was of patrician stock, and she’d have a hard time convincing him that life was so bad for her.

  “How does what you’re doing differ from what Rome does?” Her blue eyes sparkled in challenge. “You attacked the fort, killed most of the men and will kill the prisoners you took, or sell them as slaves.”

  Tristan stared harshly at her. He didn’t have to explain his actions to her, but was she really so ignorant? “We are fighting to keep what is rightfully ours and has been since the dawn of time. When Rome marches upon our lands, kills our families and burns our homes and crops, we’re left with no choice but to retaliate. We’ve been forced into this battle, and therein lies the difference.”

  Comprehension dawned in her eyes, but she remained silent. A woman like Valeria wasn’t familiar with the ways of war. The attack at the fort had to be the closest she’d ever come to a battle. Roman women were kept safe and sheltered, far from the front lines, while his people fought for their lives, every man, woman and child. He should wring her pretty little neck for that injustice alone.

  “You don’t have to fight,” she argued. “If you just went along with Rome surely they would—”

  “We will never bow before them!” He slammed his fist down on the table, causing the empty flagons to topple over. “We are free men.”

  Startled, Valeria shrank back from him. How little she knew of men and war. The one thing she could understand was the desire to be free. She’d been seeking the same thing before ending up a prisoner in the enemy’s camp.

  What a fool she was.

  She would never know freedom the way a man did. If she escaped Tristan, or by some miracle he let her go, she would have to return home. Where else would she go? Rome was the only life she knew. And she hated it more than anything in this moment. Sometimes she wondered if she had been born into the wrong life, in the wrong place, with the wrong people.

  Tristan grabbed her roughly by the arm and jerked her off the stool and onto her feet. “We’ve done enough talking for the day.” He led her towards the sleeping pallet.

  Valeria’s entire body went rigid with fear. Dread lodged in her gut and she struggled to breathe. What would he do to her?

  Tristan practically had to drag her across the tent because she dug in her heels, trying to stop him. When they reached the pallet he shoved her down to the ground. She kept her eyes cast to the floor. She didn’t have the courage to look at him. She didn’t want to see the wild lust burning in his eyes.

  He caught her by surprise when he tossed two fur pelts from the pallet on the ground beside her. Now she did look up at him, and the only thing burning in his eyes was anger.

  “Those should be enough to keep you warm through the night,” he bit out.

  Valeria absently stroked her hand over the soft brown fur as Tristan went to the other side of the tent and tossed aside a stack of furs that had been resting on top of a trunk. He threw open the lid and rustled around inside. With a metallic, clanking noise he produced a pair of iron shackles and came back over to her.

  She panicked when he went down on his knees and closed his strong hand around her ankle.” What are you doing?”

  He pulled her leg across his lap. “I’m making sure you don’t decide to wander off.” He secured one of the cold, heavy shackles around her ankle. He clamped the other shackle to the end of the pallet’s frame, tugging on it a few times to be certain it would hold.

  “How am I to sleep with this?” She shook her leg, wincing as the heavy chains rattled and the cold iron bit into her tender skin.

  “You’ll manage,” he said, giving her a wicked smile. “Sweet dreams, little Roman.”

  He dressed in a fresh tunic over by the table and pulled on one of his furs before he left her alone in the tent. Valeria wasn’t sure what to make of Tristan. It was obvious that she angered him and that he hated her simply for being Roman, but she didn’t think he would hurt her. He would have done it by now if he wanted to. So far, he’d established the pattern of leaving his tent when she upset his temper.

  She got to her feet and tested the shackles herself. The chain was short and didn’t allow much room for movement. It was a strange feeling being kept like this. To have no control over when you were fed, how you were clothed, or even when you could relieve yourself.

  Valeria made a makeshift bed on the ground, arranging the two furs he’d given her to lieon, then she boldly pulled a third from his bed to cover herself with. She curled up beneath the fur and supposed she’d better get used to being a slave. After this disgraceful experience, she was certain marriage would be no problem at all. She might actually welcome the torture.

  Tristan breathed in the crisp night air as he moved through the darkened camp to find Angus. He was too wound up to sleep. Valeria’s stubborn resistance incited his temper to the point of rage, while at the same time her softness and beauty stirred a tremendous lust in him, and between the two warring emotions he was afraid of losing control.

  She was a Roman!

  He shouldn’t give a damn about losing control around her or not. She could live or die and it wouldn’t make any difference to him. Instead of keeping her warm and secure in his tent, he should chain her out in the snow and let her freeze. He’d bet she’d be willing to do anything he asked after one night.

  But he knew he wouldn’t do that to her. If he was smart, he’d keep her chained with the rest of the prisoners. She’d be out of his tent and among her countrymen, where she had a fierce protector willing to kill anyone who would do her harm.

  No, he didn’t like that idea either.

  What he really wanted to do was drown his thoughts in a barrel of ale, and then go back to his tent and lose himself in the warm comforts of Valeria’s body. The only thing stopping him was knowing she wouldn’t accept him, and he wanted her to accept him with open arms. A Roman.

  What was wrong with him?


  Rome, and everything in it, was the enemy.

  Tristan came upon the tent Angus, Talorc and Conall shared. They always made camp at the back, near the horses. The three men were seated around a blazing fire, chugging on ale and laughing and jesting with each other.

  “Every time you tell that story, the woman’s tits get bigger,” Talorc grunted, running a hand through his dark hair.

  “They were huge!” Angus held his hands out in front of his chest to illustrate his point. “I almost died from suffocation.”

  Conall, a younger lad who had joined the army last summer, listened to Angus in rapt fascination. He spent most of his time trailing after the two warriors, but had yet to learn that Angus had a propensity for embellishing his tales of war and women.

  “Knowing Angus,” Talorc said, “he wouldn’t have stopped until he blew his wad, or he really did suffocate.”

  “Take this bit of wisdom, lad.” Angus swayed drunkenly and pointed a beefy finger at Conall. “Tupping a woman can be very dangerous.”

  Their hearty laughter soared, then drifted away when Tristan strode up to the fire and took a seat on one of the empty logs.

  “Commander.” Angus jumped to his feet, coming to attention by crossing his right arm over his chest in a salute.

  Talorc and Conall dropped their mugs of ale on the ground and assumed the same stance.

  “Be at ease.” Tristan waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I come to share your company.”

  The three men resumed their perches around the fire and regarded him with baffled stares.

  “We thought you already had company.” Angus grinned widely and waggled his yellow brows.

  “You should be buried balls deep in that wench we found,” Talorc continued. “Not sitting out here with us.”

  “Unless you’ve ridden her so hard she can’t take anymore,” Angus added, giving an artful grin as he sipped from his mug.

  “Enough!” Tristan roared, tension grinding in his jaw. “Get me some ale. The damn woman drank every last drop in my tent.”