that meant. Yet.
She was studying the floor again. ‘And do not even think about trying to escape into the wilds,’ he continued. ‘You cannot live for ever off wild berries and grass. Believe me, for I have tried. You will be caught eventually and your new master will be forced to pay for your return. Ask yourself if a few days of starving in the wilderness is worth your master’s name tattooed across your forehead.’
That was the punishment for most escaped slaves, after all, though he could tell that she had not appreciated the reminder. ‘I curse you,’ she whispered.
‘That again? It is the Empire of Rome you should be cursing, my dear, for it consumes us all.’
And he was done with it.
No more selling his soul for some elusive hope of escape. No more doing the bidding of his cursed lanista, Brutus, who valued gold and silver over flesh and bone. It was true that Brutus could control where Cal ate and lay and pissed, could decide when Cal was beaten and when he was bedded, could even control how often Cal was allowed to lift his face to the sun. But there was one thing Brutus could not control—the moment in five days’ time when Cal would choose to die.
There was the sound of creaking hinges as the barracks door began to open The woman froze in terror. ‘Get tough,’ he told her. ‘Now go!’
Arria lunged behind the door just as the guard opened it, pressing herself into the corner as an entourage of women swept into the barracks on a perfumed breeze. They were followed by a cluster of guards, the ringmaster among them, along with Master Brutus himself, whom Arria recognised by his gaudy, gold-trimmed toga.
‘Gladiators,’ Brutus said, ‘Governor Secundus sends his gratitude for your performance tonight.’ He gestured to the women with a bejewelled hand. ‘You have already received your allotted wine and here are your promised women. You will be rewarded similarly for a performance of equal merit at the Festival of Artemis this spring.’
One of the guards began to unlock the Beast’s cell, and Brutus gestured to a blue-eyed woman with a nest of yellow hair atop her head. ‘Here she is, Beast. Long blonde hair, blue eyes. Just as you requested.’
‘Whence does she hail?’ asked the Beast.
Brutus nudged the woman. ‘You heard him. Where do you come from?’
‘Germania.’
The Beast gave a nod and the guard let her into his cell.
‘And the second woman?’ Brutus asked the Beast.
‘Do not want a second.’
‘You do not want a second woman?’ Brutus laughed. ‘Then you are a fool.’
Arria watched the chosen woman float into the Beast’s cell. She wore a flowing white-linen tunic and matching long shawl which she let fall to the floor just as the gate clanked shut. She must have been from far in the north, thought Arria, for her eyes were a startling blue and her hair was as yellow as wheat. She was beautiful.
But the Beast did not even look at her. He reached for a flagon of wine and guzzled it, then offered it to the woman without meeting her gaze.
She accepted it eagerly, taking a long draught herself.
If Arria was going to run, it had to be now, while the entourage of guards and women made its way deeper into the barracks. Unfortunately, she could not bring her legs to move.
She could only watch in quiet awe as the yellow-haired woman removed her tunic, revealing a landscape of dips and curves. She was the kind of woman Arria would never be—fleshy and abundant. Lovely as a bowl of fruit.
Arria was studying the woman so closely that she did not notice the guards turning back towards the door. ‘They are yours for two hours,’ announced Brutus.
Arria cowered in the shadows as Brutus and the guards exited and the door to the barracks closed with a slam.
And that was that. She had missed her chance to escape. Now she would have to wait two hours and pray that she could keep herself concealed as the men and women…as they…
From somewhere further down the hall came a long, ecstatic moan.
Oh, gods.
The Beast’s cell was only steps away from where Arria squatted. Arria could see his muscular figure sitting at the end of his raised bed. His head was stooped. He was studying the floor, though the German woman stood only a breath away from him, her body exposed, her tunic in a pool at her feet. ‘You are handsome, Gladiator,’ she told him.
‘Do not call me Gladiator.’
‘Beast?’
He shook his head.
‘What shall I call you, then?’
The Beast paused, looked up. ‘Call me Husband.’
Call him Husband? What a strange request. Arria closed her eyes. She should not be watching this. Whatever this was. A ritual of some kind? A fantasy? Arria’s sense of propriety was duelling mightily with her curiosity and she sensed her curiosity quickly gaining ground.
Why should she not watch? It had been a night of firsts, after all: her first pit fight, her first discussion with a gladiator and now, it seemed, her first real lesson in the act of love. She might as well watch, for this first lesson was also likely to be her last. Propriety be damned. She opened her eyes.
‘It is well, ah, Husband,’ the woman said. She reached up to her golden bun and pulled out a comb. Her hair tumbled on to her shoulders in a curtain of yellow silk. She shook it hard and the strands danced in the torchlight like shiny ribbons.
The Beast stared up at her, his head cocked in contemplation. ‘I shall not kiss your lips, understood?’
The woman shrugged her assent.
‘May I have the comb?’ he asked.
She placed the comb in his palm. He reached beneath his bed to produce a small brazier pan full of coals. He moistened a single tine of the comb with the tip of his tongue, then dipped the small instrument into the black residue of the pan.
‘May I adorn your face?’ he asked.
The woman nodded. He stood and touched the blackened tine to her chin, gently dabbing the coal stain into a mark of Venus. He dipped the comb into the coals once more and thickened the mark, then leaned backwards to behold his work. ‘Perfect,’ he said.
He returned to sitting and reached again for the jug of wine. He took a long draught, never taking his eyes off the woman’s face. ‘Rhiannon,’ he whispered. He might have been a sculptor naming his bust—his lusty, lifelike bust that seemed to have been polished by the very hands of Venus.
‘Will you not make love to me, Husband?’ she asked in soft, melting Latin.
The Beast sighed, then bowed his
